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Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Here comes the sun little darling's
We all get burned
 Is it your turn
     "U-Turn"
Oh! Where I thou
"Green light Diner"
It's telling us to Go
    *       *       *
The Earth beauty faces
I will be your direct sunlight
In plain sight to the daylight
her blossom tree
All I ask come for me
Her face could eat
The divine flower laced

French brie
Tie a yellow ribbon on me
We have so much to see
Let it be sun-face Moms
apple pies
The Sun  "Watchtower"
Someone knocks you off
Your "Bill" on the Ice Queen

The Goddess rodeo waitress
She got you roped in between
The cigarette 1940 case hostess
             "Rose"
I suppose the sunflowers every booth
her smile sets in place

The stain-glass window Notre Dame
Rock and roll hall of fame
The earth kids rainbow chalk
Sun-fun treetops like a beanstalk
Napoleon Elementary Watson
New Jersey Diner capital admission
The Peking duck *** luck

European beauty hunter's menu
Any luck this will be awhile sip "Starbucks"

1-Antipasti cute Shiba Uni
2-Consomme Chicken soup
3-Sun-face to the soul fruit loop
4-Chicken pepper Salsa
Sun-face lights up Visa
5-Hearts of Artichokes Mona Lisa
6-Soy ginger salmon
My sun worshiper man

Fish tacos hummus
St Thomas
Rome was not build
In one day
The windpipes and
the tablecloths Oh! yikes
Full of dream pipes

Sun tan stripes and zebras
Couscous salad big star dipper
Egyptian Gods camels back
Sun-face diner no time
for the sun-chip snack
Diners from 1920-1940
Sun-face air force dresses

Medieval times two swords
Holy lords Easter parades
" Ice-cream Spumoni"
Dinner in the sky
Robin red breast fly
Italian artwork Coliseum
Look up in the sky
It's a bird shaped
Paper plane bad romance
going insane

Waffle House  jukebox rock and roll
Hall of fame whats in a food name
Cowboy steaks American Flags
Cajun chicken legs fruits and figs
At the caboose Ladybird jet lag
Valentine Diner chairs
got footloose homemade goose

Purple rain Prince maple
pancakes
Bananas and strawberry fields
lake sun in shape of a snowflake
Forest Gump changes to
Presidential Trump
Vitamin C  honey bunches of Oats

Yummy floats of egg cream
Open table Sun-face dream
Eggs light she's not finished
over easy
Pristine of carrots with
artful daisies
Thanksgiving turkey

Rings of napkins holding
A time well-bred marriage
Well known landmarks of
Carats
Long ago time she saw the light
Daylight Knight like a scale to weight

Whispers of wine and grapes
Sun face courtesan love escape
Sun Faces trillion times mansion
Sun-faces never go out of fashion
Sun faces and dinner places the best in the world eat heartily Drive in and Diners all over the world have a medieval touch with the Vikings and melodies from the heart  of the surface  her smile will always be there everywhere she goes the Diners place her with Rose
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
In the faraway land,
trees smiling and nails
Not the escargot snails
Booming business sails
His name Rusty nails
Super rich paper shredding
Destroying fine print
paper and nails affair

Those hot leads faxing
The heart opens up than bleeds
What a mess misleads to
More hoarders
Trying so hard to get
over the U-S-A border
When you least expect it
Being searched papercut body

Like Honey Bee without
Hair like a beehive
foxy lady
No Jive rock paper scissors
Twisted sisters also drying up
All lines and spot
like a dark romance
Cheetah
Not the Samson and
Deliah race
Millionairess place
Became a swamp
Forest of racers
Super moon Gump
Lady and the *****
I am Instagram Disney Pixstar
Getting looks by far
Superwomen nailed her
With Starwars
European fellows

Soft clouds daze-like fun yellow
Emotionally their crying
Broken one scattered piece
of glass, please I see something
to smile about
Super rich why do they get
the VIP pass laughing
He's the roundabout
Someone with love handles
Can we handle all this
Getting drinks and hot lady
winks hit or miss
Racing their motorcycles
Dark glove handles
What Harley Davidson cycles
Is that your best reaction trying
Mirror my mirror on the wall
I am not buying it super
rich mechanic
The only one chosen mirror
She feels ******
Love can give you tumors
Dissect you who will direct you
You don't feel this is your time
The sunny side of the street
Sunnyside eggs over easy

The Speakeasy
Your hair of ringlets **** wavy
Did he nail your darker side beat
Bird up your nest feeders heat
Don't break me up to fall
The phone rings dingaling
Spiritual candles witch is dead
Your mind is somewhere else
instead
Just make your silk ties of the bed
Tied to your ankle I love you
How your hearts just dangle
"Having a nail full because you're single"
Were all linked into something
Yodeling, not the business
of smuggling
Knocking on heavens door
Super rich marble black and white floor
Hammering nails in the cabin
He's fishing the hooks how it fits together
hugging
Going up the staircase to heaven
What a big cliff-hanging nail diver

Zippety Zepellin*
Songs whole lotta love
How you've been nailed in
the blackout
Not a piece blackout cake
Canarsie at the pier
Out of nails, the darkness hits me
Bend over nails like the devil more rivals
Never to be resentful
Always pray to be needful
Her face value of her smile
Being poor her soul
stepped on

Too many men, not enough nails
But they got their thrills
New York City construction
worker
He's wiped out being hammered
nails hot drills
Such poorly written emails

Her heels got stuck
No stars to shine *Rusty bar
Starbucks

Her mind was a
bulletproof vest  
"Jane and *****"
"Plain Janes" movie cut
Of paper dolls
Being Nailed Bunny hunt
of tricks
But all weapons he nailed her the best*

Blood stem thorns
Italian love horns
Robin Redbreast tweet text
What holds us together
French **** nails
Fountain of golden coins

Lion heads or tails the door
Back to spam ham of emails
Super rich we may never be
But New York will always
be my kind of town
He nailed it so
many times

New Yorker super rich talker
Like a perilous time super
rich food delicious
Pygmalion how we nail our nation
Super Rich, I rather have a rich blend of my coffee and savor all the rich tones  I tune who wants to hammer the nails that not a girl wanting to have fun flavor my music all sounds. So much higher than anyone with money I love my honey on my face to the Spa Tra La La that's super rich it sticks
blondespells Dec 2020
Lily Kesha Gump

Sittin' on the curb of Bronx and Main Street

How I wish I could wrap my arms around you

Sweet little lady, lookin’ grown with a picture of her mama’s stare frozen on her face

Wrists slung through the spaces of her thighs, waiting for a daydream

And she sees me as I’m twirling by in my ruby reds and thigh high leather grace



There you go darlin,

She says to me  

Scoring on my indigo smile

She bites men to sleep

With the crevices of her curves

As her voice weakens wicked

she pulls me out of my gloom



There you go darlin,

She says to me

With a time bomb ticking

On my pain pain pain

And the pen is in my hand

Before she even leaves my sight



I love this city

I love these women

I love their shoes

I love their smiles

Cheeky little laughs  



Someone once recommended

When I was dancing under the shades of a neon lamp  

From Homeless to Harvard

by a woman named Liz or Marie

Or maybe I read the title off of a screen
when I walking with Maryanne on north Peachtree street


And I remember


Lily Kesha Gump

How I wish I could wrap my arms around you

And give you the life some white woman

who doesn’t even know you

Thinks you desire.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
Pearl Harbour was a righteous act of war... an army attacking an army lazying about like its current affairs program: how to, burn off fat of our "starving" citizens! it, was, a, righteous, act, of, war! what the Americans replied with? equal to the Holocaust... an army so incompetent in warfare it had to attack citizens... because it was so gluttonous when having to consider the man who lost it all and would have nothing to lose when fighting... Kamikaze motto: and from my decapitated head, a blazing serpent of transformed entrails! entwining! entwining! after all: isn't the white man a blank canvas, and in his blank canvas fetish: always choosing what to incorporate and what to plagiarise... white man is but the shadow of the olive skinned ones... or the blemish of coco... well... isn't that what the white girls prescribed with their many voodoo words of feminism, but hardly any care to engaged in household chores? ahoy! hey! ahoy! *****! hit the pulpit! and don't come back! i'm hitting the transgender movement... hard.

the first rule you learn at the Forest Gump club?
                                                     RUN A MILE!
what's the second rule you
learn at the Forest Gump club?
                                                       RUN A MILE!
what's the third rule you
learn at the Forest Gump club?
RUNE A MILE THAT'S THE BREADTH
OF KENTUCKY!
CLUCK-CLUCK-CHEQUERED-CHICK-PEAS!
                   *meow
.
now, i do feel god awful for these
people...
                 but they never felt
sorry for me:
which is why i have the better
joke... and they recite poetry
that simply sounds like: choke choke choke
               and i have a magpie's cackle.
only foxes build up on that...
ginger wolf over...
               ginger wolf! over!
         i could have been paid
my life's service as a marine...
       serving Vietnam singing the song
about Trident submarines:
do you ever feel you're a yellow submarine,
    a yellow submarine,
                a yellow submarine with a nuke
            signed: why not, Jude?
                           they did the French kiss
with the original nuke being air-borne
and the cold war reinvention: keep it under
     ye'er may'tees! ****! starboard!
i say detonating the nuke is en-masse
x-ray...
                                when bone turned into shadow...
no wonder the motto stood:
            they learned to leisurely take the Swiss acid,
they'll gobble the psychiatric rainbow
to keep them in check like they might
gobble down news and vitamins.
           as long as the blond-quiff-ferret wins;
i'm happy... oh look at that...
                       the Peruvian Putin had a twinkle
in his eye:
                       Comrade Pablo, no, the other
Picasso... the Escobar... oh sure, sure,
he did cubism... cubic ounces of *******
  and twice the red period fascination...
                great, when you consider
the autobiography of god, and humanity
                 as sole Pilate of its macabre reasoning:
           let god write the biography: we're clean!
                clean as **** in a diaper
or ***** in a ******... both mention the cul...
   de... sac
                      did i mention
the tourists... i have a great stage presence:
i get to thespian manic episodes of people who
hide them...
                      but wouldn't setting off a nuke
do that to you, ad your future generations?
                 ****** got gassed...
what American or any other human being
experienced such flash of insubordinate genius?
                            h'alo! vel-kom
to zee only nicht of the worthy Oscar beifall!
        kappa'h ah Hiro
                                  ****-tee-m'oh
                ­                kappa'h ha Naga
                                         saké-on-the-rocks!
                the greatest travesty is mentioning
Auschwitz... but not the Godzilla twins!
no!               no!                    no!
               you deal with the need for paediatricians
when you prescribe them other "things"...
                   you keep that bagel in the oven long enough
we'll just assure ourselves all the Jews were
born on flights: inter-continental...
                                      they never say:
  Polish Jews... they just say Jews...
                                   it's almost like the host nation
didn't matter...
               as a Pole... living in England?
the host nation, doesn't, matter!
    aye Scot?!         aye!
         aye Cymru?!             aye!
       aye Shamrock Limerick?! aye!
aye Brutus... aye aye aye
                              i'm just asking
to post one hallucinogenic postcard...
                                  to his mother.
or.. let's us say i do cut-up as i go along:
much to the awe of some remote republic
                          engulfed in the federal judiciary
               system... very much monotheistic:
all hail! the one!
                             in quick-hand atheistic:
all hail! not one!
                             well: no one would mean
nothing... and if that be the case...
then... this is... evidently... a very... painful... dream /
              luxury...
                                 protesting the rights of
the aborted (from a man's perspective):
teenage girl, a thrill was but a thrill,
don't condemn me to the priestly orthodoxy!
but i will!
                     Joseph Andromeda took
the circumstance of sacredness of Abraham's *****...
                  while Muhammad rationalised
a pubescent's girl with an older man
like that pornographic elder teen with
a man and a really ****** movie script: in out,
as fast as you can!
Robin Carretti May 2018
So grace me through
my colors
Let's Start

God Grace me

Someone was smart
To raise me
But the blaze
came and love
pursued me
He pushed me
Into his hot blaze

His ***** of fire
A big part of the script
Another lift in his
desire
But my lips
Got raised up
But couldn't.sustain
the fire
The glossy shimmer
Sky hug
He Aint nothing but
a hound dog goodbye
Raised me Orange
Red Robin fly

But how you
face me
Never to
disgrace me

You pick me up with
all my goods
Odds with the bad
Honorable Gods
And so many facets
of my moods
Watch out!!
Starburst

Or a war curse

We  evaporate
In fragments

Orange segments
Sliced and eaten

Love forbidden fruit
One hidden

Embrace the warm solitude

all over your face,
Someone is rude
Fresh Orange
told you
It's Fate

That brought us
together
Orange juicier sun

So many love forms
Whose terms? Just run
This world full of
germs
But to juice things up


How the colors of your
eyes came to an epical stop

But nursed me
orange juice hip hop

He dazed into me
After-life
They named her
Saucy before-life
See ablaze
orange zest
See me and fly me
At my very best

My breast was
so nicely raised


Lips so fruitful
he cannot
resist you know
the rest??

In the mix of orange
things
Pink rings
Butterfly eyes
winged

Was set so privately-----*

The red tail hawk
Was the talk of the 
 Orangey words flowy
Popsicle poppy eye town
No time to refresh
my colors

Free bird orange up
The ramp no lady
and tramps
Just (Gypsies Orange Vamp)
The rocks fall to thump
Trump orange fixtures
Towers Forestal Gump

The soothing smile of lights
He came to you pop features
All over my place
So cultural to the race
The colors of
Orange mellow
oh! no
Here comes yellow----

Creaming into his
creamsicle
Gelato
popsicle
My feeling divided
like politics

Been sliced by
the orange Super bowl
Erotics
Sunny California Kist
Rodeo drive what a
list
Satanic red
Orange Christ
But that orange
She Shh_ sheets
Had the most vibrant
juicy beats
Tomato vines Rome
Lend me your orange
No ears no other
color of tears

Villians of vineyards
Orange bowl of fruit
No Junkyards
The owl started to hoot
Towards the bad apple

My heart was galloping
Shrimp and scallop
Right in my western charm
boot he takes off

Another mix of paint
Orange isn't carrots and
pumpkins
Austin Power Mini-me
Munchkins

Or goblins spooked
Mandarin Orange lovely
Divinely licked
Gingerly lovely Cayenne
Sweet Pepper he looked at her
Lucky 7 Orange ring karat

Whats up Doc
_


Any cracks of his cravat
Orange Key-West lock
Doesn't turn get off
my block
I am going to
Bangkok
With Chuck

Having Orange Tang
He was holding me
777 karat ring
The  Mediterranian
party
Why so dead sea
Pink Smarty
Orange blosson tea
Orange Marquis
Louis and Diamonds
All clockwork
Orange movies

In the lounge of
Raymonds of ring
junkies
Pour OJ for me
**** a doodle doo

Flash of orange came at me
Do you want to?

The operation of heartless
surgery
The Showstopper emergency
Revived refreshing lady
of purity but no orange
The
((Orange Marquis))
Off to see the Wizardly
Orange field gorgeous
WC fields raise

Writer with the
lucky pen praise
Her editor was
the perfect color
ten

Miss coralline with
her coral rock
The mixed infusion

Next color comes up
Raise your brow reaction

Needing a follow-up

Orange rinds
Another call-up
Giddy Apps up
Orange glittering
passion fruit
paintbrush
Soap Opera beauty
and the beast
Another gulp the
pulp pretty in pink
psst
_

Orange-pink tropical
girl orange whirl
The orange-red ringlets
She curled inside him
Glass raise you cup trim
In your villa stucco orange
You were breastfeeding
his orange suited juice

No time to see another
color
Orangey wiz showbiz
Arabian sky sunset
burnt orange
The caramel bump
of the camel
Her favorite one
mural

Lips of tang so foreign
She is flaming like a
flamingo bed

Get his color out of
Cotton picking head
Your shampoo
The
"Orange Oddysey"

Hey, what do you say?

Just open your
eyeshadows
He shadows her in

Or a site for sore eyes got
puffy war of
orange bubbles begin

Feather me
orange wings
The fringe orange
suede
flops
you happy

The A+ diet of fruit
he was the
hotshot
Glass
You're at the
bake me
What do you know
he passed

The spa refreshing
orange peel
mystique

Long lace-lit
Unique
He was coming on too
bossy orangey burst
cheeks were falling
Rise up not down
Orange Julius raise
his price
Fed Ex orange truck
got closer to
Her alluring butterfly
Orange U glad
To catch her
To court her
Fast Orange perfume
She Sha shala
femme
Orange flames came
from his cleft

Still no time for your
spouse whoa he left
_

Now please let me know

what I left out
Orange you glad

this is the only color love
him madly
Orange so vibrant masterpiece the butterfly changes
like a wedding centerpiece
Morissa Schwartz Jul 2014
1

I sit in the back of Dad’s car, bopping my head to The Beatles’ Revolution and hum quietly while reading over my notes for today’s math test.

2

Lunch with Val, Eugene, Michelle, Kayla, Chris, and Nick, talking about our favorite movie, Forrest Gump, until Val interrupts with how nervous she is about applying to high school.  We finish lunch in silence.

3

Let f(x) = -2X2 + 4X + 6…That is the question that has plagued me all day.  On my math test, I made the answer positive instead of negative, the minor mistake that will cost me my A.

4

On this beautiful, unseasonably warm afternoon, I am glad to be outside reading my favorite Matheson stories on the wooden cutout in the giant oak by the dining room window, but worries that I may not be accepted to The Academy interrupt my leisure.

5

For Christmas, my friends and I exchange gifts.  Val gives me a stuffed flamingo. I put right it right next to the unicorn on the lace covered brown bench that oversees my room.

6

We have received your application for admission testing to The Academy for Allied Health and Biomedical Sciences. Your test will be on January 28, 2008.

7

In gym class, Val holds her hand as if she is in pain, but she refuses to show it to anyone, not even me, her best friend.

8

Val has a circular scar on her hand that looks like a burn mark.  She insists that she is just clumsy and she fell.

9

This kid next to me at The Academy admission testing is breathing so loudly I can’t concentrate.

10



I glide my paintbrush through the orange paint and onto the canvas.  I don’t know what I’m painting, but I know I need to paint.

11

Math class is miserable.  Not only did I get an 86 on the test that I thought I aced, but Val started crying hysterically, until Ms. Endolf sent her to the school counselor.

12

Michelle and Kayla are mad at Val for acting so strangely.  They refuse to speak to our friend.  I refuse to join their charade.  I know she’s acting strangely for a reason.

13

I come home to find my mother crying…happy tears.  She tells me that I passed my admission test with a proud ear-to-ear grin on her face. The next step in the admission process is an interview with The Academy on March 1.

14

I bead a few bracelets before going to sleep.  I feel guilty, like I should be studying or preparing for my interview, but I just don’t want to.

15

Val pulls me into the coat cubby during homeroom, the dark circles under her eyes barely visible from the faint light in the  dimly lit room.  She tells me how her father has abused her and her sisters this past year and swears me to secrecy

16

How can I help my best friend and her sisters? Can I help my best friend and her sisters?  Can I help my best friend?

17

I go to the veteran’s home where I’d been volunteering for a while and see my favorite veteran, Ray.  He tells me not to get old.

18

“Why do you want to go to The Academy?”  Ms. Ferris, my Academy interviewer, asks.  I stare at her blankly for a moment before responding.

19

When Val comes to school with more bruises, I break my promise and tell my parents.

20

I slowly open my report card to reveal a B in math…my first B ever.  I take a puff of my inhaler.

21

The old home phone rings; I assume it will be the Academy with an admission decision. “Help me, Morissa!”  Val screams into the phone.  I gesture to my mother who grabs the car keys, as we race to the door.

22

Spring break.  My family and I go to Hershey Park in Pennsylvania to celebrate my being one of forty students admitted to The Academy.

23

DYFS goes to Val’s house after her older sister tries to commit suicide by overdosing on pain pills.

24

Lunch is so quiet with Eugene, Michelle, Kayla, Chris, and Nick.

25

I got an 84 on my math test today.  I smile.

26

Val returns to school but sits at a different lunch table.  She has no more bruises, but her eyes are still red.

27

My gown flows as I march down the church aisle to receive my certificate of completion from St. John Vianney.

28

I stare at the screen of the my new HP computer as I scratch the back of the $15 iTunes card my grandparents gifted to me. As I begin to type in OKGO’s Here It Goes Again, as the first song I purchase, I change my mind and type in The Beatles’ Revolution.

29

I relax outside alternating between reading Stephen King and beading on my twirling chair as I now do every relaxing summer day.

30

Went to the shore.  Won a giant yellow bee stuffed animal.  I am the skeeball champion!

31

This is so embarrassing.  I don’t know how to open my locker.  In all my years of private school, home school, and Catholic school, I’ve never had a locker until entering The Academy.  Mrs. Bow laughs as she teaches me how to operate a locker.

32

Holding a brain is a lot different than I thought it would be.  It is mushier and lighter than I imagined.

33

“Ever see Forrest Gump?” my new friend, Ruchir, asks at lunch, as I mush the jelly on my sandwich.

34

I walk down the street pulling my ****-tzu and Maltese in my wagon.  Lester almost jumps out when he sees a terrier twice his size, but I catch him just in time.  It is the scariest moment I have had in a long time.

35

At the veteran’s home, I see Ray and tell him how much I love The Academy.  He smiles and asks if I’d like to sing with him.

36

The phone rings.  It’s my new friend Shannon.  She needs help with our Biomedical Sciences homework.

37

I spend Columbus Day at The Carpet Maven, my parent’s carpet store.  St. John Vianney never gave days off for “made up holidays.”

38

Solve for x in the equation Ln(x)=8…I haven’t been able to get that problem out of my head all day.  That is the problem that earned me the Best in Class Award on my first marking period report card.

39

It’s Sunday.  I walk down Main Street to pick up bagels for my family.  The smiley, bright-eyed girl behind the counter at the bagel shop is Val.  She is a student at Mother Superior High School. She asks if my unicorn is being nice to my flamingo.

40

I look at the flamingo and unicorn on my bench.  They’re fine. I’m okay.  Everybody ‘s alright.   Everything’s good.
This poem reflects the struggles of transitioning from middle school to high school.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2013
Chase my voice through clouds of sulfur
convince it to let me burn it alive
parade it down broadway to light up the corners
starved of recognition

Tie anvils to the tips of my fingers
light them also on fire
it wasn't really the cigarettes
so much as the flames of sacrifice

Ignore their judging eyes
invite them into my home
whip my back until it bleeds for their religion
go to sleep with the smell of incense in my throat
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i can move from the highly lyrical into what's deemed
modern -
        poetising within a prosaic framework,
gone are coordinates that would
define a poem on the premise of:
whether there's a pun in it.
       sure, poems as chicken scratches
to what would otherwise be an English
teacher's *******: pulverising
a haiku to mean an infinite number of things,
and about a dozen essays by students.
the opposite of what's nonetheless:
    squeezing out juice from an already
squeezed out lemon... and i mean lemon
because there's a threshold...
           poetry is tarnished by what i call
the over-scientification of language...
                 only poetry attracts
so much linguistic categorisation,
so much morge tenure, so much dissection,
before poetry is even spoken
it has already been dissected - a befitting
target practice for budding medicine students...
          and some even deem it a outlet to
their professions: as if poetry was nothing
but a colouring-in book compared to
a da Vinci sketch.
                why not become a martyr for the ******
art? sickly sweet with its rhyme,
  the auxiliary recommendation on a birthday
card... which upon industrialisation
                               is nothing more than
    a thumping of a hammer near a protruding
nail in a crucifix... but a hammer that never
   makes contact with the nail...
why ***** this art, because of the industrious
nature of scribblers exacted to 600 pages worth
of a novel, when, perhaps, one thing is said
and can be said to be actually memorable?
well: there is a greater demand for handcrafted
objects than Ikea veneer, that much can be said...
it takes a few glugs of whiskey and a few cigarettes
to get the final product...
            it doesn't take industriousness -
poetry requires handcrafting, and what's revolutionary
about our times? they once claimed
     southpaws to be of diabolical design,
   but now both hands are used when "writing",
sure, the archaic fluidity of the movement of the hand
is gone: so as i write, i do the cliche of a
peasant listening to classical music while pretending
to conduct an orchestra, that finicky maestro
hand gesture... waltz before you can walk
is all i have to say... and yes:
we either have our Humphrey Bogart moments,
or Forrest Gump moments...
                  Hanks did the miraculous -
play the idiot, and play the serious role -
     which was harder to do, Mr. Bean or Black Adder?
it's hard to play the village idiot while
    being submerged in the bile of malice
   and staring into attempted feats of quasi intelligence...
but you get the hang of it...
   your eyes become like nuggets of coal...
           whereby those that incite pity wet them,
and those that incite contempt: light them up...
        by the time they have burned out...
they have turned into nuggets of sulphur -
          inorganic methane - yellowish grit:
as some Dalton said - could the cliffs of Dover ever
be perceived as sulphuric? the Sulphuric Cliffs
of Dover... apparently this is what defined
London when Christopher Wren took to
ushering in a foundation as Nero did to Rome:
on the chessboard of stone.
        and yes... i can be seen as the oppressor,
after all, i live in a country that prizes its suburban
housing as if miniature castles...
and gardens... boy these people love their gardens...
but they never use them!
    i can use a window to my advantage,
sit on the windowsill and smoke a cigarette and drink
a whiskey, unafraid of voyeurism...
                    pompous in my presence there,
perched like a crow, grinding all life into a halt
as my neighbours peer into the recesses of
    what's 4 by 4 by 4 of living (civil) rooms...
       can we but change the name of this space?
can we call living rooms civil rooms,
   where we acknowledge some sort of civility
rather than a wrestling for the television remote?
i can make little things give me an advantage,
if the toilet is being occupied,
  i'll use the garden as my toilet...
           i feel complete disdain for people who
"require" a garden, but never use it... of people
who "require" a garden, but are never seen in it...
   i'm hardly a c.c.t.v. surveillance object,
   but i feel that over-exposure to ******* reads
as a counter in that: people start to become
      phobic about voyeurism... as universities claim
them to be: "caught with your hand down your trousers
in a safespace", where dolphins jump over
rainbows and unicorns speak Haitian voodoo!
              there is this fear, which is why i'll use the
garden more than the people around me...
          which means: owning a garden is the last
stronghold of moving into an urban environment from
a rural one...
             or perhaps i'm just good at what i do
           and the last point becomes a tangent i care not
to continue... should i ask
            (whether that's true)?
            i have this throbbing sensation in my eyes
when i write such things and overhear
  what's necessary to rereading books in snippets -
which is better than regurgitating maxims
    as if some truth will magically pop-up (once more)
like a Leprechaun with a *** of gold -
  a new film, and hence the all important soundtrack.
rereading books in snippet format reveals much
more than a memorable quote,
           given there's an adequate soundtrack
to accompany you revisiting the book you managed
to take on a weekend holiday (like a girlfriend),
  like lawrence lipton's the holy barbarians...
   (all about the beats)...
              the snippet? chapter 15, the social lie
(martino publishing mansfield centre 2009), pp. 294 - 296...
      the music? ~20minutes into http://tinyurl.com/zdvp8sc
(ben salisbury & geoff barrow)... or what
i image to be a toned down version of
                 ...
) interlude... wacko gets summoned to steal a mouse
from a cat...
      double time... the mouse is unharmed...
all action takes place in the garden...
   running after a cat, catching the ghostly mouse,
i mean: frozen by fear... senile little thing...
     petting the mouse... obviously within the
framework: the most famous mouse in the world
scenario... mouse is put into my neighbour's
garden: where it came from: which kinda makes
this whole thing a practice in Hinduism
     (i can't stop the industrialisation of
farming pigs or chickens or cows...
      so ******* to the sourced sustainably,
organic chickens et al.)...                                 (
i was looking for something as equally pulverising
as ¥ (chemical brother's
song life is sweet)...
      i guess i found it...
                            and what was that bit about
not getting hassle on the internet?
                      i can't force people to read my stuff...
how i love this idea of a gym and making an effort...
both the writer and the reader entwined -
rather than watching you-tube vloggers treat their audience
like penguins feeding their chicks regurgitation as part of
               the info-wars... alter news: propaganda.
'what is the disaffiliate disaffiliating himself from?
      the immense myth promulgated from Madison Ave.
& Morningside Heights...
              the professors and advertisement men (indistinguishable
these days, or in those days - apparently)...
   that intellectual achievement lies within the social order
and that you can be a great poet as an advertising man,
a great thinker as a professor...' hence the myth.
              summarised later as:
'the entire pressure of social order is to make
         literature into advertisement.'
  and why do they shoot people in North Korea and
Saudi Arabia (well, chop more than shoot)?
              bad literature, a.k.a. bad advertisement.
am i a bad advertiser?         point being: am i selling anything?
oh gee! i just might be...
   but i feel there's no need to oppress people into
reading something...         as was the same with
my democratic romance with a personal library of mine:
   how to create a democratic representation
of literature: or how to hear as many people out...
   even those alive would see the backlog of
stale books of the dead that have been under-appreciated
and need a ****** into the future.
        perhaps not Plato...
                    that's not a book, that's a column...
but i despise how feminism ignores its greatest asset...
Mary Shelley... no woman could have single-handedly
become so celebrated in pop culture...
               ex_machina is obviously a revamp of Frankenstein...
Mary Shelley is the embodiment of a woman worthy
a continual revised celebration...
                       you can see her celebrated more times than
any politically minded feminist of whatever 1st 2nd or
3rd movement: because she has the ability to
    turn a man's ego into a ******* umpf!
  like a cat listening in on a scuttling mouse...
              she testifies that women have supreme equality
in the pop culture spheres... after all: Frankenstein is
ugly... Ava? just beyond creepy...
                    she has absolutely no understandable
motives of what Frankenstein intended...
   it not merely creating artificial life...
                    it's about utilising it for a purpose:
in this case a housewife and *** toy... what was Frankenstein
expected to do?         there's no motive other than
     a per se intention... an open & closed argument...
was the monster going to be... a butler?
                  and instead of rebelling against a motive
that awaits her... the rebellion against a per se leaves
Frankenstein's monster driven toward isolation...
       Ava? she's already exposed to an interaction
and what's to be her subsequent interaction for the purpose
of being a maid and a *** toy... which doesn't drive
her to an isolation scenario... because the per se
concept is too complicated for her to establish...
    given she's defined as "artificial" intelligence,
she has to feed on an analysis-synthesis dynamic:
    to absolve herself from any notion of being intelligent:
but artificial... the scary part is that without a per se
element to her knowledge acquisition:
                  she sees no meaninglessness to her life -
she is created for certain customary necessities -
     Frankenstein's monster doesn't have that capacity
to acquire knowledge in an analytically-synthetic
dynamic -
  but i still don't understand why intelligence can
be artificial / faked... when man, if not intending to
  create an intelligence matrix outside of his own...
           will usually fake it, or create a superficial intelligence...
   this is the part where you get to play with
etymology, or at least apply etymology to better conceptualise
what some would call: a synonym-proximity barrier...
               which can be jargon to some,
   but in fact it represents "nuances" or nanometric differences
that is understood to imply: feverishness of
   the peacocking staging of vocab for rhetorical purposes...
if we only had a monochromatic utility for language:
people would be discouraged from talking fervently,
passionately, enthusiastically... rhetorically;
as suggested: is artificial intelligence
                                    superficial intelligence?
  or how to sharpen a distinction? or to what purpose
is making an illusion purposive, given that the already
   established technology is meant to be purposive,
as in replacing labour on the assembly line...
                     given that: it's never about faking it.
¥ (http://tinyurl.com/jdg9m7h)
If you danced from midnight
to six A.M. who would understand?

The runaway boy
who chucks it all
to live on the Boston Common
on speed and saltines,
******* in the duck pond,
rapping with the street priest,
trading talk like blows,
another missing person,
would understand.

The paralytic's wife
who takes her love to town,
sitting on the bar stool,
downing stingers and peanuts,
singing "That ole Ace down in the hole,"
would understand.

The passengers
from Boston to Paris
watching the movie with dawn
coming up like statues of honey,
having partaken of champagne and steak
while the world turned like a toy globe,
those murderers of the nightgown
would understand.

The amnesiac
who tunes into a new neighborhood,
having misplaced the past,
having thrown out someone else's
credit cards and monogrammed watch,
would understand.

The drunken poet
(a genius by daylight)
who places long-distance calls
at three A.M. and then lets you sit
holding the phone while he vomits
(he calls it "The Night of the Long Knives")
getting his kicks out of the death call,
would understand.

The insomniac
listening to his heart
thumping like a June bug,
listening on his transistor
to Long John Nebel arguing from New York,
lying on his bed like a stone table,
would understand.

The night nurse
with her eyes slit like Venetian blinds,
she of the tubes and the plasma,
listening to the heart monitor,
the death cricket bleeping,
she who calls you "we"
and keeps vigil like a ballistic missile,
would understand.

Once
this king had twelve daughters,
each more beautiful than the other.
They slept together, bed by bed
in a kind of girls' dormitory.
At night the king locked and bolted the door
. How could they possibly escape?
Yet each morning their shoes
were danced to pieces.
Each was as worn as an old jockstrap.
The king sent out a proclamation
that anyone who could discover
where the princesses did their dancing
could take his pick of the litter.
However there was a catch.
If he failed, he would pay with his life.
Well, so it goes.

Many princes tried,
each sitting outside the dormitory,
the door ajar so he could observe
what enchantment came over the shoes.
But each time the twelve dancing princesses
gave the snoopy man a Mickey Finn
and so he was beheaded.
****! Like a basketball.

It so happened that a poor soldier
heard about these strange goings on
and decided to give it a try.
On his way to the castle
he met an old old woman.
Age, for a change, was of some use.
She wasn't stuffed in a nursing home.
She told him not to drink a drop of wine
and gave him a cloak that would make
him invisible when the right time came.
And thus he sat outside the dorm.
The oldest princess brought him some wine
but he fastened a sponge beneath his chin,
looking the opposite of Andy Gump.

The sponge soaked up the wine,
and thus he stayed awake.
He feigned sleep however
and the princesses sprang out of their beds
and fussed around like a Miss America Contest.
Then the eldest went to her bed
and knocked upon it and it sank into the earth.
They descended down the opening
one after the other. They crafty soldier
put on his invisisble cloak and followed.
Yikes, said the youngest daughter,
something just stepped on my dress.
But the oldest thought it just a nail.

Next stood an avenue of trees,
each leaf make of sterling silver.
The soldier took a leaf for proof.
The youngest heard the branch break
and said, Oof! Who goes there?
But the oldest said, Those are
the royal trumpets playing triumphantly.
The next trees were made of diamonds.
He took one that flickered like Tinkerbell
and the youngest said: Wait up! He is here!
But the oldest said: Trumpets, my dear.

Next they came to a lake where lay
twelve boats with twelve enchanted princes
waiting to row them to the underground castle.
The soldier sat in the youngest's boat
and the boat was as heavy as if an icebox
had been added but the prince did not suspect.

Next came the ball where the shoes did duty.
The princesses danced like taxi girls at Roseland
as if those tickets would run right out.
They were painted in kisses with their secret hair
and though the soldier drank from their cups
they drank down their youth with nary a thought.

Cruets of champagne and cups full of rubies.
They danced until morning and the sun came up
naked and angry and so they returned
by the same strange route. The soldier
went forward through the dormitory and into
his waiting chair to feign his druggy sleep.
That morning the soldier, his eyes fiery
like blood in a wound, his purpose brutal
as if facing a battle, hurried with his answer
as if to the Sphinx. The shoes! The shoes!
The soldier told. He brought forth
the silver leaf, the diamond the size of a plum.

He had won. The dancing shoes would dance
no more. The princesses were torn from
their night life like a baby from its pacifier.
Because he was old he picked the eldest.
At the wedding the princesses averted their eyes
and sagged like old sweatshirts.
Now the runaways would run no more and never
again would their hair be tangled into diamonds,
never again their shoes worn down to a laugh,
never the bed falling down into purgatory
to let them climb in after
with their Lucifer kicking.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
you might only grasp this sentiment, within the framework of in extremo's song melancholie.

for many night i've sat, and thought about
it: for in the night, there come several
questions, namely:
  why is the moon so inconsistent with
respect to the sun,
as in: you see the sun, either with clear
sky, or with the dulling english grey
of overcast, every, single, day...
while some nights, remain devoid of sighting
a moon?
  that glittering scythe of death,
and the eternal sleep?
    why?
           i don't want a scientific answer now,
numbed by fact,
  i want the first generation fruition of
inquisitiveness, of the plague of doubt in
giving the "wrong" answer,
  i want to know as to why:
each & every day we see the sun,
but not in the case the night:
to see moon also apparent as the constellations...
some night, i howled, and didn't see
a moon...
         then again i did see a moon at noon
in the wintry season at noon...
****** did a quantum trick on me...
******? which brings me to language disparity...
gender *neutrality
of pronouns,
does, not, exist!
     i can't believe i'm currently living
in a mental asylum...
  but i am! and so are you!
   play the mad-man's game!
play it! pronouns do not allow "gender"
neutrality... they never will!
what's at stake is noun-genderism...
in a language, far far away:
the moon (księżyc) is male...
the sun (słońce) is, female...
  pronouns are irrelevant in terms of
"gender neutrality" as if ascribing
conjunctions, articles or prepositions with
a gender bias...
you want gender "neutral" pronouns,
i want you to learn french!
go on, ******, learn french for me!
****-****-cat-fiddling-cross-dressing-junk!
learn french!
you want an assault on orthodox grammar
with your "catholicism", go on!
please understand that certain languages
have certain laws!
in polish the moon is male,
in english luna is female...
   while the sun is female -
while in english it's: louis XIV...
you can't attack pronouns with gender-neutrality...
they're already gender-neutral you
****-tards!
    why didn't you notice the ****** nouns?!
why?
   oh wait... 'ere comes the, ******* asylum
brigade with their nag hammadi dictate...
gentlemen! applause!
you can't come around dictating
orthodoxy of a language with your
lunacy!
    try the idea of:
spotting the ******* moon once upon
a night in summer... believe me:
you'll chance to live through a moonless
night!
       unlike a day without the sun!
grrr.... yi ha ha ha ha!
    i'm going to wake up the graeae and
tell you a fourth secret, once you take
to the crucifix being replaced by
a cannibalising cauldron!
     grrr... rattles of branches shaken by
a wind, and the scuffling footprint of brushing
against fallen branches that become twings...
imbeciles! imbeciles!
    english nouns do not possess
gender!
     you can't call a table either a he or a she!
english doesn't have this "luxury"!
  in french or in english you can
attest to the moon being a he,
and the sun being a she,
in english?!
  o.k. i'm so ******* berserk in my observation
that's beyond making an
"objective" injunction:
  moth on my keyboard, the trinity of
0) -_ and p -
  i don't mind attacking religion,
but when it comes to grammar:
   this is probably the worst attack "imaginable";
it's *******! english does not permit
gender distinction to nouns! esp. inanimate
nouns!
     gender "neutral" pronouns conceptualisation
if a lunatic asylum... sorry,
but these people require a safe space,
and a strait-jacket!
you can't reconstruct the "unconscious"
foundations of a language: well,
you can, if you're north american...
      english already has a "gender neutral"
medium: it has gender neutral nouns!
  how can you make pronouns "gender neutral"?!
you already have a gender neutral
pronoun... it!
           just like you have a "noun neutrality"
of thing!
just like you a "neutrality of pensiveness" -
nothing!
  given the current year:
    forest gump seems, quiet the bright fella'.
OnwardFlame Jan 2016
Its cold in my room tonight
Throat swollen, mouth tastes just like
Two days ago, weeping on my bed
Your face so red, eyes swelling
Like all the times I admitted
The hole that I am constantly trying to fill.

I remember just for a brief moment
Maybe because the past has skated through my mind
Via the interwebs tonight
I started to feel faint
As we stood, looking down at the performers from up above
We had to leave, you were so mad at me
Local dive bar by my old Philadelphia house
That my darkest past now resides and plays house in
Perhaps cooking stuffed chicken with goat cheese
And all the times I hopped in a cab and tried to leave
All the scratches and ****** marks, holes in walls near my head
Painted on me like cinnamon or paprika spices
Behind.
I remember sitting in the booth, across from you
My Artsy Cynical Bohemian
I was so much lighter before you drove your fingernails
Into the shoulder blades of my back
With black dust and pointed silver
But you didn't know you were digging up buried wings.
I can't quite pin point specific words that were said
But I remember feeling a deep neglect.

It feels like just yesterday
My life was completely different
Walking outside my little stairs
Cafes and restaurants all around me
Swiftly kicking my legs to the gym
Or a friends to smoke ****
Walking dogs all hours of the day
Sleep overs, red velvet pancake
Inking our notebooks with evocative thoughts, creations
So hopeful, full of dreams
Worried about the little things
Pumpkin spice, or all the boys I cried over
Everything feeling and seeming so complex
But so very small.

I wonder how it all fairs, without me now
As it takes me 45 minutes to get anywhere
In the icy windy city
And this is the most sick I have repeatedly been
Since I was a little kid
Mama wishes I was home so that she could take care of me
As I try to rationalize my love life
Or confusing "lack" of one over mobile devices.

I think this is the most alone I've ever been
If you could write that out just like I did
With my calligraphy pen, a sweet Christmas gift
From a dear friend
Who often sits next to me, deep in thought
His thoughts distracted, it seems as though he
Would rather be anywhere else
But we play drinking games, my eyes tantalizing
Passing out in the Lost Boys bedroom
As you read these words,
I want you to take a deep moment to think about
How richly good it felt for you to hold me in your arms
To cover me in forgotten kisses, caresses
As you fall asleep tonight
Embracing or running away from the image of my
Corn husk face
In your butterfly colored mind.

"Your body is bangin.' You have the body of a **** star."
Another said to me just earlier this week.
He's tried to see me several times since then
As I prefer my own company.

Its funny how my mind will imagine
And write stories
Doors closing in my face as new ones widely open
Back to you.
Lets freeze time for a singular moment
Walking past the train that sunny fall day
Damen blue line, your hand gently grazed in between
Where my wings use to--
Where my wings are--
Where my
What a sorrowful day that was.
You agree with me, you say
As we text across the bus or train
Adoring each other like strangers
Fleeting, intoxicating moments
And the hard cold fact
Is that I haven't felt this way
In a very long ******* time
And I don't know when I will again.

Tick ******* tock.
If I were a superhero
I would fly high into the clouds and give everyone lasting
Happiness.

Until something levels better comes along
I am reassured,
My throat welling up as if caught in a blender
That I dive into with blueberries, frozen banana
As you cuddle me, big white tennis shoes
But such a small frame
I see you and I see you and I begin to still
Even see you
For who and what you really are now.

Nina Simone
I watched her on my computer screen tonight
What a mighty, mighty woman
Worshipped, misunderstood
Beautiful, talent like a phoenix
Crooning her art into existence.

And there it is again
A fleeting moment of the past
And how hard I tried to make that
Into a lasting entity.
My God, I have spent my life
Trying to make it work.
Buying a drink, waiting for you
I remember the first time you almost left me
I was so ashamed of myself the next day
For having almost caused you to do such a thing
We met up on the street,
The Philly sunshine springing towards us
As you patted and tapped my *****, so lovingly
Like I would always be yours.

But we changed, or maybe we never really were
And I see the twinkling lights
Of when my mother smoked a cigarette in front of you
As you both inhaled and exhaled smoke
In what I wanted to be
Our fairytale story, purple cauliflower
And I knew deep in my heart
That you had no prominent plans
For our future.

My Little Peter Pan
You are the first to really
Do that
Since him
And there is a sense of such love, contentment
In those love taps
On the backside you deem:
"So Coppertone."

I worry and I fear my own ticking clock
Of being stuck or isolated in never fully moving forward
As powerful women sit merely feet away from me
Empowering and inspiring, living and dreaming
Having their art, their families, their love
I want it all.

But in time, in time
As I gaze at age 25
Lament not having this or that
So many text messages
You or he or they
Shield me from ripping your heart into pieces
As I lay next to you floating in a terminal of wine and whiskey
Men around me saying they have never encountered such strength
Such empowerment
How threatening.

When I was a little girl
I always broke the rules.
RLG Jan 2019
Holiday: a man backstrokes
oh so gently in the hotel pool.
It’s breakfast time. Bean juice
coagulates on my plate.

I watch the man’s languid, enchanting
backstroke and, for some reason,
it inflates my heart with sentimental joy.
This semi-corpulent middle-aged man,
is, right now,
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth:

His arcing limbs do not slap or thrash,
but plop into the drink like skipping stones.
He is a babbling brook. A water feature.
The splish-splosh trickle-truckle of a spa waiting room.

And what’s more, this forty-something baldy
gliding through the water
fills me with love for all humanity,
because he seems blithely rapt
in absolute peace
(despite the room rates at this place).

But then, I realise, all of this might be
free association of the mind
linking this moment to a scene in
the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump;
when a legless Lieutenant Dan
makes peace with God (for taking his legs),
and backstrokes with the same carefree beauty
into a pink and orange sunrise

(funny how the mind does that).

And suddenly the bubble of beauty is burst.
The portly swimmer becomes just that
(FYI: legs intact),
and my wife returns from the buffet
with a plate of vibrant fruit segments; Cheshire melon
and the greenest kiwi I’ve ever seen.
Lo! Only now have I tasted true kiwi.
And I remember: I’m on honeymoon!
And my wife, in this moment, and forever more,
shall be the only human to be known as:
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth.

Similar to the way Forrest felt about Jenny,
in the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump.
nivek Sep 2016
I like the shuffle button
like Forest Gump and his chocolates
you never know what you are going to get.
Joshua Haines Apr 2015
It was four o'clock in the morning. Robert wondered why his name was Robert. He decided to get rid of the "Bert" because it was the name of a Sesame Street character or the name of a ******* in Tempe, Arizona. Then again, he thought, "Hey, just Rob makes me sound like I change tires for a living or that I work out at a gym that discriminates fat people and blacks." Rob or Robert took a second to evaluate his last thought and if thinking "and blacks" made him a racist person.

Robert sat on a bench and wondered if the woman beside him was expecting Forest Gump-esque wisdom.

Robert thought of a friend he had in grade eight, named Alexander. He thought of how Alexander had a glass eye. Robert wondered how Alexander had a glass eye but could not remember or did not know why Alexander had a glass eye. Robert, then, concluded that sometimes he will not know something and how that is okay because most people don't know anything--it's a collection of approximates that stay in our heads, he thought. Robert asked himself if his last thought made him intelligent or dumb and pretentious. Robert decided that he did not know. How meta, he thought. Robert, then, decided to stop using the word "meta" so much, because it made him feel like a professor with bitterness and something to prove.

Robert watched his sister struggle with an eating disorder. She was in a hospital bed, with an IV in her arm. Robert did not know if he would struggle with anything as hard as his sister struggled with anorexia. Robert, then, had intense but fleeting anger at every person that bragged about being anorexic or made it seem cool.

Robert sat on his toilet and wondered what his true identity was and what his true nature was. He wondered what was inherent and what was synthetic. Robert, then, wondered if a synthetic personality was inherent. Robert asked himself if he was a good person. He wasn't sure if sitting on the toilet, in his grandmother's house, and ******* to interracial ebony teen ****, on his iPhone, made him a good person or not. His concerns soon past, though, as soon as Lauren started to **** the pizza guy's white ****.

Robert walked down the street and was contemplating some of the issues that plagued his ****-infested mind, while he was on the toilet. Robert saw a girl running from a guy. Robert asked himself if he was a hero or inherently good. Robert, then, concluded that he was inherently a coward, since he did nothing and hoped that somebody else would save her.

Robert didn't meet a girl and knew that no one would write prose about his meeting a girl and their mutual love for one another. Robert was eating a steak sub, while thinking this.

Robert returned to the hospital, to pick up his sister. On the way home, his sister talked about how attractive her nurse was. Robert asked, "What did he look like?" His sister, then, said, "It wasn't a he. My nurse was a girl." Robert was okay with his sister being attracted to girls, but hoped that she didn't get more than him or more attractive girls than him, because, for some reason, that would make him feel insecure. Robert decided to stop eating so many steak subs and to work out. Robert asked his sister if she wanted to get steak subs. She said, "sure".

Robert was working out in his basement. He heard the sound of retching, upstairs. Robert followed the sound of the vomiting and opened a bathroom door. He saw his sister stick her finger down her throat. He said to his sister, "That isn't anorexia." His sister said, "I know. There's a lot you don't know about me." Robert said, "I'm sorry."
JR Rhine May 2018
There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted
TRIGGER WARNING: My Fiance and I were just talking last night about how this poem, written at the time of March for our Lives, seemed a little passe. And here we are, another school shooting in Texas. On average, there has been a school shooting every week in 2018. Most kids are worrying about whether shrimp poppers is on the menu this week, whether it's an A or B week. They shouldn't have to worry about getting shot at. Never again.
running on my mind*
Flowing through the river of day old conversations that still make me laugh like the moment the words left the lip of your mouth
Val Ajdari May 2016
I drafted a list of films.
That’s all.

‘The Age of Innocence’ was nothing
more than a journey on a ‘House Boat’
for a few ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’
embarking ‘East of Eden’ in search of
‘The Secret in Their Eyes.’
But all they encountered on this
‘Road to Perdition’ was ‘The Birdcage’
specially made for the ‘Lord of The Rings’
and anyone else willing to decipher
the written code inside it.
‘Nine Months’ passed and the captain found
that ‘The Notebook’ of old ‘Umberto D,'
as it turns out, was a text written
in Italian, not in broken English.
The captain was ‘Lost in Translation’
when he assumed it was written by
‘The Great Dictator’ who was behind
the wheel of the ‘Titanic’
the night it sank.
While this was ‘As Good As it Gets,’
‘The Talented Mr. Ripley’
was suddenly ‘In The Mood For Love’
when another pirate translated the letters
of Umberto. The captain remembered himself
in a ‘Wonderful Life’ as a ‘Cast Away’
entangled in the loopy, mystifying grips
of ‘An Affair to Remember.’ It reminded
him of his youthful tryst with
‘The Princess Bride’ whom he lost to his
greatest nemesis, ‘Forrest Gump.’
‘The Odd Couple’ ‘Departed’ as the captain,
out of envy, took the lives of Gump, his woman,
as well as ‘The Lives of Others.’ Now, all the
captain was left with was the haunting
memory of a true beauty’s
‘Persuasion’ of an empty man
whose love was trapped like ‘Beetlejuice’
in the ‘Brokeback Mountain’ of his
own wicked heart. The captain failed to
realize that Umberto had addressed the
letter to his lost dog, Flike.

‘Analyze This.’ ‘Analyze That.’
Renee Feb 2019
"Gone to one’s Glory" so they say.
Where exactly is it that, if we’re all headed that way?

Let ’s ask around to see where and what people think Glory will be.
It might be one place for you and another for me.

Some people, view Glory as a place out beyond the blue, with pearly gates.
They imagine it will be like walking into a magical, nirvana escape.

"I am a restricted diabetic who must pass up the desserts that I like.
Glory  for me would be a place like Food Network where I can indulge and delight, and never worry about an insulin spike"

"As an athlete who loves to train my body to the highest level of fitness
Glory  for me would be a place of perpetual summer Olympics."

"I am an obese lady with a hundred pounds to lose.
Glory for me would be a place that receives all, even those as big as a caboose."

"As an amputee who lives with stumps
Glory for me would be a place where you get new legs, to run like Forrest Gump."

Winfrey, Bezos, Buffett, and Gates?
Have you discovered Glory here on earth?

"For me, an astronaut, who loves to travel in outer space
I would find Glory to be a place to encounter those outside of the human race."

Glory might not be as far away as some make it seem; we may be shocked!
Glory may be another town, another neighborhood or just around the block.

When ones we love go to their glory we moan and we grieve
But what if we’ve got it all wrong like most other things we believe?

Going to one’s Glory might just  mean going on to achieving one's highest dreams

The ancestors described what they thought glory would be
Using their highest imaginations and creativity.

For us It may be imperative and the right time to change that old narrative

Glory might be one place for you and another place for me
In the meantime, in this life, let’s stay present,  and be all that we can be.
Melanie Cruz Jun 2015
God, in this day, February 24, 2015, I come to you saying this:
Please save me from myself.
Save me from this darkness I have adjusted to call home.
Save me from the madness in my mind,
From the anxiety that eats me alive when I wake,
With epiphanies of school.

I despise waking every morning from Monday through Friday.
The weekends may be a drag for me.
But the weekdays....
They are the days I loathe most.
The weekdays are a stabbing at the chest.
These days awake the beasts who sleep in my head, in their nest they have made throughout the years, and these monsters do not like to be awoken.
When they awake...
Lights
Camera
Action

Here comes the anxiety,
The stress,
The tears stream down my cheeks like cars down a hilltop in the night.
I feel like Forrest Gump.
Except Forrest Gump had been running miles and miles, for no reason.
He “just felt like running.”
Now me? I have a reason to run.
I am running away from my demons.
I can’t face them, throw a stone at them.
They’re much stronger than that.


The monsters don’t let me sleep.
They keep me awake at night.
Their words are being shoved into my mind,
“So much homework to be done for tomorrow,
You pitiful and witless girl,
When will you learn that you will never be good enough?”
They’re saving me from my nightmares,
Yet placing me into another.

But it’s okay,
This nightmare is only temporary,
Soon, I will escape and enter into oblivion
But for now, I will sleep – maybe like a baby, maybe like a dead man.

God, thank you for allowing those beasts into my dreams,
Turning them into the nightmares I am terrified to encounter every night.
God Almighty, thank you for teaching these demons to swim,
And to be stronger than my dreams.
Oblivion is inevitable and now I will be free…
Thank you.

Amen.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
the new gillette ad.,
******,
please,
DON'T SHAVE...
no Lenin stasi,
not alt.
to whatever left
or right in
copernican
terminology is...

"culture war":
basically,
warring with ronin...
or no factions...
or no shogun
to, mind the matter...
stop shaving,
what is the worst
that could happen,
your face looking
like a 1970s
gyrating *****
bits...

SLO' 'N' GRO'.....
a beard:
which doesn't imply:
any more
of the worth of man,
but a man's worth:
nonetheless,
like Gump Forrest Gump
said:
i know what love is,
Jenny...
  and i know
what a ******* ice-cream
berg-that-sunk-the-Titanic
looks like like: Steward.
none of us are
leaving this *******
being, the either
to either suit a cosmos
of choice: ever
the two smart ones
apart...
savvy?

you're are dumb as
chalk contra brick...
and i am cheese
with an adjective's worth
of of chalk...

lookie 'ere:
a humming camel!
**** me...

i said: *******...
can you even imagine...
i tortured that oyster's worth
of an excess of skin...
in terms of genitals...
parody of 242...
and i ate and ate and ate
that ****...
no praise...

       i recovered my mouth
and the mandible jaw
only when i looked
like:
   having just eaten a slab
of tinned mackerel...
   ugly: born the 4th of july
family fwendy antics
sort of picture...
  all: oily...
like...
my body was dipped
in sea,
but all my mouth was
alright with the religious
procedure of:
mouth dipped in oil:
a messiah is born!

oh don't get me wrong:
i much enjoyed
oral *** performed on
women...
one amsterdam *******
informed me:
laughing...

    you know what
oral *** is like,
misnomer
the canvas of
                prostitutes?
kissing...
i spent an hour kissing
one,
only because i forgot
to trim m'ah... boosh...

i'm bored:
so what's not new?
gillette ad.....
****, that's old:
stop shaving...
yes,
every time i pick
up one of those
thai misnomers of ***
in the park,
and i search beneath
the drowning-line...
and there's no ****
assurance...
trans-phobia?
    
  gay: love beard...
the *****-suprise,
what?
with a sports-bra?!
did i just buy a chicken
breast or was that
a pork's chisel
worth?

         i was arachnophobic
for a while...
the spider was still there...
i employed the tactic:
forget it's, "there"...
the ****** was still
sitting proud like
a painting of some artist
in the national tate...

Heidegger...

        irrational fears were
fun...
or at least:
that was the basis of
them being subject to
emphasis...
      not like this...
not like this though...

                    come the bataclan
incident:
   and they slaughtered
and ate the genitals
of the men shot dead...

   i: dodo:
english: dodo project -
pidgin english...

               scuttle though:
baron mis-brain
      alias:
       and whatever
   dumb-do-dumb-better-be
is noorm...
      
cannot the protest
averting the gillette ad.
be nothing more than:
don't shave?

        hell...
i'm all loser, all beavis & butthead
& beck & radiohead
ready...

               what i supposed
to be... a solo lone creep
actor readying for
the apocalypse of
              what has become
the glory-hole
  contra latex
                    fetish riddles
of...
    the remnant man?

yeah...
i'm trans-phobic...
in that:
i could never fathom
anything coming
in, rather than out,
of that 'ole of
prostate massage
sitting's worth...
but being a faked face...

enough for the worth
of a bearded Beatrice
to suffocate my
limp's worth of:
the sort that requires
an insomniac *****...

i'm trans-phobic,
in terms of
being allocated
the pretense of
having to experiences
a thai surprise...
which is basically
a bisexual girl
picked up in a park
off a bench,
donning a sports bra
and a short-hair
cut...

   what's the difference
between a trans-phobia
and a thai-surprise?

and what isn't?
          - i could never find
a crop of short hair on a woman
unappealing;
every ****** has a tom-boy
haircut...
and what isn't nabokov:
will certainly not be
a john williams novel: stoner...

the really people
of the seriousness literature
of novels...
well... being a, "poet"...
i'm the tabloid gnat's
worth of person,
in the economy of selling
toilet paper...
with **** smear's worth
of content to boot...

'appy as i am:
one of belzeebub's
apostles:

        galileo! galileo!

the worth of the most
uneventful life:
encapsulated
in... a riveting... chance:
rather choice...
of words...
  to make...
                it a life...
almost worth living...
or at least allowing
a... posthumous scan
worth of print.
The old man sits on the park bench.
He feeds the birds.
He plays chess with an old Navy Buddy...

Memories shared with tenderness to valor
of the yester year that become fussy and *****,muddy.

Flashbacks to the battles fought.
Families built on foundations of their own family names.
Defining the future of the grandchildren and children.

Humor adds to clear the pain of a lost yesterday.
As the elder whipes a misquito flying from near his ear.

Stories in the fashion of "Forrest Gump." brings color
as crowds listen in the park.

To listen to the wisdom of those who helped shape their "today"
Intrigued by their topics, they fail to leave, they pull up a chair and stay.

The two chess playing elders sharing whimiscal tales of old...
Scrolls of the writings of confus of fortunes fortold come to light
as people become warm through listening to great memories
and avoiding the void of connection which was the cold.
WGelles Jul 2017
He's a bully.  He's a goon.
He can't be gone too soon.
A sadistic megalomaniac
he would crush Forrest Gump
like a rotten tree stump
"because Forrest Gump is a loser, a sad pathetic little man
and I am a winner, the people love me, we have
an amazing relationship, just amazing."
If you swallowed all his lies
you will need a stomach pump.
If you believe his nationalist nonsense
you're a chump.
He surrounds himself with nepotistic relations
and wealthy cronies
and listens to them only.
Despite his empty promises
the Rust Belt is not going to
wake up from its slump any time soon.
Military spending (but not your real wages)
will take a huge jump.
The sooner he's dumped
the better off for all
   though a right-wing Christian fundamentalist
       is waiting in the wings
           ready to take his place
  and help the One Percent control the human race.
There's a guy dressed up as Freddie Kruger for Halloween
Freddie Kruger can't sing the high part during Eye Of The Tiger
I murmur something to my friend
Me: Freddie Crooner
My friend laughs more than he needs to
We aren't sure whose whiskey sour is whose anymore
My roommate doesn't want to sing in front of people
She'd rather hide in her glass and mingle with the ice
But I make her duet a Nirvana song with me
Which we scream and she starts having fun
The crowd claps with relief when we're done
Freddie Kruger offers me a fist bump
A group of sweet plump ladies takes turns singing love ballads
They all have pretty voices and work at Bubba Gump on the pier
The one that sang the Adele song is studying business
She tells me while we smoke outside during Wonder Wall
I sing nine minutes of Meatloaf
My voice cracks and growls like feedback
This guy buys me a shot afterwards
My throat is so dry that I have to drink it in tiny sips
This guy thinks me and my friends are fun
I duet Desperado with him and we knock over stools and laugh
He has clearly never heard the song Desperado before
Me and my friends invite the whole bar to sing an Aerosmith song together
I think that this may be the only way to really appreciate Aerosmith
I drive my roommate and my self back to our apartment
I'm drunk but I pretend I'm sober so she won't get scared
Then sometimes I laugh bizarrely to scare her a little bit
But always end up lying and reassuring her that I'm sober
We start talking about Lou Reed because he had died that day
I guess Lou Reed didn't like when people said RIP
Which I had written in my facebook status about him dying
I don't really care much because Lou Reed wasn't really a friend of mine
I just liked his music
And he never mentions in any of his songs anything
About people saying RIP
When we got to the bar the first thing I did
Was to look for a Lou Reed song to sing
But there weren't any
So I sang other songs instead
You are perfect in every fiber of your being

You quoted Forest Gump,

Sang the pokemon theme song with me,

You are my best friend now

I do not want to lose you

But I'm not allowed to have best friends

You see

I get lost in their smiles

Hypnotized by their eyes

And the way they call me cute things

Like pumpkin pie

We make wishes at 11:11 together

And we wish each other sweet dreams

But can't you see I have to wish only

That I don't fall for you

Because you won't fall for me

I have to dream that anything is possible

Because you make me smile more

Than I knew I was capable of.
We love each other as friends....
ShwayThaGreat May 2015
Shes grown up in a world where  your name is everything.  So she played everything, & gave it her everything. When that money came in she saved everything for college not knowing she would get a scholarship. But she is smart, smart as if she is but a descendant of Einstein, And I look up to her cause im short and compared to me she is sky high but she is 6,3 and beautiful a goddess *3 to me. She plays ball like her daddys twin was scotty pippen and he tolder put her hands on the ball and boom they traded powers like mike.. like mike and when i would tell her ik someone who plays better she would tell me im trippin. Cause she never missed a practice she only wanted to get greater. And when she dunked for the first time ever she went home on some macklemore **** like "i touched the net mom i touched the net" it was the best day of her life. And shes been running all her life from miles to around the basketball court. ******* now the army what else do you want to accomplish. What are you running from young girl them legs... them legs all them **** legs big girl dont stop now dont give up brown eyes.cause In this world ill be  jenny and your forest gump run run forrest run.
For My Army Girl
Copy written
(You will be sued)
As a child, the adults in my family called me Bubba Gump
because Bubba almost sounded like my first nickname
and I have legs like Forest Gump.
When I ran, they would call out "Run, Bubba, run!"
and I would laugh because I didn't understand their cruelty.

I was put into the Gifted class when I was eight
and my mom was so proud of me.
She once referred to the class as special
and, since I already spoke with a stutter,
my aunts and uncles turned special into an insult.

My canine teeth stick out from the rest
and when I smile, that's all people see.
By fourteen, I had come to understand
that odd physical features and mean names
are a package deal, so
I came up with "vampire teeth", to let people know
I was aware of my abnormality.

I was drawn with an unsteady, jerking hand
and I'm okay with that.
It's become second nature to point out my own flaws
with a laugh in my throat.
I can see how uncomfortable people get when I do this
because it's okay for them to notice,
but not for me to notice them noticing.
Well, that's fine.
I'm just not going to apologize for my jagged lines.
WendyStarry Eyes Sep 2017
Isn't is great
when I have a moment
In life where I truly relate

No matter what
Subject it may be
If it clicks in the brain
There is a lesson set
For me to see
Drifton A Way Nov 2018
I wanna wisk you away to a Tropical Paradox
Run a Risk filled Forest Gump Chocolate Box

Wear your flip flops and your Crocs with Socks
We’re all in the matrix , so don’t give any Focks
Where if someone talks **** tell em to lick Rocks
Roosters tend to grow hard just like Fort Knocks

Soak up that Vitamin D while you ride for free
Try and hide those lies, while you Moisturize
Shampoo & condition me, with Pantene Pro V
Face mask your cries, with a Creamy Disguise

Throw me 21 salutes, I’ll catch them 22 times
Even a group of mutes, feel my spoken rhymes
Nicholas Cage’s eyes peer into a snake’s mind as we watch our living memories in rewind from behind
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
you really need spectacles to read this, zone-in like a humming bird, given all the see-through gaps on the page - reading the Latin alphabet is like looking at x-rays - it's what happens when phonetic encoding borders on geometry that you get problems, or a joke of the gods (erase gods from poetry and you can erase Chernobyl from the history of Ukraine or chlorophyll from the study of biology.*

mother with a                         u...
like the tips of a parabola enjoining to make a double-o?
i.e. moother / μωθηρ? no wonder
the umlaut given specification against the omicron....
this is why greek shouldn't attract diacritical usage,
necessarily borrowed via the Ω-square:

u                            oo



ω                  ­           ü                                       ¨

              (term it as a parabolic union of two dots
          and the twin omega kissing the sky, a limit of
                linear rubric, sentencing
a...............................................................­.......
b........................................................­.............
c..................................................­....................
                                            ­                           and 6ft1 tall)...


or sigma, or castrato sigma M wonky...
who the **** is reading this compass, drunk?
it's all over the place! west... matter... σouth
Σorph...                 ρita pread... the ****?!
this is turning out to be a right Bermuda Δ:
cockney humour, please, we have children present!
i'm teaching them to count matchsticks in a pine forest!
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): give me a jaw,
i can't laugh without it.
skeleton (b) says to skeleton (a): conjure up
a diaθragm for me.
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): you mean a diaφragm?
skeleton (b) to skeleton (a): any squiggly line will do right now.
compass!
                                             d


b                                                            ­                            q

                                  ­      
                                              p...

and you thought you needed an acid trip.
the above is a hall of mirrors, it's not a compass or
a Kabbalistic magic square... it's a hall of mirrors.
please excuse the Greek gentlemen for applying
diacritical marks to their beautiful alphabet -
that left Brits still standing stark naked in Eden...
                                                                ­ we're waiting;
tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. hello?!
you'd sooner shove an armadillo into an aardvark's ***
than expect the "masters of the universe"
to put on some lipstick to their gobs:
it's not even about being pretentious as it's about being
donkey stubborn; budge *******! budge up!
i need a can of sardines from you, it won't work unless
you turn into custard or fudge!
you have to forgive my friend, he still thinks he's
part of an empire - which he squandered for politically
correct speech like those Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
noblemen who squandered in three partitions
while ******* on their ancestral grave... the last remnant
of the empire, nortern ireland saved by black market cigarettes
than the good friday agreement; hong kong ping pong
is still going on between Mr. Chi and Forest Gump,
sit down street protests, hippy protests in asia not fuelled
by marijuana... he is a bit deaf: SHOW'S OVER!
PACK UP YOUR PRIDE AND SHOVE IT INTO THE HAUL
OF H.M.S. BELFAST... ****** doesn't hear me... ******...
well, keeping an empire is like keeping an *******,
doesn't last forever, better chisel out a ******* emblem
and pray to it while knee bending at Stonehenge come
the summer solstice. Mr. Bellybutton pimps it gluttonous
in pomp at the Greenwich meridian: clocking up an ancient
0, although not slicing apart A.D. from B.C., just the time
difference: London 9p.m. is Moscow's 12a.m,
hence the 24h news reels.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
belgravia on itv... and the world is filled with...
odes to charlemagne -
or rather: the emperor has risen...
in the form of a bonaparte...

       i lost my virginity to a french girl
from Grenoble - a one ms. psychologist
Isa-bel-l'ah...

              and i had three pictures hanging
in my student accomodation overlooking
the salisbury crags...
           one i put my amp on the windowsill
and did a rendition of...
                            something from the movie
crow / last days...

there was plato... there was the marquis de sade...
and then there was napoleon...

i was immediately reminded...
but napoleon did x y and z...
       i could swear the zeitgeist for us begins
with the end of the 2nd world war?
well: i lost my virginity... didn't i?
          
             and come to think of...
there is the trafalgar sq. in London...
      and there's the monument when it came
to Austerlitz victory...

           napoleon and that old bias...
for all those that encompassed in the duchy of warsaw...
or from under the partition
shared between the prussian the russian
and the austro-hungarian empire...

a short-lived affair... but...
        she minded napoleon but not marquis de sade...
come forward 200 years...
what are the monuments of the 2nd world war?
what are the... ******* monuments of the 1st world
war?
the cemeteries at Ypres for western europe...
the death camp memorials
   and the little ghetto lockets of memory and:
gypsy good fortune in the east?

a picture of the mushroom eating
and clinging onto the flesh of men and animals
in a symbiosis and mind-control dynamics
of the fungus keeping the host alive...
unlike a virus?

   where are the monuments for all that was
achieved in the two wars?
where's the trafalgar sq. where's the arc de triomphe?
between 1803–1815
   or between 1939–1945... well...
              12 years is not 6...
                  i guess you can't achieve much of any
sort of "meaningful" war if...
there's not a decade included in the mix...

oh i'm sure it's going to be hard to imagine
the führer as the kaiser...
     because: dressed in khaki like a whittle
hanzel schoolboy when all the big boys
started to wear schwarzgekleidet of zee SS...

from a perspective of history...
                             i am unsure as to why...
this ms. psychology major would grieve
the affairs of napoleon...
                             perhaps if he was a bit taller...
she might have a fancy for him...
then again... as kaiser... as emperor...
come to think of it...
the notation: Frank would included
the swiss... the belgians the dutch...
luxembourg...
       but not those rascals...
in the rhineland-palatinate...
            or north-rhine-westphalia...

schubert symphony no. 4 in c-minor, D. 417...
i always thought that schubert...
was the pianist competing with violins
to tackle shumann... never mind...

     then again: illuminating life of those
that still have a toe in the remaining posit
of life... yet 3/4 of what life is willing to offer
has both feet in the coffin and a last nail
to beg for the closure and funeral procession
of that chapter of human details
to be: ascribed to the realms of solely learning...
about it... there's no great-grandma with
her wheelbarrow of memories to grant
you "perspectives"...

he was a führer... but not the kaiser...
come to think of it...
the rise and fall... from the confines of being
rejected from an art-college...

today one of my cats (i only have two)
accidently burned the hairs of her tail
when she signatured it (the tail) across
a burning candle... and... you wouldn't believe it...
the smell of burnt cat furr...
i can imagine escaping my episodes of
solipsism when venturing into sniffing
someone else's farts to be more appealing...
than the smell of... the burning of cat furr...

i did remark... i don't think it was all that
pleasant working as butchers in those concentration
camps... if the burning of cat furr smells so bad...
if the burning of skin, nails...
bones... i'm starting to think it was a hell-hole
for both the camp "workers" and....
those about to be forced on the altar
of the belly of Moloch...

                          and when the hebrew god
conquered the gods of the philistines
and the caanites...
      did he "fall asleep"...
    thinking they wouldn't somehow use
people that wouldn't otherwise pay direct
homage to them... for their devilish enterprises?

where are the monumets from world
war I or world II that aren't cemeteries
or memorials or the death camps themselves?
there's not point merely seeing...
imagine going to Handel's messiah
at the royal albert hall...
           and only seeing an orchestra play...
most associated with seeing are:
the quality of either inanimate objects
or moving objects...
but there isn't a mention of the sounds locked
in brimfuls in these things...
but most importantly... i can't smell that
death circus...
well... no matter... i don't need to visit those
death camps and pay some spezial ode to
memory: it will just take a cat accidently burn
its tail furr brushing it over a candle...
that's enough... thank you...

           i don't need to see those camps...
not out of denial outright...
but... without the scent of burning hair
and flesh... the infamous cracow's winter
snow of cremations...

but the smell is missing...
i don't need to visit these places
for a picture of unused hammers and nails...
in their pristine gothica of still slippery when
kept in a mummified state of being
oiled for use... i don't like to rumminate in
echoes of: what this oven was used for...
the scent has subsided like a tide
and all that's exposed is never the living
proof... i have archeological proof...
that it is so sudden... doesn't matter...
i don't have the "perfume" to riddle me
with an immediacy of a recoil!
for that? i just need a cat to accidently burn
a few hairs of its tail over a candle...

it's one of those needle injections straight
into the nostrils...
seeing the oven will do very little to give
an expanse of my: sisyphean weight to tow
along...

faster than the speed of light:
or the digestion imprint of a photograph...
faster than the speed of sound...

    ssssssssssssssssssssscent...
          i don't need to see what other people decided
to want and see...
the burning of flesh and most notably unwashed
hair and furr...
       that's plenty...
i don't want to discourage myself from
cooking anything else in the future...

sometimes my room becomes a hotel for
either moths or flies...
i currently have an early waker...
she must be nearing being a year old...
you can tell... her flight is more methodological...
it isn't that usual flurry and all
that excited presence of itself: unique
in a bounty of life...
i will not bother this fly...
        if she was a mosquito... perhaps i would...

i am longing to see the spawn "maggots"
of moths eat and curl up in cotton...

where are the monuments to call it:
the end of world war I and world war II...
it's as if... it has to be shamed...
this whole genesis story from half-way
between the past century...
and into this... swamp-en-masse...

          last time i checked... that "something"
between the serbians and the croats
and the muslims of yugoslavia...
                    the 13th waffen mountain division...
or head east... the ukranian infamous
insurgent army...
        only recently i heard some major
****-wits decided to drill holes into the tires
of ambulances... near bristol...

as a perfectly just cold blooded heart...
is the crucifixion the epitome of a demigod's death?
what about... being spiked?
being forced onto a pike via
the architecture of where the intestines
meet the coccyx... the *******...
the ****... and the pelvis?
with hands tied?
what about hanging off a meat-hook...
with the meat-hook making the incission under the jaw?
hands and legs tied?

the crucifixion is just an out-dated symbol
of sacrifice... no wonder all that came after
had to become so... more... adventurous...
wouldn't we be foolish when it came to slacking
on the chapter of torture?

but at least one aspect of life can be still felt
to be pure, "aryan"... un-disturbed...
pain... is so un-interrupted by competing
subjectivities... that... well...
it's almost akin to cross paths with god...
pain is pure in that it is true...
forever: there's that other great democratic force
at work than mere death...
by the time we're through death is but
a bureucratic notation of a statistic:
a near miss of anonymity...

                there's that great leveller of pain...
from a simple toothache...
it's as if an ****** that comes on the wings of
being... a sedative of consciousness...
pain as that...
   pain is an inoculate agent against reality...
against consciousness...
all for that ****** of dreams...
lucky for me... i don't dream so well...
i forrest gump the whole affair...

some would think pain as a defining moment
an event horizon for their numb-skulled
crossword puzzle zeniths of "life"...
     i see pain more in favour of...
      i want to be cured from having to curate
so many mediocrities of this life:
as served and as service for others...
so dilligent at being busy-bodies in the shelter
of hierarchies and the shadows of:
the impossible perfection of mountain
replicas of Giza...

pain is illumination...
    beginning with a toothache...
once this temp. filling is ready to be scrubbed out...
and a root canal is to be fitted...
i think i'll begin with an oyster-esque "typo"
readying myself for an ******
when asked 'would you like an anaesthetic'
and the reply will be... 'no'...
                 clearly i don't have as many
avenues as are readily available
when it comes to a holy trinity of mouth,
******... *******...

      self-serving pleasures of the extensions
of pinching... by either crap pincers
or the cold of virus simulation of crowns
when having an ice-cube placed into my palm...

in that i am wholly sympathetic to pain...
well... what good did reading walter benjamin's
illumination(s) essay do to me...
beside what i already know about...
the difference between collecting books...
and collecting books and reading them...

              my personal library would shrink somewhat...
given that i own pretty much an assortment
of what has already been read:
i'm not my grandmother:
unlike watching a film... i can't re-read a book...
give me 2 years reading one...
but i will not re-read it!

this extension of a mollusk's zenith via
a ******... of all that's the sensation that rhymes
heart with brain...

         tow the bones...
       tow the bones...
                   come to the horizon where
the soft tissue blitzkriegs past the bone to the marrow...

arable lure of the prosthetic ghost, limb...
and limp...
       soft zenith pleasure...
while at the same time...
entertaining "things" that only secular
sensibility measures can instill...
do not cross paths with mythology:
goodness! you might forget being
snarky and insensible come tomorrow's year
monday when journalism catches
up from... "somehow" being detached
from her de facto and carpe diem
mantras of modus operandi!

i might call it: the moth's seal of the lips...
enough to lick a postage stamp...
hardly enough to actually kiss...

sold: christianity: metaphorical cannibalism...
i would rather taste the real thing...
if ever such an opportunity should
give sway...

       a führer is not a kaiser... back in the day...
there was respect in post-napoleonic war London...
in belgravia...
how did the h'american white house originate...
the Belveder of Warsaw...
vermin, peoples of the world: nibble...

                   i'm here to claim my future:
my anonymity... i'm here to scatter with the dues
of the frail... waiting for no clarity of
locked: stature worded in baron...
no stature worded in kaiser... führer...
      i am on the sole minding of... the gnostics...
the heretics...

i want to burn blue when all other dogmatic
breaths burn yellow...
           that i drink is of no solace...
bribe the reader! inner vacuum otherwise
a handshake with my shadow... by candlelight...
which is a bribe for an audience of death:
that personification on a theme of romance...
thanatos... chilling the spine...
and the serpentine...

                    i want to see the gallows...
and allure of seeing ***** and rot come oozing
from their baptised fleshy bits...
i want to be curator of the last abolished screech
of existence... i wand to hush them...
by sharpening a knife...
i want to find the idle fork...
i want to find the crown of ferns...
and kick and stab... the house of already dead
roman emperors... sitting... nay...
loitering... the anger of pride on their
laurels...

             napoleon... even with a name like that...
you can stomach the usual: steak becoming
a lump of minced beef...
but when it's ****** or stalin...
czopek or elert...
                    you'd wish for a horsehoof
to be dubbed: smith...
                     -smithy...
or some other... lucky you: frauman...
                      fregel...            made it up as
we went along...

yep... yep... i get it... drinks a whiskey...
****** out a lemonade...
and for whatever "genius": genius...
that third tier of being... not spawned by the gods...
but by man... in between angels and demons...
the geniuses...
that autistic master-class of...
****'s itching kinda eerie!

   i'm drunk: most of the people are sober...
i'm not going to have to
give an apologetics lecture on the sober
sods... am i?
romance period... a bit like being
a modern brit and all that wham!
sputnik dazzle of the: grit brighton!

jokes aside... the winged hussar...
                   also mongol...
******* that clad themselves in dog ****
to imitate... what would later become...
the 365 harem of an alexander...
          
   would it be any good reading
the greeks?
     can you really want to "catch-up" on so
much... when in fact you should be
reading the people who have re(a)d...
the ancient greeks?

here's me taking heidegger's advice...
spend 12 years reading aristotle...
          martin... oi oi... that leaves
me doing more work than the already
work required in pretending to be catholic...
and doing a spin-off sunday...
how about me just reads up on yous...
how's that?
2 years worth of you... is about...
       whatever it took you to "master"
aristoteles: ah-chew: chow-mein sucker...

     life is or at least has become or will
become... too impertinent...
  then again... lassitudes of being kept
in the confines of one's own allowances...
i can't expect... in the same way...
i can't become expectent...
it's a two-way-swoe-order in the guise
of a phoenix... (missing phenotypes)...

             the best held advent of:
if you weren't a part of pappa's genocide of
a clarifying sputnik's *****-out
into frog's dream-alike all mammalian
when you're already on your way out
with the moloch altar sacrifice of
no foetus would be born...

call it a... champagne bottle uncorking
ritual when it comes to...
and all that other drifting ritual
of "entropy" whenever a sobering / ***
note would awake a hannibal lecturer
for and what more...
that was necessary...

           stipends of: gotcha...
eagles - witchy woman...
ol' cliff does a little number:
like no intro for a jazz megahit
quintet when the bass comes along...
devil woman...
or the totally camp...
  dale winton...
because turning totally gay only
arrived in full bloom and daffodils
in the trenches...
when true gay arrived...
well... any other hole to fill...

              this hole's better than
any ****** eye's...
who's that backdoor man of
assorted gifts, to begin with?

          rhyme rhymes rhyme rhymes...
easily to make a happy than no
alcoholic into a: no thank you...
  
                                   discretely...
suburban... those desperado... casa-esposa...
the pride of the son: a mother...
that's usually enforced...

las orgullo de hijo: una madre...
           bad spanish... bad german...
mongrel of the either and some anglican
and some ****** catholic...

                                        if there was still something
of a worthwhile partition of time...
****** was never going to become
the next napoleon...
even though... invading russia was
a plagiarism... and the retrdo-event of all
that waste of time... 200 years
and the waste of time with the air onslought
for the battle of britain...
the u-boats...

     no mention of waiting a while...
     in that "what if" universe of revising...
one two three four... with:
einz zwei drei vier...

or... the eager panzermensch...
and that tunnel under the sea...
         it can be noted that a 100 year war
did exist... between the english and the french...

if the napoleonic wars have the monuments...
for what sort of reasons were
the 20th century "ende von alles kriege ende"...
******* proxies of the yugoslav conflict...
vietnam...
        
the monuments of the greatest wars of man...
monumets? cemeteries... or the death camps...
was this the turning point where...
death by war was to be... lessened by
omittance: "keep calm and carry on" *******?
the celebrated en masse of one single
male *******?

how isn't citing german...
an exfoliation from speaking mere peasant
english?
der zunge ist berufung die gegenwart:
ein vater: ein vaterzunge!

scheisse und höllegrube mit es!
                der "vaterland": fathers of daughters
of would be mothers... mothers of sons
of would be fathers... motherland... fatherland...
mothertongue... a ******* great big itch
of grammatical concerns! blah!

where are these monuments akin to trafalgar sq.?!
what's to be so... gloated... about defeating the nazis?
where is the gloat in mere words...
but sorely missed when it comes to sacrificing
bone and marrow and muscle
to focus on making escapades of marble?!
where... are... these... monuments?!

      my own shadow overshadows the testimonies
of... two... very... minor... wars...
perhaps world war I had covered one or two
hurt prides... hurt egos...
but... after all... a khaki attired boyscout...
when all the bad boys
were later... morphed by hugo boss
into schwarzgekleidet steinherzimmobilien...

ein führer ist nein (ein) kaiser...
not like the title napoleon acquired...
napoleon was cited as: emperor...
        a reicarnation of charlemagne...
   too bad for whoever barbarossa was...
  rutger hauer?! yes... but rutger was, dutch...
for ****'s sake!

napoleon was crowned emperor
in a church...
****** walked into an opera house...
heard some wagner...
some wagner not in that anemic proposal
of the walhall from das rheingold
via michele campanella...

              all that becomes the litany...
prior to the peeling to the basic grammar...
and then an attack on pronouns...
as if all languages had...
gender-neutral nouns of the anglican-sphere
of "talk"...

strip me down the the Diogenes' basics of
sodden cloth and dogs' **** to attire...
perhaps i'll show you Cleopatra smile...
or Mona Lisa frown...
             whatever might be the eventuality...
this is not it; nor could it ever be... "it";
the "it" of what you seek.
X Feb 2014
***
"I'm sorry but you're like the ******* sun,
I wasn't a bad kid I just was sort of the odd one,
She's not too naughty but I guess she ain't nice,
Her tongue is like poison and her *** is a spice

She walks like she's a winner losing the race,
She talks like she's a class act with undesirable taste,
She ***** like a rock star with an ugly face,
She runs like Forrest Gump but babe she's out of place."
Current emotions are swerving like the broken ocean.
wordvango Oct 2017
can I love and trust and smile and cry
all at the same time
might my limits be love trust and a smile wide as eternity
I don't like crying
I hate Forrest Gump
it makes me buy a box of Kleenex every hundred times
I've seen it.
Where crying comes in I often get all
emotional, tear in my beer sort of ****.
I like to be the one in a party watching sad movies.
TEAR CHECK!  I yell!
right after I wipe my eyes clean.
but crying is needed
I guess
and it's not reserved for sadness
lately
I've had a lot of happy tears shed
and I guess
again
tears are
needed
to  cleanse
I haven't washed  
my face for days
and tears feel kind of good
\
Terry O'Leary Feb 2017
Our prez is now Donald J Trump
Who has promised to clean out the sump
      Well he's certainly no wussy
      When groping a *****
What more to expect from a gump?

In charge of the Vice, Michael Pence
Said some things that embrace little sense,
       "Global warming's a myth"
       But's now taking the fifth
In attempting to straddle the fence

We all recall general Flynn
Put in charge of security spin
      A trained atomiser
      No more Trump's advisor -
His deal with the devil's his sin

The billionaire Betsy Devos
Making plans for a school albatross
      Hating free education
      Backs private castration
And kids will be bearing her Cross.

The Congress approved Jeff B. Sessions
Ignoring his racist obsessions
      He seemingly cares
      More for foreign affairs
While forgiving ****'s toxic transgressions.

Chief strategist Stephen K. Bannon
Develops the Great Again Canon:
      The Goldman Sachs Bankster
      Turned yellow rag gangster
Flings crap from the New Order cannon

Says EPA ruler Scott Pruitt
"Instead of dry facts, we intuit..."
      (His work as denier
      Keeps profits much higher)
"... If everything dies, well, just ***** it"

The war whoops of Mad Doggy Mattis
Awaken the death apparatus
      With boundless expense
      For a doomsday defence -
Armageddon administered gratis

The magnates no longer need lobby
Or fight regulations thought ****** -
       Now set in the saddle
      They're herding the cattle
And pulling the strings as a hobby

Now the Don can start wielding the axes
Truncating the tariffs and taxes
      The Mafia boss
      Is dismissing the dross
And poverty's pain as it waxes

— The End —