"herr" poems - Hello Poetry

Donald has a comb-over. ****** a funny moustache. Hair Donald? Heil ******

0

Dec 9, 2015

Dec 9, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC

francie-lynch

Comb-over for Herr Trump

Donald has a comb-over. ****** a funny moustache. Hair Donald? Heil ******

4

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it---- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a **** lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin 0 my enemy. Do I terrify?---- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart---- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash --- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

0

26k

Sylvia Plath

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it---- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a **** lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin 0 my enemy. Do I terrify?---- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart---- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash --- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

84

.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.* just your atypical pedantry, a translator's subscript comment - who's richard rojcewicz's... regarding what? heidegger... das volk, and the three derivatives - volkhaft (populist), volklich (communal) und? völkisch (folkish) - i'm starting to suspect that i'm tapping in the all things folk.... unconsciously, favoring folk music... see, us central europeans, we bunch together and share the most odd similarities - i never thought that the song herr mannelig could be translated from Swedish - as it was translated into German... then again... Vikings founded Kiev... and all these loan-words of Germanic origin in Polish... the only Anglo loan-word that i know of, is, weekend... hence, das volk, people - by the way... German has "too many" definite articles, and only one ein - or eine - is that the same rule as in Ęnglish? i.e. N in an example, rather than in a counter example? two vowels adjacent in separate word, sitting across from the grand chasm of... a spacing itch? but look at German, i never get it... DAS DIE DER... is there an aesthetic difference, and only an aesthetic difference to mind? bewildering... if there is such a thing as a western civilization... that sometime pompous obnoxiousness, fair enough... no problem: but learn to hide it, feel it, rather then feed it... it's not a question of a civilization, but more... an answer to what is less civilization, and more... a chore... just like western women, notably the english women call motherhood a, "job"... it's a... wait... a job? doubt was big in classic philosophy of the Cartesian schematic... so no one knows that the French existentialists brought in negation, as the driving force to replace doubt? who the hell sees doubt these days? either the know it alles - or the hush-hush crowd... motherhood is a... job? well... then i guess, being a man... western civilization, by that standard of logic... can't be anything more... than a.... ******* chore!

0

Aug 14, 2018

Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

das volk (translator's note)

.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.* just your atypical pedantry, a translator's subscript comment - who's richard rojcewicz's... regarding what? heidegger... das volk, and the three derivatives - volkhaft (populist), volklich (communal) und? völkisch (folkish) - i'm starting to suspect that i'm tapping in the all things folk.... unconsciously, favoring folk music... see, us central europeans, we bunch together and share the most odd similarities - i never thought that the song herr mannelig could be translated from Swedish - as it was translated into German... then again... Vikings founded Kiev... and all these loan-words of Germanic origin in Polish... the only Anglo loan-word that i know of, is, weekend... hence, das volk, people - by the way... German has "too many" definite articles, and only one ein - or eine - is that the same rule as in Ęnglish? i.e. N in an example, rather than in a counter example? two vowels adjacent in separate word, sitting across from the grand chasm of... a spacing itch? but look at German, i never get it... DAS DIE DER... is there an aesthetic difference, and only an aesthetic difference to mind? bewildering... if there is such a thing as a western civilization... that sometime pompous obnoxiousness, fair enough... no problem: but learn to hide it, feel it, rather then feed it... it's not a question of a civilization, but more... an answer to what is less civilization, and more... a chore... just like western women, notably the english women call motherhood a, "job"... it's a... wait... a job? doubt was big in classic philosophy of the Cartesian schematic... so no one knows that the French existentialists brought in negation, as the driving force to replace doubt? who the hell sees doubt these days? either the know it alles - or the hush-hush crowd... motherhood is a... job? well... then i guess, being a man... western civilization, by that standard of logic... can't be anything more... than a.... ******* chore!

77

*The man with green hair and green hands. A long long time ago When army’s wore uniforms. We were khaki they were grey. My grandfather was fire warden In WW2 he had seven sons And three daughters . You could say he was a bit of a pacifist. Make love not war Was his mantra. He married my Grandma when she was seventeen. They were to stay married for over sixty five years. And produce tribe of ten children. He had spent his whole life Working as a coppersmith For the same company. His hair and hands tinted green From the metals Verdigris. My father was a baby just born In the middle of the war. We lived in Manchester. Money was always tight. But we were happy. Just as Herr ****** invaded Poland My grandad bought our first house. We always rented until then. It was a large town home. The six older boys All joined the marines At the outbreak of the war. They did one act of preparation That ultimately saved the family. They took down an old barn for a farmer And used the beams to shore up the stone cellar of the house. When the air raids came later. We would all huddle under the stair well Until the all clear sirens sounded. When the bad raid came It was the early hours of the night. Grandad was out on fire watch. Six of the sons were on ships In Europe and the far east. My aunty told me much later. When the war was long over. She heard the bomb falling It screamed as it fell. Exploding just outside our house the house caved in and they were all buried under the rubble in total darkness. She said grandma was breastfeeding the baby my dad. Grandad was busy the raid was a hard one. A friend said Frank your house has been hit It’s bad. He dropped everything and ran and ran Breathless he reached the fallen house. In his heart he thought we were all dead. It took ten neighbors four hours to reach us. They pulled the girls out first Then the baby my dad. And finally the dimutive figure of my grandma. She was weeping. She said Frank we’ve lost everything. There’s nothing left. He held her in his big arms Tears flowing from the eyes of a man Who had had a hard life. Who never cried. He kisses her full on her lips A single sign of public affection That was out of his character. He whispered to grandma. That odd Mary Because I just found Everything I ever wanted or needed.*

0

Oct 30, 2015

Oct 30, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC

jude-kyrie

My Grandad with the green hair ..A true story from Judes past.

*The man with green hair and green hands. A long long time ago When army’s wore uniforms. We were khaki they were grey. My grandfather was fire warden In WW2 he had seven sons And three daughters . You could say he was a bit of a pacifist. Make love not war Was his mantra. He married my Grandma when she was seventeen. They were to stay married for over sixty five years. And produce tribe of ten children. He had spent his whole life Working as a coppersmith For the same company. His hair and hands tinted green From the metals Verdigris. My father was a baby just born In the middle of the war. We lived in Manchester. Money was always tight. But we were happy. Just as Herr ****** invaded Poland My grandad bought our first house. We always rented until then. It was a large town home. The six older boys All joined the marines At the outbreak of the war. They did one act of preparation That ultimately saved the family. They took down an old barn for a farmer And used the beams to shore up the stone cellar of the house. When the air raids came later. We would all huddle under the stair well Until the all clear sirens sounded. When the bad raid came It was the early hours of the night. Grandad was out on fire watch. Six of the sons were on ships In Europe and the far east. My aunty told me much later. When the war was long over. She heard the bomb falling It screamed as it fell. Exploding just outside our house the house caved in and they were all buried under the rubble in total darkness. She said grandma was breastfeeding the baby my dad. Grandad was busy the raid was a hard one. A friend said Frank your house has been hit It’s bad. He dropped everything and ran and ran Breathless he reached the fallen house. In his heart he thought we were all dead. It took ten neighbors four hours to reach us. They pulled the girls out first Then the baby my dad. And finally the dimutive figure of my grandma. She was weeping. She said Frank we’ve lost everything. There’s nothing left. He held her in his big arms Tears flowing from the eyes of a man Who had had a hard life. Who never cried. He kisses her full on her lips A single sign of public affection That was out of his character. He whispered to grandma. That odd Mary Because I just found Everything I ever wanted or needed.*

80

I write this from a library under the watchful gaze of Voltaire, Having read that the future of Earth's water is being debated in Morocco. Isn't there a Utilitarian part of us all that strives to save our home, And rejects the notion that we must **** where we eat to make progress? Gambling becomes dangerous when you begin to stake declining resources. There is no turning back, and there is little optimism from Millennials who shall inherit the rotting infrastructure. Nothing is dramatic or blown out of proportion when the President can't acknowledge that there's something seriously wrong with a giant hole in the ozone. Herr Trump, where is the ice going? Would you sell the penguins for profit? Tell the Polish Brigade that legal workers will restore this country's ideal greatness. Tell them sincerely. Reagan spouted that it was Morning in America, and I imagine the Trumpites feel the same. What is morning, anyway, when you can't see the sun for the smog?

0

Nov 10, 2016

Nov 10, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC

trevor-blevins

Marrakech. (On the Future of the Environment.)

I write this from a library under the watchful gaze of Voltaire, Having read that the future of Earth's water is being debated in Morocco. Isn't there a Utilitarian part of us all that strives to save our home, And rejects the notion that we must **** where we eat to make progress? Gambling becomes dangerous when you begin to stake declining resources. There is no turning back, and there is little optimism from Millennials who shall inherit the rotting infrastructure. Nothing is dramatic or blown out of proportion when the President can't acknowledge that there's something seriously wrong with a giant hole in the ozone. Herr Trump, where is the ice going? Would you sell the penguins for profit? Tell the Polish Brigade that legal workers will restore this country's ideal greatness. Tell them sincerely. Reagan spouted that it was Morning in America, and I imagine the Trumpites feel the same. What is morning, anyway, when you can't see the sun for the smog?

13

She was a fiery seashell, lost 'neath convoluted oceans amongst opuses of pure poetry, artistically outspoken 'tween invertebrate reality secretly devouring mankind, beware Herr Lucifer, she rose from the gaseous chamber to live amidst ashes of immortality & renowned marital infamy, the eternal burning spirit of Lady Lazarus **Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.** - Sylvia Plath

0

Jul 18, 2015

Jul 18, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC

poetessa-diabolical

Spirit of Lady Lazarus

She was a fiery seashell, lost 'neath convoluted oceans amongst opuses of pure poetry, artistically outspoken 'tween invertebrate reality secretly devouring mankind, beware Herr Lucifer, she rose from the gaseous chamber to live amidst ashes of immortality & renowned marital infamy, the eternal burning spirit of Lady Lazarus **Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.** - Sylvia Plath

15

Take away your knowledge, Doktor. It doesn't butter me up. You say my heart is sick unto. You ought to have more respect! you with the goo on the suction cup. You with your wires and electrodes fastened at my ankle and wrist, ******* up the biological breast. You with your zigzag machine playing like the stock market up and down. Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl and I will make a gold crown for my molar. I will take a slug if you please and make myself a perfectly good appendix. Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass. The world was milky all along. I will take an iron and press out my slipped disk until it is flat. But take away my mother's carcinoma for I have only one cup of fetus tears. Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand. Take away my sister's broken neck for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure. Is there such a device for my heart? I have only a gimmick called magic fingers. Let me dilate like a bad debt. Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself. O heart, tobacco red heart, beat like a rock guitar. I am at the ship's prow. I am no longer the suicide with her raft and paddle. Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die to spite you, you wallowing seasick grounded man.

0

2k

Anne Sexton

The Doctor Of The Heart

Take away your knowledge, Doktor. It doesn't butter me up. You say my heart is sick unto. You ought to have more respect! you with the goo on the suction cup. You with your wires and electrodes fastened at my ankle and wrist, ******* up the biological breast. You with your zigzag machine playing like the stock market up and down. Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl and I will make a gold crown for my molar. I will take a slug if you please and make myself a perfectly good appendix. Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass. The world was milky all along. I will take an iron and press out my slipped disk until it is flat. But take away my mother's carcinoma for I have only one cup of fetus tears. Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand. Take away my sister's broken neck for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure. Is there such a device for my heart? I have only a gimmick called magic fingers. Let me dilate like a bad debt. Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself. O heart, tobacco red heart, beat like a rock guitar. I am at the ship's prow. I am no longer the suicide with her raft and paddle. Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die to spite you, you wallowing seasick grounded man.

36

oh **** off... migrant crisis my *** what with Ukraine happening? East European... how about western women? Manchester mothers? no? oh well.... watch my face... do i ******* look like i, might, care?! no... no?! well... thank you... because? i don't! i'm thinking: let them **** your harlots... you managed to call my ethnicity, vermin.... RATS.... whatever ally you had... gone... next time you ask, ask a Pakistani to deal with your women... i'll be most obliged... to tell you: **** OFF! no... you told me once, you do not assert the stature of telling me twice... i don't care whether it is or whether it isn't your island... you violated, or at least your citizen, the rules of p4rivate property... no... nein nein nein! for once i'll turn the volume to a Reading Park volume: **** you! and your ambitions of a mastering of the races... claiming quasi Boar fixture; ******* capitalists... with their made in china of what used to be the manufacturing jobs... arbeit macht frei... arbeit macht frei... arbeit ist frei... mein, mein, herr... made in china.. my *** my *** was made in china... your argument for liberty? hardly comprised in Monaco. yes, those Eastern European women... pretty much as those ***** whip Western European men... the sort of men: shy of death... one you almost wish to **** with a bludgeon that might leave fingerprints; lesson no. 1... you come after Eastern European women... lesson no. 2: there are no Western European "men" to come after... sure... ******* little men... something between petting an in between petting a panda and a koala; totally castrato, just the way Western Women like their men to be... obedient... pussy-whipped... leashed. mind you... what are the thoughts of an Eastern European man concerning Western women? and, why, would, i, heaven, and, hell, on, earth, ever, want, to, **** this, exercise, in, making, equivalent, raising, a, ******* brat?! i don't want these women, no more than the women want me... apparently Pakistanis are in higher demand.

0

Sep 15, 2018

Sep 15, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

made in china

oh **** off... migrant crisis my *** what with Ukraine happening? East European... how about western women? Manchester mothers? no? oh well.... watch my face... do i ******* look like i, might, care?! no... no?! well... thank you... because? i don't! i'm thinking: let them **** your harlots... you managed to call my ethnicity, vermin.... RATS.... whatever ally you had... gone... next time you ask, ask a Pakistani to deal with your women... i'll be most obliged... to tell you: **** OFF! no... you told me once, you do not assert the stature of telling me twice... i don't care whether it is or whether it isn't your island... you violated, or at least your citizen, the rules of p4rivate property... no... nein nein nein! for once i'll turn the volume to a Reading Park volume: **** you! and your ambitions of a mastering of the races... claiming quasi Boar fixture; ******* capitalists... with their made in china of what used to be the manufacturing jobs... arbeit macht frei... arbeit macht frei... arbeit ist frei... mein, mein, herr... made in china.. my *** my *** was made in china... your argument for liberty? hardly comprised in Monaco. yes, those Eastern European women... pretty much as those ***** whip Western European men... the sort of men: shy of death... one you almost wish to **** with a bludgeon that might leave fingerprints; lesson no. 1... you come after Eastern European women... lesson no. 2: there are no Western European "men" to come after... sure... ******* little men... something between petting an in between petting a panda and a koala; totally castrato, just the way Western Women like their men to be... obedient... pussy-whipped... leashed. mind you... what are the thoughts of an Eastern European man concerning Western women? and, why, would, i, heaven, and, hell, on, earth, ever, want, to, **** this, exercise, in, making, equivalent, raising, a, ******* brat?! i don't want these women, no more than the women want me... apparently Pakistanis are in higher demand.

95

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride as he came to escort me inside. "Come along, these are perilous times, there is much ugly truth we must hide." "Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration. Joe McCarthy taught here till he died. Charlie Rangel is among our directors. Our Grads over nations preside." "We recruit each years class from young children who display a disdain for the truth." "We start with a class on tall stories, progressing to fibs and untruths." "By the time they are teens they are ready to leave little white lies behind." "They engage in deceit and deception. These skills help them rob people blind." "With our Grad course in prevarication They misdirect and deflect with the great." "Obama was born in Hawaii, his foes say he was birthed out of state." "When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury I nearly went out of my mind." "If only he'd paid more attention in Class and less to some coed's behind." We had come to a massive rotunda The Pantheon of all untruth. Holograms of Stalin and Churchill told whoppers in an endless loop. There were quotes from the World's Great Religions inscribed on the sides of the wall. A Left wing devoted to Lenin. A right wing like a Munich beer hall. " The sheeple must never be told that a place like this even exists." " You can count on me not to inform them." I said, without moving my lips.

0

Jun 14, 2012

Jun 14, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

At the Mendacity Institute

The Miss-Director was beaming with pride as he came to escort me inside. "Come along, these are perilous times, there is much ugly truth we must hide." "Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration. Joe McCarthy taught here till he died. Charlie Rangel is among our directors. Our Grads over nations preside." "We recruit each years class from young children who display a disdain for the truth." "We start with a class on tall stories, progressing to fibs and untruths." "By the time they are teens they are ready to leave little white lies behind." "They engage in deceit and deception. These skills help them rob people blind." "With our Grad course in prevarication They misdirect and deflect with the great." "Obama was born in Hawaii, his foes say he was birthed out of state." "When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury I nearly went out of my mind." "If only he'd paid more attention in Class and less to some coed's behind." We had come to a massive rotunda The Pantheon of all untruth. Holograms of Stalin and Churchill told whoppers in an endless loop. There were quotes from the World's Great Religions inscribed on the sides of the wall. A Left wing devoted to Lenin. A right wing like a Munich beer hall. " The sheeple must never be told that a place like this even exists." " You can count on me not to inform them." I said, without moving my lips.

37

- 6 happy songs 1. Oui hear What we appear What, we appear? What Where Capturing the in The expressable in it Capped in it In Into Together to gather To Get Her - To Gat Her Two Gets-together Gether Glather Troubling isn't it Very troubling Trouble some Some troubles in ning Inklings Inner rings Der Rinks Der 2. Vert Over therr Overt therr Knew a woman who was livin Oh Vert Herr! Oh Vert Herr! Over therr Err a woman who is livin Oh Vert therr! Err Err 3. Bleu A cloud farmer I eye the sky Eye the sky Eye the sky A cloud farmer I eye the skye Eye the sky Wide 4. Blanc Here is the blank The blanking blank The blanking blank The blanking blank Here is the blank The blanking blank The blanking blanking blank Blank 5. Rouge They come to me in ones and twos Ones and twos Ones and twos They come to me in Ones and twos Ones and twos it's True 6. Noir Brush away noir noir Brush away noir Brush away noir noir Noir noir no More No more Noir noir no Moe

0

Oct 5, 2016

Oct 5, 2016 at 4:06 AM UTC

maxim-gorky

Tod lieder

- 6 happy songs 1. Oui hear What we appear What, we appear? What Where Capturing the in The expressable in it Capped in it In Into Together to gather To Get Her - To Gat Her Two Gets-together Gether Glather Troubling isn't it Very troubling Trouble some Some troubles in ning Inklings Inner rings Der Rinks Der 2. Vert Over therr Overt therr Knew a woman who was livin Oh Vert Herr! Oh Vert Herr! Over therr Err a woman who is livin Oh Vert therr! Err Err 3. Bleu A cloud farmer I eye the sky Eye the sky Eye the sky A cloud farmer I eye the skye Eye the sky Wide 4. Blanc Here is the blank The blanking blank The blanking blank The blanking blank Here is the blank The blanking blank The blanking blanking blank Blank 5. Rouge They come to me in ones and twos Ones and twos Ones and twos They come to me in Ones and twos Ones and twos it's True 6. Noir Brush away noir noir Brush away noir Brush away noir noir Noir noir no More No more Noir noir no Moe

69

Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time. Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory. Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils. His hope: intermittent. To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on changing. He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant. He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food. He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven. Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world. He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one who can talk, the only one to have doubts. Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a dozen men. Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject— eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed to system.) "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois seulette." He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative past. Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry. He has a special attitude towards terror.

0

Mar 17, 2014

Mar 17, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC

st64

Tuning (by Keith Waldrop)

Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time. Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory. Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils. His hope: intermittent. To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on changing. He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant. He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food. He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven. Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world. He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one who can talk, the only one to have doubts. Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a dozen men. Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject— eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed to system.) "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois seulette." He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative past. Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry. He has a special attitude towards terror.

30

. *and today's prime concern of the day? i can't access the recipe site for Australia's master-chef... maybe it's Australia, and their restrictions, or it's the ******* E.U... but... come to mind... last year i could access Eliza's triple-fried tamarind chicken... my god! they're going after restricting access to food recipes!* could i ever think any woman as being, "ugly", neglected, yes, but... "ugly"? please... all manner of things become beautiful around the mandible zenith upon the grinding wheel of the big O... nothing quiet like deathly screaming in the hollow of the night, but some drunkard loser - speaking in tongues and recollecting a myth of a patriarch akin to Abraham... 'it's just the moon, you shit-face!' 'yeah, and my grandmother sees a Herr Tvardovsky in it from time to time, riding a ******* cockerel!' which equates to a banality of two things (well, three): 1. she shouldn't have been given opiates during WWII to shut the **** up, as a baby, so my great-grandparents could hide in the Polish countryside, i.e war zone.... 2. i shouldn't be drinking and reading religious text / listening to Finnish folk songs... 3. about that Hollywood thing... how movies are getting ******** and ******** by the day... see... in philosophy there's this point, not a Hegelian dialectic crap, a Kantian coordinate, a starting point, zee: res per se... a thing in itself... blah blah... noumenon... i hardly think t.v. shows will reach this level of "self-consciousness"... i.e. will be making t.v. shows about making t.v. shows... English soap opera tide barrier... but movies have certainly turned to focus on this, "vantage" point... the disaster artist for starters... birdman? eh... and like any cascade of falling down from an airplane akin to the opening image from Salman Rushdie's the satanic verse... mighty fine looking up and cackling while flapping your hands in imitation of a Canadian goose. ha ha ha... ah... **** never gets old.

0

Sep 29, 2018

Sep 29, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

perversity of humor

. *and today's prime concern of the day? i can't access the recipe site for Australia's master-chef... maybe it's Australia, and their restrictions, or it's the ******* E.U... but... come to mind... last year i could access Eliza's triple-fried tamarind chicken... my god! they're going after restricting access to food recipes!* could i ever think any woman as being, "ugly", neglected, yes, but... "ugly"? please... all manner of things become beautiful around the mandible zenith upon the grinding wheel of the big O... nothing quiet like deathly screaming in the hollow of the night, but some drunkard loser - speaking in tongues and recollecting a myth of a patriarch akin to Abraham... 'it's just the moon, you shit-face!' 'yeah, and my grandmother sees a Herr Tvardovsky in it from time to time, riding a ******* cockerel!' which equates to a banality of two things (well, three): 1. she shouldn't have been given opiates during WWII to shut the **** up, as a baby, so my great-grandparents could hide in the Polish countryside, i.e war zone.... 2. i shouldn't be drinking and reading religious text / listening to Finnish folk songs... 3. about that Hollywood thing... how movies are getting ******** and ******** by the day... see... in philosophy there's this point, not a Hegelian dialectic crap, a Kantian coordinate, a starting point, zee: res per se... a thing in itself... blah blah... noumenon... i hardly think t.v. shows will reach this level of "self-consciousness"... i.e. will be making t.v. shows about making t.v. shows... English soap opera tide barrier... but movies have certainly turned to focus on this, "vantage" point... the disaster artist for starters... birdman? eh... and like any cascade of falling down from an airplane akin to the opening image from Salman Rushdie's the satanic verse... mighty fine looking up and cackling while flapping your hands in imitation of a Canadian goose. ha ha ha... ah... **** never gets old.

56

for my dad I crack myself up, twice once, at the doctor's office, a steady stream of me~repartee made the waiting room, the warring harried receptionist, and ultimately herr doktor, his royal himself, as well, somewhere combobulated, somewhere beware and between chuckling to uproarious clutching their sides, and many stations/gradations in between finally the teary eyed doc inquired not how but why I do it, well, replied I, somewhat of a family tradition, doing waiting room shtick, because the sound of infectious laughter, fills in the cracks quite nicely where you cut me open, and also drains away the deposits of chemotherapy poisoned sinful residuals just a tad quicker, and that is why I crack myself up first, when I boldly look in the mirror and laugh at the silly scarecrow I have become

0

Jul 18, 2017

Jul 18, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC

lmnsinner

I crack myself up (twice)

for my dad I crack myself up, twice once, at the doctor's office, a steady stream of me~repartee made the waiting room, the warring harried receptionist, and ultimately herr doktor, his royal himself, as well, somewhere combobulated, somewhere beware and between chuckling to uproarious clutching their sides, and many stations/gradations in between finally the teary eyed doc inquired not how but why I do it, well, replied I, somewhat of a family tradition, doing waiting room shtick, because the sound of infectious laughter, fills in the cracks quite nicely where you cut me open, and also drains away the deposits of chemotherapy poisoned sinful residuals just a tad quicker, and that is why I crack myself up first, when I boldly look in the mirror and laugh at the silly scarecrow I have become

22

herr fayce obsccurred a mysterie tho shadowe-veiled alle maye see reflektions of the daye jusste gonne or warninge of tomorrowes storm softe herr lyghte for lovers eyes indifferent to ourre mortal heartes yet woven thru alle ourre lyves sylvarre moone bequeathes herr lyghte brokenne heartes as dryftwoode laye 'pon these silent shores sweppte awaye 'pon sylvarre seas 'neathe herr crowne of starrs... . . http://oi61.tinypic.com/34iicxx.jpg . .

0

Feb 17, 2018

Feb 17, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC

jonni-inferno

Shadowe Veiled

herr fayce obsccurred a mysterie tho shadowe-veiled alle maye see reflektions of the daye jusste gonne or warninge of tomorrowes storm softe herr lyghte for lovers eyes indifferent to ourre mortal heartes yet woven thru alle ourre lyves sylvarre moone bequeathes herr lyghte brokenne heartes as dryftwoode laye 'pon these silent shores sweppte awaye 'pon sylvarre seas 'neathe herr crowne of starrs... . . http://oi61.tinypic.com/34iicxx.jpg . .

31

Just past dawn She toddles out in A flour-sack apron, A hatchet in her Pocket. Beside the upright Log, its bark aging, Leans a potato sack With one white Cackling hen inside. The woman is all Business, this job Nothing new, Dinner comes soon. The log is capped With two rusty nails About 2 inches apart. The hen continues Her song, ignorant Of her fate. The woman grabs The hen in her left Hand, the hachet In her pocket. With deft attention, The woman places The hen’s neck between The nails. The cackling becomes A maniacal squawk, But no one is there To grieve. One quick stroke Is all it takes, and The hen’s head is On the ground. The stump is full Of blood, and the Proverbial body Is running around, Minus the squawk. The woman grabs The hen and shoves Her back into the Potato sack, minus Its head. The task is done, Five minutes max. Time to take her To the kitchen for The plucking of Feathers and the Saving of edible Internal organs. The woman and her Hen are ready for The family’s Sunday Dinner, only hours Away. The hen’s head Rests outside, its Comb, beak and Wattle the worse For wear. The woman sings, Rehearsing: *Komm, Herr Jesu, Sei unser Gast….* © Lewis Bosworth, 2016

0

Sep 14, 2016

Sep 14, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC

lewis-bosworth

Nonnie

Just past dawn She toddles out in A flour-sack apron, A hatchet in her Pocket. Beside the upright Log, its bark aging, Leans a potato sack With one white Cackling hen inside. The woman is all Business, this job Nothing new, Dinner comes soon. The log is capped With two rusty nails About 2 inches apart. The hen continues Her song, ignorant Of her fate. The woman grabs The hen in her left Hand, the hachet In her pocket. With deft attention, The woman places The hen’s neck between The nails. The cackling becomes A maniacal squawk, But no one is there To grieve. One quick stroke Is all it takes, and The hen’s head is On the ground. The stump is full Of blood, and the Proverbial body Is running around, Minus the squawk. The woman grabs The hen and shoves Her back into the Potato sack, minus Its head. The task is done, Five minutes max. Time to take her To the kitchen for The plucking of Feathers and the Saving of edible Internal organs. The woman and her Hen are ready for The family’s Sunday Dinner, only hours Away. The hen’s head Rests outside, its Comb, beak and Wattle the worse For wear. The woman sings, Rehearsing: *Komm, Herr Jesu, Sei unser Gast….* © Lewis Bosworth, 2016

69

Every day, as the clock strikes ten You march into the office Swinging your arms back and forth In a crude imitation of Herr ****** As the eyes of every employee Focus on your cold, black ones As if by magic A deafening silence fills the office As Hope turns into Despair Trust turns into Betrayal Confidence turns into Insecurities Love turns into Hate And Peace turns into Pieces As your ringing voice fills the air Resulting in a cacophony Louder than those infernal firecrackers Everybody's worst nightmare comes true As you yell at your team Mocking all their painstaking efforts Dehumanizing them with casteist remarks Your voice cuts into their feelings Like a knife through butter Leaving wounds so deep That the scars shine brightly For the rest of their lives You are not an employer You are a cruel, sadistic tyrant Hiding behind the facade Of a concerned maternal figure However, as with all tyrants The day will eventually arrive When you are toppled From your lofty throne Your business will sink Just as the Titanic did You will be in huge debt Your ill-gotten gains evaporating into thin air As your erstwhile employees have their last laugh It is you, who will be left With wounds so deep That the scars shine brightly For the rest of your miserable life

0

Mar 26, 2019

Mar 26, 2019 at 10:59 AM UTC

Ashwinkumar1989

Poem to my best friend's boss

Every day, as the clock strikes ten You march into the office Swinging your arms back and forth In a crude imitation of Herr ****** As the eyes of every employee Focus on your cold, black ones As if by magic A deafening silence fills the office As Hope turns into Despair Trust turns into Betrayal Confidence turns into Insecurities Love turns into Hate And Peace turns into Pieces As your ringing voice fills the air Resulting in a cacophony Louder than those infernal firecrackers Everybody's worst nightmare comes true As you yell at your team Mocking all their painstaking efforts Dehumanizing them with casteist remarks Your voice cuts into their feelings Like a knife through butter Leaving wounds so deep That the scars shine brightly For the rest of their lives You are not an employer You are a cruel, sadistic tyrant Hiding behind the facade Of a concerned maternal figure However, as with all tyrants The day will eventually arrive When you are toppled From your lofty throne Your business will sink Just as the Titanic did You will be in huge debt Your ill-gotten gains evaporating into thin air As your erstwhile employees have their last laugh It is you, who will be left With wounds so deep That the scars shine brightly For the rest of your miserable life

42

kurwa? why did i include the word kurwa in the sentence? it's a conjunction: i / and. sometimes you wonder why certain consonants don't have applicable diacritical marks... for example the word: bydło / cattle - because that's what you say of people who clearly, rather, make language pristine when doing ******** and sniffing up an **** here... we find the b without the acute stress.. bydło - cattle, readied for the slaughterhouses; nar kan haczyk na błazna! idzie tuman! i zanim horongiew wron! i wonder as to why they keep their vocabulary freed from taboo and insistent on herr censor - oh right, 'cos it has to look and sound "pretty", right? **** 'em... i'll speak the worsened type of peasant... i'll talk pheasant, i'll talk peacock, and you do your little **** should i care.

0

Oct 15, 2016

Oct 15, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

bydło na tle horongiew wron

kurwa? why did i include the word kurwa in the sentence? it's a conjunction: i / and. sometimes you wonder why certain consonants don't have applicable diacritical marks... for example the word: bydło / cattle - because that's what you say of people who clearly, rather, make language pristine when doing ******** and sniffing up an **** here... we find the b without the acute stress.. bydło - cattle, readied for the slaughterhouses; nar kan haczyk na błazna! idzie tuman! i zanim horongiew wron! i wonder as to why they keep their vocabulary freed from taboo and insistent on herr censor - oh right, 'cos it has to look and sound "pretty", right? **** 'em... i'll speak the worsened type of peasant... i'll talk pheasant, i'll talk peacock, and you do your little **** should i care.

24

*yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******** writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.* the great thing about being an alcoholic... you never quiet know when you're drunk or hungover; but it makes up for great twilight sunsets pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch - kisses a honey stick stuck to **** in a hollywood crescendo of paparazzi and applause; and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift: that's called smiling i have you know - enter michael jackson - hippie hip he; if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have been frisky twenty-nine into a thong. *or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.*

0

Sep 15, 2015

Sep 15, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

or tell ****** about the swimming pool

*yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******** writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.* the great thing about being an alcoholic... you never quiet know when you're drunk or hungover; but it makes up for great twilight sunsets pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch - kisses a honey stick stuck to **** in a hollywood crescendo of paparazzi and applause; and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift: that's called smiling i have you know - enter michael jackson - hippie hip he; if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have been frisky twenty-nine into a thong. *or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.*

15

They hang limply from the walls as Old friend DECAY settles Suburbia Mexicana neons and Obscene jabs in raspberry Demonizing the scalp of an 18th cake The lipstick is not dark enough to Carry a meaning here No scent lingers as the calendar turns Another year burnt to death as We move further away from coincidence And desperately memorize the lines of a Modern work, every brushstroke an intellectual Marvel so if we stare enough it will enfold on Itself to glass Guten morgen, Herr Schicksal! Would you be so kind as to Dissolve the peppermint stench And leave the shower on? I may see a reflection through the Steam and like it more than yours I never much liked chloroform or Frosted roses Settle on with Delusions of Poland And lazy eye tangos With naked melodies re-vamped By a 21st century greaser Please don’t leave Hail to Canon, brute of mine!

0

Jun 10, 2014

Jun 10, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC

nikolakaberline

Machinations

They hang limply from the walls as Old friend DECAY settles Suburbia Mexicana neons and Obscene jabs in raspberry Demonizing the scalp of an 18th cake The lipstick is not dark enough to Carry a meaning here No scent lingers as the calendar turns Another year burnt to death as We move further away from coincidence And desperately memorize the lines of a Modern work, every brushstroke an intellectual Marvel so if we stare enough it will enfold on Itself to glass Guten morgen, Herr Schicksal! Would you be so kind as to Dissolve the peppermint stench And leave the shower on? I may see a reflection through the Steam and like it more than yours I never much liked chloroform or Frosted roses Settle on with Delusions of Poland And lazy eye tangos With naked melodies re-vamped By a 21st century greaser Please don’t leave Hail to Canon, brute of mine!

29

I walked down my front steps this morning on a sweltering January Wednesday, and across the street a mean hawk had in its grip a truly unremarkable run-of-the-mill pigeon. I couldn't tell if the bird was dead yet but something told me there was a life yet to be fully realized, so I made sure not to get run over while crossing the street. When I got too close that feathered dinosaur squawked at me for interrupting his breakfast, but his breakfast was still alive, and I couldn't sleep at night knowing this. The hawk cursed me one more time but I had taken a step too far. He let the poor thing go and I have never seen any living animal fly so fast in 22 years. It was something like watching a man being chased by another man with a chainsaw, the anticipation and uncertainty of whether or not Herr Hawk caught up with the unlucky *******

0

Feb 6, 2013

Feb 6, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC

ashley-r-prince

Hawkeyes

I walked down my front steps this morning on a sweltering January Wednesday, and across the street a mean hawk had in its grip a truly unremarkable run-of-the-mill pigeon. I couldn't tell if the bird was dead yet but something told me there was a life yet to be fully realized, so I made sure not to get run over while crossing the street. When I got too close that feathered dinosaur squawked at me for interrupting his breakfast, but his breakfast was still alive, and I couldn't sleep at night knowing this. The hawk cursed me one more time but I had taken a step too far. He let the poor thing go and I have never seen any living animal fly so fast in 22 years. It was something like watching a man being chased by another man with a chainsaw, the anticipation and uncertainty of whether or not Herr Hawk caught up with the unlucky *******

30

what i understand as a definition of the word complex, it requires a hyphen as a pseudo conjunction, in that it coordinates words in opposition, which is why freud's right on the money with the madonna-whore complex, but completely bonkers with his oedipal fetishes, because oedipus is a complex in itself that cannot be excavated and theorised for the sake of a analogue... that's a horrid plagiarism that might plagiarise awry, for all orthodox necessities: a complex is aqua- -marine aquamarine... but in terms of theory it's evident that the hyphen usage is still retained, before everything goes **** up perfect *** **** of compounding the two words like a german: Fernmeldeverkehr (telecommunication), der... 'nurse! pass the syllable scalpel!' 'herr doktor, der silbeskalpell.' 'ah scheiße, 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go: fern' 'mel 'dever 'kehr.' the operation was a success, apart from the silbeskalpell being left in the patient's body; and i never understood why people expect you to talk to them face-to-face like you're reading autocue, the minute you talk imagining off empty space to invent a new language of comfort they equate you with autism... i once had a glance at psychiatric notes sent to the bureaucratic doctor (g.p. / general practitioner)... psst... they only care about whether: a. you're able to keep eye contact b. you're / you're not biting your nails... but that's what you get, the welfare state policy of funding distribution of the infamous n.h.s. (national health service)... ****** by the cartesian dualism of splitting mind from body like the brain is some gooey porridge mixed with cornstarch for thickness... only 0.6% of n.h.s. funding goes into psychiatry... i'm guessing at least 1% goes into prescriptions for pensioners demanding ****** i already told you, cats are ontologically autistic, hence their appeal to autistic children, or just anyone not really into leashes, being tugged or tugging, come rain or shine, come 7am or 7pm... they can be so inanimate sometimes that they blend in will flowers, and when awake, yes, like plants doing the kayan lahwi tribe's extending neck with rings thing... ah what's it called... ah yes phototropism... take the rings off the neck a million swans with broken necks.

0

Feb 28, 2016

Feb 28, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

fernmeldeverkehr und zee silbeskalpell

what i understand as a definition of the word complex, it requires a hyphen as a pseudo conjunction, in that it coordinates words in opposition, which is why freud's right on the money with the madonna-whore complex, but completely bonkers with his oedipal fetishes, because oedipus is a complex in itself that cannot be excavated and theorised for the sake of a analogue... that's a horrid plagiarism that might plagiarise awry, for all orthodox necessities: a complex is aqua- -marine aquamarine... but in terms of theory it's evident that the hyphen usage is still retained, before everything goes **** up perfect *** **** of compounding the two words like a german: Fernmeldeverkehr (telecommunication), der... 'nurse! pass the syllable scalpel!' 'herr doktor, der silbeskalpell.' 'ah scheiße, 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go: fern' 'mel 'dever 'kehr.' the operation was a success, apart from the silbeskalpell being left in the patient's body; and i never understood why people expect you to talk to them face-to-face like you're reading autocue, the minute you talk imagining off empty space to invent a new language of comfort they equate you with autism... i once had a glance at psychiatric notes sent to the bureaucratic doctor (g.p. / general practitioner)... psst... they only care about whether: a. you're able to keep eye contact b. you're / you're not biting your nails... but that's what you get, the welfare state policy of funding distribution of the infamous n.h.s. (national health service)... ****** by the cartesian dualism of splitting mind from body like the brain is some gooey porridge mixed with cornstarch for thickness... only 0.6% of n.h.s. funding goes into psychiatry... i'm guessing at least 1% goes into prescriptions for pensioners demanding ****** i already told you, cats are ontologically autistic, hence their appeal to autistic children, or just anyone not really into leashes, being tugged or tugging, come rain or shine, come 7am or 7pm... they can be so inanimate sometimes that they blend in will flowers, and when awake, yes, like plants doing the kayan lahwi tribe's extending neck with rings thing... ah what's it called... ah yes phototropism... take the rings off the neck a million swans with broken necks.

59

You have a poem; Spring brings you poem. I think Anthony must be your court's poet; a serf turned grateful for his god-gave muse. Genuflect he's to this Fürstin, trip he does, too, over himself getting you water both up and down the stairs; when presenting his poetry, rebuts extended portension, yes, pausing liking um-ing, tsk; and all so when reaching for his dagger to cut our darkness away, does seem dance with shadows like fire was a pomethean bane. Still he gets it from his sheath, brings it to her bloodless yet dulled from the escaped swings of misaimed blows into shrubs. Wants me to call him Reichsritter. I’d indulge him but he’d still have to synthesize faith from some avian metabolism, (it’s known that poets’ health’s all flat feet, weak livers, shallow lungs, and consumptive coughs); or, better yet, find knighthood in the books read for your sake; nay, I too must keep honest to you. So does he, you know? thinks sincerely that there’s the stuff of art passed to him when he entertains you; doesn’t think himself the lordship you insist, thinks he’s groped and somehow scalded himself upon the empyrean fire, and bows recedes away feeling just a bit impious. *That’s it though! : You’re a young seraphim took earthly shape, faring the angelic order’s routine errand to forget absolute, embrace listless hate, then forget it again.* Well, isn’t this where Anthony missteps? cries wolf, burns midnight oil, clutches his stomach in pain. The ‘seraphim’ draft is just a wish for your eternal life, please believe. Every comet and season makes him just as mouthful and excited. A heart of love and head of art, tsk. We can’t judge the heart and the head together can we? Regardless, a court poet essentially a jester, pinned his poem to my chest. So, meine Fürstin, you have a poem, Spring has brought you a poem.

0

Mar 21, 2012

Mar 21, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC

anthony-brautigan

Eure Herr, My Belle

You have a poem; Spring brings you poem. I think Anthony must be your court's poet; a serf turned grateful for his god-gave muse. Genuflect he's to this Fürstin, trip he does, too, over himself getting you water both up and down the stairs; when presenting his poetry, rebuts extended portension, yes, pausing liking um-ing, tsk; and all so when reaching for his dagger to cut our darkness away, does seem dance with shadows like fire was a pomethean bane. Still he gets it from his sheath, brings it to her bloodless yet dulled from the escaped swings of misaimed blows into shrubs. Wants me to call him Reichsritter. I’d indulge him but he’d still have to synthesize faith from some avian metabolism, (it’s known that poets’ health’s all flat feet, weak livers, shallow lungs, and consumptive coughs); or, better yet, find knighthood in the books read for your sake; nay, I too must keep honest to you. So does he, you know? thinks sincerely that there’s the stuff of art passed to him when he entertains you; doesn’t think himself the lordship you insist, thinks he’s groped and somehow scalded himself upon the empyrean fire, and bows recedes away feeling just a bit impious. *That’s it though! : You’re a young seraphim took earthly shape, faring the angelic order’s routine errand to forget absolute, embrace listless hate, then forget it again.* Well, isn’t this where Anthony missteps? cries wolf, burns midnight oil, clutches his stomach in pain. The ‘seraphim’ draft is just a wish for your eternal life, please believe. Every comet and season makes him just as mouthful and excited. A heart of love and head of art, tsk. We can’t judge the heart and the head together can we? Regardless, a court poet essentially a jester, pinned his poem to my chest. So, meine Fürstin, you have a poem, Spring has brought you a poem.

60

*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.* i found the investments of psychology all too unfathomably capricious, where the ratio of theory to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution: in that when one theory fails another two emerge, and so on and so forth, in that great existential ****** of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel of freud glees with anticipation to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic life to enter the great **** eye that cannot peer into itself and consider both being and nothingness, as the great ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus nimble footed and thumbs on the ready in the grand coliseum of life - just a great fishing net where once the mighty fisherman st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water of these paradoxical amphibian representations; psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted for, the way in which thinking becomes what thinking always was: a malignant capricious medium pulverised by five vectors, and the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the selfish... dragged down to the molecular degeneracy of explanation using genes, but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos. indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing and not the study of thinking: imagine what a hot snarling and wet breath raising a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines and african voodoo masks... sends him running... the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words, the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking, pure vocalisation of emotion... no, i think less and less of psychology... i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια: the study of caprices, the study of whims - e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders a big mac in the following way: - yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.

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Feb 26, 2016

Feb 26, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

καπριτσιολογια (kapritsiologia)

*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.* i found the investments of psychology all too unfathomably capricious, where the ratio of theory to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution: in that when one theory fails another two emerge, and so on and so forth, in that great existential ****** of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel of freud glees with anticipation to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic life to enter the great **** eye that cannot peer into itself and consider both being and nothingness, as the great ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus nimble footed and thumbs on the ready in the grand coliseum of life - just a great fishing net where once the mighty fisherman st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water of these paradoxical amphibian representations; psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted for, the way in which thinking becomes what thinking always was: a malignant capricious medium pulverised by five vectors, and the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the selfish... dragged down to the molecular degeneracy of explanation using genes, but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos. indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing and not the study of thinking: imagine what a hot snarling and wet breath raising a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines and african voodoo masks... sends him running... the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words, the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking, pure vocalisation of emotion... no, i think less and less of psychology... i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια: the study of caprices, the study of whims - e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders a big mac in the following way: - yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.

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