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Charming Blather Dec 2017
I told my mom that I have a:
I have a corduroy hemorrhoid.
       She said that doesn't make any sense.
       What are you confused about?
       Corduroy? Hemorrhoid?
       You know, just because things rhyme doesn't necessarily mean
They Have To Jive.
I know. I said I HAVE A CORDUROY HEMORRHOID!
       I don't care about your Cor-Dur-Oy
                                                Hem-orr-hoid.
  ­     Only that bear called Corduroy could possibly have a
                               corduroy
                            hemorrhoid.
       Anyways, like I just said
       they barely even rhyme. So who really cares?  
CORDUROY
and
HEMORRHOID.
       Stop with the poetry nonsense.
Okay. But seriously, I have a corduroy hemorrhoid.
       Who made you like this?
corduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhe­morrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcor­duroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrhoidcorduroyhemorrh
       You better stop. I'm ignoring you.  
       Oh, ****. You're late to school.
I can't go to school because--
       You have a corduroy hemorrhoid.
Yes, that's right.
       Okay. Whatever. That's fine.
       How would you even fix a corduroy hemorrhoid?
I don't know. I'm the one who is sick.
       Oh, true.
Yeah, with a corduroy hemorrhoid.
       Please.
No, I really am sick.
       Well there isn't anything to fix!
Probably
I think I will just need a
nap.
       God, you always make Tuesday's such crap.
Jack Jun 2014
I know that some of us, well many of else have noticed the tiny hemorrhoid who has been festering around HP for a while now. He pops in, leaves his unkind marks on our skin, causing us to scratch and irritate the area. What I am wondering is how many have noticed his poems (for lack of a better term and in an attempt to be somewhat nice) trending with only 1 like?  My friends, they trend because so many people view them…not like them.  That is how it works here at times. Views vs. people following you. He has only a few following him (proof drugs are still running rampant) and it only takes a few views to cause his used toilet paper offerings to trend. This, in my opinion is his goal. He spends his time trying to discourage anyone he comes in contact with so that it will cause us to view his vomited works. (Ok, getting a little uglier). He slaps and then runs, waiting to see what we will do to feed his regurgitated ego, and we follow, accepting his bait.

My suggestion is to completely ignore this hemorrhoid, block him, no reading, no leaving ugly remarks on his work…just make him invisible to you and every one else. Let him write his little crayon projects and post them on his own fridge (because I’m sure his mom won’t even put them on hers). Will he eventually go away?   Probably not, he is so full of himself; he could not live without himself. But, we can go away…not from the site, but from him.

There are people like this everywhere…people who get joy from hurting others, people who sit there with a pen in one hand and something else in the other. (use you imagination)  Ignore this pain; don’t let it get you down. If we all do this then maybe, just maybe he will get the hint…probably not. But maybe the swelling will go down a little.

This is just my opinion and my suggestions.
Mike West Nov 2012
Hello there little hemorrhoid.
Hanging from my ****.
I really wish you'd go away,
'Cause you hurt like you know what.
At times you seem to disappear,
And then I have relief.
But when I go and take a dump,
You then return. "Good grief!"
You really make me feel,
Like I'm pooping broken glass.
Or something else that's jagged,
That I have to try and pass.
I don't want you to stay around,
My sphincter and I agree.
'Cause when I use the toilet paper,
It feels like bark from a tree!
I've used medicated pads
And even gooey cream.
But no matter what, you still return,
Like an awful, recurring dream!
From suppositories to cold packs
And using an air pillow.
There seems to be no relief
From you my little fellow.
I've heard that a specialist
Who braves that funky zone
Can remove you with a snip
But my wallet's empty and alone.
So I guess I am stuck with you
On my derriere
And with the pain I get from you
Causing me to swear!
ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.

keep it coming like a miracle.

ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious . . . in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage . . .
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
*****. hell, all our hearts are drowning in *****,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.

and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free *****-
they . . . FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!

poets.

and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).

they were born with money and
they don't have to ***** their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling ***.

this gives them time to understand
Life.

they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.

you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich ******* are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is **** everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.

and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.

he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.

he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.

he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.

he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.

you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.

you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.

he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.

his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
**** thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.

and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
****.

but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.

meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.

the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a ****-threat
but because they are
***** and
ignorant. *****? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.

he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.

of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"

well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.

he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.

he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.

my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.

he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.

"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.

I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.

the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.

anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.

scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a **** thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the *** first and
my poor brain
later.

"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."

I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.

a poem about me
too: the ******.

the ****** whines too much. the ****** whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the ******
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the ****** drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the ****** has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the ****** picks on ****
"fragile ****." the ****** hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a *******. the ****** has an
"obese burned out wife." the ****** has a
spastic gut. the ****** has a
"****** brain."

thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.

Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.

and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!
I hope my good old ******* holds out
60 years it's been mostly OK
Tho in Bolivia a fissure operation
     survived the altiplano hospital--
a little blood, no polyps, occasionally
a small hemorrhoid
active, eager, receptive to phallus
     coke bottle, candle, carrot
     banana & fingers -
Now AIDS makes it shy, but still
     eager to serve -
out with the dumps, in with the ******'d
     ******* friend -
still rubbery muscular,
unashamed wide open for joy
But another 20 years who knows,
     old folks got troubles everywhere -
necks, prostates, stomachs, joints--
     Hope the old hole stays young
     till death, relax

                                        March 15, 1986, 1:00 PM
Mike West Aug 2012
'Twas Christmas again and the tree was up with tinsel all around.
But by the weird behavior of my cat, there was tinsel where it shouldn't be found.
She was dragging her **** across the floor in a most peculiar way.
Like something was wrong or she had an itch or needed hemorrhoid cream right away.
I caught the cat because I knew this behavior was not right.
So I lifted her tail and, just as I thought, beheld a terrible sight.
A little piece of tinsel stuck right, well you know where.
I then knew I had a task to do that I would not do on a dare.
I held the kitty in my arm and went and found a glove.
And prepared to do what must be done but definitely not out of love.
The kitty's strange behavior was more than I could allow.
Dragging her **** across the floor like a tractor drags a plow.
So with kitty in my arm and her tail in my hand,
I grabbed the piece of tinsel and pulled gently on the strand.
I tried to be careful so the tinsel would not break.
But when I pulled, her little **** clinched."Oh for goodness sake!"
It was quite a sight to see, this twisted tug-of-war.
I think that I am winning! Here comes a little more!
After half an hour, the battle, I finally won.
I held a little trophy that I extracted from her ***.
So if you come to my house at Christmas time next year,
A tree you'll see with ***** and lights and no tinsel anywhere.
Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.

Electra-girl squeals,
“**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,

shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.

Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,

Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,

Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.

Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.

Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.
TALLAHASSEE CONTAINS ALLAH to whom I'm truly true blue
as He is the Just, the King, the Watchful, the Father of me & of you
Like 9 dogs eatin' tuna fish I cried for your thigh to comfort me like
the jack breadfruit that comforted Bounty Lieutenant William Bligh
whilst he abstained from Tahitian maidens who were cunningly shy
My big, beautiful mouth that frets & sasses makes me intellectually
superior to everyone except the most idiotic of ******* dumb *****
whose apple cider vinegar becomes unsulfured blackstrap molasses
Remember again old cross firemen, Jesus burned for your arson sin
2,000 years before I wrapped your fat *** around your chinless chin
through hellish dew of frosty equanimity with Gail Fisher as Peggy,
Mannix shaved his dangling loose hairy stems above gay legs leggy
so that he might wiggle folklorical jigs like Haitians do with reggae
Gay-***-whackin' Hillary Clinton humps *** to a disco-***-humpin'
beat from her *** crooked-pants-suited *** to her lezzy-***-toed feet
stuck in turds as Bill sodomizes a mule, **** Hillary can be bought
stuck in pig **** as Billy rapes another, shaky Hillary can be bought
with Kleenex 'cause her honker has 5 pounds of unsought nose snot
that added nothin' to the virulent ****** that I ain't not never caught
On clean teen carpet she munched, slurped & lapped sink drain-like
forcing me to slap her shitless so that she could be a real, sane ****
whose despicable antics I am not morally outraged by, nor annoyed
as this repugnant behavior is directed medically by faux cushingoid
which accounts for her likeness to the puffy-faced star Alison Lloyd
who had something criminally criminal to do when she wasn't doin'
something grimy to fill her cravenously-craven-criminalistical void
that toys with emotions that are not immune to being toyed with on
the weekends that were made for Michelob on my blue hemorrhoid
that toys with emotions that aren't afraid of being toyed with on gay
weekends that were made for Michelob dumped on my hemorrhoid
only 'cause it is something to do when you are not doing something
that could have ended early the cowboyin'-guy-life of William Boyd
whose hoppin,' in the hoppin'-along biz, derived from a secosteroid
Vegetable-hating vegans love pagans & meat-eaters secrete beavers
& Yukio & Yoko Mishima beat to death with a bat old Tom Seavers
after he frittered away his ball-batting career as a raunchy, gay dude
to the tune of 4 original Beatles crooning the god-awful "Hey Jude"
while fat priests ****** nuns & nudists in nudist colonies pray ****
for chapel cameras of the ******* Channel's dude ranch, Play Dude
where the rudest nudists & naturalists, nudely & naturally stay rude
without caring to distinguish betwixt fake night & serious day food
that could throw a self-effacing exhibitionist into a filthy, gay mood
with prelude payload which equates to slaves getting their pay sued
by orthognathical charlatans who worship devil-lovin' Ben Franklin
in his guise as Frenchy Chucky de Gaulle who could send tank men
for forensical strikes targetin' ****** on rivers whereat men bank sin
with a plugged-up ******* called Peter Hamilton, feet or Nam again
in quokka flesh minus 22% over a pig sty or a bacon-oiled ham pen
Even though He maintained amazing Bible-understanding abilities,
Pittsburgh's wall-to-wall ******* gave Jesus the Hill District jiggers
Despite His God given Holy Christian Bible-understandin' abilities,
Pittsburgh's loo-to-loo ******* gave Jesus shaky, Hill District jitters
that ache way too late & shake for a sexily-religious girl who titters
over dead Zhanna Friske's Russian lickspittles & ******* pig-sitters
gettin' one passed normal lesbians with tattoos of sickly zoo critters
that clearly show pederasts of The New York Times ******* shitless
after chalking Marxistical New York Times sources ******* shitless
in Bethlehem stables stabling new stud muffin horses shoed witless
where hippy people with greasy long hair were quite apt to be livin'
clawing about what's issue based vs. character drivel, I mean driven
Ol' Walker McDonald was my very special friend until he ***** me
under a nice fig tree beyond the bitchiest beach of the Sargasso Sea
where he wouldn't quit ****** me despite my sexiest desperate plea
I hollered a lot in a ******-nutty masculine voice but he did not care
about rotten figs that matted my Ellen-degenerated, lezzy-short hair
I told everyone in North Vietnam & Laos that he couldn't he trusted
'cause the 21,798 times he ***** me made me thoroughly disgusted
like there were gigantical nests of bugs up my *** heavily encrusted
in cracks where ****-crop-dusting planes can't dive swoop in dusted
before flying into my inner-sanctum room like old Corrie ten Boom
whose bee-busy life, after her crapping-out death, has yet to resume
in order to beat senseless neo-brutalistical V.A. nursing home abuse
that kills the blood-coagulatin' screams of a cursing gnome papoose
draped across the *** of a ***-rail engineer takin' it up the caboose
to make his gay meaning known to stragglers too lucid to be obtuse
Don't ****** me I'm your amigo, oh yeah I forgot in your final spin
that a plucky slice'd paralyze you forever good on any hot spinal fin
****** ****** at ****** mall: Who's the baddest ****** of them all?
Is it Ringo, or dead George/John, or false/fake ******, Beatle Faul?
I cannot wear no slutty dress because I got a sass-*** dose of P.M.S.
I can't ***** in my slutty dress while I got a bad-*** dose of P.M.S.
My boyfriend's a ***** queer who has been ripped up his ***'s rear
In city pig files they record my criminal-*****-bone record in miles
Here amongst the thoroughly hypnotized, I spank your lard **** red
while you flee with free fleas that fly with flies that are too-well fed
while you flee with 3 free fleas that fly with flies that are overly fed
The traveling mermaid porked & beaned me in the moldy sea green
as P.B.S.'s Fred Rogers fits into a death list of ***, dead codgers we
ruefully mourn the murders of Jack the Ripper's ******-red lodgers
who overtly related homosexually to lesbian heterosex bed-dodgers
on mountain picnics in Pennsylvania where they are fed odd chores
There ain't nothing grim in threading tawny-titted Hawaiian women
before drug-induced comas or with food cramps got from swimmin' Demon Hillary, I Would ****** Everybody Just to Make You Smile
Is this wrong? No, murdering everybody is Scratch's most beautiful
way to say: "I loathe you Bill" in his hottest court of Luciferian trial
A raunchy **** bussed my *** with cerebral palsy quicker than Ajax
scrubbed the crapped-out Admiral William Halsey. I'd mount 1 trull
plain or crunchy too but not when she humps like a Harlem *******
We told everybody deaf 'bout "us" but everybody but "us" was deaf
to our mutant deafness save Harland Sanders & Burger Chef & Jeff
Swallow this sea-warped poker chip to see what can happen while I
moodily tap out Florida flame red maple trees to drain all the sap in
Anita O'Day never curled the nether tufts of Melvin Howard Tormé
because she was a limpless gimp who saw sike-a-***** as girly gay
in the throes of scissor lovin' between Blobert Rake & Huddy Bolly
whose fine, rug-burned legs queered their sapphical, sexoholic folly
that in 1966 farted greasy Earth's real cheeses to slickly **** breezes
as 99 rescue inhalers asphyxiated fatalistically-asthmatical wheezes
I love the ocean. Do you feel the aloof sea spray on your face? That
ain't sea spray. That's a gay *** peeing down on you from the roof.
I like my ******* on caffeine-free diets as they're better controlled I
think, than apes on caffeine-big diets who **** ******* cherry pink
for sea-lovers in iron linkage to twist apart a chewed-on master link
soaked in a tub 93% bigger than a beef washer's blood-washed sink
Let us forgive my unkind words but the dog turds I tracked in aren't
my dog's turds 'cause your ***'s really pretty like that of an angel's
dead cousin, so you must not cream on creamy donuts by the dozen
I will not talk of you in the old past as long as you are able to ****
really fast. The way to hell is lousy with sinners as each part of you
could provide several dinners. Our cherries are nicer than the sweet
cherries in pies. I wish that our 4 eye sockets had 4 cherry-red eyes.
You're so tiny that you stand 'neath my knee at a distance so nice to
bruise my better kidney. Shut up a lot, I told you before. I ain't got a
mistress who did not chronically snore. I could slather your body in
peanut butter from scalp to *** belly like would that jack-*** Kojak
Savalas brother called Telly. How many times have I warned you to
shut up? 3,345 trillion 9 hundred thousand 128? Enough is enough!
I scratched your back while you were reverently praying, just like a
Catholical priest, which is the chief role I'm now piously portraying
Part of me wants to **** you the other doesn't when I was me & you
were so wasn't, when your ****** were floral with dandelions, ever
more gay than those that were Paul Ryan's. After January we'll ****
bleached whales on the beach while I castigate old adulteresses in a
sermon I preach beneath the flickering grand dragon wizard's torch.
God has blessed us with elbows & knees & sharp teeth, only to bite
whoever's sporting deliciously-moist quims that we strive to please
Kicking the **** out of constipation is my preferred realization with prunes, olive oil & herbs from rich soil, for once I'm well you'll see
healthful regularity overtaking me. I'll make your cheery cherry pop
by threading your pretty Barbie bobbin so fast that I can hardly stop
from attaching psychedelical fixations to conundrums psycholytical
No one asleep had ever downed a pickle 'cause the racer who hit 45
wet spots was the women-pleasing racer large Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever drowned a pickle because the racer who hit
damp spots was the ****-racing racer, big-stick Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever got ******-cell sickle with the racer who hit
87 damp spots, the ***-****-racing racer, ***** Richard **** Trickle
who found that **** babes with keen intellects were tricky to tickle
as ****'ll be doin' Marianne Faithfull with big-ribbed-****** ******
in his British Marxian way with obligatory sledge hammer & sickle
to spread her ******* for shire horse hung Beatle Jimmy Nicol
as Albert Hofmann's 102-year-old L.S.D. schlort is a thrill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbing dead in *****, unable to pork, **** & ***** all
while Bert Hofmann's 102-year-ol' L.S.D. ******* is a dill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbin' in *****, unable to poke, sock, cram & stick all
because of contact with a toxical/allergical rose bushy thorn prickle
Some of me's puerile, the other section's a rash, over my nasty belly
is mama, below is a wacky, pinkish ******, while I pile onward real
love from 11 p.m. till the pole star's there, 8 degrees from starboard
several acres from where the **** wipes for my liquor bar are stored
You're brave & you're wise, with my camera I'll capture your thighs
I long for blonde hair of which you've plenty. I want to kiss all of it
before you turn 20. Our Russian passion will pass a fever pitch like
convicts on a chain gang diggin' a ditch. You whistle alluringly like
Lauren Bacall. I wonder, can you do it pulling from Bogart's straw?
Let's eat cookies while we sleep in my million-dollar Blue Bird bus
because I have expensive chocolate chip cookies just for the 2 of us
Tell me the truth, I am dyin' to know. Will you be able to stop when
we go go go? It's very important that you're careful so you don't get
knocked up by a drunken sailor or a window washer or a blind man
with a tin cup. Your pocked *** is really low slung like a green pine
ladder's 1st broken rung. I bang you in the murky morning too early
for lunch 'cause you ain't ½ as **** as Alice from The Brady Bunch
whose meat-hacking with butcher Sam included a knock-out punch
Turn up the gas, I want no damp cell, no moist damsel in **** hell
whose ill virginity is wiped clean by my hellishly-wild *** machine
I love you tall, I love you short in a barrel, beneath a port. You are a
broad. I know it's true. Live up to the crooked contract or I will sue.
Richard F. Burton, extinguish *** Taylor's fiery *** that lit abruptly
in the Golfo de México from B.P.'s unmothered-crack-head-****-gas
I took harmful advice to seize a 1-upped leg man ****-deep in knees
John B Nov 2014
Pain reminds me I'm alive

Wish it would just let me die

Head spins violent ***** spouting

Evil eye pressure builds up pounding

Cracks streak my face from capillary fractures

I choke on three day old eggs and curdled milk

My teeth devolving in stomach acid

As bitter and stringent as anything I can think of

Still not done *******

Hemorrhoid blood dripping sticky

Toilet seat gripping

Not to mention the bathtub

Full of ***** needing washed out

At least my hair is clean...
How's your morning so far?
wordvango Mar 2015
Two years ago diagnosed with colorectal  reluctance,
that is what the doctor said,
he said,
I had a hemorrhoid the size of my head,
growing on my shoulders.
I scratched my itchy ears,
could not believe what I heard.
I said, I knew that,
I came here for genital warts.
******
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
and you know what was, or rather,
what is the most "fun" aspect
of being being mis-diagnosed
as a schizophrenic...
   oh... 12 years ago?
  no one could have told me
i'd be riding a ******* carousel
of the remnants of my ego
into this sort of... "reality check"
prognosis...
   i always sat there in the psychiatric
office,
replying to what books
i was reading...
    making as much of
my ****** courtesy,
thinking... not much...
       inter-sectional feminism?
intra-sectional feminism?
ooh... someone has a fetish
       for Latin prefixes, don' 'eye?
when chemistry became a hard
science but also a quasi-science
of: well... we've done our bit
for the worth of shampoo...
*** yer *** on the benzene ring
unravelling...
   meta! y' sir!
  para! y' sir!
           ortho! y' sir!
  find us... trans!
   y'... you what?!
                                    find us trans!
imagine my astute astoundment,
say... 6 years ago...
being asked: what is reality?
the ontology of ever is,
that is, and every is, that isn't,
and every is that is in-itself?
do i ******* look like god?
well... here are your answers...
   trans-gender "women"
moved in all-female prisons?
arm the female prisoners
with strap-on ******...
         what?!
               it almost seemed like
a waste of time, back then...
   but, now, i guess...
everyone is as... "confused" as i was
back "then"...
to no apparent then
with what is worth a... now...
yeah... i always need a reality check...
like... reality is anything
worth checking, rather than checking-out
off...
         and i understand the gimmick
pundits...
      problem with me:
i have an unnatural will to live,
and a knack at playing
the patient, & happy,
& non-talkative happy camper
of... a... chief bromden...
whatever the hell i said so many
years ago...
  well... **** on me...
what does it matter, now?
- but clearly i never assembled
the grand puzzle of, "reality"
to what has been perfected
to a dysfunction...
seemingly: to begin with...
  most of them?
gen-X single mother households...
me? classical learning:
my mother is my worst enemy...
classical Oedipus-complex...
which means:
   i do not possess the audacity
to... trans...
             sure, i tickled
my fancies with cross-dressing...
had the ***** to walk into
a Butlins ****-fest of a night
out...
   lost my wallet...
but now?!
      chemistry, thank god,
is still a rigid toy of words...
  like... what's north, south,
east or west in Copernican terms?
answer... flat earth...
oh yeah... because that round earth
GPS really helped those
*** tourists in Australia...
drive their ******* car into a lake...
but chemistry is a cul de sac...
unless...
  you translate all that theory
******* back into a fetish for words...
esp. Latin prefix jargon...
physics? covered...
by science fiction...
and the atom bomb... no problem...
spoc' 'as 'is 'ne covered...
no worries...
   ah... but biology?
      there's a realism behind it?
sure... psychiatric realism...
       at times you start to wonder:
why does a psychiatrist
even get a chance to speak...
before a philosopher might employ
the cuddle and a pillow of sedatives?
yeah... so much of cultural darwinism...
has made... reality...
                 in-and-of-itself...
either...
             stealth synthetic beef stakes
and...
    ****** trannies...
   in prisons...
where female prisoners
are not armed with strap-on
******...
           no... no reality here...
n'ah 'um...
                   nada...
         zilch, squid... nuffin'...
no... ****** taqiyya...
                   we all wish to be homophobes...
only...
       going to a gay bar the previous
night... ended up snogging
a south american...
next day?
            went to a birthday party...
the south american
made an inquiry with my gay
cousin...
so i was at the party,
he was at the party...
       i came to the party...
was investigated by the feminist
police about being homophobic...
spotted the south american...
had an intolerable pain in my gut...
apologized to my cousin
hosting the party...
and...                            left...
the gay i could take...
  i was just getting my hots for him
had i enough drinks in me...
but a ******* homophobia
investigation, by a woman...
no...
i rather eat rar herring on beach
in... ******* Southend...
sitting on the pebbles...
wanting to count the number
of grooves of hemorrhoid about
to blush: blue....
yeah... reality...
everyone has a sedative
for that...
it's only that some of us...
do not think... being over-excited
by its speculative nature
of a theoretical physicist
            is all that important!
- so, what do i see?
directionless, and a-chemical...
just by looking at the attachment
groups to a benzene ring...
        but you know...
chemistry is a stable science...
      it couldn't be attacked,
it could only be exploited,
verbally, borrowing from Latin...
  physics is still instact,
although: science fiction,
unless you drop the Oppenheimer
quote...
                 or... talk via
a mobile phone...
                 but?
      not even the fault of Marxism...
although: i should wish that to be,
no?
          cultural darwinism...
     looking too long up
the **** of a monkey...
             and so...
                  in the meantime:
i did enjoy some of ted berrigan
poems...
                 unless of course
i have succumbed to a filter,
where i'm strapped to a pit
of rats that are about to gnaw at me,
and i will never hear
the sort of conversations
backstage at the BAFTAS
         or prior to the Ascot races...
at whatever tier i'm at...
having just picked up...
  a lászló krasznahorkai
   (like the name of the psychiatrist,
dr. szasz... yes: that implies no
SaS or ZaZ... but SHaSH...
  well... unless he wasn't
Magyar to begin with...
     but a geerman! ßaß)....
satantango...
          edition?
        the first english edition,
tuskar rock book
2012...
  oh hell, the book is older than as me...
first appeared in 1985...
but yeah... started reading it...
       to peer into what...
an anti-paragraph novel looks like...
and i thought that people only read
poetry for a light-heartedness...
turns out...
there is a hyper-statement of
prose-claustrophobia...
namely? the anti-paragraph...
then i read something from
the blog of alex preston...
writing in 2014 to his younger self
in 2009 having just secured
a faber & faber publishing deal...

              and all i could think of was...
the merovingian...
who? lambert wilson...
in the film... 5 to 7...
  about an aspiring writer...
                  hey baby hey...
hey second from now here on in:
boo!

                     alex preston
doing the analysis, back in 2014...
http://alexhmpreston.com/a-letter-to-a-young-writer/...
average: x25,000
          accurate figure x11,000...
one baby in hand,
another baby in tow...

the very sensible man...
            and why would anyone
crouch over a screen,
   find enough propensity
to earn a living from... being-bait
of one's on clicking rhythm?

sure... all poetry is but the horror
of an extension of one's
"inability" to shed off adolescence...
either the *******
claustrophobia of prose,
or the anti-paragraph
myopia of some Magyar...

           let's just call this
the medium of the infantile minds...
and call... the serious writer's
medium,
the medium of the book critic,
who finally exclaims:
and of the 20 books on my reading
list for the newspaper...
for the weekend magazine
review section... ?
i probably finished... 1.

pendulum... pendulum!
Mike Essig Feb 2017
You never know what you will find.
The eyeball of a cow. Weeping condoms.
Deserted televisions lacking flat screens,
no longer desirable, abandoned, forlorn.
A pair of torn, lacy,black *******
in an alley; must be a story there.
A cat with one eye and three legs,
devouring a vole. Scattered books awash.
A depressed, deflated hemorrhoid donut.
Soaked album of ruined wedding pictures.
Forever mute, broken, vinyl LPs.
Three shotgun shells but no shotgun.
Not a sign of the splattered victim.
Almost everything you can't imagine.
The devious flotsam and jetsam of life.
The ordinary stuff of nightmares and poems.
All the world's magnificent mysteries,
strewn like tears on streets and alleys,
waiting to be rediscovered, again,
like dangerous, lost New Worlds,
yours for the simple effort of walking.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
on holiday, minding my own business,
drinking alone watching middle-aged
german tourists talk absolute scheiße,
then these three kenyan beauties
make themselves at my table, and we start
talking...
   they were the supposed
entertainment... one?
    got, what a numbian
beauty... in that **** african plump body...
   body looking as if smeared in butter...
shimmering like a lake in moonlight...
if i was crazy enough i'd have said:
  **** it, i'm going to make my life in kenya
from now on...
         she was into marijuana too,
      felt like ****** tension after a while...
  to the other beauty i gave her a copy
of c. g. jung's modern man in
       search of a soul
...
other times i was talking with the bartenders
about how kenya was importing timber
from ghana... i avoided the white
people most of the time, for all i could know,
they were there for  a sun-tan...
              there was a joke
of the resort, a guy reading a book
pretending to be a sun-dail... yep...
stood by the pool, read a book standing up,
and rotated with the sun's position...
      then there was that game
of ping-pong with a german,
'you're funny'... he said...
i don't remember saying anything
funny though... the russian couple...
and the scottish couple... i got talking with
the scot about the band travis
and their seminal album 12 memories...
****** runs off and jumps into the pool...
  and then there was me
jumping into a pool with all my clothes on
with some blue indian...
africa is fun for two weeks,
after the heat starts biting
at you... feeding macaques
and laughing at rascal baboons
with hemorrhoids...
  **** me, europe is boring
by comparison...
  all we have is... pigeons!
i miss those macaques,
and those hemorrhoid-riddled
                    baboons... but **** me,
that kenyan girl was a stunner...
if i had enough incentive
to craft a plan worth a life-span
of, say, 70 years?
   i'd have stayed
                      and admired
that glee of moonlight lake mingled
with a butter-sheen of her skin
forever.

p.s.

o.k. let me get this straight,
how the **** did these slave-traders
catch a usain bolt on the savannah?!
i'm pretty ******* sure
that if you wanted slaves,
you wanted to catch them without
inflicting any injury...
  how the **** did they catch
the types akin to a usain bolt?
  white boy can't jump,
white boy can't outrun a black boy...
  you shoot an african hermes
you have a ****'s worth of *******...
meaning you have nothing...
you can't have slaves
    that have been injured...
               **** me, did it happen
out of their own accord?
   how would you ever capture a slave
when he can out-run you,
and a slave you have to catch
                                       unscathed?
was eddie murphy onto it?
     if he wasn't, then the congo
chieftan
  abu-diddly-squa-**-boh-boh-boh-tee:
eh! hussein! eh hussein ha-bah-ha-bah
was in on the transfer of goods...
    and to think that some people
think that there is no idea of hierarchy
and royalty in africa for
the common european smithy.
Swimmer101 May 2017
Stop calling me beautiful
Don't organize my things
Ignore your urge to kiss me
Forget about giving me goodnight texts
Don't tell me your deepest secrets
You shouldn't try to understand me
I may be an *******
but your the hemorrhoid irritating the **** out of me
The Celestial Spirit of Vernarth began to walk through the Castellum from Horcondising, after the parapsychological regression in its conclusive auction and purgation. It loomed at the Horcondising Keep; here all toilet modules, food, and medicines were well equipped, except for the inks and writing papers that were totally exhausted. Here you can see his mother Luccica, who was in a position to scribble and write on an upstairs desk, and in the other hand she had a rosary of liberation, which anonymously appears before her purgation in the presence of the protervative spellings that still wander through the cells and bedrooms of the Castellum from Horcondising. His mother is seen crooked over the voices that polished the eight moons that she had designed for her son Vernarth since the very machicolations of the Castellum, but now with a rosary of liberation. It was clearly seen in the leaves written by her, which said that “My son abandoned his arms, now in fluids of holy water, symbolizing real chimeras for the Matacanes, to those who read his life verses in our Castellum, in Gaugamela and Patmos”. Vernarth, mostly Hellenic, awaits to manifest healings for all creation, pouring water from moon storms on Rhodes, and lighting Matacanes wall light at the door of the Messiah stand.

Vernart says: “my adolescent gaze must be reborn with that of my father Bernardolipo; a whole Chamberlain, making himself free and a supporter of the baronies that were part of the servers of my servants…! Although now to climb his cabinet I have to raise my knees higher before the amplified step, calling us all to try to be closer to a new bell to call us to dinner, as an entity of pride of its architecture defined by pen, ink and white sheet to mention. The mother I have to mention; My mother Luccica, rests not condemned or corrupted before her flesh, rather perfectly united with her spirit that envelops her free of sin, so that her company would be of complete solitude in our Castellum, we will continue to be in conformity with spirit, because our mansion is a beautiful spirit of things, life and peace, that our esplanade holds hunger and cold indifferent to solitude, cooling and pleasing the company of its own cold, rising from the first rays of the day, as well as rising from the first pinches of graduated ink , fellowshipping in the corrals where my father already lived according to his life among debtors, mortifying what he has not been able to mount on his steeds that inhabit his senses, leaving not so far to greet them in the morning free of the sins of not greeting, even when the least space is left to think of him as a joint heir. Because the laments sob, and others are born in the virginity of the light of the world with other lines Luccica can scarcely write, writing her co-age spirit, manifesting itself foolishly when suffering perfection; manifesting itself as everyone's delight, although ringing with anger at not freeing itself from a glorious freedom. Not all sing to the tune of the disability of putting strength of the grapheme of posterity, rather we are blind to put hope, but of patience that we arm ourselves losing value by having it. Our will is of holy value when doubt and fear entertain us, according to all the things and purposes that irreversibly surprise us. I do not know where I have to walk here in this tower, because I know that myths of the unknown will fall according to the fact that I am his son, being the first-born of all men in the world, speaking of who among many intercede before tribulation or anguish, That strips me of all spirit, still asking for it and justifying that I keep talking about them, but that I was gone for a long time. For this reason, venerated mother, wake up from this frozen cell of the keep, because I am jealous and I believe that neither death nor life will fill the dead suspended in your room, who support more lives with their angels adorning their bindings and paragraphs, with principalities that go increasingly so far more than close to come to please you. When your name is tried in real vices to increase, they are being stripped of the sons of the principality in which they shine from afar, but with our feet dancing on the despotic brilliance and not of the hollow that still does not fill my heart for you”

Emerging from the last lights of the Castellum from Horcondising, Vernarth bids farewell to his reign, leaving his mother Luccica in the company of three Angels who mined her with sallow light amber mistletoe. However, she will remain frosted on her desk with ink at night and by day, so that when the day ends, she will draw ink from the darkest night to continue writing to him that she can already be without Him! Near the Necropolis of Hallenika in Rhodes, a statue of Peltasts stood, shielding the place where the “Vas Auric” Auric Medallion would sporadically rest, which came between bilges now inside the Eurydice. It came predestined with the sacred amber robes aleonade, to make up for the between Peltast mediators who guarded them, to deliver it to its Commander Vernarth.

The Apostle Saint John says: “Jews like us in exile did not see reasons restored in our union and tradition; we resembled a diaspora that did not derive voluntarily, according to events that occurred in my case in Judah at the hands of the Romans. The Alexandrian Jews form on my part certain Israelites scattered in my prayers, leaving us where the radiance of our faith makes sense and dispensed power to us. My economy is to create furniture that will live in laborious houses, even among those Jews and mercenary soldiers, freeing themselves from prejudices and clothing that represented them alone and fragile, being sensitized by the diaspora. The world separates itself from the matter cell, clinging to the consciousness of unity of dispersed Judaism as a sacrificial cult, to cater to those who write history more distant than a synagogue without a Rabbi. When bad winds blew there, they often made the situation worse for those scattered in a foreign land. At the end of the Hellenistic period, there were Jews in Persia, Mesopotamia, Syria, Phenicia, Pontus, north of the Black Sea, Cappadocia, the rest of Asia Minor, Egypt and Cyrenaica, Carthage, Greece, Macedonia and Italy. Now I am in Rhodes with the Vas Auric, to trace the true image of Judas Thaddeus, my co-religious in pursuit of an intellectual and theological religious activity of edifying centers of prayer and universal unification, here in the Hallenikka Necropolis, where some Davidian Psalm, it will be in more regions right here documented in my precession as a parallel religion to Hellenic situationism. Their religiosity is felt, and even remains open in a proselytism that causes the indefiniteness of the half-convert and that implies a risk for the identity of the Jewish religion as support of a people with not a little original conscience”

Etréstles with Vernarth go to Eurydice, before descending into the bilges, they begin to found the ventral conceived from the word of Judas Tadeo “Yehuda; Praise be to God”. Judaizing verb in Veronica, or true image of the Via Dolorosa, among some apocryphal documents another historical and definitive truthful current is mentioned.   Detailing the aforementioned image in the shroud of the woman who seconded Jesus in the Sixth Station. The apostle Judas Thaddeus, is warned along with the auric image, providing confidence and praise of stands that walked in the murgas of Rhodes, before the iconographic variety was present with the image of Joshua overflowing by the Auric Avas, levitating among the circular margins, transforming into his banner with maces, which represented his martyrdom escorted by a sword or Shamsir, in the shape of an Arab cutlass; This being attributed to his beheading, but close to a hagiographic fatality.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Saint Jude Thaddeus the Apostle; He brought the Mandylion (Canvas of Edessa) to the court of King Abgar V of Edessa, to heal him. Being actually Thaddeus of Edessa, but the iconography was rectified by mistake. With a flame on his head at Pentecost he symbolizes us embroidered with a Chrysoprase, the green gem of his praise. Right here in these damp platinum chrysoprase bilges, it is that they emerge by themselves as an integument stamped in the peripheral curves of the Vas Áurica, they are attached to the Mandylion, frisked to my clothes to take them to the Hallenikka necropolis. Ulterior Vernarth and Etréstles pilgrimage carrying the mass of Vas Áurico of solid gold, groping him before taking them with decisive worthy praise to be brought before the sight of others who prospect to be before dark in the necropolis "

Saint John the Apostle continues: “Before dividing as Hexagonal Birthright, we went to Tsambika and others to Hallenikka. We head to Tsambika which is located on top of a hill on the east coast of Rhodes.   Bowing down to the praise of the iconographic and religious corridor of Mary. Here is the golden legend of Rhodes in Crete, of Rhéa and Cronos, for their ******* and mythological manias. We insist here we pass first to walk towards the heights of Tsambika, bordering the nature. Earthly possession of magnificent iconographic blessings”

Right here Demetrio Poliorcetes, acceded to the island, completely failing, resolving everything with high peace, with the mediation of some Greek polis. The military of Demetrio Poliorcetes left a large amount of armaments, for this reason the Rhodians sold the solid material and turned it into treasure to build the Colossus of Rhodes. In this same way the Primogeniture, thus began to gather the estates to summarize the hagiographic heights of the Vas Auric and the Mandylion together on both sides, for the final departure to Patmos. Being the necessary time that allowed them to be in this open, those who accompanied him in silence discovered new silences that amended the rotations that the Vas Auric medallion gave, exhibiting the half circumferences of a new world, with the organic body community of San Judas Tadeo, doing praises of a tender being to the Hexagonal Birthright who escorted them to save the world.

Eurydice parapsychological channeling:

Eurydice says: “Tsambika was left by the route located on the east coast of Rhodes before reaching the town of Archangelos, we passed through a cypress forest. It is said to be the origin of the name that is due to the word "Tsaba" (Spark) and refers to the history that involves the discovery of the icon of the Blessed ****** of the Nativity at the top of the hill. This icon turned out to belong to the island of Cyprus and was immediately returned to its place of origin. But the icon would reappear over and over again at the top of the hill, so they decided to build a chapel in honor of Panagia Tsambika. The miracles that the ****** worked were many, among them blessing with a child the women who prayed her and could not conceive. Since then there is a tradition of calling the child born by the ******'s work, Tsambikos if it is a boy and Tsambika if it is a girl. Right here our Hex Birthright will procure the votes for Rodinense culture. We went to the town of Archangelos to a delicious gastronomic with Barley breads and Pure Wine, Akratismós the locals told us, taking small pieces of the basket with figs and olives, decorating them with tagenites cakes, continuing later with more Wine and Steamed Ariston with stews and fish for lunch, which were arranged on small tables with zoomorphic legs. Women ate after men according to tradition, but now it was all of Aristotelian virtue, for immanent actions and passions of the soul; being able this time to dispose ourselves to perform the best acts and do well and always better, according to the right reason that is chosen from an intellectual disposition called prudence here in Archangelos; in charge of uniting us in knowledge and action”
Vernarth says: “Aristotle was the teacher of Alexander the Great and me too; in his virtuosity we learned the exercise of forgiving habits, with training, with experience and time to exercise it in them. Furthermore, with the tasks in accordance with virtue, being by themselves agreeable and as virtuous men judging righteously; this is how happiness shines for the Stagirite Aristotle; where our teacher was born. Herein lays his inspiration in living and acting well, the activity of man being good in it: beneficial, pleasant and happy, so it is directly related to virtue and the actions of the chaste man. In this reflection, virtue as a way to prosperity, the efforts to achieve them, will be analyzed, and some of the intellectual and moral virtues established in the moral philosophy of our master thinker will be described. Especially with your Eurídice delicacies, thank you for putting them in our hands in this kitchen here in Archangelos "


Euridice continues: “Hesperisma, slipped through our hands when my father Pelias, at night, brought us closer to his dialogue with the myth of Jason.  In metal or terracotta containers that entertained us. We could use bread cakes as plates, but earthenware or metal bowls were more common. The cutlery we use at the table: the use of the fork as an unknown, it was eaten with the fingers. They helped each other with a meat knife and a simile spoon. Pieces of apomagdalia bread we could use to take food as napkins, to clean our fingers. We felt grace in our ears from Aulos, like bells calling us from Panigia Tsambika. We stretched our fingers towards some chestnuts, beans, toasted wheat grains or honey cakes, responsible for absorbing alcohol and prolonging the drink ingested. Some locals, who accompanied us from Archangelos, inaugurated one or more libations towards a pean as a simple prayer to Apollo, generally in honor of worshiping Dionysus as well. The libations obeyed certain rules: the number of libations per person was not limited, but the invocation was not done without libation, after the meal and before drinking, the participants' heads were covered with ribbons or garlands of ribbons. A Greedy inhabitant saying: “In Archangelos he mentioned in his ancestors; where they had poured egg yolks, oysters and scallops, as soon as we were rid of this world, we sat down to drink, dancing by the powers of the ferments of the distilled ingested with some bakery delicacies: Like the Daraton, without yeast, which was flat as a cake.   The almogee, coarse country bread, which was made on the farms.  The phaios brown and unrefined bread. Syncomiste, black bread for being made with non-sifted rye flour, was known for facilitating intestinal transit and dietary wheat bran bread. Thus ends the address the greedy Archangelos "

Saint John the Apostle adds: “It reminds me of how Yeshua healed the woman who suffered from Hemorrhoid. Thinking just like Jairo; prominent as one of the chiefs of the synagogue of Gerasa, in the ancient Decapolis, at the beginning of the first century of our era. He met Jesus of Nazareth when he was speaking in what is now Gilead, northeast Jordan. Jairo thought it would help him to heal his daughter, still believing she was dead. While Jesus is still in dialogue with the woman he has cured from Hemorroisa, some men from Jairo's house arrive and say to Jairo: “Your daughter has already died. Why bother the Master more? “Having told him, Jesus, who has heard what he has been told, looks at him and encourages him with these words: "Do not fear, only manifest your faith." He asks him to show him where his house was. While there everything was with great regret and consternation, Yeshua tells them that the girl has not died, that she is only asleep, the incredulous people scoffed knowing that she was dead. My teacher Yeshua, makes everyone leave Jairo's house, except Pedro, Santiago, the girl's parents and me, also allowing me to stay here. In this place we hear from the Aramaic-Syrian expression "" Talithakumi ". Where we could observe how the girl began to walk, seeing the extravagant joy in the girl's parents and other people. This episode makes me warn that we walk between situations of sociability that only admit to committing ourselves with equanimity that the facts of a plausible authenticity strike attesting to those who meet those who love in an unquantifiable way for the religious social feeling. We committed ourselves to being born to see the logic of being witnesses to oneself, but not to what we do not witness more distant from those who do not see them after their death, not being ourselves. Creation today here in Archangelos makes us witness to being in the midst of families that sigh for a Talithakumi for all those that one day the prodigy of existing will carry them beyond a resurrection, are pre-classified for a biological phylogeny, being externalized and extended further afield. Of our own taxatives, In this way they will have tiny beings and courage that speak for them, because when a person is resurrected with this energy, Creation is resurrected with all the creatures that are inborn " The Hexagonal Primogeniture rushing down a beehive, after having dined with the Tragones of Archangelos, they go back to the voids of history that appear before them on some cliffs, saying:

“At the beginning of the 4th century BC, all the Greek poleis, regardless of whether they were bigger or smaller, began to mint their own coins, sometimes pictorially represented by the name of their communities: Ástaco for a lobster, Melitea for a bee, Selinunte, for a celery leaf. It is from this same conception of Aristotelian Virtue, that this regression has the motive to humanize and integrate Creation and its little creatures, from a chaos of death like the daughter of Jairus, being able to reborn a new cosmogony with a sub-cosmogony between myth and myth. Relative concept of reality, resurrection occurs and does not occur, because the divine primordiality of being resurrected will also exist delegatedly, as a being again reborn, perhaps with the same essence component re-obtained,but within an order that admits creation of Creation in a world that does not recognize Chaos as deep and empty, rather generous to grant the magic of the irrigation of the energies of Yeshua, already constituted as an ambivalent chaos computer. Titanic continues phenomenology, taking us to dimensions that share recapitulations of their nature among themselves, to once again contain compendiated and resurrected beings, who socially walk the face of the earth resurrected and fragile subtle in an ordered but sensitive land, and with voids of integrity and chaos that could restrain it. Zeus and Tartarus, almost like poetic prototypes, would appear in storms of evasion of credibility towards creation and its genesis, subtracting the secondary intention that consolidates the grateful world of restructuring, saved by an unknown superior deity, to whom the springs are prominently unleashed. And the blades of the Hellenic time mill”
Chapter *** II
Vas Auric / Rhodes
Hex Birthright in Hallenika
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
-
and baba moonschtrung also said the same, kenwah?

only once you visit
the eastern coast of kenya
do you realise...
   oh right...
they sent all the loud-mouth
west africans to america...
no wonder...
and you might rightly ask:
wonder?
   oh hell, loved the kenyans...
had a cognac and a coffee,
talked
about timber imports
from ghana...
     fell asleep in the open air
and had no somali pirate
bother me...
  punctured my hand on
a coral crown while diving into
the indian ocean,
had a kenyan doctor stitch me
up...
     you know what
east africans call west africans,
esp. those born
in america?
            *******...
     even the africans can tell
an african from a ******,
that's how bad the epidemic has
become:
ye, woah, ye, hide-e hide-e **-**...
ye-yo... limo *******...
boom boom, shizzle nuts
salami... ******* go waaaaaaaaaaay...
high... white boy got shroom
for a ****-yo...
      i know that east africans
abhor west african,
they call them -
     kakhuluizinkamba
oh look, he he...
      a german sounding
colony in africa, simply
based on the spelling "conundrum"
(it's called an act of ridicule
as to excuse a misnomer,
because third party says, so):
i think that means: loud mouth...
plus... never met a nigerian
girl i'd like to ****,
but one kenyan coal...
mmm hmm...
  smoked her grass
  like a serpent princess
         and god,
            that skin was a mirror
i allowed myself to fixate on
the moon... clearly i saw
something in the rhesus' OOH!
that much needing a photograph
startled expression...
    ***** ***** ***** WHA?
NIGER NIGERIA SAY WHA?
hmm... herrkichert: giggles...
             i love the fact that
africa is, a continent,
up is not down,
west is not east,
       lighter skinned peoples
are not respect,
get shipped off,
             speak some rap,
some settle for the palm
tree tropicana of the carribean...
                it's, ha! like this arab
fwend said to me:
     the love of: genital: contrasts...
it's far beyond colours...
its a certain fascination with
shapes...
      although opposite in terms
of universals of *** antonym...
well no, it's not like every
single white girl...
        not every single black girl...
but you're on your own,
sitting at a table playing
a steppenwolf game with
the audience, and three kenyan
beauties approach you for
a chat...
             locked in to having genitals,
and there's a chair,
thank you, very much...
     if only the somali pirates...
i'd be like: you really forgot
the cognac...
                i had it in a little glass
next to my head,
when i woke up, the cognac was...
dead? well, gone, richard gere style...
kinywa kwa sauti kubwa
             kwa sauti kubwa kinywa

it's not perfect,
because i'm not learning,
i just want to known
of the arabs, keeping
crocodile zoos to ensure
  a steady stream of leather shoes
in Mombasa tell you
to read it: left to right to left,
or to read it: right to left to right,
beyond what the druids wrote,
grammatically speaking...
the other bit?
        zoo                    lú!
  so do the african-americans even
know that an east african would
call a west african a ******?
extra G, prowess!
   i think he ment to say: loud mouth...
ha ha...
  i love how african-americans
are deluded about the delusion
of an africa: UNITED!
  black, what-what?!
              no, i haven't been to a lot
of places...
        but the places i've been to
i attempted the human face...
kenya imports timber from ghana...
learned that from the bartender
giving me extra short of cognac
trying to play poker with me...
    but ven e'gein, outside of
    Arkansas... there is no Arkansas!
i'd gloat, bloat,
if i only did have to hide
in one of those Nero flotilla shades...
when in africa? hide from
the sun... have a ******* hyper-active
form of siesta...
        otherwise you're reduced
to getting a suntan,
which makes you look as stupid
as eating tablespoons of
             powdered cinnamon;
simba m'ah schlimba...
                     sham'ah sham'ah
  sham'ah yay...
              harpoon,  
                    first mate:
       it 'em at day tatties...
                one ****** down,
two ******* down...
                third?
                   did a seal's worst
impression of a baboon
scratching its over-taxed
worth of **** (already) worth's
of hemorrhoids...
  ever see a baboon with
a third ****-cheek?
i.e. a hemorrhoid?
                      hence the clapping...
B. Moonglit of the jungle,
never, ever, really managed
to wipe his ***...
                 still...
                 i love how african-americans
think there's an "africa"...
             well... there's kenya...
but you know,
  you sample one good aspect
of the continent,
   there's no real point sampling
a lottery ticket
              of replica to "prove"
a "similar" point of experience.
Cedric McClester Apr 2019
By: Cedric McClester

Sleeping in your bed
Or a brick on your head
Dead equals dead
Did you hear what I said?
No matter how you go
All of us should know
That we’re gonna, so
Don’t let it be a blow

And what’s even more
If you’re at Stage Four
What you know for sure
Is it’s knocking at your door
So don’t get paranoid
Or become destroyed
About what you can’t avoid
It’s like a hemorrhoid

It doesn’t matter how
Whether later or now
Death won’t make you smile
It’s what you most revile
But like it or not
All of us get caught
So don’t get overwrought
It’s not some kind of plot

Whether young or old
Death’s not in your control
Though it’s awesome to behold
We know it's been foretold
So when somebody dies
You shouldn’t be surprised
Once you stop to realize
God owns that whole franchise














Cedric McClester, Copyright ©2019.  All rights reserved.
TheRiverStyx Aug 2019
"Who the **** do you think you are?"
The man in question sat, even with the urgency of the question asked.
He was practically catatonic.
His interrogator asked once more, but with more anger:
"Who the **** do you think you are, exactly?"
The man in question answered, "My name is Theodore Cornelius Riley, but in my mind I am the reincarnation of Andrew Jackson, and I will send your **** to the Indian Territory while your having a hemorrhoid."
The man inhaled.
With a mighty exhale, the man said "Try me, *****."
If you read this poem you now have lead poisoning.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
i've never been really given an incentive
to compete with fellow men,
all that i have been given is
a cosmopolitan questionnaire girl,
and, that's a prize worth fighting for?
i can't compete for that -
even fake gold plastic souvenirs seem
more the setting standard worth
of competition -
   and in this retrospecting masculinity,
i am bound, with either hands tied
behind my back, or folded into a straitjacket.
it always happens when you bypass
chemistry...
   how on earth, did gravity become translated
into biology, of gender "centrism" -
this bypassing of copernican antics
is a snail's worth of sleep: the two steps
forward, and the 3 steps back...
when physical laws enter the biological
realm: you have problems...
to be honest? 20th century communism
doesn't seem that idiotic, or menacing...
given 21st "communism"...
we've turned full circle,
   given the original counter "argument",
namely that of heliocentrism &
geocentrism...
  the, the earth orbits around the sun,
vs. the earth is at the centre of the universe...
we've made it! we've made it!
people! people of this world, we've made it!
we just reinvented the ******* wheel!
full-swing back into a speeding snowball
momentum!
     talk of gravity in the realm of biology
is one thing... but to call it anything else
will always feel like: a blast from the past.
rotten ****-stormers and fudge-packing
leprechauns: those tidy ginger macaques...
ooh! and a face worth a million trips to kenya...
just for the giggles.
   baboons? natural thieves and havoc instigators:
better still, watch a baboon try to sit
on its protruding ***, donning hemorrhoid...
sorry eddie izzard, sorry lee evans,
you can't beat that;
but we are a return to the pre-enlightenment
period of human "endeavours"...
    evidently if we provide the technological
ultra+, we also have the counterbalance of
having to dumb down...
      please! please! can i hear the applause?!
gynocentrism = heliocentrism...
         homocentrism = geocentrism
,
although that's deceptively paradoxical -
given the cosmological proof -
namely? man as vector, woman as coordinate...
yes yes, i know the "vector" is in a fixed
orbit, besides the point...
      it's an intuitive claim of the current status quo -
"mother nature" has become obsolete,
   in terms of orientation -
    esp. in terms of orientating men -
i just call her: that exhausted *****
          who's been ******* over 7+ times a day...
i see that homocentrism isn't even a term
appropriated by the orthodox standards of
the church of the oxford dictionary,
that doesn't matter, much of english compounding
of words isn't approved anyway,
given the buffer zone of the utility of hyphen,
counter-measure to genesis of complex
        genesis packaging akin to german -
polysilbeformulierung, sad? no, just true:
remnants of which remain in origin saxon
(yes, not originally) - like to mix the timings;
even i am not certain whether i wrote
the sequence down correctly,
i.e.
   gynocentrism = heliocentrism...
         homocentrism = geocentrism
,
but as all counter-intuitive observations,
i, as many more men before me,
am plagued by doubts,
       which counter-intuition provides -
but unlike writing 2 + 2 = 5, rather than 4 -
i have the worth of time to instill a gradual
precipitation of conviction,
   that, if not grasping a billionth heart
that might state the same,
    will forever reside in a "body" of the thing
transformed into dust: the potent residue
of original spontaneity:
nonetheless, modern man has reinvented
a world, prior to the copernican observation,
for it has, relegated gravity from physics,
bypassing chemistry, and invoking it into
biological "debates"...
   shambles: total, ample and absolute shambles;
of such quests, i will not speak with enough
respect, as to be someone in the future
to craft a telescope... evidently looking
at genital members doesn't require either
telescope or microscope...
       just enough *** and rhetorical ridicule:
because, THIS IS WHEN, THE MADMEN ESCAPE
THE ASYLUM, AND FORCE OTHERS TO
ADHERE TO THEIR INSANITY...
       AND THIS, IS WHEN THE SANE ARE
BROUGHT TO KNEEL, BEFORE A STATUE
OF A, BERSERKER.
Xxvi+ marriage  anniversary (mine)
recalls first disastrous
date with future missus
approximately waltzing
matt tilde two dozen
plus years ago

Tex Mex Connection
201 E Walnut Street
North Wales, Pennsylvania, 19454
every entree included beans
maybe refried or otherwise

effectively laid siege
mine delicate constitution
quickly felt bloated
ready to explode
ala Hindenburg Airship

rushed out restaurant
like bat out of hell
twofold purpose accomplished
desperately needed
to eliminate gaseous buildup

airing banal courtesy
yours truly as kapellmeister
aired rendition, viz Die Fledermaus
for sphincter muscle
hence, faster than Usain Bolt

dashed out front door
plus needed to tap MAC
inadequate wallet stash cash
thus, aye hightailed to nearest ATM,
or rather courtesy ****** explosion

blasted lovely gaseous body
analogously, effectively, gravity free
whizzing, whirring, whining balloon
a bit far afield
incidental bank woe

gastrointestinal directive resolved
forced effort taxed derriere
all told alight propulsion
natural gas fueled
lovely bones within flash

far surpassing long held
Guinness Book world's record
******* the ripper former
flatulence champion claimed,
nonetheless I safely landed far

from madding crowd
analogous pulling pin
out hand grenade
gluteus maximus burnt to crisp
necessitated immediate diversion

local drug store
purchased preparation H
discreetly patted, palmed, pacified
scorched cheeky ***
suffered first-degree burns

hemorrhoid cream balm
alleviated buttuck blasts fallout
quickly reunited with my gal
slightly concerned about whereabouts
related personal anecdote

tuckus thru remains of
otherwise humdrum hours
concluding asinine antics,
where approximately

half past monkey's ***
driving lass back home
found me exerting effort suppressing
recurring rumblies in domain tumbly.

Posterior script:
the above account
unsolicited plug for satisfied patron
asper jumpstarting behind the times
buttuck blaster beastie boy.
(tell the dee jay to cue Thus Spake Zarathustra)

Most recent orbitz upon oblate spheroid
launched dawning consciousness, of this android
hood doth dream of electric sheep,
perhaps one named Dan Aykroyd
Yes - band aid together with Blues Brothers

adept at performing renditions, sans Pink Floyd,
asper where soul asylum hoop fully sent
precariously perched upon an asteroid
as aye trundled mine third score journey
around nearest star hearkening greater intent

for this nasal twanging, which annoyed
me as a kid (split uvula courtesy scapegoat)
bullies zeroed in (kamikaze like) destroyed
(thoroughly good) mine self esteem
puncturing psyche whole life, asper yours truly

(long stretched his mein kampf) never enjoyed,
now long since dismissed from class, or rather
painstakingly, sluggishly, woefully
zipped along analogous to an amoeboid
arriving at present juncture (at the outer

limits of the twilight zone) often plaque
tracking, via blunt, fingerlike, lobose diploid
pseudopods, and tubular mitochondrial
cristae eventually brink king edge of devoid
of eternal night and nothingness

in tow with existential demise unavoid
double vision, emasculating spectacle
embarrassment to fellow protozoa,
this vignette by the way...a "FAKE" factoid
but came to in a flash while deployed

in an effort to craft inane rhyme, no reason
either that or share ****** hemorrhoid
verse (barely appropriate material) for
alien, foreigner or humanoid,

thus confabulating prevarication
to entertain, kibbitz, regale with overactive
imagination not jest prominent among Mongoloid,
but storytelling evident with Caucasoid and Negroid.
Down at the orangish river that waves 'neath the sulfur creek bridge
I fell in love with the mentally-deranged X-governor Tommy Ridge
His coal-mine-deep anals were frigidly off-putting & purely tragical
unlike his knobs that were, what dog Walter Disney called, magical
We fell in fakey love like folks on welfare & we couldn't look back
'cause his big knees were out-swollen by his century-old scrotal sac
1 day we shall conceive 19 Mongoloid kids when nobody's looking
in the attic of hot-lovin' love where we enjoy 100% ****** cooking
At the river of  witches I dug up the moldy corpse of Lloyd Bridges
He appeared unwell as his **** was grooved by hemorrhoid ridges,
& his gray brains were burned, shriveled, unusable, blue & parched
like Mario Soother Bing's crena ani after he'd preached & marched
Lloyd loved me mucho more than he loved Turks for Thanksgiving
before rottin' by the putrefying process after he'd stopped *** living


➨➨
➨➨➨
Our Lord of rood healed not the blood-engorged hemorrhoid ridges
of the sea-hunting reprobate operating unilaterally as Lloyd Bridges
who slurped rancid-cheese-rendered-runny dribble to avoid wedges
that'd stampede the intestines like a Conestoga of Bill Boyd sledges
mikhaltsov Feb 2021
press a phone call button.
if you ask, wait until an oxygen mask
provides me with substance
as hearer isn't on the other side

clipping off internet ties
is often with a swallow of oil.
cutting off an internet life
like lost drafts of a wallowing poet

standing my ground next to you
mute as a fish.
you sense a transparent wall
towered up on my elbows of cement

longitudional stripe
strikes across numb chest.
connived at all hemorrhoid
you dragged into my pride.
what a voice to receive not a thing from

apartment walls' yeller
a nominated storyteller
is not a winner.
pain in the rear

a pen to the front
can ink a million thick books
in spite of not telling

so I sat at a wooden chair
and blankly looked over you
clutching my phone
Alternately titled: 111th leap year since 1582
the year Pope Gregory XIII world leader
(i.e. essentially paterfamilias among
Roman Catholic flock)
timely maneuvered around calendrical rock
and hard space implementing
viable system tracking years ad hoc
out of sync and lock
step by one day
with astronomical calendar,

slated more'n acceptable tick tock
off kilter around the year of 4818
after common era making mock
re: regarding mankind organizing and
witnessing global chockablock
Democratic celebratory anniversary party
millenniums after Republican dynastic deadlock
thoroughly walled imponderable gridlock
worse fate than quaffing hemlock
practically snuffing out lock, stock

and barrel constitutional birthrights
thirteen original American
founding fathers ghosts experiencing shock
how initial inalienable rights
activists sacrificing life and limb
united with linkedin armlock
said freedom fighters shackled
within crowded jail moldering cinderblock
cold upon hemorrhoid riddle buttock
diehard libertarians unified, pilloried, denounced

legion with repulsion as Shylock
purported, reputed, touted playwright
(William Shakespeare's sited anti semite
The Merchant Of Venice) doth mock
Judaism in vogue four hundred plus years ago,
smoldering think white supremacists i.e. skinheads
violently aiming to knock
non Caucasians upside the head
courtesy pistol whip,
and/or emptying gunstock

into human flesh disenfranchise scaring up
one after another racial and/or ethnic aftershock
aforementioned celebrated bard unwittingly
strictly opinion of me:silly poet -
despite hashtagged as laughingstock,
(plus vitriolic objection taken)
voiced by Shakespearean expert defenders,
yours truly reckons mine thought provoking blurb
regarding storied, lauded, and feted Globe theater
literary King my interpretations not crock

Earth's orbit around the Sun (year)
and rotation on its axis (day) where
latter not perfectly in line there
by necessitating
smooth functioning of Gregorian calendar
(also called New Style Calendar)
which did premiere
fifteen eighty two courtesy king's spear.

Ever since 1752, whence
in the modern sense
the first leap year implemented
madding crowds reportedly rioted
most likely uttering expletive
than "what nonsense"

reportedly riots erupted
courtesy chaos did arrange,
when England made the change
spurring some citizens
demanding immediate compensatory exchange
they get their 11 days back home on their range
from the government haint so strange.

To determine whether a year is a leap year,
follow these steps without Fanfare
For The Common Man
the famous title of Aaron Copland air:

1. If the year is evenly divisible by 4,
go to step 2. Otherwise, go to step 5.

2. If the year is evenly divisible by 100,
go to step 3. Otherwise, go to step 4.

3. If the year is evenly divisible by 400,
go to step 4. Otherwise, go to step 5.

4. The year is a leap year (it has 366 days).

5. The year is not a leap year (it has 365 days)
   The Gregorian calendar will have gained a day by the year 4818 CE (2,794 years from now), so at some point there will be a Gregorian leap year specially made not a leap year. The logical thing to do would be to make 3204 CE not a leap year, pushing the calendar from 1/2 day ahead of the solar year to 1/2 day behind the solar year. Making that decision is about 1,000 years in the future.
     The Gregorian calendar is still slightly too long relative to the mean tropical year (which very slowly gets shorter). At some point in the future, it will be necessary to have fewer leap years (or days), not more. No one has agreed to anything yet, but the 400 year centennial rule could be changed to 500 years, the millennial leap year in 4000 (and some other future dates) could be skipped, various other possibilities, but all require a reduction in leap years, not a double leap year or extra leap years.
     The first leap year was in 45BC. There were supposed to be 12 leap years from 45BC through 1 BC, but there might have been an extra because the Romans initially botched the implementation of the system. But let’s say there were 12. Then, had the Julian calendar been kept all this time there would have been another 500 leap years from 4AD through 2000AD for a total of 512 leap years by now. But most of us are using the Gregorian calendar. This fact makes the question subject to different interpretations. When switching to the Gregorian calendar countries using it agree to retroactively cancel leap years that the Gregorian calendar would not have recognized if it were in place since the beginning (45 BC). 1BC would still have been a leap year (it corresponds to 0000AD) but of the remaining intervening 20 years ending in 00AD, only 5 of them would have been leap years, meaning, if you accept that interpretation, 512–15 = 497 is the total number of leap years so far.
     But there’s another interpretation, that once a leap year is acknowledged in a place in history, there was a leap year then regardless of whether the Gregorian calendar was adopted there at some time later. Since the dates of adoption range from the late 1500’s to the early 1900s that would mean that some places have skipped over only 3 leap years out of the 512 (beginning with 1700) some 2 leap years of the 512, some 1 of the 512, and some haven’t skipped any (those places that kept the Julian calendar until around WWI, such as Russia.) So in this interpretation, depending on the country you’re interested in there have been either 509, 510, 511 or 512 leap years since 45BC.

— The End —