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Irate Watcher Sep 2014
no gymnastics for six weeks.
The badge of pride as a ******* in high school
was dunking your inflamed limbs
into an ice bucket for 20 minutes,
in Mr. Dewey’s office —
the school trainer AND
every girl's crush.

I always wanted  someone to pour
ice water over my sores,
and ****** always being healthy enough
as Jess told the teacher loudly enough
that she hurt her ankle at track AGAIN
needed to see Dewman.
Guess they were best friends now.
****

When I fractured my back, I didn’t even get a doctor's note.
Because I wasn’t on a school team.
I was a gymnast for an outside club, not high school varsity.
My high school had disbanded the gymnastics team in the 70’s.
Said it was too much of a liability.
The last team picture hung in the award cases on the first floor.
I wished I could be one among those vintage leotards,
framed in gold — the warriors of high school.
Most of my classmates didn’t know I even did a sport.
They just thought I was a bookworm who was flat-chested.
Only the girls poked my abs in the locker room,
asking how I got them.

So I iced my wounds at home.
I didn’t even know my back was broken
and for a month I drank ibuprofen.
Sharp pains biting more frequently,
I finally went to the doctor.
The nurse asked me if I wanted to look
while she injected me with an isotope that
poisoned my dreams of finishing the season.
Green neon lit my bones, shedding the diagnosis —
no gymnastics for six weeks.

At school, I dressed to fit my backbrace:
baggy t-shirts and sweatpants.
My straightener rusted.
Messy buns took precedence.
I tried to go to practice, but my coaches told me to leave.
But I had no where to be!
And I had no friends at school.
My only friends I watched get awards,
not registered, but wearing my warmups.
I swore how I could beat the competition from the stands.
Stupid back.
Stupid Christine.
Stupid me.
I should have never done that 1 1/2 twist front flip series.
Poor bones landing on hard carpet repeatedly,
I ignored the jolts as static electricity.

Now everyone was working on new skills
and I could barely do a cartwheel.
That summer we had lots of pool parties —
but I couldn’t dive in.
So I sat on the ledge,
feet dipped in, while everyone played chicken.

— — —

After six weeks of recovery,
I start jogging.
I did a roundalf,
then a backhandspring.
That night I was so sore —
my memory of skills strong, but
my muscle memory poor.
Each stride into a tumbling pass felt like running in a pool.
Some days I felt like sprinting down the tumble-track
Other days I wanted to bounce on my back,
stare at the ceiling, and feel each node of impact.

Recovery day was my coach laying down a mat.
Today was the day I’d repeat the skill that broke my back.
I took a deep breathe and three long steps
into the first part of the tumbling pass:
roundoff,
backhandspring,
back layout one-and
a-half twist, front flip
stuck into a step.
My coaches cheered and
my friends clapped.

I was back.

Yes.

I was back.
#kcspoetrycontest
Continue reading...
Ashly Kocher Mar 2018
I’m a SURVIVOR
My name is Ashly (yes spelled without
the E)
I was born without a windpipe and was 3 months premature.
I underwent surgery for a tracheostomy and died on the operating table.
I was revived.
I was hooked up to many machines and my parents were told I wouldn’t live for more then 3 days...
If I would survive more then 3 days I would be hooked up to machines my whole life and be in a “vegetative state”
Doctors told my parents and family “I would never live to see my 18th birthday.”
I lived in the hospital for almost 2 years.
At age 2, I myself, ripped out my tracheostomy (which could have killed me)
My family rushed me to children’s hospital and the doctors decided to let the hole in my neck close and see what happens.
My doctors don’t know how I made it through the night or days after.
I went home after a couple weeks and that’s when I started living my life as a “normal” child.
All of my sisters were involved in dance classes, my parents( doctors didn’t agree) enrolled me in to classes.
        THATS WHERE MY LIFE CHANGED
Dance became my passion, along with gymnastics and musical theatre.
Something my family, doctors or even myself never thought I would EVER do.
On my 18th birthday it was a mixture of emotions.
I made a milestone that no one said I would ever see.
I competed in dance and gymnastics until I was 19 years of age as well as did over 60 musicals at my local theatre company.
I never thought I would ever have a boy love me because I had “too many problems” or even get married for that matter.
Fast forward, I am now almost 33 ( June .11th is my birthday)
Married for almost 8 years to my best friend.
Happy doesn’t even cover what I feel everyday waking up next to my love.
We may not have a “family” of our own but we are happy and in love over the moon with one another.

So why did I just ramble on with this?
Because I’m a MIRACLE and a SURVIVOR.
Even though I don’t remember much from my childhood and what I and my family had to endure, I have been fighter since my first breath.

I’M A SURVIVOR and I’VE MADE IT....
Just a little insight to my story. I left out some details but y’all get the idea. Hope this helps to feel why I write and my story.
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
falafel + hummus + a hint of mango chutney (with a tease of arugula leaves) in a tortilla wrap
i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
head like a rhino
.do you really need a disclaimer, for this sort of work? no, not really... it's not exactly being allowed the equivalency of dropping an in excess of 2000mg of paracetamol.

the one aspect of legacy media, that still has some viability, akin to rekindling the famous extract from the movie: all the presidents men... is concerns for metal health issues of youngsters, who didn't have, the, "privilege" of being exposed to internet ergonomics, other than within the confines of gaming, they came far too late for, what replaced mp3 sharing.... ideas are not exactly sound-bites of copyright infringement...

**** me... do i really have to slap then punch
myself in the face, to remotely stay
awake while drinking ***** like pepsi
sharpshooters?
     i guess so...

   i too, "suffered" from roman bulimia,
the classical kind...
   don't ask me how i managed to make
the esophagus contender of the heart,
muscle...
                 at first it was cheap choc down
the throat, missing on brushing my
teeth for 48 hours...
   then... ******* down the throat,
like the ****-style gimmick of the Watergate
informant...
       came back up, bundled in quasi turds
packages...
               classical Roman bulimia -
eat, regurgitate, eat some more,
hell, now you have a Pompeii style
banquet of the coming of age...
laxatives?
that's no bulimia...
  bulimia is an extension of an ancient
Roman practice, akin to throwing yourself
****-naked into a nettle shrub area...
to get the "itches"...
     that method, involved in energizing
the neuron extension of the skin...
              it's a "placebo" itch...
   nettles, ancient Romans,
and bulimia like the rite of a loss of
virginity of kings...
      festering at its core... of the French court...
with a *****'s teaching apparatus,
leveraging the use of, a single "tool"...
           and even though the ancient Romans
never reached my people...
i get to abuse their phonetic encoding stratum...
bulimia... sure... i, "suffered" from it...
not really, no... i ******* enjoyed
the regurgitation process...
   anti-Grecian pederasty gimmick...
(a) taking a ****
   (b) oral regurgitation
   imitating an ancient Roman banquet
(c) / (d) ensuring the two entry points
are filled by an external source -
wishing for vanilla custard *******...
none to be...
    oops...
               so no one taught these girls
about ancient Roman bulimic
practices?
   you work on the esophagus...
                       by the time i finished
the transition period...
  i automated the esophagus reaction...
like training gymnastics for a six-pack...
no longer ******* down the throat...
you say charge? i think of
a rhino juggernaut...
           so no one bothered these girls
introducing ancient methodologies
to their predicament?
    no training of the esophagus,
no two (index + middle) fingers down
their throat to ease their larynx from
a gagging order?
    none of it?
   they'll grow out of it!
i did...
       drink a liter of ***** per day
and i'm feeling: shimmy!
          upon each nocturnal investment
that i translate into writing...
      anorexia?
    give them excess coffee...
              or strong cider...
      the most pristine aperitif...
    you can't cure anorexia with either
drips or syringes...
   you need aperitifs...
                     but please don't give them
white vinegar...
           you need a balance of alcohol
overcoming the sugars...
     strong beer is alcohol overcoming
starches... won't work...
     coffee and sugar helps...
  both simulate the pristine form of
the marijuana *****...
             it's not poison...
so why should i care?
   oh but i do care... reading this article...
troubled teenagers dodge Instagtram
   curbs on photos glorifying self-harm...
ever tried burning out a cigarette tip
on your knuckle?
   ever wondered about
    warming up a hand of scissors and
giving yourself an indie tattoo?
   while at the same time...
relying on the mouse principle?
i.e. remaining pipsqueak clean from
making any noise?!
              cutting is so crass...
so unimaginative...
  you will not achieve the adrenaline *****
status of a stab-victim...
   there is no element of surprise...
but...
     if you really want to ingest pain?
hmm... hmm?
            heat up a scissor arm...
   and put it against your skin...
            and then... EAT... the pain...
with what you can surmount in and with,
silence...
                   cutting is too... dramatic...
at least burning yourself you have
not achieved the stature of a shedding blood...
cleaner, more effective,
think of orange recycling bags
collected at the start of the week...

              **** me though...
you seen the comradely behavior
of competing athletes, at the european
championships in Berlin,
   with the pole vaulters?
   Armand Duplantis -
congratulated for having crossed
the 6m benchmark of respectability...
now... that's sport!
football, soccer, basketball,
call it what you like...
   that's not sport, that's business,
that's advertisement...
     that's concussion cover-ups...

Epke Zonderland? also a doctor...
communist Poland believed in
sport, sport on the side,
   sport was never to reach status
of a mono-career investment...
            most of the local football
players from my hometown,
also worked less hours in
the metallurgy plant...
                  that's sport...
   a healthy balance...
which, mainstream sport is lacking...
oh look...
   the women doing the hammer throw,
or the discus...
   not exactly Vogue / Chanel catwalk
material...
    mandible beauties...

    to be honest? the doping affair
in the Olympic sports?
   but a minor setback of credibility...
     i rather watch that...
   than those pitiable 22 ballerinas in soccer.
Continue reading...
Matthew Goff May 2016
Naked gymnastics...
Naked gymnastics in the trees
The town is concerned
A drop of sunlight in your hands
A golden ruling from the court
#poetry #poet #poems #writing
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
a sample of a cultural exhange program from Cold War II
.chris rea: god's great banana skin...

/ such random thoughts are a blessing, esp. after you've been walking for over 2 miles, in the cold and in the rain, with the setting sun... continually impressed by the nature of polyester clothing, how you feel the cold, but aren't cold at all, how you go back home and: you're dripping with sweat... /

the random thought?
about a saying, here's the schematic

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

which statement is true?
within the questioning parameters?
i think it's a trick question...
how else would you be able to
teach these statements and make
replica understandings of
said, statements?

(****... quickfire shots of syrupy
*****... **** me... give me the sweats,
and i'm not even constipated,
it must be the ***** doing
the magic... yeah... sober me?
doesn't like thinking...
but oddly enough, the drunk me?
pulls out philosophy,
no, not as some pretentious
high-brow interest...
   i just looked at philosophy as
a genre in literature,
nothing more)...

numbers, like letters...
or in the case of Roman numerals
(letters are numbers)...
i'm unsure whether you can arrive
at crafting them into existence
by analytical parameters,
i don't actually think
that you can conjure up numbers
from analyzing a priori,
given the ad continuum:
but... there was a point in time,
when / where: numbers weren't used...

Kant was a theist,
sorry...
  he says it plainly at the end
of his critique of pure reason...
in the transcendental methodology...
sure... he takes a "schizophrenic"
moment to write a thesis
and an antithesis on subjects like
cosmology...
but he's inclined, as i am,
counter to an atheist...
yes... god is probably a monster...
but a ******* gorgeous monster...
kinda like a femme fatale...
so what's not to like?

    but this thought didn't arrive
randomly,
and my consciousness
didn't hone in on it...
i didn't vector this thought
to an immediate conclusion...
the thought arrived,
and then: i had to make shrapnel
out of it...
the original thought was complex,
i had to make shrapnel out of it,
in order to put it back together,
so that a cognitive 3 seconds
could be rewritten in under 30 minutes
explaining, why the thought arose...

you know... when thinking
is detached from the moral (θ)-ought
you get to experience these "things"...
here's another schematic...

I + Φ (you put a key into a lock),
   Θ (you turn the key), O (the door opens),
hey presto... a free radical iota...
detached from both phi and theta...

i am free from making
a moral ought (i) or the immoral: ought (i) not?
i'm free, hence my concern for...
abstract questions...

back to the original schematic...

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

this actually has a theological
dimension,
supposing i am god...

   if i propose an analytical a priori
with a synthetic a posteriori...
well then...
             i can't change anything,
i can't actually make changes to...
with my omnipotence,
omniscience etc.
i already analyzed, a priori
the Kantian elevation to theology
comes, via me, stating...
if i analyzed the entirety of
creation...
            a priori ex nihil
(from the prior out of nothing)
how can i make a synthesis
in the a posteriori domain,
of the already existing things,
which didn't exist a priori,
since there was nothing,
and i already analyzed the potential
of nothing, and this potential
was realized as everything i would
know to exist... and i went along
with it anyway?

i'm starting to think that
the realm of analytical a priori
doesn't exist for mortals...
the gods can muse this ****-show
of a dimension over and over again...
we're more (being mortals)
synthetic a posteriori...
oh don't get me wrong,
i believe we have the capacity
to comprehend analytical a priori
but it's an analytical a- priori...
we've reached the limits
of the microscope, the telescope,
and the hadron collider...
or on our way to exhaust that...
still being left with an intact mesh of...
the orbits... summer, winter, autumn, spring...
but this thing with this schematic:

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

how can i conjure an understanding
of IV + VI = X...
analytically a priori...
when... i have no hindsight /
prior to understanding of said rubric?
well... with Roman you could say:
analytical a priori,
given the Ancient Romans already
had the letters I, V, X...
but... if you didn't have the concept
of measurements prior,
of arithmetic...
how can you analyze something...
that doesn't exist?
so... you had to synthesize a priori,
working from the letters I, V, X...
to conjure up "numbers"...
  numerals... you had to create these
numbers by a synthetic a posteriori
method...
and the 4 + 6 = 10...
        well... you analyzed the a posteriori
synthesis, and threw I, V, X out...
and began the second wave of mathematics...
and this is where, authentically...
analytical a priori comes from...
based on I (1), V (5), X (10)...
                    came IV (4), came VI (6)...
don't mathematicians treat their language
as that of or equivalent to the gods?

now... for the cultural exchange program
that i promised...

on the great British isles...
you have a variety of languages
& dialects,
i'm so sorry that the Scottish
"forgot theirs"...

but when you have something
akin to

English: red
Cymru: coch

or right... they have their Pict
Gael?

Pict Gaelic: dearg
Irish: dearg
Cornish: rudh

we'll require a second word...
what word, what words..
life!

English: life,
Cymru: bywyd
Pict Gaelic: beatha
Irish: saol
Cornish: bewnans...

back, "home"...
we also have sub-groups
in terms of linguistics...

there are the Kashubians...
and there are the Silesians,
and, there are...
the Kurpie...
akin the Welsh, the Pict,
the Ire,

and their language looks like so...
again, borrowing from
red and life...

Polak: czerń
Kashubian: czôrny...
  but that can be disputed...
why?
     czerwień is not actually
a noun, but an adjective...
a quality of being associated with red...
czerwony? that's a male
adjective...
   and the female adjective
is czerwona...
                ****...
a color has to be something...
the noun adjective that's blood...
Polak: krwawy (czerwony)
Kashubian: czerwiony
Silesian: čerwůny
ah...
   Kurpian... high polish?
Masovian?
harder to find the words...
have to use alternatives...

Kurpian: caban
Polak: tępak
Kashubian: osoł
  Silesian: yjzel...
(idiot, imbecile)

you know how hard hard it is
to find a Kurpian to Polak
translator?
i can't find one to boil down
to the examples or either
red or life,
i'm reduced to choosing other
words...
like...

   Kurpian: chwat...
Polak: chłopak
Silesian: bajtel
Kashubian: knôp...
(boy)

Kurpian: jédło
Polak: jedzenie...
Kashubian: jedzenié
alternative to Silesian:
  jadło, i.e.: it ate...
past-participle in
the verb...
let's see what the Silesians
call it...
Silesians: well.. a variation..
chlyb
godka
mietła
masa... all things you can eat...
(edible food)

only a word, like the Kurpian
word akin to kotnå
reveals that Vikings passed via "us"...
kotnå?
  an impregnated sheep...
with young...

Kurpian: łańï truń!
Polak: nie mów!
Kashubian: ni gôdac!
Silesian: ńy godka!
(don't speak!)

mind you... Kurpian translation
is hard to find...
and you almost wonder...
at the British isles...
you think, us, Polaks...
do not have sub-linguistic groups
in our ranks,
like your Welsh, your Pict,
your Irish?!
guess again...
you had them all along...
and you thought...
the Polaks were
a homogenous culture...
all this time...
primarily because our culture
wasn't multicultural...
oh but it was... but on the subtle side
of history...
mind you...
defenders of the galaxy?
i knew gamora wasn't white...
but... **** me...
even if black or hispanic...
she looked so **** attired in green...
i was thinking:
absinthe cherub, absinthe cherub...
and forgot about glorifying
Zoe Saldana in all that choc...
what?
   a green skinned chic?
                    if i can forget about
the existence of chocolate...
i'll just anything that moves...
but i knew she wasn't white...
i hate chocolate...
          give me an absinthe girl any
day of the week...
       yeah...
only the English have complex
ethnicity encompassing
a single language...
only the English...
                 like **** they are...
at least my linguistic variation
is suited to a bundle of words...
Welsh?! Gaelic?!
  completely different languages...
at least in my part of the world
all that is deviating
is a choice of variant nouns!
but then again, the English
speaking world....
        how's the new pronoun
dictum coming along?
you keeping up with...
   appeasing the new crazies?
oh... you are?!
    well... kudos and applause!

p.s. guess what happens with appeasing
the new crazies... guess...
i'll tell you...
you **** around with grammar,
some grammatical pedant will raise
his head up from the crowd and say
something like:
               what?!
and then the old crazies rise up...
and... your, ahem, little discussion
about changing the rules of grammar
to "ensure" that the language is
kept, "intact"?
      see... mm... hmm... the old crazies?
the old crazies have their own
methods...
they're of the obligation:
let my gun do the talking...
  and then...
  you get pol *** arithmetic,
of skulls...
           being counted in an abacus
of heaping up, "debris"...
         see... these new crazies
are bugging me...
  they're bugging me...
because the old crazies didn't
attack grammar,
and whatever delusion they had...
i couldn't see it...
the new crazies?
they're attacking grammar,
and the delusion they have...
is... associated with something
i can see as being self-evidently untrue...

the new crazies...
******* spinners... fakers...
    i prefer the old crazies...
at least their delusions had ambitions
to deceive in the realm of
the unseen...
       the unproved, and never to be
proven...
these new crazies...
i am supposed to speak asylum talk?!
so... society is the new asylum
with the past asylums being
abolished?!
who gave caffeine to these news
crazies?!
******* sane people's naive pandering...
while the depressed man?
hey boy... hey, hey, hey boy...
noose!
i've lost all sympathy for
the victims of a psychotic
version of a repressed P.T.S.D. example...
the mad have hijacked language,
disorientated grammar...
and... b'a'ah, b'a'ah...
                 no...
                              i'm with the old
crazies...
                    at least they're the ones
that can inflict genuine grievance...
rather this policing of restricting
     the orthodoxy of the use of language.

p.s.
i found only two paradoxes in this
world...
    schadenfreude: feeding a pleasure
from the misery of others...
as...
  finding wisdom in others' own
forsake of an antithesis of
universal application...
  mainly that, associated:
            to a self-gratifying benefit...
the joke ends within the confines
of schadenfreude...
as does passable "wisdom" attached
to instragram novelty of the "maxim"
by your wisened sages
of the selfie...
  
                  i've been among the russians,
i know what the true uber looks like...
you hitchhike...
hitchhiking? forget that?
ponzie scheme albatross thingy
of a worth of a british mensch?
    funny... a people can so easily
forget the practice of hitchhiking...
so easily: entertaining individual rights...
and: innocent until proven
guilty until some next
               teddy bundy comes along...
and then it's all: ooh! ah! woo'ah!

   you know, i don't like the cartesian
chiral dynamic,
the whole: nietzsche take...
sum ergo cogito...
          i don't like the:

innocentes quoadusque (qua esse)
                           reus....    inversion...

an innocent man might hang...
well... if you have the death penalty:
too late to regurgitate the
original statements...

but? where's the element of redemption
for the innocent man?
why are so many people captivated
by the shawshank redemption?
there's a redemption story...
   in the inverted game?
a jimmy saville walks off scot-free...

the continental model doesn't make
sense with a death penalty...
but without one?
redemption... the atlas "paradox"...
one man usually burdens the fate
of a reciprocate of the unit of one...
but not the many...

me getting laid or not getting laid
is as important to me as:
whether i know about last year's
snowfall...
*** *** ***... all that sort of
******* in the western minds...
*** *** but no children!
recreational procreation without...
any procreation... to begin with...

         i'll admit...
english humour is funny...
but schadenfreude is a borrowed term...
hence the lost in translation
element...
           the english are terrible at
appreciating if not simply applying
the original zeppelin bomb...
after a while: the english just became
annoying toy-whips
of ***** replicas...
       the english knew elevated slap-stick...
with monty python...
with fawlty towers...
          they borrowed a term like
schadenfreude and completely lost the plot...
they once, upon a time,
chanced to play a game of linguistic
comedy...
            
                 i'm pretty ******* sure
the germans relate to schadenfreude in a different
way... i'm guessing:
the deutsche are not prone to ridicule as
the english are...
               the aunglisch are prone
to ridicule out of a sentiment of spite
than out of a repose for giggles...
        
          i don't understand the german sense
of humour,
     but understanding the english attempting
to "understand" the german sense of humour
is an enigma in an enigma in a per se...

such integrated back into
the ol' continental ways...
                       kudos to the brits...
bringing back the commonwealth to stereotype
us europeans with a negative "circumstance"...
now them: ******* up to "correct"
their integration policies... for the commonwealth
peoples of the united wordly wealth of
made in china plastic toys!

     a **** among the brits has
the audacity to tell a german he's not
supposed to feel at home on these isles...
sure... and i will never feel quiet at home
in Islamabad either!
               so? equal count of hubris!
that's the only thing that ****** me about
these isles... god i love this language...
but... when you get your afghani hounds
on me to do your ***** work?!

      even though i'm not: deutsche?!
i'll ******* pretend to be deutsche!
           i'm not here to mop up your failed
integration policies...
i settled on keeping my language...
they settled on keeping their sharia,
their **** pajamas and curry...
while adamantly rejecting their language...
in order to implement their desired changes
by subverting your language...
and you gave your language on a *******
platter...
    
    by subverting your language
to accept their cultural tattoos...
  let me tell you: if a people don't respect
their own culture,
by way of god, by way of language...
and they are "integrating": without speaking
their native mutterzunge?
they're not respecting either culture...
mongrels ahoy!
   what happened to the african-h'americans
not speaking a word of african?

what will they do, ascribe themselves
to ******* scots,
left with no gaelic and more a finnegans' wake
accent gymnastics of some irvine welsh?
nae for no: some glaswegian smart-***
excess of nouns?
      
hell... they would have never built
a colliseum if they saw:
1 + 4 + 6 + 9 = 20
   i.e. I + IV + VI + IX = **
            imagine... a society where letters
worked perfectly as sounds
and as arithmetic concepts of measure.

lucky for me the roman empire never
conquered
the lands i come from...
always with the brits being...
oh so so proud having been conquered
by the romans...
what's the prize... archeological sites?!

much respect as great britain...
but... *****... please...
don't pucnh below the waist...
importing your commonwealth dogs
to mark you out among all the other
europeans like some prized asset with
an inkling into h'american affairs...
thanks to you: i'm bored of looking up
the telescope of h'american ****
with their waning cultural export
of a worthwhile entertainment of appreciating
their music.
Continue reading...
jonchius Sep 2015
201505
checking potent aftershock
observing seismic anniversary
checking another tremor
resuming constrained writing

annexing hidebound constituents
hugging incoming eschatologies
fighting pervasive insomnia
battling invasive fatigue

damning incompetent fools
awaiting furtive escape
abandoning corporate wasteland
summoning celestial syzygy

detesting spaghetti code
protruding riparian dolphin
establishing unilinear escritoire
glowing cybernetic cynosure

avoiding eternal invisibility
supporting valued customer
performing lexical gymnastics
scrooping notification sounds

restoring usual happiness
glorifying darkwave fanfares
collapsing old relationships
raising ambient awareness

defining wolf people
propagating yesteryear's spectre
achieving hemispheric virality
testing weekend legerity
installing iron curtain

propagating today's spectre

developing niche audiences
transmitting abstract propaganda
disappearing thought experiments
overusing various condiments

double-checking hyper-real emotions
rubbernecking celestial explosions
observing splendid holiday
exploding volcano day

erupting bucolic mountain
disrupting hectic shouting
perfecting suggestive triptychs
checking festive pyrotechnics

drifting across multiverse
regifting glossy paperwork
writing six-lined hexagrams
liking two-toned instagrams

recalling pygmalion sculptures
brawling tatterdemalion cultures
"rambling corporate shill
rattling rapid prosody"
"battling hamburger hill
ambling hundredth library"
"sensing ideological schism
pending guttural neologism"

glowing verdant background
foreshadowing palmyra takedown
developing geopolitical mess
geminating quasi-couplet stress

"hugging cultural diversity
shrugging irrational adversity"

distancing spooky raindrops
avoiding potential burnout
implementing lexical databank
approaching crash-scene sudser

becoming increasingly selective
escaping tyrannical bureaucracy
perpetuating cut-throat capitalism
purchasing contrived happiness
incorporating chance elements
relaxing rigid structures
reheating your retweet

holding theoretical design
smiling beach life
scrutinizing eternal simulation
rushing artificial apothegm
annexing facetious document
freaking creepy centipedes

writing neural structure
congratulating yestreen's warriors
encouraging seatbelt usage
boosting abstract setting
sensing frivolous ochlocracy

keeping hypothetical metropolis
blurring metaphorical æsthetic
scrutinizing computational festival
memorializing towel day

raising six-fingered paw
eternizing fragment schedule
liking subtextual repository
quoting quintessential quidnunc

finding ideological style
disregarding their slovenliness
planning spatial factoid
spinning glacial ellipsoids

enjoying eternal spreadsheet
deleting repetitive tweet
awaiting festival lineup
gainsaying unethical startups

observing turgid experiment
contemplating conniving contrivances
enjoying dynamic project
dropping two-toned simulation
finding harmonic space
finalizing warring cavaliers

detecting enigmatic apathy
retrieving potential exchange
meddling middling muddling
baking hypnagogic pizza

spinning galactic dinosaur
building trans-pacific partnership
finishing theoretical mission
giggling agog googlers

crashing atypical tessellation
cherishing precious hexagons
proliferating western lottery
cretaceousing funkaholic skeletor

blurring turgid gallery
cancelling tsunami warnings
extemporizing incoherent neologisms
transmitting harmonic rave

gliding black hawks
hiding quacked ducks
archiving animated light
googling moonbow imagery

ignoring relatable messages
observing unfinished world
generating optional content
continuing exponential growth
May 2015
#rap #cyberpunk #postmodern #threewords #tweets #3words #e-prime
Continue reading...
V Sep 2012
Regrets
I don't understand why  it is so difficult now
When before it might not have been easy
but it by far was never this bad
I can't hear the whisper anymore
I don't know if I ever will again
Why can't I wake myself up?
I haven't cried in a long time
I haven't truly expressed any type of emotion
except for anger
in a long time
I don't remember myself anymore
I miss a lot of things
If I knew back then
what I was going to be like now
I would run like hell
and try to change a lot of things
Someone once asked a question
"What are some regrets that you live with?"
This is what I would answer with...
I regret the day that I didn't ride my bike anymore.
I regret the day I started wearing make up.
I regret the day i straightened my hair.
I regret the day I didn't wear my retainers.
I regret the day I stopped playing sports.
I regret the day I stopped swimming.
I regret the day I stopped doing gymnastics.
I regret the day I stopped being a kid.
I regret the day my Grandma died and I realized I knew nothing about her.
I regret the day my Grandpa died and I never got to tell him how much I love him.
I regret the days I took for gran-it when I could talk to my mom face to face
I regret the day that I didn't be a little nicer to my brothers.
I regret the day I didn't live up to being the Youth leader I should have been
I regret the day that I decided I wasn't good enough
I regret the day I couldn't look in the mirror and not hate myself.
I regret the day I boxed up my emotions.
I regret the day that I let society take who I was.
I regret the day where I no longer felt important.
I regret the day that I ran away from everything.
I regret the day that I told myself "there is no turning back"
I regret the day that I lost a friend.
I regret the day where I became angry.
I regret the day where I saw my friends turning and there was nothing I could do.
I regret the day the world fell upon my shoulders.
There are so many regrets.
Far more then just this short list.
I'm in a moment of life
where things never seem to get any better.
There are still the same unsolved problems as yesterday
and life still doesn't get any easier.
The best I can do for now,
Is smile,
and pretend like nothing really matters
Continue reading...
Timothy Brown May 2013
Gymnastics
In my absence
My mind has been doing back-flips,
back-spins and hand-springs.

They really should be called head-springs.'

Off a spring board I began vaulting.
Trying to spin, tumble, turn des pairs
of thoughts stuck in the landing area

Threw a little french in there for ya.

Grasping at hysteria asymmetrically with sanity
must be stronger than anxiety. Like a glass coat, it blankets me
however you can see to the core, translucent rings of a tree.

Walking the balance beam
between life and suicide sporadically.
Being pushed on both sides by a jet stream

Surviving is a pipe dream because we are all dying.

Once again I am on the floor. However,
I am implored to look forward by poetic neighbors.
All I gotta do is knock on their door and they'll gladly give me a cup of esprit de corps.

*More french, Au revoir
Slowly working through this swamp I've been hiding from myself for years. I realized how emotionally disconnected I have been and my uncovering of all the niches of my past put me into a shock. Words can not describe what I am going through, but they are the only tool I have, so I'll make them work. © May 17th, 2013 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
Continue reading...
Anderson M Oct 2013
Eccentric gymnastics…..10w
I see you
And my heart instantaneously
Somersaults in delight.
But you don't see me
you seemingly have on imaginary sunglasses
that hinder your sight of me
your sense of feel is inconvenienced too
cause you don't feel me.
Continue reading...
Redshift May 2013
gymnastics
aaahhh!
juggling three *****
in the air
three boy-shaped *****
which shall i drop?
ugh
they're all so
appealing
some
more than others
i like this last one...
hmm.
Continue reading...
ern kingham Jan 2015
Letters to a Younger Self (8 parts)
Dear me (age 13),
     Congrats, you're a teenager! Get ready for some of the best times of your life and also some of the worst. When you hear that old saying "You never know what you had until its gone," don't just shrug it off. Never take anyone or anything for granted. Soon you will loose someone important. Don't be afraid to mourn. It's okay to cry. Let it out.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 14),
     Middle School is rough, but you're almost done. Keep going. Gymnastics is rough this year competing two seasons in a row, but I promise you its worth it. You'll be so much better because of it. Don't give up!
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 15),
      Hello again. Welcome to High School. You're first midterms are coming up. Study a little harder than you think you need to. It's worth it. This year gymnastics will make you the happiest person in the world. Just a warning though, at the top of the highest mountain, there is no where left to go but down. Also thank mom for making you work in the guidance office during study hall. These people will become some of your biggest advocates.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 16),
      When the beam coach says you need to stop gymnastics for a bit to rest your back, listen. Do not keep going when her back is turned. When the bars coach says to stop arching your back, listen. Please listen. But when the head coach tells you to loose 10 lbs, don't. Don't listen. Instead curse her out, tell her how that makes you feel, tell her that she is a horrible human being, and how much you can't stand her, but whatever you do, do not ever let her words control you. You are perfectly beautiful. At regionals, don't go for the double back dismount off bars. End with the full twist instead. But don't be ashamed if you don't make it to nationals. Instead, rest, heal, get better. Skip all the other doctors you think you should see. Instead schedule an appointment with  Dr. Greenberg like the head coach keeps insisting you do. I know its scary and painful right now. But the physical pain will go away.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 17),
     Life is harder than ever right now. The physical pain is awful, but the emotional pain is worse. I'm so sorry this had to happen to you. But please whatever you do, do not pick up that razor. The urges to hurt yourself will only get stronger the more you give in. Its a trap so hard to get out of, you will wonder if you ever can. Instead pick up your camera, swim farther, call a friend. Anything!
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 18),
     When you spend the afternoons of your senior year at a mental health facility, embrace the help your getting. Remember the lessons you learn, they will only help you in the long run. Have fun on senior trip, and don't let anyone bring you down! When you start college, don't be so quick to trust your roommate. The girl you met in the bathroom while moving in though, trust her with your life. She will be your best friend. And I honestly don't know where you would be without her.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 19),
     Stop blaming yourself for falling asleep everywhere, and ask the doctor to change your medication. Accept the fact that you have a mental illness and its okay to not be okay. Keep eating lunch and dinners with your friends. Don't forget to thank dad every day when you both live out of a hotel room, so you can finish freshman year. Embrace DBT, and learn to live by it. Sophomore year will start out okay, but will head downhill pretty quickly. When your roommate talks about her sorority, listen. These girls will become you're best friends and biggest supporters (besides blood related family of course). Don't worry too much though, you'll make it through, with the love and support of your family and amazing sisters at school.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 20),
     I've only known you for a couple of days, barely even two weeks really. but please keep going. Keep fighting. It has to get better at some point. right?
With love and hope,
Yourself
Sorry this is so long
#love #depression #hope #young #younger #mentalhealth #keepgoing #letterstoself #youngerme
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
fwyday mordaithceirch
why did i ever go out on a friday night?
drinks with "friends" and hitting the essex
club "scene" -
well - no much of a scene -
there was never the music you'd want to listen
to: come friday or saturday -
even mid-week when all the rock kids
were "hanging out" -
what would be chances of being your own d.j. -
catching something really new...
POIZON - church is poizon -
cool mom - something between a crossbreed
of cage the elephants and nirvana on blew -
3rd view - moi -
but i used to: and i remember that gehenna of
a sobering walk - alone after a night out -
like some furious son of sam -
when youth still had the adrenaline with it
and a sense of anger ******* around with
disillusionment -

those were the friday nights: bon jovi highlights
and long hair and milking a somewhat androgynous
look - sometimes the mascara would come out...
those were the days of having milk skin
and a proper shave -
the long hair and the waistcoast and cravat: semi-,

the lonesome story before i met my beard:
fwyday mordaithceirch -
i actually have a name for it...
i forgot what's already the designated
whittle pecker mr. pritchard of the down down:
below...

oh, oh so what...
rough friday nights in my youth -
on the clubbing "scene" -
and always that moral hangover when it came
to drinking with others -
ever since i started drinking by myself:
i forgot the mirror and that bucket
of warm water beside my bed to put my hand
in before going to sleep...
once or twice the company was worth the drink -
but most of the time you only kept
such company: because you were drinking -
drinking was never an afterthought -

now... i like drinking alone -
at least i can keep fact-checking the company
and the odd vocab peacock taking to the catwalk
of a ruminating free-fall tongue waggle
and rummage - the needle in the haystack
adventure - or... the ******* bucket
of deshelled oysters...

there have been some awful friday nights -
but: seeing how i started to give my beard
a welsh name borrowed from a willem dafoe
novel - and how it simply became pointless
to wake the dead with the angry tantrums
of youth: and how i seem to have
forgotten where my 20s "went" -
somehow rooted in: da-sein and how
i "wasted" 2 years on one book by kant -
2 years on one book by heidegger -
and: how i didn't have the time to "catch-up"
on the greek classics -

oh these island dwelling people -
i try to imagine them not being a seafaring:
and their messiah / superiority complex -
with their breakfast that could hardly
be digested come the hour of noon -
or no messiah / superiority complex -
the traffic: indeed - works like clockword...
from left to right...
sidenote: what of fahrenheit and
the feet and inches - stones and pounds?
ounces?
the metric of: baseline 0 here,
baseline 00 over there...

no... Michele Campanella piano solo take
on wagner's das rheingelt: entry of the gods into
valhalla - it's hardly anemic -
it's... the last leaf of autumn falling -
because the crescendo has already happened...
a befitting closure...

the superior island folk and their...
hyphens and germanic loan words -
how almost all names in chemistry are still
in their germanic: intact form of: no hyphen:
broken leg or broken arm...

woodwinds... perhaps... the violins providing
the humming of birds:
chirp chirp: no chirping -
and of course the horn - but the horns never
as prominent as those drank from...

something has happened today -
but i am... left without having any english
sensibility / egalitarianism -
somehow i always equate egalitarianism with
the english - the islanders -
a firework went off in the background -
mr. sloth awoke mrs. slouch after 3 years
for a firecracker celebration...

because who would want to be ruled
over by unelected: chocolatiers...
esp. after their trial run in the Congo -
but i have certainly had worse friday nights...

it can't exactly get much worse than...
say... listening to the siegfried idyll...
multitasking: drinking a cider, smoking a cigarette,
balancing act of folded leg sat on
perched on a windowsill solving a no. 11,289
sudoku from the 27th jan. 2020...
otherwise prior to:
imagine my disbelief at the pleasure -

with numbers to somehow escape thinking in words:
no grand arithmetic linear gymnastics -
of the end result -
certainly no logical statements -
just a whirlwind of numbers complimenting
these few words...
and what a fine friday night it has become:

the pizza was made - god save me from the perfume
of yeast... or checking on the rising dough
from time to time -
the leftover yeast gave me the opportunity
to bake an imitation sourdough crust pretty-as-a-picture
loaf that: would make any mushroom blush
and shy away from unfolding into an umbrella pose...
or a Y... curling outward-inward into an upsilon Υ...

because how could i forget the pleasure of
sifting through numbers?
by the time i attempted puzzle no. 11,290
i had to write a "map"

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
2)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x

come to think of it... where's a subscript?
if i'm going to use 1, 2, 3...
to tier the allocation of squares...
tennis and sudoku...
tennis: a game of 7 rectangles -
and how many judges and ball boys / girls?
sudoku - a puzzle of 10 squares - perhaps...
if i'll use tiers 1, 2, 3: a1, b2, c3...
what if... sudoku invoked letters rather than
numbers?

much later... oh believe me...
this is the antithesis of knausgård
writing about using googlemaps...
        
           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

it's still a schematic - the narrative is yet
to begin... otherwise...
there's nothing smart about this...
i have tired eyes sometimes:
i succumb and have to allow myself
to no acid-bath these eyes in words...

esp. since i speak so rarely -
imagine... in england and i spear
the bare minimum of english -
i can: i have to: i will - when being prompted -
but i can't remember the last time
i had an honest: informal exchange
of letters... lapped up by the glutton
tongue... i looked and looked
and with my silence i can attest:
there's a speech-impediment -
a stutter that's not born from nervousness...
but... an allusion to a "stoic" through
my lack of conversation...

at least on paper i can exfoliate -
enough cider and enoug whiskey and i'm all
sparrow McDermott!
ugh... the devolved scots and the likewise
welsh... devolved nations...
only this aspect of Brexit is... well...
imagine the "evolved" status of post-Yugoslavia...
Kosovo...
this is the only aspect of an otherwise:
fair enough that's... well...
if you lived for 3 years among the scots...
you'd get to appreciate them...
this is the only aspect of this whole affair
i will ever appreciate...
i would pour blood and **** into
the Welsh continuing their...
preservation of the iaith...
forever and the more - i would love to see
scotland start to dig trenches and
forget trainspotting gaelic -
parading like ponces and humpty dumpteys
with "harkccents"... glasgewian bull-runnings...
cousins aye and wee -

a thing of beauty: a thing of union...
but this... they were bullied in brussels...
they came back and started to bully the scots...
if you have lived -
the betas of cardiff - but they tongue: remains!
look far back and wales would encompass
cornwall -
ignorant i of a 26 year "servitude" on these isles...
quiz me on outside of London:
no point...
perhaps i too would wish for the lost
theta in Dublin - towing: to t'ink...
as any sanskrit H-surd does matter...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

but if i will replace... the side tiers of numbers...
the numbers in the puzzle will have to become
letters - greek... probably iota, epsilon and upper-case
gamma...

the bullied have returned from the palance
of the chocalatiers and: back to their old ways
of bullying the rest of these island folk...
because: it's infantile for me imagine
a resurrection of the crown (poland)
and the grand duchy of lithuania -
the commonwealth -
but somehow the united kingdom is not
fated to become the next yugoslavia -

i can confirm - up in edinburgh i was
confirmed by having the hat of Knox having
scalped me -
never is always metaphor: vaguely -
as in literally - in these quasi-paragraphs...
so it's not... infantile to even "think" that
the british empire can be revived?
zee window-licker spezials of
cross-breed h'americana postcards sent?
i nibble to attempt a joke...

oh i can bulldozer this whole narrative...
turn into a berserker -
i've saved enough money to deal
with the label loser...
all it will take is me having drunk enough -
sightseeing the slums of london's east end
and then hitting the brothel:
like an iron-head... to the pillow
and the ***** of a *******...

because i have had worse friday nights...
terrible company...
if i were not a michel de montaigne or a knausgård:
me me me, me me, me me me me,
write enough of that and:
to meme to grafitti... or to...
why are there no diacritical markers in
the english language worthy of recognition?
why would i...
rhoi fy **** y Cymraeg enw?
give my beard a welsh name?
and why is that not a cedilla C but a ******* K?
why not... Çumraeg?

on foreign shores i have made it adamant that...
this sense of foreigness does not
peppermint my presence with hopes to:
add to - an integration -
just borrow what the local have made: left-overs...
and work with that...

(insert snigger) - the neu-vikings of
northumberland...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

this really does have a linear narrative...
here goes...
3(c1), 9(c3), 1(c1), 2(c3), 2(c1), 2(a1), 9(a3), 8(c3),
4(c3), 8(c2), 8(a2), 5(b2), 7(c2), 3(b2), 3(b3), 8(b3),
7(c1), 5(c1), 7(b3), 5(c3), 1(c3), 6(c3), 1(c2), 3(c2),
9(c2), 9(b2), 6(b1), 6(b2), 6(b3), 2(b3), 2(b2), 1(b2),
1(b1), 9(b1), 9(a1), 8(b1), 8(a1), 5(b1), 7(b1), 7(a1)...

and then a "gamble" in the narrative...
the (7a2 and the 5a2 - interchange)....
it's a pleasure - not a chore -
5  9  4
2  8  7
3  6  1
8  1  9
6  4  3
7  5  2 - this line... what if it was 5  7  2?
1  2  5
4  7  6
9  3  8
if i want to solve this puzzle - i will solve it
and not read a tabloid article /
whatever the hell has become of youtube...
my diamond jukebox...

otherwise the "narrative" continued from
7a2 and the 5a2 interchange:
7(3a), 4(a3), 4(a2), 6(a1), 4(a1), 5(a1), 5(a3),
1(a3), 1(a1), 3(a1), 3(a2), 6(a2)... end result?

           a             b             c
      5   9   4   6   8   1   2   3   7  
1)   2   8   7   3   5   9   6   1   4
      3   6   1   2   7   4   5   8   9
      8   1   9   5   4   3   7   6   2
2)   6   4   3   7   1   2   9   5   8
      7   5   2   9   6   8   3   4   1
      1   2   5   8   3   7   4   9   6
3)   4   7   6   1   9   5   8   2   3
      9   3   8   4   2   6   1   7   5

because i can imagine this not being:
the most difficult Finnish sudoku...
i can almost imagine this puzzle
to be in greek...
where: 1ι, 2ζ, 3ε, 4χ, 5Σ, 6δ, 7Γ, 8β, 9ρ...

in the background all i hear is:
corvus corax' la i mbealtaine...
the greek version of the japanese puzzle...

           a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   6   8   ι   ζ   ε   7  
1)   ζ   8   7   ε   Σ   9   6   ι   χ
      ε   6   ι   ζ   7   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   7   6   ζ
2)   6   χ   ε   7   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      7   Σ   ζ   9   6   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   7   χ   9   6
3)   χ   7   6   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   6   ι   7   Σ

half-way... i just wanted to "selfie" what
will become of this... i no longer write: i paint...

            a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   δ   8   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   8   Γ   ε   Σ   9   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      Γ   Σ   ζ   9   δ   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   Γ   χ   9   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

going... going... gone...

            a             b             c
      Σ   ρ   χ   δ   β   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   β   Γ   ε   Σ   ρ   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   β   ρ
      β   ι   ρ   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   ρ   Σ   β
      Γ   Σ   ζ   ρ   δ   β   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   β   ε   Γ   χ   ρ   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   ρ   Σ   β   ζ   ε
      ρ   ε   β   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

i don't mind a people being right...
but the overt-gloating...
without having to work around the sort
of paranoia associated with:
how the russians are not allowed to glutton
themselves on gloating -
because they are always made
to feel suspcious - the russians can't gloat
like most of the anglo- speaking world...
always suspect: russophobia evil genuises...
tip-toeing goliaths - less the blundering
fudge-packers of "global ****"...
and i kissed a boy and i liked it...
my genitals started shrinking
and my *** started to exfoliate with:
welcome all! welcome all hard and on!
and that tongue in my mouth always helps...
but imagine my surprise when
i started to navigate my hands
but the reply came:
timbuktu and mt. kilimanjaro will not be found
attached to this sort of torso...
wrong dog, wrong tree...

some things really do require numbers...
i once had a mathematics teacher in high school
bemoan the origin of modern numbers
and how we once: upon a time used these letters...
but did our arithmetic with visual aids
akin to the abacus... because...
you'd have to "read braille" when counting...
to differentiate the already: lettered numbers
and the letters being letters -
and all arithmetic functions
were "spoken of" but never depicted...
i.e. there was no VII + III = X...
there was no XV - XI = IV...
eh?! arithmetic was cat-intuitive...
not spoken of - done by either the visual
aid of fingers when haggling
in a market place -
or by the abacus aid in a bureucratic office!

i said this was the most perfect friday night...
what did i have to offer?
no clickbait title - some gems of wording
in between?
the patient reader - as ever - most rewarded -

but... oh my god... the sensation of
changing the bed sheets...
it's friday night and you're... changing your bed sheets...
and they are more crisp and clean
than any political event that the journalist leeches
are milking -
and you do it with a saving private ryan precision -
you will sleep in this bed: well into
11am of a today to come...
believe me: that you will...

- in that i am still walking among the germanic people -
if the germans will sing a: bretonisher marsch...
then the two peoples are alligned by
their sentiment for the crow as their godhead:
alles menschen totem...
what could possibly make me feel welcome?
french grammar is polish grammar...
matin de printemps - poranek wiosny -
spring morning in reverse in germanic...
how many more examples would i ever wish
to give?

there was a moment in my life where...
i realised my faults... i should have read
the Pickwick Papers... anything by C. Dickens to be sure...
instead came Stendhal, Voltaire, Balzac...
because if you said to me...
BBC radio 4... the archers...
and... thomas hardy: madding crowd?
you'd accuse me of being ignorant of:
London is a bustling cosmopolitan in-waiting
from the busy-body industrial proto-Beijing
it was of 100 years ago?    
the French had cosmopolitan intellectualism
100 years prior to the english...
100 years later and it's still not much...
is anyone about to cite me william hazlitt?!

the trouble with the english is that they hold dear
to that one old 19th century idea -
this waiting for: awaiting a revival of darwinism...
the "blatantly" obvious needs a resurgence!
because a michael faraday must most surely
be forgotten!
how many times will this already painful reality
need to be emphasised once more:
intellectually - via a darwinism?
no one stresses the copernican "upside-down"...
or what is copernican "west" up in space?
how does acknowledging the sphere
of the earth - ease you reading a flat map -
moving from point A to point B?

earlier this week - for once in my life i was
ashamed of what i wrote -
so i wrote for scribli per se: scribbles for
scribbles themselves -
the darwinian germanic folk who say:
alles von afrika...
how the hebrews debased themselves
in both aushwitz and breaking their bones
on the emoji hieroglyphs -
alles von afrika: ja... so sicher... so wahr!

ask any slavic person among the germanic
peoples...
where from? wir (ar) sind lesen und schreiben
"afrika": i.e. Indu...
if the african challenged the hebrews
with... "the best they had": egyptian emojis...
why would i not stress my birth
with pseudo cedilla Ş / इ... ☦ -
this indo-european is not... at home with
these african-germanoids...
pseudos and quasi -
these chocolate frenzied busy-buddies!

from the caucasian and further still from
that whittle sub-corinthian quote: continent...
somehow, "somehow" this part of this story
is read: south to north... always a grand
marker missing when the people went
east, squinted... learned skeleton existence,
atoms... and the frenzy of letters:
owls and ******* **** flinging beetles
back in the north eastern tip of
africa: in that egyptian haemorrhage of "idea"...

i assure myself... perhaps the form came from
africa... but sure as **** the tongue only arrived
in the lap of the Dalai Lama...
as did the "thinking" and the music
across prior to the Mongol's curiosity
over the tundra of Siberia...
something had to be placed on a loan...
and coming back to the cradle and the crux
had to happen like so...
not this current: ergo: so...
quickened and: what news from Damascus?!

first impressions count...
i made my bed... it's newly washed...
as crisp as falling onto a bed a prawn crackers...
without the crumbs' itch...
like listening to some german:
juggernaut... this will do... i can fall asleep
with this: grab hören zu der winderhall...
mehr flöte - weniger violinekratzen!
schlechtdeutsche? alle deutsche ist gut deutsche...
erwarten etwas isländisch zu sein
gesprochen insel von insel: auf diese inseln?!

to make a crisp bed of freshly washed sheets...
to sleep in them alone...
given the grammar is not that far removed...
are the french even remotely translated
as a germanic "sort of" people?
"they" or "we" share the same grammar...
and there are celtic freedoms that would
never be allowed to exfoliate under
strict anglo-ßaß obligations...

oh sure! great people! steam engine: choo-choo!
newton et al...
shakespeare: when they taught us shakespeare
they should have taught us bernard shaw...
when they forced jane eyre down our throats
we should have been reading
the pickwick papers...
the music will remain german -
because as much as vaughan williams...
holst and händel were "were" english...
esp. latter with his umlaut that spread over
toward i-and-j...

why wouldn't you **** at the pillar of the empire:
a past most assured - dust, books and moths...
like hell will i come to correct my ways
to state the: pish-poor Elgar... this poo'em too...
himmel... sky...
leerenhimmel - empty sky -
nein sonne während der tag:
das englischnebel: bedeckthimmel...
nein mond während der nacht...
nur so...

i of the lesser men of this world duly bow
my presence before the altar of the higher men
of these isles...
and hope and pray that their wisdom
will not bestow upon them any major calamity...
with not irony or ridicule i wish upon
these peoples... the right sort of oars
to turn this rooted island
into the people's imagined langboot...

there are only one british people a people
who will pursue to gloat having been
conquered by the romans...
being raided by the vikings...
integrating the anglo-ßaß...
a second viking coming via the Normans...
the push-over remains of the celts...
that somehow translated itself into
the: empire...
ideal: to compensate...
the islamic fervor for the... resurrected
caliphate...
jokes about the dritte ***** and the vierte *****...
that's pretty much the precursor jokes
surrounding: ein zweite ***** -
auf welche die sonne nimmer setzt -
ever wonder how that translates with the increased
cases of insomnia?!

again: bad german is better than
no german.
Continue reading...
Sara Kellie Sep 2018
The Meadow
Starting with coverage from BBC2.

Brushing calm shadows into
pastel hills.
A rhythm paints terrain a
sugary brown.
Flicks of green create
fauliage serene.
The clean tasteless air is
cotton soft.
A effortless stream runs
cobalt clear.
Where salmon gymnastics begin
each year.
Squirrels practice dance routines a
glamorous red.
The doormice dressed and ready
for bed.

Continuing coverage on Ch4.

The perch, the tench sat together on an underwater bench.
Discussing bait and hooks whilst flicking through some fishing books.
What's he eating? Mr Mole,
it looks like cheese and ham
on a soft brown roll.
There's a chicken and a fox that
live round here.
Seriously, they've been dating each other for about a year.
Now, if you take the next left,
then over the stye.
There's a duck lives there,
call in and say, hi!

Poetry by Kaydee.
Poetry by Kaydee present what is believed to be a creative first.
One story, one habitat, one poem giving you the viewer, two different narratives.
Now here's another twist because instead of you, the reader, reading a poem in the traditional way. We handed our work straight to two television broadcasters and they have each made a program exactly as they wanted with no constraints.
Showcasing two well known broadcasters with polar opposite styles.
Poetry by Kaydee presents to you 'The Meadow'. We take up the story with BBC2 before switching over to CH4.
Will you notice a change of style as we go from the 'high brow' production of the BBC to a more laid back, social media type of production from Channel 4.
#meadows #serenity #serene #art #television #bbc #media
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
7,254
.how did the political "debate" ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session...  Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session... i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions... bass, a tier above the drums... masturbator-grand-master-soloist... i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write... elephant's ******* choking me to come... oh well... not even a Decalogue will save me... the political art is no art to begin with, curtains... all i'm seeing if curtains... and households filled with retired personel... and curtains... curtains but not blinds... it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar... notably metallica... apart from devil's dance and... where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music... fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar... solo guitar and vocals all you want... it's like... the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo... went, "missing"... i need the bass, man... frantic bass & drum genre type of music will not do lollipops for me... what was the alternative? dub-step? well... vex'd & distance... burial... who were the others? i don't remember... don't make me cite skrillex: white privelege man! yeah... at least with rabbit teeth missing, doing that well known party trick! i don't like bands that have a knack at an over-emphasis of the rhythm guitar, who neglect the bass guitar... it's so counter the jazz-inheritance... tool: grand bass, red hot chilli peppers, silverchair... i need that smoothing out layer of sound that manifests itself in a bass... a layer of sound just below the rhythm guitar and a tier above the base (not bass) of the african drum borrow... bāß... base (not bass)... yes, it's not supposed to look pretty: a phonetic antithesis... as most "things" in english...

             mind you... did i mention how heidegger
has a foot in the door?
       oh... i didn't? did i?
     the reflexive and the reflective quadratic...
the reflex of conscience "vs."
the reflectiveness of consciousness...
       heidegger:
                  language - only if speech has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it become
strong for the hidden play of its essential
   multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"),
of which poets and thinkers alone are capable,
in their own respective modes and their own
directions of sovereignty.

  of the few lyrics i've entertained these passing
"days"?
             the black keys: lonely boy -
              i got a love that keeps me waiting...
borrowing from Kafka i guess:
      in that case, i’ll miss the thing by waiting for it.
   no?
   guess there's no "oops" where these words
come from...
              
    with the "passive" circumstance of the faculty
of memory...
                two tiers of memory:
the reflexive memory type,
the scholastic rubric type...
  1 x 4 = 4, a + b + a +c + u + s = instrument =
counting... etc.,
            that's the reflexive memory type...
a scholastic rubric...
      dyktando...
but memory also occupies
the reflective parameters...
          which involve personality...
a sort of memory dissociated from schooling,
and more, associated with:
disinhibiting any chances of succumbing
to dementia's grinding machine
of the mortal circus...

  the reflexive memory storage bank is
the buffer...
the "placebo": nay... the safety mechanism...
but... too much education,
too much pointless education,
and the erosion of the reflective memory
storage bank: this is not a buffer,
this is not a something equipped with
a "safety mechanism"...
        given that a self is perpetuated
within the confines of
a constant conflict with the "self"...
   a and italics / the and "ambiguity commas"...

well, there's always a place to start...
i find of like philosophy as being
a rigour associated with a satisfactory
form of vocab.,
       namely?
i can use the associated words bound
to a sentence with confidance...
unlike a ****** fiction writer,
sometimes dabbling into loan words
from a thesaurus, to, invoke:
an intelligence superiority...
  don't worry...
  when people lend themselves
to use a thesaurus, having exhausted
their adjective knowledge... it shows...

come on... a background in chemistry nouns?
3,5-methylhexane... you think?
that's the remains of a saxon past in english...
in chemistry...
germans spell like dr. faustus to begin with,
they, compound...
        the remains of a germanic past in
the current state of english shrapnel still
lives... in chemistry...
        hydrocarbons...
                  usually met with a hypen:
hydro-carbons...
       siebentausendzweihundertvierundfünfzig
(7,254)...
well, very german: what a waste of not employing
punctuation marks (', -) when it came
to the caterpillar 189, 819:
methionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyl...isoleucine,

Me­thionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucy­lphenylalanylalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylgluta­mylglycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylle­ucylglycylaspartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleu­cyllysylisoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylgly­cylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylp­henylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthr­eonylisoleucylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucyl arginylalanylphenylalanylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylala­nylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylle­ucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucy­lprolylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparagin­ylleucylvalylphenylalanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylg­lutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylv­alylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylpr­olylvalylglutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarg inylglutaminylalanylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylal­anylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleuc…

or just read the end of james joyce's ulysses
or jean-paul sarte's iron in the soul...
you do have to insert shrapenl punctuation
into this word...

but these are the last remains of the english language
being associated with a germanic origin:
compounding words...
             esp. in chemistry...
                

as any drunk would state,
to suffice...

    what was it that the luftwaffe
prescribed for the night raids
on London?

   and what did isis fighters
be prescribed?

    amphetamines?
n'oh!
   (minus the extended omega:
oooooo enough time
for a katy perry song,
an afternoon shower,
a slap in the face,
and then a few punches,
hey, jerking off became
boring)...

   so the british,
and a few polacks doing their
r.a.f. bit beat the germans
because?
   oh... **** no...
they were ingesting
an impediment factor,
durg, ****,
drunk, numb-skulled...

    we're talking counter
measure to the "enchanced"
mensch...
    high on amphetamines...
insomniac, but still going...
i guess the loci of
the amphetamine adventure
had to relocate to the anti-ego
focus of the phallus
in the variation of viagara...

****...
i care more for my giggles
and a friar tuck physiognomy...
seriously...
   it's more important than mere
gymnastics of
a freudian "metaphor"...
  ha ha...
   i guess conversation is
also allowed...
   try keeping that up...
given that most men are
******* into a solipsism...

     date nights... m'ah ah ha ha ha...
i figured that i don't
need french intellectuals to
redefine absurdity,
or german philosophers
to "redefine" existentialism,
i just needed to leech
off an nativistic english
"public"...

                      what the ruling
class spews:
   i reinterpret...
                  simple, 1 + 1 = 2...
crux, numbers,
   bounce back...
echo...
     compliment to the language...
as i stood in the shower thinking...
well isn't modern gaming
slightly "ingenious"...
money piggy...

or... reversed...
    provided the unlimited time
of experience...
no constraints,
just a game within a game,
like sims 3: making a sim
play a video game...
wormhole paradox
      and a brain shattering moment,
a jolt,

         these modern "free" games?
well... at least if you
do not invest in them,
are... games mostly associated with
time...
time is the game...

   whoever gets ****** into
the money laundering schemes
of these games,
forgot to read the cheat walkthroughs
akin to final fantasy VII,
because of homework,
and... Saturday mornings.

   **** air guitar:
here's to air drumming to posit
a point...

          the allies drunk their pint
of whiskey, slightly debilitated,
without the circumstance of feeding
a feeling of superiority,
the germans over-inflated
their superiority complex with
amphetamines...

         ergo?
    i'm either proper drunk, or just plain dumb,
or... it's related to listen, repeat,
listen, repeat: katy perry
  (sucker for POP!)....

      never mind...

games used to be fun,
games used to lead to a completion,
tenchu, that was fun,
final fantasy VII...
but this current,
money-sucker of an experience?
well... sure...
now games have reached
an anti checkmate conundrum
which it is...
because, the games are "free"...

           apparently time,
is perceived as a non-commodity...
tell that to someone stuck
in traffic...
      time: the "elder" flimsy
              construct of relativism...

try not giggling
while exchanging whislting to
either the british grenadier march song,
and the french la marseillaise...

   it's like eating pork liver with onions
fry funny...
    or at least a stew of chicken
hearts... tight tender little *******...

but modern gaming is just that...
ingenious counter measure
to the old school variation
of gaming,
    games... without fiction,
games, without script...
    continued perpetuation
of engagement "syndrome"...

     thank god,
i'm pretty sure that if i went beyond
owning a PS1,
i wouldn't have spotted this,
and have a narrative subsequently,
for the worth any sort
of compromise...

ergo? i drink...
   eh... i need to dumb down...
it wouldn't be fair otherwise...
it's not so easy,
to acquire a culture,
a psychology,
a mentality,
   and then...
     to ****... (grimmace, burp,
         snigger) it all away...

**** me, the flute always
gets me...
          i mean...
every time i hear that flute...
my feet at rambling,
itching to tap along...

   well of course it wasn't
the ******* jazzy clarinet,
was it?!
  tell that to the broad
who perfect a *******...
see if she comes back
as smart,
as smart to comply with
the intricacies
of playing, the ******* clarinet.

p.s.
aud lang syne: the only song,
of all time...
shakespeare seems
pale by comparison,
"side-note"...

          broad vs. brode,
******* giggles in the afternoon.
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
stumbling block: Kraszewski's king Piast
i can't believe i came across this today,
but i am certain did...
   an experience so vague i couldn't believe,
i actually experienced dyslexia,
call it quasi call it pseduo... but it was very
much akin... from the book's narrative...
but not from the footnotes, i read the footnotes
at perfect cognitive speed, but perhaps
returning to the narrative i did experience
a slack of the + (add) of how words are
dissected and quickly put back together...
  yes, that other arithmetic with very little
breathing room, yes, that thing without
a soul... the word... or god...
    i turned custard brain, fudge...
     i felt like watching the gymnastics at
the para-olympics... and if i was going for a cheap
joke / english black humor i'd probably
laugh at that... but since this is the most
perfect ideal, i can't only make that comparison.

and so it was, i sat there doing nothing productive,
nothing... counting sheep to encourage
day-dreaming...
       so i said: 'i'll read a book', like i might do
on the whim in my grandparent's house
(one of the many reasons i decided to be "canadian" -
and establish a firm belief in bilingualism -
since if i didn't speak the tribal tongue
i wouldn't be rummaging in my grandfather's
library... and stealing books from him...
  well, exporting them to england, where he said
on my last visit: your library is bigger than
mine, isn't? well... it can fill a double-bed
   and be stacked at about 300cm up...)
    maybe the fact that being immersed in the tribe:
polish on the radio, on the television,
the fact that i can be without the internet for
weeks on end and have no quick-canvas outlet for
my earned tongue is the reason i could read
Kraszewski's* Dei Ira / bozy gniew / god's wrath...
    (there is too much subtle differences between
capital iota and little-town lambda -
   or why iota had to have the dot above it, anyway) -
so dei ira looks better... which is why i'm
not orthodox about using capital instances all the time...
   what a whirlwind...
         but prior to that i was watching
a david jacoby film - love is the devil: study for
a portrait by francis bacon...
                                         and all i could think of:
what marvel, to have a **** shoved up your ***
and speak so beautifully...
  have such a vast array of narratives...
     i can only assume that experiencing **** ***
gives you the other man's **** shoved into
your mouth that acts like a tongue and speaks
      so many truths as could be possible,
as in Freudian dream: when a woman wears a hat...
a talking ****** on her head from slurping
at the vaginal grotto of another woman...
     such a marvel though, homosexuality, esp.
the type of homosexuality that has art to express
rather than a civil partnership, civil rights...
  i mean, i could watch this stuff for days and never
yawn or need to watch protests and marches...
  just the image of what is best described
   john william waterhouse's
   painting hypnos and thanatos...
      i can't help but see it like that...
         francis plays the female role, his model the evident
dominant male... and sure, francis having his
**** punctured for what could be best described
as diarhhea either side of the equator does so...
it's as if he is eloquent enough / intelligent to allow
this to happen, for another man to speak through
him somehow... the model's phallus in francis' ****
becomes the model's tongue in francis' mouth...
    which becomes the stage for hypnos and thanatos...
in that francis' tongue becomes a phallus in
the mind of the model: and it whispers him nightmares
in his sleep... a vicious cycle indeed...
           that's the homosexuality that's highly regarded
by me, not the confetti functional type that
    exploits science and social norms and can no longer
lend itself to art, to transcending the taboo...
      with homosexuality divorced from art...
i can't see anything profound by gays from now on...
i really can't... if there is no art in this deviant
love, no art is worth being expressed by this
once glorious realm that has grovelled into the gutter...
so let's start once more: with Onan!

and everyday i awake wake with only one identifiable
fear: will i not write a single verse as of today?
it's not a case of a single day encapsulating my
fear, but that that crux day: furthered into a silence
that can't compensate the act of writing with
anything, other than sleep... i just can't seem
to smarten up concerning this very rational phobia...
    and having said that: here is the incision mark
denoting an interlude, and how: what are originally
intended to be of enso quality, cannot
   stand up to the biological tick-tock of needing
the loo...
     and do i think o'keefe's music foundation
by children is so much better than the original
done by tool concerning the song forty six & two?
yes, yes i do... just look at the kid on the bass guitar,
the fact that bass guitar is allowed to state a layer
of cake just above drums to set the rhythm
means the rhythm guitar doesn't have to solipsistic
******* and scale the everest of solo...
   it can remain in the rhythm section,
actually be worth a rhythm,
   the guitar doesn't need to overload into a solo...
the vocals belong to that domain...
   as long as the bass guitar is allowed to be heard
(unlike in metallica) - then i must be tone deaf!
revise me!
                    jazz knew the importance of every instrument,
and the need to be spontaneous, but also
the need to be anti-synchronisation,
  and therefore anti-muddle tsunami of:
all together now!
            n'ah, **** that **** (yes, the Vulgate is
coming along, i like the pooch, i don't care what things
i might say, the rude growl-bark is coming along:
so we can admire him licking his *****, and for no
other reason he's coming):
as in the birth of sexes... which the animals don't
seem to comprehend that much intently...
                 i can't like my ******* or **** one off...
but i know i can abstract a woman into
a hand and just pretend it's me doing the ****
crap with her... than myself included,
   or as i might add: never drink or *******
before the mirror... soon enough your reflection
becomes a bit odd, not because of what you do,
but because you hide so much perplexity before
you in Lucifer's daylight with which
  the moon Narcissus governs the moods...
that you start to look at your actual shadow
   with more clarity and fact...
  looking in the mirror is the reverse of looking
at your shadow under a street-lamp at night...
the mirror sort of becomes a shadow...
             the form becomes a bit (ha ha, what
an exagerration) vague... i look into
a mirror and i am but looking into shadow...
                   and i can't exactly recognise the eyes,
or make our geometric approximations
of a skull...
                      it's not even a case of a poor Yorrick
blah blah.
    or as the new governing body put it:
there are to be no mirrors contained within
the gates of Pandemonium...
        each to his own shadow, each to his own abstract...
   for the shadow will be deemed the new mirror...
   the new found glacier of, yes:
when salt water freezes, comes pure white floating
on the oceans... but must you freeze fresh water
and there's this matrix...
as in icecubes...
       dropping from a vendor machine...
and i knew i shouldn't have digressed so much,
but then again, if there was no ****** tick-tock
       rebellion, i probably wouldn't have revealed this much...
with ancient lore...
    who'd use the word Pandemonium these days,
if you're merely trying to call it: the Houses of Westminster...
well sure, accusation due: i prefer
a bunch of kids feeding me a nostalgia over a song
i heard aged 14... such is the power of the song 46 & 2
done to a... wait wait...
  i was talking about bass guitars and jazz...
(i could never get to like rap...
            i liked when the blacks deconstructed classical
music, but they did after: i'll never like,
mainly people of blackies and that general fanfare
of rap feeding tribalism) -
          the greatest aspect of jazz:
that on some recordings there's a chance to hear all
the instruments having a solo moment...
you'll hear a quintent solo:
  the piano, the drum, the saxophone, the horn,
the double-bass solo... each doing a solo...
not some erectile dysfunction of rock music from the 1980s...
i mean: each one will do a solo...
  and **** me, that's grand... and given there's no vocals
makes it all the better... but where, the ****, can i hear
jazz music being kept with such high regard as i
might find mozart pickled and even mummified
     to suddenly rise again and compose like i might hear
it on classical.fm... maybe acid jazz killed it...
   i can't seem to hear of one place where i can hear
the range of jazz music i have in my collection...
which probably mean's i'm lazy and don't fiddle about
with the radio fm and am channels... to "look" for jazz...
  i'm all applause though: jazz allowed for
deconstruction of classical music and paved the way
for the current state of polyphony in plateau...
    meaning: too much drum, too much ump-pst-ump-pst...
   jazz paved the wsay from orchestra,
   and yes, maybe because it was too impromptu
as it was necessary, that there was no jazz composer...
  there could have been no jazz script... no pre
           to what was otherwise alway and only: uno...
a once...
    sure Thelonious Monk did use an orchestra at some time...
  but if only someone decided to do a solipsism
and write out jazz like mozart wrote out
      concerto... but no... jazz descending from on high
and invoking african villages could never do to
its practitioners the deadly fate of breeding a jazz
composer...
                   it was the communal idea, the musketeer
unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno:
   you could never allow a silent dictator like
a mozart dictating to a throng of people contained
within an orchestra... which later made the once
silent dictators very very vocal... speeches in Munich
alike...
           the fact that jazz has no script,
and the fact that if someone tries to play a Miles Davis
from script... is completely an ***...
     put him on a donkey (backwards)
                     donning a sanbenito and lynch him
to the nearest traffic junction to **** louder than
a car klaxon... that will do the trick...
       they did bother to script led zeppelin though...
    maybe it was the stiff competition that did it:
jazz. airy... breezy... but what a quick moment it was...
i'm almost jealous of the beat poets experimenting
with jazz musicians... but then i'm not:
i like to think of them as parasites...
   you know... those things feeding of spontaneity...
parasites... or dare i say: plagiarising leeches...
plagiarisng what? well, not the content, the context:
feeding of jazz spontaneity... not working from
old composers like Milton or Dante...
thank god for Ezra Pound and Sylvia Plath.

seems i have a ****** for a larynx...

perhaps i just seem to mean: i am a firm believer
in bilingualism... perhaps that's based on
some sort of religiosity,
    and let me tell you: it's born with
a schismatic nature, siamese, but not like a
siamese twin, in that it really needs a surgeon...
  it's a nucleus that's inherently schismatic...
i can't blame the english nation being
so lazy in its multicultural ethos,
i quiet like it: i don't live in a ghetto...
but forgetting my native tongue just so i could
sing a national anthem with conviction?
na'ah, that's not me...
            we'll come to Kraszewski's rex piast
in a minute, and it really was a genuine
experience of placebo dyslexia,
the one on the other side: should i have written
zilch...
      i believe in something quiet Canadian...
i don't believe in isolated communities,
   or ghetto tactic... i am a firm disciple of the advent
of bilingualism: forget the *** for just one day,
your genitals won't suddenly drop off with
gangrene scabs... you don't need a doctor
to say that...
                i mean: bilingualism as a concern
for incorporated culture, and the culture you were
born in... why can't these people just care to juggle
three testicles?
                   oh, elaphantisis got in the way...
sure, two oranges and a watermelon: makes sense...
no!
      have mutual respect, you come to me sprechen
Piast i'll speak Piast to you...
   well: given that polish and polish aren't that far apart,
i'd feel inclined to utilise
           idiosyncratic lingo...
   lingua genesis...
                children are so much easier to utilise than
angels: they have yet to experience anything at all
on the Socratic basis...
            so if i talk Piast to me, you will know what
i'm talking about?
     it doesn't matter if you do... i chose to be
a library, rather than an encyclopoedia of immigrants...
    there's not need to test me on general knowledge:
the stuff i "know" already gives me membrane...
     i respect both the culture of my birth and the skin
i am sometimes told to make sure is called tattoo,
and what i see before me, and quiet frankly:
i see nothing before me... a turban here,
    a sausage & mash there, a pint of guinness there,
noodles elsewhere... all in all: globalisation
and the elements: earthquakes... torandos...
   there isn't much to see in a poly-ethnic society...
there are too many major changes taking place
in a pyramid of non-ethnic ascriptive
         non-this-and-that pawns...
  it's not even painful: just a bit disgusting to watch...
  and yes i have access to a voult of monochromatic
society:
   you know how many ethnic minorities i spotted
in a train station in Warsaw? three...
two asians and one black woman...
              i haven't experienced the cold winters in Poland:
but i knew there was a limit...
         only about three apaches in a crowd of
albinos... which doesn't translate as:
    i was somehow content, it just meant
that most signs in Warsaw are written with a bilingual
bridge of Polish... and Ukranian Cyrillic...
plenty of Ukranian Mecca-bandits, for sure,
     but that's the end of the line with what
western Europe is doing to itself...
        every time i come back from Poland
i'm smeared with a rainbow of variety,
   it's either: i want to **** all these girlies
or i want to **** them... mostly the former,
  but you get the picture of experiencing the alternative
of the western experiment: since marxist economy
was "doomed" or simply expected to fail...
the economy finally seems reasonable with safety
for the old and the pension plans...
that marxist-culturalism had to emerge... if we are not
on the same dough plan of being content with a table and
a chair: might as well say we're all prone to don
a ******* afro.
                ***** are naturally curly, no?
going back "home" is always a weird experience, i tend
to read books there... like Kraszewski (who,
even the locals **** as being an unbearable bore
and joke that Joyce is easier read)... with his dei ire...
my grandfather just dropped it into my hands
as an experiment, thinking i wouldn't read it...
    well, in terms of translation Kraszewski is a myth-broker...
no one would read him,
  meaning: i'm kind of grateful that poles
seem to sorta: not exist, when it comes to citing examples
that include modernity and the history being
formed... i could sorta believe it if i were Estonian
or Lithuanian, or from Liechtenstein...
          but we're talking about a place with a large
enough population to be a major player in some
wordly conflict... Poland isn't that small...
    but yet it appears like it appeared from
the 18th century onwards... a state partitioned...
    and what i love about remaining tactifully bilingual?
i can talk about my native in a "colonial" tongue...
hence the " " definition: self-acquired...
             that's why i became spastic-fantastic reading
Kraszewski's rex piast - nothing came in,
i lost all trace of syllable construction, i read the books
so slowly i had one page done in about 10 minutes:
prolonging my musing of world powers, thrones
and crowns on a toilet...
        *******... another interlude.

can anyone see the, dodo project? i really just see a dodo project, yes: eine dodo projekt... i'm white, i'm male: can i be allowed to express these nouns in a pronoun, or am i schizophrenic prone? it seems i c
Continue reading...
Roger Turner - Poet Jul 2012
Prancing Deer and Naked Elves (sung to Grandma got run over by a reindeer)
MY COMPUTER IS INFECTED WITH A VIRUS
FROM SURFING TEEN AGE **** SITES LATE AT NITE
SOME OF WHAT I'V SEEN, IT LOOKS QUITE NORMAL
WHILE OTHER THINGS THEY JUST DON'T SEEM QUITE RIGHT
I'D JUST STARTED CHRISTMAS SHOPPING
WHEN I LEARNED THAT I'D BEEN HACKED
THERE APPEARED BEFORE ME QUITE THE PHOTO
OF A REINDEER WITH **** ELF FOLK ON HER BACK
AS I LOOKED MORE AT THE PHOTO
AND I LOOKED DEEP IN THE TREES
I SAW JUST A HINT OF SCARLETT
THAT LOOKED JUST LIKE MRS. SANTA ON HER KNEES
AS I LOOKED MORE AT THE PICTURE
SHE HAD A LOOK, BUT NOT OF PAIN
AND I SAW WHAT SHE WAS *******
WAS NOT AN ALLANS  CANDY CANE!
AS I TRIED TO LEAVE THE WEBSITE
A NEW PHOTO CAME MY WAY
AND I STARED HARD IN AMAZEMENT
THINKING, CORR I NEVER KNEW THAT ELVES COULD BEND THAT WAY
ONE WAS DOING **** GYMNASTICS
WITH HER *** HIGH IN THE AIR
SHE HAD SOMETHING IN HER "OUT" HOLE
AND I THOUGHT, "I DON'T THINK THAT THING  BELONGS IN THERE"
SO I SHUT DOWN MY COMPUTER
AND THE SCREEN FADED TO BLACK
I THOUGHT I'D LOST ALL MY FILES
AND THERE'S NO WAY IN THE WORLD TO GET THEM BACK
I'D BE OFF LINE WELL PAST CHRISTMAS
AND THERE'S NOTHING MORE TO SAY
I'D BEEN BURNED BY SURFING **** SITES
SEEING THINGS YOU SHOULDN'T SEE ON CHRISTMAS DAY
WHEN MY HEAD DID HIT MY PILLOW
I SWORE FROM **** SITES I'D REFRAIN
BUT I WOKE UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
AND FOUND A HALF ******  STICKY CANDY CANE
I COULD NOT HELP BUT WONDER
WHO HAD LEFT IT HERE BESIDE
BUT I KNEW DEEP DOWN IT CAME FROM
SANTA  ON HIS ONE NIGHT YEARLY RIDE
WHEN I TURNED ON MY COMPUTER
I KNEW I'D KEEP IT TO MYSELF
NO ONE WOULD BELIEVE IT IF I TOLD THEM
OF **** SITES FULL OF DEER AND NAKED ELVES.
Continue reading...
Tamal Kundu Dec 2016
Gymnastics
Goliath intention
Glitters within reach on
Grecian hallowed ground; the
Girl forged by sweat and chalk
Greets the beam with pristine
Gainer flip, ready to
Grasp the world with her feat.
Form: Pleiades G
#olympics #performance #sports #excellence
Continue reading...
Matthew Goff Apr 2016
Gymnastics...
Gymnastics over train tracks in the daylight
Smearing lipstick all over the afternoon
Strangers caught red handed kissing
#poetry #poet #poems #writing
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
confederacy of archaeological theology
they (yeah, the paranoid pronoun, esp. in how it's used for abstract coordinates, concretely? conformists) decided it was easier to fill a psychiatrist's gob with my presence, and for psychiatrists to pay the mortgage with someone who they termed schizophrenic, forgetting the fact that the person in question was bilingual - odd how humanists confuse bilingualism with schizophrenia, maybe a coin flip later and we'd get biphrenic? that's pushing it, but it just might work to describe an atom evolved into a human form... basically in two places at the same time: confederacy of archaeological theology - and by being in two places, behaving differently in each stated sphere of observation... that's it though! theology translates as archaeology in science, excavating the designation of the argument of the spider and the spiderweb, the perfect yoga instructor, one position fits all... because scientific positivism is dead... it's dead... we're experiencing a transition into scientific negativism, mainly because there's a plumber's conundrum of a blocked fact-machine... which turned out to be a fat-machine... we're just hearing the same ****, over and over again.

i never knew it, but when humanism was born
it came across the challenges of
Darwinism (Aristotle's footnote),
with all due respect for humanism
though,
             humanism gave us
the most apathetic formulation of
any faith at all...
and do you see a rebellion happening
anywhere concerning this?
i see a bunch of ****-naked Amazonian
nomads singing the huh? huh?! song...
esp. when they see safety-hats and
tractors... me? i live in the
outer suburbs of a Greek city-state...
when you're walking down the
street and see a bare chested driver
of a tractor, and a loser (me) drinking beer
while the police pass by in their cruiser
and don't give a ****... well...
welcome to the Fe (iron) Fe Fe feral land...
(almost a sneeze, but not quiet)
metro-****** pinkies anywhere?
no... root that **** into your brains
you urban wankers... stay there,
rot... keep up the debauchery of
Beckton's recycling centre...
oh sure, keep the theatres open,
with Simon & Garfunkel applause of song...
like ballerinas and fat operas needed
an exercise regime...
Darwinism is brutal enough,
it's brutal, it's not pretty,
looking at it from a creationist perspective
you'll only get brutality from it,
only an Zimbabwe born englishman would
care to champion it... oh look!
a monkey ******* a ferret!
i cried today... my female cat was inspired
when a squirrel started doing gymnastics
on my garden fence, one paw tucked against
its chest... i haven't seen a squirrel in my
garden for a while, i've shown her a hedgehog
once, but a squirrel? try catching a squirrel!
it's like catching the ******* of a mosquito
wearing boxing gloves... or Zeno...
i cried my eyes out, by a squirrel...
acrobatic rats that hate throngs...
the simplest of things bring the greatest of joys,
and a consistency in thinking about
death make the simple assurances of mortality
so much more appreciated...
of course i think about death... why wouldn't
i? so this homeless man has a tent...
they're dragging them in, he says:
i haven't done anything wrong...
the military-industrial complex isn't secular at all...
psychiatrists are the complex's priests...
they're looking for subjects to ensure they earn
while giving oral *** to pharmaceutical companies...
and that's the *cul de sac truth -
no, wait... humanism's religious doctrine is
Darwinism, can't deviate from that,
keep a kettle and a sun on the same timescale,
i'm Caribbean lazy though...
you with beer and joint, me with beer and another
and another beer and an Apache echo impression
of echoing-yawn,
we have evolved past mating calls of animals...
all we have are warring calls... la la la for simplicity...
or in verse of new Zealander Haka:
                           ****, have no funny lyrics...
where was Darwinism when mating calls became
subtle and we exchanged mating calls for warring chants?
where was Darwinism then?
you telling me i have to own a watch, a mansion,
a nice car and enough money for a child's private
education to make one at all? pretty subtle
and all the more less colourful... you can ask me:
where was god when the Holocaust happened...
i'd reply: where was a decent joke?
apparently Moses died from laughter...
now i'm stuck with having to proof read
the first print of my book... that's going to be
agonising... i hate rereading my work...
and aren't we in a standing still position,
on an escalator, or the journalists are gullible,
i mean they're worse than pigs, they're eating
regurgitated facts... they're the ones that always
end up saying: if it ain't broken, break it...
that's their magnum opus fixation, and
the recycling bin... that's what they're there for,
i bet you a hundred quid that Putin's tears
would have turned into diamonds if they fell
on St. Basil's onion domes...
all these ****-incubating-real-emotion
calculators of the English parliament are worth
a psychiatric sketch show... punchline?
you ain't ever ever getting out, ha ha!
Darwinism is cruel, and people sort of like
the whips of a static history, sometimes they come back
to the 17th century and make a television program,
sometimes they have a chance encounter
to cite something from the only century that can
be experienced with anatomical dissection skill:
namely the 20th, or to be accurate, the 2nd half
of the 20th century... most of the time they haven't
the foggiest about history these days,
they're either electron-clouds of electron-orbits,
ping-pong between these two conceptions...
they're always pro-neutral (proton-neutron
centre) - and indeed the tetragrammaton invested
in Ke$ha... ka-ching! sz sh sharpener of wit...
got to love tactical pop, or the caveman ontological
obituary of buying alkaline batteries...
i bought alkaline batteries last year,
which technically makes me a caveman...
compact disks make me a caveman...
books make me a caveman... i'm a ******* caveman!
drag my woman by her hair...
what a great Darwinism provides,
we're all comparatively stone-age...
i love how we just made all history between that
into cf. snippets, and how the caveman attitude
is supposedly a ****** pill to supercharge our
attitudes into beastly thumps and gurgles and
elbows up the **** thrills...
Darwinism is cruel, Darwinism is currently the
theology of humanism... but once upon a time
the religious aspect (or in humanism's behaviour prescription)
was ascribed to one hour on Sunday...
now we're sorta stuck in a church, 24 / 7...
now we're all our own ritual makers...
we have the holy communions of buying a certain
type of coffee in a shop, or it's called curry Friday
and Saturday takeaway randomisation,
gathering the ready-meals Sunday to Thursday...
everyone having the busiest of lives...
if religion is dead, then i must be a nun.
i don't think Darwinism actually attacked theology...
some people are proper pranksters with
the notion that Darwinism attacked theology,
some get to play Jesus in some biblical theme park...
what i think Darwinism damaged, primarily,
is history... if journalists keep spanning
historical references from here & now and
that greatest ontological excuse: caveman once,
Chanel model no. 2, we'll surely sell many
more shaving equipment tools and sanity pills as we go
along into 24h / insomnia society...
me? i'm out... i'll be keeping my imagination
honed toward the Faroe Islands, along with my sanity.
Continue reading...
nivek Jul 2015
Mind Gymnastics
the inner communication
******
automatic adjustments
happen all the time

Ah and then there is the mind
co-ordinating
an orchestra and ballet
all with wills of their own
Continue reading...
Anderson M Apr 2017
Mental Gymnastics
Puzzles are frazzling
Oblique and opaquely designed to
Effuse effectively in earnest someone’s
Mental juices, in most cases to futile ends.
#npmacrostic
Continue reading...
Gwen Pimentel Jan 2015
Love-hate
Being in gymnastics
Is like being in an abusive relationship
Everything just tells you "NO"
But you still stay

From the bars,
And how it releases the grips of your hands
To the beam,
Which only aims to make you wobble and fall off
To the vault,
Running full speed to it only to make you miss the vault
To the floor,
Wherein you try to flip and twist only to be defeated by Newton's law of gravity

With the stupid scoring system
Pointing out every flaw
With a deduction
Just cause your bra strap is showing
jeez!

And how we are trained to achieve the unachievable —
How every move is supposed to be precise
Every muscle squeezed and tight —
Perfection

And the fact that
You'll never actually be the best
There's always a harder skill
After you've achieved what you may think
Is your "hardest"

It pushes you
To your breaking point
Forcing you to be
This perfect formed strong gymnast
Which pays so much costs
Literally blood, sweat and tears

It tells you that
Every ******* time you fall
You just gotta get back up
And try again
That no matter how much sore you are
You gotta **** it up
And do it again
And again and again and again
Until you finally get it

But there are these magical moments
those little moments of pure happiness
When you get a skill you've been working on
When coach praises you for your improvement
When you get over your fear
And when you stand on top of that platform
Knowing you gave it your all

These moments
Are what keep us going
These moments
Are what we come back for
Time after time after leaving the gym saying
"I hate training!"
There's just something about
These moments so special
That keeps us wanting more

And I will never
ever
Stop loving gymnastics
No matter how many times it hurts me
#love #sport #gymnastics #ye
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
Koranic paradox of the Hafiz within the Ψ-borg
when marco polo sailed to china,
kublai khan was the emperor of china.

or what other privilege can i speak of, if not that celebration
of the bilingual, there rooted, the sword in slavic
and the sheath in pseudo-Germanic;
for what violence is to come
it will always retract in the Germanic
for a time-period of two-faced thespian
pleasantries,
           without the need for pleasantries
already waiting bloodthirsty,
        as said, the common motto
more true now with ***** farms of turnip
donors than ever before,
science has become arrogant, almost religiously,
it's arrogant, it's arrogant, it's arrogant,
and because it's arrogant: it's blind.
       high expectations for words so grand they
fathomed nations to be used in between
kettles, teacups, knives, forks and napkins...
where's the equilibrium economy?
     well, for one this sort of work is deemed "work",
intellectualism is nothing in the post-Germanic
world of English and Americanism -
if you ain't singing (citing the motto): you
ain't thinking... for the quick buck, doctor.
it's sad and almost revealing,
          a cursed fate of our fathers' indentation
on the world...
                 you don't grow a beard to look smart
while holding a book using your upper-body
to wriggle the jig of a song, the vanity of having
a double chin...
       the principle of ensō is to have things intact,
ensō doesn't exist outside of poetry,
      you don't drink coffee in between and
then flick to a sitcom for a "creative" break
to what is: an already generic narrative.
prose is the excess of narration, there are sparks
along the way, but nothing as convincing
as Stendhal's omnus...
                and could i have simply abandoned
that quasi-epic poem of mine that's two days old?
only having realised that all said things prior
and now, subsequently, after are instilled within
the ensō principle that's less axe on the gallows:
and more guillotine; which translates into
symbols and the effectiveness of *less is more,
what's the standardising canvas? alcohol,
i.e. proof.
               a poem can be nearing 100% proof,
something you'd use in a surgical theatre...
i have drank spirits in the 90 - 99% range...
          a poem can be considered to be in the >50%
range... after all... people are able to memorise
poems, or are intended to do so -
which is hard to conceive the Koranic attitude
toward poets, the Koran states an abhorrence
towards poets, in some surah of so-and-so number...
my problem is with the Hafiz: people who memorise
the Quran... as suggested from the above:
prose literature can be considered to be in the <50%
range... hence the need to extract spoilers /
quotes from prose books... something memorable...
and because prose is laden with too much
narrative lead, it sinks to the bottom,
into the unconscious, and is only revised within
dreams, when something synonymously-parallel
happens to us in your daily-narrated lives:
we are more prone to narrate than think
in terms of Jefferson and the light-bulb...
i wish i had the encyclopedic reference point where
the Quran explicitly states hostility toward
poetry... but thankfully the mere existence of
the Hafiz undermines the Quran as: the poetry
to end all poetry; and where does Stendhal
come into this? in the Red & the Black, the protagonist
is also a "Hafiz", in that he can recite the entire
Biblical text: by heart. i retain the this fact even
though the days spent reading that book
extended to many hours on the bus to school...
Julien Sorel / Ewan McGregor (in the realisation
of the book onto the screen)...
if the Quran attacks poets for their fickle-mindedness
i can only say: the mind is very literally fickle
in the first place, given:
a. the number of choices we can make, and
   b. the reversal of where the mind is embedded,
i.e. in the brain, and given the brain's complexity
and foundation in polymathic expressions
from the gymnastics of trivia, to the labours of
  singled-out interests... poets aren't fickle
  minded because they're poets,
   we're universally fickle minded, because the mind
is a fickle thing in the first place...
  to counter the complexity of the brain,
    only when the mind is found migrating into
the ******* region or the heart is there any sense
of determination to be seen...
clearly Muhammad migrated from the brain
   got himself a mini-harem and established a family,
****** Ali over on an empty promise and
immediately established a schism that took much
longer to be established in Christianity...
       i told you: my prejudices are personal,
they're not environment, i did have Muslim "friends",
i did read the Quran and i did sit in a Reagent's Park
mosque in my socks looking at the feng shui
minimalism... obviously the schism would come
from the place where a major element was used
in dressing up the mosques... persian carpets...
   and the fact that the Farsi loved their poetry...
the fact that the Quran is to be sang is basically
one poet, telling all others poets to come:
YOUR WORK IS ****!
                     that's feeble, esp. if you take the sword
out after when people tell you no.
   but that's what i don't understand, if the Quran
is so against poetry, doesn't the existence of
the Hafiz mean that it actually is poetry?
  could you find a team of such plonkers to memorise
a single chapter of Tolstoy's war & peace?
  i ******* well doubt it...
plus the whole mono-lingual attitude toward it
means for me to argue certain points with some
Sheikh Ali-Baba would means years lost
   to hark out a word of arabic...
      point being, any chance to learn a new optical
encoding of sounds is impossible,
the one i already have has eroded such a potential:
plus the fact that it's so different...
plus i spotted some anomalies in the system i'm
using: here's it's saying java, .dos, linux...
               oh don't feel left out from the computer
programming community: turn the cheek and
say in robo-slo-mo: psi-borg     (Ψ-borg):
it's the crucifix of the psychology community anyway (Ψ)...    
        i inherited the difference between
   s & ś                         a & ą -
or as one ironic German phrasing had it, a long long
time ago on a Catholic retreat in the south of France
(Taizé): vey didn't oonderstand my good Inglish aacent,
you know how Arnie sounds, right?
just like that... became the running joke for a few years...
you basically learn an accent having spotted
  diacritical markings... having been raised in
a phonetic-realm where diacritical marks are used,
and then growing up in a phonetic-realm where
they are completely disregarded... well,
it's not hard not sound English and then lurking
in the shadows if someone is calling your ethnic origin
as vermin... having such a kind remark as this one
to further the entertainment... i heard
that in America there's that thing called "white-privilege",
and that you can't be racist to a white person
if you're a white person... well... you won't be getting
any jazz and blues out of me sweetiepie, that's for sure:
politics, unfortunately; and what better way
to state politics than with poetry, or the tact within
poetry: telling someone to go to hell with them
anticipating the trip.
Continue reading...
Emily Budrow Apr 2016
little paragraphs about some people I don't talk to anymore but wouldn't really be bothered if they read this
this one girl I used to be friends with, she was so beautiful and never ever did she see it in herself. I used to look at her though, and I used to wish I looked just like her or had a personality as kind and sweet and determined as her. I used to want to be as free of a soul as her and sometimes, even as guarded. It made me sad a lot of the time because she was so depressed and mysterious to me; her life kinda ****** back when I had first met her. I remember we dropped acid together twice and I told her that if ever there was someone I didn’t want to lose, it was her. And then the following year we had a fall out and we don’t talk anymore. I guess people change and that should be okay but sometimes I still wonder about her and what she is doing now and how she spends her friday nights.

then there was this other friend, who I may have even considered myself closer with but in a different way. We used to sneak out of my house during sleepovers when we were younger and sit on the curb and share a cigarette. we’d talk about all the people we miss and how afraid we were of the future. I always felt like I hardly knew her even though she shared most of herself with me. the first time I saw her cry was terrifying to me, but I didn’t tell her that. I remember how pretty I thought she was. physically though. and physically alone. She had a lot birthmarks that made her intriguing and skinny legs with pretty knees. however, she was mean and usually very bitter. one time she told me “I hate people until they give me a reason to like them” and hearing that disappointed me. I tried the most to be her friend again after she walked away but it was no use.

another friend I had I was friends with since I was six. I knew her from pre school and we were inseparable. I could write paragraphs and paragraphs about how amazing that girl is. I could do the same about how bad I felt for her. she was a friend who I never thought I would lose and I remember we had the type of friendship where our parents used to sign us up to do the same sports (horseback riding, gymnastics). after we stopped being friends I heard she fell off the deep end and was doing a lot of drugs. I got back in touch with her recently however she never seemed interested in hanging out and some of my texts went unanswered so I gave up. when I think about her, I still see my 12 year old self, playing mermaids in her pool as if time had stood still. if any of the people I’m writing about read this post, I hope it’s her most of all. miss you.
i’m not sure if this sounds strange or not but a lot of the time I think about some of the old friends I used to have. like the people I became very close with and used to spend every day with and that type of “partner in crime” friendship. I just think of all the ways they are so beautiful and amazing and how much I truly love them as a person. I guess maybe the falling out was for one reason or another and maybe it was because of an argument or just because but that doesn’t mean they don’t still hold a high place in my heart.
Continue reading...
L M C Sep 2014
deconstruction
practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions

lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift

fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards

inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion

words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness

shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows

a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart
#insecurity #intentions #inventions #fractals #catalyst #parallax
Continue reading...
Arataikii Aug 2014
How I got kicked out of gymnastics
The gym teachers face,
the glare of the flames' light in the glass of his eyes.

The panic is so real, one by one each turning,
where did they think the flames would go?

A beat and then the  alarm washes in like a riptide,
carrying the sock-clad feet out the door so orderly.

It's only heat I say, it's only destruction in all it's mess and perfection.
It's only what I've been wanting to tell someone forever.
That while we balance on these bars, I fall twice as often.

Right hand outstretched, a fist of the gym teachers simple encouragement, the left holding only every fear I've known.
I set a balance beam on fire okay?
I'm glad.

I still have terrible balance.
#falling #is #failing
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
critique of the English
.like i insinuated prior, the English are a people not competent in philosophy, they're the antithesis of what a people, inclined to philosophy represent... schematic, rigidity, like the German... or the frequent cafe bullshitters of the French, the English can't consecrate themselves on the altar of Sophia, they just can't... they're a people that succumbed to too much practicality, egalitarianism... no one attempts to write in Utopia, while not seeking to find Atlantis.

so the whole Greece, Troy,
Rome shuffle is about over?
i'm feeling slightly peckish
and i don't have the time...
i'm about to light the house
up using... light-bulbs...
don't you think that a name
akin to: Paul, Digit,
sounds great?!

don't get me wrong,
the English are a people bound
to other, gifts...
they can sing,
although... Aud Lang Syne
is a Pict song...
and the river-dance is pure Ire...

great sophists,
but philosophers?
they're too practical,
i'm trying to read
Sartre's being & nothingness
in English...
i simply, can't...
      it doesn't make sense...
if you gave me a copy
of the same book
in ******-speak...
i'd butcher it...
   but in English?

metaphor moment:
like catching the testicles of
a mosquito, wearing boxing
gloves...

fiddly ******...

sure... each country has its
career ambition...
russian and the romanians
and the bulgarians have
their gymnastics...
the brazilians and the germans
have their footie...

the English have their singing
and their poetry...
but philosophy?
      nope... not even close...
Oasis' wonderwall
will be remembered,
and even sang along to on
the continent...

                   but thomas more's
utopia,
or thomas hobbe's leviathan...
ever tried to read more than
twenty pages
    of joseph conrad's
         heart of darkness... ?
ever find eating porridge
equivalent to parachuting
   in terms of the level of excitement?

chill... the English have their virtues...
but the English are also
prone to call philosophy
impractical, verbiage, word salad...
because philosophy already
is an impracticality,
an impasse...
          it's supposed to be,
           it's not exactly an Ikea schematic
reading to assemble a *******
table...
             it's Picasso, cubism,
       see if you can see a cube in
the mesh of contortions of other geometric
signatures...

              the English do not do philosophy...
sorry... they don't...
whatever argument arises citing
the "need" for: "reason" and, "logic"
will not cut it for me...
reason? since God doesn't intervene...
well... the unfathomable depth of
human will... reason: the same freedom
as posited prior to: the unfathomable depth...

logic? 1 + 1 = 2...
      a + n + d | s + o = and so...
the English are barons over other traditions
of expression...
music being 1, poetry being 2...

hey, Polacks are decent at volleyball...
i'm not complaining,
it's not exactly a popular sport...

but no... no chance in hell will i read
a philosophy book in this language...
i can't, the language is already too shrapnel
for me... i need to clarify a focus
on an idea...
        language, the English language,
can't entertain the current "transcendental"
logistics of undermining the individual /
plural use of pronouns,
while also keeping a straight face
in other areas of thinking...

     i could have conceded to the whole
globalist liberalism of ideas...
but... looking at the other flank?
attacking grammar... ****... sorry...
dogma?!
                as if... i will bow down
to un-existing before my wedding with death.

that being said,
i think the English are in a dire need to relearn
their black sense of humor,
their islander sense of isolationist humor,
their: bizarre unpredictability...
  since they lost it...
             to a certain degree...
i'd say: relearn to laugh at what is,
otherwise unforgiven in other cultures...
more crass Americanism...
and... well...
                can you ever learn to
cry when experiencing beauty?
musically, that is, esp. in the musical
dimension...
                    i always hated this:
"you're laughing, but actually crying...
you're crying, but actually laughing"
inversion...
        i never came around to fathom this
"misnomer"...
          straight down...
    i'll laugh at a funeral...
            teasing death...
   but i'll cry over a decent piece of music, to boot.
Continue reading...
Z Aug 2016
it's 11:44 pm and i'm watching men's gymnastics
Reading bad poetry,
writing bad poetry,
existing as a subpar slice of
unemotional prose.
I'm a singsong
last-ditch singalong;
ding-****-ditch me,
***** me out.
Slice me up and
lay me out to dry.
I cut onions:
I don't cry.
You ignore me:
I don't mind.
Remember me
as a sad story and not a person.
It'll be gratifying,
albeit dehumanizing,
patronizing,
but at least you'll be sympathizing
as I'm unsurprisingly capsizing.
Right now I'm realizing
that I wanna be the hungry waves
and not the sinking ship;
the sharp harpoon and not
unfortunate Moby ****.
I wanna be the brick
instead of the window pane;
I wanna be the ****** sword
and not the bleeding slain.
So the inferiority complex that's been harrowingly ingrained
inside of my needlessly idle brain
can ******* once again,
because I'm gonna be the poet now,
not the reader, page, nor pen.
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it began (oyster-*******) / Dobberman ear-slit
you really want to attack feminism? now's the time... disown the heritage of male circumcision (m.g.m.) - if you're really peeved off with feminism... stop circumcising... then watch the show.

a girl writes something like this:

My mind wanders too far for me to catch up
The world seems so foggy
I can’t find my thoughts                   -

well, no wonder psychiatry invented
secondary fiction -
dissected the individual into ego (brain)
heart (superego) and **** (id) -
or first person, second person and third person
narratives - she writes *my mind
but then writes a ukulele song -
between possession and dispossession the sigma
is riddled - one deems ownership but
is unsure what it owns on the pH (patent hyperbola-scale) -
the world ain't ******* foggy -
it's foggy because at one time to own the mind,
at another you don't, at one time you
own your thoughts, at another you turn into a robot -
thinking = a conscious affair to obstruct eating a
desert when fulfilled - as Heidegger put it (mildly):
we're still not thinking - the one antibiotic that
treats even the SS man's horrid actions:
um d'uh... i wasn't taught to think, therefore
i can plead the insanity parole - mm d'uh... you can't!
the biggest excuse in jurisprudence is lack
of thinking - people excuse their actions by
excusing their lack of thinking - apparently you
can commit genocide and be pardoned by
excusing your inability to think -
you can **** people, torture them, but be pardoned
on the grounds that you were without
the other essential synonymous with soul... thought...
you can walk free and pardoned when you
prove to people you never learned how to think
outside the schooling realm of up-kept Pythagoras
and 1 + 1 = 2 or a + b + j + e + c + t + i + o + n = abjection -
what a waste of time democratic law is -
never mind humans invoking theocratic jurisprudence
through angelic gossip (that won't help either)
of missing phallus - flap flap - flap flap -
go on, nose dive from the twin towers - pigeon **** for
words in the Koran's worth -
forget proving the soul, or god, do what Heidegger did
by saying: i doubt thought exists -
i'd like to define it, a soul is easier to define, something
not prone to destruction - proof of thought is harder,
too multi-tasked - existential Pandora -
it's hard to imagine people actually thinking when
given automatic tasks - no wonder they sometimes
slip on god's great banana skin - unlike animals
who only have an automaton of eating greenery implanted
in them - whether mammalian elephant tusk or
raw canine chew - their automation is reduced to
constantly need to eat - we have more luxuries -
a naturalist's ***-life is a monologue on the Savannah -
keen on dung-beetles, not so keen on oyster-******* -
i can just **** and laugh given i have my excess skin...
you need a sparring partner - because wanking
without ******* gave birth to Onan - why didn't Freud
spot the Onan Complex? oh wait... in the image
of the Gods... all the Gods have *******...
some dumb Iraqi shepherd cut the details off...
and so came the dominance of woman with what
became the ******* excess metaphorical with her excess...
and so the two factions clashed in Egypt;
oh i believe it... i believe it as in to not ridicule it...
too many serious people... terrorists... orthodox clingers-on...
why not believe it in order to spare yourself
the senseless gymnastics of wordplay governed by ridicule?
there's no harm in believing it... when you
don't have to practice the religiosity behind it with
the dress-code included; mind i wear a t-shirt while
you wear the tux? we're going to the same opera,
and it's pretty dark in the theatre... ah... of course you
won't mind!
Continue reading...
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
cricket world cup
sample size excavation:

urbanity forsake the village-metality
of the undisclosed biological
credo...
                     urbanity became
a pawn & pauper in a "clues",
which replaced facts...
                         i am more mushroom
than reptile or genital mutilation
grammar asking...

              finally! cricket has come home!
well... in between watching
roland garros,
and the ICC?
             even i can agree...
of all the h'american sports?
  baseball... sure...
ice hockey... sure...
     basketball... sure...
   h'american football?
esp. when watching rugby?
  i don't get it...
         scuffling in the middle...
pass back... one throw forward...
a decent runner...
         ball hits the deck...
"regroup"...
      reinforced rugby-esque scrum
drama...
    play-stop-play-stop...
ad. revenue interlude...
   start-stop-start-stop...
             doesn't it get boring, ever?!

i had to turn to cricket!
oh i'm enjoying the cricket...
it's like chess + braille + bridge
dynamic of tactic... sure...
it's not baseball...
       it's cricket!

   international test matches...
50 overs...
         50 x 6 = 300 throws of the ball...
1 over = 6 throws...
no other sport was so much
beautiful jargon,
so much stat.,

             and so many idiosyncratic
terms...
what do they call english
cricketers? tourists...
west indies (the carribean team?)
the windies...
          
          349-8 (349 runs...
         8 wickets)...
              
                   imagine a sport...
where it lasts so long that it errodes
your attention span like
a Tolstoy novel...
      come morning,
it finishes in the early hours of
the evening...

                cricket... quintessential
Dickensian replacement narrative...
and i've never seen more
laid back referees (umpires)...
what's a 4 to a 6
in terms of body language?

you have tactic akin to bowlers
throwing spin-accents...
so there's a minimum of a 1-2 1-2
runs... rather than 4 or 6 worth
of smackers...

            cricket isn't the worst
of games... by far h'american football...
that's the worst game, ever...
then, golf...
             **** me... table tennis
beats those two games,
even without all the glamour...
but itching chinese pretending
to be fast paced insect-esque
reaction time automatons...

                 i mean two female sport
events make complete sense...
tennis and gymnastics...

i don't even know why i enjoy cricket...
after all,
i am not exactly english "born and bred"...
bred from the age of 8...
hybrid mongrel...
i would still like to appreciate
the sports celebrated by the land
of my birth...
        żużel (speedway) and
(szczyptarze... almost a googlewhack...
2 results)...
                 hand-ball... and volley-ball...
greek wrestling...
      archery...
             sport is so under-represented
these days...
        only the major sports...
and at times, the monopoly associated
with their funding, their subsequent
traction of spectator numbers...
  it's so boring!
             it becomes too tribal!
totteham hotspur f.c.: born and bred!
there are so many other sports...
that do not entertain tribal ergonomics!
most of the olympic sports, for starters!

  today i was watching pakistan take
on england in the ICC world cup...
             ****- beauties all round...
      and then... for some "weird" reason...
the shadow of Rotherham...
     the cube didn't fit into the square
hole a gorilla was supposed
to push the prism through...
            
       there are just so many underrated
sports! it's not even worth criticising
sports per se...
         it's the sports that appeal to
the masses, that elevate the sport beyond
the sport per se, and craft trivial and
tribal affiliations that bothers me!

           i still think h'american football
is the dumbest sport available...
considering it as, rugby: devolved.
there's as much sense of passing the ball
backwards, imitating a charging wave
against a coastline of defence...
as there will ever be any sense found...
in scuffling in the middle
like some pretend boxing match...
allowing only one pass backwards...
and one runner maneuvering past the pointless
scuffle in the middle...
pass back, one throw, one catch...
                       run Forest! run!

o.k. even i found cricket a bit *******...
asparagus... ****... asperger syndrome
with its overt analysis...
   but even cricket looks better
than that ******* irish pub brawl
take on boxing that h'american football
represents...

bloated egos in armour...
           sorry, even ping pong looks
more appealing...
the ******* sumo diet worthwhile
to compete with...
        it's the cricket world cup...
and the time it takes to play out
100 overs?
    maybe chance upon a 6 run...
   8 wickets...
                      elsewhere
handball is pop, as is volleyball...
ski-jumping...
          
        sport per se isn't the problem...
it becomes a problem when
sport becomes tribal,
and the initial per se pleasure
of the spectacle of a sport is drained...
when people have to take sides...
when the sport per se cannot
be appreciated...
            hence the "concept" of the sport,
the logic of behind the sport is lost,
lost in the fact that it is lost to
it being monetized...

              when sport, resembles....
the kind of live performance,
akin to Heilung - Alfadhirhaiti...
while i am left, bound to the greater desires,
of moving to Greenland...
or the Faroe Islands...
        because even the English summers...
are starting to resemble
Indian summers more and more...
**** being your atypical English
sun-worshipper who "miraculously"
moved outside of London...

                         not, far, enough!
give me Greenland, give me the Faroe Islands,
give me Alaska!
    i can't stand this surge in
the creeping Summer heat about
to grind England to a halt!
                   however long it will take,
i wish to plan my escape to these lands...
i don't want a year's worth more,
in this little saudi land of the north,
with pubescent saudi ******* racers
bragging their diesel lamborghini *******
down Knightsbridge!
Continue reading...
Danielle Lilia Aug 2014
Stand Down
To the people who’ve taunted me.
I’ll to tell you this:
I’m not perfect, I know.
This is the sad part.

I don’t have the fairest skin,
Or a thigh gap and blue eyes.
I can’t do dance nor gymnastics.
Basically, I don’t have a lot to show.

And I know all these, I do!
But you keep throwing out constant reminders
To me… teasing this.
When will I ever take a break?

From all these expectations,
These insults and limitations.
Telling me I am not worth it.
Telling me I cannot make it.

I now believe you
That’s saddest part.
I believe you.
Oh I believe you so much it hurts even the people around me.

The “truth” you knew
Has become mine as well.
And I am just done, done with all this.
I am giving up.

Are you happy?
Are you happy,
My dear bullies?

Is that what you wanted to hear?
I cry every single day,
Thinking of the things I don’t have.
And all because of you.



But then, suddenly, something inside of me steers,
Right on my chest,
Like an awakening, oh so clear
Of some kind of hope or bravery…

I come to a conclusion that
A perfect me is preposterous!
‘Cause I wouldn’t be me if I was perfect.
No one can tell me who or what I am.

No one knows where I’ve been,
Who I’ve met,
And what I’ve been through
Better than myself.

I feel reborn! I feel in-charge!
I am an admiral
That yells, “Stand down soldier!”
‘Cause your mission will fail!

To make me feel useless and broken.
To make me feel worthless and weak.
And for what? To make yourself feel
As if you’re more than me?

I know! I know I’m not perfect.
And this is the great part.
I love who I am,
Together with all the little flaws that come with me.

I don’t have the fairest skin,
Or a thigh gap and blue eyes.
I can’t do dance nor gymnastics.
But this is who I am.

I am an admiral, tall and strong.
So, stand down soldier!
You’re gonna lose this fight
‘Cause I’m taking flight.
#love #alive #flaws #people #stay #perfect #done #imperfections #bullies #admiral
Continue reading...
Love Jan 2014
Just Questions
What happened to the times,
When a ratchet was just a tool,
And a tool being something to use?
What happened to a twitter and a tweet having something to do with birds?
Facebook was the term some punk yelled when he'd smash a nerds books right into his face...
And tumblr was a person who did gymnastics.
People would never go around saying kik me,
Instead a sign said it loud and clear,
Taped to their back.
YouTube...what the Hell was a YouTube?
You had some kind of tube put in...
What?
Why is a ***** a mean and angry girl,
Instead of a female dog?
Why is that little gay boy called a ***?
Does he look like a cigarette,
Or a bundle of sticks?
What happened to calling some dude a ****,
Because that was his name, ****.
What happened to cuts being accidental,
Something that happened when we fell,
Or messed with a sharp edge?
Why is a ***** someone who is scared,
Rather than being a cat?
What the hell happened to life?
Continue reading...
Daisy Darling May 2021
Gymnastics
You told me you wanted to be a gymnast;
You bounce back faster than a boomerang;
Your peacock dance leaves me flabbergasted;
Come claim your gold medal at last.
good for you baby
#love #heart #mind #soul #breakup #heartbreak #though #pain
Continue reading...
Maggie May 2013
childhood blues
when asked to reflect on my childhood
from my age now, I close my eyes, take a
breath (or two) in, and prepare to remember.

based on what my parents have told me,
I was born on a day in February a day
later than they expected me in the
European country of Ukraine;
didn't live long there, only until I was
about two or three years old.

they say that we moved to the United States
in the summer time as refugees, seeing as my
father's family is Jewish and Jews were on the run
then; my mother adds that she wanted a
new beginning with new chances and new hope,
oh! and perhaps a better life for me.

up until I had to go to school, I grew up
speaking Russian at home with no English
and a little bit of Ukrainian there too;

at age 5 or 6, can't remember which, I started
school - it worried my parents, but my
Kindergarten teacher said,

"not to worry, she'll learn it with time."

and guess what? I did.
By now, I became bilingual.

when my mother's mom (my grandmother)
came over to the States in 2000, she settled in
with us, only 2 years after my sister was born;

yes, I still do love my grandmother,
even if she abused me - verbally and physically;
her ways of discipline were simply different from my
parents and indeed, tension and stress levels were
raised in the house from it.

this continued up until I was about 10 years old
when my family (my mother, father and sister)
moved up to Fort Collins for my dad to get his PhD;
there, everything seemed to be getting better.

from a fairly young age, I was told that I
was a skinny child and that I should try being
active in sports:

first sport I did, I did for only 3
months - gymnastics. during my time there,
I became very flexible and landed my splits;

second sport I did, I did for about 2 years - dance.
I participated in the most common ones, tap and ballet,
and often dreamed about becoming a professional
ballerina. needless to say, it didn't happen;

third sport I did, I did for about 3 years - martial arts.
this was the sport that taught me respect and
self-confidence that would follow me everywhere.

other sports I did include tennis and figure skating,
both contributed to my adolescent growth and health,
yet school prevented me from being as active as I once was.

having moved 2 times in a short amount of time meant
losing friends and hoping to make new ones;

first time I moved, I was worried that I would lose my one
and only best friend due to distance between us - it so
happens that distance only made our friendship stronger
and this year we celebrate being friends for 12 years.

making friends in a new town for me was hard work but
in the end, I found a few that I could trust and call "friends";
they became my support system when teachers and bullies
in junior high twisted and broke me down into pieces.

over the next few years, everything was alright
until I started having a ****** identity crisis
at age 16;

I started doubting who I was, who I loved,
where would I go from here. it didn't help that my dad
became more and more ignorant, saying that
bisexuality doesn't exist.

my family was (and still is) close and we could (can)
tell each other anything without being judged or
told that our views were wrong;

but,
how was I supposed to tell my parents, especially my dad,
that I might have a crush on a girl?

still, at age 19, I don't know who I am...
I'm a late bloomer, I know that.

as I open my eyes, I realize
there are many other things that
I have repressed, never wanting to look
back at them again;

my childhood will always remain a memory,
nothing more.
This was for my Child Development final
Continue reading...
Dominique Espiritu Oct 2013
Bunny Ears and Tails
To everyone else who used it to seal a present,
It was nothing more than
A color to choose
A length to measure
A string to knot
It was something that held together a treasure
But to her, a ribbon was so much more

The triangular slit
She herself had cut at the edge
Of the soft pink ribbon,
Ended in corners,
The way her smile did
Everytime she'd
Loop and pull
Loop and pull

The bows she'd craft
Were more to her
Than just bunny ears and tails.
They were trinkets of triumph
Hints of hope
Possessions of passion

They reminded her of spring
Not the season
But spring
Of the trampoline
In her first gymnastics competition.
The ribbon hugged her ponytail
Delicate and dainty
The ribbon lay around her neck holding
Gold
Silver
Bronze
Ribbon nonetheless

They reminded her of balloons
Not the hot air type.
Balloons at carnivals
That floated
Miles away
Heights astray
If there was not ribbon
To secure it tight
On her fragile wrist

They reminded her of father.
Not that he wore ribbons or anything.
But that he left her with one
Wrapped around
A freshly picked
Bundle of flowers
Bundle of happiness
Bundle of unspoken words of affirmation

But flowers die

And so did father

When they did,
She was left with nothing but the ribbon
Loose and dirtied.
But the pinkness
Unlike flowers and father,
Barely faded away

And for the first time in a long time,
She saw life
In something that didn't have any.
This is actually my homework for literature class. We need to write a poem about an ordinary item. I hope I made it sound extraordinary enough.
Continue reading...
Part Time Poet Jan 2016
Everything Reminds Me of You
The color red, it's your favorite
The color white, your car, your house
Shakespeare, we were King and Queen
Choir, you sing like an angel
Gymnastics, you competed
Joseph, you directed
Laser tag, you destroyed
HIMYM, we watched as we cuddled
Your scent, it still lingers on me
Wine, I'd love to drink with you
New Years Eve, we talked all day and night
Mitchell's, we stayed for hours and conversed
France, we traveled together
Poetry, you got me writing again
My car, where we kissed at midnight
My basement, where we made love
It all reminds me of you

Sometimes I wish I had amnesia so I could forget...move on
But I love you so much
No case of amnesia could take you out of my mind

Although sometimes it hurts
I want you to know
That I love each and every one of those little things that reminds me of you
L.R.
#love #memories #reminders
Continue reading...
WJ Thompson May 2022
Rancor!
Rancor,
Swashbuckling with a sawtooth grin and sacrilegious shouts, selcouth with an unsound mind, the commonness of uniqueness, the commonness of opinionated onions cutting their teeth on life and crying, again, and ready to saw off the limbs of the opposition out of revenge!
Rancor, relax, you're not a Twitter matador, I wish you were because I’d love to watch the show.
We cuddle with exotic nylon fibers and squeal about our weight and status and how someone insulted us and how terrible it is to be alive while sipping on easily accessibly high fructose corn syrup! Life has never been this sweet, but I guess we’re getting sick of honey.
I complain about the complaints, I am the anti-complaining complaint club president.
I am a writer, an iPhone thumb tapper.
Hear me
These mental gymnastics will somersault and summerset you right, child,
Don’t listen to Rancor,
That man’ll grab your gaze and stir your attention into a cocktail while winking at you from behind the bar
he’ll leave your brain a little woozy from a life that used to be sweet until you left it out in the sun a few years too long,
I wonder if some of the dead watch us from the corners of our bedroom or the trees along the freeway, waiting for greatness to unfurl.
I’ll bet they do and I’ll bet you’re a glitch, I’ll bet a little piece of another galaxy hit you in the head and made your finger twitch.
How many hot car hours have been spent in a parking lot,
the skin dries, the phone dies,
the spirit once lifted towards the outlines of the mountain peak now seeks memes, transcendent in their own right.
#bitterness #anger #rancor #revenge
Continue reading...

— The End —