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AnnaStorm Dec 2014
Hvor er jeg alene med mine øjeblikke
Som jeg sidder her fyldt op med dem
Det kradser af dig i min hals
Men jeg kan ikke hoste nu
Hvor er jeg ene om at kende de ord
Hoste dem op og gengive dem
I mit øre er der stille som dødt vand
Men halsen er forlængst stoppet til
Jeg kan ikke tale, ikke fortælle
Og til hvem skulle jeg det
Som om øjeblikkene stoppede da du forsvandt
Jeg smager på dine mørke øjne
Og holder om dine ord til de sidder fast på min hånd
Klistrer som din stemme på mine læber
Min mund er tør
For du har taget det hele
Katrine Jul 2014
Tung er tiden
på mine øjenvipper
mindet tatoveret
under mine øjenlåg
hvert et blik
et polaroid
skal viftes i vinden
for at blive klart
du er utydelige arme
en skygge
om dagen, om natten et
kvælertag under spotlight
om natten fremkaldes
højdefineret lys på stribe
med lukkede øjne
ses illusionen klarest:
hver nat kysser du mig for første gang
men der skal mere til
for at vække publikums gunst
selv den 14-årige på første række
råber: KLICHÉ
så du lader dine skarpe fingre
vandre ned til mit bryst
mærke pulsen for sidste gang
inden instruktørers planlagte
uventede vendepunkt:
kolde hænder om min hals
nu knækker filmen
nu knækker
dit stemmebånd så du må hviske
det er ikke dig, det er mig
det ER virkelig mig
siger du
sig det gen
sig det så mange gange
at ordene bliver baggrundsmusik
så kan du måske selv høre
hvor lidt mening den sætning giver
til tonen af er hjerte der slår
men det eneste du hører
er instruktørers jubelråb
da dine hænder strammer til om min hals
herfra hvor vi står
kan vi fotograferes fra alle vinkler
og kaldes kunst
et unikum, et stjerneskud da
lyset forsvinder fra mine øjne og
jeg falder
ind i vågen tilstand
har jeg blå mærker
efter dine fingrerspidser
Anna Jul 2016
der er violer der gror i min hals.
de bliver vandet af røgen fra mine gule camel, men de vokser også af tårerne fra mine blå øjne.
jeg skænker ikke rigtig blomsterne en tanke, nej jeg ænser dem ikke.
jeg ved de altid vil gro sig større, selv når jeg ikke bemærker det.
jeg kan efterhånden genkende den kvælende fornemmelse. der er intet nyt i denne kvalme der breder sig.
trods jeg kender følelsen alt for godt
så rammer det mig stadig hårdere hver gang.
violerne i min hals har vokset sig absurd højt
og de smukke blomster kvæler mig
men hvad gør man
når man overvander blomster med sine tårer
og man græder for ofte?
Er legt die Nadel auf die Ader
und bittet die Musik herein
zwischen Hals und Unterarm
die Melodie fährt leise ins Gebein

Los! Los! Los!
Bop bop shu bop

Er hat die Augen zugemacht
in seinem Blut tobt eine Schlacht
ein Heer marschiert durch seinen Darm
die Eingeweide werden langsam warm

Los! Los! Los!
Bop bop shu bop

Nichts ist für dich
nichts war für dich
nichts bleibt für dich
für immer

Er nimmt die Nadel von der Ader
die Melodie fährt aus der Haut
Geigen brennen mit Gekreisch
Harfen schneiden sich ins Fleisch
er hat die Augen aufgemacht
doch er ist nicht aufgewacht

Nichts ist für dich
nichts war für dich
nichts bleibt für dich
für immer
-
He lays the needle in the vein
and he asks the music to come inside
between his throat and forearm
the melody travels softly in the bones

Go! Go! Go!
Bop bop shu bop

He has closed his eyes
a battle rages in his blood
an army marches through his bowel
the intestines become warm slowly

Go! Go! Go!
Bop bop shu bop

Nothing is for you
nothing was for you
nothing remains for you
forever

He takes the needle from the vein
the melody travels out of the skin
violins burn with shrieking
harps cut the flesh
he has opened his eyes
but he is not awake

Nothing is for you
nothing was for you
nothing remains for you
forever
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=clWpAaH0gNk
Dig
Måske er jeg blevet for god til at elske folk
der ikke elsker igen.
Dig.
Det er altid dig jeg skriver om og kysser
i min fantasi.
Du er **** art, og sådan et drag at se.
Jeg har ikke længere energi til at savne dig.
Din verdensfjerne tilstedeværelse har åbent min mavesæk
i skrigende sår.
Jeg kan umuligt sige nej, når dine læber presser på,
men mit hjerte er væk.
Jeg vil ikke mærke din hånds kærtegn eller de ivrige kys på min hals.
Jeg vil være alene.
Så lad mig lære at leve,
lad mig synke dybt. Dybere.
Mærke bunden og skrabe den i desperation.
Lad mine lunger oversvømme i det iskolde vand,
uden at trøste mig. For jeg vil ånde igen.
Jeg vil skrige skyerne ned fra himlen og lade mig begraves i dem.
Lad mine isblå negle være blå, lad mig skrige hjertet ud
i tusinde stykker,
for jeg kan ikke bløde mere.
Solen smelter. Plastik.
Når jeg kigger på himlen ser jeg dig, og tænker på om vi forsvinder sammen med den.
Men der er ikke noget vi.
Evigheden skal være uden dig.
Louise Ruen Oct 2016
“Feminism shouldn’t exist” the guy next to me in class tells me with conviction in his eyes. “Females have more rights than men, their period just makes them whiney as ****”

Well, you might not be a guy who walks around grabbing girls’ *****, believing that the clearly uncomfortable smile she send you, after you had starred non-stop at her for 5 minutes straight was consent.
Or a guy who comes up to a girl at prom not being able to understand that she doesn’t have a date because “all the guys I know would **** to pieces”
But just because you don’t do this (and THANK YOU for that), don’t ******* tell me these men don’t exsist, when each of every example in this poem is a different guy in my life..

You’re not the one who couldn’t walk down the school hals without 10 guys catcalling and starring  at your ***, all while you stare the floor.
I guess it’s my fault for wearing leggings or running pants, thinking it was a smart idea because I planned on going running later. Or at least that’s what I’m told at the guidance.
Unfortunately them not being ‘real pants’ doesn’t make your hands on them less real.

You’re not the one therefore starting to wear as baggy close as possible, because apparently that’s the way of escaping male gaze and more importantly hands, just to be met by comments going: “did you get up last minute this morning,” or “why did you give up trying? You used to dress so cute”
Trying on WHAT?
Yes, I am giving up, because I don’t know how to make you look into my eyes without giving me the elevator glance first.

But, I shouldn’t be complaining. Pretty girls don’t have anything to complain about – right?
They’re pretty, they’re going to do fine in life as long as the know how to take off their clothes.
Being pretty is the reason guys pay you attention, and you should be glad, cuz ugly get none.
So I’m taught to sit back and accept harassment, because the only other option is not getting is, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?
All while girls compete trying to become as pretty as me and all the other pretty girls.
Because it doesn’t matter how funny or smart you are as girl, if you aren’t pretty, it doesn’t really matter.
BUT, if you are, being smart is hot – not geeky, and any other slightly not good characteristic will be overlooked.
And taking off your clothes is a great tool to get your way.
Just accept life is easier you for, man.

But you misunderstood something.
Girl don’t try to be pretty to have that kind of ‘privilige’ or to get an easier life.
They try to be pretty, because it the only way you survive.
I DO realize that obviously people are more attracted to those considered 'pretty' and there's nothing wrong with finding a woman pretty - but the way you act on it might be wrong.
Also, I realize females start to objectify males more and more too, and obviously that's not any better. I'm just telling about my personal experience with what I consider innapropiate behaviour.
A MAN I praise that once in Tara's Hals
Said to the woman on his knees, "Lie still.
My hundredth year is at an end.  I think
That something is about to happen, I think
That the adventure of old age begins.
To many women I have said, ""Lie still,''
And given everything a woman needs,
A roof, good clothes, passion, love perhaps,
But never asked for love; should I ask that,
I shall be old indeed.'
Thereon the man
Went to the Sacred House and stood between
The golden plough and harrow and spoke aloud
That all attendants and the casual crowd might hear.
"God I have loved, but should I ask return
Of God or woman, the time were come to die.'
He bade, his hundred and first year at end,
Diggers and carpenters make grave and coffin;
Saw that the grave was deep, the coffin sound,
Summoned the generations of his house,
Lay in the coffin, stopped his breath and died.
Christina Sep 2014
hendes farveløse slappe mund
rodløs og opgivende
*** kysser min hals af kærlighed og uvidenhed
*** ved ikke bedre
hendes liv forsvandt for **** år siden
jeg kan mærke hendes desperate forsøg
*** anstrenger sig for at eksistere
om ikke andet så kan sorgen bringe os sammen
Christina Aug 2014
jeg går på knæ for dig allerede inden du spørger og jeg lægger mig på alle fire så du kan tømme din rådne samvittighed ind i min forladte krop, udover min livløse hud. hvis du ikke kvæler mig, så beder jeg dig om det, og du skal stramme til og lukke din hånd om min hals indtil du kan mærke livløsheden i mig, så jeg kan mærke at jeg er i live.
Natten omslutter os som ringe af stål.
Jeg vil se igennem dine øjne,
transparent hele vejen.
Gennembore dine organer og sprænge rygsøjlen.
Tåget og tung af medicin ser jeg dig.
Mørke og reptiløjne.
Kolde som sne. Kyniske.
Solsystemet danser over jorden af bregner.
Man er forpligtet til at tænke håbefuldt,
men jeg tænker ikke håbefuldt.
- men famler i blinde med kolde hænder.
Isblå negle og blodmangel.
Lad os gå sammen, tænker jeg,
men tier.
Sætter mig i stedet sammen med de andre
og vi klipper huller i hinandens hud.
Septembers fjerne varme sætter lys i mine øjne og
drager mig ud i natten.
Lyset erstattes af kulørt neon og tager pusten fra mig.
Der er en indebrændt stemme i min hals
og for enden af halsen sidder munden.
Tungen slår knuder og jeg kan næsten ikke,
men med sammenbidte tænder, skriger jeg.
Efter hvad aner jeg ikke.
Inhalerer det sidste marv ud af dagen
og hoster den ud med bræk.
Samfundet er dødt,
og jeg vil ikke længere forestille mig livet
med lungerne fyldte af kviksølv.
Jovist har vi været i det grønne. Jovist.
Jeg kom til festen i den sorte nat. Natten af ramaskrig.
Jeg ligger søvnløs i mælkevejen
diffust omsværmet af natteravne og stjerneskud.
Stjernedød.
Jeg lytter til deres stemmer,
ser dem igennem øjnene
og på et tidspunkt går jeg hjem.
llcb Mar 2016
Og det er jo ikke meningen at jeg skal græde på en tirsdag, fordi du siger højre og jeg siger venstre, men alligevel får du mig til at hade dig når jeg går under gadelamperne for at fylde min hals med røg fremfor råb, fordi jeg råber jo kun fordi jeg mener det og hader dig jo kun nu fordi jeg elsker dig om 5 minutter, men alligevel, hvorfor skal vi altid sætte ild til hinanden før vi ved hvor meget vi begge brænder for det her?
Endnu en aften
hvor jeg sidder med glasskår på mine øjenvipper.
Jeg tror ikke på tårer.
Nuancer af glæde tegnes i dine øjne.
Sideeffekter af jalousi og smerte.
Du siger, at månen dør og dine stemme splintres
- som var det os.
Alle vores løgne og billig *****
under beskidte, isblå negle.
Dine hænder på mine ribben sender stød igennem min krop og
knækker min krogede rygsøjle som var den af vinyl.
Jeg kysser din nøgne hals til live.
Vores vener lyser natten op.
Trætoppene over os; er det eneste, der holder os nede.
De siger, at blå øjne er farlige,
og jeg lovede ikke at blive afhængig.
men det er anderledes nu.
Her står vi så.
Med kindben lavet af begær som var det ******.
Men verden har sit greb om os.
Der er ingen EXIT ZER0.
Vi er tvunget til at blive stående. I koma.
Under trætoppene i oktober-regn.
Det er vores eskapisme.
Vi har intet andet.
Når vi går hjem,
kan jeg spejle mig i blank kaffe og drømme.
Tankespind af brandsår og stjerneregn.
til vi ses igen.
Anna Dec 2014
mine hænder dufter af lavendel
det minder mig om da de engang var flettet ind i dine
jeg savner smagen af dine læber,
fordi de smagte så godt af vanilje
min parfume er så tung at den fylder hele bussen
fordi du engang
plantede kys langs min hals
som stadig hænger ved
og følger mig overalt
og fylder hele københavn
med sødme og citrus
dufte er også mere end 100 ord
Cecilie Andersen Aug 2015
Du bidder i din underlæbe til den er helt blodig og hudløs.
Dine hænder er gemt inde i dine alt for lange ærmer.
Neglelakken farver dine nedbidte negle grå, den er halvt afpillet og krakeleret, så der kun er en lille plet af grå tilbage. Dine øjne er mere røde end blå og de ser ned på dine sammenkrøllede tær og skæve fødder. Dit blonde hår er uglet efter et forsøg på at rive det ud af din blege blødende hovedbund i frustration. Du skriger, men skrigene når ikke ud til nogen. Bare der var nogen der ville fortælle dig at det du prøver at flygte fra er noget indeni. Det kommer krybende op igennem din ømme mave på de mest uventede tidspunkter. Den kryber sig videre op til din hals og den kvæler dig så du bliver nødt til at snappe efter vejret. Du tænker, men tankerne er kun disse negative tanker som du så *** får når du er alene om natten under din ikke så varme dyne. Du kan flygte så længe du vil, men den vil altid være i dig.
llcb Dec 2015
..
Lyskæder der lyser blødt, bløde øjne der lyser skarpt, knuder på hørertelefonerne, brænder tungen på kaffe kl. 7, vennen, fuckelifuck, volapyk og glimmerkjoler, hold i nakken, høj musik, hovedpine, søde ord og onde suk og summende sange og orden i oldnoter, vi er bare venner, blege fregner, -1 grad, 50 kr. i timen, sammenligning og hypoteser i samfundsfag og helvede, brede veje, denimjakke i december, skrabelodder uden gevinst, *****/sprite, god morgen?, køretimer, ord der rimer, drenge der griner, spader der sviner, utømte opvaskemaskiner og søskende som smasker, ømme hæle, kysser min hals, små lure, uskyldige idioter, løber for at nå toget 15:37, tømmermænd og tomme drenge, porcelænstallerken og det er da en meget fin verden.
de hvide tænder, smilende, smilende, smilende
de hvide tennissokker, hvide jakker, hvide sneakers
den hvide indpakning
renhedens farve
den hvide sjæl
den hvide skyld
plet-søgende
uskyldige konnotationer
som gnisten, der brænder landsbyen ned
snebolden, der sender lavinen afsted
lying through your white teeth
med dit skyldfrie white-collar work
pletfri samvittighed
hvide perler på snor om den hvide hals, skinnende med berettigelse
tilegne sig hvide lagner og hvidt marmor og hvide checks
korruptionens farve
med imperialismens skyldbølger, brusende ind over den privatiserede strand for hver en afblegning af hud der foregår i sydafrika

for hver af de 1/3 kvinders anvendelse af kemiske cremer indeholdende blandt andet kviksølv falder et blad af det indhegnede friserede haveareals træ til jorden

white man's burden og hvide menneskers indlærte fremmedgørelse
hvidt hvidt hvidt hvidt kridhvidt
llcb Nov 2016
z


Alt er så fint i stil          heden her lige nu        
hvor du ligger til         venstre for mig og        
dynen er så varm          og brisen fra den          
skarpe luft uden          for lister igennem          

vinduet og triller ned ad mit højre ben, så det fun  
gerer som luftrør for resten af min glade krop. Det
er virkelig fint at ligge her og det er virkelig rart    
at du ligger der. Med dit hoved gravet ind mellem
min skulder og hals og det kilder næsten når du ån
der ud. Jeg kan høre dit åndedrat tydeligt og  det ly
der roligt. Bekvemt. Beroligende. Jeg ved ikke hvor
længe vi kan ligge fint her i stilheden. Du vågner    
nok om lidt og går ud for at tisse og så er det ikke  
det samme som lige nu, ellers ringer det sikkert på
døren, ellers begynder jeg sikkert at blive sulten ind
en for en times tid. Det er bare ærgerligt når det er  
så fint at ligge lige her og det er så rart at du ligger  

lige der.
Louise Sep 2016
og med et enkelt **** i luften
svævede jeg hele vejen hjem
gav slip
på alle mine uforklarlige tanker
om os to
fordi jeg så dig jo
for fanden hvor jeg så jer
da du så fint placerede
dine perfekte læber mod hans
som for ham måske var en lynhurtig scoring
men for mig
en oase af tårer
efterfulgt af [sangen] på repeat
og sorg løbende helt ned igennem mine forfrosne fingerspidser
ligeledes brændende på mine våde kinder
og overalt i min krop
over dig
og jeg selv lige så
jeg stivnede
luftgennemgangen i min hals
slog dobbeltknuder
de dobbeltknuder du har lært mig
jeg fandt fænomenet i at trække vejret
som umuligt
ligesom alt andet er
fuldstændig umuligt
en kort spillefilmsscene
printet dybt i mit sind
jeg ryster og skælver ved tanken om
øjeblikket jeg så jer
og dine øjne fangede mine i mørket
og trængte helt indtil det dybeste sted i mig
hvad tænkte du egentlig?
da du så lige igennem mig
kunne du se smerten i mine øjne?
jeg husker mit syn som utroligt sløret den aften
men i dét øjeblik, har det aldrig været skarpere
llcb Oct 2017
*** var ligesom hendes billeder. Underbukser og bare bryster som *** stod der i dørkammen. Ikke ude på noget udover at høre om jeg ville have mælk i kaffen. Bare der med lettere brun hud og få blå mærker. Og håret i en hårklemme så jeg kunne se hendes lige skuldre og lige kraveben der rakte ud fra hendes hals til arme. Klare, let puffede øjne og varme kinder af nattesøvn. Og blikket på mig.

Jeg tror ikke på kærlighed ved første blik. Men jeg tror på kærlighed. Og i det blik. Øjeblik. Blev jeg forelsket.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: hinter
body: poppyland..
           asp... bite...
             shadow... hind.


- an outburst after a short hiatus, stiff fingers: tongue-numbing -

last time i checked, there is a hybrid flu hitting
the body-market of viral infections,
thank god i didn't get a headache, but... all the rest of it...
flu usually arrives just before winter,
again, the seasonal shock to the body...
but this one arrived in reverse...
it's un-thought of to succumb to these ills with the coming
of spring... but... i'm proof...
i even tested positive for Covid: even though
i've been vaccinated...

i should think is absolutely necessary -
to be in this state of health and to see language:
disintegrate into a less and less formality -
   only a month or so ago i had to return to the formality
of language: i can't remember the last time
i wrote a letter with some official purpose:
a complain or whatever it might have been...
but i do remember the agony of utilising such language:
a language of verbs rather than a language
of nouns... imploring someone to do X...
      i'm sitting here glum: spring comes with the flu:
the bones ache, the nose is filled strange sticky snot...
the muscles ache, i'm guessing:
one of those great big dips in lethargy before
the great reinvigoration of the impeding three seasons...
it's almost as i have been hibernating...
i'm not getting to the life outside speeding up...
the insects have already woken,
the birds are more jittery... chatter at 5am...
the clocks have been moved forward by an hour...
and how i miss... what begins around November
proper... at the end of the month...
everything slows down...
             now... everything is picking up pace again
and i've come sick / late to the party...
come the Easter celebration with eggs...
            i am absolutely devoid of a need to celebrate...
perhaps writing during a period of physical sickness
feels a bit like ingesting some magic mushroom...
pickled-jar of brain...
    murky eyes... sticky-glass eyes...
perhaps rereading something by Charles Olson might
help... i still can't buy a physical copy
of the Maximus Poems...
          what would i settle for? the complete collection
of Philip Lamantia's poems?
   i remember the first time i fell in love
with Sestina: Altaforte - and that's contained in
Ezra's personae...
              i'm weak: my imagination is rot...
perhaps some Al Purdy will save me...
            
the suggestion was: to drink more...
       more whiskey, eh?
                    yes... three days sort of zombie-esque...
strange phlegm... loss of appetite...
for a moment prior to heading for a shift
on Saturday at Wembley... i could swear i lost my
sense of taste and smell... mostly the smell...
but hell... i wasn't going to miss out on earning so extra
cash... spread the love: biological "weapon" that
i became: back to the usual reality of...
virus carrier... carrier of: only the strongest will
survive... i'm no small guy... and if it hit me that hard...
it felt like... the first time i received my first
Covid vaccination... back to the usual: achtung! achtung!
testen! testen!
usual **** at work... i came late to the party...
people have decided to create  hierarchy of
incompetence... on the lower levels: through...
familiarity... "friendship"...
         one of the girls who was supposed to do register
****** off and i was put next to the owner of the company
helping him out...
we ploughed through... later on in my ****** little
position... a "supervisor" should have come up
to me and asked me switch position...
but instead... oh... this guy ought to be *****-slapped...
this ******* hierarchy of steward
   and SIA badged... at least stewards ought to be trained
to diffuse the situation without getting an SIA
hard-on for physical confrontation...
       smile... utilise the body language as non-verbally
as possible... i've had no trouble...
    i look around... taking my sandwich break...
two stewards: oh... because they're supposedly "friendly"
with the female supervisor come around behind
her and slap her ***...
    the "reality" online and the "reality" online...
sure... this is not some office-tech-start-up with protective
rights of employees... banter at work...
but... what sort of a supervisor is a woman that allows
units of work beneath her... allow them...
to walk behind her and slap / pinch her ***?
supervising what?
   i already know this authority / hierarchy game is fake...
you just get a different coloured bib and that's that...
it's veneer... at the end of the day:
you police yourself: whether or not you're performing...
but i wasn't supposed to sit next to the company
co-owner and perform the register...
free-loaders... someone else was supposed to do that...
i can't complain... i like spelling... and sieving through
names... on cards... mind you...
i got away with sitting on a chair for...
an extra 3 hours i would have otherwise spent standing...
trying to make small, tiny... pointless conversation...
i checked the balance the next day...
i weighed in at around 100kg before the shift...
the next day... in at 98kg...
i don't even lose that much when cycling for 2 hours...
i couldn't imagine it: what... just standing...
but my father did warn me...
when he was part of the ornamental guard in the ******
army... standing shifts beside the Grave of the Unknown
Soldier... standing in one place for hours on end
is as much exercise as... running around...
if not more... since... well... you have to figure out...
how's the blood going to circulate to your toes?!
when you're not moving your legs?
thank god i'm only doing this work to get good
references... it's all a little ******* to me...
first few shifts were novel... a novel idea...
              but i'm turning into a salamander... well... no...
i've always been a little of a chameleon...
i adapt to what pleases me:
and what pleases me... more observation...
     i need to suss out the dynamic...
                these people are "friends"...
oh... like the last time i played those girls off on each
other... when one spoke liable against me...
blah blah and i said to the other:
the ****** proverb... liars don't walk on stilts...
they're still asking me... she blocked you?
do i look like someone who cares
about a missed romantic possibility?
i've already seen her walking the dog with some other guy...
oh... much younger than me...
unimpressive... hey... that's free will...
perhaps we don't have it...
but we do have it... within the confines of the dynamic
the self and... the other...
i can't control the other... plus those visists in
the brothel sort of smoothed things over...
i found the ****-of-my-life... and it only took me...
14 years since the last: ****-of-my-life...
i like keeping that joker card in the back of my mind
when women at work pretend to flirt with me...
in my mind there's this line...     you what?!
i'm sorry...            you want to go where i've been?
work is... *******... i figured long enough
that... little pointless hierarchies exist...
so? become the teacher's pet...
do the register with him when the person that was
supposed to do it bails out...
let him find you later on and thank you...
oh... because the game is still getting played...
patience... time... quasi-geology... pressure...
the pressure is yet to be employed...

terrible three days though... i abhor feeling weak...
esp. from something that should only affect me
in my 60s... but we're living in a time of hybrid
infections... the feeling of weakness
and the immediate harm it brings on the body
to be incapable to: not even be imaginative...
but narrative capable...
   and if this guy asks me for a lift to Wembley...
on Tuesday... £10 to be dropped off at some inconvenient
place... while he drops all the female workers
at their homes... you what?
you can drop these ******* off at their homes...
but can't drop me at a petrol station that's as much
convenient for you as it is for me?
guess what!
on a week day... i can get a train from Romford
to Liverpool St. - i'm i'm lucky and get the quick one...
20min...
   and then... the Metropolitan Line from Liverpool St.
to Wembley Park... another 20min...
done... plus... the politics of: who sits where in the car...
oh sure sure... if it's a girl... she needs to sit
in the front... *******... **** that...
but i do... i really do... my agreeable veneer...
i'm into masks... all that's missing in my closet
is a ******* latex suit to perform **** fantasies...
it takes me less via train and less money than
to be given a lift... and watch... as the female coworkers
get dropped off at their doorsteps i have to quickly
jump off at a bus-stop and get the bus home...
        i prefer going there solo... i don't mind the commute...
it does me good: there's no one to talk to...
perfecto!
                   i hate putting on these masks...
i just put them on to orientate myself around the sort
of tension i could generate if i didn't cling to reservations...
i've seen myself snap spontanepusly...
once...
             i was walking around Brick Lane randomly
looking for a *******... picked up this Asian...
felt like drinking with someone...
   we ended up walking into an alley just of the Lane
and he snatched my mobile from my hand...
and i was like: what do you think you're doing?
he replied: i'm taking your phone...
i think that's when my iris and my sclera in my eyes
disappeared... my eyes turned pure ink...
i snatched the phone from his hand
and HOWLED: NOW TURN AROUND AND
LOOK AT YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL!
howled? growled? i remember that i didn't use any
violence... i remember his face being petrified
at my "wording"... then walking down Brick Lane
kneeling, lamenting... screaming the word: All-Ah...
just before the Syrian civil war took place...
it looks weird in my mind now...
   Al-ah-ah-ah...         people tried to ring for an ambulance
but i just ran away into a graveyard like
a Frankenstein...    
             i wish i punched him... but instead...
i petrified him... i even talked to my grandfather's
psychiatrist about this encounter...
when can man have the capacity to scare another man
by merely shouting in such a way with
such a ferocity that the other freezes?!
                     what, with the words:
NOW LOOK AT YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL?!

it's always a waiting game of sort... in any age-environment,
when... the work doesn't require much skill...
this work doesn't require much skill...
it's just a stalling game i'm playing...
it just gives me an excuse to work
so that the people i live with can get off my back
for writing but not getting paid...
who's going to get paid from writing like this...
these days...

/ am himmel dunkle wolken ziehen
ich nehme artig meine medizin
und warte hier im daunenbett
bis die sonne untergeht

und dann reiß’ ich der puppe den kopf ab
dann reiß’ ich der puppe den kopf ab
ja, ich beiß’ der puppe den hals ab
es geht mir nicht gut

ich reiß’ der puppe den kopf ab
ja, ich reiß’ der puppe den kopf ab
end dann beiß’ ich der puppe den hals ab
es geht mir nicht gut … nein
dam-dam                                        /

their most accomplished album... by my standards...
lyrics from Rammstein's untitled album...
the best song on the album...

what a worn event of: when some selected where
disclosed the parameters of closure of
literacy and numeracy...
but now?! everyone is either "literatre" or "numerate":
but... are they? no... they're really not...
it's a nice looking veneer...
             you can pretend to have manage
a 100% literacy... but you're not going to accomplish
it... add a spin of having to make people c0d%e}
             no chance of that happening...
over-educating the mass population when
the mass of the population are built for menial tasks
they can fulfill: quickly as they learn them:
to as quickly forget forget about them...
to subsequently have outlets of entertainment as
quickly allowing them to forget everything else...
no one insulating anyone's intelligence...
i'm just insulting... the logistics supervisors...
managers... if i were in the right sort of position...
i'd encourage these poor pawns:
you are expected to be bored on your job...
ever think about thinking about a cinema of memory?
flash-backs? not everyone is going to be focused on...
the job in tow... a heart-surgeon...
but it would be nice to find some people to be awake...
in posit... coordinate within the confines
of your vicinity... rather than simply switching off...
the current work i'm doing is not work...
a tree does more work than i do...
i wish i could think myself as a poet...
no one pays for music, no one is going to pay
for poetry...
             sooner paying for bullets than words
in verse...
                                  i'm idiotically investing in a future
i will never see...
        but thank god for that...
to manoeuvre around finding fame while being
propped up by some function in sport or some
infamy in the shady regions of society: some reputation...
ugh... all that bothersome psychological interest:
but i thought we had no soul?!
   i don't think i could stomach fame...
when... once upon a time... fame... took time...
there was no profiling... there was no immediacy
of recognition... a person's face wasn't made famous...
his name was... no one recognised a famous person
once upon a time... not his face...
but... if you said a name... oh... then... then they would...
recognise the person...
what a glorious time...

and sure... now i'm seeing the old... who were once young...
veer off into their crippling veneer of old age...
pretend: arbeit macht frei doesn't apply to them:
they had all their fun...
i'm what? not going to have fun either?
if the older generation had their fun...
i'm... going to have m fun too...
not as freely... obviously...
i much prefer prostitutes than these supposed
freely available women...
they're not going to be English...
or H'American hard to get types...
Turkic...
               no... i'm not going to be climbing up
the hierarchies of men... either...
i'm going to be looking for ways to bypass that...
i walk around a supermarket and
start thinking:
the sort of men... that bred...
with this choice of... gargoyles...
      thank god i haven't invested...
seriously... my time, my *****: my effort...
weak men who don't know what to do when
they're alone...
   unimaginative men...
             men who couldn't possibly enjoy
cycling alone... i sort of passed this hybrid flu
by getting stuck into work: oink... oink...
i smilled... i played nice...
it's a nice... mask...
    es ist ein schönmaske...
              ich: lächeln...
                            and in a game of poker...
you... show your cards to your opponents, no?
i'm sieving, i'm fishing...
    i'm sifting through...
             this work doesn't pay enough for me to care
for it being more than a gig economy...
like i said... i'm just waiting...
i'm waiting...
                   i've been educated a tier above
all these idiots who think they can dictate minor
issues in spatial coordination...
     you know what i think about...
leeching their skins off...
little critters... i conjure up an Ed Gein thinking
about what... sort of ******* worth of hierarchies they
have conjured for themselves...
i want to... scratch their skins off...
for playing the petty-****-heads they are
attempting... to be... american head charge:
                  set yourself on fire...
         no... some purple dye haired pseudo-supervisor
is not really bothering me...
i don't think i could **** her...
              no... i don't think i could...
        she has a ****** life he keeps recounting...
but at the same time telling everyone else i misheard:
DARLING with DADDY...
   *****... drop it... drop it... seriously...
             you keep at it... it was funny the first two: times...
that's why i like keeping the joker card...
when in a workplace... make sure you're interacted
with a *******... ergo? when working with women?
sure... they approach you... but what position are they
approaching you from?
freely available? readily available?!
they are coworkers?! are they prostitutes?!
no answer... "confusion"...

            dig: tow: daughter... some... steel.
agnes Jul 2021
han
jag skulle ljuga om jag inte erkände att jag minns dig
jag minns hur din famn var som en vagga för min trötta kropp
jag minns hur ditt leende satte ett stopp på allt jag trodde att jag var
för med dig så räckte inte mina andetag eller trösten jag trodde skulle göra dig hel
det räckte inte med maten jag fyllde din kyl med eller när jag träffade dina vänner som kollade på tjejer som om de vore tårtor i ett skyltfönster
precis som du gjorde

du höll upp mig med ett snöre med saxen nära till hands
snälla klipp ner mig och låt mig träffa marken innan du hinner skada mig igen
tänk om jag hade sagt så
tänk om jag sa åt dig att sluta
istället lät du mig vakna i fläckar av blod och i en kropp som inte längre kändes som min
men du lät mig aldrig vara ledsen för det var ju din själ som skulle vara trasig
det var ju du som förtjänade sympati
för en gång sa du ju
                                      f ö r l å t
och om jag inte säger okej till allt du vill så är det mitt eget fel
det är mitt fel att dina ögon inte längre är blå
men att mitt lår är lila från ditt grepp

jag minns den mörka parkeringsplatsen och hur jag gick från skratt till chock av din hand runt min hals
tänk om det hade varit suddigt som en dröm
istället minns jag mer än jag önskar
hur allt var så naturligt och självklart för dig
och då var det redan för sent att säga nej
min rygg mot din vägg blev min plats och jag skämdes över såren som du skapade
för kanske var det jag som låtit dem ta form
smärta
du bar en mantel av svek och ändå kunde jag inte se igenom dig

din skönhet försvann i ögonblicket mitt namn och våldtäkt nämndes i samma mening
men även nu känns det fortfarande som att jag vill säga okej
att allt är...
                    okej
Daan Jul 2019
Wil je bij me komen liggen?
Als biggen aan de trog,
mijn ledematen log,
leden zwaar
en lid zo licht als
op en neer veren.

Waar de hals zo zacht bedrukt
mijn lippen durft ontmoeten,
daar wil ik je lief ontzoeten.
Nikki May 2020
Ik voel de lucht veranderen
ze voelt vochtig aan op mijn blote huid
Ik snak naar adem
als de wind me meevoert
en me laat zweven

Maar als de eerste druppel zijn bestemming bereikt
zet ze me zachtjes weer op de grond
Ik spreid mijn armen,
sluit m’n ogen
en wacht af

Ik voel ze,
één voor één raken ze me aan,
strelen ze m’n armen,
knuffelen ze m’n hals
en kussen ze m’n lippen
tot geen plekje nog droog is
I saunter through the silent square alone.
The cobblestones gleam from the misty moon.
Midnight, or so I think; the time’s unknown.
A trip to Bruges, where flower boxes bloom,
And canals spout beauty to make you groan
In awe of how the Lowlands can swoon
Under simple charms: an enlightened tone.
In the moonlight, St. Bartholomew’s looms,
A ship for lost souls; its deck made of stone.
Frans Hals, the portrait painter, will sail soon
To the studio where his art was honed.
Haarlem has a legacy, hid at noon;
Only in the dark have its treasures shone.
As dawn nears, the great reversal comes soon.

— The End —