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Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.
PhiWrit Dec 2014
When you look into my eyes
You'll be lookin at a homocide
That's your soul's ****** demise
It's about time you decide
Whether you want to star in a thriller
With a silent sociopathic killer
A regular body part miller
Nothing but a body bag filler
I be living in this house of pain
Behind these curtains vain
Torn asunder by the knife
That is sharpened in strife
Letting loose liquid crimson life
Bjørn O Holter Apr 2014
A suicide of my best sides,
a homocide, a matricide.
Occupied in nursing
self-inflicted wounds inside
my heart, my soul, my final goal
is near. I tear with nailless claws
at where the door I used to know
was before I tore the hole inside
and so I tried to justify
the single, once perfected try
to go, to fly, escape outside
these walls, these halls
these calls I hear
are tearing at my soul, I lay
and lie and cannot cry.
I swear and curse in sour lines,
but noone knows the pain
experienced inside.
something i scribbled down in Innsbruck one night during Illnath's European Tour in 2003. Mainly just playing around with words. It was later used as an intro in the song named "Chrysalis" by 54, another project I played with in 2004.
I'm drowning in all this love I hoped I'd give you, the love that's over here waiting for you to receive but I can't breathe anymore.

I'm so empty from all the nights you kissed " I love you " into my neck then ripped it off as soon as you got your pants off the floor.

I've been waiting for you to save me from my loneliness when I should've just saved myself from this crucifixion.
Lilly frost Jun 2015
A gunshot
That your body caught
Fell to the ground
A ringing sound
Pool of blood
A heavy thud
Empty eyes
Silent cries
Wasn't ready
Hold me steady
Flashing light
This isn't right
Sirens screaming
No more dreaming
Hidden Secrets Apr 2014
its between
suicide or homicide
though i do believe homocide
will be better...why? well
it allows me to release my pain
and anger without hurting
myself...isnt that the idea of this
doctor? to get me to stop hurting myself??
I wrote this because I know my doctor wont agree but she will say she wants me to stop hurting myslef. I have a bad habit of trying to contradict everything people say and throw a wrench in their plans. This ones for you Dr. Lundy.
Persistent fever
And a hole in my pallette
God save me from this awful habit

Shy away
The beast will come another day
Maybe you won't believe the lie
It's not even a high

But in my warped mind
A lens of vision only on me
I've always been intrigued
With publicized insanity

I want to be the shooting star
Red carpet
Robert Downey Jr eyes
On a ****** not even fit for
Heath Ledger

I want to disengrate in the sky
A slow public suicide
Blame it on gravity
It's homocide

It seems some can escape mortality
And become grand deities
In the mind of humble losers

But I know its not my life
No spectacle too see
The only one who watches
Is me
Let her take control over your mind
She full of happiness no thoughts of suicide
Or homocide
Which shed on the earth since my birth
I got no worth held on to then what i thought was girth
Asking myself? What am i living for?
And why must i chase the dough and remain *******?
Its just an image that blemishes
Use her as my cleansing as she replenishes
My mind body and soul then she grabs control
Take over so i feel superior and bold
She has no silence beautiful & dangerous to all her rivals
Demons cant even see her her sight
Is more beautiful than an early sunrise
Uprise
I think about her night and day
Til the day that i die looked in her eyes
She got me hypnotize as i rise
She told me to just keep it a surprise most won't realize
What's going on? down and under sound the thunder
She makes rain drops with no clouds in sight
Shes not profain shes not a dame
She uses parables to explain
Her intellectual frame faceless
But i feel her presence
Everywhere i go she's there so prepare
For the ultimate lesson put down my smith n wesson
Light up my incense for a smoke session blessin'
Fall down out of the heavens
Then all of a sudden i get a flash
Picture perfect like Van Gogh
Midnight summer dream no longer chasing the cream
Im all about wisdom cuz its seats
Higher than gold and silver
For they nothing but clay and sand
Made by mans hands stand
All alone on the battelfield
Shedding my tears for my comrades who aint here i fear
None but the Most High the closer i get the more he mutiplies
Her to my mental state of mind as i shine
Brighter than sun everyone
Look at me like an italian don an enemy on the run?
Dont care who feels this or dismiss this
Ya cant deny her existence
She'll be there to ride for you die for you
If only you treat her like you suppose too
I been touched spiritually since i was kid
Didn't understand the wages of sin until i took a bid forbid
Once i partaked in the garden of eden
Original mark of sin before she entered in
Instincts was her game
But we always choose pride and our own fame the game
Is designed for them to win
She might not give your earthly riches
But ya mind will be healthy and wealthy
For the Most High say don't be like the critters of earth
For they boast in secrecy and wickedness
Surrounds thee
For the devil aka lucifer was the Most High first rebel
He used to be married to her then divorced by her
Cuz he choose will over living eternally
Sin casted through the heartz of men
Listen to how he speaks verbally
Everything is lost from what was once was gain now all i see is generation dying in vain
Got homosexuals tracing back to the roots of ***** and gemorrah how can you ignore the
Media when they all over your face she braille the darkness for me
So i can light up my trace
Path of righteousness leads you alone
But if you take the path of darkness
Ya get alot following demons swallowin'
Every march of ya footsteps
Crazy! how this world loves God
So much
But it makes sense cuz "god" switched around is "dog"
Short for dogma im speakin marxism and communism
And all those locked in a spiritual prison
Wake up before it's too late she could make mountains shakes once she awakes
She doesnt hesitate
To those who wanna learned ya might get burned for telling the truth
See all these stage events
That's a sign of repent
No remorse when i see sinful corpses
No hate in my heart she wont let me part
Of her ways
She even shown me brighter days even though it was a cloudy day
Hold on steadifast cuz she only.will last
To those who choose right over wrong
This ain't a song they say in wrong
But im right so please listen to me before death angels sound the gong and we long gone
Killuminati Veteran Lives KillEvil LiveLlik
Remained uh
Loyal to the game
Infamous is my name
Im after the fire
Its the return of the reign
Since Pac is King
Im the prince back to hit
Ya with some real ****
Hard to dodge when tryna
Put haters n critics n casket
Though a *******
I still made a change **** the fame
And all these nigguhs is speakin' the same
Riddle me this as i hit ya with some game
Aint got no shame
I was apart of the drug game *******
Filled my pockets mayne
Hangin' on differ corner slangin'
But it was the environment that got me bangin'
But i heard better blues when i see the news
Im seein my people in a fued
At war over each other
For nothing
All roughed up by the media for
Nothing
Then all of sudden
When a brother wants to regained consciousness
They label it ludicrous take my quotes as a diss
But i dismiss
All the ******* got to stay real to roots
Until the fat lady sangs remain
Loyal to the game



Though i was
Cursed as a *****
My focus was on chasin' figures
From ***** dreams
Too ******* in my abode  scene
Jewels & jacuzzi in the limousine
Big tv screens
Things aint what it seems
Somehow I thiught money
Would bring happiness
But it only attract serpents
Evil is the root to sorts of treachery
Gotta watch who's next to me ?
Feel me!
They say they have your back
But the first to attack
When ya turn ya back
Thats friends in this day in age
They say why you upset im growin' in a rage
All i know is dope hoes n a 12 guage
They ****** up my community
With the spiritual raid
Invested in homocide drug cartels
Suicide prostitution the stories never fail
And ah
If you plan on makin' future
Better believe they comin' to shoot ya
Eradicate our whole race
The nation steadily sayin' ******* to our face
Get out the **** pulpits n come to the streets
Thats where its real pack yo steel
So haters can feel
The ammunition of revenge
No pretend we never surrend
We straight up warriors
More than thugs
Now embrace the eternal flame
I dont care if i gotta for my peeps
Im vain but ill remain
Loyalllllll to the gammeeeeee
yass min Nov 2015
When the truth hits you in the face
When there's a thing you can no longer embrace,
You hide behind a happy smile ,
Miserable inside  ,
Every little comment,
Makes you want to commit suicide
After a double homocide...
At least , these are only my thoughts ,
And thoughts often cause actions
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
the ontological zenith, i.e. i'm thinking about thought... and by an ontological zenith i mean nonsense, since thought per se, is a non sensual experience, given that it's an experience of being conscious, or the cartesian sum per se.

                               the supposed "trinity"
    the 99 names of allah,
                                         and the 72
           of the hebrew god...
99 - 72?
                                                   27,
     and only given a bias toward a skeletal
            "image" - sound a bit like playing
   the earliest game, namely (ping) *pong
.

but i find something troubling,
how some accumulate
   words
   as objects, as some
accumulate objects as
         "etymological" roots
of wanting riches they can
               exfoliate in,
peacock around in palaces
of gold...
     but i'm no rhetorician
in the sense, that i might
peacock with my knowledge
of a fair number of words...
  which is why i sometimes
mumble,
        when speaking,
     and have no desire
to become erudite on a stage...

laziness?
         nope,
just a way to avoid
                                  a headache.

and it's always a return
                   to the cartesian "equation",
i have no idea as to why
there's this regression,
            
   beside the point, which i'll make
anyway, once i point out:

   nietzsche - 'a polite society doesn't
permit dialectical dialogue'...
          well well...
       aren't we living in a polite society...
last time i checked,
    people used the fist more
             than the tongue to convene...
yes, the citation is not verbatim...

       well, if no one is going to engage in
dialectics, so much for talking
about reason the holy grail of objectivity
as synonym-zenith of western culture's
   individualism quest...
         the ****? i must be missing something...

those shouting leftist sociopaths
    and those pompous right-wing
            blah-blah-bragging antoinettes?
   well, one side has to have proton (+)
qualities, and the other side has to have
  electron (-) properties...
               but there's the neutron side also,
thinking:

ah yes! the point!
             for a long time philosophers treated
thought as a subject,
      rather than an object...
    meanwhile psychologists came up with
thought being an object rather
than a subject, and out came
    the object ego, which turned schizoid
and became the trinity of subjects
   known in pop as ego, superego and id;

that's why psychology treats thinking
(thought) as an object...
    rather than the subject,
since counter-philosophy, psychology
stresses the second portion of
the cartesian equation:
i am subjected to the elements,
   to the state, to the crown,
          why would i desire to be also
subjected to thought?
   better not think, and have rants,
that "holy" right of free speech.

these days thinking and silence is
disavowed, abandoned, an orphan...
  how does that sound in legal courts?
   homicide with diminished responsibility?
  that's not a technical question,
  it's quasi-technical, but there is
homocide verdicts, and there are
  verdicts which
  incorporate diminished responsibility,
i.e.: the insanity plea.

i blame philosophers for distancing
            themselves from jurisprudence.

i still think that by treating
     cogito as an object,
  rather than a subject matter, allows me
to liberate myself from the psychology
  of the ego being a subject matter...
which would explain,
  if cogito (thought) is an object,
   i can't perform such science-fiction
allowances as
            telepathy or telekinesis,
which also implies the realism
    attaining self-fulfilment
   and independence...
          
   otherwise known as greed / selfishness -

but that can only arise when
   thought becomes an object,
   an object that cannot be penetrated,
for one, as psychology exposed / gave a new
tier of "reasoning" crafted:
  that the ego per se,
      became a subject, that split in a freudian
concotion to three parts...
     for one, the christian trinity is one
thing, but now that we have a second trinity...
   imagine thought as an object,
   i.e. a lack of lucidity,
  e.g. when solving a sudoku puzzle...
          at some points to rub against
the custard...
  
    isn't thought an object then?
    it's a very real, sisyphus moment -
although pseudo the myth -
    because the object seems unmovable -
i.e., it seems to not budge,
                       that's why this is
an anti-psychology assumption:
       i am subject to the object that is, thought;
in pig latin:
   ego sub sum in ego...
    ****, how to put it...
        i (am) subsidiary toward the object,
       that is thought... (**** it, just the prefix,
  as way of shortcut)
   ego sub- sum, quando cogito esse sum...
whatever...
   you'd think that having attended
     a catholic school, they'd bother to teach
you latin... but no! oh no!
                                        wankers;
i'm guessing the reason they didn't bother
is because i went to a catholic school
  in an irish neighbourhood...
          now? now it looks like little bangladesh.
b e mccomb Nov 2016
i guess mark and linda
drive a range rover now
because i saw them through
the windshield turning the corner

i'm choking in the
heat blasting from
the vents of the van
and sleeves of the past

i used to wear scarves
to infiltrate them
but then i found we
were still sharing shirts

(i'm keeping the scarves i
never wear so that someday
i can tie them all together and
hang myself from an upstairs beam
but if homocide were more
my style i'm unsure if it
would be more a matter of
revenge or personal tastes)


"you don't have any
reason to seek revenge
on your old church
or any other."

odd
that you no longer
want recompense
for the past

and odd
that one should
need recompense
from those of the cloth

i want to scream
that i need help
I NEED HELP NOW
but don't want to sound ridiculous

don't want to say that
i'm having nightmares
flashbacks
panic attacks

over something like
sunday mornings
sleeplessly reversing
to saturday nights

but on the other hand
i don't want to die of
whatever's keeping me
scared and awake

i just know that
the medication
isn't putting me to
sleep anymore.
Copyright 11/27/16 by B. E. McComb
utkarsh pandey Sep 2015
With all these laughing barrels,
and groans,the wind passes by.
As the suns too tiered ,
to rush off from the ****** sky,
And the darkness falls off ,
laughing at this chaos in the light,
Fire brightens up the results on the ground,
The quest for being human is not erased nor drowned ,
As dead land under starts moaning a cruel sound,
There is not a bit of life , but fear and enough wound,
The man lying hear are not brought but bound,
To there rusted guns and those shells of bullets,
Only life found is on those smoken cigarettes,
Which once lighten by a living soul,
and dissolved in his breath,
Or on the packet where he packed the last three left,
Like he was willing the sun to shine different sides,
Or it may be packed for some other life,
As if he knew there's no escape
from this hell, this homocide,
For the sake of boundaries ,
and couple of human rights,
Cause the hands of leaders are quite short to climb otherside,
Which ended very well with the picture in his right,
Drowned in blood
pretty hard to recognize
yo um girlies girlies
come over here
cuz i know ya adorn me og
like birdie above the rims
still rock overrals and black timbs
ask them
whos the best on the mic
no flex no plex
on to the next ***
of another kitten hittin'
n wishin'
for death upon thise foes
who used to doubt us and no shows
now im makin' about two point four
millies a year everybody stood up just to hear
the naughty by nature sound
pound for pound i buck em down
quick to scoop ya out the scene
count my mints fresh green mean and hung n lean
can u see what i mean?
jamboree and everybody celebratin'
so go on with that hatin'
we still.makim'
hits like its 1991 when i first heard my *** weighs a ton
i.understood im public enemy
number one
so here i go here i go
like Mystikal
to break my lyrical enigma
its gonna take a miracle!!

you can run but ya cant hide
from the lyrical homocide
strikes like ocean tide
split emcees into two
like jekyll and mr hide
oops watch for that slide
upside
ya head ya long dead
so chill out chill out
as we about
to set the record straight
again and again from my  tank goes to ya chin
let the competition begin
we in to win and then
pull out the straps perhaps
you new jacks need to take a nap as i slap
******* rhymes into a snore
ya adore i deserve an encore
gotta every lady makin a reservoir
observe ya curves then i say word
thinkin to myself cant wait to get the burbs
ya know ya cant down or slame me
but i knowi ******* jamboree


now that i got ya jammin
ear drums slamming
pumpin up my ****
like sneaks of a drive by hit
it dont matter where it hits ya
or gets ya im.suppose ta
rock the mic like dougie fresh
n slick rick still poppin demos and **** with my tystick lit
gotta stay higher
than a mountain
catch my fountain
of lyrics as i pour an encore
you know ya in for
this rhyming spree be *******
takin it back to ninety four
when music was real
ya soul could.feel
now adays music doesnt appeal real
fools talkin but scared but soon to be walkin
with the dead from the pump
that went upside ya head
dont play in a grown mans game
if ya feel ashamed
then knuckle up
only to get buckled
up like seatbelts leave welts
on back from my gats
imagine that?
me loosin only amusin
crowds i please old school fans i please
even street OGs
bouncin they heads to these
lyrical content
somethin the fo ya
freeestyle wild soldier that'll fold ya
cuz ya tried to slam me
but like butter i slip easily
into a style but rambling
words i be gambling
feel me now throw ya hands in the air for me
for this gotdamn jamboree
grey Jan 2021
i had always romanticized thought of homocide. but in which way would i  have done it? i couldn’t be caught. that wouldn’t be the perfect ******. I’ve lived with four, but after my mother had locked eyes with me, and picked up the shovel, there were only three. id pondered many ways, the easiest to dispatch of was two. all except of me. i could’ve speared the rest, you’d never be too vigilante. pulling the trigger was an option, but they’d find the bullet. arson, a creative solution. i waited ‘til sundown. gasoline, every inch of the house. i entered my mother’s room, taking two lighters, and a matchbox. i lit three flames on the match, and threw at the house along with the lighters. i left. without taking any belongings. i moved far far away. finally, ive committed the perfect ******.
******.
Wake Feb 2017
I've yet to find
more comfort in life
than when I sit
by the river, alone,
headphones in,
blasting some obscure band,
drowning out the chaos
of the world
in three minute intervals

The bittersweet view
of the still water,
shopping carts acting
as sunken ships,
the captain obviously
denied the cliche
of destroying himself

he's nowhere to be found

Like me

Plastic bottles and grocery bags
floating aimlessly,
remains of something
once so satisfying,
now nothing more than
a potential act of homocide

I pray for the animal
or fish that makes the mistake
of giving in to curiosity,
more than likely,
the cat will get
what's coming to em'


It's still beautiful though,
despite my racing thoughts,
despite the decay,
both internally and externally,

it's still beautiful

Such is life, I suppose

The destruction of beauty,
the beauty of destruction

Both, ever present,
eternal
,

*and breathing
Leocardo Reis Nov 2018
she would not look me in the eyes
as i pretend to be
the person whom she coveted;
the man she used to see

nor night or day, will I think less
of her as time goes on
yet he remains inside her head
from dusk to break of dawn

perhaps, i think, in solitude
she will move on from him,
but it is i that she neglects
and leaves upon a whim

one day he showed up at our door
much to her surprise
and outlined our last couple days
before our grand demise

who would have thought that she
would try to run away
and have the courage to **** me
on the exact same day?

alas, ‘tis not a fairy tale,
she would not get her way,
for the same day that I had died,
she, too, would pass away

our daughter whom shall wake alone
when the night is done
in shock will find the corpses of
her beloved ones

what will she think of this mess
when she looks down to see
the blood and her lifeless parents
engulfed in tragedy

you see, the man who had shown up
dropped by to say hello,
my wife, who still had loved this man,
did not want him to go.

so that same night, she called to me
and said she would leave soon,
to pursue the man who had left,
under the the naked moon.

i tried to talk her out of it,
But she would not listen,
and as we started to argue,
her tears would then glisten

in rage, she grabbed a nearby knife
and lunged at my bare neck
but in the process, fallen down
and missed me by a thread.

at this time, she had broke down
and would not stop crying
then turned the knife onto herself
and died where i was lying.

I took the knife, and turned it to
myself as i had sobbed
Would I let my wife go alone
To Hell? is what i thought

But is it not somewhat funny
Attempted homocide
Turned tragically into what was
A double suicide.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
the first layer is p.t.s.d. free
                                       orientation...
   i call it the ***** brigade,
                       a strong psyche,
   or at least something akin
to a ******... and i knew some would-be
footballers, aged 15 / 16,
  dropping ****** rather than ecstasy...
   a weird experience seeing it happen...
his name? ryan.... ryan cyrmy...
  however you spell the last name...
i found him popping ******
  on a night out...
        can you imagine it?!
no, don't know my potential,
it's still very much anime fantasy...
            the worst sadists come
clothed in the following:
save a drowning puppy,
           forget the drowning toddler.
            per-fe-ction!
oh sadists are above psychopaths,
  they're an anti-thesis
to the psychopathic theoretical...
   muder industrailised is
an anaesthetic...
   ****** solo?
               that's an adrenaline rush...
but genocide? i.e.
the industrialisation of ******?
   no misnomers here, sure
homocide, whatever... let's not
get into the correct word,
  when deviating with "misnomers"...
   industrialised ****** is
  an anaesthetic...
                  ****** one on one?
that's pure
                 adrenaline...
       they do say that p.t.s.d.
arises from what evil you did,
rather than what evil was done unto you...
sure enough, imagine firing
a machine gun, and then having
to return to a society, where
boiling water for a cup of tea,
could also seem dangerous in your
murderous hands...
           within comparison?
i like to think of the undiagnosed:
  p.c.s.d. (post-colonial-stress-disoder)...
   and if you come from an ethnicity
that had and has encompassed
a nationhood, without colonising other
nations...
            it's a grand joke,
i'm just making jokes over a slobbering
pope, that, if god endowed him the wiser
step, would have been a lesser saint
or no saint at all, but at least
                           a fond memory,
of the sickly pope emaritus,
    that taoist pope i wish he would have
become... to ease the world,
                 let the world forget you;
but now... semi-, completely senile...
      slobbering, needing a napkin to catch
the saliva oozing from his
            pseudo-brain-haemorrhage;
ya... ob nur papst rentner:
      pig latin makes germanic sparrow -
none are exact...
       but at least we can
conclude: at least it was a singing
        cucumber pickle singing in the
barrel with the pickled barbarossa
in jerusalem... singing...
     when the boy is resurrected and sings:
crow for crow, and a thousand number of
the crow throng! so the red king arises
once more!
          precursor i guess...
                            bartablondine.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
i, believe, once had the sole
ambitions of either becoming
a bus driver:
never learned to drive a car,
but ride a horse?
sign me up...
   squeeze the flank
with the right heel,
tug the bit (that piece
of equipment,
in between the proper
tooth alligned missing chew;
with the bit...
horses are always make
a placebo to imitate chewing)
left...
              heels pressing on
the right side of the horse's canvas
of torso...
the hands gravitating toward
the left with the head...
the horse moves left....
  i can ride a horse...
god help me should i ever
drive a car...
what thrill is there behind
speeding in a car
or on a motorbike,
dislocated soul missing
the prancing horse?
i guess driving a car,
is about as pointless
as attaching a leash
to a cat, thinking it's a horse,
or a string to a butterfly,
thinking it's a ******* kite!
all i ever wanted was
to occupy a music shop...
you know what
system of a down did
that all the punk bands of the mainstream
missed?
   reducing the attention span
of the listener
to under 3 minutes;
genius.
      my ambition to become a bus-driver
came with,
bus route no. 5...
                   and that's where it
ended...
since i vaguely remember
every taxi journey i ever took...
not like bus no. 86 from romford
to stratford, dropping me off
to school...
    very important people in
"our" midst...
          tall *******,
dwarf mothertfuckers,
rabbits, hybrids,
      schizoid outliers...
just your usual tabloid press...
you really have to be a *******
****, to ******* a paraoid schizophrenic...
akin to?
   imagine:
left in limbo,
of being forever: suspect...
on a minority report
      potentiality list of:
             dormant tragedy...

"voices", what "voices"?
         permanent suspect...
   that substance called the ease
of thought, with which
one has the ease to think?
it sometimes
               can become akin to...
less a bullet,
        and more shrapnel...
who the **** is appeasing who...
first they tell me
   they kept the prisons,
then they told me
they got rid of the asylums...
         and...
the orthodox chronic madmen
are readily running free,
ensuring mild psychiastric conditions
are being exfoliated out
of proportion?
  now, go back,
and tell the mild symptom
sufferers that there's a hierarchy
of madness...
   psychotic pharaoh sits on the top...

but i acknowledge, in the least,
that there's a gradation
of the experience of thought,
the placebo solipsist: normal...
   am i a tailor,
or am i a ******* butcher?
take your pick within the confines
of tabloid press lack of
verbiosity, eloquence,
or the general standard of etiquette,
confined to a standard aesthetic...

     did they **** the prize
bull ed gein... or did they keep him
alive for the better part of 20 years,
extracting cultural inspiration
from him? nay, 40 years later
by my best estimate!

to have to pander to the "natural"
sequence of events...
abnormalities of youth...
so there are no outliers...
or the outliers need to be shamed...
tabloid bullied...
until... another takes to
extreme measures...
but the retards can ******* in
public, because mommy & daddy
decided to have an "accident"
child in their mid-years,
only to increase their income
with the ****** chequers...

         pass me the blunt knife,
i feel like scratching my face...
it's just... just so plain ******* itchy!

so i'd say: wanna play with
the big boys?
the medium of thought...
and the medium...
where there's both
the disinhibited will,
and the shrapnel of will...
what no one would dare
call remnants of identity,
rather: remnants of the "ego"...

      i'm already strapped
to a tabloid assortment of tabloid spew,
the perfect suspect...
   seemingly:
only english schizoids are
tender, loving, creatures!
   the rest of us...
are...
  forever, suspect.
      no crime was committed...
unless...
******* in an alley on a friday
night, when all the brits get wasted
in essex is worth being handcuffed
and scream at by some boppy...

                                 well...
knife crime...
m'eh...
          do i have a face
of a person, that does,
                     or should, give, a ****?

see... madness is in no way
related to i.q.,
   stupid people go mad,
smart people go mad,
what matters is,
how you tap into the madness,
and what's left
to relieve you from
ever having to perform
a disinhibited act of
spontaneity, akin to homocide...

sane people perform more
grevious acts than madmen...
given that they perform them
with: premeditation...
with no: outside-inner
3rd party influence of, "voices"
to excuse themselves with...

   no, i will not be prevented from
being fascinated by
schizophrenics...
      fat chance of that happening...
i'd love to spend
a summer at the broadmoor hospital;
for once,
i might have a chance to
meet some interesting people...

conscience:
be careful what you wish for...

what? that and reading
sh'ight akin to the tabloid daily mail...
and no the sunday times?

why wouldn't i be fascinated
by schizophrenics?
when i'm entrenched bilingual?
i thought we were exchanging
ideas in the same currency
of metaphors?

       what's the difference
between being ridiculed...
                      and being patronißed?
- the entire basis for man
exacting law,
   was founded upon
extracting vectors of judgment,
                     via a thesaurus...
synonyms to some,
antonyms to others...
                 pedantic quests for
                          others...
             depends what you might
need a blunt knife for,
depends what you might need
a sharp knife for...
   and there's a difference...
     last time i heard...
a jihadi john wasn't using a sharp
knife to behead someone,
never mind using an axe...
he needed a blunt knife...
something akin to:
spreading butter on a warm
                                   slice of toast...

one might suspect...
what cancer?
   ever looked at a tree riddled
                      with mistletoe?
"voices"...
what an obscure term...
to deem ego-shrapnel
        a foreign entity of sorts...
in the multiple-form
of the varying symptom...

        again: even if you manage
to control this symptom...
forget it...
you're forever suspect,
    riddled by a minority report...
of the 0.1%
of the population...
the rest?
  too busy to walk into
a nightmare,
let alone dream out a counter-,
an inhibition,
a waiting game...
with enough time...
to watch the day-to-day
          modern suburban gothica.
          
i only had two dream jobs...
either a bus-driver...
or...
     someone working in
a music shop...
   like: good ******* luck...
if either of these will ever
come into fruition;
more like:
supermarket
shelf-stacker...
   but not... a tabloid-press
columnist...
                                    phew!

— The End —