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Cecilia Salas Jun 2014
We are just like
Those cars that follow
Roads of long asphalt tongues
Wet from greasy rain
We are the 9 to 5
Or the 6 to 7 or 8
The never ending sloth of the mundane
Our heads shoved into pathetic cars.
Following the same stench
Rising from the same throat
As labor regurgitates
And we crawl
We are released back into the holes
We rose from.
I hate traffic.
Kevin Eli Jan 2015
When I was 16, I slept-drove in my car.

Walking outside half-naked, I pulled my keys from my underwear like it was a jean pocket.

Entering my 2001 white Pontiac, I put the keys in the ignition and drove two miles before I merged onto the 101 S FWY.

I woke up terrified and behind the wheel, not knowing where I was until I was in the next city over. I drove back immediately.

Needless to say, I would have had no explanation if my parents or the authorities had found me...
Mr Xelle May 2018
Threw the text I’m sinking in my ****,
Ain’t got no exit only a **** switch.

My monsters look at me and say “I’m getting scared”.
“You don’t see the demons that be in his head”.

I don’t see nothing but you’re perfect smile,
I just need you before they put me down.

Put it to the light yeah you held me down.
Put it to the light yeah I messed around.

Leaving my haven and meet me in the thunder,
Donald days left us with a cold stunner.

Donald days stripped you of other colors
Donald mane ******* with you good covers
I don’t trust ****** that be undercover.

Fast forward  the love became just like a brother,
my world is was on fire threw the ashes I don’t see my brothers

Threw the ashes all I see is you.
In you’re car uniform threw loopy loop
I did U-Turn on 45 and it point me back to you.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
nie tak sie przerzegnamy jak bylo dane (w lewo, w prawo, w lewo, w prawo) nie! pierw głowa, potem ręka, wtedy serce, a na końcu: pachwina; jako prawo-ręczny... straciłem ucho na nowoczesny vogue lewicy (w braku komuny)... bo trudo srać, i słuchać tych... bzdur! w swym: powiem co tylko moge... bo i tak angol jest trędowaty, jeżeli chodzi o języki, oprócz jego; a o tym znaczy gromada amerykanców którzy tylko mówia: jak to sie wypowiada?! rub rub rub your hands... startled by the sea of tongues, dislodged from the synchronisity of the tide.

tú stanie moja stopa,
                           i tu nią, powiem
    *hūk
! grzmot!
                                rygor! disciplina!
   aport! aport!
                mniej warty niż pies
                                      gnoju!
  doberman na podwurku
                                   chociaż szczeka
    na widmo, czy też cień!
                         ty, kurwo języczna?
    whine whine whimper...
dawaj chociaz voodoo haiti,
      a ty kurwa skad?
   nigeria? kenja?
     co tam gavari? zulu?
           no to kurwa mów! - - - -
- - - - - large dogs don't really
bark at other dogs
    or people, the ones they
                          can see...
          poodles?
   they're picking the wrong
fight, always have,
                       always will.
        ten "muzynek"
bambo?
     wkradne sie w jego
                                  dupe...
   z metrowym kijem
           bambusa!
    i potem spytam...
           gdzie te widły
chinczyków do żarcia
             z twej mordy?
choppy choppy, shticky shticky?
                 bombai fwy wice?
        dziś? jutro? pojutrze?
   za tydzień, miesiąc?
  rok? sto lat?
              sto lat! sto lat!
      niech niech żyje nam!
ale mie to wkurwia...
    wprost, dzięki bogu że
tego nie mówie...
            bo jak bym miał
o tym gadać... to i tak
bym nie gadał... tylko srał...
czy też bawił sie w
                   rzeźnika...
o hej hej! fri-dom of spicz!

  niech bedzie pochwalony...
na wieki wieków
                     ten zór byka...
      że tak sporo na zachodzie
myśli: słowianin to slav tzn.
niewolnik, albino-bambo...
a tak naprawde to:
       kowalski...
                słowowalski...
                      ­ słowny-kowal,
          kowal dla czteru!
      czterem w oddech ziemi

                       north (conquest)              
    
west (war)                +                   east (death)

                       south (famine)


we mnie cichy lew, i tym bardziej
                  lis, szachista ciszy;

             ale z nich pół-głąby kapusty,
co to za polityka, jeżeli tylko dwu-znaczny
grymas... i tym: niewyparzona morda
"wolności"...  co każdy aktor czy diwa zna?
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
two songs, when i played guitar, before i shamed it silly into firewood? of my favourites... silverchair's shade, and link wray's rumble... otherwise the standard blues chords... under the bridge? yeah, i could do that... but since: chłopak z gitarą, był by dla mnie parą (a boy with a guitar, would suit me fine)... satan speaks better lies than a woman, so no, no thank you; oh please, knock yourself out... for one honest woman, there are about two male thieves waiting to stalk the night... for one dihonest woman... there are no males in sight.

not much music with atheists...
   jabba jabba jabba joobi job...
alt.?   dziabbah dziabbah
             dziabbah whom serve's
the sneeze's worth of argument...

theists?

  well... at least there's:
    fiddler on the roof...

   either silence, or song...
but conversation?!

   if i were a rich man...

  *yubby dibby dibby
            dibby dibby dibby
   dibby dum
...

            i stopped talking after discovering
that english has no diacritical
distinctions... and doesn't treat
ch or sh as digraphs...
          
          this language is ******* barren in
technical terms...
  and then tha natives complain:
ooh, ooh, oog'ah oog'ah... ***** accent... huh ha huh...
******... begin with first base of
encoding your own waggle before
   talking to people about "funny" accents...
to me... you have a funny way of writing
with latin script... it's no wonder you had
an empire, and how suddenly it collapsed...
     by hiding your own diversity of accents,
from scottish, to australian, to south african,
to essex, to cockney, to welsh, to irish...
   yo' faackers r foo-king funny...
                             born 'n' bred... me ayes..
please... show me, a start of diacritical
    implementation on the ancient alphabet...
that you didn't actually invent,
      you're just a ******* stuart of latin...
you're no king, no more than i'm
     a beggar asking to peer into the cipher.

    oi! "adam"! put on some underwear,
dress the language up with some diacritical marks!
oh, oh wait... you can't...
             there are too many variations,
to many necessary exceptions to be made...
    
  y'all like drawl... americana nasal...
        wee *** some knee-jerks aww awound az...
                 wee ginna fwy sum kin-tuck-e
                             chee-ken fighs.
no ketchup i gether...
       n'ah mate...
                           we be coo-kin wi'
   a barbie sáùs;

        oh cool cool, b. dylan's blonde on blonde.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i'm starting to think the chinese are good at numbers
only because of the complexity of their ideograms,
and the rather unspectacular phonetic result,
li chew - ******* inimpresionable given
the effort... li chow chewy chow mein -
   uncle benny doing his:
it's fwy wice you pwick!
                         letheal weapon no. 4,
   chris rock and leo getz exchange,
pomp, pwick,
                  perp... you get the idea,
zenith of: americana with not fear,
before the empire with its advancements,
shattered by the most barbaric antithesis,
in war, that's called: let's keep it simple,
those a.i. soldiers won't keep up,
they'll never spot a caveman running into
the cave...
    the idiots outsmarted the geniuses,
how's that evolution for you?
     working alright?!
               in every war, the idiots win,
because the all-powerful care to
      pretending power,
    better to fake being stupid,
as the socratic maxim states:
than pretend to be smart,
     there's no power in pretending to
almighty...
          god the idiot took the bus,
god the fake, bought a Ferrari.
                     you do the math.
     hence my fascination with
the asiatics' ability with math...
       did it really take so many
matchsticks to combine syllables?
they have no units of language,
they deal with syllables...
                     which makes numbers so simple...
to me sudoku is counting matchsticks,
i.e.:
                # / \ / / \ \ \ /  - | - |
                            - - | | | - | -
                            | | - -
              - - | | | - - | - | | -,
  i don't see numbers, i see that...
it's called spelling in anti-ideogram
formation... MMIX becomes 2009 -
  or: give or take
                       | | \ / / -
                      i know i'm missing parts,
but mathematics for the chinese is
like braille for the europeans,
less braille and more morse code...
it's called the 4/9 ratio...
         1, 2, 3, 5, 7 are skeletons of
the ideogram...
             0 doesn't count,
it's squished coded omicron,
akin to iota as 1...
                6 a b,
                                       7 gamma in mirror...
5 an S...
                    arab talking ****:
who said you inherited intventing
the numbers,
  your little las vegas in the desert,
that **** is gonna fail, big, time.
   you gonna get to keep your puppy
princes, and by god:
i hope to god that they drag you beyod
hades, into the recesses of tartarus.
          arabs belong in tartarus,
that special place in the unearthed
        thought: where things are
punishable for being, squandered.
leisure! man claimed leisure,
with gold he claimed blood,
   with oil man claimed leisure!
            i have as much allegiance
to this being, as i have to
recuperate for some d.n.a. stash of
obligations to: keeping up the hard-on...
the **** would it matter what i
take of my descendent half-wit
grandson does with his life?!
        who does these square-faced
investigations asking for generational
gaps being filled?
          am i really to be
asked for allegiance to a people after
death, in nota re viva?
  the **** is up with this
resurrection in scientific terms of
investing in the genes...
do genes have faces, personalities?
thought so, they don't!
      i hate, i hate empowering
humanists by popularising science...
     when i solve an ideogram i see
the opposite of the de-constructed ideogram
that is complex, but nothing more
than Li Po...
      ******* un-extravagant,
       caveman talk...
                 # / \ / / \ \ \ /  - | - |
                            - - | | | - | -
                            | | - -
              - - | | | - - | - | | -,

that's what i reconstruct numbers with in
a sudoku... by counting matchsticks and skews...

hey... look: 'ere's jack! it's pixel,
so hardly the lost wonky of
a spacing exacted to perfecting
   a sheet of cloth.

6    8    3    1    9    5    7    4    2  
7    1                2                3    9
2          9      ­    3          1          6
9                6    4    1         ­       5
5    7   6     3    8    2    4     9   1
1                5    7     9               8          
4         1           6          5        3
3   5                1               8    7
8   6    7    2    5     3    9  1    4

you want me to give you prove to you
that i'm not autistic?
  i'd **** your granny, and call her
Spencer, to simply prove my point
that i'm right-on the ibidem mark,
  as frequenting prostitutes originates from,
was i ever a man that would allow
darwinism to invoke a game
of mating by hunting mechanisation for
a supposed "thrill"?
         sure ****, there's thrill
in running after a football,
but is there any authentic thrill
  running around for a woman?
sports kinda killed the idea of having
to compete for woman,
  given that in other cultures women
will **** off any idea of competition,
congregating in harems;
unless i'm a cannibal i am about as
competitive about women as
i am "competitive" in replicating ****
*** with my hand,
  or imitating the alternative to deer
cannibalising a woman's body...
so... where's the competition?
darwinism became so self-assured that it
could only continue within the
theatre of comedy...
  no one takes it seriously these days,
only comedians,
  because there's no actual evolutionary
essential requirement for a coliseum -
there's the existential requirement to
become distracted from time to time...
but essentially: one can
become distracted as much by a blank
piece of paper, as one can be
distracted by a coliseum...
      to be honest whenever i watch
a football match life, i'm enthralled rather
than distracted...
               darwinism lost to pop culture,
since it became populist and anti
scientific...
                we understand more
of darwinism than the concept
of entropy...
                        it's easy
take a monkey, find a humanoid,
and then consider man...
i'm not saying it's wrong,
   all i'm saying is...
  imagine if the greeks or the roman
defined beauty by knowing they
could always mould statues of gorillas,
rather than the statues of their celebration
of beauty bound in man:
**** transit, rather than **** genesis...
would we be where we are with
transgender, anorexia, bulimia,
   objectification,
            gluttony,
had we not left the monkey on
the tree, and man originating in a cave?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
never in the circulated, supposedly civilised world, a mother so abhorred, or a father so abandoned; people ought to rekindle a shame in being "children", given they're so "motherless" & so "fatherless"... seems a shame to just leave the children without being scolded, as children without being scolded remain: children, and never mature into being the mothers for the motherless, or the fathers to surrogates.

talk to y'oh mamma,
talk to y'oh mamma,
talk to y'oh mamma...
go on, sweet talk her into kentucky...
fwy er a chee-kin...
******...
         goon on!
talk yer mamma daffodil pweety!
go on ******, talk
yer mamma daffodil pweety!
no talk mamma pweety?
neine hooney: beensprout!
   sorrows of: find your other
honey-bon lass!
     ha ha... i took to reimagining
jean-paul sartre in an english
society; didn't get far...
lived with his mother,
me? i revised the female
complex by going to a *******:
**** me, what a thrill!
  i cook my mother food, i clean
the house, even though she lies
about the extremes of having
had hernia treatment,
i had mine, as a toddler...
so... who's sherlock?
  me, or her?
       i solve the puzzle unconsciously,
she "solves" it with a
"moral" compass...
     women... woes to the man
who doesn't deliberate having a tear
to shed this opposite of concerns
being manifest,
with a month, akin to the name
like october...
    i just can't imagine the
twin concern of made effort...
i can't imagine it...
  no, you can't equate
the effort of ensuring
9 months made = with 90 years...
sorry, you can't,
this can't be the nodding existential
relativism,
9 months = 90 years...
nope, convince me a second time..
convince me a third time,
a fourth time, a fifth, a sixth...
convince me all you want:
you will still be unable to convince me!
why?
existential reductionism doesn't
end with the cartesian thought,
existential relativism does though,
existential reductionism begins with
a revisionism of cartesian ticking
of the clock..
       i have finally found
a grander complexity to counter
darwinistic reductionism....
      namely cartesian pre-existential
reductionism:
a thought, without a geometric "bias",
thus cited: no point
of origins;
we all know that glasgow is birmingham,
as we know edinburgh is london.
hard, speaking to your ***** test-e,
when it's not your mother,
harder then to speak to your mother,
seeing your ***** canvas so
rebellious... and hardly the culminating
sort;
english is already a language
*****-slapped-ugly...
   i really can't make it more
uglier, than it already is,
given the *reesh
and the picts:
or the charlie-charlies, i.e. the woolsh.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
sure...
             if you called this the urban area
of Chelsea...
           i could stick my nose
outside my window
and sniff out a perfume of
        angst...
but this is Essex air...
         you stick your nose
out in these pinching crab-like
cold nights,
when the moon apparently walks
sideways?
           it's not fear you
interest yourself with...
     ask the Jordanians...
    and i'll tell you of the cold...
verhungern...
     i can **** my nose into
the cold air and expect you
to reply: fear...
         no, not really...
           there's something something
brooding far beyond a concept
of fear that might be comfortable,
equivalent to an armchair...
         there's a: feeding ground
brewing...
                 i can sense it in sniffing
the air at nearing 8p.m. on
a february night...
              there is no greater
antidote to the abstract of fear,
as the reality of: hunger...
             can i contest bile?
                        well...
                poo'h whittle fwy...
                   do i get the digestive
impetus, in, our outside m'ah
body?
            mind you, just itching
to "know"...
                   i leisured the
cinematic point of a sinking titanic,
finding the judas in
the engineering corp that
originated in constructing
this whale is another...
           laugh all you want...
costa concordia?
                   did that judas of a captain
hang?
            there's only one reason
people hate working...
they abhor taking on
responsibility...
               great for murking
oneself in the comedy
   gravitating toward the
   "professionalism" of lawyers...
as if they could ever be gifted
grammar teachers...
i'd sooner learn
how to do my shoelaces up from
******* al-qaeda
   than what's currently
on offer...
       which is:
                     silvio berlusconi
(81) mingling with
               francesca pascale (32)...
you do the math...
            hey...
good luck petting a gerbil
   calling it the masculine only female
genital nick names...
            can you smell it
though?
         no no... it's not angst...
      i'd like to call it a hungern...
                      you smell it?
  see, in northern europe my ethnicity
was called vermin, probably by
pakistani origin...
               but if you stick your nose
out the window in essex in february;
do you smell it?
                               this is the point
where i like to think
of the mothers of these smirking *******
in their ******* pajamas
they wear in public...
                  just an idea...
                       because when did
a ******* ****, ever condense to make
a mark on boston?!
                you smell that?!
     i'm still sniffing the air...
                   still can't tell **** from
a squirrel **** riddling this air;
smack on the gob alright...
              but please do so,
   i'm tired of hitting myself on the face.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
well... to counter the leftists' dietary requirements...
bugs and all... simba: timone & pumba:
slimey... yet satisfying...
wouldn't it be necessary...
to first teach the "high i.q." conservatives...
the necessity of celebrating the entire hooved animal?
or the chicken - frankly it's not enough
to only eat chicken protein...
one also needs to have a taste for the hearts
and the stomachs...
mein gott: pork livers!
liver with well curated onions...
you really need to experience the tenderness
of the meat of a poached chicken's neck...
what about how the baltic countries prepare
herrings? raw? in a cream and dill sauce...
add some gherkins and some...
the baltic sushi / tartar...
feed the ******* a tartar steak...
the same disgust will arrive: if not less...
should they eat... deep-friend cockroaches...
a steak tartar... what left vs/ right paradigm "shift"?
what about eating haggis?
or blood sausage?
what about eating cow intestines?
what about... the pride of new york:
deep fried pig's ears in breadcrumbs?
only when the entire pig is eaten...
will there be a counter argument...
a spiked resurgence of... sales in broccoli...
pâté... raw herrings...
marrow... until the pig is glorified
and nothing can be left to eat apart from the oink...
because my my: who delights in eating...
***** - the scavengers: the necrophyliacs?
insects contra... oysters...
i had a hard time convincing myself that
island dwelling people weren't disgusting...
eating ****** ***** metaphors of: fruits
of the sea - as the inland folk call them...
what's the difference between a deed-fried grasshopper...
and an oyster eaten alive via the guillotine slurp?

you really don't want to over-cook the internal organs...
and what's so wrong with rare steaks -
what's wrong with a steak tartar?
the i.q. of the vesterners says:
no black no irish: dogs allowed...
dogs mao chin sheen most allowed...
fwy cookie blood and butter cowcow cook-e!

all in all: a fetish for fungus...
we have a fetish for fungus...
and we eat blue cheese...
a microcosm of... prior to insects...
the bacteria...
and prior to that? apparently frying
a placenta is: good news!
next thing you know... tapeworms on the menu!

oh but i'm hardly worried about people
eating insects...
i'm more worried about the people in my vicinity
that need to be fed solid protein... chunks...
because they find eating the tender bits...
the pork livers, the chicken hearts...
the chicken stomachs...
to be... something akin to "below them"...
i wouldn't start by shaming the insect barons
of said menus...
i'd begin with shaming the people
in the vicinity...

oysters: slurping out a choiced **** out
of poseidon's harem...
fruit of the seas... yeah...
up in scotland they deep fry a slice of pizza
and a mars chocolate bar if you're
knowledged in that sort of a culinary cult...
tier: three tiers below the actually lovely:
haggis neeps 'n' tatties...
and the rainbow trouts...

even the pigs would snort out:
man-food... not pig-food...
man-food...
as in that famous scene in hannibal
or: ****** - when bricktop...
the pigs will eat...
by high western i.q. standards...
i'm starting to "think" that eating insects is
a tier below... cannibalism...
i still don't know why i succumbed
to the traditions of island dwelling folk
of eating... mollusks of the sea...
insects and: all the added crunch of
the ribs being intact... sardines...
or... smoked sprats...
heads eyes and bones and tails and all...
i'm dying for that culinary fetish
of... and they called the last barbarian affair
of europe - the faroe islands' grindadráp:
the shame - the: look east... toward
beijing...
"bat soup galore" - funny little ****-****
bomb - lucky us... no knives!

not prior to a season when the entire
pig is appreciated...
or the entire chicken...
not just the bland cheap *** kosher proteins...
as in: in no defence...
but... what delights are people missing...
no amount of scampi will save them...
perhaps just about enough:
steak and kidney pies...
but even then... not enough!

a critique of the insect eaters is...
my critique of the non-liver eaters of the west...
simple...
oysters are and always will remain:
Midway - along with the rest of Poseidon's Eden...
so i wonder... which was the forbidden fruit
of the oceans? what weren't we allowed
to eat from the ocean?

clearly apples and pork - since the two compliment
each other, oh so ******* well...
tell me: imam... rabbi...
what's the fruit of the sea - the forbidden fruit?
is it the oyster?
ha ha... the idiotic death of a monotheism
upon a canvas of the beijing omnivores...
camel jockeys galore!
ohNoe Jul 2020
Woah, found this recently in my head...not bad actually...especially since I miss writing, like, a lot
I walked down whatever path was in front of me
so did she but we weren't WE
there were thorns on the ground
and all around
*** she screamed and I echoed
cuz it seemed serious *******
blood bleeds thru thorn holes
don't Noe if you knew that
but some thorns are metaphoric
and you can bleed from your soul
the walls seem ready to give up the ghost
and leave me dealing with the exiled host
synapses long silent set to refire
so this Clint seems set to expire
every memory from forever always there
three, nay four scenes playing together
i'd see them hear them smell them feel them
poignant powerful ocean within which i swim
i killed this **** decades ago to save me
it's why i put all those evil drugs in me
**** irony is a shakespearian witch
and she be a straight up full on *****
been fine bein' quasi intelligent
mostly anyways
found other aspects of Clint
which joyed my days
scared
terrified
reincarnation is upon me
the threats amplifying daily
don't wanna be that me
please
please
there is quite a pretty path weaving wandering through a forest, some groves, some open areas, some deep dark canopies, an occasional extended open space with a view you've only seen in dreams. Do you smell the fir needles and the fresh dirt? It's the type of experience which connects you to your planet. It's glorious and beauty of a type which no "e" connection will place into your soul forevermore.
along that path strolls a young man, perhaps a boy, he is laughing with his sister and the girl who would in a few years own his heart and his soul. Look leftwards, do you see the flutterby? Just starboard a wren whistles a mockingbird song and smiles and winks when you give it a confused face.
have you ever been on that path? I hope so becuz it teaches you a beauty beyond what most of us shall ever experience.
oh, anyway, he lived, sister died, love died, world continued completely indifferent...blah blah blah...path exists still...find it, enjoy it...
I walked down a path I thought I chose
naively believing I'm the ****** who chose
there were thorns on the ground
all around
but roses left and right
and Love actually gave me her light
for a little while
then of course back to exile
I walked down a path one day or the other
running laughing with Sean my Brother
he turned to look at me
yet said not a word
becuz we'd already heard
everything you could see
and spun kaleidoscope holes
along every fwy floor or wall
Oh ****
I forgot
he said...
and I quote...
…..Hello Nurse

— The End —