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hyeri kim Dec 2014
Gangnam pool Salon Systems 010-3923-7007

◈◈◈1 subsystem ◈◈◈ (bukchangdong expression system)
Total 1 hours 10 minutes in the dazzling music
Battle (early, late), so enter twice
Room sokeseoneun Group hug, and he can touch etc.
Hot and soft feel hot to the touch. Jeonhaeohneun body ^^
Gangnam sarongs at a time in the pool with a drink excitement ~


◈◈◈2 subsystem ◈◈◈ (geukgang lover mode @)
Jilpeon the furnace for 1 hour 10 minutes Part 1 The inconvenience syeotjiman slightly south are you?
Putt regret that much short of a definite home run finished in Part 2
Noldeon lady in the room and go hand in hand up the field unforgettable beats the best
Enjoy ^^ Part Time Lover service total 50 minutes without wanting Gangnam pool sarongs best service!
LD Goodwin Apr 2013
K-popper Psy
Buzzing like a pesky fly
To out do his "Gangnam Style" hit
But you can't polish cat ****!



*Clerihew
         A Clerihew is a comic verse consisting of two couplets and a specific rhyming scheme, aabb invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956) at the age of 16. The poem is about/deals with a person/character within the first rhyme. In most cases, the first line names a person, and the second line ends with something that rhymes with the name of the person.
Harrogate, TN  April 2013
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine)
for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.
jake aller Apr 2019
Seeing Ghosts

I walk around the streets
Of old Saigon
Seeing sensing the undead

The ghosts of the war
That haunted life
So many years ago

So many people died
For a war
That never should have been fought
For reasons that are still not clear

A great tragedy unfolded
In a land half away
Around the world

The ghosts smile at me
And then they disappear

Leaving me in the present
Life goes on

Old Ghosts  

Old ghosts wandering the streets of old Saigon
Lost spirits of the dead
Died during the endless wars  
Ghostly apparitions around every corner

Here was Kilroy
and his gang of soldiers
Over there were the Viet Cong
Waiting to **** them

Saigon is filled with memories like that
Terrible times were had here in Old Saigon
Silently the ghosts parade the city streets
As the tourists drink in the bars



Mastering the Saigon Shuffle

When I first visited Saigon
Learning the Saigon Shuffle
Was difficult

And now 24 years later
It all seems to be coming back

There is an art to crossing the street
Dodging the motor cyclists, the taxis, the private cars
The bikes and other pedestrians and the buses

The art consists of letting the big guys go first
Then walk between the motorcycles and cyclists
Trusting that they will get out of your way

And they being masters of the Saigon shuffle
Always find a way

In my two visits I was struck
By how it all flows together

Without a central authority
And with almost no planning
Lights or cops

Somehow it just is
And somehow it works

And it is still a mystery to me
24 years after first
Encountering the Saigon shuffle

Coffee Lady
Every morning
I have gone out for Vietnamese coffee
At a sidewalk café
Down the ally from our AIRBNB

The owner is a pleasant middle age woman
Who for some reason likes us
She smiles at us
Greets us in Vietnamese
She does  not understand English
Or Korean

And I wonder why
Why was there this connection
Between us

It dawned on me
Perhaps in a prior life
She knew an American or two
And I remind her of someone

Or perhaps she is found
Of Korean K drama
And Angela reminds her
Of her favorite K Drama star

Or perhaps it is both
Or another reason entirely

But I moved today
And will miss her

Might go back for a final cup
Of coffee

To say good bye
To my Vietnamese coffee lady

Mostly Harmless Old Lady in the Alley
There is an old Vietnamese lady
In the neighborhood
Obviously senile

But everyone knows her
And watches over her

To make sure
She stays out of traffic
And out of trouble

She talks to everyone
But no one seems to understand
What she is babbling on about
They smile at her
And she smiles back

Reminds me of the phrase
From the hitchiker’s guide to the galaxy
Mostly harmless

And she for some reason
She likes us
And like my Vietnamese Coffee lady

I wonder why
Why was there this connection
Between us

It dawned on me
Perhaps in a prior life
She knew an American or two
And I remind her of someone

Or perhaps she is found
Of Korean K drama
And Angela reminds her
Of her favorite K Drama star

Or perhaps it is both
Or another reason entirely

But in any event
I look forward
To seeing her smiling face
Every time I walk
Down my ally way

Avoiding the War Due to Two Birthdays

I avoided being drafted
Due to a fluke in my birth certificate
In 1974 the last draft was held
And some people were drafted

But no one went to Vietnam
The war was ending by then
I avoided the draft though
To no effort on my own

My number came up on the draft list
My real birthday was in the zone
But then my mother pointed out
That my legal birthday was different

When I was born at 4 am
The night clerk typed up
My birth certificate
With the wrong date

My father pointed that out
She said
Once I typed it
That is it

His birthday will be
What I typed
Get use to it
My father gave up

And so, 18 years later
That saved me
From the last draft
Never made it to Vietnam

Many years latter
I visited Vietnam
Right after we opened relations

Glad I finally got to see
The country
That so many Americans visited
so many decades ago

Buddha In Vietnam

In Saigon I saw the buddha
Buddha images are everywhere
Temples are scattered about
Here and there and everywhere

Buddha lives on
In the hearts and minds
Of the Vietnamese soul

The communists tried
To get rid of Buddhism
And other religious traditions

But they failed
And Buddhism has come back
Still speaks to the Vietnamese people

A different style
A different vibe
Than Korean Buddhism

But still Buddhist thought
Prevails in the tropical lands
Of the South


Mekong Dreams

Traveling along the Mekong
Back in time

Seeing the river
The people
Imagining life on the river
Imagining the war
The past in the Mekong delta

And the present tourist boom
Yet life goes on
With its own laid back rhythm

As we traversed the river
We were transported back
To an earlier time

Following the ancient rhythms
Of the Mekong Delta


Down and Out in Saigon

Southeast Asia, and Mexico
has always attracted
A certain type of westerner
The down and out
On a down word spiral

Why?
Relatively cheap to live
Lots of part time gigs
Teaching English
Or other things

*****, drugs, ***
Readily available
And cheap

Places to stay
Dirt cheap
And no one needs
To sleep out doors

Easy to disappear
Into the foreigners backpackers ghettos
And escape
From whatever you are running from

The locals are somewhat tolerant
The police usually look the other way
And there are lots of people
In your shoes

I was surprised to find
That Saigon has become
The latest place
For the down and outer crowd
To gather together

In Bangkok one sees them a lot
In Cambodia as well
In the Philippines
In Nepal

And south of the border
In Mexico as well

In India not so much
In Japan and Korea
Just too **** expensive
And too cold to be outdoors

Back in the day
I used to work
The citizen services gig
And saw lots of the down and outer set

The old song comes to mind
No one remembers you
When you are down and out

And in the States
Being down and out
Means living on the mean streets

As it is very difficult
To live with almost no money

And the various side hustles
Don’t give you much money
Unless you are dealing drugs

And teaching ESL
Is not an option

Food is expensive
Transportation is expensive
***** and drugs expensive
Rent is prohibitive
Commercial *** is expensive

And no one loves you
If you are down and out
No one knows your name
You are just another homeless ***

Invisible to all
As you try to make do

Much better to be down and out
In Southeast Asia
Than on the mean streets
Of the USA


Ghosts of Chu Chi

Crawling down the tunnels
Of Chu Chi
I could almost imagine
The Viet Kong guerillas

Hiding deep under the tunnels
As the land above is turned
Into a temporary dessert

With the vegetation burned off
By ****** and agent orange

The Viet Kong creep out at night
Stealing onto the bases
Stealing weapons, food, supplies
And occasionally killing soldiers

In their sleep
The US soldiers
Stay on base at night

Terrified of the mosquitos
And of the Viet Kong

the ghosts
Surround me
Telling me their stories
And at last I fled

Through the emergency escape tunnel
Declaring victory
Profoundly shaken up
By the ghosts of the Chu Chi tunnels


Saigon 2019

Saigon 2019

Vibrant, vivid, exciting
A city on the move
Becoming a world class city
Yet still with a Saigon swagger

Wandering the streets
Dodging the traffic
Admiring the women
Enjoying the food

Saigon enters my heart
And I know that I will be back
This city is growing on me
Reminds me of Korea back in the 1990’s

One hopes that as it develops
It will not become a carbon copy
Of other big Asian cities
Obliterating its past

In search of a false modern image
I hope it can retain
What makes Saigon Saigon
And not become another Gangnam

Hope it does it with Saigon style
And the people will evolve
The country will emerge
And become what it should be

The Paris of the East
This is my vision
Saigon 2019



Saigon 1995

Saigon 1995

In 1995
I was one of the first tourists
Allowed in to Vietnam
To freely wander about

Tourism was at its infancy
And Saigon was chaotic
Wild and crazy
Traffic was insane

There were few tourism sites
Few hotels
Few guest houses
And not too many restaurants

The food was good
We saw the war memorial
The re-unification palace
And the big market

But we felt we were being monitored
Beggars were everywhere
There were scams everywhere
And it was not that pleasant an experience

But Saigon grew up
Became a much more tourist-friendly place
And these problems we encountered
A thing of the place

Saigon is so much better
So much more developed
That it has captured our soul
And we will be back
poems inspired by my second trip to Saigon in 24 years
Dark n Beautiful Dec 2012
Marry me  a sugar daddy

It about stability and a sense of security
And ways of staying happy and not about the money
I need my life to shine bright like diamond
It might be critical, it might be political
All that matters, is where I lay my head

I am a happier with my decision
Because when I go to hell
I am going Gangnam style
With a wide range of emotions; Andante
   I just am going to marry me sugar daddy.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The good life is not only about the money
I love a bit of humor in poetry..
Timmy Johnston Apr 2013
I found you atop Namsan Tower,
and locked my heart to your gate.
My heart set free.

I found you in Gangnam,
Your style too infectious.
I walk to your beat.

I found you in a coffeeshop,
The cake was sweet.
Your barista was sweeter.

I left you in the East,
6,000 miles between us.
My Seoul.

-trj
Khrystle Rea Feb 2013
And I know I said it a million times
a sensible girl like that
just pretending that we’re cool. So tonight
it’s for the best you didn’t listen.
And me, falling for it screaming that I’m right
when I still see it all in my head;
but the grass ain’t always greener on the other side.
I’ve drowned and dreamt this moment;
eyes on fire and they burn from all the tears;
so I’ll be on my way -
we don’t even have to try.
Let me know
all your giving me is fiction
looking for some trouble tonight.
And so I tell myself that I’ll be strong,
I wasn’t finished dreaming, about your lips.
How can you understand something that you never had?



[Maroon 5 - One More Night, PSY - Gangnam Style, One Direction - Live While We’re Young, fun. - Some Nights, Taylor Swift - We Are Never Getting Back Together, Taylor Swift - Red, Justin Bieber - As Long As You Love Me, Adele - Skyfall, Pink - ******* One Last Kiss, Alex Clare - Too Close, Owl City - Good Time, Flo Rida - Whistle, Neon Trees - Everybody Talks, ke$ha - Die Young, Ellie Goulding - Lights, Chris Brown - Don’t Wake Me Up, Ne-Yo - Let Me Love You]
For fun - decided to do a collage poem with the top songs from the hot 100 billboard list. In the poem I kept the lines from the songs listed in the same ranked order on billboard [these are the top 17 from a few months ago].
Miguel Diaz May 2016
I take my knowledge from architects, medieval painters and galore.

I walk along the stretch of times, Read the Canterbury Tales from folks of yore.

I've written literature in my own dialect, through the beautiful English language.

I find awe in the act of creation, new etymologies where old writers anguished.

My words: symphonies of the beloved and dead Beethoven; like the arias of Wagner.

I am the high priest, the new catholicicist propogandising as your Cardinal.

I am the spiritual technology, provided to the ailment of what we call society.

I am the new Ghandi, the Dalai Lama deservedly inspiring your piety.

I am the Luciferous angel of life, breathing heaven through the cesspool of Earth.

I am the post-modern Romeo and Juliet, Warhol's 15 minutes of fame and worth.

I am the Alexander Mcqueen, the metaphilosopher of fabric illusions.

I am the lyricist of society, speaking through the castrated eunychs.

I am Stephanie Myer, inspiration of vampiric genius to adolescent impressionables.

I am Jane Austen, author of new age thrillers such as The Secret and Lesbian Misérables

I am the eclipsing of twilight, the post-mortem autopsy of a rotting cadaver.

I am Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson, legends inspiring a race of sleeping pill grabbers.

I am the Blockbuster, the Titanic Avatar, $4.9 Billion to children in poverty.

I am Gangnam Style, 2.5 Billion viewers of the Palestinian Bombings.

I am modern philosophe, the birth giver of Socrates, Plato, Nietzsche, Derrida.

I am Steve Jobs, terrible father, tyrant and billionaire technological reliever.

I am God, the predeccesor and successor of all eternal life.

I am Satan, damnation and strife.

I am Tupac, rapper of gangster warfare. Inspirational to first world degenerates.

I am Oprah, most powerful black woman with white hillbilly aesthetics of Ellen Degeneres.

Thank you, to world's only true Genius.
Hail Kanye West, our one and only revered Yeezus.
Genius is overrated. Knowledge is pointless. Everything is nothing. Yall should read Jane Austen Parody Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Kange West guys! Come on! Give him all your money now!
Sky Jan 2018
A hostel, somewhere in Gangnam.

It was around 10, possibly 11
hot chicken in a box, and a man holding it.

A small man
thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****
He wore a light green vest or
rather, it wore him.

And each leg being 10 kilograms
each wing, about 8
and upon later inspection, there were
5 legs and 3 wings thus
74 kilograms, plus the box, then
76 kilograms and that
that
was the weight of his world, which he carried.

...

Her name is Soo-Ae, he said.

She is in the first grade and
can tie her shoelaces,
all
by herself

Ding,
the elevator.

The chicken stepped inside, and
so did the man.

Her name is Min-Ju, he said.

She graduated 3 years later,
but I waited.
For her, I could’ve waited
3 hundred.



(Room 3 hundred three, right?)
(Yes.)

3 hundred,
3 hundred one,
two, and
three.

...

But sometimes,
just sometimes, you see,
shoelaces can tangle badly
like umbilical cords

I’m sorry,
Doctor Lee had said as he
held her hands, shaking
hands shaking hands, shaking

Poor Min-Ju, he said.

Poor Soo-han, he said.



(Beer?)

(Uhm. Any green stuff?)

(Yes.)

(Thank you.)

(Here, I’ll

pour you.)

(Thank you.)



Most of the time,
Soo-Ae unties them herself,
or asks me like,
like
Appa?

swig
(one.)

but did you know, he asked

that the moment that a father gets depressed
is not the moment that he realizes
he cannot do it,
but is the moment that he realizes he must tell his
daughter
that he cannot do it,
and watch, helpless, as half the lights in her eyes
flicker and
die out.

swig
(two.)

Poor Soo-Ae, he said.

Poor Min-Ju, he said.

Poor Soo-han, he said.

(Pour me.
yes
that’s good.)



And
and when your hands start shaking,
like, like
shaking,
they become hard to untie,
those knots.

and everything.

Soo-Ae is no longer in the first grade,
and no longer wears ribbons in her hair.
Sometimes coming home very. late.

Where were you?
*******, you drunk.

Poor Soo-Ae.

Min-Ju is no longer three years younger,
And stays in bed, staring years.
Sometimes waking screaming sobbing.

Where is Soo-Han?
I hear him crying, where is he?

Poor Min-Ju.




Sometimes, big knots become
smaller, and smaller
and that’s when you know your life is over,
or that it’s time to get
new glasses, at least.

and
the liquor
stopped.

...

Do you know
what happens when a knot
cannot be untied?
he asked

My bleary eyes
went from liquor,
to cup.

And finally,
to my father’s hand.



You cut it?

...

No, he said.

...

You keep on trying, whether it takes
three hundred years, or
three hundred and one, or
three hundred and two, or
three hundred and
three.

You keep on
trying.

swig
(three.)

...

And that night, at a hostel
somewhere in Gangnam

my father.

thin shouldered, narrow faced
chicken *****,

wore a sad expression,
or rather,
it wore him. my father.

...

My poor,
poor father.
about a chicken delivery man
Aaron LaLux Sep 2019
Lost,
amongst the chaos, caught outside with a long way to go,
calm,
within the center, inside everything comes 360° full circle,

call it a circle but it’s more of a spiral,
careful don’t want to hurt you when I go ******,
but the truth is the first rule of nature is survival,
chaos outside crack pipes alight demoralized fools act suicidal,

see healing can help but it can also hurt you,
especially if you forget your virtues,

trust me you must be occasionally criticized passionately,
for acting out irrationally if not you’re not living your truth,
too caught up in your own closed captions to actually,
see passed the rose glasses that skews your worldview,

out past curfew brazenly making your way merrily,
down that yellow brick road until you stub your toe I told you,
healing can hurt you if you forget your virtues,
still you choose to refuse the truth shown in your own show,

okay your choice to choose now without further ado, the news,

this just in, we’re all caught in whirlpools,
drains all clogged with heirlooms,
energy vampires virgule our virtues,
as slashed wrist fill bathtubs, pills lay on pillows in bedrooms,

these cities are pretty venues for gritty citizen cesspools,
sporadic & magic with hearts as dark as our issues,
no Jim Henson only thuggish muppets wretched henchmen,
puzzled puppets & sketchy Skeksis from The Dark Crystal,

it’s a bizarre & awkward Little Shop of Horrors,
a smorgasbord of unordered  hors d’oeuvres served cold,
& you’re confused of course because you didn’t order more,
plus it smells horrible oh well it’s only the first course,

anyways what’s on the menu today,
in this Showroom AKA Stolen Souls Salesroom’s display,
****** Nephews that resist rescue,
plus a side of drunken Lethargic Legume pate,

in other words intoxicated obnoxious Obscene Family Beans,
that are nostalgic for forgotten things that’ve long gone away,

& what have you on menu #2,
Locobutt Coconuts, crazy nuts Loony Tunes that lack values,
in other words hardheaded tropical crazy assed loons,
animated guys that apply topical gravy acid to cashews,
excuse me, did I offend you is that why you gave your opinion,
well opinions are like ******* & I’m sorry but I didn’t ask you,

I’ll harass you, if I want to, & harass her *** too,
I’m lampooned, lampin’ on a lagoon in a pontoon,
going gorillas, with my baboons in the full moon,
hope to not get harpooned too soon high as a kite at high noon,

call me Sun, or Sultan,
everyone is overdone, it’s insultin’,
brainwashed, & super spun,
the buzzer buzzed, the ***** laundry’s done,

hang it out to dry in the breeze,
air it out the window for everyone to see,
then look up at the sky, & tell me what you see,
one life at a time out here in San Franpsy, thunder & lightning,

here in San Franpsy, the sky, has a reddish haze,
smoke from Ukraine, magic mushrooms & acid rain,

we have all types of weather here in San Franpsycho,
slash your wrists just to check your vitals,

San Franpsycho, ******, psy-trance,
that Psy guy, with his Gangnam dance, dance monkey dance, strung out junkies, self made flunkies,
& 3rd rate rejects with a 2nd chance,

computer programmers,
digital techno gods,
programming the New World Order,
Zuckerberg & Steve Jobs,
& yeah the equation is way off,
but somehow we’ll even the odds,

even when Silk Road is taken down,
at the public library by out of town Federal Agents,
the caterpillars still make silk from mother’s milk,
still there are celebrations without any occasions,

from Hiroshima to Fukushima,
laughter from the hyphy hellish hyenas,
belly of the Beast ****tting out diarrhea,
hey anyone have any memories for my ongoing amnesia,
or maybe some anesthesia for this creative creature,
jeez I can barely breath I need to leave but,
I’m disorientated deliriously stumbling around this arena,
where I was just served a subpoena to answer to Jesus,
but I’m not ready to leave just yet, enjoying the scenery bruh,
we’re all portraits portrayed in The Great Life Galleria,

& I’m enjoying the show laughing madly like the hellish hyenas,
tip toeing on eggshells a tipsy bombed out bombshell ballerina,
as if it’s all good ‘cause I haven’t seen a real life Hiroshima,
washing down a divine diva’s cleavage,
with medical marijuana margaritas,
shouting out “Eureka”, struck gold & made a deal with Jesus,

Christ, or Jackson,
like Mike, or Michael,
The mirrored man is the boogieman, nothing’s normal,
****, it all goes down in San Franpsycho,

thee end, is coming soon, do what you have to for survival…

They say, thee end’s coming soon,
thought there was more to say,
really though,
how much more can we say?

Lost,
amongst the chaos caught outside with a long way to go,
calm,
within the center inside everything comes 360° full circle...

from THHT3: Dark Lights | Bright Shadows
available worldwide: 9/9/19
Thoughts?
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
nie będe sięgał, klękał, zginał, czy wiginał sie przed tym krzyżem!
   (i will not reach, kneel, bend (myself), or contort (myself) before this crux!)
given it's a geometric abomination, as it already is, with prior pythagorean
stress on the triangle; at least that shape is a zoo of interpretation... the crux? that's open to interpretation... either a + or a x.

oh, and by the way, this zeitgeist debate regarding pronouns? slavic language use the pronouns sparingly anyway... you can almost say they're non-exixstent in a conversation... for example... the i is hardly used; which really makes the western language discussion about "proper" pronoun use... very, very, ******* funny; and i do mean that pronoun usage in these languages is a given, i.e. it's automated, and imbedded for no kind of disphoria to become prevalent, or hit the radar for discussion.

as i always stress...
i'm a composer, not an entertainer,
i don't have two or three poems
in my repertoire...
    this **** isn't coming at you like
some *gangnam style
one hit wonder,
or gibsberg's howl...
                    i'm just a pulverising
train-wreck of a man, drinking to excess...
and... well... feeling gleeful, to say
the least, smirking most of the time,
and sniggering at the odd occassion;
oh, did i mention, that i simply love
wearing sunglasses?
and yes, living in england,
it's hard to get into the patriotism
           the americans
are almost automated into (alt. indocrinated),
i wish i could be patriotic about being
english...
                 but **** me, there are too many toffs
and cup-cakes to get through to be patriotic
about this place...
     i sprechen the english sprechen,
but i decided to still keep my native tongue
and use it in my private space, that i'm supposed
to call a castle...
              oh but i'll speak the english when
i'm outside of the house, and no one could
tell me i'm foreign... but they sometimes,
annoyingly ask: so, where you from?
after that question, the dialogue suddenly disintegrates....
******* inbreds.
  but you know what i learned about immigration
in europe? you can borrow from american patriotism...
you get so ******* nationalistic **** style in "exile"
with regard to your birth country... it's, simply, unreal;
last time i checked... no news
                   of a muslim attack in poland;
but **** me, i'd love to have that spirit of patriotism
that americans have, inherently;
  ah, but you know, europe is a poly-lingual continent,
which makes it a witch's cauldron, anticipating
death and despair;
and no, given that england uses the same language
as america... you can't, for **** you me, become that easily
patriotic about england...
         welll, objectively i have complete fluency of the english
tongue... but subjectively? fish & chips, 1966 world cup?
the beatles, pink floyd, led zeppelin,
                                             black sabbath, rolling stones?
toad in a hole?
          mate, i'm up in scotland, with a mouthful of
haggis neeps and tatties.
Star Gazer Feb 2016
This is how the world bends,
We'd found trends,
Before we found friends,
Received emails before we even hit send.

Attached Emails to feelings,
As though catfishers aren't reeling,
The world became their ceiling,
And made nonsense into meaning.

We had transcend,
To only ever depend,
On online content,
To feel content.

In a radius of one hundred miles,
Everyone knows of Gangnam Style,
But it doesn't stop at videos,
Youtube is but one in the rodeo.

Between Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter
Bullies flushed lives into the *******,
Humans became anything other than critter,
As they coated insults with stickers and glitter.

We leapt to Omegle in search of fate,
In the form of company or a date,
But stumbled onto smeared words of hate,
And dudes who liked to *******.

STOP! LOOK AROUND YOU!
The trees are green,
The skies are blue,
Feel the fresh air of the scene.

We are all connected,
Raising populations of infected,
Of a rampant infection,
Known as the internet connection.
All Joe king aside

Humor iz vital stove topface
component to survive the cares
and concerns oven uncertain
culinary future, that presages

over heating of this planet
concomitant with extinction
per the human race. Many
gauges point toward an
irrevocable debacle where

the evolutionary timer seems
to tick, head, and (hmm…
more like barreling) toward
becoming a cooked goose.

An ear splitting ruth less
buzzer will be an impossible
mission to clap quiet while
steam issues out the airwaves

from stymied paunchiest pilot
light buck kit brigade. If and/
or when such a fiery fate befalls
this arrogantly bombastic,

conceitedly egoistic, forlorn,
grievously hapless, irascibly
jangling, kookily middling
luddite, he hopes his demise

will be brutish, short and nasty
while surviving foreign legion
members of locked humanity
hob bull along the blitzed
boulevard of broken dreams.

Whatever provokes a maniacal
person to laugh as the world
turns tumultuously affecting
a surreal ambience akin to the
edge of night (especially with

dark shadows) may appear
wantonly vapid unspooling
threnodies sotto voce.
Rational quartermasters
promulgated outlandish no mans land.

Knowledge jackknifed ideal
humane gentility. Febrile earth
lings’ dragnet cleaved bona fide
actualization. What other option

available to tinker, tailor, soldier
spy except to chuckle at the folly
gingerly loosened upon the terra firmae?
Nothing short of an uproarious chortle

would be prescribed from doctor
demento to ameliorate the tightly
wound tension arising from local

or global aggression arising from
bullies calling their bluff fed goat
bluster, division by the zero
sum game of thrones. Thus,

this mechanically nonsensical,
pop sic cull *** purée to throw
fire retardant on the conflict frission
intonating loopy outré playfulness

with words hoop ping quadratic
equations totally add further
meaninglessness. Hence **** friend,
aye axe hew, how does humor get decided?

Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside.
Jest parody offers funny types of humor.
Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?
Repression of natural mandated libidinal
kickstarter jammed in high gear feeds

e-z dropsy clodhoppers bursts of hyena
sounding eruptions! The cervical contractions
puffed up like jiffy pop laced pompadour,
increased with greater frequency and

intensity asthma due date approached
(which felt like violent shaking of the
biological ***** re: me), especially
prominent when “mother” gracefully
described Arabesque. She gravitated

to modus operandi sans professional
ballet dancer like a duck would drake
to water, and salve and duff heat whirled
pool ache kin to preparation H - soothing

the pain in the *** of hemorrhoids. Hours
elapsed with incessant stretching (while
in a standing pose) blithely drawing one leg
or the other up against those roseate ****** cheeks.

Even when quite progressed along
the family way with yours truly, thy
status while in utero where ******
stretched akin to a taut rubber band

near ready tubby (or knot tibia) snapped,
like ballet slippers suspending balanced
***** of toes pointed to maximum flexion,
or inflated balloon ready to pop beyond
capacity or, bulged in utero, she maintained

a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish veneration
asper the rigorous being a choreographed
top notch ballerina. This passion to bend
body electric defied laws of fig newton’s,

finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged
joie de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant
passion recognized talent unbridled versatility
waiving youngest attaining burlesque,

Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity
transformed thine mama into a holographic,
kaleidoscopic, and opportunistic piquant
rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality, and zealotry.

Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance
asper flexibility of muscles in conjunction with
defiance of physics. Once immersed in a classical
routine, thee supple rubbery form assumed

by thine mother ******* focused klieg lights
upon wondrous kinetic magic. An audience
member vicariously experienced dalliance
of some mind-numbing narcotic minus
the addiction. Stupefaction trans fixed gaze

upon the dynamic parameters of space
and time to present an enchanting move
able feast replete with operatic poetry,
quixotic romanticism, and sculpturesque

statuesque totemic union verging on affects
cast by a singular whirling dervish. A
heightened indoctrination of jubilation
radiated from every cell of this artiste

in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque dark
shadows and etched the faux edge of
night scenario with gigantesque ghoulish
phantasmagoric veterans of many tragic-

comic composers long since vetted into
the storied ballroom of fame. No surprise
then that when mine exit from the berth
canal of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris

witnessed by a full house, my denouement
propelled from the tender vittles tulip ruffled
private naughty bits induced balletic movements.
Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys

Anne Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself
(terrifically totally tubularly) within whose inter
twined arms and legs that emulated an analogy
to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug. A pause

(which many interpreted to initiate an applause)
sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned
out the impetus signifying the first breath of
this wordsmith. Only as the slap happy flesh

diminished did ardent hard fans of a triumphant
fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style winged
goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.

Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing
with a riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially
forcing this now grown baby boomer former chap -
lain cocooned for nine months within the womb),

thyself made headway into an alien world, whereat
this full term new born did provide his own wailing
lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic
antiestablishmentarian). This now grown baby boomer

chap lain cocooned for nine months within the womb,
who sought nothing more nor less than that which
necessitates being swaddled, pampered, mollycoddled,
cuddled, bundled, and held close to the *****. As

grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to
X-Files rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms
toward picturesque pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized
politically incorrect breastworks.
Ademar Jr Dec 2019
Can't believe the 10s is nearly over
All the memories living are still remembered
Playing all flash games in the computer
While my mom tells me if the game's over
I had to sleep as my eyes were covered
Everyone was playing Fireworks
Everyone would find Swift's songs as they research
But they also recognized a feud with Katy
I was continuing to watch Mordecai and Rigby
In that regular show airing nightly
How about those Ben 10 Omniverse aliens
Those were good times as my mom brought me crayons
Going in school everyday, never want to miss both classmates,
And the class itself, so I was early so much for myself
We danced the nae nae as some twerked like Miley
They'd pull off a gross one despite living with the elementary
They'd sing Gangnam Style and Gentlemen everywhere
It's a dumb dance but who cares?
Everyone still swears, but I didn't want to hear it
Pewdiepie kept doing it though during his Happy Wheels' vid
So did markiplier who's channel suddenly flipped
Flossing and dancing with Harlem shake playing
All were singing despite barely knowing
Love was still simple as not much were texting
Everyone just loved the overall decade
I enjoyed it especially the first half for it felt like an arcade
As I will remember this for more of my ages.
(alternately titled: whipping and pommel ling
das soar addle brain)

My most recent deuce score
     plus three bajillion ban
an nah ram ma orbitz
squared bob sponge pants
     day of birth passed uneventfully –
     (round el sol) saw me dan
sing around one average star, which Evan
chilly wool worth hilly exhibit

     death throe tulle pan
dum mo' knee yum -
     becoming a black hole sun,
     when photon illumination
     totally tubularly blinks
     out more'n Knots Lan
ding all countries
     with exception of Japan

(if only for explicit purpose
     of this poem) can
did lee stated fan
silly free and foot loose
     to appease the ghost of Ivan
the Terrible, who would
     phish she shuss lee
     never fin hush his

     rage against the machine
     foaming at the mouth
asper gar non sequitur
     spoiler alert hint  
     aye made debut 13th of Jan)
and now for no rhyme,
     nor reason mention
     nothing (by the way)

     written thus far tan
gent shill to the square      
     of hide bound
Halliburton Hippopotamus,
     whose first name
     Horton doth move in clan

destine fashion, oh...and nope
     definitely not related
     to ancestors of Kublai Khan
whose nickname Lloyd
though, whoa, wow,
     and yikes quite a time span

'tween that Mongol
     consigning, conning, and condemning
     “FAKE” deplorable trump
     ping app Paul
     ling Peters to Azkaban
nonetheless, aye never aver
     witnessed no fanfare
     for this common (c'mon) man

lettuce high tail gangnam style to San
Mateo (matt er factly
     founded, settled, and
     populated by Scottish
     donning Harris tweed

a hop, skip and jump by van
from this yan
key dude dull who lives ian
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Yenson Dec 2021
The labourers are on the treadmills
all in the chain gangs
doing compulsory hard labour
all sweating obsessively
they are digging for the core
in hard-core
and stripping the vines
from grapevines
and of course
checking on
their mates
at the Animal Farm
its all for one and one for all
down at the olde Red Lions square
they're all hicks looking for hiccups
doing it all gangsters style
sorry that should be gangnam style
hahahaha
I must teach working people how to have a self-depreciating sense of humour,  what's their palaver, you say yaboo and they start crying and screaming BLUE ******....hahaha
I tickle your catastrophe and mock your pettiness

— The End —