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Geno Cattouse Sep 2013
Do your job....or abdicate
What is good for the goose is........
Fool me once shame on you...fool me twice shame on me..

                                       The truth is liberating.
                                       A lie has no spine... the truth is a biped.
Foolish is a forgiveable.. dishonesty flies in the face of facts.
                                      
                                       Ultimatly we are judged by our acts.
Paul Goring Apr 2013
I don’t care
About your perception of my
Saccharin sentimentality
But I know
That on the day
That humanity kills the last Tiger
That the beauty in the world
Will have gone
Our science-fiction
Will start to be fact
And magnificence
Will be only ours to create
Melancholy though it will be
If we are to be Gods
And make this world our concrete
Functional costed playground
Then the poetry will need
to be **** good
The music  
Better
And we will need to
Reconnect with something
That will make it all
bearable  
forgiveable
and worthwhile
Starlight Jul 2018
The dark eyes
of the one
you love the most
and
always forgive
no matter
the consequence
hang
silent
deadly
titled up
to the drowning sky
teeth pulled back
jaw out and
empty
for the howls
to fill

she wears black
to
camouflage
her

her bright
skin,
its canvas
is so
pale that
sometimes
she thinks
she can
carve
into her
own flesh

you swallow
in disgust
bees burrowing
down into
the rocky
falls of her
bottomless
stomach
the buzzing
sounding
so loud
from your
vantage point
of looking down
into the
fathomless
pits
of her
soul

you ache as
she
feasts
on your
raw and
tender
juices

blood is the
sweetest
wine
she whispers
voice thick
with lust
as your
veins
pound
against
your skin
she looks
like she
could
swallow
you whole

and you
feel
like you
could
let her

she licks
her lips
for she
so loves
the flavour
of
torment

she is monster
is devil blood
is canines
tearing
against the
scarred fabric
of your
skin
is forgiveable
is only animal
is mindless
is drenched from
head to toe
in the rain
that comes
pouring down
from the heavens

she is
still not
clean
she is
still
******
pretending
the lipstick
she wears
is

animal
friendly.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
on clear occasion, by each lunar
apparition, each thought apparent like
a twitching eyelid making sight a memorable
case of solitude, thus come the
frozen nuances and what not,
thus by canto LXXIV you get the point,
if any canto, this canto,
forgive the excesses of conjunctions,
such words are forgiveable, even in excess,
it's like a man drowning grabbing
razorblades as he does so,
aura of gushing blood, mingling
with soluble crystals of sodium,
a chloride derivative of what's a standard
disinfectant,
but among these pages, in the pristine
sober night, where sleep is not appreciated
and all credit to apparently working
(well, it's a form of work however you
mind it) - i know, i too wish to have
written that verse, but no use
complaining via trying, and subsequently
failing a bad case of plagiarism,
i did, after all, point out the diadem
shrapnel of composition: many conjunctions
later, it's still but a finite procedure
allowing only one memorable line:
a name and surname with a maxim
is far greater than a name and surname
with an epitaph... no one owns epitaphs
and if they do, they're only ascribed
to someone's tombstone... maxims are derived
for a need to rejuvenate as if the dead
be living, rather than... dead...
a rotting flower blossoms in the nose
and not the eye... reverse if you're
talking about the optical palette...
a rotting flower blossoms in the nose
and not the eye.
the first word usually disorientates the story,
unless it be as random as possible,
as small as possible, and as irrelevant as possible,
there's hardly a reason to use a rectangular
base / canvas for what's to be meddled with:
like trying to force two akin charges of magnet-metal
to perform a binding act monogamy
that works fine with noble swans, but hardly
with harem-loving mammals like humans,
i said like binding akin charges of magnets
with each other, just to peer into the invisible
constructs (και οι επτα αγγελοι εσαγπισαν;
γαια - γαια - γαια αια-ε), or how morbidly
the latins will defend their christianity with
innumerable saints and ******,
because they know they are trojans in disguise,
and having plagiarised greek polytheism
(jupiter synonym zeus, or pluto née hades)
had to resort to an invigorated cause;
and still with lxxiv's account of things,
i dare not compete for such things memorable as:
'we have not yet calculated the sum     gorilla + bayonet',
and the canto after, like was the required due
of writers back then, who now, whether
poet novelist or a simple paperback carrying donkey
could cite you a transcript of an opera?
i know i can't, perfect examples of the times
when you wrote in letters and read music scripts,
the trinity that i know of: e. pound, s. beckett, j. joyce;
and indeed there is much of a personal interest
in the mentioned canto... much almost acronym
detail that would require a resurrection
and direct confrontation to mind, or understand,
outside the pleasures of simply laying aside
and sounding it, with a sparrow's ease
each fortnight, within reach of the full moon.
- Jul 2016
Okay, I miss you. I miss you a lot and you won't return my calls or anything, you just vanished one day, disappeared. You've finally gotten your dream, you'd always wanted to be good at not existing in the face of tragedy. You tell yourself through tumblr posts and reblogged poems that you're strong, but the reality is that your words wound more than they can touch.

You're a facsimile, a fraud, my friend. But the thing is, you're so **** beautiful when you're doing it that it's almost forgiveable. That's why, when I look into the photographs of you I wasn't supposed to see, I soften at the sight of your creases as you smile, and the nape of your neck where I used to rest, and I think-

Someday this woman is going to belong to someone else, if you can say a person belongs to anyone-

And, secondly-

That I hope she will carry my memory in her bones as far as she travels.

If I look closer at your smile, it doesn't seem real.

I've saved the pictures, I want to know if you did too. I found an old one of you in my favorite hat, the one I used to work out in, feel strong in, explore with you in. Now it makes me think of you.

I hate that you took that from me.
Long, rambling spoken word. Brutally honest. Catharsis. To be preformed soon and related to. Necessary.

Number 40!!
JC Lucas May 2018
The reflection of grey light from the sun above the clouds reveals a greasy film on my arm.
A mess I made.
I can smell my stink and it turns my stomach.
You probably still have grains of my dandruff under your fingernails
despite how much you’ve tried to wash them off by now.

I clenched my fists in the chocolate cake loam trying to cover the smell of me
in something forgiveable. But
it didn’t work, and now the soil reeks
of my wretched sweat.

I picture the rings of Saturn.
Concentric circles in the silent dark.
They are perfect and I am filthy.

I picture the umber canyons just before dawn. I picture
cacti living on cliffsides beneath the infinite stars.
They are perfect. And I
am filthy.
Just by living I am filthy.
Every breath I take carries the noxious odor of me.
Diluting the perfect blue sky.

Purifying fire unmake me. Break the lattice of my flesh. Swallow me up.
Make me clean.
Simpleton Oct 2016
He will ask you for your name
Then say it back to you
In a voice like gravel and honey
He'll make the mornings a forgiveable thing
When you think of him a war will end
When he reminds you of his dark
You'll swallow his shadows whole
But when he leaves you
The birds in your blood will stop mid flight
And when you search for a word for the end of missing someone
Every language will come up empty
You'll make new mistakes to forget the old ones
Until one day you'll wake up missing who you were about to become before he came along
But by then it will be too late
The memories inside you won't leave room to remember your own name
ron parrish Dec 2017
she touched me,
my heart and soul
i fell deep in love
i touched her soul

then she turned her back
i commited the un forgiveable sin
but shes willing to begin again,
but only as a friend

my love
runs deep,
my soul still searching
for her love

maybe some day
she will fall again
be my lover,
and my best friend...
Zach Nov 2018
Does time really have the healing power so many say it does?

Does it make scars fade away?

Does it make the most heinous of crimes forgiveable?

Will it help me forgive and forget?

I just want to move on from this

I've had enough tears for a while now.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
( either thrown beneath the trodding gods' apathy
and higher, rising, contempt -
or having to squalor in man's pyramids -
myriad grain on a heap -
consort or meander in the dung heap -
the mouthful of maggots -
      in this flesh eat flesh and the ******* of
bone-marrow of a couldron of human intrigue...
either...
          mad-riddled among the gods...
or castrated and shamed among fellow men...
in my cusp: a tenderness of beauty -
an imitation bowl or at least 10 volumes worth
of tablespoons - as that:
a ferocious gulping down of water...
               and at what point is death merely
a translator of the three factions...
                        of the harvest: a perpetual presence
as one would say: one born every minute...
what personification what mythology
      when... one is always oh so busy... ) a lovecraftian
                                                       pre-scriptum...
                                  
   interlude: thomas and timothy take to dancing
in limbo... thomas wears the stilletos...
timothy dons the straitjacket...

          and for lack of a better word...
when the jazz comes on there's no one wearing
corsets - or anyone who has any stoicism
leftovers... no wise-up maxims no other
in-depth and later let's call it life...

       some call it lazy - some call it lounging -
some even dare call it
an ottoman safina in a harem -
because... that better things to kneel on
when there's a required: height difference...
i can't imagine it otherwise...
the jazz comes on and these words
become: a blob of custard imitating bubbles
as it bubbles away...

                      a stoic striptease of language...
some have it in them...
the raw edible parts that become
a steak tartar...
                          red garland anywhere
but here... a miles davis quintet
playing ascenseur pour l'échafaud...
lift to the gallows...

        it has become a terrible, a most terrible
regret of mine:
to be somewhat easy on the eyes
and having a firm belief in education...
too bad this ambitions doesn't
translate into mandarin and back...

not gifted with an a priori outsider status...
i have to compete for...
what my father didn't beat me...
but i do remember that one time
my mother taught my a thing or two
about leather and belt...
but that's a non-contest memory...
you need to be the christ
and the father is asking for you to be crucified
thus becoming the
greenwich mean-time for over 2000 years...

shove a lovecraftian god into the affair...
although i haven't read any of it,
what's the worst that could come out of...
language that will not end up
being scribbled onto a postcard...
or made into a conversation over beer...
it either has to bloat and bamboozle my ergo-ergo
into a pop:
stray bullets... clinging into unwashed
dog hairs dragging along...
sweeping the cemented tiles...

the smell of a wet dog...
    the minor affairs of washing cats...
the screetching and scratches...
biscuit for a moon - a bite into the scythe...
crumbling and slowly melting chocolate...

two engineers came to my house today...
i greeted them with:
i'm sorry... i forgot how to speak...
i can write this: can you take this umbrella
and braille?
         the t.v. was sorted: somewhat...
i'll still have to phone up and deal with
the nitty-gritty woodcrawlers...

              a testament to: how to writer an,
autobiography, any alternative to this...

           i'm going through my jazz phase...
i've had my blues phase...
                   even by my current standards of
laconic - i didn't write anything better...
i just imagine all those autobiographies
that manage to shorten the passing of a year
into a single paragraph...
then allow the ghost, and writer...
to swoon in and scoop up some other
minor detail to throw back into the juggling act
of... a passing of a minute...

chip-on-my-shoulder! that's what "they" call it!
being educated is probably my single most
biggie of a regret...
            should have learned **** outside of school...
it's almost a sin to have loved learning...
but i never learned to be a terrible person...
a con- and that suffix -artist...
which is bad from the get-go...

               here's to drinking and interludes
with a lazy bladder!
   or not drinking and pretending that hours don't
double when everyone else is alseep...
and quadruple when the cats are sleeping...

because these words could somehow become
an event - an informal get-together when
the suits and skeletons are where they should
be: closet bound... but no, again: but no...

some variation of diatribe ensues -
and whenever you get a chance to exfoliate...
to don language like peacock feathers...
like some second to Konrad von Wallenrode -
not the right history...
or not...         tare here: a tier above becoming
better tailored...
improv. sequentials...

smoking  cigarette... feels less... less of anything...
esp. less of anything health related...
when listening to someone... healthily blow
out a tune from a sax or a hornet's needle: a trumpet...
the smoke is just the salt & pepper of
adding to the mystique of a listener...

imitation of writing and painting...
the nervous composition - tapping tapping tapping...
in any case not a frivolous amount
of "something"...

                jackson ******* met...
nikita the cossack... and.... cubism was left to
a fate akin to christine chubbuck -
that infamous myth of the immediacy of death...
when you shoot yourself in the head:
unlike Kafka who prescribed -
stabbing yourself in the heart...
too bad for the urban-myth of the cockroach
dying of starvation when decapitated...

the great injustice:
Kafka asked for his books to be printed
to enlarged scribbles...
they enlarged Bukowski's writing seeing just
how... oh but so little...
i call this: the statement of the nag...
the nagging daughter of a father-in-law
that would never allow...
            circus of words...
they still print books by Kafka by people
who are expected to read braille...
while they print Bukowski's books
expecting his oeuvre to become that of a Dumas...

i'm about this close to catching moths
and sneezing bookmarkrs made from
a dollop of dust... fingerprints and all...

a recurrent "theme"...
akin to: perhaps he's wondering why someone
would walk him into an empty prison
cell... and shooting him in the back of the head...
if he wasn't expecting him to lie
in that cell for a forthnight to come!

to better respect the bass...
whether in guitar form or: that sucker for
the plucker and:
no one was expecting to explain
a bow readied for a cello to him...
so... that's jazz...

                           i'm no better or: not exactly
worse... whatever this is...
i keep an immaculate list of affairs when
it comes to the confines of a living space...
i own two cats but my house doesn't
smell anything related to the scent of their furr...
or their **** or: god forbid the scent of
cat ****... it really doesn't take away from
cat's **** even if the male is castrated...
apparently the pungency of feline male ****
is not related to them owning a pair
of testicles...
i learned that... when i started to *******
by the tender, ripe, age... of being
unable to produce any *****...
so much for the dot dot clues...
                                        spasms of spam...

gregory corso had the voice...
but unlike a bukowski...
he wasn't doing a stoic striptease for:
the most basic forward of minimalism...
the lottery... and what's "better"...
before the mirror and how one would
begin to fashion beards and distinguish
them from a moustache...
the mullet from the comb-over...
and the focus came in the shadow
rather than... the pale ghost of the mirror...
or the lake... before the mirror started
to shine its sheen: snake shedding its skin...
no leftover boots to walk in...

beside the bedtime 20th century ref. -
that there are "too many poets"...
not right now there aren't...
well... there's enough of the rhyming kindred...
but what i'm looking at is...

                what if i had a fine peach ***
to go with the whole: golem affair?
thank god! there's "not enough" of us...
wording misers... but there's plenty of...
dissected body-parts clinging to the mirrors...
i'm content...

one more for the jazz fetish...
     and no more for the otherwise...
the "king" dons dawn as this crown...
and the night for his shawl...

                    in a language that only children
will understand... or borderline with...
the image...
                there are scratchings on
the wood... some believe them to be
the schematic of a future table, or chair...

the interpolation of:
soul as synonym of breath...
                         plato's reincarnation...
it was once upon deemed a lowering
of the "caste" should a man be reborn as a woman...
plato's take on gender dysphoria...
idle words thrown against the wind...

i almost wish i were about to striptease
into a stoic with a marcus "bukowski" aurelius...
but my tongue starts licking
the peacock and...            i have to forget whether
i'm moderately read...
or whether i have read at all...

           come to think of it...
for those that despise doubt...
       i much appreciate this plethora of feeling...
it's almost akin to being in love...
a darker, love...
how can one live with two certainties in life?
one being the impeding death of all mortal
itches... and the other: per se negatio - i.e. negation?

to be in love is to fall in love with
teasing and with doubting...
            to be reminded of it is... a labyrinth
of ecstasy!
             faith and negation are just
extreme certainties...
science the paradigm...
           but doubt... the plethora to
hercules' hydra...
                                      queen of thought
and the mind stuck to a pole...
peddle the wavering quivers of the winds
united...

then again: my words are not needed for the many...
or the better excuse:
insubordinate failure of a man...
reaching a grandfather status and a...
jolly ol' christmas to boot!

children: that one most prized asset of excuse...
to every other subsequent fancy of
events either being: to one's expectation...
or... lacklustre... sodden with grief
to sink into the depths of a watery grave...
of not having met expectations
to have given "it": the original investement in!

we could almost... unanimously ascribe
ourselves to a forgiveable wanton of:
raised in a nunnery... raised in an orphanage...
raised without psychoanalysis
or gender dysphoria to mind...
raised feral...
                            oh me... and my current concern
for a jazz fetish.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
this ungodly hour come the first past
midnight...
nothing has been achieved...
not really not anything to tease
a mirror into shattering...

                             i could have raised
a pagoda in the garden...
                     and orchestrated lights
beneath it...
drank a beer with gloat...
still nothing...

      somehow saved up 2,700 quid
and thought: perhaps the brothel?
somehow to make cake of
two bodies alien to each other?

how about i buy a bicycle?

   then the thought of...
           private health... notably dentistry...
i very much like the idea
of using private practice to...
treat a tooth...
       i was told that the next tier
of treatment is a root-canal...
that this was the last use of any filling's
worth...
unlike my grandmother
i'm not to keen to pull my teeth
out... to wait for a bouquet
of prosthetics with teeth and
fake gums...

               the little money i have
the more i think about private fees for
densitry...
             quiet impossible to justify pleasure
by now...
give me a kippah and no *******
and who's not a happy bunny?

             even if a socrates is cited
by cicero: the soul (of the philosopher)
       treats the body with contempt and seeks
to escape from it...

fair enough... but what if thinking implodes
and becomes an oyster noumenon...
thought: a medium
between itself active and it vacant
(res vanus) -
                
   what if the sigma-animation tension
of soul is...
    a claustrophobia = thinking...
         lately thinking has become a claustrophobia...
i ask the body to remind me
of: how i unconsciously best know
to throw at a bullseye...
to ride a bicycle...

   the soul and its contaminated
yet to: subsequently none of it to be
explored... banquet of dialectics...
          the truth of opinions...
  as if... waiting for...
        some "other" orthodoxy...
to move toward...
very simple, forgiveable...
                        cul de sac eventualities
of life...
           to be somehow caste into a reflection
on the subject of the sea...
some variant of the elevated mirror...
sea and the added dimension of time...

yet still: thinking has become
a claustrophobia...
    
for me the genesis: and add of abstraction
was always thought,
and the exodus too, thought...

rare to find this gross elaboration
of thought: the "moral" -ought
into the confines of... the peacock
that's consciousness:
           tier below con-science...

that somehow facts could be a con(-)
and manipulated thus...

i'm yet to finish dickens' pickwick
papers...
but the edition i started with
was over 150 years old and therefore
encompassed tender binding...
i'm waiting for a cheaper
paperback edition:
and a trip to Loon'don...
i want to "the end" upon some
variation of transit...

çpectial: spe'SH'al...
          spez-            et al.
                         spectate...
                 arranging less a river:
ratio... narrative...
and more... cuckoo and cucoon...
it's all here:

      as if... vowels were odd numbers
and consonants were even numbers...
clearly:

                  TH

   θought... the surg of GH...
            
                   but:  θe...
           in that it's V'eh... definite article:
exactly! the point!
it's not a feather: nor a feafer!

   fe(r)-ver!
                                clearly diagnosed
articulations...
well then... english is as "bad" as fwench...
lost the trill-R and harking are we?
Tolstoy's i'm still eager to re(a)d...
past participle: not the colour, i.e. red...

otherwise: reed: i.e. read...
        the             æ               siamese twin
adam & eve **** and a d.n.a. circus
for: lost, "forgot"... ****** passing on...
the complexity...
of the success of gay outliers
with their satanic grins...

   ænema of the state: project solo...
a cough medicine... drip drip drr... err:

            i see a word i hear
two variations...
and the two variations...
unlike
                  ... please... tease me with
algebra...
                √a = ą

                            cushion!
let's tease!

                much easier with shared...
etymology...
congested / confused...
constipated:

                SH(arp) = SZ(arp) =
                       Š(arp) = Ш(arp)...

              CH(eap) = CZ(eap) =
                Ч(eap) = Č(eap)....

                in that there are modified short-scripts
of numbers...
     h / ч / μ and just one more
and we'll have ourselves
a full guise of a copernican rotation...
geocentric!
with the use of two mirrors!

it's sitting blatant and in my lap
useless as moth *****...

but the idea of exploitation...
i think of...
the many times i would care
for raw meat: in how i would
tender it...
explore it with the metaφor
of butterfly...
and tender fingers; loss of bone...

                my marathon foundation...

there are two F's...
    sounds alike...
but when written...
          i.e. thought / philosophy

the infinite space of: θ "=" τη
                           and of φ "=" πη
                                                (no greek will
tell you the difference between η
                                                 and "3" / epsilon)
mongol brides yet to be attired...

   it's actually impossible to write thus...
hell...
emperor claudius:

   Ⅎ = φ
    F = θ                   and cHeap...
             or pHilosopHy...
            and tHought...
          etc.

          i hear a sound... but then i can't see it...
the "difference" being...
changing alphabets it no new knot of
nuance...
                     hear a yarl...
speak a... "speak" a yawn...
a yawn is a noun
for the otherwise onomatopoeia...
a sigh: to boot...
no... noithing greater worth of
a sight...
nor a sigh...

                         it's the worst
sort of music! un- or -imaginable!

— The End —