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Julian Oct 2016
Afflatus screams in mellifluous moonlight by a placid pond
Disturbed slightly by a miracle on ice deloused at a heavy price
Pantechnicons swarm as ghosts maraud around the outskirts of the forest
Suddenly the resurrected memories of renegades become conscientious
Angels swarm with fluttered wings invisible to the albatross of opprobrium
They concert themselves with chirpy dreams, itinerant crumples of amnesia creams
Marigolds are miracles at the most opportune time to be called a hysteria
Asserting the divinity of trinkets applauded that litter history with euphoria
Flinch my core, drunk on the travesty of stodgy moralism unfurled zero kelvin cold
But Salt Lake City towers above my contemplations and UFOs make themselves known
Every city this big is well in eternity and maternity very well known
Shelter not from husbandry, for Babylon is no longer idolatry
Stemwinders and poltroons with prisons crooned
Tyrannosaurus Rex still terrorizes aliens and humans alike on a stranded Dark Side of the Moon
Pink is the ****** of Mayweather and Mayflower, so rigid in rock-a-by-baby tunes
Now is "Never" but TV time "When The Music’s Over" is Bang Bane rather than Boom
Hostage tickets of English hecklers proclaiming my royalty serenade the forest green
I hear their laments of the rumors ballyhoo obscene
Imagine a forest bright, trepidation of unlikely marauders of Viking spite
Spates of jinx own the tanks, sharks (jaws of these aliens in time "Thriller") evanesce as fluttered cameras blink
Marigolds are really miracles as euphoria that plangent has never been so bold
It owned the night and owed nothing of fright to hear aliens chirp ******* penetrated so tight
To hear the orchestra of God’s minions applaud my albatross receding in plight
The swiftest musketeer aims his gun at an AIMed pun
The renegade blackmail is the rut of a guttural wedding of a none and a nun
How sad that she waits, as a ragamuffin of eternal wraiths
That speak to her dreams specifically as a barnacle waif
Genius eludes the moment of sinking eternity and Van Gogh alpenglow
Cracked screens reap grime and grim preachers that reap what they sow
Accentuated stature of imposture clutters legends urbane with glowing silt
Rigmarole of laughingstock circus with the strangest 25-year old days of a dead man Wilt
It was the steward of a day too strange to forget
It was the Newark of a Jersey of Gretzky #99, a hard-won bet
Histrionic of history, an underappreciated music is a well-worn divinity
The best music ever is the best music of time-traveled complicity
Sadly lost on inferior ears is the plangent flow of sonorous pantheons
Lost on an island of good taste in a world that prizes prosaic mellow eons
Rather than delicate paeans with hummingbird simplicity
I resent how rare my taste is in an olfactory of waste
How rare a smell is that yegg harder to lambaste
Don’t gibber the jibe of jive-talking stalk
The scarecrow in Back to the Future is a ******* heckler hawk
Rarefied abduction of stolen keys of NYPD sprees
To drivel the wharf of piedmont rifts in Heaven’s eternal leaves
Time to step back from the sidewinder missive
Time to crack the gravy epistle so dismissive
Non-linear experiments in time and memory crave recognition
Finally I learn that house arrest is a Home Alone good enough for a virtual reality prison
NRIKO Aug 2018
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating
yellow form of your feelings I mistook
For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler
far and far away from
Accepting fruition within classrooms and
being labelled as an angel.
And it was within forbidden hell of
euphoria, I found
You nestled in the society’s psyche
neither content or calling
For help. Neither did you neglect the
pink spectacles of the society,
Even found yourself moulding and moulding
into a fungi green
That I could not recognize, within that
half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you
absentmindedly
Bathing in, you were already out of
its waters.
And I was no longer seeing you within
the dry desert or the sibilance
of my desires, but instead
in cement woodlands and
Within artificial communication and
Intimacy I gave willingly.
Now how does it feel, to have your
heart in one piece,
How does it feel to not use
whipped cream to fill in the
Cracked, salty sections of your
own ***** that,
Out of confusion, continues to
play its favorite song but
in all the wrong beats.
Somehow within cacophony I found
you, nestled, comfortable in
Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former
angel- who now weeps under our
Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere,
I lost you within an epiphany
That reeked of bliss and pleasure-
Somehow, we end up losing
Twins of the heavens when all is well.
How wonderful.
How wonderful it is, I say, to your
lost, secretly-weeping figure
That I can’t tell whether transparent or
yellow your figure is.
But I keep speaking-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To love the first angel I’ve set
my eyes upon-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”

- enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
a few songs can capture the modern sense of urbanity, and the
apocalyptic 5 a.m. of London - but i've become estranged from
that sort of neon addiction - there's no syringe involved,
no amateur photographers on the ready, either -
yes, a man of great love, but also of great contempt:
and that goes hand in hand.
the favourite memory of my first year at Edinburgh?
eating haggis neeps and tatties at the ***** ****'s
pub on the royal mile - followed by shots of whiskey -
in my student accommodation,
placing the amp on the windowsill, the window open,
and just jamming out far removed Nirvana solos
with a few spectators: modern day equivalent:
of mad max flamethrower guitar freak -
losing my virginity to Isabella: psychology 3rd year
exchange student - from Grenoble - France,
yep, not the ******* Himalayas - the Alps...
the lacrosse initiation ceremony in lycra shorts:
back then i'd be a stumbling buffoon after a bottle
of whiskey... these days? well, usually a closing
poem at 5 a.m. - minding the cats to come home
after spending it out in the cool on a sultry night -
i wasn't serious about the lacrosse -
jeez: the meat in this place is stuffing me -
get out before they tell you to buy your own gear:
team or group mentality? never got it -
soloist pronto - pronto andante - chirpier that way,
getting the whiff of the bubbly without stand-up:
imagine a sit-down comedian... hard to imagine.
the gym... oh **** me the gym...
you know, i knew a guy in first year that only managed
to cook up plain pasta, with salt... plain pasta
with salt... another guy ate spaghetti with
tomato sauce all year round... in the last week he
added meat to the mix... not trying to brag:
i'm even going to mention what i cooked -
                    i was living with horror seeing these
boys adapt to: mommy not here, mommy out to lunch...
daddy not here, daddy out to crunch out the income...
well... apart from the rich puppies who chose
catering accommodation, turning university
into a school with a pristine canteen - canned teens -
just as much - so if i wrote cantine you'd say:
canned thyme? how the hell does that work:
i abuse language, language doesn't abuse me -
i don't need cushions surround words like
()()()()()****()()()()() - better? much better -
hush the angry words out! use the sterilisers -
maybe that's why i never experienced anything bad
using the internet - honesty and bluntness -
maybe i shouldn't have said that. or that's just lucky.
princess and the pea and the 100 mattresses
and a fickle *** - ah itchy! it's pinching! it's pinching!
100 mattresses and still the ****** pea.
then again, staying up all night, then deciding to
climb Arthur's Seat at dawn, getting there, then
climbing down and going to Tesco at 7 a.m. to buy
cornflakes and full fat milk... that was something;
but you know what i'm really thinking about?
it's no longer a maxim, it's a cliche -
               but i'm thinking about it in mathematical
terms -                                from the verb
                           on one side, to the posit or inertia
on the other - there's no grammatical version of what
really becomes a pentagon with five attachment points
primarily - a cul de sac of facts -
                                                            but­ mingling with
grammatical categorisation nonetheless -
          but what i'm thinking about it how to make it
simpler, to use mathematical notation:
i.e.
               i think is an expression
                                       worthy of about 1 centimetre,
  given that thought is a marathon -
                   but i'll just say: could it be anything but
  so differentiated increment divisibility to
              thus provide a sigma? although the expression
is hardly an ad continuum - at some point you
stop thinking, hence to differentiate i think is assuredly
a way to say: well, not constantly - meaning thought
   is not a continuum - and can be talked about in the
same was as talk of god: that's where i place the prime
of ethical action - it's not god... i don't ascribe ethical
action in that direction: just too easy, whatnot with hell
and heaven and goody two shoes waiting for the
big spark of magic or applause and the heckler: well done!
god, dry humour is the best - sarcasm is dry humour -
satire is wet humour... and other than that?
               slapstick, nothing too witty, i hate witty comedy,
they always need canned laughter:
at least slapstick humour makes the effort for you too
make an effort... and it sometimes hurts, so it's real,
when you start flexing that abdomen and get a six smiley
faces on the torso.                anyway,
              looking at my **** it really dawned on me:
  (by the way, Descartes wasn't really out to prove he existed,
   someone thought he did, he was trying to work out a
proof for something that someone else would pick up
   and elaborate)             i think is but a centimetre
                              compared to the marathon of thought -
(sizes in this scenario is perfectly compatible) -
          meaning that               i am          (italics?
emphasis on these to expressions being unitary) is but
                 another centimetre compared to the marathon
   of being                                    or the Antarctic expedition
                      of non-being: i.e. not necessarily
   assembling: what if i wasn't here... but more like:
              what if i did something differently -
again, flea market questions -                        why bother?
    come to think of it: the former unit is more simpler
to encompass - although i agree that the former translates
into the latter: thinking proves i exist,
                            because ex omni instances
         (out of all), there's an equal compatible expression
of mutual exclusiveness: thinking - the two together are
juxtaposed to be allowed a kind relativism -
      but whereas the latter (i am) unit is not only plagued
by the nearest pentagonal absorption via the senses,
but also a definite article / articulation of so many posits
of expression: multiplex verb -
                  the former (i think) unit isn't:
a. plagued by the pentagonal... blah blah blah...
             but rather by a mandala of faculties:
   imagining things, remembering things, dreaming things,
               maybe i shouldn't have said that?
   who knows -
                             the basic thought was
about:           i think is but a centimetre compared
                               to a marathon of thought - a minor fact -
   i am is but a centimetre compared to a marathon of being -
     and to be honest: very few people would take
courage in understanding this glib in the sigma of all things -
imagine football hooligans equipped with this potential...
i can't: i was watching the Everton v. Sunderland today,
and all i could hear was the chant: YANNICK BOLAISE!
            YANNICK BOLAISE! YANNICK BOLAISE!
yes, this kind of writing is a paper mâché -
or a vegetarian starter - but, you know, if you don't
try something new, you'll definitely win a Pulitzer Prize...
  if you don't like it? chop chop, on you go.
i know Descartes wasn't wrong, and i know that
cogito ergo sum wasn't intended to prove anything -
but it did prove a founding block for existentialism,
that's where all existentialists take a **** - Descartes
is the dump where Sartre wrote his being & nothingness,
and Heidegger his being & time...
                        well, key ingredient in someone writing
a sophisticated aversion to time: space, would probably
write something about sitting next to someone on a tube
and writing about sardines and livestock -
                           humanity as a virus, etc. etc.,
   compared with someone writing and thinking out
a statement of: well, isn't this marvellous - so far apart
and clean, and solitary and chuckles.
    i just wanted to use the mathematical comparison,
deviating from the pivot                   therefore     -
   away from each of the unit's verbs and adjective attachments -
  i just wanted to stress that each respective facts,
  are but a centimetre of expression,
   compared with what each evolves into - a marathon
on either side - perhaps it's because that's a necessary building
block to something greater: i can't complain that being
aware of this fact is a hindering beginning -
       i'm not saying that being aware of this maxim is
somehow going to improve your contentment with life -
    geometrically it's not like
                                                      horizo­ntal left to right -
more like vertical left to left-up and right to right-up
             and never therefore - for a reason,
consequently... but rather in parallelism -
                   for no reason whatsoever -
                                              contra-sequential­ly;
unless you know a Queen of Sweden, i don't see how
thinking precipitates into being that might you
leave you satisfied - and let's not a put a ****** on it
either: how many thoughts about killing someone
end up being jokes with a friend late at night?
puremourning Dec 2013
you are
the heckler in the crowd
trying to rip out
the rug from
beneath my toes

silent was the treatment
firm was my resolve
indifference
between books,
tables, & legs.

it lasted until
the viewing party

preening, fresh
dye, a new luster to
your slick, sheared visage
you smile & draw
a little bit of blood

it comingles with your own
hot & thick,

(they await
with baited breath
the proper demise
of union that never was)

& slackjawed, wide
eyed, resolve dis-
solved

I set you
on a pedestal again
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul
,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah

this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in *******

Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin

A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles

An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment

And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed

A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter

Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her *******
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis

A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot

She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told

Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there

A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me

A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation

A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels

Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman

With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the ******* industry

So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up

Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****

After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Dear Hello  

A dark cloud  has been allowed to loom over us for to long.
And for all of you who  have fell victem  to this overgrown
child of a cyber bully I am truley sorry,

Now  with that said  I throw down the challenge to
the one we do not speak of   my numbers are many
my pub is full  the whiskey is free and the message is simple
I will no longer take crap from a certin sweetheart from hell.

Who fianlly posted work and proved my point.
If it wasnt for the hipe she created there would be
nothing even remotley special   about her snore infested work.

Point blank its you our me and this site is not
big enough for the both of us.
If you are what people truley want here then i will gladly leave.

You could have went to poetry soup  but in all truth you wouldnt have made a ripple in the water the only reason you have is cause people react to your *******.

Half of your so called fans are actully you.
you want to cross me i'll out you everytime.
Cause a person who  enjoys huting others  is a punk.

And a old *** woman who goes around talking ****
cause she's so insecure   about her own work.
Well is just pathetic and people who applaud the garbage
that comes outta your mouth are either you or
just as ****** up as you.

You do not hand out  criticism  your a heckler.
Poetry is self expression and to be honest with people
takes courage but to simply say utter crap.
shows your ignorance and lack of respect
for anyone.

Not everyone you bash is a adult  so I ask you
this.
Being a mother yourself would you want
a grown adult verbally attacking your kids?

Your playing a character i am guilty of that also
but i do not hurt others in doing so.
Had you came here posted your work
offred constructive  critcism  you would have done
fine  here  I could care less  if you hate me.

Cause  good or bad Im not a person who hides.
I will not complain behind your back im talking directly to you.
drop  the act drop the hate.
If you do id never speak another word against you.

I will say one thing that was wrong of me.
I should not have revealed the fact  of who you
truley are for you are so insecure you must hide
yourself  from everyone.

I do not hide  and I do not spread hatred.
It's simple the people should speak not fear
we should have a vote  me or you who stays and who goes.

Because  if  your actions are what people want.
then I dont want  to be part of this.

It's fine not to like everyone  cause it's clear
me and you are just two diffrent kinds of people.
You speak about your high profile job  well
if you were so busy then you wouldnt have
time to waste on us lesser beings.

To me  I would like to hear your real voice.
Not the villan act for if that is who you truley
are you a sad human being.

So people of hello I ask are you going to tollerate  
the constant attacks  is that what you want?
Is that what you want a poetry web site to be?

You let one of these people stay soon the river will
become a stagnate pond.
Hate does not  breed creativity it breeds ignorance.

So I ask what do you want this site to become?
This is not a poem by any means.  
As ive said here the charade  has gone on to long and one of us  
has to go.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i was wrong when i said poetry is dead, i'm more right in saying that poetry is ****** - everyone's eager to lip-up and de-numb the english stiff upper-lip with rhymes; but poetry became overly technical, and the study of it became an abomination in terms of dissection, unnatural medicine: too technical, too rigid as to be conscious of techniques by way of defining what poetry is... hence most schoolchildren put off by it... too technical, too grammatically-akin-to-technique laden... but i ask you, have you ever paid an extra £10 to a ******* to perform oral *** on her? have you ever eaten this forbidden fruit, and later kissed her lips? have tasted the forbidden flower, oiled up prior with cream to ensure that even if she's not in the mood she's still working and can provide the synthetic ***** juices of arousal? have you? we'll have a chat when you do, after eating that forbidden fruit, and then becoming a thief by kissing her against those absurd codes of conduct of prostitution.

this is the only method i see fit
for filtering our scientific facts
and going at it alone:
mishearing lyrics of songs,
turning them into humble mumble,
like in the song *alive alone

by the chemical brothers from the
album exit planet dust...
'and she shines, she shoe-shines for me...'
then the stitches on the abdomen
and a Chelsea grin...
my grandfather worked in the steelworks,
happily retired after being a brigadier
on one of the production lines,
resory (springs) for trains and tanks
and steel pillars for the stade de france,
pretending to be death, but actually
filtering out what he wants to hear -
you know, after years of working
among sounds of clatter and clamour
hammering and molten iron sizzling -
older men have the benefit of the doubt
of others, seeing old age gracefully,
while old men have the benefit of denial;
and indeed true virtue isn't afraid
of critique... it's afraid of compliments...
the last to learn this are actors
who loath hecklers...
if i were an actor, i'd ask a heckler to come
on stage and act with me,
i'd become the sufler (prompter);
ever heard of the band (the) prompter's booth?
you know, in theatre, the guy in a shady
place unseen with a manuscript whispering
out lines to actors should they forget them...
thank god politicians have the autocue...
because imagine in the democratic model
how many people would have to fit
into the prompter's booth, and they'd hardly
whisper out lines for the grand act...
they'd be screaming like lunatics criticisms.
bleh Jul 2014
assembly point                                                                                                        

first floor                                                                                                                  

second floor                                                                                                            

P
$1.00
per hour
third floor                                                                                                                

others                                                                                                                        



panelbeaters paint division                                                                                  
spies heckler automotive                                                                                      


no thoroughfare


flooring centre  -   "fashion for your floor"                                                          

kitchen things
                                                                                                          relocation sale

plumbing laser -  "totally dependable"                                                                


Stop!

convictions end careers

                                                                                                                     science
                                                                                                                       /three
                                                                                                                          /fire
                                                                                                                /wardens
                                                                                                                        /tally
                                                                                                                      /board

design + garden landscapes


All violators will be towed at owners expense                                                  

(doorway in constant use)

National mortgage and agency                                                                        
         (coy of nz ltd)                                                                

"manufactures of quality soft furnishings"


inward goods ->                                                                                                      


ABSOLUTELY
nothing to be left outside of

"floor"

at all times



(community probation service)                                                                          


"salsa moves New Zealand"

                                                                                        Ice cold pacific fish shop

Inward
outward
goods
(Clearance 3.1 metres)                                                                                            




<-chapel                                                                                                      office->




hot pies fish and chips burgers milkshakes ice cream fried chicken
STOP
(funeral services limited)



full system fabrications:    -  "free quotes!"                                                          

hand painted       /       illuminated                                                                      

The art of refinishing;                                                                                            
Leaders in worldwide approval&nbsp
HeartHeldHigh Nov 2013
I don't lock glocks
An' I don't ride with a nine
I don't pack Heckler and Koch
But when I step over the line
I'm packin' more heat than a Navy Seal
I got both hands free
Because I gave up the wheel
I got my arms stretched out
So I can seal the deal
He had his life snuffed out
So He could finally heal

Us

The killers and the accomplice
When He said "it's finished"
His plan was accomplished

His face beat and anguished
The Devil thought he'd vanquished
The One by whom he was banished

But he must've been astonished
When the only Lamb unblemished
Made good on His promise
That was given to the Psalmist

Death had been demolished
Its power was abolished
Humanity refurbished

He suffered because He cherished
The impoverished and the ravished
Malnourished and the famished

So I pack heat, but it's a different kind entirely
Not a weapon, not of man that is
I cary knowledge, that His spirit lives inside of me
I cary peace, in the knowledge that I'm his
Julian Jun 2016
I walk down the street whisked by the fragrant aroma of a ***** floating above the clouds
Encased in venom but dismantled plumes of disembodied hair gave her a shroud
I saw in her minced reflection the swindled lust of a happy conclusion
To years of isolated rebarbative delusion
To serenade with penultimate swaggers as though I have been fully swooned
Too soon to aim my praise at an adoring moon
Tugging on mutual hearts entwined with the summer breeze
Trying to garner the summer heir and the summer flair
A panache to clothe every armed bear, disarmed by a propitiated care
A crisp lament crashes the party as a heckler gouging for blindness
I clinch a ****** anger as a riotous engine crafted from wineskins
Belonging to an ageless agelast scurried in dismay
I warp the warbled marble sleet a craven disarray
Then I clamber, risqué in fleeting moments a criminal repartee
I wallop the emerging consensus as the 16th hands me over dumped tea
And a ****** tree laughs as the whitewashed sanity of sanitarium ******
I swerve away from the indecency of a pepper enclosed in chosen wax
A gibbous shackle crumpled on a concrete semaphore
An erratic blithe minatory metaphor
Saturnine clout sweeps the dusty apron from the desuetude of homespun lethargy
Rampant clovers distilled from a dreamscape a raspy sea
Trespassing whisper surmounts the lambent alpenglow of a newborn sun
A sleek potter’s spell encumbered by a lapsed pun
Doors ajar and vats wed with an aimless spar
I finally see the fullness of majesty adorned as a breathing star.
TheDoors BostonTeaParty History
Dim Apr 2018
to stay young in your heart you first should have one
and you better fill it up with some love
just a bit
because love is the secret ingredient
the pursuit of justice without love makes you cruel
the pursuit of truth without love makes you a heckler
the pursuit of god without love makes you a bigot
the pursuit of beauty without love makes you Humbert Humbert
power without love makes you a tyrant
honor without love makes you arrogant
wit without love makes you cunning
work without love makes you tired
care without love makes you brusque
talk without love makes you annoying
seriousness without love makes you boring
tenderness without love makes you mawkish
friendliness without love makes you fake
so
you better spice things up with some love
just a bit
Jeremy Betts Oct 2022
With the flippant fear of a proudly clueless onlooker, another forgettable observer
I stare out over the breaking waves to see if I can't see a few things clearer
In a sense in search of innocents and the essence of this monstrous heckler I've been entrusted to not only tame but conquer
Maybe find bits and pieces of meaning here or there for this opaque character and it's seemingly insignificant blip on life's radar
They say all of our lives are important and as a whole they are, for sure, but A life, singular, doesn't even measure
On a timeline reaching back past the beginning of forever to the outer limits of what we know so far it can't possibly matter
Somewhere in there is an answer but I swear, don't let it be just another jump scare
I can bare no more, take me outta here becomes the newly revised prayer screamed into the ether
I'm not the star here, nor did I properly prepare for the cameo roll in my own B movie disaster picture.
I've done what was asked of me even when not fare, even as the nightmare went unchecked, haunting my every endeavor.
If this is expected to go on for the foreseeable future how much of my downfall am I going to be held accountable for?
Every battle the same as the one before, it can be torcher but y'all clap with the desire for an encore
Like your entertainment and the roar of the crowd is what I'm just barley holding on for
Then the face of an absent father figure puts a untimely hand on my shoulder, a whisper of congrats for making it though yet another war
That's every **** day sir, so excuse me for not going out of my way to carpe any of those diems mother fuucker
At the same time
I was so sure that I was finally able to procure the mindset to endure my own lour
But nobody seemed to eager to tell me that reality is a relentless attention *****
Making sure to hide the shore and provide only a broken ore to navigate a sea of insecure insecurities hell bent on devouring my core
Can't help but to take a little more than a fare share when there's so much dispair and dispair is their preferred flavor
And that's what I'm in store for, give or take some gore just to mitigate the bore
Remove all signs of the cancer and watch the stock soar, can't prosper dragging a dead weight anchor
Cut ties and wave goodbye to the failure, take out the pinch hitter cause that personality wasn't any better
A life changer for the better, now willing and wanting to keep score as a reminder of how bad it was before
Never again let the dark passenger take the wheel and steer, unless it's to steer clear
Forget looking backward, remove the rearview mirror and note the side mirror as truth, the atrocities are far closer than they appear
Tossin' small bits of anarchy out the driver side window, flipping the bird and quoting the Raven, "nevermore."
But I forgot why for

©2022
after enough charred inhaling and stuttered swallowing
and after the invincibility of the act evaporates
your biceps begins to sag and your mind stops moving
it’s you suddenly find yourself hovering through the days
and time is subjective and all things are subjective
and so what if you don’t do that because everything’s just particles in your brain
slapping against one another to make the flickering pictures of this world

and then once every few days you shake your head and stand up
and say I’m gonna do something! but keep the same diet
and revert to the same state of synthetic zen-like denial.

you sit on a silent conveyer belt as hours pass
and things happen around you but you see them through a lens
a film onscreen, pleasurably cathartic, but your soul’s still in the theater
watching from a stained, sticky seat some dimensions away
and the heckler’s behind you won’t shut up
and they keep you from focusing on the movie itself
and your peripheral vision becomes distinct
and you find yourself aware of the speakers and exit signs
and the slight dust and film grains splashing in front of your view
and you think of this as an ephiphany
instead of Brechtian distanciation at its most curdling.

then your brain starts feeling like a frisbee
and your body is the monkey in the middle
trying to grab at it but it tires out
and the bullies run away with it
and your left with a black hole in the head
laying in complacency in front of a shimmering cube
sounds and images with no correlation or relevance
pondering your higher knowledge of all things around it, around you
and giggling to the echoing cobwebbed corners of the room
about the ignorance of those not privileged to the same diet.
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
(Now words written some months back more urgent then ever)!

Trumpet call to action,
sans barreling totalitarian
tilt per prez zee dent shill faction
already wrecking ball -
even without Miley Cyrus - got traction.

Das boot Trump out-
(oust him to) Mexico or Waterloo
lip smacking gangs eagerly await
bully in White House and true
as Reince prescience fore tells poe
whit yawl get lucky strike
if keep Taj Mahal shaped shoo
fur deux hundred daze
starring scary motley crue.

╰☆╮I'm royal heir to peace mongering hoarders,╰☆╮
which comb hen might handy when borders
hermetically sealed, per heil hit lore
caw zing a furor with his stark orders.

Gestapo Re Don Dint (doomsday)
I dont wanna don a quack dynasty outfit,
or that of wood chucker
but...holy *******
kudos to heckler, who deems
steam roller Trump as one mean trucker.

Thus - for umpteenth attempt to post
with noah intention
to induce rabid reaction to roast
my *** (albeit scrawny just to be cheeky),
I duck rye America will burn like toast

if.... mister money bags reaches
full term finish line of presidential electorate,
he doth stick out pudgy leatherneck
with reassurance,
sans hiz safely guarded golf coast.

My anti Donald trump screed
WE MUST DO MORE THAN YODEL LOUD: all agreed
out....out...get...lest cruel nightmare har reed
thru legislation - ding ****
the witch's dead donald drake...freed

bigotry, derogatory hate, hence
out...of...here...without...his...coat...indeed
of...armor, nor golden golfing irons greed
dilly bought with monies usurped
unpaid/underpaid migrants MUST NOT heed
no passivity, who rightfully
feel indignant and teed.

I dune hot condone political measures
paws sauté fracas mane lion kapo - louse
jabbering indiscretion via his blouse
zee and breezy haughty snub nosed
air audacity, haughty, and superiority
on par with Doctor Zeuse
herewith continues poem,

I dashed off ala hill a re: huff - to douse
Auld don self serving trumpeting and gel lee
joie de vivre dystopian *******
inducing nostalgia fin d siecle
Barack Obama utopia of yesterday
now 45th lacking prez cred,

he doth thrive to squeeze gnarly paws,
around world asper hobnobbing
with bigwigs snatching grab-bag to carouse
invariably sparking angry birds viz
puffin that retweet his sewerage bilge -

strike horror tummy senses -
for antithetical opinions heed espouse
based on scary political fracas
and ominous nightmare whar mo' will grouse
to obstruct Trump accessing black keys to arouse

looming presidential nightmare
became real - gruff louse
he crushes sacred freedoms,
whence civilization goes off bluff
analogous to a rabid Tom cat
terminating the life of poor ole Mickey Mouse.

DUCK AFTER DUMP PING THE DON
air ring ma thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century mwm ape
serves as genuine s cape
to fly (during pitch

black hours of night) and escape
burning effigies, where his jumbo jet,
a sonic boom stick bewitching like Snape
temporarily tough feign ruffled feathers sans ****
pay shuss selfish lust, when world
slides down behavioral sink into Old Rotten Gotham,
where he twill jape
at distant outlier from madding crowd a gape.

At sheer inanity trumpeting strumpets donning innate
prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod --
seize ***** viz Cesar

his hair coiffed and puffed like it whir
wind blown kickstart ting mobs to stir
paying bodyguards
to evict ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the masses will let this country.

Go to hell in hand basket
and rack up stratospheric global debt
cause zing this one measly mortal male to fret
that totalitarian rule will force every man,
woman and child to march....het

two...three...four, while the billionaire
turns a third blind eye speeds away
in his foo fighter jet
argh...heavens to Betsy DeVos,
how did fickle finger of fate let

this pompous ***
vacuum majority votes across world wide net
to finagle vox populi,
and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
with smashed face doughy as smart putty pet

bump ping uglies henchmen bedlam set
to create their own version of the tet
offensive, despite croup
bawling ashen faced deportees,

whose tears sentence innocent to po' ver tee
branding indiscriminately vet
so culled unwanted ill eagle "aliens"
labored with nose to grindstone

fingers to the bone vainly,
their American dream parched whence whet
long story short - pondering
rental circumstance will equal net

zero importance, and will be upended if this ret
chad, ewol, googly-eyed, gastronomic,
narcissistic bullish don will set
the spark for world war three -

via gone ah re: ha...ha...ha...to all vet
tureens within American crucible melting *** -
with backs whet
unless....Katrina and the Waves,
superman or Sabrina can oust him yet.
namannagarhere Aug 2018
NAMANNAGARHERE
            -----------------------------------
Empty Residence Of Aforementioned Angel In Training
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating
yellow form of your feelings I mistook
For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler
far and far away from
Accepting fruition within classrooms and
being labelled as an angel.
And it was within forbidden hell of
euphoria, I found
You nestled in the society’s psyche
neither content or calling
For help. Neither did you neglect the
pink spectacles of the society,
Even found yourself moulding and moulding
into a fungi green
That I could not recognize, within that
half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you
absentmindedly
Bathing in, you were already out of
its waters.
And I was no longer seeing you within
the dry desert or the sibilance
of my desires, but instead
in cement woodlands and
Within artificial communication and
Intimacy I gave willingly.
Now how does it feel, to have your
heart in one piece,
How does it feel to not use
whipped cream to fill in the
Cracked, salty sections of your
own ***** that,
Out of confusion, continues to
play its favorite song but
in all the wrong beats.
Somehow within cacophony I found
you, nestled, comfortable in
Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former
angel- who now weeps under our
Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere,
I lost you within an epiphany
That reeked of bliss and pleasure-
Somehow, we end up losing
Twins of the heavens when all is well.
How wonderful.
How wonderful it is, I say, to your
lost, secretly-weeping figure
That I can’t tell whether transparent or
yellow your figure is.
But I keep speaking-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To love the first angel I’ve set
my eyes upon-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”
Bryn Dawes Jan 2016
Alone in between the right and the wrongs,
Left, alone in this place of darkness and stone,
Below, I belong with the other things left undone,
Unravelled ingenuity becomes,
Anonymous animosity,
Misogynous monstrosity,
Disingenuous duopoly,
Synonymous, settling finally, with simple simplicity,
Not original nor profound,
There’s already been every sound,
Footprints on supposed unhallowed ground,
And yet we still dig down,
Down, down into the depths to find,
The simple thing that is only mine,
Simple thing,
Simple things are not what they seem,
Easy to say, but hard to mean,
Simple things are only so in dreams,
And probably already passim,
It is really nothing, in fact dead,
Everything worth saying has already been said,
And repeated again and again,
And again we try to abstain,
Refrain from replacing by accident,
Disdain and heckler’s haughty contempt,
You were there,
You were where I did not dare,
Unprepared for the lies and despair,
Unaware of the incompatible compared,
The undemanding and the complicated,
Down in the dark I stand illuminated,
Concentrated, concentrated and fully fabricated,
Automated someone manufactured whilst isolated,
Looking for the simple thing to make it all make sense,
Become alone and lost in a fog of thoughts too dense,
Why do you never drive me far?
Because you’re really not my friends,
So do I either throw caution out the car?
Or do I drive you round the bend?
Ron Apr 2022
Show yourself
you darkest of name-callers
Who shouts such vile words
From shadows ink thick with deceit
Have your lies forsaken the light?
Your vulgarity the best you can do?
Retreat from the cover of night
Draw not another laborious breath
In secrete you call out in longing
For the sweetest respite of a song
ian macleod May 2018
The movies we watch
You know the ones
where we cry, dream of bonds
of dads and their sons
of mothers and daughters
of old flames and laughter
It makes us feel better
A tear to the eye
A scene hits home
we pretend its hay-fever
or tirdeness
wiping without being noticed
or at least trying without pulling it off
for 105 minutes we are in a trance
not addicts or failures,not alone nor poor
We are away
We dream it's us up there
We dream we can change
Be the hero
just emotion
i can do it , i'm sure
we can be rich, we can succeed we can be blessed
there is reprieve , there is a hope there is a glimmer
oh no its the credits , i cant deliver
i cannot win
i cannot love
i'm not a saviour
yes I'm stuck
no happy ending
no big weddings
no straights A's
that's story telling
we are the film
we are the director
producer
the hater
the critic
the heckler
we can make amends
we will be better
we will be the  movie
and live happy after
Andrew Rueter Apr 2019
I’m a performing circus bear
Traveling the world with my master
Who treats me as an equal
So we are comfortable companions
And make an amazing team
Performing spectacular shows for rabid audiences
Who don’t appreciate our effort
They try to antagonize and diminish us
But we remain stoic
Until today
A heckler grabs my ear
My feral nature gets the best of me
So I snap at them
I instantly realize my mistake
And so does my master
He shakes his head and walks away
Leaving me heartbroken
Without my only friend and protector
My overwhelming regret and sorrow make no difference
I’m reminded of where I stand with humans
As they euthanize me
Curtis Jones Jul 2017
In Front of This Crowd

This is it.
I’m up
Here I go in front of this crowd
As I'm prepared to pull the best performance of my life and distract myself from the fact that my lunch is about to leave my stomach!
Wait…
Did… My stomach just rumble?
Did my… mic just catch that??
Great…
Not my best first impression....
I try to recover as quickly and swiftly and smoothly as possible
But I'm back to fumbling and stuttering and I drop… my… notebook.
GREAT!
I sneak a peek at the crowd and I see some snickering.
Some impatient stares, half of them even mixed with anger.
Some gave a sympathetic nod to continue
I stammer a quick apology and continue introductions
All the while thinking “This is just the introduction…”
As I clear my throat some more, I hear a couple of hecklers boo me.
I even hear one say “Either get on with it or GET OFF THE STAGE!”
Another member of the crowd shushes the heckler, “Give him a chance! You might upset him!”
But it was too late.
I'm not sure what clicked within me, but something ignited within me.
Something that makes me want to prove the hecklers wrong.
No. To shut them up!
Next thing I knew?
I close my eyes,
Took a breath
Looked at my notebook
And spoke.
And I continued to speak and read aloud the scribbles in my notebook that only I understand.
Words that slip out of my mouth like a thief in the night!
Suddenly, the crowd wasn't there anymore
It was just me
Me and my reflection
The same reflection who is my biggest fan and my biggest critic.
The same reflection whom I practiced with day and night.
Yes, that same reflection that I stare into since as far as I remember!
Yes. That reflection,  whom I nodded to in confidence and who nods back as to say “you got this.”
And the words continue to spill
The crowd suddenly filled with ooh’s and aah’s.
I’m back on earth
Back In front of this crowd
But I continue to speak
Speak with hurt, heartache, joy, pain, laughter, tears, inspirations and frustrations that has been haunting me my whole life
I continue to speak
Despite the fact I'm nervous
I continue to speak.
Despite the fact that there are butterflies bumping uglies in my stomach. (Which, by the way, I would highly appreciate if they stop that.)
I continue to speak!
I continue to speak for the most painful, grueling,agonizing, longest 3 minutes of my life!
And then I'm finished.
I finish speaking as I take a leek back to the crowd
Some speechless.
Some have their mouths wide open in awe
Some are even smiling.
And then the crowd applause
I stare in awe of what just happened.
What I just done in front of this crowd.
And then I snap out of it
And quickly blurt out
“Thank you! Be sure to follow me on Instagram at writingsilhouette! That’s W R I T I N G S I L H O U E T T E at instagram! BYE!”

By: Curtis “Sillo” Jones
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i bow before the humbled one, for i abide by no credo of a torture instrument; better bestow my hopes on the hopeless one, than entertain the audacity of those who bypass him, un-humbled, not guardian of the attire of a hunchback's garb in body, or shadow... i pledged my allegiance to the one seeking solace in ensuring the lie was but a joke, the one who nourishes my tongue to flourish, bloom and be a gift of flowers, upon a barren sea of striking grass... may i consider myself to be his second apostle in this verse of tongue, and may i receive the same proof of guidance, by being blinded, akin to my predecessor; unless i be blinded twice-over, by having reached a stage of writing: the most ugly choice of words, worthy of nothing more than, a place in a newspaper.

i believe in facts, oh yeah,
facts are important -
but not when they're
paced to an encyclopedic
barrage's worth of
regurgitation...
             this whole **** about
writing history
without actually making any?
that kills the greyest of
the grey matter in a person's
brain.
    i truly think that
we've become vultures of
the past,
           we're sucker-punching
the dead into waking up
once more...
            fist-******* the dead
into staying awake,
when they're clearly dead-asleep,
championing the warrior
in a society of incubated
violence surrounded by
         pacifism and dead-weight
**** -
          strange,
female genitals were always
considered a currency,
while the male genitals always
the warring mechanisation
where the other organs
managed to congregate -
           what's worth celebrating
the "warrior" these days?
probably about as much worth
celebrating filling a shoe
  with 200 peanuts...
               sure, bulging,
sure this that and the other -
they should at least allow these
gym freaks to produce electricity
by allowing them to work
that hamster wheel of the tread...
they could generate about a day's
worth of light-bulb energy in
an hour session at the bulging
protein parlour.
                 point is,
i feel that i have no place in history,
just a tomorrow and
a yesterday...
   i hardly think there's a today when
i think of today in the cofines
of a tomorrow or a, yesterday...
just another hour,
  with another "hour" added to a day,
a month, a year...
                  and it can only
be said is that the most honesty
you find in people,
is in their dishonesty...
but i am under the impression,
in Milton's terms:
that lying ought to begin with a joke,
be attired in mischievousness -
to tell a lie is to also tell a joke...
  *dico mendacia etiam est dico iocus
,
how the satanic "lie" of eden is
now misrepresented, and taken toward
the heights of overt-seriousness...
for all our quests in understanding
of the originality of a sin that's
without any originality to abide by:
a mere plagiarism of the gods...
                  the court jester is riddled
in what was no lie, but a mere joke;
when an angel lies, he jokes...
it is unlike the same utilisation of
lying that a man makes use of -
there is no humour in a man lying,
only the hidden hand, the strings,
and a puppet.
                       man is no liar for
the chance of a good joke,
man lies for the desire to manipulate...
which is why i deem, akin to Milton,
satan, the father of my narrative,
as well as the much respected heckler
in a crowd of: mutes.
Aha
Sunday.

There's a lot to be said for a Sunday
but I can't think of anything now
and there's more to be said for a Friday
I wish it was Friday and how.

How is a good word,
how would we do without it?

how would I know
called a man from the back row,
how I wish he would go.

but there's always a heckler to heckle
that's what makes things so special

It's still Sunday and I think I might rise
wipe all those dreams from my eyes
make a coffee or two
yes!
that's what I'll do

sounds like a good plan to me.
The kettle's boiling,
trying to catch up with
the weather.

And I've felt that in
the sweltering
some
weight has been dropped,
him on the back row
( the heckler)
someone else chimes in
with yeah,
off your shoulders and
onto your ****.

But there's always one and sometimes they come in twos,
who's telling this story?
I reply

one of the hims,
shouts,
some lard ***
who should be put out
to grass.

I'm going fishin'
or I could be going mad,
jeez
I might even be going
Vegan
and that would never do.
heil to the Wharton chief firebrand -
more worrisome than an ovarian cyst
every race, religion, nationality,
gender, creed, et cetera with impunity dissed
brigand able, eager, ready and willing
to punch contenders throwing his fist
against rival – one nasty and brutish soul
after reading, you get the gist
how dictator wannabe lurching
with tremendous oaf fish shill

blatantly, flagrantly, and glad-handedly
zapping usurping power, breeding dissent
soundlessly slithering,
spreading vile disinformation
onto social media platforms
targeting undecided electorates
analogous to casting dark shadows
across the edge of night
hissed tory revoked eclipsed
loosing unfettered horrors.

Das boot trump out-
(oust him to) Waterloo
Eagerly awaits you
the bully in the white house and true.

Whit that, yawl get a lucky strike
if ya keep yar show
as my Reince prescience foretells this poe
fur one quarter off hiz terminal daze starring down
(with bad medicine), thee ole scarecrow.

╰☆╮ Thankfully, I'm not a royal heir
to the power monger hoarders╰☆╮
which comb hen might handy when borders
hermetically sealed - per heil hit lore
caw zing a furor with his stark jumbo je lay bean orders.

I don't wanna don a duck dynasty outfit,
or that of a woodchucker but...holy mother f*cker
and kudos to any heckler,
who deems steam roller trump as a mean trucker.

Thus - for the umpteenth attempt to post
without any intention
to induce rabid reaction to roast
my *** (albeit scrawny just to be cheeky),
I **** rye America will burn like toast
the legacy of democracy
transparent as a ghost
if....mister money bags - to the finish line
of presidential electorate, he doth coast.

My anti Donald trump screed continues tut try
tip picture conjure pixelated stress less or more
WE MUST DO MORE THAN YODEL LOUD:
(and preach to the choir)
out....out...get...life not death, he seems to ab ****
ding **** Donald drake...out...of...here...
without...his security detail or...coat....of...
(Emperor wears no clothes) armor.

I will not condone political measures
from that mane lion kapo -
jabbering indiscretion.

Herewith follows a poem
(concatenated with above lines)
I dashed off in a huff - to douse
dat auld don trumpeting joie de vivre
fin de siecle utopia of yesteryear
puffin sewerage bilge -
strike n horror n ma eyes -
for opinion aye espouse
based on scary political fracas
and looming nightmare -

whar mo' will grouse
to obstruct trump access
to black keys to white house
that a looming presidential nightmare
doth not become real - gruff louse
he will crush sacred freedoms,
whence western civilization goes off bluff
analogous to a rabid cat terminating
the life of more'n Mickey Mouse.

DUCK AFTER DUMP - PING THE DON -
a pipe dream that will never take shape.

Air ring ma thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century mwm ape
serves as genuine s cape
to fly (during pitch black hours of night)
on his witch a ma call it...
to escape temporarily the cares and concerns
of an uncertain world,
where as an outlier from madding crowd I gape

at the sheer insanity
trumpeting strumpets donning an innate
prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod --
seize ***** viz Caesar -

forever linkedin with maxim
Veni, Vedi, Vici - idolized statecraft motto
Trump perfects with his witch's brew he doth stir
his hair coiffed and puffed like it whir
wind blown kickstart ting mobs to stir
paying Deep Purple bodyguards
to evict ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the masses will let this country
go to hell in handbasket -
blithely purging the Iran Nuclear Deal,
The Paris Climate Agreement

plus rack up stratospheric global debt
cause zing this one measly mortal male to fret
Boom, boom, boom gotta get get
that totalitarian rule will force every man,
woman and child to march....het
two...three...four, while the billionaire
turns a third blind eye speeds away
in his foo fighter jet
argh...heavens to Betsy Ross,
Condoleezza Rice, Nancy Reagan,

Barenaked Ladies, and Goo Goo Dolls,
how did the fickle finger of fate let
this pompous *** allergic
to law and order sowing,
loosing, and fomenting insurrection
crowdsourcing, wherever anarchy met
vacuums up majority votes
across world wide
quartered, (tattered), and webbed net
to finagle vox populi,

and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
with smashed face as his smart pet
GoLong Daddy story short -
pondering my rental circumstance
will be upended if this ret
chad, evil, googly-eyed, gastronomic,
narcissistic bullish Don will set
the spark for world war three -
via gone ah re: ha...ha...ha...to all vet
tureens within the sea to shining cyber sea

American crucible melting *** -
with verbal whips,
whose invective blast sucker punching
DACA, and those
who strain to uphold economic backbone,
he does NOT STOP to undermine stoop labor,
which anonymous backs,
he bloodies via twittering whetstone
unless....Katrina and the Waves, superman
or the Sabrina can oust him yet.
My special ****** cornered me in a corner as he needed “spare change.” I told him that black lives matter a lot and that I was out of “spare change.” He pulled his blade and I shot him police-style (emptied the clip). He died in agony. He's now in ****** heaven wearing droopy pants. Timmy, who was very young when he was 5, loved to roller skate with ******* down the street. One day he was killed by a garbage truck. At the grave, as he was being lowered into the Earth, the minister sadly recalled, “Timmy loved to roller skate” only to have a heckler finish the sentence with, “with *******!” ~ “Yes, yes,” the minister said softly, “Timmy loved to roller skate with *******.” ~ I was putting on a bikini in the fitting room and things were working out well when the building exploded. Terrorists bombed the building to **** people. I was lucky that I wasn't killed by terrorists.

— The End —