"germanic" poems
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
In the context of today's supernatural energy,
The brains in which I inhale are forever spinning.
I bought my eyes from the black market
and cannot see clearly anymore.
Saint Hildegard lived in yesterday's supernatural
with purchased Germanic eyes of green and ivory...
as mine are.
She is the best friend that I have never known
and would never **** my vibe.
But all of the energies running around
are killing the vibe that races through my spine.
And I want to see life as a puppy does,
running and frolicking low to the ground...
digging up tennis *****
You can count on me, though,
to see life as a the gangsta I'm not,
and not as the hound I so want to be.
But I'm neither gangster nor *****
but only a Lupine plant leaving seeds to be eaten
by the breathers with brains who take all I have to offer.
And nobody calls me the lucky one,
but I know I could be if I had somebody else's organs.
And if I were to dance with you
I may call myself the lucky one,
but I settle for dancing for you
and I'm not lucky at all.
And I don't know how I'm at the end of the line
when there are no girls in front of me.
Can you tell that there are no girls in front of me?
This line goes on for miles,
and the stereo I listen to today's supernatural frequencies through
goes on for miles.
You're the dearest loving zombie I know,
so take me away in a helicopter
far away from the breathers and the bleeders.
And we'll be the only ones in the sky
and we'll walk about the clouds
and engage our supernatural ids
and create a make-believe empire.
But there are things to do outside the windows
and nothing can possibly be how I wish it to.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces,
excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter,
ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, ****
"cleaning up ferret excrement":
mid 16th century: from French excrément
or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;
act of defecating;
a contemptible or worthless person;
something worthless; garbage; nonsense;
"this book is **** unpleasant experiences
or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year"
things or stuff, especially personal belongings;
"he left all his **** in my apartment"
events or circumstances;
_"some crazy **** went down last night"_
any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good ****
good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: *****
past tense: ******* past participle: *******
past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat;
past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ********
expel feces from the body,
soiling one's clothes as a result;
expelling feces accidentally; very frightened.
tease or try to deceive someone or thing.
"I **** you not" exclamation
exclamation: ****
[exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance]
Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’ of Germanic origin;
related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb];
_The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;
*********** from Greek κόπρος,
kópros—excrement & φιλία, philía—
liking, fondness, also called scatophilia
or **** [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces],
is the paraphilia involving
****** arousal & pleasure
from specific feces;
meanly, his mother said, _u can drink my ***
but don't eat my **** then she ****
& *** & the boy drank but when
he put the warm **** to his mouth,
she slapped it out of his hand &
yelled, I told u not to eat my ****
& the boy began to cry & feeling
bad his mother turned to let him lick
the bowl & rim the moist wet hole between
her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more
of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade
& chocolate chips, sometimes it was
more like sweet sherbet; but she never
hit him again & he's been eating her ****
ever since; now, his wife lets him drink
her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
Matrilineality is the tracing of descent
through the female line corresponding
to a societal system in which each person
is identified with their matriline;
– their _mother's_ image –
and which can involve the inheritance
of property and/or titles. A matriline is
a line of descent from
a common female ancestor
to a descendant of either ***
in which the individuals in all intervening
generations are mothers –
in other words, a "mother line".
In matrilineal descent,
individuals belong to the same
group as their mother.
The matriline of historical nobility
was also called the _enatic_ or _Uterine_ ancestry;
From Middle English wombe, wambe,
from Old English womb, wamb
(“belly, stomach; bowels; heart; womb; hollow”),
from Proto-Germanic *wambō
(“belly, stomach, abdomen”),
from Proto-Indo-European *wamp- (“membrane (of bowels),
intestines, womb”). Cognate with Scots wam, wame (“womb”),
Dutch wam (“dewlap of beef; belly of a fish”),
German Wamme, Wampe (“paunch, belly”),
Danish vom (“belly, paunch, rumen”),
Swedish våmb (“belly, stomach, rumen”),
Norwegian vomb (“belly”), Icelandic vömb
(“belly, abdomen, stomach”), Old Welsh gumbelauc (“womb”),
Breton gwamm (“woman, wife”),
Sanskrit वपा (vapā́, “the skin or membrane
lining the intestines or parts of the viscera,
the caul or omentum”).
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
*at night you can spot him strolling the pavement,
the modern archimedes, with a bottle of bavaria beer,
using his cigarette lighter to detail the bottle cap
with one smooth use of leverage, as taught
by paul the ex-convict, the hopeful dub-step d.j.*
the 19th century had its pan-slavism,
but given there’s a union between the germanic people
and slavic people while mama siberia is
left behind freezing,
outside with the big bad wolves and bears -
having exported serious existential literature
of doom and grooming gloom to scandinavia,
the balkan slavs still uncertain, rejected in favour
of the bulgars and the romanians,
i can mention the northern slavic trans-slavism,
not quiet trans-gender, such a linguistic surgery of the soul
requires little details like:
my point was proved about the up-turned nose in england
concerning public intellectuals... they do great cornish pastry
and music anyway, let the french do the thinking
and find joy in it -
plus reading philosophy books
in english is like pulling your teeth out, standing in a bucket of
ice cold water with someone setting fire to your hair.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Some where he sits or gorily sleeps
The blank stare behind a rigid cut
Eyes of a seductive Mongoloid
Offering nothing for the poison of the sea
The arbitrary swirls of mechanical time pieces
Add heavy track to this an
already shady beat
all the While A reproduction of some Germanic doll
Shrinks smaller into the keyholes
of his frontal lobe
A pleasant amnesia of the purist kind
This anglo doll she is now just a capsized pin
Her black and white knee socks mold into a geosed canvas
Ready to be re-painted with all the emotions he has left
What if I told you I loved you?
By the stairs with the works of post-modern misunderstanding
But it will be just a whisper of shear for the racket builds upward
The spinning mechanics joined by the school busses stopping forever
Yes that statement of old is clearly devoid
Merrily a swallow’s anthem
An absurd tangent of malfeasance
Almost a monosyllabic destruction
Only some misshapen coke spoons remain
As well asthe hands of a man who is much safer out of bed
The saline was much too dodgy
And the sheets…..Well they were never clean
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
Driving off onto the 101 rush hour concrete jungle, there are no exits,
only obligations to stay stuck in my mobile cubicle moving at the speed of slow.
Hidden flowers on the hillside bloom away mocking my insanity,
they cheer me on to see beyond these gray prison bevels.
Gray blocks hollow until they're filled with my humanity,
making me take the choices reaped with devils.
I feel like I've lived a day in one hour, it's so early it could be midnight.
Twisting and turning in my brain, the sun suddenly ridicules, feeding me a fresh case of insane.
I'm at a point of sorrow, sorrow of an exceptional quality, Grade A-farm raised, take two tomorrow.
The raven croaked nevermore, Juliet is the sun, dangren-burang1.
We have to go. I'm almost happy here2. Complacency rots insides, then refills with fear.
So - Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make3. Clamoring for sight.
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to **** There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof4. Filled with truths, synapse salvoes, loves, and drugs. We love what we eat and eat who we are. GERManic germs looking for psychological thrills. You work the guns, I'll rattle the hills.
Smoking cannabis to an over-extent, hope lost, old kung-fu and 80's movies won, I eat smoke for breakfast.
This sun is still mocking me, “Start your day, be productive, make a baby, then expiry.”
Stepping into society, I'm a satanic leaf-tailed gecko wanting freedom, abdicate, and let go your kingdom.
Halfheartedly half washed dishes in my sink; this entropy roller-coaster of highs and lows drives me to drink and think, then drink and smoke, making life one strange syrupy green swirl of mammarys and calamities filled with brevity’s of rarities.
5,000 images, 2 comedies, and a numb right arm later I've turned into dark matter, invisibly pulling all that matters together into a forever stretched infinitely, literally making synergies out of life-energies.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Imagine the first rumor. The first grunt of gossip
The first finger-point of prejudice. It was probably
like noticing the sunset for the first-time. How it
stretched out across the entire scope of your vision,
peeled back into a city that wasn’t the one you were in,
like an orange peel, one skin at a time. Eventually,
the world rounded, the ice melted, homo-sapiens
grew taller. Our voices deepened, bodies thickened.
We learned to survive the cold, the floods,
the irrational wars, and crescent-mooned nights
underneath tinned roofs. Then came the enlightenment,
the evolution of speech. The first cousin of Germanic
languages; the second cousin of Romantic languages.
And then the first rumor. The first appraisal of good
or bad actions of people hardly known. I imagine
my ancestors, 1.9 million years ago, grunting
with raised brow in her partner’s direction. Pointing
at two men crouching behind a large, fallen boulder.
Pointing at a man who belongs to her neighbor,
crawling out of a cave that doesn’t belong to him.
They are probably turning over in their bone-filled
graves as I think of what to say next, laughing at how
far we haven’t come from the ghouls of gossip,
discussing how out of all the occupations in this world:
bricklayer, lawyer, educator, their descendant chose
this noble profession, this calling up of events.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
I did not know her then
nor do I now
but in between, I did
She swam for Barbados
fluid young islander
of affluent Germanic descent
Adrift, cultures island sought
she surfaces, bobbing
in the Red Dragon’s wake
House on the Bay,
overflowing camper van, brim
full of friends and fun
Over the Bridge
splashing loneliness, diving
into my bath and bed
Floating alone
undercurrents scratch, tides
sandy icing of memories
Locked lapping Bay days
drag
piloting others fun
sea blue horizons
debentures sold, goodbyes told
surf Ahoy
She jumps far flung
fun soaked, to sail
the Bay of Islands
.
Apr 23, 2010
Apr 23, 2010 at 9:09 AM UTC
so... it's no longer enough that
i learn your language,
into a p.s. of conversational
etiquette -
addressing the confrontational
assertion of the existence
of orthography,
minding your, Germanic,
metaphysical ********
and then...
i'm, supposed, to,
listen to your average citizen,
dictating rules,
like some sort of king?!
i'll drink a beer, walking
past the east ham central mosque...
and i'll be like:
getting the **** eyes ******
you stare -
in reply: you know what?
do it... **** it... do it...
make me a ******* martyr...
but i'm going to drink this beer,
feeding a solidarity of the 7/7 commuters...
hence my teasing...
once i'll burn scissors and
craft a tattoo on my arm...
once i'll put out a cigarette
on my left hand's knuckle...
the everyday englishman who "thinks"
he's king...
i'm thinking... plum hues
to replace mascara... with a *******
fist...
no... private property,
is private property...
now i'm gagging for a fist
frisking! i'm less trigger happy,
and more, european,
i.e. knuckles itchy!
i want to juggernaut something
down...
and then start biting into it!
any obnoxious englighman,
being a **** will satiated my
palette.
GNASH GNASH GNASH...
i want... a chance...
to scoop clean...
the "riddle" of meaty chicken
schnacks of drum-sticks...
fiddle fiddle, fiddle me something...
i want to engage in a 1, 2,
punch & bite something...
attempting to relieve itself
from physical confrontation,
having exhausted its verbal allowance.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
sweet waters with mint fragrant hints,
memories flood me,
"walking back in time"
he describes it
of my early days of discovery,
this voyage upon the poetry ship,
with me, mere stowaway,
unfit by compare,
sailed to lands unimaginable,
friendships seeded in words,
sprouted like a field of summer sunflowers,
water weeping, for joy so joyous,
the mastery of his words
elevates, levitates,
the ashes of sadness now dispossessed,
floating on the Ganges
the drumming of my dreams,
of treasures of golden words,
in lungs undiscovered, unspoken,
leads me back to you,
Balachandran from Thiruvananthapuram
April 10, 2016
~~~
Jun 1, 2013
Balachandran
How I love to say your name,
Rolling waves over my tongue,
It is must be said out loud
Two or three times to feel its rhythm,
Two or three more just for the
Spiced pleasure it conveys.
Bala chan dran!
My name harsh, Germanic,
Like the Black Forest,
Where my ancestors dwelled,
Until a harsher people drove them away.
Balachandran!
Under the ground beneath the temple
Padmanabha Swamy,
A temple dedicated to
Vishnu,
In the state of
Kerala,
the original spice country.
South Western sea board of India,
where miracles never cease to happen,
A billion dollar treasure discovered.
A treasure of words and sounds,
A language musical, every word a poem
Of incroyable elegance.
I am so glad that you were not born in France.
Perhaps someday I will courage summon,
To spicy lands, explore, and even come to
Thiruvananthapuram.
For now, I must be satisfied with the
Poetical musicale program I attend,
When I say over and over again,
Balachandran from Thiruvananthapuram!
Dedicated to K Balachandran
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas, which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its ***** acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.
*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Balachandran
How I love to say your name,
Rolling waves over my tongue,
It is must be said out loud
Two or three times to feel its rhythm,
Two or three more just for the
Spiced pleasure it conveys.
Bala chan dran!
My name harsh, Germanic,
Like the Black Forest,
Where my ancestors dwelled,
Until a harsher people drove them away.
Balachandran!
Under the ground beneath the temple
Padmanabha Swamy,
A temple dedicated to
Vishnu,
In the state of
Kerala,
the original spice country.
South Western sea board of India,
where miracles never cease to happen,
A billion dollar treasure discovered.
A treasure of words and sounds,
A language musical, every word a poem
Of incroyable elegance.
I am so glad that you were not born in France.
Perhaps someday I will courage summon,
To spicy lands, explore, and even come to
Thiruvananthapuram.
For now, I must be satisfied with the
Poetical musicale program I attend,
When I say over and over again,
Balachandran from Thiruvananthapuram!
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
This offends me as a vegan transgender hipster democrat voting Native-American-Indo-Chinese socialist anarchist hybrid illegal alien agnostic-atheist Germanic social engineering major dropout who only vapes fair-trade organic non-GMO decaffeinated French-pressed compressed and hydrated extra-skim grass-fed only protein soy breast milk on the regular and does Hindi Kama Sutra naked crossfit hot yoga 5 times a week. And frankly, since I am also a non-binary tri-gender genderqueer male feminist and I identify as a proponent to legalize cannabis and a Rastafarian, pansexual, genderfluid, Apache helicopter beta mutt of mega multi alpha beta gamma delta omega combo god of hyper death who's adamant about polygamous polyamorous relationships with an pure-bred alpha chihuahua which helped me cross the border of Mexico to let love trump the hate and get a job 3-D printing pink ***** hats all day. My dog also walks me to the local skate park and doggy styles me, while my gender neutral photographer neighbor takes pictures and sells them on the dark web antifa site and if you find that weird you're an ignorant arrogant homophobic gender-assuming globophobic bloodthirsty bacon-loving gun-toting cis-gender pan-sexual patriarchal incestuous sexist racist white-privileged misogynistic populist biased objectified white-privileged anti-communist **** indoor tanning Cheetos cheese-puff-loving republican.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
Why is it "American's hunger to move"?
Is it a lack of identity (i.e. being a mixed bag of ancestry such as Germanic, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon) and the search to find one?
Is it something in the land pounded into the earth by the feet of it's nomadic natives long ago?
Is it the near constant expansion since the days of Lewis, Clark, Pike, and Hudson?
Could it be the cyclic disillusionment inevitable in the culture and economic cores of the country?
Is there just too ********* much space?
It would be easy to blame President Eisenhower for the whole thing by giving people a means of traveling the whole country so conveniently in the first place.
But I don't think that is it.
Who am I to know though? I'm not even pretending to have an answer.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
for Nietzsche
Relax a bit.
Stop being so
****** Germanic.
Too much questing
after the truth
engenders, finally,
heartburn
and hemorrhoids.
Purge yourself.
**** epistemology.
Eat a paw paw.
Have a drink.
Count the cobwebs.
Learn to know
your toes.
Put that book
back on the shelf.
Accept the sunshine
that may illuminate
an uncritical moment.
Bask in it.
Release your mind
to wander aimlessly
in nature's delight.
Penetrate the Goddess.
Become the lover
content to enjoy
what cannot last,
what will be lost.
Save your questions
for a cloudy day.
There is more
to knowing
than knowledge
can say.
- mce
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
hard to play the idiot; likened to Mr. Bean
taking the role from
Angus Daily into a Blackadder
hurrah who? ha, ha, ha!
my eyes never
left me baffled - or washington prone:
*** to a stirrup - furthermore,
or Rushmore:
Atilla with an entourage
worthy of Genghis: of prone gravitas -
i too santa's little helper
and sinatra's
five p.m. flamingo strut's
worth of martini -
when said slavic eye then lessened
germanic white-boy fisheyed to boot...
i mean less binocular and more concentrate...
but
there's me as a fifth of Nevada in Siberia
that's always the: **** we sold Alaska!
Nicolai! oh Nicolai! Alaska! **** or
of what was the Crimea, of what is the Kremlin:
k, c, k, c, s, c, k, c, k, c, Vlad, s, t, u, v, k, c, s,
Rasputin, k, c, k, c, Boney M....
i'm still fidgety about the third ethnicity in
europe... i have to gather them attune to being
southern slav, or pseudo-turkish,
Finns, Latvians and Greeks... sounds like
falafel: all guidance to the subsequent reprimands
of necessarily tongue-tied whiplash -
gravitas with the kink and jeopardy of a gimp
fetish on the loose.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
how about... the irish and the scots re-learn gaelic... and the welsh upkeep their pseudo-germanic style of spelling, of what i might call indigestion, or in english: names of chemical compounds in shampoo?
there's a limit to assimilating into a foreign
country...
sure... i'll learn the language,
i'll even speak it better than the natives...
but when it comes to my mutterzunge,
(mothertongue), and my private life,
in my own home?
like **** you're going to force me
to forget the language i was born in...
only asians in england, can be so "humbled",
or rather tricked, or coerced,
just so they think they're somehow
superior... which becomes a complex,
and then they start feeding themselves
this ******** nostalgia, for a "golden age"
of the caliphate;
to me? just ****** parenting,
that avoided the stresses of embracing bilingualism,
and, thus, embracing a fluidity of
a merchant class... instead we have these
parasite bourgeoisie... who feel either self-entitled...
or victims.
like **** am i going to give my native tongue up!
i'll speak yours... but you're not
going to plant c.c.t.v. in my home to make
me forget my native heimatsprechen;
like the idea that these, so called "citizens" have
the right to school me? even the queen wouldn't
aspire to such vermin level of politics.
bo? gówno; życie! na kurwanędzą!
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
Incantations of a Madman
do I cast a spell with words of magic
is this just a mantra of proportional tragic
be it of Old English or maybe Germanic
sending ones self into a manic panic
are you one who is a giver or taker
trying to steal her smile you can't mistake her
be ye poet or simple candle maker
behind a mask truly a faker
Mesopotamian pow-wows and Gaelic chants
spiritual wisdom disguised as rants
from deep pockets of knee high pants
Cinderella slippers at a ballroom dance
wave your hand create a Carmen or prayer
conjure up visions of hell if you dare
whispered Yajna like you really care
the fire of Vishnu behind the glare
oh ye of troubled heart and mind
seek out the treasures left behind
feel the breath of tides that bind
bow your heads see what you find
Gomer LePoet....
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.
Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.
The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.
The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.
The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.
Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.
Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.
Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo
Jun 5, 2024
Jun 5, 2024 at 1:19 PM UTC
The son of a carpenter climbed a cross
And Saturnalia was lost forever…
Slaves, adorned in masters clothing
once drank out of the golden goblet and goosed the mistress
vied with paupers for King of Fools
banged pots and pans, slept with sloe-eyed boys til morning
poked, prodded, pampered, kissed, and loved again
The solemn lords of the city peered from their heavenly contemplations
and felt, like a worm in the mysticism of direct communication with god
a bit of remorse, a hint of resentment against the marble steps,
a yearning for the dance, for the abandonment of the senses
for a pageant worthy of those ***** old gods
MITHRAS, BACHUS, DIANA, DISCORDIA.
Before Christmas pushed jostled and shoved the holiday
out of the way,
we opened our homes to all the poor
they become the masters for the day.
while we ran behind with dishcloths and wild cries of
DON”T BREAK THAT
and infused with a small perverse pleasure
took our masks down for a night -
I will play sly servant lass
while my staid husband is forced into corners
with women who struggle to keep their teeth in
And their children fed.
If there were no Jesus,
the tree would still go up for the Norse
the presents still go out for the British
the children still adored for Saturn
the feast still cooked for the old Germanic tribes –
humility, guilt and being saved, saved, saved
saved from the drunkards in the streets,
saved from the firecrackers, the happy children, the Yule log,
saved the togetherness, the topsy-turvy of this most celebrated
happy out-of-control neighborly Solstice ancient block party-
That came from Christ.
Thanks Jesus, you old scrooge.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
agreed, nietzsche hit the nail into a bullseye, the poles are the germanic equivalent of the french.
i'm like athos: the best advice is
to never give advice...
dumas was spot on
on that one,
most people give
advice so other
people can commit
the same mistakes
and seek counselling
to once again read a map
they're supposed to invent,
to stop them following in
someone's footsteps
to an unimaginative east
to only find a setting sun
will always end with a harrowing:
drug addicts do it better,
they don't have a conscience
about it, and the only advice
they give is: more more more!
******** advice is astrology -
wear a zebra or an aeries bow-tie
and you'll be fine... just fine...
picture perfect meringue marionette.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
You picked
A blue bloodstone
When you were younger.
You didn't know what it was,
You probably still don't.
You gave it to me
Along with a dyed blue agate.
It's funny,
Don't you think?
Bloodstone was worn by warriors
Into battle
Because they were of the school of thought
That it would aid in healing wounds more rapidly,
And that it would heal the mind as well.
So I wear it in a spiral cage
On a chain around my neck,
Hoping to hone that healing light-energy,
So that I may heal and be healed in turn.
Blue Goldstone
Is what I'm giving to you.
It provides protection against any type of harm,
And it will light your path from all things frightening.
People of Norse, Irish, and Germanic decent
Used to give it to their children
Who feared the dark.
Please,
Take the crystallized galaxy
Within it's spiral cage,
And come home to me,
Safe and sound.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
i could have sworn that last night
someone tried to gorge his eyes
out, turning his hands into two crows,
weeping as if something terrible was about
to happen and allowing
his bilingualism for each eye to speak
without the cross-eyed vision of the single tongue
of the crafting of nations in each eye -
then indeed the slavic motherly in the left
and the acquisition of the germanic para-latin
interpretation in the right one
as the crows left the sockets pecked at
with said tongues inserted rhapsodising
about the eye in the mouth looking at two nations
of origins: one the biological, one the psychologically
acquisitive of thus stated usage expressed.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
a table salt spilled next to the dead
warrior, a young ****** stands
frozen, over his limp body,
a garrison marched into
a vault stole every thing of any value,
left only, drips of terror
fallow cries whispers
dry lips horror
death,
from the reeking remains of
history, the teacher taught me,
about Germanic victories, Viking tales,
conquistadors.
There,
was where i remember,
this.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC