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1970 Odysseus visits cousin Patsy in New York City she introduces him to her best friend Lauren’s older less attractive more reclusive sister Tanya Mulhaney extremely wealthy family father founded corporation manufactures pinball machines which years later develop to video games then casino empire he favors and spoils Tanya but dies suddenly her envious sisters and mother gang up on Tanya is pale skinny flat-chested copious brown bush Odysseus sits in bathtub with Tanya and he probes in a way they hits it off maybe no boy has ever touched her in that way her complexion is so fragile slightest fluster prompts pink blotches on her cheeks neck chest back he admires her book smarts he’s attracted to her refined strangeness he thinks her bush and flat-chest are **** she laughs shyly offers to take him around the world he accepts Odysseus tells his parents Mom goes crazy yells into telephone what are you a ******? you father and i work like fools to send you to the best schools so you can make something of yourself you’re going to throw everything away to be a ***? i tell you we’ll disown you you won’t have a home to come back to do you hear me? we’ll disown you! she sobs how can you just walk out after all we have done for you? you ******* kid! Odysseus takes leave of absence from art school he and Tanya take Iberia jet 12 hour flight with stopover in Iceland to Belgium Tanya sinks into one of her moods swallows several pills to help her rest sitting on other side of Odysseus is curly haired skinny talkative musician claims he has jammed with Miles Davis and other jazz greats Odysseus says yeah right and i’ve shown with Johns and Twombly where exactly are you heading in Europe? musician answers he is a scientologist on his way to visit L. Ron Hubbard in England Odysseus does not know what Dianetics are and wants explanation he asks many questions and musician talks for hours they enjoy each other’s rapport as jet descends in Brussels they exchange home addresses in the States 9 months later when Odysseus returns to America a friend notices scribbled address while skimming through his travel journals Odys! how did you get Chick Corea’s address? do you know him? do you realize how brilliant he is? he’s a keyboard virtuoso! Odysseus questions Chick Corea? who’s Chick Corea? he looks at journal page then says oh that guy i sat next to him on the jet to Europe so he really is a famous musician huh? wow!

in October 1970 Brussels is damp chilly Tanya wears hip-hugger jeans black turtle-neck top North Face shell she huddles her arms around her chest smokes cigarettes looks through hotel room window out into gray overcast sky speaks in defeatist voice i didn’t bring clothes for this weather she picks at her plate in hotel restaurant glumly vacillates later in bed after refusing *** decides they leave tomorrow fly to Canary Islands for several weeks to get tan before traveling through Morocco during winter months Canary Islands are laden with Swedish tourists including bikini clad young girls many not wearing tops Odysseus is thinking about how to swing some of that Swedish free love once Tanya gets drunk succumbs to Odysseus’s ****** overtures it is good  one day while returning to hotel from beach 2 Spanish police stop and question Tanya and Odysseus police order to see their passports then command them into squad car police bark in Spanish rifle through their daypacks point a finger Odysseus can smell alcohol on their breaths Tanya and Odysseus are terrified police drive off main road to remote location abandoned ruins no one is around police order them to step out police drive off laughing Tanya’s complexion is crimson she sobs they could have murdered us no one would know who we are or where to find us we’re lost where are we? Odysseus looks around replies don’t worry we’ll be all right i watched where the driver was going we’ll retrace their trail

they fly to Tangier travel south by train Tanya is irritable insisting Odysseus carry her backpack Casablanca is ***** 3 men peer from sunglasses act suspicious wear tattered trench coats Tanya and Odysseus snack at cafe which provides hookahs for smoking hashish Odysseus scores several grams Tanya laughs suggests they rent car drive south travel to sandy beaches of Diabet for 6 weeks in the morning she paces around French hotel room with cigarette in one hand ashtray in other like she is sultry 1940’s Hollywood actress she stays in room and devours Penguin Classics Tolstoy Stendhal Proust Huysmans Zola turns out Tanya is sexually frigid she buys Odysseus anything he wants but does not put out they take train Marrakech it is sun drenched with blue skies mountains in distance Odysseus wants to go out explore get ***** with the natives he visits Medina daily witnessing many bizarre scenes he does not understand a woman squatting over an egg a man with no legs dragging himself through marketplace holding up cigarette butts in his hand he meets a professor who is out of work because king of Morocco has closed the universities due to teachers’ strike professor explains woman squatting over egg is fortuneteller and man dragging himself has been offered crutches many times yet makes more money playing off pity of tourists cigarette butts are for sale the professor invites Odysseus to visit Berbers in mountains Odysseus persuades Tanya she reluctantly agrees the 3 travel by bus in first-class front row seats vehicle filled with lively families chickens pig bus driver has assistant who lugs people onto bus or shoves them out door at a midpoint bus stops in little town everyone exits bus then men women children urinate in street local venders sell trinkets snacks Odysseus buys nibbles shish-kabob that later professor informs is roasted cat and dog they reenter bus wait suddenly butchered lamb flank is flung onto Odysseus’s lap a man climbs aboard bus stairs then grabs large carcass and heedlessly walks to back seat Odysseus wipes blood and slime off his jeans Tanya demurely giggles bus climbs mountains arrives at small Berber village professor leads them along narrow winding street of shanty huts sheltering merchants open kitchens professor tastes from various steaming iron kettles finally decides on one they are directed to rickety roof where they sit wait a boy comes up with plastic bowl filled with water and small box of Tide following professor they wash their hands then minutes later proprietor brings up simmering *** of couscous serves it with scratched raw plastic bowls no eating utensils they eat with their fingers Tanya seems bothered declines to partake she withdraws into silence after meal she becomes irritable complains of headache says she needs to return to Marrakech she remains standoffish on bus all the way to French hotel

after Marrakech they take boat trip to Italy while onboard Odysseus meets Italian Count who has an eye for him Odysseus wears Jim Morrison beat-up leather jeans Bruce Lee t-shirt scraggly whiskers Count wears thin manicured beard tiny red Speedo swim trunks Tanya grins amused Count offers Odysseus and Tanya to be guests at his villa in Milan city flourishes with stylish clothes loud lively restaurants classical sculptures covered in car pollution following several weeks of aristocratic wining and dining amazing 11 course elegant soiree Odysseus botches compliance with Count’s desires they are asked to leave Tanya laughs hysterically they board train to Germany based on Tanya’s tour book they find historic hotel with wind rattling windows coin operated hot water bath in Munich Tanya stays in room Odysseus goes to dance club meets brown-hared pale skinned German girl neither speak the other’s language he pays for hourly rated room they play German girl in animated gesturing warns him as he is going down on her but he does not understand until several days later scratching beard finds ***** seeks A-200 lice treatment German version leather pants disposed Tanya knows but says nothing she buys Volkswagen they drive through Black Forest Tanya wants to visit King Ludwig’s castles Odysseus does the driving mostly they listen to the Who’s “Who’s Next” and Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” he follows Tanya’s instructions not knowing who King Ludwig was eventually he learns Ludwig was colorful character built extravagant Disney like castles and friends Richard Wagner Bavaria is cold gray brown deep forest green scenic Swiss Alps visible in southern view they drive from Neuschwanstein to Linderhof to Herrenchiemsee then Freiburg lodge in bed and breakfasts Tanya grows restless by all the driving decides to ditch car along road in northern France as Odysseus unscrews car license by road side several cars stop French people concerned they need help Tanya is anxious hoping for clean get away from abandoning vehicle they board train to Paris Tanya speaks a little French in spring of 1971 they are backpacking in search of hotel on Left Bank it rains all morning sky is overcast Tanya reads “Pride and Prejudice” Odysseus draws in sketchbook at sidewalk café sitting next to them are older Parisian couple man detects they are Americans he turns to them expresses in English his contempt why can’t you Americans learn from France’s lessons in Vietnam? Tanya and Odysseus don’t look up they feel like dumb ugly Americans within days they leave Paris

cross English Channel by boat they find temporary apartment in Earl’s Court in London it is overcast almost every day within a month they move to larger place in Chelsea with backyard with run down English garden Odysseus weeds garden plants tomatoes lettuce carrots radishes flowers Tanya stays in her room smokes reads at night they go out to ethnic restaurants one night they visit Indian restaurant a very proper English woman sitting at next table orders exotic fruit for dessert Odysseus asks waiter what kind of fruit waiter answers mango Odysseus has never seen or tasted mango English woman delicately eats the fruit with fork and knife Odysseus orders mango for dessert he attempts to imitate how English lady proceeded fruit slips around on plate finally out of frustration he picks it up in his hands bites into it he is aroused by how luscious mango is sniffing with nose scraping fruit’s skin with front teeth then ******* the seed Tanya makes a face suddenly the seed slides from his grasp shoots across table Tanya’s cheeks neck turn scarlet voice raises stop it Odys! you’re disgusting! are you intentionally trying to embarrass me? why are you doing this? he replies i’m not doing anything to you i’m enjoying the most delicious fruit i’ve ever tasted who cares what it looks like? later she laughs about incident offers to buy more mangos promises to take him shopping at Harrods tomorrow he goes along with their arrangement until it all seems like pretty background scenery to an empty intimacy missing all his friends back at art school he writes about his loneliness he feels trapped in Tanya’s web several times he sneaks English girls into his room when Tanya jealously confronts him he admits he has had enough and wants to go back to Hartford she suggests at the least they fly to Bermuda for several weeks to get tan before returning he declines on June 30 1971 Odysseus returns to Hartford and Tanya moves to San Francisco on July 3 Jim Morrison overdoses in Paris
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
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        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
In as much as I tamed the Infidel
Baptism pokes her Holistic White Tongue
Such that if you try to flip the Role-Model
For which Hypocrisy had said and done
You do not know me. If Duty must care
And stand accused tackling my Man to like
Your Mass does not shrink me; And if you dare
Take a Pied Contest and taste the First Strike
Yet in fairness your Swan-Form does exist
As billed by Tom's Twin circled in craft
Now may I come in? Or should I resist
And Boot my *** on the Beach by the Draft?
Those Stripes were hostile from a Few Years Past
Enjoy Iberia Minor; Healing can last.
#ChrisMears93
Even in Third Place the gods carry you
Niko and Nike, both Siblings to your Cause
The Festive Cheer, numbing their Silent Boo
And your Best Bronze Offer was never lost
Which you deserve, definite on Boon's End
Such Shout everyone will always Cherish
Goodbye, Riley! Your Dim Plan was all but Bent
The Assassin turned on you and Perish
Still, Anointing Tears on the Bleacher's Side,
Was but Artificial in its Console
You made a Plan to Upgrade the next time
And Fight till Morning until the next Goal.
Meanwhilst enjoy, and sip to Iberia's Best
With Everyone on-board; And not one less.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Alexa Sz Apr 2010
I
intelligent Iggy iguana is impossible,
ignorant, ill, if it is in.
impersonator Igel is into infinitive items
I illustrate intros
Iberia is interesting in ice
I'm Impeccable!
JJ Hutton Feb 2013
coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't

News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
well..
                                                  with the English
being so: oh so
                        ******* welcoming
i'd rather be remembered
                                              as a full-throttle
                      wanking rather than
a raving-ape's worth
of ᛈ ᛁ < ᛏ ᛋ (kap c! kap c!
                Cierkiev uno bud!
i uno buda!
                                                        Rrrrrr'am!
                serpentine's clue)
   Chernobyl charcoal,
or as some like to keep the
entertainment checks:
             a loss...
the famous Krakow smog...
                          leftover chimneys
to blame...
                            i don't
need a paddy to teach me how to
behave among the Anglo...
                             the Anglo who
lost his way among Germans and the Norse...
                 when the Russian Empire fell...
because one cousin said to another cousin
cussing: to hell with you!
                                    i don't need
a paddy for that...
   the paddy can play chequers and
river-dance till the nymphs come home...
sure, the paddy can do that...
           on arable land the paddy can what
the paddy must... mustard tatties...
             believably edible...
                                you know,
every man has his limits...
             my limit was agitated,
the paddy ate k.f.c.,
          and i too said to him:
               well, it's a two way street...
               you empathise with me
i'll empathise with you...
      you don't empathise with me
                     i'll see you in the sewer
and call it: the rats' livelihood worth of nibbling
     a narrative of the black death
worth a Madam Tussaud's examination
for worth of anaesthetic... torturing wax...
                  of all the islander tribes,
the Welsh are docile, the Scots
are: who invented copper wire?
to Scotsmen arguing and pulling a copper
two pence coin apart,
                      North Irish is Yates -
    "south" or republican is
              Joyce in Paris... Dublin
        and the thought of dungarees...
                      why the **** did i ever become
    involved with these cousins conjuring
        fake birth certificates?! why?!
i don't belong here... my motto still stands:
          among the Faroe Islanders
and the Orca slaughter for the red sea!
              the English were humbled in Germany
and never to be seen in Sweden...
     with Germanic roots...
the English are an embarrassment in
Scandinavia...
                        better sun-tanned propped
in Iberia...
                            or the call:
Hindenburg! Hindenburg! Blitz! Blitz!
  drink till you fiddle with your ****!
               up d'er balcony and
         somersault like a whale in a belly-flop
pose into the swimming pool! ploooooop!
belly splash and the beetroot suntan pinch
                      of cancer (zodiac alias of crab);
forever brother v. brother,
               as ever... a civil war...
               i actually celebrate the
unwelcoming nature of the English...
                    because i know they're
what the Turks say of Saxons: pseudo...
           the English can be English in Iberia
and what the Greeks say to be:
a reason to think...
                                  but if ever they were
found in Scandinavia
                                 they'd be frowned at...
mind you the Americans are worse...
                      they deem it necessary
                    to talk of conquest to invoke jealousy -
               i'm as jealous as you are
readied to rear these *******...
                                     but since you're not...
i don't know why i need to know what
                      cubicle *** is like...
                                     i don't see the point...
          my narrative is complimentary
   to what most people shouldn't say
                          but feel obliged to do...
but since they talk about it... i'm writing an answer
to what they're supposedly not supposed to do...
         otherwise, why talk about it?
my ex-girlfriend's favourite motto? good for you!,
well, it's exactly the same...
            why do it, then speak of it,
why not just do it and keep it shut?
                               unless you're looking
for a confession booth and a priest...
i wouldn't be looking for a madman
                and jealousy... to be honest:
what could become: 20 hail Mary's penance,
could easily become 20 stab wounds to the throat;
                              just saying.
It's here! It's here! One of the Best
And Brightest Days
Now's the Time to rev-up our Ways.


That Glazing Star, which spits the
Rays
Shone brightly through Helios, the
Highest Display.


Beaches un-roll their sleek-forming sands
As Pools de-frost their blue-tanned waves.
Swimmers do dive, and enjoy the Save
In Iberia's Coast rescue in Grand.


There are many Events in
This Hot-Baste Holiday
Worry not; For it will slowly
Pass Away
About a month-two - quill, quite awhilst
Just enough for me to produce
More Words in-rhyme.


Writing on Holidays must always be fun
For Experiences like these, pressed
Under the Sun
Tram-Tracked Thoughts, which does
Hurt to remember
Will be preserved - thanks to November.


Family, Friends, Extensions and Strangers
There the Bunch starts to get all blokey
Boring Concepts, birth these Megaphone Chaps
You world prefer to dance on their laps.


Maybe what I said meant something else
Those Words of mine touched Heart and felt
Such gradual boredom - in time I agree
For tunnelling Facts, with Evidence plead.


Nevertheless, let the Holidays sing
And let our Lives live that Full Extract.
Be Happy, Gay and Humble in Kind
For once the Headmaster whistles, you'll
Have a Sortie ahead.
Now for Iberia the Goat trips the Swan
To expound his Potentials his Win compete
His Wing - now Healed - placed Earnings on his Fawn
And ensure his Feet leave Imprints complete
Though needed it be keep Sweets in his Box
To open once his Strategy proclaim
That by Politic break Legs with the Fox
And sap one's Owl of its Senses declaim
Sport or Savoury either Ties relay -
May your Holiday Cheers by Random bless
Sustain Tomorrow; Else promote Today
The Road to the Gold your Instincts progress.
Should Hands for Wine toast; Cheer for Moment's come
Will my Handles flip; Transmute Wine into Rhum.


‪#‎tomdaley1994‬ ‪#‎tomdaleytv
Mediaba el mes de julio. Era un hermoso día.
Yo, solo, por las quiebras del pedregal subía,
buscando los recodos de sombra, lentamente.
A trechos me paraba para enjugar mi frente
y dar algún respiro al pecho jadeante;
o bien, ahincando el paso, el cuerpo hacia adelante
y hacia la mano diestra vencido y apoyado
en un bastón, a guisa de pastoril cayado,
trepaba por los cerros que habitan las rapaces
aves de altura, hollando las hierbas montaraces
de fuerte olor -romero, tomillo, salvia, espliego-.
Sobre los agrios campos caía un sol de fuego.
      Un buitre de anchas alas con majestuoso vuelo
cruzaba solitario el puro azul del cielo.
Yo divisaba, lejos, un monte alto y agudo,
y una redonda loma cual recamado escudo,
y cárdenos alcores sobre la parda tierra
-harapos esparcidos de un viejo arnés de guerra-,
las serrezuelas calvas por donde tuerce el Duero
para formar la corva ballesta de un arquero
en torno a Soria. -Soria es una barbacana,
hacia Aragón, que tiene la torre castellana-.
Veía el horizonte cerrado por colinas
oscuras, coronadas de robles y de encinas;
desnudos peñascales, algún humilde prado
donde el merino pace y el toro, arrodillado
sobre la hierba, rumia; las márgenes de río
lucir sus verdes álamos al claro sol de estío,
y, silenciosamente, lejanos pasajeros,
¡tan diminutos! -carros, jinetes y arrieros-,
cruzar el largo puente, y bajo las arcadas
de piedra ensombrecerse las aguas plateadas
del Duero.
      El Duero cruza el corazón de roble
de Iberia y de Castilla.
            ¡Oh, tierra triste y noble,
la de los altos llanos y yermos y roquedas,
de campos sin arados, regatos ni arboledas;
decrépitas ciudades, caminos sin mesones,
y atónitos palurdos sin danzas ni canciones
que aún van, abandonando el mortecino hogar,
como tus largos ríos, Castilla, hacia la mar!
      Castilla miserable, ayer dominadora,
envuelta en sus andrajos desprecia cuanto ignora.
¿Espera, duerme o sueña? ¿La sangre derramada
recuerda, cuando tuvo la fiebre de la espada?
Todo se mueve, fluye, discurre, corre o gira;
cambian la mar y el monte y el ojo que los mira.
¿Pasó?  Sobre sus campos aún el fantasma yerta
de un pueblo que ponía a Dios sobre la guerra.
      La madre en otro tiempo fecunda en capitanes,
madrastra es hoy apenas de humildes ganapanes.
Castilla no es aquella tan generosa un día,
cuando Myo Cid Rodrigo el de Vivar volvía,
ufano de su nueva fortuna, y su opulencia,
a regalar a Alfonso los huertos de Valencia;
o que, tras la aventura que acreditó sus bríos,
pedía la conquista de los inmensos ríos
indianos a la corte, la madre de soldados,
guerreros y adalides que han de tornar, cargados
de plata y oro, a España, en regios galeones,
para la presa cuervos, para la lid leones.
Filósofos nutridos de sopa de convento
contemplan impasibles el amplio firmamento;
y si les llega en sueños, como un rumor distante,
clamor de mercaderes de muelles de Levante,
no acudirán siquiera a preguntar ¿qué pasa?
Y ya la guerra ha abierto las puertas de su casa.
      Castilla miserable, ayer dominadora,
envuelta en sus harapos desprecia cuanto ignora.
      El sol va declinando. De la ciudad lejana
me llega un armonioso tañido de campana
-ya irán a su rosario las enlutadas viejas-.
De entre las peñas salen dos lindas comadrejas;
me miran y se alejan, huyendo, y aparecen
de nuevo, ¡tan curiosas!... Los campos se obscurecen.
Hacia el camino blanco está el mesón abierto
al campo ensombrecido y al pedregal desierto.
Para goces o duelos que sienta España,
Cuando el llanto o la dicha su faz enciende,
Tengo una lira humilde que la acompaña
Y un corazón de hermano que la comprende.

Por eso aquí de nuevo mi voz levanto
Y pido a pobres cuerdas sus armonías;
Ya lo sabéis vosotros, la quiero tanto
Que sus penas intensas las hago mías.

Yo vi de cerca todo lo que se encierra
De noblezas hidalgas en su recinto;
Sentí el sol de la Historia sobre esa tierra
Que vio el sol sin ocaso de Carlos Quinto.

Si allí buscáis leyendas encantadoras
Soñaréis que os arrullan notas lejanas,
De rabeles cristianos y guzlas moras
Bajo los minaretes de las Sultanas.

Soñaréis cabe albercas con arrayanes
En cautivas que lloran por sus donceles;
En alquiceles blancos y en yataganes
Sobre la verde cuesta de los Gomeles.

¡Ah! yo he visto la hermosa vega extendida
Que el Genil argentado de flores cuaja
Y soñé en otros tiempos y en otra vida
Mirando los jardines de Lindaraja.

Recogí de Granada los alhelíes
Que un sol de fuego esmalta con luz divina,
Y al cruzar por el campo de los zegríes
Me hablaba de mi patria la golondrina.

España nos recibe con regocijos
Porque colmar supimos su afán profundo,
Siente orgullo de madre que ve a sus hijos
Honrar, ya independientes, el Nuevo Mundo.

En cada leal amigo me dio un hermano
Que hizo suyos mis goces y mir pesares,
¡Porque basta en España ser mejicano
Para encontrar abiertos pechos y hogares!

Allí ninguno alienta rencor ni dolo
Al vernos vivir libres en otra esfera,
Pues saben que ostentamos de polo a polo,
Con honor y sin mancha nuestra bandera.

Ya no existe la España dominadora
Sino la Iberia hermana, que he conocido,
Y cuya lengua rica, dulce y sonora,
Honramos en la tierra donde he nacido.

Ya no existe la España grave y austera
Que lanzó en sus legiones fieros aludes,
Que Cortés hizo odiosa con una hoguera
Y vindicó Las Casas con sus virtudes.

Soldados de Alvarado; reyes aztecas;
Todos sois polvo vano; ya nada existe;
De aquella edad aun tiemblan las hojas secas
Del árbol que recuerda «la noche triste».

Se quebró la macana que el casco abolla;
La inquisición no ostenta tizones rojos;
Y al fundirse dos razas nació la criolla
De apiñonado cutis y negros ojos.

La de pies diminutos y andar galano,
La que junta con dulce melancolía
Lo humilde y apacible del tipo indiano
Al garbo y a la gracia de Andalucía.

¡Oh España! ¡oh noble España! tú nos
legaste
Una fe y una lengua; tienes derecho
A buscar en los pueblos que aquí formaste
El corazón hidalgo que hay en tu pecho.

España es igual siempre bajo tu rayo
¡Oh sol del patriotismo que la iluminas!
¡Resucitó a sus héroes del Dos de Mayo
Al ver amenazadas las Carolinas!

¿Cómo no tributarle justos honores
Al laurel siempre vivo que la enguirnalda?
Unamos nuestra enseña de tres colores
A su gloriosa enseña de rojo y gualda.

Hoy que triste se envuelve con gasa negra
Que le atara un espectro de heladas manos;
Cual fraternal tributo llegue a Consuegra
El óbolo que mandan los mejicanos,

¡Oh caridad sublime! ¡Sol que derramas
De amor y de consuelo rayos ardientes!
Mira cómo a tu influjo son nuestras damas
Los ángeles de guarda de los ausentes.

Campos ayer hermosos, son tristes yermos;
Escombros los hogares; las dichas, penas;
Los espíritus sanos gimen enfermos
¡Aliviad tantos males las almas buenas!

¡Oh! bien hacéis vosotras en ser primeras
En consolar amantes, tanta agonía;
¡Para aliviar desgracias ya no hay fronteras!
¡La Caridad no tiene ciudadanía!

¡Damas que sois las joyas de nuestro suelo
Y galardón y gloria de sus hogares;
Vuestras altas virtudes bendice el cielo;
Vuestra piedad un pueblo tras de los mares!

A la ofrenda tan noble que haréis mañana,
Yo la inscripción pusiera cual la merece:
Los ángeles de Anáhuac, para su hermana
La España de Cristina y Alfonso Trece.
Behind the Façade

Behind the Holyday Inn near the bus station used by
we the masses and immigrants, there are streets of houses
kept in the gloomy mode of semi-poverty and cheap wine.
I walked these streets windows shuttered, here and there
a small grocery shop run by Asians how they make a living
Is a wonder, cafes too I saw nearly went into one but it
looked so filthy I changed my mind, but did buy a can of
coke in the Asian's shop
We had been to the giant old hospital call -Ca Curry- and it
was old and decrepit, yet doctors and nurses struggle on
no money is spent on National Health now that we are in
the grip of neoliberalism.
She has bad hips and the wait for our bus was three hours
hence my excursion into the streets of boredom a part of
Lisbon no tourist would wish to see, no anyone famous had
lived here and “Fado” was flaking walls and peeling doors.
Back at the bus station I found in a corner a second-hand
book shop bought a book of a prose poetry and got one for
free, I sat beside her, tried to read  Portuguese and thought
it takes an Indian person to try selling poetry in Iberia.
Matt Nov 2020
From the mountains of Utah, you came to Virginia
The land of natures’ ****** beauty and America
You came not to fill your well, but met Pisces, pure as Kenya
And your heart was filled, but you couldn’t handle the weight

From the deserts I flew, and landed in Virginia
And searched not with intent, but found you in suburbia
And you filled my heart, oh, how you filled me with euphoria
Of myself, I did not need help carrying the weight

Your love, heavy as Shenandoah in Virginia
Was as wild as a Chinese firecracker in Spring
But could be as cold as a winter night in Iberia
And it grew heavy on my shoulders, your loving weight

Your heart spoke to me, damaged, with a strange charisma
You harbored a pain from love and brought it to Virginia
You tried to give me some, tried to decipher your enigma
Your love, heavy as piled snow, a burdensome weight

Summer carried a burning warmth that brought you to me
Delighted, I embraced you like our Father heavenly
But winter crept in and brought a chilling cold that painfully,
Had slowed our pace with a nightmarishly freezing breeze

I trekked through the barren wastes that used to be so green
I nearly died trying to find your embers now unseen
I came across them, fading, yet I’d pour on them gasoline
Anything to reignite you, bright and burning queen

Anything to reignite our wholesome emotion
I can’t put it to words, but I give you such devotion
How I long to return to our simple harmonic motion
And fend off the damning fears of your baseless notions

Yet still when night dawns upon me, restlessness befells
A demon whisks me out of bed and carries me to Hell
Even when in her light, I drown in insecurities’ well
And the black waters that consume me smother my yell

When I wake, I wake to a hungering confusion
My mind numbed by my paranoia and disillusions
I know they’re phantoms, even still I can’t find a solution
God, woman! Get out of my mind!

Yet I digress, for of this woman I am obsessed
But I don’t know what to do, so should my love be confessed?
God, the fear in my heart... Michael give me courage to resist
And cast out these doubts and strengthen my faith in the Lord

My troubles ferry me across the stormy, harsh, sea
As always, I’m drowned by a woman who don’t care for me
And I put on the chains myself, knowingly, as if proudly
Yet here I write, complaining, nay setting my soul free
STANZA: L1 = 13// L2 = 14// L3 = 15// L4 = 13
My debt bubble has been de-leveraged & I'll fight with guns plastic
'cause in my life defensive maneuvers have been necessarily drastic
when my crooked, fist-fightin' limbs distend Michael J. Fox spastic
Hurry pops the time for peace has degraded into a campaign drastic
as it's off to Wales where Woody, Keef & Charlie have gassed ****
like Churchill planned for Bonn as he thunk toxic gas was fantastic
& normal like switching toothpaste with a gummy resin tree mastic
that's tacky enough to entrap a brown flea but not a ******, fast tick
on Hillary Clinton's saddle-sore ***'s ****-itchy crack iconoclastic
that forces epidemical ****-casting directresses to brutally cast sick
& crippled X-muffers in dramas that are heterophobic & bombastic
& contra-contrary to the T.N.T. needed to nucleate *** & blast hick
to decree '64 as bein' the year of producer Loke Wan Tho's last flick
I am stirred by murmurs of kittens that have daily purred but my fat
cats never bought never sold never used a toilet never spoke a word
as hairy cats are ecstatic to lick hanging parts that are thickly furred
& drenched in muco-pus, river mud, alkaline residue or mouse ****
that's added for spice with green duck gut, snake nose & rotted bird
to commonize felinicidal fare in stitch with farmerettes heatin' curd
to nourish ol' Jimmy Carter robotoid #14 whose death was deferred
to push puppet Lin Forbes Burnham as David Rockefeller preferred
makes recipes valid for McDonald's grinding men into meat absurd
& the cries of ***** smashing periodic squeals into groans unheard
by moon-friendly babes whose quims rest salmon-pink & uninjured
in aspections physico-social via spirographical methods unpictured
regarding cotomaster vulgaris or second-place placers placing third
with ears & belly buttons clogged by **** & blood-shot eyes blurred
Oh **** Kiki Ebsen, let's love forever the dead Larry, Moe & Curly
& their lower Australian counterparts: the scuzzy Fairy, ** & Girly
who gulp milk with hens' eggs knowing that not 1 dairy foe is burly
as I wanna see H.P.V. vaccine-pricking-swine Rick Perry goin' surly
like Squiggy might've on Garry Marshall's show Laverne & Shirley
starring Cindy Williams & Penny Marshall whose teeth ain't pearly,
& who in heels & padded bra passes as the twin of Jo Anne Worley
in 1963 when cream was in glass bottles & menopause started early
enough for Lee Oswald before The Eye Shadows backed Merle Lee
Disney destroyed maternal worries with furnace asphyxiants of gas,
proving that lungs full of carbon monoxide fumes ain't going to last
to see '39 as '38 wafted by in a whiff of monoxidized demise so fast
for those who cartoonize the near-future, animate God's distant past
so as to demand that Rabbi Shimon's Apocalypse tribes be amassed
to pike the head of Charlie Watts as El Shaddai can never be sassed
before a Satanical/congregational flock of U.S.'s pornocratical cast
conjuring underneath a devilishly-****** act's pornographical blast
framed as merry mix-ups the queerest of collusions that flabbergast
regardless of America's oldest race-baitin' ******'s homosexual past
as a Georgia state assembly guy whom toothless ****** outclassed
Whilst masonical N.A.S.A. creates super-speed planets between us,
nobody cares that our 500,000 mile-per-hour sun is paced by Venus
in aether squattin' like California smog in a stab wound of bean pus
that'll render mucho mas gorier the spit-stained walls of a clean bus
driven off the Sunshine Skyway Bridge by a *****-lovin' mean cuss
who aped a weakling diving from tin panels pitched via a lean truss
that constricts **** lard into prime cream corn to make a queen fuss
The costumes of the Gestapo & American cops are black not 'cause
I like hanging out with lynch mobs & ******* ****** in my shack
& writing Bible corollaries after rammin' enemas up my ****** tract
in repugnance to ***-wipe Zbigniew Brzezinski of the Warsaw Pact
as it is Russia's Crimean annexation of 2014 that he's denied as fact
I curl these 10 toes under so they don't get, by a machete, hacked &
I don't date angry Mafia assassins so as to keep from bein' whacked
whilst the pardoning integrity of demi-god mafiosos governs intact,
as sanctity is conferred knowing which cops by the mob are backed
through underworld graft to ensure pig police are doggedly tracked,
framed, extorted, beat up, spiritually broken & emotionally cracked
haunting dank alleys with the hapless citizens they had blackjacked
whose id acuity gave sway to id injury that caused 'em to be sacked
by politicians placed in places as these are places a mob has hacked
with paid-pain-placebo politicos la cosa nostra has placidly backed
& licked, tucked, hocked, blacked, ticked, socked, cocked & tacked
or redacted, corrected, misdirected, uncooked, rooked & shellacked
plus heckled, freckled, prickled, pickled, trickled, kicked & stacked
Las lebianas de T.V. sexcite & thrill as no low caliber gun ever will
on the battlefields of Vietnam where John Kerry liked to run & ****,
before porkin' John Heinz's Satanical widow in a billion-dollar deal
He couldn't kick his habit each mornin' of taking a birth-control pill
or attending parties of talk-show-maggot Donahue to cop a free feel
after crappin' into pizza boxes to implement Lucifer's masonic weal
I forget not from which side my ****, neck-breaking horse I mount:
hormones coursing, **** strap is tight! What in hell am I on about?
I swoon in love, dance over matches, feel *****, steadily lose count
Her cane, her walker, her wheel chair & support hose, quack-quack,
only prove what gigolos have always known, wealthy hags kick ***
in post-menopausal slump on cruise ships ******* apes for a laugh
up my you-know-what that is a big outlet 25 inches north of my calf
whilst allopathic veterinary cat medicine increases misery @ % 7½
because me no understand a tiny bit God's need for famine & wrath
against dullards whose algebra is more mathematic than basic math
that lets me hog-call the glossy-white pig Kathie Lee Gifford: Kath'
after she aborted 3 kiddies under the bridge on the coat hanger path
Many thrillin' Christian facts have just come to light with a colorful
computer-generated face of Lord Jesus, thank God He is very white
so that we may crucify the black Jesus theory without a ****** fight
that'd be the death-kiss for chimps chimping ghetto-ebonics at night
I care for you like a foreign **** with lots of cars in his huge car lot
I know that kitty-soft quims like yours ain't never wholesale bought
I just want to part your pink ******* in bed or on any army cot
I wanna probe the core of your womanhood like your mama taught:
Cousin Jethro, Uncle Jed, André from U.P.S. & that ****** she shot
in cop-crazed self defense as she feared for her personal safety a lot
'cause her husband had to **** Iraqi children in Iraq where he fought
toilet-strain that queered his insane brain giving him queer-brain rot
that bruised his belly button, above primal glands, with a blood clot
big enough to slow Chris Reeve's gallopin' horse to a paralyzed trot
that'd split the greasy 3 hairs on the cue ball of governor Rick Scott
who's a leg-shaving maniac, less frigidly warm than moderately hot
when he enjoys vein-popping-**** straining on his golden **** ***
where-from he farts that it's legal Agenda 21's new-world-order plot
Love me wet, like you loved ****** loving freak Jacques Cousteau
who drowned 350,000 Unitarians via Aqua-Lung, Don't'cha know?
Ah Satan sees Natasha while she'll step on no pets to see juice flow
along direct paths between points A & B, as would fly a sober crow
34 minutes late for an egg-layin' contest & house-cat-skinning show
that we bird-lovin' farts must look up to the sky from hot hell below
where evaporated diarrhea fills Carnation milk cans in a ****** flow
over irradiated breakfast cereal that radiates a healthful, green glow
that'll thaw **** ice & hypothermic ***** on banana cones of snow
I'm better off than dead, not better often dead, Totie Fields, you liar
I won't skate to Ohio whilst my **** is on fire with ****-love desire
Excuse me while I limp to hell, as my leg was pared just after a fire
that makes me hobble to hell after cooking in Gandhi's funeral pyre
The sweet nectar of rector Hector of the Catholic sector gives sway
to conjecture in the Protestant vector as his carotid artery neck tore
The new nectar of Hector rector of the Catholic sector gave sway to
conjecture with an elector of vector 7 as his carotid artery neck tore
As his carotid artery neck tore, a new nectar of rector Hector de the
Catholic sector gave sway to conjecture with an elector of X vector
As his real pecks & neck tore, black neck tar of rector Hector of the
Catholical sector prefecture shot a letcher, a selector & an inspector
With specks of neck gore, the tarry sect tar of trekked-for Hector of
papal facture could catch more than lure ***** ***** on a tech floor
This violent gothical life moved me into a filthy hermit's hut where
it keeps my ***** mouth shut, the limited movement in my left nut
This stupefyin' gothical life dug me into a buried hermit's rut where
it's kept my ***** mouth shut, the poor functionality of my left nut
has kept 666 donkey gobs shut, the campy dysfunctions of a walnut
It's kept my ***** mouth shut, the bad functionality of my hind gut
It keeps my ***** mouth shut, the limited movement in my left nut
It slams my ***** mouth shut, the fun moments of my lard-*** ****
Your pocked *** are 2 flabby people I haven't wanted to meet again
while I'm busy in bee-stung-hive land eating carp bowel & shark fin

DON'T TOUCH MY *** BECAUSE I'M A LESBIAN FOREVER
& ever & no man'll change it because, ****-wise, I'm lesbian-clever
I'll block you soon forever & blacken your eyes & hide your toupée
because I hate you more queerly than prissy Obama hates being gay
with Michael, as he expresses himself better durin' lactation classes
among the hammer-happy Hillary crowd & Bill's ****-****** *****  
that only worsen clownish ***** dunked by red-sock-ducked passes
through to the prostate in lucky, ancient Hugh Hefner ****** sasses
Eddie Money, Johnny Paycheck & Johnny Cash in 32 papal masses
Lord God, let us gaily promote family-oriented regional voter fraud
for a shiksa of the Red Sea whose **** & *** push a solid boater ***
I cocked hitchings to my petcock like a whinin' Alfred Hitchcock in
anticipation of 18 quacked ribs via unpatented Owl **** ***** Sock
as sinus infections purpled nasal-mucopus excreta into an itch pock
Let me scratch your lard *** in peace, a piece of ***, girly hot ridge,
on the farm with lazy Keith, smart-aleck Danny & Shirley Partridge
who refuses to follow hygienical protocols including hand sanitizer
as your glad, toothless Kentuckian chews via a manned-clan incisor
On blood-drenched sheets you scarf Jiff extra crunchy peanut butter forever & want me to love you for it after hurlin' chunky in a gutter
But I got more complex self-respect than blind respect that's simple
for your cheese-spewing-mucopus-heavy-acne-cystical *** pimple
that made Walker McDonald chuck his walker for a steel gimp pole
so that he could pole vault over Bruce Jenner's scrod & shrimp stall
Deeply from the cockpit of my ******'s messy shore I proclaim that
this itchy crack is a filthy treasure by my big ****** ****'s measure
'cause from it venereal-diseased Johns derive lots of carnal pleasure
until their ureters swell shut & good currents of ***** ain't ****-sure
fewer than 6 inches from the **** uretero-pelvic junction's fist core
where M.L.K., junior scratched deeply his pustulating ****** fissure
Shut up hard-*** **** I can buy & sell you whenever I ******* want
Sit there whilst I pray for guidance or I'll kick you for your defiance
Hi, my name's Kandy and I work in a cat house with mucho ******
who are girlfriends of mine plagued by ulcerative, syphilitical sores
made weepy by salts of the briny deep below Jacmel's ocean shores
Insane James Whitmore claims grit poor as he blames **** for what
shames *** sore after eating fried porridge that defied proper storage
Wherever condominiums are posh the battle is delirium vs.delusion
that illustratively eliminates an elusively-shrill illusion of a colossal
cerebral cortex calamity countering cranial, ****-clinching contusion
The gay estrogen king kept his **** well with agents anthelmintical
till he was killed by the girly estrogen king with pills antiparasitical
Algeria, Algeria, I despise you worser than **** films from Nigeria
made by queer-bait crotch crickets afflicted with advanced progeria
that they got from white-phosphorus-bombed kids of peaceful Syria
where Moslemical love thaws the icy hearts of ******* from Siberia
who ran over the Caucasus via Spain's Portuguese peninsula, Iberia
I'm doubly excited about Intact ******* Day I think I am I am sure,
'cause I got a dark cookie doll in raunchy eastern Mexico to live for
which's why the suicidal jump of Evelyn McHale was not vehicular
in traffic flow manual guides, as the crashed car was her stone floor
Commanding Lieutenant William Bligh was the victim of cowardly
mutiny by Acting Lieutenant Fletcher Christian, two years after His
Majesty's Armed Vessel Bounty did sail, 'cause sweaty-palmed freak
Fletch Christian snagged his mutinous, ripped ****** on a bent nail
Don't let's not, not let's don't count on doubt, unsounded into Jersey
where stinking **** #26 is officiously & officially known as **** Z
who'll scrape, bow, prostrate like a girl whose knees shake in curtsy
who'll scrape & prostrate like a lesbian whose **** shakes in curtsy
Look Santa Claus, my purpled *****' knobs are Christ-like & sharp
like push buttons of a dead angel's gaily-strummed, gay-baited harp
Wing Chun my *** up the center line & I'll hide beneath a tarp after
I call first dibs from a toilet, dharma & karma & catfishes kiss carp
I call first dibs from a toilet, dharma & karma & catfish kisses carp
I call first dibs on the toilet! It's daffy dharma over karma or vicky-
verky. Wing Chun my *** up the center line where jerks chaw jerky
I sank to the bottom of your love bucket like mice winning at bingo
for being ******* to cherry wood while houndin' a kid-killin' dingo
Your clingy love has done much to set me free since you lopped off
2 of your straight front limbs to become a crippled, double amputee
during a Jesus-dead Christmas like I don't like it in an ulcerated sea
under the current of a skinny, barbiturated Johnny Cash over for tea
as calculated gastrical absorption rates rate as constants minus a fee
that transmogrifies my sleek, **** **** into the bulbous *** of a bee
what pendulates & undulates below the bend of my lonely left knee
in relation to fly-papered catch-alls & bug zappers in my family tree
where 1 ape wrangler wrangles triangular angles, bangles, spangles
for Christmas like I don't like it because my ******* on ice dangles
whilst fearin' for Winston Smith as to when caged rats/mice fangs'll
avulse eyes & gnaw on his tongue, before weaving nests in his lung
that shall really make it tricky to sing sing-songs he ain't never sung
that'll make it hard to gaily sing sing-songs he ain't never gaily sung
Merry Christmas nice Santa Claus, happy birthday & prepare to die
'cause when it comes to murdering fat men, I'm not the least bit shy
around dippy/daffy ***** too dried out to give it that old college try
outside college because I am the same age while they are a lot older
with bruised head, dented instep, hammer toe & arthritical shoulder
that goes up when I slip down a hill that's got many a loose boulder
to crush Miss Austria even though I once angrily warned & told her
of what's in for tall chicks runnin' ledges in acts dangerously bolder
for beauty queens long in the tooth & **** babes significantly older
whose hottest movements render homely ***** withdrawn & colder
than the homosexy boy-toy lover of Obama pickaninny Eric Holder
from whom I've hid in 32 Kenyan files a blatantly-fraudulent folder
of cheery, cherry Christ Masses reamin' the beheld's queer beholder
Aquí, proa de Europa preñadamente en *****;
aquí, talón sangrante del bárbaro Occidente;
áspid en piedra viva, que el mar dispersa y junta;
pánica Iberia, silo del sol, haza crujiente.
Tremor de muerte, eterno tremor escarnecido,
ávidamente orzaba la proa hacia otra vida,
en tanto que el talón, en tierra entrometido,
pisaba, horrible, el rostro de América adormida.
¡Santiago y cierra España! Derrostran con las uñas
y con los dientes rezan a un Dios de infierno en ristre,
encielan a sus muertos, entierran las pezuñas
en la más ardua historia que la Historia registre.
Alángeles y arcángeles se juntan contra el hombre.
Y el hambre hace su presa, los túmulos su agosto.
Tres años y cien caños de sangre Abel, sin nombre...
(Insoportablemente terrible es su arregosto.)
Madre y maestra mía, triste, espaciosa España,
he aquí a tu hijo. Úngenos, madre. Haz
habitable tu ámbito. Respirable tu extraña
paz. Para el hombre, Paz. Para el aire, madre, paz.
Cuando Mambrú se fue a la guerra, llevaba una almohadilla y un tirabuzón. La almohadilla para descansar después de las batallas y el tirabuzón para descorchar las efímeras victorias.

También llevaba un paraguas contra venablos, aguaceros y palabrotas; un anillo de oro para la suerte y contra los orzuelos y un llavero con la llave de su más íntimo desván.

Como a menudo le resultaba insoportable la ausencia de la señora de Mambrú, llevaba un ejemplar del "Cantar de los Cantares", a fin de sobrellevar los veranillos de San Juan, un abanico persa y otro griego.

Llevaba una receta de sangría para sobornar al cándido enemigo y para el caso de que este no fuera sobornable llevaba un arcabuz y un verduguillo.

Así mismo unas botas de potro que rara vez usaba, ya que siempre le había gustado caminar descalzo y un calidoscopio artesanal, debido probablemente a que Marei, Edison y Lumiere no habían nacido para inventar el cine.

Llevaba por último, un escudo de arpillera porque los de hierro pesaban mucho y dos o tres principios fundamentales mezclados con la capa bajo el morrión.

Nunca se supo como le fue a Mambrú en la guerra, ni cuantas semanas o siglos se demoró en ellas. Lo cierto es que no volvió para la Pascua ni para Navidad. Por el contrario, transcurrieron centenares de Pascuas y Navidades sin que volviera o enviara noticias. Ya nadie se acordaba de él ni de su perra. Nadie cantaba ya la canción que en su tiempo era un hit.

Y sin embargo, fue en medio de esa amnesia que regresó en un vuelo regular de Iberia, exactamente el miércoles pasado. Tan rozagante que nadie osó atribuirle más de un siglo y medio. Tan lozano que parecía el bisnieto de Mambrú.

Por supuesto ante retorno tan insólito hubo una conferencia de prensa en el abarrotado salón Vip. Todos querían conocer las novedades que traía Mambrú después de tanta guerra. Cuántas heridas, Cuántos grilletes. Cuántos casus belis. Cuántos pillajes y zafarranchos de combate. Cuánto orgullo, cuántas lecciones. Cuántos laureles, cuántas medallas y cruces y chafalonías.

Ante el asedio de micrófonos que diecinueve hombres de prensa blandían como cachiporras, Mambrú, oprimido pero afable solo alcanzó a decir: -Señores no sé de qué me están hablando. Traje una brisa con arpegios, una paciencia que es un río, una memoria de cristal. Un
ruiseñor, dos ruiseñoras, traje una flecha de arco iris y un túnel pródigo de ecos. Tres rayos tímidos y una sonata para grillo y piano. Un lorito tartamudo y una canilla que no tose. Traje un teléfono de ensueño y un aparejo para náufragos. Traje éste traje y otro más. Y un faro que baja los párpados, traje un limón contra la muerte y muchas ganas de vivir.

Fue entonces que nació la calma y hubo un silencio transparente. Un necio adujo que las pilas se hallaban húmedas de llanto y que por eso los micrófonos estaban sordos y perplejos.

Poquito a poco aquel asedio se fue estrechando en un abrazo y Mambrú viejo y joven y único sintió por fin que estaba en casa.
ConnectHook Oct 2017
I sing the Mariner who first unfurl’d
An eastern banner o’er the western world,
And taught mankind where future empires lay
In these fair confines of descending day;
Who sway’d a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia’s sceptre on the new found shore,
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood,
The tribes he foster’d with paternal toil
******’d from his hand, and slaughter’d for their spoil.

Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoy’d his labours and purloin’d his fame,
And gave the Viceroy, from his high seat hurl’d.
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world
Long overwhelm’d in woes, and sickening there,
He met the slow still march of black despair,
Sought the last refuge from his hopeless doom,
And wish’d from thankless men a peaceful tomb:
Till vision’d ages, opening on his eyes,
Cheer’d his sad soul, and bade new nations rise;
He saw the Atlantic heaven with light o’ercast,
And Freedom crown his glorious work at last.

Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song
The force, the charm that to thy voice belong;
Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way,
To nerve my country with the patriot lay,
To teach all men where all their interest lies,
How rulers may be just and nations wise:
Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee,
Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.

Joel Barlow: The Columbiad  (1809)
Better late than never . . .

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/8683/8683-h/8683-h.htm
Torin Apr 2016
Abraham Lincoln could only say
"Go as you propose"

You were a part
Of Sherman's march to the sea
The unforgiving destruction of total war
Behind you lay Atlanta
Smouldering and in ruins
The black smoke rising high in air
And hanging like a pall over the ruined city.
You set your sights on Savannah

The duke of Wellington said it best
"Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won"

You too were a part
Of the bloodshed at Waterloo
When the strength wasn't there
But the pride said fight on
The seventh coalition
Letting the waterlogged ground dry
Was your ultimate demise
It is said Napoleon left the battle field in tears

And Scipio went on to say
"It is the part of the fool to say I shouldn't have fought"

You were there too
Hannibal in Iberia
Somewhere south of Zaragoza
When his father was assassinated
And his fate and hatred pushed him on
He crossed the Alps with elephants
And seventy-thousand men
The Romans never saw you coming
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
and yes, i'm trying to find a hand,
                              or at least a handwriting in
    belzeebub's eye... sorry, in pixel;
                                 hence the comparison of
                                  g being σ with a ******* sack
         containing only one angry turkey
                                            genital.

the sunday times *style
magazine
always gives me the giggles,
   with articles such as that about
an LA fitness cult of gym bros...
      **** me... i get my "abs"
too... although i drink some ***
and ms. pepsi, and listen to
         some tina "*******" tuner...
oh man, come on!
     it's tina turner! it's not
                             céline dion,
      or shania twain
   (shá-ná-i.a(h ) (as i usually
heard it)...
                              it's tina turner!

ever been to the countryside
and encountered turkeys?
        mean *******...
   the bulls' equivalent of the bird kingdom...
they'll charge at you every chance they
get...
      
            god, i miss this connection
with the countryside,
  this mass congregation
                     in the concrete amazon
is sad, or at least boring...
    and the loss of a seasonal harvest-diet
  of fruits... esp. strawberries...
   spanish strawberries in winter
             as nothing but water, no taste.

a heart beckoning for the hearth that's
                                         simply the earth.
              
we said once: to imitate statues of marble,
      in the masculine stance of exfoliating
abs and muscular prominence...
              how strange then, to see the former
artistic hands moulding the abs of a statue
of david, to the stature of seemingly forever kept,
to now see this robotic self- prefix mentality,
        or if any god might care apart from
narcissus... to be moulding bodies akin to
renaissance italian statues...
     i suppose there is greater respect
    for moulding one's body akin to
   the siamese demigod of hercules & narcissus;
which explains the **** of art by
geometry... we took to translating ancient
statues onto our bodies...
         the statues remain, our bodies will wither,
and those tattoos done aged 20, will
look hilarious on the skin, wrinkling, aged 60+.

   ah, but you see? iberia has been excluded
from being western... coupled with
   the hellenic shame of being frivolous with
pocket money...
        iberia is no longer considered
                                                   "western";
it's almost considered an extension
                                 of morocco.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
does Darwinism has to be the only truth?
the glue of glues...
the... gravity of conversation?
Darwinism wasn't vogue among
continental thinkers in the 19th century...
it's still not vogue among
continental thinkers in the 21st century...
i'm not... an islander... it's not that i don't
have respect for English thinkers:
i certainly have more respect for the French
literary genius... there's none in English...
Charles Dickens can **** a volume out:
he's never going to be a Stendhal...
cotton-mouth: eating the dead...
but Darwinism is no ******* vogue...
too much biology... apes and giraffes...
**** similis is not my friend...
it's true: but i'd love to debate...
an ape... sitting... in a Parisian cafe...
sipping an espresso... too: to boot!
no chance of that..
throw some **** at me:
straighten out a banana for me!
imagine a pike from
a branch of a tree...
grow me a sikh turban while you're at it!
****'s sake...
Darwinism never made it into
the Enlightenment because:
not because it came too late...
no one likes to complicate something
overtly obvious...
it's thought-robbing...
Darwinism belongs in the unconscious...
19th century continental thinkers didn't
like it... i don't like...
Darwinism belongs in the collective
unconscious...
let's just pretend to "forget" facts...
the Copernican reinvention of perception
allowed some: furore...
but... speaking Lord with a tongue lodged
in an *** of a monkey?
what next?
woke brigade tells me:
i have to **** black ***** to appease
the rot that's history?!
appeasement *** *****:
wilting former girls of beauty...
now... well... thankfully i'm "sharing"
with a few Turkic ol' raven hairs...
she owns the harem...
i pay her £2 per minute... not bad, no?

i know the stereotype of litening
to vide cor meum...
i just... can't listen to...
Pergolesi's stabat mater...
in the dark of night when it rains...
i'm crippled by the bounty...
of what's still considered beauty:
i'm touching glass while it shatters...
eh... only some Patrick Cassidy...
****** name an even ******* surname:
just like mine... akin to ******... Stalin...
or... framework of surnames in
Pakistan... almost all ending with:
Khan...

i wonder who's who...
no... Pergolesi: primo...
all that Bach and the Goldberg Variations can wait...
for: for ever noble savage...
there's this one piece of the puzzle
that's forever antonym:
the civilised brute...
i am...
            a civilised brute...
there's no escaping it...
it keeps a balance of forthcoming conversation
and philanthropic affairs to a tidy:
corner... kept...
it's... passive-aggressive without
a woman needing some
spice of bitchiness... it's such a lovely
waiting game... when there's no gsme
to begin with... it's...
a feud of blood... and...

should i feel.... emasculated for wanting
to keep a tidy household?
in the musings of: return to the medieval times...
i'd be the inn-keeper...
not some warrior...
as i wonder...
                     a man would take charge of
the inn... impossible now...
while i took charge of keeping the house tidied...
a cat took a **** into the shower
but not his "sand on paper"...
the stench run fowl...
i had to wash the better portion of
its... "understudy"...
fair enough to the washing and towel...
but once the blow-dryer came into play:
he turned into a fur-ball of GREMLIN
wicked demon of wind and
gymnastics in the air...
i still own three proper scratches
at the wrist from him...

some noble savage: this civilised brute...
agony of tears at:
open the gates!
thankful for *** "starving"...
it's not even like i'd want your women...
to have these half-lings
halved-lingerings...
romance of ******* Iberia...

i can't listen to Pergolesi when it rains...
the ache is too important to deviate
from it...
it's such an acute pain: i pretend to:
i actually kneel with both of them
but cannot rise to expectation...
since there's none: beside the self-evident critique
concerning all that dares
to happen in the circus of priming up
games of footie...

not the father supposedly raised from
the abyss one might expect?
how fire was stupid enough to not
bow before water...

he scratched me proper: thrice...
i'm becoming bored of being alive...
i'm becoming bored of being alive...
i want to be dead in order
than the affairs of the living keep me
as recluse: and deaf...
i'm scratched...
but since there's enough life
in these limbs with joking at additional
antics...
i won't joke...
here's who "bled": here's who washed
his hands clean:
and slurped his bones... drier than...
expected of...
phantom figurines of lost
expectations...
who was who and who was to "come"?
¡Su desnudez y el mar!
Ya están, plenos, lo igual
con lo igual.
                          La esperaba,
desde siglos el agua,
para poner su cuerpo
solo en su trono inmenso.
Y ha sido aquí en Iberia.
La suave playa céltica
se la dio, cual jugando,
a la ola del verano.
(Así va la sonrisa
¡amor! a la alegría)
¡Sabedlo, marineros:
de nuevo es reina Venus!
Handy dandy blues clues plain
all purpose favorite refrain
i.e. "impossible mission"
courtesy complimentary doppelganger
G.I. ("Government Issue", "General Issue",

or "Ground Infantry") Jane
in tandem with Alyson Chain
comes to the rescue attempting
to describe entrenched nonproductive
crippling psychological mindset ascertain

most any reader would consider insane
embedded deep within
genetic code possibly
inherited maternal grandfather,
who emigrated nineteenth century Ukraine,

he (purportedly tailor by trade)
only spoke Yiddish,
language used by Jews
in central and eastern Europe
before the Holocaust.

Originally German dialect with
words from Hebrew, and
several modern languages and
today spoken mainly in US, Israel, and Russia.

Mental illness, (or predisposition thereof)
linkedin courtesy heredity,
supposition nuts so crazy nor insane,
yet nothing further about biology
Iberia lee kant hex Spain

emotional status concomitantly
intertwined with possible causes
such as: Autoimmune, Behavioral,
Cognitive, Neurological,
Environmental - inextricably lodged

within cerebral domain
manifesting as countless
fixations, I disdain
(in retrospect) precious time forsaken,
and absolute zero benefits to gain,

and inflicted severe strain
father and mother felt helpless,
especially when anorexia nervosa
nearly imperiled life source villain
rent asunder body electric drivetrain

brought corporeal standstill
loosed maniac running
rampant within brain
emaciation delivered me
at death's door

prescribed medications Mellaril and Elavil
nsync with psychiatric intervention plus
mother as licensed practical nurse wayne
wright me malnourished body
nutrient fortified drinks,

I passively did abstain
eventually grudgingly gained weight
buffering scrawny skeletal
skein knee membrane
definitely stunted growth plus chain

reaction impacted livingsocial
courtesy thank you me private Charlemagne
promoted cultural revival known
as Matthew Scott Harris'
Carolingian Renaissance.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
i deliberated of this for a long time...
well... not really, just
a few seconds...
   you know what's missing?
a spanish feel to existentialism -
i don't think it's fair to claim
that existentialism was solely a moved
conjured by bored, french university
professors and chain smoking
cafe intellectuals,
   or by the hyper-sensitive a-hole
germans who required something more
precise than the division by a millimetre
standard...
i feel like adding a spanish tinge to
the narrative... namely?
ah, concerning the aesthetic,
  namely the abuse of ditto in english:
or so i heard - the "inverted" commas...
doesn't look that much inverted in pixel,
to be honest;
the existential aesthetic concerning
the: " "?
let's paint the **** thing red & yell'ah...
point being, enclosing a word using
the current, outdated existential model,
well...
     every time i read the technical
existential texts i'm feeling left, slightly bothered...
namely?
the pontius pilate syndrome...
****, should have said effect...
   notably with jean-paul sartre's inverting
commentary while citing: "ego".
   that's pontius pilate down the centuries
of history, that is.
   i can't but not own up to this:
it's either a misnomer (that's an easy explanation,
and much approved) -
       or it's an ambiguity - which
is also much approved...
but in conclusion? it's primarily a form
of questioning "bracket" -
on a presupposition pivot -
        the word thus encapsulated it question-rife,
or question-ridden, whichever you
like...
     hence my stress to move the movement
to iberia... away from the german & french
toffs of the 20th century's zenith;
ergo? ¿what now?
                    this!
oh, right, the main problem...
  the following p.s.:

i'll give you a million dollars if you upload
this on youtube (in reality? i won't,
i just like the expression) -

   steve wynn & the miracle 3's
album: ...tick...tick...tick...
  
   notably for the song cindy -

i've looked, can't find it!
    ****, it's almost like a googlewhack,
imagine owning a compact copy
and not being able to find it on
the internet to stream... ab-so-lute shambels...

p.p.s.
the compact i own is scratched,
    so it's like automated form of scratching
vinyl...
   by the way... you know that
if you encode scratched compact,
   and store it on an iPod, the **** thing breaks?
yeah, i couldn't fathom at first,
   how you can translate a scratched
c.d. into a broken iPod...
      a scratched c.d. translated into an mpeg4
format can completely destroy the physical
host that's an iPod...
    for some reason, the mp3 format is immune
to this phenomenon;
obviously this is a useless observation,
but an observation nonetheless...
  to think a scratched c.d. can destroy an iPod
by reading the broken hardware,
and somehow invoke the software component
that allows the translation into mpeg4
to destroy itself...
      ah the company is ****** anyways...
   who tries to **** off the headphones port is
a complete ******.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
how can the heart be some primitive source
of the stated: item(s)?

     as much as the heart can be assured
to fathoming the bleak basics
of feelings...

   the mind is all but
the ivory tower, unshakeable,
standard brocker for any furthered
speech...

                       the mind is no punching-bag,
the heart?
   always the punching-bag...
  "suddenly" it's allowed to express
the heart, to cling to the subjective,
myopia of expressing
the encoded use of language
via the written form...
   less: blah-blah...
                   and more:
something less available in the scribble
format...

i don't know where this anti-primitive
anti-subjectivity,
anti-emotion, anti-heart
rhetoric comes from...
oh, wait, i know...
allegiance, trust...
something made familiar...

            the cold anglo-saxon
doesn't appreciate this,
it's not that he doesn't know it,
he just doesn't believe in
any existentialism outside
the realm of
encouraging solipsism...

  what?!
hands, tied, pontius pilate
pose...

emotions: bad...
but... that's coming from the sort
of people
who have thoughts that
are more spaghetti, labyrinth-esque
than the ones
associated with seeking out
the existence of the genome sequence...

thought: overrated...
feeling: over-expressed
without a necessary context...
there's nothing bad
about feeling an honest
heart,
than thinking inside
the confines of a dishonest
mind...
        and there's the pollo-corazón
    estofado (chicken-heart stew):
saddle the donkey, i'll bring
the horse and saddle
with a wine-dunk-spare...
  pensando-mitad-desesperado-(h)ombre...

you know what "thinking"
does to you in the southern part
of europe?
   a ******* rotten plum
for a heart...
          why is "thinking"
so underrated,
and "feeling" so overrated?
  ah... the blah-blah instrument
of the chosen sharpened sprech
of the tongue and the spear...
Goths?
  i heard they made it as far
as making it into
the Berber territory of
north africa...

besides the crusades...
there is a concept of jihad
in christianity...
   the reqoncuista of Iberia...
you fight a fight to
reconquer of the lost
till & toll...
        or the northern crusades
instigated
by the tuetonic knights...
****, i better remember such
events than waste my time
being inked in tattoos...

   my psyche is tattooed...
which leaves the brazen tattoo
of a dragon on my shoulder-blade
missing, "lost"...

the ills of feeling,
the basic architecture...
coming from people...
who's thinking,
would never arrive at a Copernican
discovery...
        feeling: bad...
oh, i'm pretty sure the heart
can be allocated some variant
of eloquence...
       and not all thinking is good...
not all thinking can shut the heart
up...
  feeling is hardly the primitive
variant
of the compressions of
the mind...
                    see...
but at least the heart didn't ask
for a freedom of speech
to translate the already given
freedom of thought...
sometimes you just want
someone to shut up
prior to telling them:
you shut up, or i punch you...

learn to eat your heart,
or at least silence your mind...
because i've reached a stage where:
talk is becoming really
expensive...
              i will never understand
how... speaking freely
overtook the observation
done by Kierkegaard...
   how... speech became more
important than thinking...
    the more automated spew
of the heart's "voice"
comes prior...
to the mind's silence relieving
a man from thought,
and engaging him in speaking...
   'ablar pequeño
                   toto minúsculo...
        
i want to feel all the emotions
in my heart, my heart is never silent...
even if i "think" my heart is silent,
it's still speaking,
  lucky you: i filter through it,
and keep some of its wordings
cut-off...
        my mind?
       well... i can tell a difference
between a conscious effort
to succumb to and express a thought...
and what has to recline
on the recycling heap
for a worth of dreaming...
     maybe that's why i dream
to little...
        i'm ensuring my consciousness
is akin to pork...
    hardly anything goes "missing",
almost everything is eaten,
even schnitzel fried pork cartilage
of the ears...

yeah... but the comment section...
of "thought" concerns?
they do not come from a kosher source...
i hate being bloated with
opinions i will make dialectics
out of...
          it's like:
being turkey-fed crap...
           become anglo-sax:
feel less,
never learn to temper your heart
with a silent mind...
just translate
your heart into the degraded
manifest of the waggling tongue...
the mind readily translates itself
into the waggling tongue...
       i feel, therefore i dig a trench
of silence...
   i "think", therefore i waggle
and blow helium's worth of balloons
to blah-blah-blah...

no... i think i'll stick to this
non-intrusive medium of entrenching
myself in phonetic encoding...
**** the cheap talk...
i have itchy tips on each of
my fingers attached to every word
in this spew, and also, with the last
punctuation mark                     .
Like an army from the Great War catapulting
out of trenches to battle blindly with enemy
machine guns and mortar, tourists take fire
on the Great Plaza of Salamanca. We line up
to sip ruby-red Rioja, savor eyelash-thin slices
of jamon, spy on the antlike antics
of the maneuvering crowds, who cross
the square in bunched-up patterns
of inscrutable geometry, of indirection.
They traipse from here to there and
back again on reconnaissance, as castanets
click cacophonously off the concrete plain,
and conversations carry skyward to the sun.

On the walls, bas-relief profiles of Spanish heroes
populate a paneled paean to celebrity, to spirit's might.
St. John of the Cross, Cervantes, even Quixote himself
look down upon us in one-eyed stares of forced patronage,
unwilling participants in the guerrilla tactics of sharing
their World Heritage riches with the disinherited of the world.

Conspicuous by her absence, St. Teresa of Avila
levitates above the maddening mobs to reach
the outskirts of her interior castle, which houses
myriad rooms of virtue that no ordinary mortal can
attain. Her destination: perfection, tilting at
the immense spiritual windmill in the sky. She blesses
me as the waiter carries another tray of wine, endless
libations for the infinite thirst of adventure, discovery,
and the spoils of travel. Winking at Cervantes,
I turn into a temporary resident, unlikely scion of Spain,
and masticate another wafer-thin portion of jamon.
My taste buds dance the flamenco in delight. I sigh.

O how Hemingway loved this sacred soil, his soul
tangled in the bullring, with its ovals of blood and sand.
Newspaper in hand, he stands in the stands to watch
the horses and woo the Spanish black that wraps
around the ring. Mind and spirit settle into the nosebleed
section on concrete benches that radiate heat
in the afternoon. Soon death will follow, not for them,
but for the witless bulls, fierce, innocent victims
of the blood lust of war. Who has nostalgia for this now?
Who kills the monstrous beast within? It rages and rages,
pawing sand, seeing red, seething with hatred
of its tormentor, thinking -- no, feeling -- only "attack."

I have followed the trail of Santiago de Compostela
longingly in my mind, peering over the Pyrenees from
the French plateau that self-abates at the foot of the peaks.
I watch pilgrims scramble through Roland's Breach,
a toothless gap planted in the middle of saw-tooth summits.
Through it shines a light to beatify Iberia. I stand on
the plain, St. James' clam shell firmly in hand,
my walking stick crooked as a branch bearing fruit.
Ahead, only spectacle and absolution await, incense
swinging through the nave like smoke from a failed
mortar round. We stand in waves of penitents, praying
that Santiago still curries favor for the faint at heart.
War is hell, say the toungeless bulls. Listen to them bellow.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Jul 2020
You were first seen in a painting in the Trois Freres cave circa 13,000 B.C. in what in now France. Like all beautiful women, over centuries you changed shapes, styles, names. You became lyres, then lutes. You played dyads and chords. The Persians callrd you "barbat." The Arabs called you "oud." When the Moors flocked to Iberia, they brought you along. You spread to Provence
where you influenced troubadors and eventually the rest of Europe. But wherever you traveled, whatever evolutions you underwent, you always retained your sonorous tones. You became the French "mandore. You became the German "mandoer." You became the Spanish "vandola." You became the Italiam "mandola." Your path was tortuous. Eventually, though, you became the mandolin, but you still had highs and lows. Your first high was in 1744. Your first low was the end of the Napoleonic Wars of 1815. Your next high was the Paris Exposition of 1878. And further, from the late 19th Century through the early years of the 20h Century, was the "GoldenAge" of the mandolin. But after World War I, the mandolin gradually sufferred another decline supplanted by the advent of Jazz. You, a mandolin, beautiful women you have always been, have lived a long, long life, and it's not over yet. You contine to bring beautiful, musical sounds to all music lovers around the world. Your lovely life may never end.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard hawks has been a poet, anovelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
the focal room of a slavic
household, is the kitchen...
to no ode of a judas' analogy
will a television reign
in a bedroom...
           to escape the erotica
of the kitchen,
being bored of the bedroom,
the germanic people sought
the extreme of fornication
in a forest...
                   servitude asking
for pity, regarding women
of my age, who didn't bother
to understand the art
of making pancakes being
balanced,  by adding oil
to the liquid dough...
   and applying gentle strokes
of oil against the flat pan...
the simplest of breads...
flour, warm water,
oil, sugar and salt,
miraculous: the non-existent
yeast! fermenting-brains...
compensation for *******
****... listening to a
blonde amrican girl talk
conservative concerns...
libral arts, Mexican chilies...
who needs the visuals
when there's a revival
of radio?
             try try, try bring fail,
allow the fizzing out...
  try, try, ignorance will find
its trail...
                never said i, to mind
the collected jury as voice
of conscience...
united, bedroom  America...
consumed by cliché...
              came the ghost of Siberia...
in the guise of exploring twins...
  Achilles became as famous
as the fermenting process to guise
intoxication? homage to Iberia...
         a pear toppled Hector...
           came the Odeon which said:
drowned while hanging
since no nail was there...
           prior to man which
made man dust...
                   came the apple,
and all stealth in imagining
    with this world came no prior...
the abortion sons of Moloch...
     as god reigned in anguish...
bored by yet more cyclic "adventures"...
replicated... and death's "sudden" sloth...
irony of originality, namely:
"original",
            perpetuated by mimic,
a misnomer bound to freakish
thesaurus usage...
                              "original" sin
being synonymous with (a) plagiarism of "sin"...
no obedience to a god
being greater than a disobedience toward
per se; id est: self.
the originality of the sin is
its complete lack of genesis,
Deutronomy bound rigid rubric...
           the only originality of
the "original"... "sin"...
     is that the "sin" was a plagiarism...
                  came the murderer Can
before the altar of Abel...
   while in the background
the puny choice of a "lesser"
grievance to judge past.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
.the "left" was doing so well in the hinter-lands of the vest so well... gone the "nation", the "race", the "ethnity": how a russian... well a trouble with: russians not being the panslavic "symptom" etc., but sure... i could see it happen... it worked so perfectly... i could **** around with an afro-saxon spawn... a thai suprise... no matter... erase that side of the equation and we could have kept the ball rolling... but then... it became... completely unnecessary to attack the status quo from a grammatical underpinning... gender neutral pronouns: when all was required was an it... and in those languages: french... where... nouns cannot be gender neutral: like in ******: a sun is female: a moon male... anyone could forget what they would thereby bring to the table... their race, their ethnicity... their nationality... all fine and wonderful... but to undermine: i eat a pear... i walked a mile: toward: they: who walked a mile... they: that ate a pear - which i, thought: "they" did not... panem et circenses: becomes a paradox... what has happened to the willigness for the circus... the bread is to not be exhauasted... people are told: it's best to save your money - by not spending it... on frival affairs of "life"... but the "left" came after all known tribalism... beside the secular tribalism of supporting a football team... and now that's gone... did they have to come after grammatical rigidity? i could leave my slavic in place with the western european germanic... there was a confusion among the islamic recruiters for the mamluk caliphate on edware road that didn't tell apart a ****** with a german... fair enough... since all the people of this world are to be... copper-skinned... too bad: we'll have to bleach the choccies and bleed the blondies... we'll get a cinnamon-copper concensus however we: most dislike it... almost a peevish "concern" throughout... i heave a sense of claustrophobia... an attack on both sides: a bottleneck impossibility... i can't... wave a toilet roll akin to Chamberlain after the munich agreement... i'd agree... although Franklin D. Roosevelt is a favorite of mine... a bit like Philip II Augustus of the Capetian dynasty... him riding a horse... the native walking and the african... also towing his legs... but it's not like the northern natives... were... like the southern and mid-natives of this two-tier continent... the Mayans / the Aztecs didn't... behold horses in the same way as the Conquistadors... Beethoven... apparently a Moor... a Spaniard... prior to... the Goths moved through Iberia... so i guess... anything tinged with copper is also "black"... a headache of a narrative to want to keep-up with! of course: Copernicus was a woman! the madness of king George III... the lament of the zenith... baby-faced Idi Amin... never brought to justice... died a peaceful death... somewhere in Saudi Arabia... somewhere among the camel jockeys... i dare say... perhaps if i were a lithuanian... an estonian... a latvian... but an ukranian? it should be oh so simple! english, ukranian... russian... ****** rubric!

life - життя - жизнь - życie
air - повітря - воздуха - powietrze
serpent - змія - змей - wąż
ghost - привид - призрак - duch
soul - душа - душа - dusza
body - тіло - тело - ciało
tongue - язик - язык - język....

  of the slavs i still think we're the most refined... hell nietzsche called as the french of the slavs... if this was written in warsaw... under some pseudonym... fair enough... powie: it will say... trze: as it will rub with sandpaper (loosely)... concerning air... but a panslavic movement would only make sense from perspective of russia...

herd - стадо - пасти - stado...

       a history of a "people" and... history as: etymology... and who came up with what word first... and: how it became "inconvenient" to share some words: notably nouns... oh god forbid loan words!

horse - кінь - конь - koń...
                                          (зЪ)-(ż)art... joke...
                              (зЬ)-(ź)renica... pupil of the eye...
  

once upon a time i could stomach
canned laughter...
in comedy sitcoms...
   i could stomach it...
           because it tried to anticipate
when to laugh: when the canned
laughter wasn't... used...
i could get canned laughter...
or... notably...
             when ricky gervais made...
the office...
   it's not that the jokes were
so funny or so crass or so... soap opera...
so cringe...
   no canned laughter...
a terrible time including canned
laughter in "comedy movies"...
that's one thing...
but... but...              but!
canned crowds?
      i've seen about 3 FA matches...
man city vs. burnley...
   west ham vs. spurs...
        canned crowds...
           canned crowds... audio
borrowed from friendly matches...
not from derby matches...
from... friendly matches...
canned laughter...
   canned support...
canned antagonism...
                   canned kantian
load of *******...
                  once upon a time...
you'd get a live-feed
and live-audio of an international
match... between...
bulgaria and england...
or montenegro and england...
the home side was banned for racism...
even in those matches...
you didn't get...
canned support... canned ghosts?
canned ghosts... canned cheering...
canned chanting...
  canned: leering...
      i knew that it was important
for there to be a crowd...
in a stadium... even though:
you only get a t.v. link access...
to the football match...
     canned laughter...
laughter i would never...
            giggle with...
          but... canning a home crowd?
to a murmur of a friendly match?
the fever pitch of a london debry?
hell... nice interlude...
nice... whatever this was ever going
to be.
this heat is unbearable: there's no ice in
this night,
said the king of hollow:
and hallow replied: i see you:
clearly:
as the days of future Us allow you
to see me
but you are so captivated in
the orchestra of poet
that's the flutes of persona:

no... i am not a useless drunk:
deranged project of a missing
mother or a no-father...

i will go ahead...
show you
myself
before you stop being stupid
and loving me
how i sprain how i strain
how i flog you living
i didn't hurt your feelings
i didn't hurt your feelings
i didn't hurt your feelings
i just gave you negative emotions
to digest:
to experience:
i just gave you the bad apple: Eve...
i admit...
i am jealous:
i ate: the apple first:
i'm looking at your eating the good apple
of Augustus
while giving you the maggoty fruit
of Autumn and October...
what apple?
did i give you, dearest woman:
my Chaos in Order of One
in that's Woman:

i also want to write about the taming
business:
i want to be head of the household:
Prasutagus...
i want you to be my antithesis Lady Macbeth:
i want you to be my
Boudica...
Veltic: Celts: C / S belts...

         i am the sober drunk king!
i am the sober drunk king!
i am night!
eyes!
ice!
i am the sober drunk king!

saying goodbye to London
with Quarus:
but i did want to take Veronica Veroniya
to Paris...
for a photo-shoot:

even pets have human dreams:
to escape the ape
and embrace the grotesque god
found in Auschwitz...
for a second there i misspelled ms. pelled:
Giza: replacing it with Auschwitz:
nothing personal:
just biblibal...
just BIBIBLAL:
not allah...

although i wanted to recreate painting
via
piano into writing: from writing
via piano
into the realm of painting...

thought as unit
of memory,
of idea
of grammar
i think
you think
we think
our thinking
unit

she will not find me elswhere
beside the silence of philosophers
and there: i decide:

not a thousand year *****:
not...
a thousand year: war!
it must begin in the realm
of contemplating English history
and the 100 year war...

KEIN TAUSEND JAHR *****:
das der tausendjährige Krieg:
i wan't no struggle... man...
you will go silently into the grave:
democratically...
and with the help of A.i. i will slow
you down to your demise...
i want a war worth a thousand years
i want:
in that respect: a new religion, no?

ah dasha: ilya: hashem: nikita:
such... transgender names:
don't you think?
pronouns are grammar and grammar
is algebra:
that's also abstract: Aztec: Moor: moo!
moon: luminaries from the Baptism
Fountain that's the Vatican:

boys with girl names...
at least in Russia
boys have girls' names
but manage to sock
their feet and put it into shoe
*** shoe *** shoe?
at least the boys
didn't waste their time on
dogma:
propaganda:
but discovered Siberia
and Iberia...
                         Honey Gone Solo
Zalez...!

            mein kampf        contra
ich kampf:

in need of surgical tools:
the born and bred:
British Excalibur...
sorry?
a- indefinite article
+-the=+         definite article...

           but there's so much humbling to begin with:
i don't think you understand belief:
there's no belief anymore:
people are lost the concept of belief:
they have adopted a construct of: being humbled...

be a leaf... became::
be -ing hum: mmmmmmmmm: bled: dried:
not humbled:
i will Islam to convene after me:
bee:
i ask the surah: i don't ask Muhammad!
GDo spoke|:
j ensured
vowels remain leftovers....

i want a thousand year war....
not a thousand yawn of state....
i want a state of being
not a being of count
i will not count...

                   i want a war that
transcends states:
i wish as much USA as IRAQ
but then RUSSIZ>Ń
got involved:
pre to hey
presto: a Nero-Hey-Zeus!
ale to brat brata charata!
ty tycz: swoj czyn:
ja pierw: ty: o godzine: potym!
sra!         albo nie sra!

— The End —