Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
L A Lamb Sep 2014
(written 3-18-2014)



I just needed something different, something to think about: an alternative night, a different scene with new environmental stimuli. It’s true that if the stimulus is unchanging we will adapt, but for me, I live best being able to react to different things. Yesterday was fun for that reason.



I was going to drive, but then Alistair said Yarab was going out too and he offered to drive. I considered the gas money and how I would prefer to drink and not worry about driving, so I agreed. At this point, you and I were in amidst a discussion regarding me coming over too late– or not at all– and I was in a particular mood where I didn’t want to think about the relationship strain. I knew I was causing it, but it was nothing new, and nothing bad. I just wanted to actually see my brother since I was so suffocated and domesticated. I wanted a night away from Giovanni’s room, which made me feel like your little housewife, your obedient certainty assigned love.



Why did we stay so ignorant when we started with uncertainty? It was a beautiful stage of development, a coming-of-age stage of accepting my sexuality and exploring sensuality. We we drunk college girls, amateur philosophers and ****-smokers, confused about the world but idealizing a better world. That was the ideal of us. The truth was too tragic, but we endured it for so long that for one night I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to think about you. So I didn’t. It was inconsiderate of me to consider you worrying and upset, but at this point I wanted to enjoy myself and have fun with my brother when I figured you’d be sad and disappointed no matter what happened, so I may as well enjoy myself. I thought hard about it, but decided since it was Alistair’s birthday, I didn’t have work until 6:00 p.m. the next day, and yes, it was St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to go out and celebrate. Sorry you didn’t want to come.



In the car, Alistair packed the bowl. They were smoking it on the way up and I declined but instead had a cigarette. Yarab said he was working with an artist who made glass pieces resembling scary, mystical-like creatures, and the bowl Alistair packed was one of them. It was mostly blue, and the front of it was a head where the **** would go into the top of the head. It had wide eyes, a big, sorcerer-like nose and big, scary-looking teeth. “Trippy, right? The line is called Enoch based off the book of Enoch in the Bible—which is actually removed in most but still a part of Russian Orthodox.” They packed it twice throughout the ride and I sat in the back, smoked my cigarette and thought about you and the night before me.



We were going to Harrington’s Irish Pub but it was packed (naturally), so we tried Cadillac Ranch (the bar was full there too), so we finally decided on Public House. We each had 3 Washington Apple’s between beers and conversations before getting food. I had two Yuenglings, Alistair had a Yuengling, three Irish Stouts and Yarab drank 3 Stellas. Alistair and I split nachos and a hummus plate. I’d never been there before, and I appreciated the upscale environment compared to cramped and loud local bars I was used to. It was quiet enough that we could talk and hold conversations, and our bartender, Sarah, was pretty, friendly and attentive. I thought about my restaurant experience and briefly thought about her and her life.



My favorite part of the night was when we were at Public House. The conversations were just interesting; they talked about Putin, Ukraine and Russia and how “of course the U.S. wouldn’t let part of the country join into Russia” and the proposal would be rejected by the UN; we talked about birdhouses and fireplaces and utilizing space in people’s yards, so that if the world changed for the worse and we needed to survive we would be able to; we talked about being arrested; we talked about the Zionists and the fake group of evil Northern European people who migrated and were rejected by both Islam and Christianity, so they essentially took over Judaism—and how the conflict between Israel and Palestine is a struggle for power with the Zionists and U.S.; all of this was relevant to our talk about how we don’t live in a Democracy but a Corporatocracy, and the world is determined by whoever has the most money and power.



Yarab talked about tolerance for other cultures and intolerance, telling us about the other day when his stepfather was at their house going over notes with a woman from Sudan. She and her company wanted to use a product (he was a rocket-scientist and worked on a greener product in 1967 which weapons would have less of an environmentally hazardous effect) of his, but before going over the professional aspects he basically insulted her culture and country, criticizing how wrong they were. Yarab said he was in the kitchen getting water and had to leave because he couldn’t help but laugh, saying how his step-father was brilliant but very opinionated and could be rude. “He’s a buddhist-atheist,” he said, and I thought of us chanting. I brought up Niechren Buddhism and the lotus sutra, expressing how nice it made me feel after. He said any way to get peace is a good one, but atheists shouldn’t be ignorant when talking about their non-beliefs because that’s just as bad as religious people talking about their beliefs. Alistair commended him on never forcing his beliefs on Alistair, and I asked what he thought of God.



He described himself as polytheistic, saying that there wasn’t just one god but many, and because of how everything in the universe connects and resembles each other there must be something to cause it, because it can’t be explained. I thought about the mystery of life and how it’s developmental to wonder about it, and felt secure in the fluidity of my beliefs which has a general principle, that life may not be a coincidence but it is comprised with a series of coincidences and connect factors which cannot always be explained or determined, but rather appreciated and analyzed to create a memorable life in which existence is valued. I didn’t ask further about his gods, but I figured the idea he held was similar to the atheistic view Alistair held and the scientific-spirituality I held as well.



It was interesting talking to another person about it besides Alistair, and the discussion changed and added to the one we had the night before, when Alistair and I were drinking ***** with ginger ale (while I tinted with green food dye). I’ve always appreciated drunk talks with Alistair because they were some of the most real conversations I had. I brought up the hour-long documentary “Obey” and confessed my frustrations about the consumerist-capitalistic society we live in, where it’s nearly impossible to change the system as we’re being monitored. Big Brother is among us, I noted, and I praised George Orwell as a prophet and how we are living in 1984 even though so many people fail to realize it and don’t care or consider the bigger consequences of it. There was something so mystical in our depressing little talk, and I felt empowered to reexamine my life and work towards something with meaning.



While maybe more spiritual than existential, I knew Yarab could understand these ideas and provide even more insight to the social issues which confined us, the same ones we were so immersed in. We toasted to Alistair’s birthday; we toasted to being Arab; we toasted to Franklin Lamb; we toasted to Palestine; we toasted to peace.



Alistair was in the bathroom and I asked Yarab whether it was possible to live outside Capitalism without rejecting social conventions, being isolated and living off the Earth away from society. He replied it was very hard not to feed into the system, and explained how even he felt like a hypocrite for living in the U.S. and being American when his family and people were in Syria enduring the hardship of resources, lack of employment and political regimes. He explained that it was necessary to be a part of the system but not buy into it, to use the system and eventually work towards changing it. “Like Robin Hood,” he said. I told him it was hard because it seemed so easy to get ****** into it, and he said work towards what you believe in. “You’ll have a clear conscience.”



Alistair came back from the bathroom, and he talked about going to Lebanon toward the end of summer. “I could study Arabic at AUB,” and I supported his idea. Yarab chimed in that he deeply respected my father because of his work. “He actually cares about what’s happening and he speaks from the heart.” I was proud of my father for his work, despite everything else, and thought it interesting that the one Syrian we happen to encounter in our small town was immersed in politics and actively followed my father.



“You should take over what your dad is doing,” Yarab said to Alistair, and Alistair agreed it would be a good thing to do. Alistair mentioned Fatima Hajj and my time learning about Palestinians and spent in refugee camps. “She died a week after Louisa interviewed her.” “Three days,” I corrected him, and I felt my insides turn as we reminisced on my accomplishments. Almost two years had passed, and I made no progress on my activism, besides an article. Two weeks was not enough to change the world, although from my feedback it was clear I had inspired many.



I told them both how I felt so stagnant and unintelligent, boring and unproductive regarding any progress of working towards something of importance.”Do what you can while you’re able. Even if you don’t see it grow, you can still plant the seeds. You can be a sheep or you can be a Lamb.” I was grateful that my brother had a friend who could think about the world in a way differently than the normal crowd of friends he had who just focused on losing themselves in substances with no thought of life beyond their boring little lives.



Alistair suggested I visit Beirut for a month to see visit Dad, make connections and see what else was happening in Lebanon, Syria and throughout the Middle-East, and my heart sank with nostalgia and the prospect of a dream. I could see us going to Lebanon, and if I went I would feel inflated with purpose, the way I felt when I went before, the way I felt I could change the world. Yarab agreed with Alistair and supported my journalistic endeavors, while Alistair mentioned Mediciens sans Frontiers. “I don’t know if I’d be able to,” and I thought about you, Camino and Arizona. I thought about ASU and AUB. “Rachel would understand if you went for a month right?” I didn’t want to listen what I knew would follow.

After finishing our food we went outside to smoke. Alistair drank his beer, I chugged mine and Yarab left more than half of his second Stella. “I have to drive,” so Alistair picked it up and emptied the cup in two stealthy gulps.We went back to the garage and the plan was to drive back to a house party in Accokeek. I didn’t know Elton, or what to expect, but from the company I knew they kept in Accokeek, I expected a drastic change in environment from the bar talk with two like-minded Arabs.



Alistair packed the bowl again, and I was offered to smoke but again declined. “We stopped smoking.” “Rachel smoked with me while she was waiting for you to get off work one day.” “What? Recently?” “Yeah, like two to three weeks ago or something. I was in disbelief. “Are you serious? We were stopping together! She didn’t even tell me!” I was angry, and resented feeling like a fool, believing that we made a decision together—only to discover my efforts were stronger than hers. “Don’t ask her about it though.”



“No! I’m going to. Here I am, not doing anything and she does it? Doesn’t tell me about it?? It’s not that she did it but she didn’t even tell me. Typical *****. We talked about it since and she just chose not to bring it up? And she’s here accusing me of things when I’m not doing anything wrong?”



“She’s probably projecting her guilt on you.” I thought about other times I didn’t know about something and remembered finding out and feeling so stupid. “Do you want some?” “Maybe I will.. but no. Not right now.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.



But I did. I asked you and we texted about it, and in the car I felt annoyed and unincluded, rejecting the **** that was offered to me. By the time we got to the house, I left my phone in the car. I was there to spend time with my brother, not get into a text fight over something that didn’t matter anyway. We went inside and I didn’t recognize everyone. I suspected I was the youngest, and I couldn’t help but observe I was the thinnest girl. People were playing beer pong and sitting at a table. Someone offered me a beer. I sat down on a couch. Alistair was getting hugs from girls and handshakes and fist-bumps from guys, and I made brief introductions with no real effort of talking to anyone. There weren’t many seats, and the most comfortable couches were facing the television where rap videos were playing. I hadn’t heard any off the songs that were on the playlist, and felt uncomfortable by the blatant sexuality and objectification of girls in the videos. The drunk girls were dancing to the music and singing along with the degrading, raunchy lyrics. “Can we smoke?”



I hesitated and held the bowl in my hand, staring at the green. I thought about putting it down. “I haven’t smoked in two months and twenty-one days,” I vocalized, and some guy (who didn’t smoked) responded “but who’s counting?” “Come on Weezee,” and after further hesitation I decided it was nothing new, and nothing bad would happen as a result. I brought the piece to my lips, lowered the lighter and inhaled. It was smooth, and I held it in my lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling. I couldn’t feel it at first. It was passed around, and I took another hit. I thought about what you might be thinking about me, but pushed the thought from my mind. A guy made brief eye contact with me, and something about him seemed familiar. He had a beard and was wearing a hat, and I thought it was impossible I could know him. The other person who lived there asked if we could smoke in the room because the guy who asked me who was counting, and others, didn’t smoke. So we went. I hit the bowl once more and as we were standing I felt the high come to me, the surreal feeling of being and experiencing. In the room was myself, Alistair, Yarab, a guy with a ‘fro, Elton and the guy with the hat and beard. Someone packed the **** and handed it to me, but I refused; I was pressured and still refused. “I haven’t done this in a while, so no, I’m fine, and I’ve been drinking.” I think some were taken aback by how adamant I was not to push my limit, because it was so clear many people there viewed partying as pushing the limit.



Alistair introduced me to the guy with the beard and the hat as Mat, who worked at Chevy’s and now McCormicks, and I instantly recognized him. “Oh hey!” I said and hugged him, and he said “I thought you looked familiar. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been pretty good,” and I explained to Alistair that he worked with Alex at Bonefish Grill and was our server when we went in to her work once, years ago. They continued to smoke and I stood among them, half paying attention to conversation and half thinking about anything and everything else. There was a familiarity being among these people I’d never met, and the surrounding of burnouts. I wondered if everyone there was a server and that was all they did. I told Mat I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings as a server, my first serving job, yeah I like it okay, I guess, and he told me he knew Alistair through McCormicks. “I’m serving there too,” and I wondered how many restaurants he’d been through so far.



He told me he graduated from tech school and I congratulated him and asked, “which one?”, where he replied Lincoln Tech. I wasn’t surprised it was that type, and I told him I graduated from Salisbury with a degree in Psychology, which he congratulated me for. I felt it necessary to disclose I was taking the GRE in May and imply that, yes, while I am serving in Waldorf and my college degree doesn’t give me much to do in this area, I am going back to school and I am going to do more than stay around serving, like you. I was reminded of a poem I wrote and th
I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices

and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
indeed, only yesterday i took to the arable seclusion,
the warm april air amplified by the oozing
sunshine, through the forest and into open
dilated pupil horizon - there ahead
the horrid geometry of elevated rectangular
pivots of civilisation, that ***** & Gomorrah
of urbanity; yet nearer me within a touch
a herd of horses grazing like tables in some
sort of Salvador Dalí immersion - beer in hand
i wandered among them, sat in turkish akimbo
and waited... no sooner than later i was whispering
with them, eating camomile flowers, one approached
with enough sincerity, so i cupped my hand and
poured some beer into it for him to drink it,
and he did - the african like nozzle so gooey and warm,
the eyes: goat-like slits... a pleasant reminder that
i'm yet to be fully urbane, only two generations
separate me from rural life, two... and the generation
in question was ushered out from the great project
of industrialisation, an exodus into cities precipitated
by the second world war... i too remember her
musings on the matter, she died aged ~90, in a
peaceful way, conscious, as Julius Caesar remarked
about death: rather than asleep, i want death to
come sudden! and indeed she collapsed, suddenly,
yet her memories still echo in me, donkey's years for
some, history books for others, but a vivid
eye-to-eye memorandum; so yes, only two generations
separate me and what would have been an endless
hubris in rural life, the best example i can cite
is a book of B & W photography by Edward Hartwig
entitled moja ziemia (my earth)... and that's the
beauty of what modernity can provide (given the location
you find yourself in)... on a Friday i can travel
to the hub of immigration that's east London,
namely Stratford... and on a Saturday i can walk into
a rural predictability, with owls, crows... horses...
crows... exactly! when have you ever spotted a crow
in an urban environment? hmm... never...
as the saying goes, the membrane of urban life
is predicated as: where the crows create a roundabout
and turn back among the wild - ahem - indeed my
wolf like howling, that ah woo! did get mention,
my neighbours freaked out, trigger-happy interventionists
for the police or ambulance... apparently freedom
of this nature freaks people out... more than the freedom
people have killing one another... odd, isn't it?
being asked, why did you do a wolfish in the middle
of the night? i just replied... er... because i can?
so if you think that all this social criticism i sometimes
unveil concerning western society, its values and its
shortcomings... i wouldn't want to be anywhere else...
and indeed social criticism is a sort of bitter-sweet
antagonism that just has to be evident, should another
maniac with a Kalashnikov or a suicide-vest end up
bringing a thundercloud to your little parade of
running a mile for cancer sufferers in your strange
twist-of-tale from colonial power to charity power...
added to the fact... that i write EVERYTHING drunk...
i take partial responsibility for my internal mechanics...
i'm writing... i'm not drink driving... so m'eh m'eh
and with what Shakespeare said about thumb biting
in Romeo & Juliet... indeed as cited

Samson - i do bite my thumb, sir.
Abram - do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Sam. - is the law of our side, if i say aye?
Gregory - no.
Sam. - no, sir, i do not bite my thumb at you, sir;
             but i bite my thumb, sir.

Gre. - do you quarrel, sir?
Abr. - quarrel, sir! no, sir.

well... it wasn't really a biting of the thumb, revelatory
when you hear it decoded:
   you'd wedge your incisors behind your thumb's
nail and then flick it to craft a sound that's
the entire play rather than an onomatopoeia -
otherwise the meaning being, according to Nares:
'the thumb in this action represented a fig, and the
whole was equivalent to a fig for you, or the fico',
basically an f off or you're such a thick'oh /
custard brains.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
pre-scriptum: zapisałem sie... jutro wyśle zdięcia... fatalnie zakochany w tych grotach.

jak by mnie myślnym / myśliwym tokiem myśli nie chcieli równać z sobą to bym odmówił, lecz nadali film wedle Sokratesa, a ja Anglikom odmówie, bo chcem, nawet po kurz Mongolii, mam dość tępych Irlandczyków! przeciąg mnie dusi! te wyspy to wyryty gnój Ameryki.

te zdzięcia zbyt kuszaące - jak już powiedziałem pewnej dziewczynie na internecie... nie sprzedam mojego głosu jeżeli mi nie zaplacą! a nic nie dali, jeno gówno! to powiem je w gromadzie takich co mówią na migi - jak ten co z pochodnią na wejście smoka a poszedł trysta razy! zapominieć mówienia po polschu (ja niby Żyd, w Buenos Aires? no, niby post-Holocaust, to takie tango a nie tanz Bar Mitzvah w aleii Golders Green) - jak jedna: wiem skąd burak jest jak niby pochodnią nad ziemi chwytem w otchłan piękna i stokrotki... czyli: co jabłoń da, to róża odbierze, piękno niby było jadalne, a owoc ten jadalny był pięknem, który nigdy nie odda cierpieniu zacmienia, a jednak ponownie, ponownie, ponownie; jednak nadal w wstecz na gre: ojczyzna! ojczyzna! z agrafką po to by odnaleść tą sfobodną szlachte naszego rozbroju: co znaczy życie nasze a ich jeno kichnięńciem, księcia, ktoóry ksiądz imitacją ochlał wedle vino veritas!

kurwa! kartoflana gleba tłumaczenia Joyce'a!

Londyn to ino klejnot Arabii, tu nic nie rośnie, jeno głab czyli muzg kapusty, to znaczy oklask Mensa... nie?!

te zdzięcia i ja to jak ramie w ramie ze złudną imprezą za tą Ostanią
czyli mortum fatali

jak Narcyz wpatrzyłem sie w nie i myśle by nawiać na wyspy Owcze czy też Mongolie, zdala z tej lachy "swiata" i ludobójstwa ekonomicznego, wkoło mnie tylko wieprz gra na wiolonczeli, i tak dobrze gra że motłoch nie zna falszu od falsetto, jeno udaje na tle cytatu psa mówiącego: sausages! sausages! how! how!

więc wole w tych lochach odbytem powiedzieć co Zachód zna jako rękopis mojej zdrady, bo ja tu następnej i tej cholernej minuty wole w Syberie gnać, z duchem czy bez ducha... Gangrene Green... mysli tu jakiś z Essex'u tuman że Rzym odlalazł bez akcentu na literach; bo tu każdy pyta czy jest szalony czy tylko napisał Alicja w Kraine Czarow i Pedofilii.

post-scriptum: czemu nie piszom Řešów? bo im škoda? Wojewoda Prostanoga ptija - bo to po Ruszku pyta... a cygan... to znacy chyba. Holender i stare smieci... ale boli kiedy powrót stanowi więcej niż tempus lux.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
ale czysto w tej E - U - Ρ - Ω - Π - J - Η.

islam leiben historie, nicht Ottoman,
Ottoman pseudo Khan, islam leiben historie:
eins, zwei, drei und vierte maulkor'bzeugè'naussagé
(sausage marathon); they love their history
mind you ψι and τρι...  kaganiec u stóp w
krok stu odpowiedzi w jedną droge:
raz jeszcze, w las i w cienie iglą tej tętnicy wybryk chęć
na gre, by zadać zbyteczne  pytanie! na odpowiedź
oskarzyć czas z wiedzą zegara,
i tą ostateczną, wartą końca, namylsnością...
ponownie oskarzyć jako począt narodu -
tylko golasa, warte imie kroka ka ka kar Kasymir'ah!
wedle Tsara, czołem w tło wymagań na wyryte
zapomnieniem lat: oddech'u Uzbeku chafta
wspomnień wiatru i chorongiew latawcy
jak niby urojen konceptu narodu...
ja człek tylko w psiarni! i tak powiem, tak,
wiara, panem na zbyt wiele pamięci Janosika
i Radio Maria;
o tyle czerpie zgon, ponownie, ponownie,
by ocalić, niby swiętego, i pogrzebać swój naród...
ale wstyd! wstyd! by ocalić jednego niby
swiętego, lecz nadać obszar rodem Polak'a
ponad Polske i w ramach Irlandie; jaki to wstyd
nawet ten mnie wart, co nie nada snu!
co za wstyd - nie warto umierać wiele razy,
kiedy ten ostatecny oznacza raz jeszcze -
                      *quo vadis, qua lectio?
-
ten raz jeszcze, i ten ostatni, o tyle wiele poradni
przed wieloma nocami snu.
Alexandra Jun 2014
Excuses? I've got tons of them. I have an average GPA, an average GRE score, and an average g . Yet I'll spend hours with a friend listening to her problems with her boyfriends alcoholic dad, or the roommate who's mom had cancer, or ill spend hours grocery shopping with a person I rarely get to see but that time means more to me than any amount of time spent with my nose in a book. Average ? Sure that's average- spending life doing what you love with the people you love. That's average. Or that's my excuse not to study. Ill let you be the judge. Ill spend hours on a Saturday driving home to pick up two cousins that have cracked out parents just to buy them rain boots for school. Average rain boots on an average Saturday. Another excuse not to study or have my nose in a book. Or the two internships and 2 jobs I hold because I find it more interesting to know people through their mannerisms and the nervous habits they pick up when they know they have a busy day ahead. You know the scrunch in their nose when they get an anxious feeling?Or the slight tap their right foot makes to distract rhemselves from their busy thoughts as they make coffee at 8 AM. No book nor research paper can show me that. Or maybe that's my excuse not to study. My average excuse not to study. You've never witnessed that? too busy with life right ? excuaes. Or what about the afternoons I come home with the honest intent to get ahead outlining my notes but my sister calls to explain her distraught news of troubles with paying bills and finding a job. Again the outline becomes less important. But maybe that's my excuse. I'll always have an excuse, but I always get the work done. As long as your okay with it being average.  My grades, my score, my g maybe average. But the life I devote to others is anything but. And so if my excuse of being average and okay with that is just an excuse than so be it. But at 21 I understand that relationships and people can not be average. My scores can be average, but no impact or influence can ever be average. If that's the job I want, than I'm not sure how could ever be denied for being average. Yet maybe this is just my excuse, my excuse to work harder alongside people than any statistic or fact combined. Average excuses ? I'm full of them. But people are what I'm good at, it's people that bring me above average. All excuses aside, when it comes to people I've never had an excuse to drop everything. And so I always drop everything. For the people.
PK Wakefield Jan 2013
You--


                           th--


             at--



                           im--


       elapse--




                                                dest­oryin--





                      gre--







                 ­               worms through loam fidgeting crisply
                                of fingers death

                                an inch of living

                                 crawled the pairing chilled livid night

                                 (to the moon)

                                    


                   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­        unstoppin





--g





                                         ­                    whispers




                                                    ­                  

                                             ­                                          whispers






                                                  ­             whispers






                                                  ­                                        


                                                              ­                                       whispers
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i o nim iskrą w rrdze,
          w gre na tło innych
  narodziń -
               i nim o iskre:
krzemień o krzemień -
    i kość o kość - nauka kaligrafii...
      jak i ten co o męke
               łuku ziemi w dary
oddać pierw chciał nic, a potem proch -
                o potem kichnąć
w sto braci leczy naród prośbą! też jak ja,
obudzić ozór! **** powiadomił...
niechaj ten ozór - horongiew nasza -
            akcentów ilości sie zajada,
         bo tyle umie -
  i tyle wyzna - jak i słowem sie
zachwyci: po rosaj i po germańsku -
na weekend - i tym tam,
na czeł  Mongoła: zapomnień, i
zapomniawszy: zwany Lach, hujem
przez sukiennice i kreski sławnych tabu
ilokroci -
                i ta bida... stokroci.
siała baba mak... ni widziała jak...
           chlop... chlop... chlop...
                       siała baba mak, ni widiała jak...
bo tu kurvasiet chłop!           chłop!
kak duszy Khrushchev? ni pomogje!
         naz gu!
                        niet harasho! niet! haraшo?
Las Vegas etя: Lon-don, Pa-ri-ri Piri Piri
                                    Mex hey ** i co. - etc.
******* ****** Bahamas **** cult яя.
Mohd Arshad Nov 2017
Do struggle
But to get the true love
Cheryl Tan Mar 2015
doorbell, 2a.m.,
she stands there in the cold.
wrapped in a dark grey jacket,
and pain and a dying hope.
he opens up, lets her in.
the fire's warmth feels cold.
she starts crying knowing he'll
never love her again if he knew.

if he knew her darkest secrets
kept vaulted from the world;
all the things that she's ashamed of
that incarcerate her soul.
if he knew she knew she was wrong,
yet in weakness carried on,
how could he love her still?
where would that love come from?

but he opens her heart like a letter,
and reads it inside out.
then, in silent darkness holds her,
until no more tears streak down.
"i've loved you from the beginning,"
he says, and lifts a ***** silver plate.
he wipes it with his white t-shirt,
and with it clean, she sees her face.
"i love everything about you
amidst the mistakes you made
and now i know all that you've done
i love you more, i do," he says.
"i'll wipe all your ***** silver plates;
all the heartbreaks and the shame."
she smiles now, she understands:
she's white as snow, she's not the same.

he sees her to the door now,
as the midnight snow falls down.
he's wiped the darkness off her;
she knows where love comes from.
the snow does not feel cold now;
the cold was from her soul.
"go now," he says, "and when you fall,
you can always
come back
home."

-c.t.
{{as far as the east is from the west}}

thank you.

One
of the grea-
test wonders,
You will ever see,
Is a leaf falling while*
L o o k i ng  so  a l i v e,
W h e r e  the  o n l y
re a s o n they
d i e on that
ground,
I s
T
I
M

*E
Dumping poems #latepost1
Michael Parish Jan 2016
My pink toes my jerky
Driftwood something yellow
Like hot dogs something nuts
Like a grren home run
Ya my rest
My privacy
My screaming snooze dreams.
Somone spun lip stick
Like ******* or keats
Somebody kised
My drunk asain drunk neck
Somebody killed
Somedy went to their mother
Im under winsheilds scraming phony
Co piolet tuaila valley
Look left we kicked shopping centers
Some man who screams like
Short *****
Goes listen
I finally admitted you did my back
Caking dizzy scream
Some man my hair
Some man i hate
Some man nobody wants
Bedz wax
He whines hes called blood
He dri ks steak he won
He beat the used ****
Well here goes privacy
My red head tok my room room
I cat litter the bay dreams
I find rade im gay
My **** i pace the boys
It seems everyone hold my dads hat
Ifi could kiss my dad
Tell my mom she runs with seaweed
Wehat we ****
We buy we ***** drinks
Why keep something
I dream of addictive ****
I dream of inteligance
My dad gre wild my dads dad would of hated my hair cream my dads dad respects ******* but swore a white mans
Hair cut belongs in the red blue cut atoms apple break down who runs who kills who wears
Who goes home with no fault until pies goose her.  Well
She love my cards when the carpets partedand checkersmeant seing aa young man wit no control.
Howmany now
Since im older
Ever wished they just ****** the boy
Howmany got freedom
No body they only hope love got a better *******
Love got a wiser time!
frankie Oct 2017
weeds now fill the space in my heart where roses once bloomed
the bees no longer give me honey, all the sunflowers that gre from my mind
exterminated by your pesticide
my iris eyes are now petaless, they've all been cried

you killed the flower garden
i am now a wasteland of wilted weeds and broken memories.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
i haven't the ******* time, or patience to wait for the publishing industry to wake up; the same "concern" applies to the journalistic community.

nie, będe, sie, bawił, w,
tą, kurwa-jego-mać
gre, zwaną: ciu-ciu-babka...
  nie!
nie będe sie bawił
w *ciu-ciu-babke
!
    nie będe sie bawił w tą gre:
niby schowanego! nie! niet!
                                     nein! no!
p.s.
   acute (chew)'
                    regarding ciu-
       i.e. ch'u snap!
babka: bagel -
thorn of a crow's tongue.
EJ Lee Apr 2019
Dear Lori Loughlin and the unnamed individuals that participated in College Admissions Scam:

This is an open letter to you from someone who actually needs the accommodations that you ignorantly believed you could exploit. Before I talk about your ignorance let me first establish whom I am.
In the year of 2000, at the age of seven, a private psychologist diagnosed me with dyslexia because my elementary school refused to test me. Later on I find out that I have a severe case where the entire English language will be a continuous struggle for the rest of my life. Then we knew very little about this learning disability but from what I understood at that age, I was unable to learn at the same pace as my fellow classmates and my teachers didn’t know how to teach me. I bounced between three schools before the age of twelve looking for a school that could teach me and was unsuccessful. During that time was bullied profusely because of my dyslexia. I was called dumb, stupid, slow, and names that were so much worse. I knew they were not true. Luckily, I had parents that cared about my well being and never let me use my disability as an excuse as to why I couldn’t be success in life.
I was very fortunate that I was able to attend a school that specializes in teaching students like myself. Through no fault of mine, I was twelve years of age and reading at a third grade level. Does that make me stupid? Within three years at this very special school I gained six grade levels because I worked hard and I was determined to not be a failure. I entered into a high school that also knew how to teach me and I soared because I had the proper support that I need. I earned my Straight A’s in high school.
Also in high school I learned more about my accommodations that are protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. I took the SAT’s twice and it was the worst sixteen hours of my life.  Normally, it would take someone no more than one hundred and eighty minutes to complete. Not for me, and many others that actually rely on these accommodations. To be honest, no one wants to take an eight-hour test; we do it because it levels the playing field so we are able to compete with societal standards.
I wonder what led you to believe the accommodations that I require to be a successful student, that are protected by federal law, have some kind of advantage that I magically have in direct competition with your perfectly normal child. What kind of confidence do you have in your own child’s abilities if you felt the need to cheat and buy them their college admissions? It’s really sad if you think about it.
Whatever happened the notion of merit? I got into college on my own merit, My SAT scores were waived as my grades, class standing, and campus involvement was sufficient. (BTW, I not only had straight A’s but I graduated with high honors.) Am I smart now?
I am a currently pursuing my Master Degree in Fine Arts. I also got into that school with having to take the GRE, once again on my own merit. I know Lori you refuse to believe that you did anything wrong, but you did. You alienated an entire group of individuals so you could live vicariously through your child’s success as an extension of your own. That is not only the most selfish thing that anyone can do but it is also ignorant and narcissistic to believe having accommodations because of my disability is seen an “advantage” for you to manipulate for your own personal gain.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
to have to little to say in so few
a words...
i'd hope for some Gabbie Hanna(h)
inspiration-al
   sic quotes...
               i don't want to write
oeuvre: -esque -esque stilettos of pain
grand reveals...
sejong the great:
who invented the Hangul is
my all time top three favourite
dead person...
  from among the denizens of
circa: hier...
                jetzt...
       i'd like to borrow from all
the waves of people: dead dead dead...
my envy is spastic & fantastic
because i'd scribble-bee
every, single, linguist...
first... of most importance...
to behave around food doubly-butchered
i.e. when beef is cooked it's
best to redeem it on the altar
and have it medium rare:
not chalk-brick annoyingly
translated into a glutton-fixation
of calories count etc.
i drink cheap ***** *****
not because i have a palette for
matured single malts but because:
if there is still every part of me
that can spew words out
while invigorated by some glug
of the ol' kosher of fire-blood...
and amber...
conversational overtones rife because
i clearly haven't had
much time to read a face
and nuance it and
whatever is left to pingpong / squash
an hour's worth: away
for... conversational pleasures
lubricated by wheat-towing bubbly
suffice...
interacting with stalemate...
one might call soul another calls sigma...
i.e. the totality that' animating
what's currency in transitioning
from living to dead
from living: space...
to dead: time...
resurgence of a detail of time
that's memory that feels raw feels
like **** when staged
to a collectivistic / "objective"
scrutiny -
derive the purely subjective
derive the purest objective...
call "red" a "puppet's tail"...
                my worship for letters
comes aligned with...
  some Cyrillic...
     no... not Tironian...
   and it only works around...

      ż (зъ)
                     vs. ż (зь)

ź (зъ)
                      vs. ź (зь)....

   which is a "mis-phoneme"
of sorts... given that... ж (ż)...
            hardly: nothing orthodox about: a...

       nuances in all things
Russian...
clearly beginning with some
Greek would have aided
the... ahem... conversation...

but if you were to post-modern
"revise" you could come
across something akin to...

ж (ż) = зъ
                     vs. зь

   i.e. is the hovering dot: hard... or soft...
is the synonym of acute... hard... or soft?
******* playground of sorts...

also, i.e. je suis...
        je zeus...
                     but i'm no zeus nor jesus...
this is my revenge against being told
French is impossible to learn...
by any stretch of the imagination -
added by the "sieving"...
i was not supposed to acquire
a brimming proficiency of French...
maybe German...

what letters to give free reign for
a Mongolian khan...
what letters and what auxiliary:
my eroded imagination "to begin with"...

for every "с":
          a съ = ш
or for every cь (ś)
at some "point": a caron š
will have to be arrived at...

  CHaser...
          ч vs. ц... Time...
                atoms of sounds blistering me
ripe with oozes of scraps and
fried bacon nibble-peel-offs...

how a bilingual might write
a polyglot scribble...
best kept summary...
four zunge prodding & prone...

how purely phonetic english
with all those graffiti shortcomings
could be arrived at
without question...
alt hier und dies...
             as exemplar primo...
no questions asked...
                  these feeble crusade...
the ancient continent of blues:
this funnel for Asia Prior...

i won't die defeated...
i'll be drinking with the mediocre skim-reading
zenith of lot
for the most part of the "hives"
activity...
      et cetera etc.

he's half as best remembered...
as he should be...
who? Sejong the Great...
and i'm not even Korean
to have to...

but it's not like i have a name
for the man who "invented" beer...
discovered... neither did Plato...
i have Tironian notations
like i have Aesop's parables...
i'm looking for a "holy trinity"
of people of influence...
Sejong is up there among my
favourites...

i want to stress the posit of St. Cyril too...
ⰃⰓⰅ
        ⰏⰀ (gre ma)
  (it has game...
   pronoun, gender neutral fanatics
beware...
   it can be much
of a hermaphrodite when
least intended)

          but it is still not the feat
performed by Sejong the Great...
and none will ever
be so...
            st. Cyril is a pale
shade concerning
the economics of the endeavour...

i know only one is right...
i.e. is it лъ or is it ль
for that little of a tau
"drunk" of a ł... or an anglo-sas
"double-u":
my eyes do see... a veering into...
it's not explained as to how or why...
aesthetically: a little...
a liTTle is more anti-explanatory
than...

sushi like clear-cut... syllable count...
if all my vowels: i had a(n) en group(e)
name for these "fiends"...
ma-to(w)-s'eh...
invigorating: fuming at
the collar...

it's not a stutter: it's not making
an acute... it's levitating toward
an apostrophe:
man'na... etc.

the scent of spring:
having arrived at the Faroe Isles...
i come at a fore of this all
to be believed mythology
and a piercing now...
       grønjord...
      groon
gro-en                 jord und
diese LA-ND...

behave... these little beasts of mediocre...
i have enough i don't have
enough...
i heave i clutter myself
with 15+ languages
and some share...
"claustrophobic"
the same letters...
       some don't...
        some never will...
        
yes... noting how: easily the Soviet
empire imploded...
and how much foreign intervention
it took to finally dissolve
the Yugoslav republics...

             it took only a cat's whisker
to take-apart the Soviet empire...
it would take a cat's meow
to take apart Yugoslavia...
who's to blame the Ottomans?!
nvinn fonia Mar 14
mAYB I FOUND THE SECRET INGREDI_ENT
the natural dichotomy of composing
in silence:
with the aid of alcohol and marijuana
and any other truth serum...
then there's composing of words
the anti-arithmetic Aramaic not:
when under the influence of music:
which is the sonic white ingredient
that competes with big pharma...

i have a story to tell:
philosophy truly begins with
the tide of death...
if life is earth
then death is water...
it begins here:
it doesn't begin with get behind me
demon:
in old age with the answer:
if you will find a good woman:
you will be happy and not crave the intellect:
but if you find a bad woman:
you will not be content
and you will become a philosopher:
but i am mortal and before being
wedded to a woman
i am bespoke of death...

          now for the music...
i have three dimensions of German high thought:
my thought agitate me...

there's the categorical imperative of Kant
there's Nietzsche: the solipsist
rather than the nihilist
Kant with the categorical imperative
Heidegger with question-worthiness...
guides:
read philosophy in your 20s
then watch your 30s and 40s...
map out a plan of understanding
then you will have knowledge:

YD OA...
  of yod off DOA...

modus operandus: modus operandii in
the plural...
operandus: mode of operating
under a strict dictum: vox se: per
to think that there was no noble ****
intellectual project is
heart-warming and heart-breaking
the Nazis
the Nazis the Nazis
oh the Nazis
came and left so quickly:
but we're talking: we're not talking
Egyptology and pyramids
but instead chimneys and grey snow
and Mozart...

an anti-German seeps in:
Heidegger's question-worthiness
is matches in ancient thought
by the Greek Archimedes
and eureka!
i found what? these days?
the question-vector the worthiness off: to be
asking...
exclamation-worthiness:
eureka, the song: by Abba:
no new Stockholm just the Helsinki Syndrome
in a world of phenomena...
to me Kant's noumenon
is the equivalent of the Q and Anon
and ? in what is:
question-worthiness...

beside the hammer?
i don't need what could possibly look best
yellow on red
if the Mongolian tribalism
the Holden Horde:
like the colors of Ukraine:
blue above
sky blue Autumnal vagary...
then the yellow of the fertile fields...
the wheat for the bread and
beer...
Dolcce und Gabbana Lombardy...

my teeth are not artifact...
i smoke a little try to drink so little
but then the serpent comes and slithers
into my throat with so much fire
that i start to grow wings
and breathe fire:
cousin serpent: why have you come into
my mouth? slithered there by MY apple:
by my apple of the throat
who says I: you? or me?!

Matt is the Devil:
i should know: i scheme all kinds of goodies
for the children
who are yet to be Auschwitz factioned
told to be humans
segregated by ego mother
brother archetype
annoying sister insect...
i'm become poly-schizomatic:
i have turned individualism
into a persona generating machine:
i am PROTO-OEDIPUS...

i am already gearing up for the future:
my pornographic habits involve
GILFS: grandma's i wanna ****:
her previous husband was into bisexuality
and schoolgirl ****:
i'm into ******* women in her 70s:
i want to **** the GRAEAE sisters
to have a third eye:
i will **** my way into the
demands to be met to gain this mythological
dimension!

i will be the father of those ugliest of all
horrors of Heaven:
that Medusa was spawn of heaven
that Polyphemus Outis!
the gravity of the grotesque shifts
from Hell and a democracy arrives:
since what is timing when killing
a child?
the abortion, Lucy Letby's cases...
Bebe King, six; Elsie Dot Stancombe,
seven; and Alice Dasilva Aguiar

a heaven is a place where they went:
you want to go there
and... ahem: ex-plain?!
in Catholic school the pope played
bingo and golf:
had no concept of chess or cards
or backgammaon:
but somehow he knew a Kennedy... which i thought
was: a tad: bit... weird'oh...
so heaven is a place you go to
to become surrogate:
freaks... all those abortions...
what's three names to the list of the unlisted?
what is ****** what is abortion
i don't know: let's **** some six year olds
to quicken the debate...
killing 6 year olds is not killing foetuses is
not killing ***** is not be squandering
by asking ***** to be manna:
i just don't know...

        good philosophy comes:
not because you grandfather died...
or your mother:
you're grey on grey:
your coworker died...
well **** forget that i forgive
you not apologizing...
where's this night guard:
i want to meet this
werewolf zombified-vampire:
mind you...
this the fetish for vampirism die off
into the Zombie Apocalypse
when the AIDS epidemic died down:
to be less and less culturally relevant:
Bruce "the Boss" didn't sing:
the streets of Philadelphia...
so that's the one angle of ****
we covered?
besides the ******* rainbow: in rainbow....

so no cheese?
no drag queen traumatizing children...
maybe we should stabbing them...
rather than exposing them
to this **** virus of bad grammar ideas...
**** it! hey guys!
we're going for a biological impasse:
we're going to just ******* LAUNCH!
against everything!
just, *******: LAUNCH!
we're going to hijack:
**** it: hack:
the ingredients list of Gweneth Paltrous...
health-stance milkshake...
we go you us RIOT!

just checking: so when is killing a killing
and not a lifestyle coach typo
"choice"...
just let me know:

i need vitamins: i need muscle:
i need brain de facto: defects...
i need Frankenstein:
traumatized...
i need to know the cut in point
\and cut off point of meaning:
so stabbing them while they're 6
is bad: because they know Taylor Swift
is not going to capture the dragon...
so...
it's o.k. with serial killer promises
killing infants:
no riot there...
and no riot over the guillotine of white, pill...
good to know...
at least now i know
how to best behave in a crowd....

the Germanic overlord to the beacon
of usage of the English tongue...
just need to find the right sort of meassurements
to know my way around.
but i came to these lands without so much
as a tongue of my own:
so why have i integrated to deposit anonymity personas
while these ******* end up stabbing little girls?!
a bit like the story of the Polish-Linthuanian
Commonwealth:

a foreign ruler would come in:
if only once the Commonwealth gave powers
to a Russian of Origin:
what a Marcus Aurelius a quote
that would have made!
should a foreigner come to the shores of England
and still find the Welsh speaking Welsh
and the dynamic of the crows
flying at lengths: ******* apart:
huginn and muninn...

if i were to sacrifice the eye i ****** off and out of
the possession of Polythemus and the GRAEAE...
GRA-E
or... GRE-A...

           and combine thinking with memorizing...
i thought therefore i remember...
i tihnk: therefore...

therefore: not logic: i have to to...
if i think then, i have to remember...
remembering is a faking of cognitive storage:
thoughts can't be stored:
shackled: enslaved:
thoughts are reincarnations...
for individualistic purposes:
thought sometimes need to be written down:
authenticated: given person...
require signatures:
given the disparity of one individual having them:
burdened with writing them down:
and another: oblivious, individual:
not: individuated enough:
making the same claim of:
these exact thoughts passed through his brain: freeze:
freeze brain!

Kant's categorical imperative...
Heidegger's question-worthiness...
Nietzsche's solipsism=nihilism
Archimedes': eureka!
there was a third dimension i was thinking of:
it must have arrived in my son of con:
the science of -ness affix...

just think:
how poorly most people cipher the Cartesian
doubt:
so blinded by faith...
they ask so many impertinent questions
to guide them:
they have no quill to stomach:
not as guide but as tourist...
they ask so many questions that are not
question-worthy...
this is not acting immorally:
but then again: goodness is allowed to lapse
into sleep:
evil is insomniac...
and when goodness becomes complacent...
evil strikes...
and to me: that's perfectly understandable:
since then chaos ensues
and there is no madness of crowds:
just the chaos of simplicity
having to have to return to the basics of order
that is 1 + 1 = 2
vowels, consonants... an article, the article:
pronouns...
or are we going to have any more arguments
while i gag death and keep her hostage
to her finalizing her postal duties, or what?!
people not understand people being angry
who they think they can control by the summons
to the t.v. glazing neon
that is Plato's cave:
care to watch the horror of a newsreel
in the graveyard shift of life answering?
even to me:
getting a cold in the height of summertime
is weird
as is the fact that Beelzebub's emissary was
buzzing in the night...
but not that green bottle bottom maggot frenzy...
the black fly...
the wholesome miniature of a horse...
jarzębina: mountain ash...
Rowan Tree eyes are poison pebbles...
so dill...
the Egyptian with the dung beetle
the Europeans with their flies... what desert
under these unearthed roots of trees: these crowns?!

— The End —