Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
where's the rain-man? where's the rain-man? where's the rain-man (comparison)? oh wait, in the interpretation of art by feminism: successful artist... house, wife, children... no... chauvinism's interpretation: desolation, desolation, car-boot sale for the rich at sotheby's - or nietzsche the inspiring thought in benito mussolini's mouth.

after edging to provide legal guidance
for the turkish shop by exposing the
legal balance worth a public bench
enclosed in the turk's caravan,
i became known as mathias del rado
(turkçe parçaladı), deltore, de amore (amoré)
bull's charging eye amore... olé! amoré!
que sera, sera... c'est la vie... well,
i do enjoy drinking and pretending to have
my shadow partner in ping-pong
always win... but why would i need to
feed a common consensus of drinking /
****** who masturbated prior having
the scalpel into the soft kangaroo hand-replica
when society eagerly sells and taxes the stimulant?
they criminalise the escapees of reality
ranging from classification A, B to C...
alcoholics aren't even categorised as D... we're
the troupe labelled Z... yet we're the most
economic addicts, we don't deal with shady
warlord economy, just dull political economy...
the two disparage when one shoots you
in the head and the other talks about an opinion
being free from dialectics... an opinion
free from dialectics (akin to shelling,
bullets whizzing past) is what entrenched
the germans and the english in belgium.
loved the film Ida (2013) though, an oscar contender,
not really black narcissus (but that's not the point),
english language movies can't ever capture
the purest existentialism of loneliness,
the way Ida was shot, black & white...
the poverty of the landscape, the Hopper like
moments after serious moments, honing
on the stasis of the the world and movement of
beings... the way one went back to the nunnery
with the truth of being spared by her family's
killer who purposively dug the grave and gave
back the remains of his butchery...
her aunt's suicide that was almost a secondary
comedy of the everyday shattered vase
in dialogue: i'm sorry, i broke the vase,
but did anything happen to you? no...
then there's nothing broken! the way she did her
final routine the last time,
shagged drunk, woke up and forgot it wasn't
her father, took a bath, turned on music,
got dressed in a jacket, but nothing beneath the waist,
and just jumped out of the window...
the music continued playing, the camera froze
on the scene as an infinite number of things
could have happened... then the nun Ida
embodied her nun, took to wearing heels,
a dress, showing her hair, drinking *****
spiralling in a window-curtain, smoking,
embodying her last remnant connection to a past
of jewry, imaging whether she could live out
the temptations suggested by her aunt...
she ****** the saxophone player and while
in bed she asked with dogmatic undertones
of useful regime instilled in her from early on:
and then? and then?
'a dog, children... and after that life's problems,'
he answered her.
she woke early and donned her nun outfit
and with a sense of courage retreated into
the convent. i mean, a great film...
but then mr. turner came up:
painting used to be so expensive,
all the necessary chemists to give aquamarine pigments,
poetry used to be expensive too,
write a poem, send a 100 men into a godforsaken war...
now technology has enabled painting
to be cheap, so cheap that graffiti tagging with spray
does the trick on a concrete grey slab of canvas...
and so poetry has become cheap too,
emotions have cheapened, people do not really
have ennobling emotions that might quake
100 men to go to war... perhaps 10 down the pub,
but war? not really... but it still leaves me detached,
admiring vintage cars from the 20th century on the driveways,
the way the familial cars dwarf trade cars (white mini van, e.g.),
for example the *mercury 1956 montclair 4-door hardtop
,
or the ford zephyr zodiac mark ii "lowline" saloon,
back in the day when people didn't make their life
compact, when girls modelling where the day
of modern day pornstars rather than shaped like coat-hangers,
and when people didn't make their life compact
and holiday resorts from mexico to kenya to australia
also compact in terms of their generics of cloning.
Neon Robinson Oct 2016
Forgetting about that uptight blight.*

Emanate apathy
Unapologetically.*

Cheers to you Baby Jesus,
I'm all jacked up on pink Moscato; by noon.
Without a clue of what to do

Retreat to a beach
For a gala beset by an erubescent sunset.
What marry monarchs,
All clinquant, in gold light
All turn to heathens, in the night.  

Perpetually transfixed
By a curious mix of
Rhythmic eruptions & fevered delight
Like fairies & nymphs
Amidst the moon of misbehaving.

Wondering eyes are tantalized
You are luxurious, feral, **** boy personified.
I was mystified by the wild & eroticized by the style.
A Huckleberry Finn identical twin, ohhh but of course
— You had a Porsche.

But we were far from bonafide.

All is well,
Who really gives a ****, about a relationship cuff…
I was inherently drawn to the effervescence, of your soul.
Together in disconnected bubbles
Like a glass of champagne,
Sparkling to the surface effortlessly.

Daytime friends and nighttime lovers;
Nympholepts in retrospect,      
Carefully tip-toeing around
Blossoming curiously & compromising cantor.

Over winsome side-long looks
The burgundy hardtop drops down
Into my body & out of my mind

Tipsy daze were just foreplay
For the passionate midnight sexcapades.
A midsummer’s night moonlit dream
Manifested midst the trysts of Spring.

Every Sunday
Drinking champagne,
Not practicing self-restraint
Sneaking into private estates
Dive into the grotto pool.

Worshiping the Sun, not the saint.
My late night lover show me your wicked pagan birthright.
Two lonely hearts bonded over confessions in the dark.
enticed, take flight, in flight, sensationalized, ignite satisfy
Melissa Eleanore Jun 2014
Riding in a hardtop with a few friends.

Heads get groggy as grass burns between the lips
With every pull of the roach, it repossess the swelling at the tip.

My cranium fills with this potion sensation
hip rotation.
The air becomes dense
then everything makes sense;  
I have a roof over my head, but I hardly stand under it.
No wage
No claim that I am legal until the come of age.

Society reeks of imperfection.
Because society learns from received education

Rather than stepping into the natural world.
Where we stumble on honest situations, like meeting new friends.

I walk upon the concrete streets, freely.
The only routes I know are my true friends’ homes.
But my superego tells me that I am alone.
In this world I walk solo.
And my only soul purpose is to free my spirit.
Be free of mind while taking a hit.
ⒻⓄⓁⓁⓄⓌ➷➷➷
☓IG: Asteriart
Joseph Sep 2016
Take me away
In a nice Porsche
I'm gonna miss this place
But I gotta leave

Take me golfing and re-teach me standard
In your Porsche
Your beautiful 911 hardtop
That I'm creating in my head

Take me to the mountains
In a nice Porsche
We'll drive on the logging roads
And past the lakes
I cherish the ever changing music -
of familiar streams , the vivid palate of -
colors in Hill Country scenes
The warble of the robins in March ,
The clamor of rock bass in the evening -
marsh
The veracity of springtide bees
The burgeoning blossoms of plum ,
honeysuckle and peach tree
I relish the well worn trails leading to shady dales ,
The whitewash pit , the gravel byway and -
the split rail fence
The song of locust in the midday broomsage
A chorus of wren , sparrow and bluebird -
along the hardtop shoulders
The greeting of yardbirds at the -
homestead border ...
Copyright March 20 , 2018 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
StaticNSage May 2019
We’ve been receiving sentences of less than sentiment with clear confidence
Brutalized potential, children’s stories ***** in the age when dreaming is essential
The pawns glued
Chess moves and interrogation tables
Neglecting golden rules through platinum tooth
Lies or rhyme fables
To our sects to our roles but the fact is it’s all mute
We all sweat the belly ache for the food
When we get it
We full
Full bellies always embellish ****
Lick two for the proof, we seen dark days
So no aim straight up out the sun roof
Be it hardtop elements mentioned it
Ink for remembrance, predicaments resemble its
City wide
Past on a painting
Old jacks here know
Paint runs like a ***** when it’s brand new
It’s vastly over sold and boldly entertaining
The game speaks
Separation is dead ended for presidents
That same dialect sounding ignorant in conversations
Only folded to rubber bands stretching ****
If it’s all we ever hold beholden
Cook it on ***** tops
There are no hero’s in this ******
Assemble them fiends with dry cups
Mean mug the second thought
If one mans needing
The other man is getting it
Worldwide it’s brighter eyes dimming and thick on a cold world slipping
Visions are hazed and impatient
If one mans holding
The other one is taking
sandra wyllie Dec 2021
on the vine
plump and ripe
between the twine
hands came
and plucked me
tore my skin
and crushed me
till I broke
and bled
a river of red
bottled up
and labeled
made to sell
as old Clark Gable

I sat heavy
in his stomach
as indigestion
burning holes
with my questions
he couldn’t walk
so, he rolled
as a joint
and smoked me cold

I sat heavy
as dust on the furniture
of an abandoned house
you can draw letters
on my table
with a finger
write a note
it'll linger
for a fortnight
then disappear
out of sight

I sat heavy
as a ‘56 Chevy
painted blue
with a hardtop
and high mileage
but none volunteered
to be my pilot

— The End —