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Arfah Afaqi Zia Jun 2016
The imposer of all rules,
The most powerful,

Ar-Rahmaan, Ar-Raheem,
He is the most merciful and gracious,

The creator of this universe,
The flawless shaper,

Al-Malik, Al-Quddus,
He who is Great and perfect in every way,

The supreme bestower,
The sustainer, the provider,

Al-Mu’min, Al-Qaabid,
He who is superior to all of mankind and has all rights,

The magnificent one,
The sublime one.

Al-Ghafoor, Al-Waasi',
He will forgive us and we know, only He knows best.

The imposer of all rules,
The most powerful.
Allâh! Lâ ilâhla illa Huwa ,
To Him we all worship,

Ar-Rahmaan,
He directs mercy to His creation,

Ar-Raheem,
He who forgives His creatures,

Al-Malik,
He who far from imperfection and flaws,

Al-Quddus,
He who is sacred,

Al-Mu’min,
He who infuses faith,

Al-Qaabid,
The restricter,

Al-Ghafoor,
The great forgiver,

Al-Waasi’,
The Knowledgeable.
Marshal Gebbie Feb 2014
One must believe in something be he misanthrope or gambler
In tomorrows omnicience or the future proof of God
The penance in a drunk's decay sets self destruct's imposer
Wether speakerphone's on disconnect or cellphone's in the bog.

Conveyance of a threat to adherants of St Selfwise
Show athiest's are proof here, in belief of disbelief,
Haunted by the images painting painfull retribution
Picture sympathetic **** star's allocated hand relief.

A moments allocation of a syllogist abstraction
Shows perspective of the calibre we now reserve for Saints
A paradox regarded as autistic fascination
In a one act play of living disregarding all restraints.

Deliberately indicative of fraternal heat's expression
Notebook at the ready and deep frowning at the brow,
Question definition's collage of confusion's contribution
Do we sit it out pretending or just catch the late bus now?

Marshalg
13 February 2014
© 2014 Marshal Gebbie
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2020
Jottings from David Bagerow's "Quickie"

Shame on she, the selfless *****
Who caused your temperature to fire,
caressed your sandy, sweated brow
To rivers of desire,
Tho she fled at poignant time
To leave you in the lurch.
Best you weave your magic touch
And promise her, the church.
Then woo her and caress her
In your happy, carefree way
Then at that moment of exultance,
Laugh and run away.

David Lessar's "To an Unread Poet"

Dave, You are right ,of course, once committed you raise an expectation and once that expectation is released to the world you are obliged to maintain face...but that damnable thing called "Life" intervenes and totally stuffs up the programme. Take the current interlude of coronavirus...the whole world has been taken by the scruff of the neck and jammed, inconveniently and complaining, into seclusion, all systems ground to a halt, production lines vacated, malls and city centres deserted, blown newspaper cascading across the deserted pavement...a testament to mans ultimate frailty when his house of cards collapses, without a whimper.
So you see, as life intervenes...we are excused from maintaining face.
But fear not, like McArthur, we shall return.
Cheers mate M.

Fawn's "Happy Trails"

Were it not the touch profound
That doth caress my feathered ear
Would thou wish a thousandfold
That I should shed a tear?

A glistened tear suspended there
in iridescent light,
While you, my love, with parted lips
Await, the ruby night.

Victoria's "Wherefore Art Thou"

Strides, he does, through corridors of lust bound lessers,
through forests of small penised dwarfs, through canyons of would be's who could be.....just to countenance the promise within your words....Dear Vix!

Terry O'Leary's "Sweet Butterfly"

You enter the portals of entomology where bugs, flies,butterflies and moths are the true rulers of the planet.
A world vastly magnified by compound eyes, of lightening lifetimes and vivid, saturated colour. A world where life and death are synonomous with the culmination of a single ****** union and the reproduction of a batch of precious pearly eggs. Yea Brother thee hath entered the portal...rejoice!
M.

Fun with Terry O'Leary

"Buried in the Sand" by Terry O’Leary

A beggar clump adorns a dump, his pencil box in hand -
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned.

He’s fallen down in Shantytown, his knees too weak to stand,
With no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.

The Bowery blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
And Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

"A Rebuttal" by Marshalg

So Hood lied low, despite the show ensueing without help,
One would have thought a British sort would spring forth with a yelp!

Would spring ***** to help deflect contusions which occurred
When beggar Clump adorned the dump confusing all deferred.

Whilst sister Ant, attired in scant, ran forth on spindly legs
And brother Frog with shaggy dog said "****" and drank the dregs.

It all became too much, as such, a meelee did ensue,
So all called HALT and as one did BOLT...to the local for a brew!

Phew...that was FUN & hard work!
M.

Singing the Devil's Song*

There is no Makers formula
This life depends on chance,
The way you play your given cards
Depicts your daily dance.

Oh dogma flows in utterance
From pulpits far and wide
From those who claim to understand
Eternity's vast hide.
From those who hold damnation
As a weapon from on high,
From those who claim a judgement
As their finger points to sky.
The good, the bad are absolute,
The right bedevils wrong,
Redeemed shall live eternally
The bad shall singe for long.

Old men stand in pulpits
Across this Sunday's land
To threaten with damnation
If you should cross God's hand.
"Belief" is now their catchword
Abomination's wrong
Is to seek to proffer proof of claim
....to Sing the Devil's Song.

So gather all ye faithfull
Go listen to your man,
Sing the Gospel loud and long
And pay your tithe, as planned.
...But should you find you're dying
From cancer's frozen claw
And the the Godly fail to sweep you
To eternity's gold door?
Remember my clear message
Your life depends on chance,
You live within your own good sphere
....There is no Maker's Dance.

Marshalg
After an overdose of Pulpit hogwash.
10 March 2013

Singing the Song of Angels:
A Response to Marshal Gebbie's "Singing the Devil's Song"
By Luca Anselm
There’s a church in the city with pillars of stone
And windows like sea-glass, still and alone,
A fountain, and cloisters of ivy, away
From the noise of the street, and the hum of the day.
There my father would tell me of Christ, how he died
Surrounded by soldiers and thieves, crucified,
How he wept for the women, and fell in the sands,
And loved those who hammered the nails in his hands.  

Marshal, dear poet, you have heard the priests tell
Of a god who left heaven to walk into hell?
Of a god who wept softly for men he had known?
Of a god who dripped blood in a garden alone?
Of a god who sent men with book and with sword
With eyes bright as fire for love of their Lord,
With limbs dressed in black, on altars of stone
By windows of sea-glass, still and alone?

So they give up their lives for a lie, as we say,
And toiled for centuries, long as each day--
And our money built palaces, lofty and tall
With frescoes and candlesticks, gold on the wall--
They preach with words awful and deadly and free,
Of gorgons and hell-fire, worms and the sea,
Of the last day of judgment, and mankind amassed
By the wailing of angels and bright trumpet blasts…

But Marshal, they preach something sweeter and kind--
Of a mother’s soft love, of a father resigned,
Of a still, soft voice, that comes with a light,
And gives hope to the hopeless, and conquers the night.
Of charity, piety, sweetness and love
Like fiery ***-cakes, but soft as a dove,
Spicy as Christmas, solemn and grand--
(Like throne-rooms or magic or the roar of the strand)
Then you wake, and the house smells of peppermint-pine,
And a child is laid in the crèche, now a shrine.  

And all that I long for, dear Marshal, you see,
Are the gold-blooming gardens that soar by the sea,
The mountains and dragons, the prophets and kings
And Icarus falling with fire-fraught wings,
The grey-shifting sea-lanes, the flutter of sails,
Temples on mountaintops, graves in the vales,
And Dido who bleeds from her breast as she cries
For her Love, and stares helplessly into the skies.
But more than the shadows of worlds that might be
Of fairies or phantoms or rocks by the sea,
Dear Marshal, I long for who made me a man.
And would love and give glory as best as I can.

But these days oh! sad days, the loss and the shame
In which all of my loveliness falls into flame--
Where gardens have withered, and sails have been furled,
And kings plodded off in the dust of the world.
Our cities rise higher, and burn through the night
And rear into heaven with noise and with light,
The palisades echo with horns and sound
And the churches with voices and quarrels resound.
But the statues sit silent, and some say they cry
For the shame of the sins against children. Oh! My God, Why?

And those old men—well—they taught me the loveliest things
Of my gardens of gold, and the sunsets of things,
They told me of kindness, and honor, a way
That winds to the West, where the end of the day
Breaks bright like fresh bread, and crimson like wine,
And the sun sets to purple and green in the brine.

And still I remember their words and their songs
And the churches which taught me so well and so long--
Though I’ve turned my head, to the lands where the sun
Will rise again brighter when starlight is spun,
Somewhere fresher and pale, where the cold and the air
Spreads the dew like a lawn paved of crystal, and there,
In the meadows of silver, with light in my eyes,
I will honor my god in the dome of the skies.

Marshal Gebbie's poem "Singing the Devil's Song" inspired this. It's in anapestic tetrameter, for you metric buffs. If you haven't, you should absolutely check out Marshal's stuff--it's awesome and poetry-inspiring--seriously amazing. Thanks again, Marshal!

Sepia Sown

Sepia sown as best it can
Where you and I, as one, once ran
Across, beyond a savored sea
Where lust became reality.
Where spiraled lust, entwined, entrenched
Left you gasping, pale, en benched...
a figment of a thought, now lost
Forever..at what cost, what cost?
M.

Addenum to "obituary" by V

So no one notices, at all
When golden greys of aged fall?
Except perhaps, for those who stay
To blend with every ordinary day

Plus you and I as time flies by
And too, those starlings flocking high.
That old man loitering in street,
Who eyes the million passing feet.
And she too at corner store,
Toothless face and wrinkled maw,
Exchanging cigarettes for coin
(With surreptitious scratch of groin).
Mailman, fat, long, loop mustache
Complaining long and rather harsh,
That they, gone, without a word,
Should vanish into air...absurd!

Someone in their every day
Feels the absence in the way
Details don't fall into place
And warmth is absent from the face.
M.

The Kraken Arises

From blue tranquillity where turquoise waters wash white golden sand, where brilliant fish school in myriad colour and shape, where magnificent squadrons of sleek tarpon and barracuda dash in perfect formation, grazing schools of silver mackeral through diamond flecked deep green shallows, to plunge vertically down to the depths of the black abyss and security.

Calm tropical waters which shimmer like aqua blue glass in the mid day heat and turn to simmering,red fire at the setting of the enormous, ovate, orange sun.

Sea birds flock above wind blown waves, their sharp cries a symphony of the sea, to suddenly wheel and dive en mass, to dine amidst teeming schools of flashing, shiny minnows.

The idyllic picture of a calm blue infinity of ocean framed, in brilliant sunshine, by white sands and gracefully bowed coconut palms.....and suddenly, at the horizon, a thin black line appears, It approaches with steadily, mounting speed, the coastline surf recedes dramatically seaward leaving exposed coral, mountains of seaweed and frantic flapping, beached fish everywhere. A sudden, oppressive silence becomes a distant roar. The sea birds, as one, take panicked flight... and a massive wall of water rears up and rises like a giant beast, to rush headlong, raging, at the coastline.

What once was blue and serene is now a huge cascade of violent black death and destruction, gigantically it destroys the coast, snapping huge trees like twigs, surging ashore, a tsunami of unimaginable violence it obliterates, housing, streets, bridges, vehicles, shipping, aircraft and people, thousands of panicked, helpless, struggling people, killed in a titanic, black, swirling maelstrom of inexorable violence. The wave is followed by another...and another, extending right along the coastline and beyond. Each wave larger and more violent than the last...surging inland for miles  until defeated by the accident of gravity in rising land.

Those who have survived, on high land, on tall buildings, in treetops....cling to each other and look on in horror and utter helplessness. They can only wait, in fear, for the monster to retreat before venturing down to the devastation below to render help where ever they possibly can.

Twice in the space of the last forty thousand years the Kraken has awaken and risen from the depths of the Tasman Sea to the west of New Zealand. It has risen to gigantic proportions and driven right across the Auckland isthmus to the Pacific Ocean. It has twice flattened gigantic primeval Kauri forests laying them waste, all lying in one direction, each time beneath twenty feet of debris and black mud.

Born in innocence from a natural tectonic adjustment of the earth plates, the Kraken doth arise at any time, in any place to wreak it's dreadful work upon we, who reside in our comfortable, seemingly secure and beautiful coastal idylls.

Marshalg
Dedicated to all the coastal population exposed to the threat of inevitable tectonic induced tsunami.
JAPAN. WEST COAST, USA. WEST COAST, SOUTH AMERICA. ALL PACIFIC ISLANDS. NEW ZEALAND. INDONESIA. AUSTRALIA. SOUTH AFRICA. EAST COAST, CHINA. MALAYSIA.
KOREA. THAILAND. PAPUA NEW GUINEA, VIETNAM. PHILIPPINES. TAIWAN. BURMA.

Part of My Job (A love Poem) by Nat Lipstadt

A little embarrassed by all the attention but great to hear from you Sweetheart...all fine and dandy, here...except for being forbidden to go to the beach and the park..and anywhere else except in cases of dire need..(And on punishment of prison time if caught out!)...but hey, I'm not really complaining...All for he common good, aint that right?
M.

Bridges Burnt....

Bridges burnt in Winter rain
Holds a saddened felt refrain,
Holds a touch of muted horn
Blown in passion unadorned.
Blown away in errant winds
Where no truthlessness rescinds,
Where a lie begat the night
Interceding lost love's plight.

Bridges burnt in Winter rain
Sacraments of loss remain,
Sacraments fragmented drift
Redemption clad in bloodied shift,
Redemption worn as wrong slays right
Till wrongfulness blots out the night,
Till no return this path can be
Until they torch eternity.

M.
SE Reimer's words float before me in his impassioned poem "Bridges"
allowing me to wallow in this, my own dark tangential refrain.
M.

Perchance, in a Bus Shelter

Here I sit amidst the ruin of a white winters' day
Convulsive rain and harsh wind outside, contribute tumult.
And in here, in this small shelter, there is a tension in the air.

We two sit apart, uncommunicative, remote and quite detached.
Not for any reason other than the fact that we are strangers,
We have never met, nor are we ever likely to.
She has an elegance and a stylish angularity whilst I am bald, bearded, unfashionable and somewhat overweight.
She is singularly indifferent to my presence, whilst I am uncomfortable with the circumstance that placed us in this small proximity.
We would, in truth, rather both be elsewhere.

I break the ice in throwing her a small smile and complain about the weather,
Her eyes flick across my face and immediately resume their distant focus on the rain,
She adjusts her seating to face,ever so slightly, askance.
Her choice of course, to assume an air of indifference or superiority...or adopt a measure of defense..or perhaps a combination of a bit all three.  
Regardless... I wipe my backside in exactly the same manner as does she, I  am definitely no less a person for my dumpy demeanor and friendly overture
And I really feel that I don't have to share my space with coldness and impertinence,
Better, I think, to be wet and content with my own company
..So, donning my cap and jacket, I stride out into the deluge to leave the remote and uncommunicative young woman alone and dry with her thoughts.

And then....
Howling rain and shards of wind
Pelt me as I walk
Along the foreshore wild and white
As hovered seagulls squark.
When all at once she's by my side
Walking pace for pace,
Her linen suit a sodden mess
Hair plastered to her face.

"Thought I ought to make it right"
She told me with a smile
I threw my coat upon her back
And walked another mile.
We called into a coffee shop
And sat down by the fire
And sipped a steaming latte
As she told her story dire,

"The cancer's all but killed me
My husband's left the home,
The baby's gone to mother
And I'm facing death alone."
We quietly spoke for ages
I held her hand in mine
Then suddenly she stood to leave
And thanked me for my time.

I sat there in a stupor
Recalling how it played
And felt the guilt impact on me
For judgements I had made.
Those callow, shallow judgements
Made in ignorance, my friend,
Will haunt me as she girds herself
To boldly meet her end.

Marshalg
On a bleak and blustery cold winters day.
Titirangi
5th September 2010

The Old Café by Steve Yocum

It's my go to place,
has been for years,
The Wildwood Café,
an eclectic tiny place
with a mix of old dinette
tables and mismatched chairs.
the cutlery also unmatched
and well used, old photos
and signs adorn the walls
and there is usually a line
of people waiting patiently
on benches outside.

Best of all there is this pleasant
girl, always wearing a welcoming
smile, who seems to know us all.
She knows my order by heart,
Ham and eggs over medium,
a half ration of potatoes, home baked
slice of bread, well toasted, well buttered,
home made salsa on the side, a cup of
"hot" Black English Tea. Tall water no ice.

If I arrive between the busy times, she may
sit down at my table and we talk a while,
It's not a big thing, just chitchat, I'm old
enough to be her grandfather, it's the
dessert before my meal served with genuine
friendliness and unforced civility, not often
encountered in these strange days and times, it's a slice of small town America at it's purest best, she and folks like her help sustain my belief that basic human decency is far from dead.

The food is always good, but it's the comforting embrace of familiarity and
simple warm kindness that assures my frequent return.
It's the little things in life that make living
wonderful, small moments in time felt and
recorded, this is but one of those.
written by Steve Yocum

It's the little things in life that make living
wonderful, small moments in time felt and
recorded, this is but one of those

Marshal Gebbie
  That old world touch suits you Stevo,
When I come visit your beautiful state of Oregon, We shall partake this delightful repast in the company of your fair maid.... and we shall tip her well!
M.

Scoot the Streak
One must believe in something be he misanthrope or gambler
In tomorrows omniscience or the future proof of God
The penance in a drunk's decay sets self destruct's imposer
Wether speaker phone's on disconnect or cellphone's in the bog.

Conveyance of a threat to adherents of St Selfwise
Show atheist's are proof here, in belief of disbelief,
Haunted by the images painting painful retribution
Picture sympathetic **** star's allocated hand relief.

A moments allocation of a syllogist abstraction
Shows perspective of the caliber we now reserve for Saints
A paradox regarded as autistic fascination
In a one act play of living disregarding all restraints.

Deliberately indicative of fraternal heat's expression
Notebook at the ready and deep frowning at the brow,
Question definition's collage of confusion's contribution
Do we sit it out pretending or just catch the late bus now?

Marshalg
13 February 2014
© 2014 Marshal Gebbie
Marshal Gebbie
Written by

victoria  Intriguing work...so I search the comments for help... Ah
0
Feb 2014
Terry O'Leary  Marshal, I kinda like this (I read it several times since yesterday)... but I'm still not sure what it says... maybe I'll down a shot tonight and try again... ;-)) Terry
0

3 replies

Feb 2014
Marshal Gebbie
Marshal Gebbie   A confession Terrance.. I was half cut when I wrote it!
I have no idea what it means.
Feb 2014
Terry O'Leary   :-)) Great... I'll be back in a bit... T
Feb 2014
Terry O'Leary   Well, in the meantime I've had a few shots... now I think I know what it means... hic°°.... hope I remember in the morning... ;-)) Terry
Feb 2014

Pradip Chattopadhyay
Residues
By the night one long dark road
the houses are deep in slumber.

Lucky I'm alive and awake,
can see the stars
in their vast magnitude of silence
gentle and not drunk
have love to count upon
filled with a will to live
feeling I'm almost done.

Having a life is a great reward
and with the residues
gets more valuable.

I won't cry over the lost years
would rather think
have been blessed with enough.

The stars grow blurry dots
as I slip into dreams.

I had a once upon place
and I'm grateful.

With dewy eyes
I hurry to the warmest space
beside her.

You slip into your years well, Pradip.
Your woman must relish your peace, your contentment.
Cheers mate
M.


Tony Grannell
Autumn's Sonneteer
Behold, upon yon ivy bunch, my darling blackbird sings;
I know not why nor shall I try to understand such things.
For born this morning on a song, pray hark, her sweet refrain;
to chance a sigh, oh, dare not I, for this is God's domain.

Out of the night the art of song in tuning in the day;
unknowed afore or evermore such music on display.
'Tis love begad, a lover's song, a diva, I declare,
in soaring o'er both vale and moor, this morning's love affair.

In wonder's charm, this precious bird in song to comfort me.
Alone I stroll, no proffered soul to share my company.
Yet rare this morn, in splendours all, true love like none afore;
let passions roll, in song extol, in verse the morn's rapport.

Be succour in such music found for autumn ails me so,
when summer's run, the harvest done, to rest my scythe and ***.
Of idle lands and nowt ado, to wait without employ.
Yet, hail the sun, my kingdom won, when sings that bird of joy.

Behold her charm and charmed, I am while autumn leaves still fall.
'Tis life anew, a sweeter brew when hear the songstress call.
Though winter’s nigh, with strength and will, we’ll bear our pain and fear;
'tis all to do, good hearts and true, sings autumn's sonneteer.

Written by
Tony Grannell  62/M/Spain

Marshal Gebbie  I stood out at the rock wall and gazed at the splendour of Autumn in Taranaki, as I read, aloud, your sonnet.
...and my heart sang.
M.

Dr Peter Lim
When?
When is the when
of when?  
rampant still is the ravage
which will not relent-

the claustrophobic shut-in
hearts toward gloomy moods they bend
no happy voices of kids heard outdoors
the green fields do not comfort lend-

the downcast look, the sinking feeling
are the joys and delights of yesterday years all spent?
the spectre of pain brings bitterest tears
in the faces of every continent-

oh, when is the when
of when?
such a wash-down
we could never comprehend.

Marshal Gebbie:  But isn't that the way, Dr Pete? Mankind builds his castles in the air, thrusts out his chest and proclaims himself, King of all!
...to be decimated, in an instant, by a microbe of infinitesimal stature. Oh! the fragility of it all.
Life cometh, life goeth....but somewhere, down the track, life shall come again.
M.


Al Drood
The Merman of Orford Ness

So long ago in King Hal’s time, our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.

Entangled ‘midst our dripping catch, with eyes that stared all hellish green,
enscaléd like some creature deep, a Merman writhed as one obscene.

All webbéd were his hands and feet, his body dripped with ocean bile;
upon his head the ****-wrack grew, green-bearded was this demon vile.

Fast to the shore with awful haste we sped before the wind and tide;
Lord Glanville for to summon forth, the Merman’s fate all to decide.

Upon the quay his Lordship stood with men at arms and shriven priest,
and all did cross themselves in fear before this strange unholy beast.

“Enchain it,” cried Lord Glanville loud, “then to God’s Kirk with all good speed!”
The shriven priest prayed long and hard as to the church we did proceed.

With Holy Water, cross of gold, with candle and with testament,
the priest then exorcised the beast, who knew not what was done nor meant.

To all’s dismay he would not bow before the Host on bended knee;
and so to dungeon was he dragged to dwell upon his blasphemy!

The silent Merman beaten was, and hung in chains in for seven weeks,
and fed was he on fish and shells, yet never did he sleep nor speak.

And so at length his Lordship said, “Across the harbour tie a net,
and we shall see how he shall swim, but by his ankles chainéd, yet!”

The net a-fixed, the village folk came down to see the Merman’s plight;
into the sea they threw him then, with foam and wavelet flashing white.

He vanished ‘neath the waters like some seabird in pursuit of prey,
then surfaced laughing, chain in hand, and to his Lordship he did say;

“You thought to make me such as you, who walk in blindness o’er the land!
You’d punish me for difference!  You thought to treat me like a Man!”

So long ago in King Hal’s time our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.
Al Drood
Written by
Al Drood  M/North Yorkshire

Marshal Gebbie:  Tones here of the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.
An original work in time honoured rhyme and metre.
I devoured every syllable..Bravo!
M.

G Alan Johnson
Kafka's Bug

When I shed the last skin
last year
there was left a hardened shell
protecting a patched up heart
and a petrified husk
of a soul.

You can throw your bombs
if you wish
and they will hurt inside
but I will just eat them
and **** them out
flushed and forgotten.

Sometimes my antennae
come out in a social setting
and people look at me
with an odd expression
or look off into space
a kind of awkward acceptance,
(the ones that know me).

My mandibles will at times
spit out a divine stupidity
a slacker kind of opinion
and no amount of saliva
can dissolve it
so it sits in the heavy air
stinking like a butterfly corpse.

It was an attempt
at transformation
that failed
(I'm too weak with ego),
and I'm glad that I tried
otherwise I would always wonder.

Vincent Price in a cheap suit
and a lost puppy daydream
a world full of flies, wasps and failed caterpillars
patient spiders and polished leeches...
and all I can do is write.
Written by
G Alan Johnson  65/M/USA

Response by Marshal Gebbie

Pelting rain adheres to soil
As spiders sprint and earthworms roil,
World in turmoil stinkbugs, stink
And Satan beetles disgorge ink
But thee, my budding, sodden flea,
Hath entertained quiescent....me.
M.

Nat Lipstadt
Pandemic Poems: Unclaimed bodies, There’s ain’t no anonymity in heaven.

There are more poems inside me, but I intuit it is longer fair to impose on you by sharing more.  The deep seeded infection of my spirit waxes and wanes, and there is no antidote, and unlike the virus itself, there never will be, a future cure, an inexpensive replacement cost for the spirit spent, the time and futures spirited away.

Perhaps you recall I was one mile away from Ground Zero on September 11th.  Rarely do I walk there.

The coronavirus poetry inserts itself unaided, never asking permission, a like minded, but a contra-cousin to the coronavirus.

I live in New York City, the epicenter where now, close to 800 die daily.

Normally, about 25 bodies a week are interred on Hart island, mostly for people whose families can't afford a funeral, or who go unclaimed by relatives.  In recent days, though, burial operations have increased from one day a week to five days a week, with around 24 burials each day.^^

Each dies with no last words, no Kaddish recited, Last Rites, too late, no Ṣalāt al-Janāzah or Om Namo Narayanaya.  Each one, a numbered pine coffin, and each one will have at the very least, a poem of their own, so help me god.

Buried side by side in large trench, room plenty for new arrivals,
I hear the banging, protesting, resisting, this is not the way, I was promised, my ears left pounding!  Hillel, the great scholar in this dream, reminds that “the time is short, and the work is great.”          

He paraphrases, though, “the bodies many, the poems too few.”

There ain’t no anonymity in heaven, but I’ll reconfirm that with you later.

Written by
Nat Lipstadt

Marshal Gebbie
God! It's harrowing to feel the raw spirit in a New York City man's soul.

You speak for the dead, the ailing and the fearful.

You speak for beggar in the street, the broker, quaking in his plenty, imprisoned on the 14th floor.

You speak for the cop, in face mask, on 24th and Vine, doing, as always what he must, with authority.

And you speak for the White Clad Angels who carry the dead to Hart Island and who forgive you, your fear and safer seclusion.

You speak also for we, who watch and sorrow from afar your agony, in our own fear and seclusion.
M.

Nat Lipstadt
raw is the word, oft need to lie down midday to escape the the viral infection of every outlet we use to pass these days. don’t know when i’ll go outside again, because the virus kills and wounds in horrible ways... thank u MG for the kind appreciation natty

Sally A Bayan
Conduits
In distance and in proximity...in despair
and joy...in existing and in dying...in the
bliss of love reciprocated, and in the pain
of love unrequitted...verses dance and call,
awaiting......

poetry has its own pulse, its own heartbeat,
it calls, taps the shoulders any moment,
awake, or adrift, it just can't be ignored...
even in a tangled, or weird circumstance,
it sparks like a bulb or a comet, curving
in a rainbow...riotous some days, teasing, fleeing,
then, turning up at unexpected times and places.

in every bit and breath of life, in every seed,
in every drop of dew, in every ember burning,
there is poetry birthing, growing...

deep within us flows green, purple, red,
glum gray, darkened inspirations...fleeting,
but, when time is ripe, they linger long,
giving us time to capture them all
.............................................
we sense them...we give space
we speak them, or we write them,
:::::::we are conduits:::::::


Sally

©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 11, 2020

Marshal Gebbie

  A touch, so light,
So sensitively slight
As to be caress,
In dead of night


Don Bouchard
And then
We become old men
And old women, and

We look back wistfully, and
We look forward hopefully, and

We wonder....


Written by
Don Bouchard  60/M/Minnesota

Marshal Gebbie
  Slipped betwixt the then and now
Methinks, with finger on the brow,
Thee needs a shot of earthy ***
And a wanton ****, to rub your tum.
Thee needs a cheery pick me up,
Some hairy mates to help you sup
Elixir from the joy of life
To salve tomorrows' threat of strife.
Cheers mate M.
0
Tommy Randell
From a young man's parlance, tripping from an old man's tongue; Right On, brother, Right On!
Daniel E Mickey Aug 2013
My love must be a kite run
Tight wrung ribbons
Separate the knots in my knees
Knots from wine
She moves about the kitchen flicking flames off candles
That wine at the table at which I sit is a good wine

I think of the troubles of writing at a screen
I'll consider the problem of writing in a notebook
When I find that **** notebook.

Speaking honestly to a tray of napkins
They can't help the Merlot that's polishing the table
Dark wood is well stained. She asks if I
Remember the small room wine fests in my dorm
My sheets came home from college dotted purple
I remember.

Lurking in the shadows
These thoughts free themselves
Releasing the inescapable passion of a zealot unheard for centuries
Now, in this miniature pressing of keys a wire company will see every idea that spills out of me
The pigs
I hope they come to my door wearing black.

Honey, your hot, don't get mad,
She appears out of the smells
I'm drunk, not mad, I'm spilling the Merlot
We have more, dear.

I love that woman right there and none other

Lets jump out the window and roll through the grass
Come on child, cant you see we got cliffs to catch.  
**** on up your hind legs and lets get to moving.
Don't you know its half past seven and the turn tables grooving

I like that, she says, reminds me of the pictures of you as a boy

I turn to thank her but I can't find her
She dissolves into the smells of the kitchen
And plus, I'm gone.

What is human nature unless covered by an aesthetic, who am I, if not an imposer?
What poet is this, if not the first?

A line of a poem is a poem in itself
I'll regret this next week

But, sand over rock will polish something smooth
In a thousand years, no regret
A mesa stands grounded
In an ocean of wind

Herring cries
Through the morning leaves
What makes them mourning?
They're just a different shade green.

I like that too, she says to me

An Ibis will wind through a pond
But is it just his wake we see, or can
We really spot that bird?
I


« Minuit ! ma mère dort : je me suis relevée :

Je craignais de laisser ma lettre inachevée ;

J'ai voulu me hâter, car peut-être ma main

Ne sera-t-elle plus assez forte demain !

Tu connais mon malheur ; je t'ai dit que mon père

A voulu me dicter un choix, et qu'il espère

Sans doute me trouver trop faible pour oser

Refuser cet époux qu'il prétend m'imposer.

O toi qui m'appartiens ! ô toi qui me fis naître

Au bonheur, à l'amour que tu m'as fait connaître ;

Toi qui sus le premier deviner le secret

Et trouver le chemin d'un cœur qui s'ignorait,

Crois-tu qu'à d'autres lois ton amante enchaînée

Méconnaisse jamais la foi qu'elle a donnée ;

Qu'elle puisse oublier ces rapides momens

Où nos voix ont ensemble échangé leurs sermens,

Où sa tremblante main a frémi dans la tienne,

Et qu'à d'autre qu'à toi jamais elle appartienne ?

Tu veux fuir, m'as-tu dit : fuis ; mais n'espère pas

M'empêcher de te suivre attachée à tes pas !

Qu'importe où nous soyons si nous sommes ensemble ;

Est-il donc un désert si triste, qui ne semble

Plus riant qu'un palais, quand il est animé

Par l'aspect du bonheur et de l'objet aimé ?

Et que me font à moi tous ces biens qui m'attendent ?

Lorsqu'on s'est dit : je t'aime ! et que les cœurs s'entendent,

Que sont tous les trésors, qu'est l'univers pour eux.

Et que demandent-ils de plus pour être heureux ?

Mais comment fuir ? comment tromper la vigilance

D'un père soupçonneux qui m'épie en silence ?

Je m'abusais ! Eh bien, écoute le serment

Que te jure ma bouche en cet affreux moment :

Puisqu'on l'a résolu, puisqu'on me sacrifie.

Puisqu'on veut mon malheur, eh bien ! je les défie :

Ils ne m'auront que morte, et je n'aurai laissé

Pour traîner à l'autel qu'un cadavre glacé ! »


II


Lorsque je l'ai *****, elle était mariée

Depuis cinq ans passés : « Ah ! s'est-elle écriée,

C'est vous ! bien vous a pris d'être venu nous voir :

Mais où donc étiez-vous ? Et ne peut-on savoir

Pourquoi, depuis un siècle, éloigné de la France,

Vous nous avez ainsi laissés dans l'ignorance ?

Quant à nous, tout va bien : le sort nous a souri.

- J'ai parlé bien souvent de vous à mon mari ;

C'est un homme d'honneur, que j'aime et je révère,

Sage négociant, de probité sévère,

Qui par son zèle actif chaque jour agrandit

L'essor de son commerce, et double son crédit :

Et puisque le hasard à la fin nous rassemble ;

Je vous présenterai, vous causerez ensemble ;

Il vous recevra bien, empressé de saisir

Pareille occasion de me faire plaisir.

Vous verrez mes enfans : j'en ai trois. Mon aînée

Est chez mes belles-sœurs, qui me l'ont emmenée ;

Je l'attends samedi matin : vous la verrez.

Oh, c'est qu'elle est charmante ! ensuite, vous saurez

Qu'elle lit couramment, écrit même, et commence

A jouer la sonate et chanter la romance.

Et mon fils ! il aura ses trois ans et demi

Le vingt du mois prochain ; du reste, mon ami,

Vous verrez comme il est grand et fort pour son âge ;

C'est le plus bel enfant de tout le voisinage.

Et puis, j'ai mon petit. - Je ne l'ai pas nourri :

Mes couches ont été pénibles ; mon mari,

Qui craignait pour mon lait, a voulu que je prisse

Sur moi de le laisser aux mains d'une nourrice.

Mais de cet embarras je vais me délivrer,

Et le docteur a dit qu'on pouvait le sevrer.

- Ainsi dans mes enfans, dans un époux qui m'aime,

J'ai trouvé le bonheur domestique ; et vous même,

Vous dépendez de vous, j'imagine, et partant

Qui peut vous empêcher d'en faire un jour autant ?

Je sais qu'en pareil cas le choix est difficile.

Que vous avez parfois une humeur indocile ;

Mais on peut réussir, et vous réussirez :

Vous prendrez une femme, et nous l'amènerez,

Elle viendra passer l'été dans notre terre :

Jusque-là toutefois, libre et célibataire,

Pensez à vos amis, et venez en garçon

Nous demander dimanche à dîner sans façon. »
Olivia Kent Apr 2014
On the top floor, outside the racket.
Slamming the wasted door.
Queue of men wanting more.
In the flat at the back one of two.
Where the air flowed dank and language blue.
Twelve feet by eighteen.
The ladies kept manacled in order to score.
Rustled from the bus in a hurry, after which, their dignity's left.
A super holiday, promised a gratis gift.
Collared and chained.
Shot up to the sky.
The ladies kept manacled in order to score.
By a friend, an imperious, imposer.
Not a cool guy.
Remuneration nothing for their suffering at the hands, of ****** deviants.
A slave to desire, captured in *******.
(C) Livvi
Just inspired by a program on human trafficking.
Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes,
Le Poète apparaît en ce monde ennuyé,
Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmes
Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié :

- " Ah ! que n'ai-je mis bas tout un noeud de vipères,
Plutôt que de nourrir cette dérision !
Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémères
Où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation !

Puisque tu m'as choisie entre toutes les femmes
Pour être le dégoût de mon triste mari,
Et que je ne puis pas rejeter dans les flammes,
Comme un billet d'amour, ce monstre rabougri,

Je ferai rejaillir ta haine qui m'accable
Sur l'instrument maudit de tes méchancetés,
Et je tordrai si bien cet arbre misérable,
Qu'il ne pourra pousser ses boutons empestés ! "

Elle ravale ainsi l'écume de sa haine,
Et, ne comprenant pas les desseins éternels,
Elle-même prépare au fond de la Géhenne
Les bûchers consacrés aux crimes maternels.

Pourtant, sous la tutelle invisible d'un Ange,
L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil,
Et dans tout ce qu'il boit et dans tout ce qu'il mange
Retrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil.

Il joue avec le vent, cause avec le nuage,
Et s'enivre en chantant du chemin de la croix ;
Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pèlerinage
Pleure de le voir *** comme un oiseau des bois.

Tous ceux qu'il veut aimer l'observent avec crainte,
Ou bien, s'enhardissant de sa tranquillité,
Cherchent à qui saura lui tirer une plainte,
Et font sur lui l'essai de leur férocité.

Dans le pain et le vin destinés à sa bouche
Ils mêlent de la cendre avec d'impurs crachats ;
Avec hypocrisie ils jettent ce qu'il touche,
Et s'accusent d'avoir mis leurs pieds dans ses pas.

Sa femme va criant sur les places publiques :
" Puisqu'il me trouve assez belle pour m'adorer,
Je ferai le métier des idoles antiques,
Et comme elles je veux me faire redorer ;

Et je me soûlerai de nard, d'encens, de myrrhe,
De génuflexions, de viandes et de vins,
Pour savoir si je puis dans un coeur qui m'admire
Usurper en riant les hommages divins !

Et, quand je m'ennuierai de ces farces impies,
Je poserai sur lui ma frêle et forte main ;
Et mes ongles, pareils aux ongles des harpies,
Sauront jusqu'à son coeur se frayer un chemin.

Comme un tout jeune oiseau qui tremble et qui palpite,
J'arracherai ce coeur tout rouge de son sein,
Et, pour rassasier ma bête favorite,
Je le lui jetterai par terre avec dédain ! "

Vers le Ciel, où son oeil voit un trône splendide,
Le Poète serein lève ses bras pieux,
Et les vastes éclairs de son esprit lucide
Lui dérobent l'aspect des peuples furieux :

- " Soyez béni, mon Dieu, qui donnez la souffrance
Comme un divin remède à nos impuretés
Et comme la meilleure et la plus pure essence
Qui prépare les forts aux saintes voluptés !

Je sais que vous gardez une place au Poète
Dans les rangs bienheureux des saintes Légions,
Et que vous l'invitez à l'éternelle fête,
Des Trônes, des Vertus, des Dominations.

Je sais que la douleur est la noblesse unique
Où ne mordront jamais la terre et les enfers,
Et qu'il faut pour tresser ma couronne mystique
Imposer tous les temps et tous les univers.

Mais les bijoux perdus de l'antique Palmyre,
Les métaux inconnus, les perles de la mer,
Par votre main montés, ne pourraient pas suffire
A ce beau diadème éblouissant et clair ;

Car il ne sera fait que de pure lumière,
Puisée au foyer saint des rayons primitifs,
Et dont les yeux mortels, dans leur splendeur entière,
Ne sont que des miroirs obscurcis et plaintifs ! "
Seema Sep 2017
A poster of a roller coaster
Gifted to my master
An imposer, a loser
A big fat ******
Who sits to compile
His work yet piles
A hopeless composer
None goes to imply any closer
Ignores his work, coz he's a dozer
In the crowd, stands near girls
Like a model poser
Taken me in, he's my foster
He knows I hate seafood
Yet he orders lunch, oyster
Makes me do all hardwork
He's nothing but a monster
Walks in the alley like a crooked lobster
O' he's a pain in my head
How I've ended up with this aged promstar
Dances on his own compositions, he thinks he's a rockstar!

©sim
Dedicated to my ex employer, yes you were a pain ;-)
Écoutez ce que c'est que la femme adultère.

Sa joie est un tourment, sa douleur un mystère :

Dans son cœur dégradé que le crime avilit

Un autre a pris la place à l'époux réservée ;

D'impures voluptés elle s'est abreuvée ;

Un autre est venu dans son lit.


Dévorée au dedans d'une flamme cachée,

Toujours, devant les yeux son image attachée

Jusqu'aux bras d'un époux vient encor la troubler ;

Elle reste au logis des heures à l'attendre.

Prête l'oreille et dit, quand elle croit l'entendre,

A ses enfants de s'en aller.


Son complice ! des lois il brave la vengeance !

Qui pourrait, trahissant leur sourde intelligence,

Éveiller dans les cœurs le soupçon endormi ?

De son crime impuni le succès l'encourage,

La mère lui sourit, et l'époux qu'il outrage

L'embrasse en disant : mon ami.


Voici venir enfin l'heure tant retardée ;

Les voilà seuls, la porte est close et bien gardée :

Pourquoi cet air pensif, pourquoi cet œil distrait ?

Pourquoi toujours trembler et pâlir d'épouvante ?

Personne ne l'a vu monter, et la suivante

A reçu le prix du secret.


Dans un festin brillant le hasard les rassemble ;

Leurs sièges sont voisins. Que vont-ils dire ensemble ?

Quel sinistre bonheur dans leurs regards a lui !

Oh retiens les éclairs de ta prunelle ardente,

Garde de te trahir, et de boire, imprudente !

Dans la même coupe après lui !


Que dis-je ? Du mépris et de l'indifférence

Elle sait à son œil imposer l'apparence :

Un regard indiscret jamais ne révéla

De son cœur déchiré la sombre inquiétude.

Elle s'observe, et sait, à force d'habitude,

Rester froide quand il est là !


Ses tourments sont cachés à tous, soyez sans crainte ;

Aussi regardez-la sans gêne et sans contrainte

Répondre à vingt propos, sourire… oh si du moins,

Pour apaiser l'ardeur dont elle est embrasée,

Elle pouvait, auprès d'une obscure croisée,

L'avoir un instant sans témoins !


Sentir le bruit léger de sa robe froissée,

Dans les plis de satin sa jambe entrelacée,

Lui donner d'un regard l'heure du lendemain,

Et, dans ce tourbillon qui roule et qui l'emporte.

Lui dire… ou seulement debout, près de la porte,

En passant lui serrer la main !


Cependant, pas à pas, la vieillesse est venue

Troubler son cœur flétri d'une crainte inconnue.

Le prestige enivrant s'est enfin dissipé :

Il faut quitter l'amour, l'amour et son ivresse ;

Il faut se trouver seule et subir la tendresse

De cet homme qu'elle a trompé.
I.

Je voyais s'élever, dans le lointain des âges,
Ces monuments, espoir de cent rois glorieux ;
Puis je voyais crouler les fragiles images
De ces fragiles demi-dieux.
Alexandre, un pêcheur des rives du Pirée
Foule ta statue ignorée
Sur le pavé du Parthénon ;
Et les premiers rayons de la naissante aurore
En vain dans le désert interrogent encore
Les muets débris de Memnon.

Qu'ont-ils donc prétendu, dans leur esprit superbe,
Qu'un bronze inanimé dût les rendre immortels ?
Demain le temps peut-être aura caché sous l'herbe
Leurs imaginaires autels.
Le proscrit à son tour peut remplacer l'idole ;
Des piédestaux du Capitole
Sylla détrône Marius.
Aux outrages du sort insensé qui s'oppose !
Le sage, de l'affront dont frémit Théodose,
Sourit avec Démétrius.

D'un héros toutefois l'image auguste et chère
Hérite du respect qui payait ses vertus ;
Trajan domine encore les champs que de Tibère
Couvrent les temples abattus.
Souvent, lorsqu'en l'horreur des discordes civiles,
La terreur planait sur les villes,
Aux cris des peuples révoltés,
Un héros, respirant dans le marbre immobile,
Arrêtait tout à coup par son regard tranquille
Les factieux épouvantés.

II.

Eh quoi ! sont-ils donc ****, ces jours de notre histoire
Où Paris sur son prince osa lever son bras ?
Où l'aspect de Henri, ses vertus, sa mémoire,
N'ont pu désarmer des ingrats ?
Que dis-je ? ils ont détruit sa statut adorée.
Hélas ! cette horde égarée
Mutilait l'airain renversé ;
Et cependant, des morts souillant le saint asile,
Leur sacrilège main demandait à l'argile
L'empreinte de son front glacé !

Voulaient-ils donc jouir d'un portrait plus fidèle
Du héros dont leur haine a payé les bienfaits ?
Voulaient-ils, réprouvant leur fureur criminelle,
Le rendre à nos yeux satisfaits ?
Non ; mais c'était trop peu de briser son image ;
Ils venaient encor, dans leur rage,
Briser son cercueil outragé ;
Tel, troublant le désert d'un rugissement sombre,
Le tigre, en se jouant, cherche à dévorer l'ombre
Du cadavre qu'il a rongé.

Assis près de la Seine, en mes douleurs amères,
Je me disais : « La Seine arrose encore Ivry,
Et les flots sont passés où, du temps de nos père,
Se peignaient les traits de Henri.
Nous ne verrons jamais l'image vénérée
D'un roi qu'à la France éplorée
Enleva sitôt le trépas ;
Sans saluer Henri nous irons aux batailles,
Et l'étranger viendra chercher dans nos murailles
Un héros qu'il n'y verra pas. »

III.

Où courez-vous ? - Quel bruit naît, s'élève et s'avance ?
Qui porte ces drapeaux, signe heureux de nos rois ?
Dieu ! quelle masse au **** semble, en sa marche immense,
Broyer la terre sous son poids ?
Répondez... Ciel ! c'est lui ! je vois sa noble tête...
Le peuple, fier de sa conquête,
Répète en chœur son nom chéri.
Ô ma lyre ! tais-toi dans la publique ivresse ;
Que seraient tes concerts près des chants d'allégresse
De la France aux pieds de Henri ?

Par mille bras traîné, le lourd colosse roule.
Ah ! volons, joignons-nous à ces efforts pieux.
Qu'importe si mon bras est perdu dans la foule !
Henri me voit du haut des cieux.
Tout un peuple a voué ce bronze à ta mémoire,
Ô chevalier, rival en gloire
Des Bayard et des Duguesclin !
De l'amour des français reçois la noble preuve,
Nous devons ta statue au denier de la veuve,
À l'obole de l'orphelin.

N'en doutez pas, l'aspect de cette image auguste
Rendra nos maux moins grands, notre bonheur plus doux ;
Ô français ! louez Dieu, vous voyez un roi juste,
Un français de plus parmi vous.
Désormais, dans ses yeux, en volant à la gloire,
Nous viendrons puiser la victoire ;
Henri recevra notre foi ;
Et quand on parlera de ses vertus si chères,
Nos enfants n'iront pas demander à nos pères
Comment souriait le bon roi !

IV.

Jeunes amis, dansez autour de cette enceinte ;
Mêlez vos pas joyeux, mêlez vos heureux chants ;
Henri, car sa bonté dans ses traits est empreinte,
Bénira vos transports touchants.
Près des vains monuments que des tyrans s'élèvent,
Qu'après de longs siècles achèvent
Les travaux d'un peuple opprimé.
Qu'il est beau, cet airain où d'un roi tutélaire
La France aime à revoir le geste populaire
Et le regard accoutumé !

Que le fier conquérant de la Perse avilie,
Las de léguer ses traits à de frêles métaux,
Menace, dans l'accès de sa vaste folie,
D'imposer sa forme à l'Athos ;
Qu'un Pharaon cruel, superbe en sa démence,
Couvre d'un obélisque immense
Le grand néant de son cercueil ;
Son nom meurt, et bientôt l'ombre des Pyramides
Pour l'étranger, perdu dans ces plaines arides,
Est le seul bienfait de l'orgueil.

Un jour (mais repoussons tout présage funeste !)
Si des ans ou du sort les coups encor vainqueurs
Brisaient de notre amour le monument modeste,
Henri, tu vivrais dans nos cœurs ;
Cependant que du Nil les montagnes altières,
Cachant cent royales poussières,
Du monde inutile fardeau,
Du temps et de la mort attestent le passage,
Et ne sont déjà plus, à l'œil ému du sage,
Que la ruine d'un tombeau.

Février 1819.
Eleanor Sinclair Jun 2018
Walking on water like a melancholy messiah
I'm on top but I'm not standing I'm sinking and drowning and my constant frowning leaves people asking, "are you okay?"
I'm fine, so I just say
That I'm living the daily dream
While in my head I constantly scream at the top of my Limbic Lobe lungs
Lungs filled with the water I supposedly stand on
A Holy Baptism bubbling inside me
My reverse Rapture to a Heaven upside down
Down down down
Sieze it and bring it down like a crooked crown
A king crucifying his kingdom with his lack of wisdom
Educated but none the wiser
Penny pinching money miser
Minimizing the gravity of the situation
Brushing it off when someone says they need a vacation
I know my station in this dismal world but my lights are dimming and my eyes are skimming the white washed walls for a way to get out but there's no way out and I can't understand what it is about this dreary place that leaves me feeling so in pain
It's insane how no one believes the things you say
Because "that's just the sarcastic way kids talk now-a-days"
Actually no when I say it I mean it and you don't have to dream it to see it come true
I'm talking to you, don't you see that the water filling my chest cavity overflows out of my eyes and I mask it with lies like, "oh I think I have a branch in my eye. Or it's just allergies"
I'm on the edge of my metaphorical ledge
Being nudged closer and closer
I'm the composer of my own sorrowful symphony
I'm more of a poser a bulldozer and situation imposer
An impostor by nature
Growing giant and gaunt green leaves that are speckled with disease
The type that sway in the breeze and are pulled apart by the lightest touch
A touch of pure bliss your poisonous taste on my lips leaves me begging for a cure
Something crystal and pure to clear my tainted pallet
A liquid ballad hydrating my veins slipping down my throat like a garden snake or a cobra because the words that cleanse me are the ones that end me and I choke on the cacophony of your cream filled words and sugar dusted desires
None of which inspires me to do anything except destroy myself
I work to employ myself with time consuming tasks
And no one has to ask me twice to do anything
Because I'm just too nice and I guess that's the price you pay for demonstrating your Holy Christian vice
Let me give you some advice
Don't take anything from anyone
I don't mean things
I mean words and letters that tear you apart and put snags in your favourite sweaters
Each vowel repeating like an owl wondering who who who could be drowning me in my own freeing fountain
I've climbed every mountain to get where I am
I am who I am
Each consinent a consistent reminder of my internal inadequacy
The inadequacy you gave me
The way you made me
The concoction of cosmos you used to create me
But you wanted to add a touch of imperfection and with your clumsy omnipotent hands you dropped the bottle and it all poured into me
And I'm left here with a shattered mirror and a it couldn't be clearer that I'm not what you wanted me to be
"Abide in me and I in you"
But how can I abide in you when you aren't there for me
When you don't answer me
When you let the floods rage within me and you won't part the sea
Don't you see that the flowing water is slowly killing me
But it's you
Your eyes staring into mine but you're not really there
You're no longer part of me like you once were
You don't care
I don't call your name the way I once did
Where were you?
Where are you?
Where am I?
I plead to the sky
The empty barren sky and shriek at its white puffy ashes
The all encompassing vastness of a hollow place
Knock at the gates but no one is home
Did humans create God because they felt so alone?
I can't answer that question
And time in succession to me will struggle just as fondly with the vicious cycle of faith and faithless
To bathe in the endless curiosity
Spinning at a sickening velocity
Wondering where the Lord's generosity suddenly vanished
Like the king who was banished from his own castle
Biting from that forbidden apple
Begging for forgiveness
But nothing except silence rings through the air
Wondering where He could've gone
Only to stare and glare into empty space
I'm scared
Because every living thing dies alone
With nothing to remember them but thick slabs of stone
Nothing but a waste
I've been placed to face the void
Laced with the inability to erase the sins I'm paying for
Salivating for one more taste of that juicy core
Hoping to explore what might lie beyond that gilded door
I'll get back to you one day Lord and I'll even the score
So don't start a war because I'll be armed with my emotional Peace Corps
Leave your arms open and the light house beaming at your shore because I know I will see you again
And although I don't know when, I hope you'll accept me and ask where I've been
Ant
Laundry detergent
shoe gaze averted
to the scintillating ceiling
imposer supernovas
feelings frayed like a grad dress hem
two inches became an ocean apart
complacent as I am
I flagellate again
Written December 2018
Luna Mar 2
I stay behind to pull you closer
Make you laugh or just smile
With my charms, I’ll play imposer
Hope you’ll make me stay a while

I’ll lend you my ear and everything else
Wish you don’t break my lonely spells
I swear I want to be just like you
But even my reflection just looks through

I’ll run after you when we fight
Wait for your texts in daylight and night
Shower you in compliments, pouring my heart
Money as well, for gifts with my card

But I mean everything I do!
And I care more than you would know
Hiding when I feel blue
But either way, my toxic traits show

I can’t fight them, they want me to fit in
As if being me was worse of a sin
Silent brooks splitter under the weight of the world
And maybe that’s my fate, cut off hair so curled

As curled as I wanna huddle up
But I brush it away
Suppress all my feelings, make them shut up
So there is a way
To like me just now
Alongside my toxic traits
Hello fellow poets!
I just wanted to publish the poem I send in to get access to this platform- it‘s actually a poem written on the 25th of November 2024.
I hope you like it and I look forward to meeting you all!
With Love,
Luna
'Melia Apr 2020
You looked at me like an imposer on your norm. As if I were a dreaded interaction with a distant Aunt. “You’ve grown so much” , as you look back glassy eyed, wondering how you can take up such space in a strangers memory without consent. You kiss her on the cheek and let your words skim the surface of daily nothings, to appease the peace.

You once looked at me like an unexpected find. As if you walked into a book store with side-eyed intentions, even still, encountering a book with enticing decor. You decide to crack it open, intrigue urging you to check if it’s worth it’s embellished coat. You make the gamble, buy the book, read a line and sink, you’re hooked.

Until it gets shelved among it’s fellow bound narratives, to hopefully one day be leafed through, touched by uncommitted fingers on a day with extra time. You read through a few pages that once gripped your soul but now simply invite an additional intake of breath, only to give credit that it once meant more. You close the story and put us back in it’s rightful place.

You’ll reopen it again.
You’ll draw more breaths.
You’ll make nice with a distant aunt.
And you’ll keep giving books a chance.
And you will forever look at me with foreign eyes.
Morfreeda Jun 11
Intro

Your voice always gets to me through
the convincing brutal honesty in verbal abuse.
From the moment I first heard you, I knew
I could never win with you,
but I didn't wanna lose,
'cause you made me high too.
I know it's not an excuse, but I choose
to stay confused and just refuse
to let it go and say goodbye to you.
What if I'll feel so empty without you?
Without the feeling I'm in now,
'cause I love being in it
forever everywhere, I swear, I mean it.
And I guess there's nothing wrong with having a little crush on you
just for a minute.
It's okay, but hey,
I'm not trying to justify a guy with a short fuse
and mean demeanor.
I mean, I know it can be meaner.
No matter how amused by you,
I kind of feel like I'm used.
Not that I accuse you, just warn you
that it's a bad habit you'd better not get used to.
Though, you're still my muse.
I wish I were your muse too
so that I could listen to your new song like I used to,
'cause it's exhausting,
but I can't help listening to your awesome anguishing agony,
your music you use to let loose,
release exhaust fumes,
your evergreen, everlasting spring in solitary torturing you.
Much as I wouldn't dare fit in your shoes,
I'd like to rap with you, but I live in ludicrous blues.
You gave me so much pain and pleasure through your art,
that grew so deep into your soul and your body that you now embody rap.
And I want to thank you accordingly,
repay you with both sides of the same coin,
with the range of reflections from hilarious rage to evil love.
Enjoy.


Pipe dream

Of course, you don't know me as a person.
By the way, it's also vice versa,
I don't know you either.
It's not like I wrote a lot of verses.
But I wish this one could make us closer.
It's a pity you'll never read it.
But if you did, it would mean the world to me,
especially if you wrote back.
It would be an event of the scale of the second advent,
'cause you are closed for me like a celestial deity.
I can always find time for you,
but you never have it for me.
It breaks my heart that it's just a pipe dream.
Still, I gotta try to make it come true.
I will keep writing to believe that I can get through to you.
I'm aware of how much time it may take.
But as long as magic is real, my feelings aren't fake.
I don't care what your name is and where you are from
or how much money you've got in your bank account.
It only matters how you perform.
After all, you've won an Oscar,
not for being a good actor, though.
But you did play your *** off
staying true to yourself, showed the world
your cold white cocky cheeky ***,
and opened up your incandescent soul
as if it's a bold, wide-open, giant *******,
inflicting your **** upon the world,
being a sassy drama-queen pain in the ***,
'cause you're an *******.
That may make me look like I'm your worst fan.
But I really didn't wanna hurt your feelings at all.
It's just, no matter what you do,
open your mouth, be sad as ****, or, God forbid, even smile,
some bunch of people that see you
somehow manage to get ******* every time.
And it's true.
Well, I guess, of all people,
you should appreciate a rapturously sarcastic joy.
Don't take offense, I'm only kidding,
just playing with you, my favorite toy.
For what it's worth,
you are the best superhuman Rapboy
on Earth.
With this, you've been blessed and cursed since birth.
If it isn't love, I don't know what it is.
Except it might be some kind of addiction or a contagious disease.
And as every disease, it will increase,
then finally cease and release.
Or maybe not, then I will tragically die
and, hopefully, find my peace with ease.
Compared to tormenting life,
it must be a piece of cake,
easy as pie just to decease.
Anyway, you probably shouldn't even read this,
I have to admit.
Indeed, why would you read it,
when you got your own ****?
Well, I guess, everyone has a story about which nobody gives a ****.
Anyhow, should you, however, dare read it now,
make sure you still have enough spare time
and there's no one around
to wipe your *** and polish your crown,
‘cause it's long, and you're not that young
to be disturbed or waste your time.
You know, I didn't want to post this verse at first.
Then I thought it's worth a shot.
What the hell? Let's see how it goes,
pens out, and grows.
It may get complicated.
But I hope you'll understand it.
You can do it. I believe in you.
Now, let's see how the magic works.
Are you ready, big fat rap star boy,
still sick slim shady?
‘Cause I’mma roast your *** as no one else did before.
No, wait, actually, the real question now is,
am I ready to mess with the real Slim Shady?
Wow! That's unheard of and a lil’ intimidatin’, to be honest.
So be that as it may, we shall see.
I guess, it depends on how deep
we can take this… whatever it is.
Anyways, it won't hurt him.
I promise.


Illusion

I actually see that
we share the same illusion of
mutual love.
Sometimes it seems, though,
I'm a bit delusional
and stuck in appealing bluff
with my life, cut in half.
As I am torn in two between me and you,
getting the wrong impression
and making the false conclusion
of falling for you like a fool,
eager to lose myself in this confusion
and overwhelming passion,
in an instant, turning into the irrational obsession of a buff
that's stunningly never enough,
'cause it makes me feel special,
a rough fuse on the expression
of the eternal hunger for love.
Life is worthless without this feeling.
Isn't that how it's supposed to be?
I just gotta keep believing
that it's not destroying me.
I'd been living in denial for a long time, though,
lying to myself that you were not bad, not good either,
just gradually growing on me, fantasizing,
pretending that you could be my friend,
feigning that I wasn't your fan.
Unfortunately I am.
But I do my best not to be.
I do all I can.
It doesn't help.
I know it's bad for my head.
It's unhealthy.
Yet, I can't help it.
Dang! I don’t understand it
and hate to admit
that it's a nasty, hot pleasure and pain
to be your stan.
Still, I can't stand the idea that I can't leave ya,
no matter how hard I try.
As always, what I resist persists.
And I don't know why.
I'd love to have faith in your words,
believe the irresistible sweet lie,
the convincing feeling
that you are extremely appealing,
the attractive illusion I want to believe in.
I think I'll forgive you,
even if you hurt me, make me cry.
And I don't know why
I have to live with this wound in my heart till the day I die.
Maybe, it's because this wild fire,
being born in me, burns in me,
burning me while I'm still alive.
Man, if I've ever actually met you, I'd be like,
“Wow! How?
I mean, Hi.
*******, I don't know why.
But suddenly, I feel so ******* high right now.”
So you see it's bad for mental health
to tell people, especially ****** poetry junkies everything about yourself.
I'm the victim of your art,
like in a way you are of mine.
You just don't know it yet,
being trapped by the sense of mind
in the cage of space and time.


Addictive obsession

I keep coming back to your addictive personality,
'cause it's a part of me,
my personal reality
in the childish,
stupidly struggling with my own aggression mentality
that pulls me in like gravity
of the synergetic, badly needed duality.
You are my dark shade,
angry and always hungry twin
in a distorting mirror,
a meaner reflection in me.
And you complete me and keep me on track,
even though it leads to a brain wreck,
violent calamity,
causing a permanent damage
due to the lack of virtuous verbal morality,
offensive obscene insanity
that almost makes you a possessive fiend,
***** devil, pure evil, the enemy of the humanity,
having fun, making fun of everybody,
making fans of them, including me.
******* my brains, instead of making love,
******* with this ****** up reality,
from which you tried to get distracted
through getting addicted to drugs, though.
You would substitute your depression
with substance abuse and excessive passion,
embracing your obsession
and balancing in the range of rage and compassion,
hurting people you love
because people who were supposed to love you, hurt you too.
That, I have enough empathy to understand
for one reason.
And I'm not proud of it,
but I have to admit
that, sadly, I kinda do the same
for the same reason.
Shame on me.
Then again, I don't wanna complain,
but I find myself in your pain,
drowned in the inane feeling I can't explain,
running away from this stupid game
to feel not so lame and remain sane,  
trying to commit to the promises I've made to myself in vain
about resolving the main issue of staying in the same habitual refrain,
even if I have to abstain from your demonic music with diabolical lyrics
or at least change my name,
claiming to have found a new aim to regain my dignity.
It’s supposed to make me feel better, but it ain’t.
I hope I'm on my way to break free from shame and blame,
the flame of emotional lability,
still restrained,
being mesmerized by the vicious samsara circle of infinity,
this magnificent ouroboros
of the endless sense of gain or loss,
stored in countless stories about yesterdays and tomorrows,
in the illusory plot, written carefully for us,
in neverending, invisible time that everyone borrows.
Now, I don't mind being a fan of someone who's already dead.
But of someone who's still alive?
That's just sick, living legend.
Don't you think?
See, I start realizing
that I’m a sinner, ‘cause I idolize you.
How did I end up in your satanic cult without invitation?
Boy, do I look yet like I need to be exorcized
or just meditate and exercise
in a silent harbor of a life-saving rehab
after a highly enlightening, heart-warming, emotional intervention?
As if I'm possessed by the supernatural force of obsession
that wants to be expressed with an excessive passion.
You know what I mean.
Man, you've been high so many times
that you forgot how to come down.
An addict turned into a drug,
creating literally a dope art,
even if it's ironically about recovery.
But the only difference is that now you are your own god.
While your bible is a dictionary,
which kinda looks like another addiction to me.
And once you felt it,
you just can't help it,
'cause you're an addict,
master of intellectual lust,
brain ******* graphomaniac,
skilled to cerebrally *******
till reaching an intellectual ******.
You’re trained to write till the pain in your brain.
I do get that too, yes.
But I'd rather have *** till the pain in my ***.
You don't enjoy your life.
That's why you try to hide behind your stupid rhymes.
When you are really happy,
you don't need any words to heal.
Misery begets more misery.
But how come your pain brings speechless love that I feel?
It's a **** mystery.
Do you wanna be loved now or remembered forever?
You bully yourself to stay hungry.
Man, I think about you 24/7,
spitting rhymes
to feed my libido, be in love,
stay inspired 100%, and
believe that I can live now and survive later,
as I'm overinspired by my love for you.
I'm not sure if I want to be always this honest.
Do you want me to?
Would you take a leap of faith in my truth
rather than inspire hope?
I ******* doubt it.
You did your best to get into my head,
my jam-tomorrow dope.
Now you can't get out and
act like you don't give a **** about it.
You made me fall in love with you,
popped up in my heart out of the blue.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan.
I'm high on you, feel like I am in heaven,
like I've never felt better,
not in this life, I haven't.
Though, a massive crash of the system is the side effect
of a major crush on you.
How the hell did that happen?
I wish it were just a squish,
for I don't wanna be a part of your harem,
like you got no one better to do or destroy.
Oy oy oy, my bad, are you a nice, coy boy.
That's how it must feel to be the victim of a marketing ploy,
advertisement subterfuge.
But the toll we all have to pay
as consumers, trapped by an artificial but appealing rap decoy,
sometimes seems to be too huge.
You know, it's quite a toil
to use a troll as a *** toy
instead of a ***** or a *****,
‘cause sooner or later, you get annoyed.
Nonetheless, the neurons, connected with you, in my head are so ******* fat.
I can't get rid of them just like that,
‘cause I lost my heart to you
‘n’ am wasted on yo’ bars.
You are amazing, dude.
I’m so, so crazy about you.
My universe is you.
Well, *******! Now, what am I supposed to do?


The impossible

You can't force a person to see the world through your eyes,
nor is it possible to explain or describe
a three-dimensional feeling by means of words
unless your listener is familiar with it, of course.
But it sounds as if you are killing
it like a boss,
making a mess of thoughts
I can relate to, 'cause
mine are similar, but yours are worse,
spectacular, but also ghastly, disgusting, crass, and gross.
Like grass, your **** grows and attracts flies and crows.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms,
bananas verbose neurosis,
but also awesome and so virtuoso.
Verbiage, verboseness, verbosity, verbosis
to show all the ******* who here the boss is,
rhyming circumlocution,
the freedom-of-speech revolution,
pleonasm,
the pleasant to ears associative redundancy of a word chasm.
It tastes so good,
even if it's a rhymeless wormy orange fruit
I wouldn't risk foraging for food,
though, delicious till the very last bite
of the canned worm cake
on a golden wordish dish
with a red hot cherry on top that charms
as usual with the illusion of might to hold the mic
and awards with a cerebral ******.
And those bozos
who don't get it can **** your *****
and buzz off, morons.
Right? Just drop dead and permanently get lost.
I guess with this, you're blessed and cursed,
cursed to make crosswords out of curse words,
cursed to swear, spitting rhyming slurs,
hurting others feelings with your screaming street slim slam poetry about how Shady did it,
hidden in your diabolically crazy schemes,
arising from infuriating poverty,
just ‘cause that's how real this **** feels.
Well, duh. That hurts.
I didn't realize it at first.
Now I admire that you don't get tired
of trying to describe it,
Although inspiring,
it can be hard and unfulfilling,
but you're a fighter.
Rap god, living in us, you are one of us,
hiding under the hood, behind the bars.
It looks like we're on the same page.
I'm full of fierce rage, you're on the rampage.
You use your finesse to impress
for the sake of success.
Chasing perfection, neither can I finish writing this verse,
nor return the gift and close Pandora's box,
a perplexing, puzzling paradox.
I gave up. I can't stop
I'm in deep funky ****,
literally drowning in it,
taken, smitten. I'm ******
and ****** up.
It seems to be as long as my life
with no dead ends and a deadline in the end of life,
a fantastic dream within a dream I'm in,
the life into which my soul comes like into making love
to die after ****** with an eternally grateful smile,
as if I'm sentenced to doing my time
writing sentences and lines in rhyme for life.
I don't wanna do anything else.
Do I have to? Who cares?
The limit is the sky.
Why do I pursue unreachable perfection? I don't know.
Why were we born?
Why do we live?
Why do we die?
Oh my, am I too high?
If not, am I creating a masterpiece or slowly losing my mind?
Am I like the butterfly that flies too close to the fire?
Why is it writing itself? What is this?
What the **** is this?
Can anyone explain it to me, please?
The prose of life with an empty purse
and pockets isn't my purpose.
Why the **** does it seem then
that the process of writing this verse is?
I'm inspired by everything at this point.
Like seriously, I hear a word,
and bam! My head is about to explode.
Oh, no! Try to calm down, meditate. Doesn't work.
Should I meditate a bit more?
Yeah, sure. Why not?
Uh-oh, here we go again.
And I start to elaborate on the word that I've heard before,
turning it into the flow of rhyming thoughts,
writing several verses at once
in different tongues,
both not quite civil, though.
I feel like I'm a walking poetry,
even better, a living controversy,
or an unstoppable stupid-genius oxymoron.
See, it sounds as if I was kidnapped,
taken roughly, while subliminally
without preliminary tenderness or warnings,
like a precious princess
with a priceless soul of a dainty deity
and a diety dandy one-million-dollars-price silicone ***
by some kind of madness,
possessed by the destiny of a goddess and a demoness,
since I didn't start this emotional dance of the sense
from the cognitive mess
of the chaotic subconsciousness,
I think I can control more or less,
on purpose.
It was a coincidence,
like self-awareness,
for I am now the feeling,
one, alone,
at the same time, not at home.
There is, in fact, no me at all
or no meaning for all
beside the one that has found you.
It's your life, where you are free to move on.
I call it destiny.
Well, then let it be.
And who doesn't agree
can kiss the goddess’s *** for free.
You get the gist?
Please, don't resist the culmination of my made-up friendship,
I insist.
Sorry, I don't know why, but I just need this.
We are together in this sensation
that stubbornly persists to exist.
Accept the respect of a crazy fan and a frenzy friend at least,
the affection of a hungry hunter, my beautiful beast.


Daydream

It's time to overcome my fear of you to disappear.
Your music flows already in my blood,
like a virus or a drug.
The ***** voice I hear,
your witty tongue, caressing, kissing, penetrating my ear,
touches my heart.
The devouring power
grabs my soul and drags it to the black hole of art,
the void of desire
that unavoidably draws a butterfly to the fire.
What a cruel life satire!
It's so **** beautiful
and looks as though
I'm literally about to see god,
even though I know I'm not.
I'm not that dumb,
just dumb enough
to think I am too smart for that.
I hope I won't lose my religion and not starting to write a new bible,
'cause what you sing and write,
it feels so right,
an enlightening bright ray of light at night
in your every single new album.
But it sounds like you pay for this with your excruciating pain.
It comes to my head, screws my brain,
turns me on, and again,
rapes my mind.
You play me like a guitar.
In other words, I might say,
I love the way you sound,
like a little, fascinating, too loud bird
in love, inspired in spring in the forest,
with a mellifluous voice,
who repeats again and again the same chorus
after a snappy verse with melodramatic words
and sings for the moment
of love that lasts as long as the bird’s song flows.
You don't want it to stop with the arousing desire to seize it, capture, shoot or record.
God, would I give it all to you,
if I were this kind of bird too.
However, the bird also yells a lot, spits, swears, *****, and mocks.
******* mockingbirds! They are the worst.
While I seem to express a meaningful feeling.
I mean, for some reason, it's very fulfilling
like a beautiful windy dance of a sense
and an emotion in energy motion.
Still got a lot to stay severe about? So what?
You are now here with me, my funny, blue, serene forget-me-not.
With you, I feel no fear.
It sounds surreal, so weird, yet so astoundingly sincere.
Though in no way do I wanna hinder, or interfere.
I'm here, near you, I'm yours
in my daydream that feels so real,
so clear, so dear, so close.
Close the door, turn off your mind.
I will be soft and kind.
I give you my word.
Take off your clothes,
your flesh and bones,
expose your whole soul,
lose yourself in my world.
Come here. Calm down.
You are with me now.
I can't fake it
when I see you vulnerable and naked,
because being with you in the buff
makes me feel that I'm in love.
The ice, baby, break it.
Find yourself in the sea of my eyes, take it.
Here me out, acknowledge me, my god.
I want to be your peer without a doubt
or any intermediaries except one love,
that's free from a logical dualism between us.
I'm also standing on the stage, although behind the scenes,
and persevering in
expressing myself in this verse.
Can I impress you like you impress me? Just curious,
reluctant to confess to a tempting attempt to sin.
I think it's innocent but serious,
the best delirious experience
I've ever felt with you within,
inside my mind, under my skin,
between reality and a 3D dramatic dream.
I mean you and me in
my strong magnetic parallel Universe.
Or is it just a wrong, too long, pretentious pseudo-song that makes me furious?
I guess I'm not talented enough to be brief.
Not even close.
On the other hand, I prefer my ****** to never end
and to spread the ecstatic light of my love as far as possible.
My thoughts are just too concentrated
and has to be diluted with water to be baked as waffles.
In addition, God opened my skull
and made scrambled eggs of my brains
to be served with trifles.
What a savory course, delectable meal,
too enlightening, delightful, and intellectual even for me.
Being an amazing, captivating puzzle
and attractive word construction,
it can bewilder and bedazzle,
bamboozle, distract from the world destruction
which is pretty scary,
like a bad dream,
a realistic nightmare, worth hiding from in a daydream.
So I cling to this verse not to forget it
so that I don't have to feel sorry for myself later and ******* regret it.
Follow the white rabbit.
Do you get it?
Neo, take the right pill.
Be the creator of your own reality inside the matrix,
because you know that in the other reality is the other you.
Switch your attitude,
shift your mood.
Paradoxically as it may sound,
to stay adequate in this reality,
you gotta get higher,
go beyond its boundaries,
see it from outside for a while,
reach for the opposite extreme
and feel grateful for the opportunity
to increase the potential for further growth
and follow your dream.
Lose your mind for some time,
as if you are madly in love,
eager to give yourself to this feeling completely.
It's also fine to be in a surprised state of mind,
like when through humor or inappropriate ******,
you are freed, shocked, flashed, or mooned by someone just for fun.
Overcome the fear of leaving your comfort zone.
Lose yourself, but not for too long and too far
lest you get used to the new way of existence.
Keep the balanced distance
so that you could come back
before you forget how to be found.
You're allowed to do crazy things in your dreams as opposed to reality,
'cause you're basically unconscious,
I suppose, to get the full access to the freedom of will for your avatar,
when you are free from the system of rationality
and don't even notice being surrounded by nonsense.
When I OD on my dream, it engulfs me
and I become its slave.
But I can't bear the unbearable spirituality,
the thrill, filling my brain,
blowing my mind,
bearing me out of reality.
Just so you know, well, you know,
it has the power to burn, devour, and wipe you off the face of the Earth.
The mechanics is quite obvious.
When you overdose, the system registers errors
and the crash of your overwhelmed brain that can't keep pace with your thoughts.
It activates the programs of negative hormones to make you feel bad
so that you know that your good doesn't work.
So when you feel too good, it's bad,
'cause having fell over the brink,
you may think you're still on board.
Yet you find the opposite extreme
of life, which is the state of affect, in fact.
And you're toast. That's all.
Man, you can talk about this state of consciousness,
being in another one, as much as you want
But all your words will stop making any sense,
as soon as you return to the first one.
This dope makes you, dupe, say "smart" stuff.
But every time, you, wise guy, somehow turn out to be Captain Obvious
with a perpetual motion machine, unstoppable engine in his ***.
And you present the obvious as the truth,
simply ingenious for you.
Yeah, sometimes I come up with smart things.
Well, they are not that smart, to be honest.
Also, being too smart in a stupid place can be pretty lonely.
So I find the right words to feel comfortable in this inhospitable world,
apparently ruled by idiocracy,
pluck them right out of my dreams so I can grow
out of mundane mediocrity.
When you treat reality as a dream, though,
who enjoys all the freedom?
And what if he wakes up?
Will he remember it to read it?
Like he'd ever have any sentiments
for this epic monument to his character and his feeling.
Reality is relative, conditional.
It’s real only on condition that you take it seriously.
Are there other realities?
Do they really exist?
Any alternative reality proves that this one isn’t real.
And when you are in an alternate reality, you feel this.
Does it set you free?
There are many realities. Love is one.
Don’t forget to have fun.


Baby steps

It's full of deceptively smart, discombobulating, bombastic aphorisms, idiotic idioms,
Sancho Panza's *** wisdom, mind-puzzling tongue twisters, corny metaphors,
oversatiated with the false force
of never satisfying rhyming words anyway.
I'll eventually throw it away someday.
But not now, no. I won't leave it alone.
I'm not ready to let it go.
Although I know I am being greedy,
and I agree, duh, I do need it,
I am still thrilled to read it.
I don't want to part with it,
as if it is a part of me, and I'm a part of it.
This rough, raw draft is like a flimsy raft in the sea,
that goes with the flow to stay afloat.
Yet, simultaneously, I gotta direct it somehow to where I need to be,
approach the destination of my destiny.
But now it's still a crass lump of sugar, slowly melting,
being imminently washed away by water in raccoon's paws,
slipping through fingers words,
filled with the meaning,
leaving me with an inexplicable feeling,
the majestic, magical sense in the system of the pure mind, filled with glow,
a precious stone I enjoy watching.
But looking closer, one may notice
it's just a useless piece of coarse glass,
dirt, scooped up from the bottom of my soul.
I literally litter literarily,
drastically sarcastically spiritually,
a poet, obsessed with my own poem,
sick freak, losing my mind for a moment,
overachieving geek, falling in love for the first time
from the first sight with the first lines.
It could be called poetic, if not intimidating.
It's unforgivable. Can I forget it?
Maybe, not to be too crude straight away,
I should consider baby steps and gently start the process,
at least, with words first, let's say…
"Will you kindly ***** up your courage and hold it together?
What is the matter with you?
Are you insane?
******* ******,
it's not funny, nor is it funky.
Bite the bullet.
Stop it, stupid. Wake up,
star-struck dumb ****,
messy, ***** missy,
*****.
Get real, naive dreamer.
Just lose it, change the ******* music,
deluded miserable loser!
It's hard to grow up. So what?
**** it up.
Face it, ******* ****.
Cope with it, stupid ****.
Just so you know, this mediocre ******* doesn't mean anything to me.
I don't give a ****, *****.
Toss it to the garbage.
To my mind, it's so disturbing, makes me cringe.
Stop wasting your time, acting like a system's glitch.
What, you stupid?
I'm putting my foot down, lousy clown,
******* ****** ***** *****.
Let it go or get lost in your god
and leave me alone."
"Well, if you say so…
On second thought, no, I won't.
Respectfully, I disagree.
You want a piece of me?
What, you smart?
I have a piece of advice for you too.
How about you shut up and eat me.
Now I suppose I got beef with you.
Is that what you want? *****, please.
What is the matter with ME?
Are you for real?
So much for the champion of morality.
Good God, what's the big deal?
You have got to be kidding me.
Or are you really some kind of ******, ***** or a imbecile?
And who the **** are you to judge me?
What the hell is wrong with YOU?
What are you ******* about?
Why do you care for preaching,
when you don't even like to teach?
Must be some kind of breach, though.
If you feel so estranged from me,
why don't you build a bridge and get over it?
In any case, I don't need a teacher.
I'll learn on my own.
Should you still gonna teach me,
trying to beat me with the heavy artillery of a tough rhyme,
can I have this class on advanced rap really fast?
'Cause I don't wanna lose my time.
Otherwise, if I do, I'll make you go through some tough times,
'cause this time you'll have to deal with MY really rough rhymes.
And if you absolutely need to know,
I’m not insane. I’m in love.
Yeah, I know you think it's the same, but it's not.
So knock it off, *****, enough.
Shut your stupid big mouth and *******.
***** you, tactless, unthankful, insensitive fool.
Oh, yeah, sure. Now you're so mature.
Cut me some slack, judgmental prima donna.
Without me, you'll be lonely.
Just so you know,
I'd be cool without your concern, yeah,
and your pathetic rebuke.
I make you cringe?
You make me puke,
'cause you're getting my goat now.
And in my humble opinion, **** your opinion.
It's not even critical.
You're just being mean,
too subjective, basic, and hypocritical.
So take it back, or you'll regret,
'cause I'd be glad to shove it into your throat
to finally shut your ******* piehole.
On the other hand, thank you for your opinion.
I'll take it along with my own
and gracefully balance between them.
FYI, you can only pry this verse out of the dead grip of my corpse, dumb *****.
Bite me and thanks a bunch,
******* very much for your ******* questionable,
supposedly encouraging, rather enraging,
arguable, so-called "motivational"speech.
Go to hell and **** yourself,
get lost before you bite the dust,
gut-wrenching leech.
I'll make you put your ******* foot
in your filthy mouth
and won't let you take it out,
hold it till you swallow your own *****.
How does that sound?
I'm through with people telling me what to do.
So go take a flying **** at a rolling donut.
I'm standing my ground.
If after all this, you still think that you won,
you must be a ******, believe it or not.
Well, you may believe whatever you want.
Let me be honest with you.
I'd like to enlighten you too.
I don't even need to prove you wrong,
‘cause that's what you probably already know on your own,
though only subliminally,
since you are the one
who still wants to say something to me.
To my mind, you are out of your mind,
'cause it's not only yours, it's also mine.
If you don't see me any longer,
so long then.
In my god, I'm dissolving."
Ok, that's it. I'd better be over with this ironic moronic controversial converse,
steeped in speculations, exaggerations, and, possibly, false accusations.
I'm done talking to me and myself,
don't know how else it's supposed to be said.
All I know is it's not supposed to be sad.
It's supposed to be fun.


Fake poet

So **** being normal.
I, too, want to get through the time portal to become immortal alright.
Though, be careful what you wish for, right?
I don't like to hurt people's feelings,
but I'm tired of casting pearls before swine.
It's venial for an artist to love his ego because he loves his art,
created by his personality which he also sees as a work of art, while
an author has to love his character so that the character should be alive.
That's why you create your alter ego as your best friend in your own image.
And since the observer can't be observed,
like the feeling, owning you, can't be analyzed,
this way through co-creation, you talk with God.
****, that's ******* high Sci-Fi.)
Well, all artists are ****** up.
So welcome to the club,
home for talented human beings
with the divine energy inside
so you could imagine that you could see yourself from afar.
Yeah, I probably need a shrink, but I can't afford it.
And you know what? I think I actually don't even want it.
I'd like to be among contented people,
people, interested in me,
loving me for who I am,
not for who they want me to be.
There are, however, no normal people on this planet,
'cause no one can be objective, being enthralled,
lost in an enslaving illusion, and this is normal, but at the cost
of critical thinking, common sense logic, of course.
Nor there's, unfortunately, any other mental institution, big enough for everyone.
Thus, paradoxically, it becomes normal
to lose marbles and get bonkers.
At least we can have some fun.
So there's no use of judging anyone
except for yourself, to whom you always have so much to say.
OK, I'll hold on to it for a while, let it stay
till this bunch of stupid words still makes my day, makes me smile,
also excited and even ecstatic,
because I'm probably an immature amateur and a frantic fanatic
quickly crossing the line without brakes,
'cause something's wrong with my brains,
overwhelmed with feelings spilling into words,
losing sight of the point of no return
or only pretending to be frenetic to look more charismatic,
merely playing the leading role of my own show,
at the same time, enjoying it, sitting in the front row,
covering the existential horror
of being engulfed by a disappearing feeling
with trash in my mind, waste of my animal soul,
hiding from problems, irreversible losses,
remorse, and sorrow behind my poems,
'cause, to be honest, it's frighteningly a lot to swallow.
At least, I have the strength to admit that I'm weak.
You, too, know it.
I may be a failed philosopher, artist depicting himself, if you will,
a fake, dead poet,
who, gazing in jaw-dropping amazement at the scary beauty
from the mysterious extraterrestrial tree of poetry
through spiritual ******'s eyes,
meditatively observes peacefully gliding swallows
and whizzing, gleefully squealing like little monkeys, weightless swifts,
deflecting thoughts from the constant, ruthless struggle for survival,
striving for life, fight for the right to exist.
I always notice these little joyous moments I can't let go of,
charming moments of bliss.
I try to capture them in persuasive, virtual words,
a recursive parody of fractals, shiny kaleidoscopic gems
of shattered glass, alas, to no avail,
catch the evasive, lucidly illusive, evanescent sense,
hidden behind the veil
or resurrect the piercing, genuine, ephemeral feeling,
recreate it as if I can remember it, while it always keeps saying farewell,
leaving me confusing cause with consequence,
perplexing reflexing, which coincidentally helped once survive
and became a perpetual part of a limited by it, endlessly enigmatic life.
It can make you stronger, traumatize you as well,
'cause it's as fast as pulling a trigger to exchange paradise for hell.
When I was a kid, I used to collect beautiful feathers,
dreaming of building wings to fly to the star by the name of Sun one day.
Growing up, I'm collecting enchanting words
in the hope that I'll find the way to create a magical spell,
as if I'm afraid to lose the key from the lock on the door,
behind which there's the whole new world
I’ve never seen before.
Any professional manifestator was an amateur dreamer in the beginning, you know.


Love free ****** humor

Yeah, no ****, you don't say! I can tell.
I seem to be so wise sometimes.
Being kinda kind, I am not wise or nice,
but when people see it in my eyes,
I don't mind also being polite
and lie, as I simply like to look likewise,
hiding my passion inside.
Lie, thinking I'm telling the truth,
lie to myself and to you.
I know I'm not the brightest star in the night sky.
Ah, come on, don't try to prove me wrong.
Don't be stupid, I'm not that smart,
albeit a little offbeat.
I'm even not too smart to be a ****,
because I'm
a kindhearted person,
although a bit bothersome.
Well, how you like that?
Not bad for a horrendously cynical humorist.
At least I'm an honest hedonist
prone to fall in love with egoists,
being selfish myself.
It's so simple and obvious that it's ingenious.
Besides, there's nothing new under the sun, dude.
Only the way to express yourself, subdued by a convincing fleeting feeling,
trying to shoot for the moon, I assume. Feel it.
It's not an invention,
just a euphoric wide-eyed eureka sensation,
out of zero and one, pile of combinations
of notional and semantic hallucinations
in the infinite number of unique situations,
miracle-like lyrical elevation,
limitational imitation,
metaphorical *******,
sensational manipulation,
emotional liberation,
manifestational motivation,
pang of inspiration,
another recollection in your consciousness,
the figment of god's imagination,
spiritual *******,
Captain Obvious.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms.
Just a verbose neurosis, of course.
If not, I need a good doctor for the right diagnosis, I suppose,
in case I was misdiagnosed.
Don't stay in my head for too long.
I'm afraid you'll be drained,
'cause my graphomaniacal brain is insane.
Oh well, what the hell, yours is the same,
so I guess this is how a wordy-nerdy neurotic
makes love to his narcotic.
It's so poetically ******
for an oxymoronic, ironic neurotic,
trying to find the balance
between extremes in a sparkly dance
of a whimsical weasel, hopping in front of a rabbit,
distracted by hypnotizing patterns.
I must go higher than that
from the basement,
where I muss thoughts in my messy head,
like a neurotic tousles hair.
By the way, that would be me as well.
There, I admit I write, I'm a freak,
and I don't care.
Although you might want me to wear a disarming straitjacket
so I'd become a complete wacko,
be careful and gentle with me.
I can be too free and open-minded.
Mind it.
I mean, you have no idea what depths I can get into.
But most importantly, can I get out when I'm in, or do I even need to?
Though, I don't condone a ***** brain ****
that's gonna blow up with an aggressive verbal *****,
surfeited with angry testosterone.
Come on, man, at least, please, put on a ******.
Yeah, I'm a ***** funky ******,
sympathizing with a sly Mona Lisa's condescending smile at first,
bursting into sinister Homeric laughter after,
snaring you with a snarling, daring smile,
the product of a cynical life satire,
making you lose yourself without a trace.
Boy, I wish I could bear this unpunishable feeling
of wearing the grim, evil grin of a villain on my face.
I hope I'm allowed to laugh out loud
at everything, especially at myself.
Isn't that what humor is for?
Not just for laughing at others to feel better about yourself.
That's too shallow.
Life makes you get up to the next level,
cuz it ain’t getting any sweeter or fairer.
I feel in this self-irony, there is always real, iron me,
like real chocolate is bitter.
Yeah, I hate this fake sweet, milk, sugar ****.
The more bitter, the better.
In truth, humor is always dark, without sweetener
so that you can be free as a word
that may be harsh and sharp as a sword,
but also kind and soft as unconditional love of a strict mother,
which is the best reward for being hurt,
as if it's an award for being heard.
I don't care if you were surrounded by seductive witches,
bloodsucking *******, and other supernatural creatures
you have no love left for.
I guess, to love and be loved by your woman,
you both need to have the same sense of humor.
So now you wallow in your philophobia and hate love you can't get rid of.
Experienced as you might be,
you can't just **** it off.
It chases your graphomaniacal, necrophilic, cannibalic, diabolic kamikaze’s dead ***, regardless of your sins.
I get it. You don't like to look like a fool.
And love does make you feel stupid and look pretty foolish, for sure.
It turns you into a silly, paranoid idiot,
who smiles but can't let go of the thought
that he might need an antidote.
You feel dumbfounded, stupefied, surprised, and at the same time stressed,
as if you have a finger in your ***.
“Am I having a panic attack?
*******! What the ****?”
How does it make you feel weak,
when it's supposed to make you strong?
Maybe the angle from which you look at it
is wrong.
I, on the other hand, can't help following this awesome feeling.
I love being in love despite the fear of falling out and being left sore.
And I love you for the same thing I hate you for.
Adorned with gloating goat's horns,
a morose sulky-faced great poet and a grim rapper I adore
turns into the great Grim Reaper
that equalizes all divided by different gods people,
who are stuck in the holy ****** trinity of evil ill stupidity,
living on behalf of the golden calf,
dying in the name of love
for the sake of Jesus ******* Christ
or some other god. Right?
Whoopsie-daisy!
This is egregious, insulting, and crazy.
I'll be ****** or crucified by medieval evil people
if you don't shut me up fast!
Yeah, y’all throw your stones and torches,
pitchfork me and scorch me.
Burn the witch, dying for love and your sins,
who deserves your tortures.
The weaker *** is strong through love
that through its nature, makes its fortune.
Wait…
a minute.
Hold the horses, *******!
Are you really gonna burn me?
****, **** this planet!
For some people, it may sound disgusting.
They just fear believing they're flabbergasted.
You don't wanna be one of them fools, trust me.
These things are not simple
for understanding by the majority of people,
‘cause it's sorta absurd.
A judgmental Christian is an oxymoron.
Saint hypocrites.
What, am I too straightforward for ‘em?
Can pigs fly, though?
Are aristocrats poor?
Yeah, it may sound insolent, but it's true.
Sorry, I tend to be rude,
when you are being mean to me too.
I know that I know nothing
and no one can know everything.
But everyone can go **** themselves
and be self-sufficient.
Of that I'm sure.
Maybe we should shift the perspective,
find the right or better point of view,
and change the attitude?
The world is full of idiots. So what?
The world is full of idiots, old farts.
You don't want to be inside this farce.
But just in case, get ready to go nuts.
Even a guru can become a doddering fool, though.
Why is it like this? I don't know.
Because life is a joke?
So be grateful for this humorous energy, even when it's aimed at you.
Try not to be too indecently arrogant a genius
who has nothing else left to do
than to shoot himself,
'cause he's surrounded by ******* idiots and degenerates.
Thanks for support, your painful honesty of a bulldog,
the way you bogart the way to the fame you hate,
your boundless kindness, Your Highness
or Majesty, or should I say,
incredible, phenomenal, omnipotent, iconic rap god.
Why do you love to laugh at people's vices,
like a big fat hungry troll,
sitting with his smart ***
on the fence of a deep defense,
which is the best as a good offense.
Why can't you be as nice as, for instance, Jesus Christ, though, bro?
It's not that hard, after all
with your free mind, open wide so.
Aren't you tired of your own satire,
trying to satisfy your always hungry mind,
and being a king, constantly proving the right to the crown?
Now, look what you've done.
Why would you need to spoil all the fun, sad clown?
You snipe with snarks as a snide snipe,
but like Wesley, precise,
till your enemy runs out of ammo, or it backfires
so hard that you wish you carried a gun,
like you used to.
That's a shame you now have none.
A fire marshal without a firearm.
Good thing I got one.
Lucky me, I'm not you.
Thank God, I can't fill your shoes, man.
Aren't you a bit too old to troll solo?
Troll-lo-lo, it seems so low,
bitter, pathetic, and shallow.
Don't get me wrong.
I hope you don't think I envy you.
With my bird-watching skills,
I coulda been an ornithologist by now,
just so you know.
If you don't wanna be alone,
baby, get down from your throne.
Or should you be higher than that,
well, then stay the **** god.
I wish I could help you, but you don't really want it,
and I cannot.
I guess I'm not a loser enough to be a hero
and unsolicitedly give you all I've got,
since, despite being overwhelmed with compassion,
I'm also full of ****, a spoiled, bad girl,
so empathetically selfish and special.
My body doesn't grow up anymore.
It can only grow old
until it's finally cold,
while my soul still keeps growing, though.
I feel my soul is already too big and too old for this world,
'cause it just doesn't fit into this *******.
Oh dear Lord, Holy Mother of good God,
how the **** can I say that?
I believe I can say whatever the hell I want.
Isn't that what we're supposed to have the freedom of speech for?
We need virtual evil
to keep the virtuous Utopia ideal
and find the balance between ‘em.
Boy, you, too, must be that impudent, testy, despicably obnoxious, squalid and perverse
to be worthy of your own words!
Let's play, I'm bored.
Not board games, though.
My self-esteem is so low,
'cause it's too high.
Play me hard.
Roast me. Promise it will be awesome.
Torture me till I'm toast, or I find the way to blossom
through concrete like a stubborn ****.
**** me with your words and tear me apart.
Pierce the ******.
Bake me, burn me in hell for my sins, god,
set me on fire, lord of the words
that you learned from comics
to enhance your performance,
ignite my mind and heart
with your satisfying voice,
make me, be my ******* boss.
Hey, **!
Not with a pitchfork, though.
What the ****, bro?
Easy. Yo, chill, man, will ya?
Why did you bring that thing, huh?
What, you're Aquaman,
******* Poseidon?
For real? Ha-ha.
Seriously, what for?
Does it make you drown faster
or give you the superpower of niceness?
No?
Well, feel the kick and fly, then.
Ah, self-defense.
Okay, then let's dance.
Come on, man, all jokes aside,
I could expect anything from you,
like a rifle, knife, or a sword.
Yet, you brought that?
I thought, most of all, you preferred a chainsaw.
****, so I guess now I can't expect you to be nice
to my wise ***. I'm ****** anywise.
And yo’ **** will be engulfed by all my holes.
Sorry for the ***** metaphor.
I'm straightforward like that
and write honestly, like a *****.
Oh, well, as well as you, so
don't mind my cussing,
'cause I like to sound beautifully disgusting.
Well, you know.
I just love this lingo vocabulary, vernacular architecture of slang,
cuz I was raised among gangsters and thieves
in the country of sorrow and tears.
It probably sounds worse than it actually was
because the past is in the past,
and now it is what it is.
I believe all words are good and equal like us, people by default.
Yet, it's hard to be hot,
when the context is hostile and cold.
It’s not like the so-called “good” words are true,
and the “bad” ones are false,
as if it’s a war
of the words that you like
against those that you don’t.
So are they now a lie? Why?
Just because you think so?
But the truth is that often the truth is unpleasant to hear and to know.
See, these are the words you don’t like, though.
Everyone thinks according to the level of his sins.
Well, I don't give a **** what you think
regardless of whether it's right or wrong.
How can you, fools and hypocrites, limit art?
It's endlessly boundless in its variety, like God.
And there is no human mortality for God,
as the main art is life.
While your free will is limited by his plot,
it has no boundaries inside your mind.
I love each and every word I wrote,
like an ornithologist loves all the birds.
I love them all
equally in the context of my flow.
Word.
I'll show you why.
Check this out.
Here is the concept for y’all to trip on.
If the words are used, they are needed,
like the spectrum of all the feelings.
And if the words are needed, they are all equal.
Or you can pretend to be a xenophobic god
in your own fairy-tale sequel,
verbal Utopia, perfect world.
Well, I don't give a **** about censorship,
not gonna put up with some censurer's ****, God forbid.
I find censoring insensitive,
truth be told.
So I use “bad” words in the right context and call it a joke.
I attire profanity in rhyme to refine the bad with the beauty of my mind.
And you can criticize it as much as you like, *******.
Guess what? I also don't give a **** about what you want,
especially if your sense of humor is at the level of an old ****.
What's the matter?
Too “kind” to notice the context behind the fence of the holy rightness,
‘cause, apparently, you are the best representatives of the whole humankind,
albeit a bit biased and blinded by righteous wrath towards “bad” words,
but always ready to save the rest of humanity with your perfect morality?
Should you take offense instead of a joke,
it's your problem and your fault
if you don't dare to be free and bold,
having got used to doing as you're told.
If all you can is mumble, stutter, and choke,
I'll only help you with pushing your *** down the stairs
and stare at you stumble over your throat and fall.
And I don't care if you're scared or hurt.
Who said life was fair?
You'll always be its *****, fool, and a scapegoat.
So whatcha gonna do about it?
Fight it with pen in hand for a pistol to release pent-up bile
(epistula non erubescit, right?)
or suppress your pain until it subsides
in the convenient, cozy kindness of self-justifying lies,
being frightened?
It must be exhausting to bear the burden of tears and fears
kept inside of you all those years.
**** ‘em. What's the worst that can happen?
Will your world have to endure the Armageddon
without deranged truth seekers, unhinged fairy tale believers?
Are you afraid of being burned in hell
or expelled from the league of imbeciles?
Drop the heavy load of guilt towards hypocritical sinners.
But if you can't face the apocalypse or find an argument,
don't start to argue, man,
lest you be trying to justify yourself again.
The devil lives in the details,
god in conceptual fairy tales
so that your life would look more meaningful and believable,
like a stand-up joke.
And if it's lethally funny, I'll laugh my *** off
till I have a heart attack or a stroke,
regardless of what you think, so no offense.
Take it easy before the converse stops making sense.
That's my truth.
It doesn't need to be proved
and doesn't have to be approved.
It's just my mindset, my worldview.
You can't be me. I can't be you.
Life is very funny if you have the ability to notice it.
Even after I die, my killing sense of humor will stay alive.
That's why we have immortal souls to laugh at our mortal bodies.
Yo, how come all the bad stuff is mostly fun?
'Cause humor is dark as death, equally for everyone?
And without evil, good is hard to understand?
It's actually the essence of humor to laugh at fools from afar
and not to get stuck with them in a joke, duh.
The truth is, no one among even the smartest people
is smart enough to outsmart the deadly, evilly funny Grim Reaper.
So I don't have to be a saint anymore.
Let me be your slave of love, so to speak,
your insanely in love, queen Margot.
Set me free from the fear of being lost, come along.
You will be my Woland and my Master.
Seize the moment as if you can hold it,
like it's a masterpiece manuscript and you can't burn it.
Stop time, just grasp it faster
as though you are a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat.
Like a reused ****** out of a rabbit hole, you pull off another last trick.
There's no magic in that.
Don't wanna be judgmental, but you're just a boastful monster and a slim slick,
good for nothing but a fling,
seen in a flick
on the big screen
in one hot, short love scene,
jerking me off as always, bag of *****.
*******, I feel the terminal stage of love still lasts, though.
Do you feel me?
I would sell my soul to you if it weren't priceless.
Oh, man, not again!
Yo, this ****** up love is a ******* disaster!


Goodbye kiss joke

I gotta turn the page before it's too late,
and unrequited love inevitably turns into savage hate,
before I'm ****** into rage and end up in the stage of a vicious rampage.
I don't want to stay in the cage of a malicious fake fate.
It's not like I will shout about my feelings at the top of my lungs,
"Oh, I'm gonna cry right now.
Listen to me, everyone!
That's it, I don't give a ****. I'm through with you! We're ******* done!"
**** your petty pity! I don't need it.
I should have gone away a long time ago before the **** hit the fan
and I got the loaded gun demanding more
from you than I think you can think of who you really are,
word master.
Cut the crap.
Don't give me that horsecrap rap trap *******,
priggish, perverted, impertinent *******.
I'm full of it.
Half of your art is about showing off your art,
you arrogant, swaggering braggart,
wacky soul-’n’-mind-******* ******,
self-absorbed superstar, wanksta-poet,
demure poser
composing your mind,
careless about mine,
soul-exhibitionistic imposer.
If I may ask,
are you comfortable with your ******* in your ***?
I think, I'mma just bust a cap
and **** the King Kong with a big ****
who claims to be the god of rap,
destroy the crazy dopest goat,
the best representative of hip-hop,
my dreary Moby-*******-****,
stupid moon on a stick.
You don't own me,
'cause you don't know me,
you're not my homie,
and I don't owe you ****.
I'm not your groupie,
hanging on your huge, impossible-to-swallow ****,
who's so ******* lucky just to **** it.
Stop being so stupid,
big-headed, twisted ******* *****.
You don't deserve me. *******!
I don't wanna be your fan.
You may think there can't be ex-fans of yours, like there are no ex-drug addicts.
Yeah, right. You wish. Why don't you write a song about it
to convince me again that you still can?
Can you, really?
I don't believe you.
I think you're lying. Are you?
As if people still require
your daring dire satire
with vile iron ire
and want to keep their eye on
your iron ginormous *****
too big for your pants.
Do they still write your words on the walls
and watch your wars
full of spite and wrath
till your last breath,
till life ***** you to death?
And the best part is, being ***** by it,
you have to take pleasure in it.
Real legends don't get old.
They burn fast like shooting stars.
You've had your chance and missed it, though,
having tried to compensate for it later
with the magnificent rehearsal.
Since no one was good enough to ****** you, so to speak,
**** you lyrically,
you did it yourself,
albeit just for fun.
What a shame.
Shady Jesus died once again,
like a cartoon character.
Or should I say, it is another Jesus Christ
as in, antichrist.
Or has Jesus Christ actually been killed twice?
Well, luckily, now I'm armed with a gun
and ready to do some serious harm.
Boy, are you stern and cold.
Thank God, not dead yet, though.
Seriously, man, can I offer my help,
immortalize and save your art
before it gets ugly so you could stay forever young?
Let me set you free.
‘Course, I know, you're not that old,
but definitely old enough to wear a beard
to show the whole **** world
that half of you has disappeared.
"A beard is a symbol of wisdom," I heard today from a passer-by.
And here you are again,
a dreamy boy with a beard, trimmed slim,
resembling a promiscuous lady, wild jade, luscious *****, succulent vamp
with a wise *** and an unshaved ******
with the price tag of an arm and a leg,
flashing noble knights in shining armor,
lascivious transgenders, grafs ****-you-offs,
all kinds of ****, ******* midgets and ***** dwarves.
They are just looking for some nookie with a ******, for sure,
a ***** they can treat like ****,
**** a hot dame for a dime.
And now that your dream came true,
and you are the ****,
they all can eat you and die.
Oh, well, it’s so **** nice.
To minx or not to minx?
I guess, it's not for you to decide.
Boy, you must be such a wise guy.
Why?
Is your self-esteem extremely high?
No limits, huh?
What, you a god?
Duh.
Big deal, *****, so am I.
Ha-ha. See how you crack me up?
God, are you so funny and smart,
just walk and emit laughing but lethally poisonous gas,
cracking out of your cranky wise ***.
Dude, you are hilarious
and obviously wise enough to improvise with the smartest smart-*** rhymes in yo' freestyle,
the best emcee so everyone can see
the master of controversy,
the main character and the actor in one,
a white-trash rapper, American dream *******,
who can use rap as a gun.
But that's not all.
The tip of the iceberg.
I'm just saying it to you in case you didn't know.
Yeah, all women like to laugh at men's stupid, obscene jokes, spiced with ******* slurs
till they don't even notice how they're being laid already and treated as they all deserve, as ******* ******* hos.
By the way, grandpa, how's your sight, sugar level, and blood pressure?
Must be not that bad, since you eat beats.
Sure, you’re still the greatest of old time, my precious.
You are getting darker than the eclipse
and brighter than the sun.
Don't burn me, falling in agony, please.
You look so lonely, 'cause you are the only one.
Wow, are you on fire!
Shoot! Sweet rap messiah, you're not dying, are ya?
Unless maybe just the hair
that used to be blond, now brunette.
What’s up with that?
At least you are not bald or grey-haired.
Man, even your abdomen's still impressive
for someone who used to be obese,
well, in fact, maybe just a little bit fat,
when you meditated and self-medicated your body with mom's spaghetti,
while being a depressed mess.
So you must have done hundreds of sets of fifty press reps,
reciting yo' baddest raps
mind-blowingly fast,
pretending to be a badass
so you could run thousands of eighth miles
in his shoes to look like you look now.
Sorry for my straightforward poetry.
But that's what I love to do the most,
although sometimes I can't control it,
the mean, itchy urge to troll someone.
I know, I act like an immature clown.
What you gonna do?
You gotta slay the dragon once in a while.
But the irony with killing a troll is that after you **** it, you become one.
So it's best not to even start to say anything to him in the first place
if you don't want this outcome.
Besides, words are often useless.
If he's too annoying, just kick him in the nuts.
They’ll blow up, and he's gone.
Well, what you know?
I guess, Shady is in everyone,
like God lives in us
along with our angels and demons,
a lost soul of a prodigal son,
created and forsaken by the Father
in the name of the Holy Spirit
for him to be found and saved by himself in the idea,
made up for believing.
Thus, two become one,
I mean two in one,
one, embedded into the other one,
forming a holy *******.
Amen.
I mean it.
And I'm in, too.
Wait. Why am I in it?
Love the game?
Why are we doing this, again?
Right, 'cause we have no choice.
Or I just like to think so.
****, what a ****** fan I am!
I don't even listen to your old songs anymore.
And I actually haven't even listened to all your songs.
Unfortunately, I don't have enough time,
‘cause there are too many of them, and I am one. Also,
I've bought only one of your disks, though mp3.
As for the rest, I downloaded them for free.
So no use of me.
I hope it won't make you poor, my dear.
See? One day I will be your ex-fan
and (how do I put this? Ahem!)
you will be a fan of your own fan.
Meanwhile, I'll procrastinate, manifest, and meditate,
unable to end this poem
or rather a rap novel
till I reach my aim,
my fantastic goal,
even if it's too big for a small girl like me.
In any case, it's all your fault, my friend.
Yes, it is.
I cannot blame myself for your sins.
But I don't mind forgiving me mine.
Since the sinner is you, I am a sinner too.
So **** this! As you are one of a kind,
here is one last goodbye kiss on your soft lips.
Now, baby, please, get down on your knees,
beg for mercy, pray to spare your life
or kiss your *** goodbye,
'cause I won't miss you, reminisce about you,
feel guilty for this innocent crime inside my criminal mind.
And in case of being arrested and indicated,
I'll plead the fifth and be just fine.
So have a nice rest (spoiler: five minutes left) of your life,
then rest in peace in the rappers’ paradise.
Man, I don't wanna dis you,
but since you kinda want this, I think,
I promise the last thing you'll see
will be me, writing here my thoughts of you, spitting a rhyme.
How can I possibly be responsible for a person I don't even know?
I don't believe I'm supposed to be. Why should I?
What's the matter?
You don't like to be dissed?
‘Cause this ugly thing I just did
now I hope you didn't read.
Do tell me more about this.
All jokes aside, don't be mad at me, please.
Consider it my dissertation on the dark shady matter,
not sophisticated enough, maybe
to be philosophically labelled.
Will it stop you from spitting out your truth?
I'm sure you'll say no, won't you?
I thought so. I know it. I want you to be brutally true.
That's what I love about you.
I get that, I do.
You noodle, scribble and doodle, complain, skedaddle from your pain
to replace it with people's wheedling fondles, cuddles, canoodles
to feel worthy of their love again,
being just a crying for help, desperate for love *****.
And this drug is stronger, niggler.
It's worse 'cause it works without words.
Well, even though you're a ******* **,
there is nothing to be ashamed of.
There's nothing wrong
in being a holy-mother-of-god-ly horrifying *****.
Yo, **, **, **,
immoral *******' horror.
The more approval from people and awards you get,
the more you want,
'cause it doesn't really give you anything,
can't fill your eternally hungry black hole,
greedy *****,
full of yourself, but still hungry.
Yeah, you go and hate that *****, fight it,
'cause you can't satisfy it.
Now, I know it's not yo' fault
that you were born in this horrible world
with initial talents and sins in your genes, inherited from your parents,
as you know, the **** just can't fall far from the *** according to the physics laws.
While you are still a whining sinner,
pretending to be a winner,
drowning in the sea of guilty conscience,
justifying yourself with words,
cuz you can't swim in it,
going down on a sinking boat.
So now all that's left for you is to stand up for yourself and become your own god
who was so depressed because of being alone
that he created the whole world to feel love.
And you may call yourself a serial killer,
but you are not even a real sinner
if you still cannot
nail or crucify your god.
Dang!
See ya in hell.
Bang!
Booyaka! The *******'s killed by his ******* nuts stalker.
The Grim Reaper's buried under the tree of poetry,
which has grown right through this poem, his tombstone.
We'll see what I can reap out of this rap goats’ cemetery,
except for what I've already been bestowed upon
and, in fact, have sown.
Life's a short road from your mother's womb to the graveyard tomb anyway.
*******, I’ll probably just end up listening to yo’ hip-hop again.
Ah, whatever.
I've already sewn the whole reality out of trivialities
and wove the underwear out of clichés for you to wear on the stage.
Don't wanna wear it?
Really? All right.
What's the matter?
Stage fright?
Just kidding.
I know you can make a fool of yourself
and (smile) laugh your *** off on the inside.
Shoot!
Here comes the lunatic’s cadaver.
Don't worry, I'll resurrect you
after you've got dissected.
Abracadabra.
See? It wasn't that bad.
You're not really dead,
like your mom or your dad.
I kid. Come on.
Nor are you really resurrected.
Ok, I won't dramatize, or I may get traumatized.
I gotta stop, lest I be found dead in bed in my own house,
stabbed to death with your **** in my mouth.
My bad. I apologize.
Let's call it even
or love, even if it's evil.
I can sound not very nice at times.
I'm sorry if I was too honest,
sorry for all I've said before
and in advance,
for everything I'll say after.
You know I'll make it up to you. I promise.
My words will make you craftier and tougher
so that again I can unpurposely be *******
for stupidly not noticing when I am crude.
I'm not afraid of mistakes and difficulties.
At least, I'd like to think so.
What did you expect, though?
You are a rapper.
Every your fan is your potential hater,
hungry, greedy, disrespectful,
tired of waiting,
starting to love you, ready to hate you,
hatin’ lovin’ you.
Let's end it, step aside for a moment,
pretend that we can be normal
for some time,
that we are fine for now,
'cause it's pretty stressful to be obsessed.
So just in case, let's make it at least less intense
lest we get tired of too much offense.
We'd better go back to tender love
instead of rough, outrageous, brain-******-and-breaking ***.
Relax, I'm joking, not trynna shoot ya, **** ya, or choke ya.
Not really killing anyone here.
Just kidding, having some fun with you, dear.
Though I don't wanna be attached to you
or infatuated about you
and afraid to admit that I crave for
and scared of being touched by you,
as you also deliver top-notch romance in your lyrics.
It turns me on and turns into limerence,
the obsessive incessant necessity to be loved,
‘cause I lacked it as a child,
forsaken by God.
Perhaps I'm just being infantile,
while not too childish,
cowardly to laugh at misery for real.
To laugh at the theater of the absurd from your soul,
you have to watch it, not play the role, after all.
I gotta get outta here,
forget this foolish nightmare,
pretending to be a sweet dream
where I'm tearing and bleeding
with my words versus yours
especially those that hurt the most.
It's just a preposterous verse
you can't stop reading,
artificial reality, imaginary multiverse
where I can feel real raw metaphors.
Nevertheless, it unfortunately deserves
to be called careless, embarrassing, and gross.
It drives me off the deep end course.
But it's also challenging, provocative, and bold,
though must be too controversial to be sold,
too deep, so deep that it’ll stay in me,
‘cause I'm writing my ******* bible,
have already written it, actually.
And the Bible is free.
Although I'm simply playing with words,
I know this kind of games can be dangerous.
I wouldn't exaggerate and imagine
that life was comic, if it weren't tragic,
unless you can prove that it's not true.
Well, I guess that is impossible to do.
It's not that I don't realize that my words are fraught with consequences.
Even so, I almost feel like nothing can hurt me now, and I'm gon’ live forever.
It sounds like sheer nonsense, nonetheless I do,
because at the most you will read this verse
when it’s perfect, or when you’re ready, I assume,
which will happen maybe…
uh, yeah, most definitely never,
or at least, you won't read all this any time soon
and won't say anything whatsoever.
So I'll keep playing my silent game either way,
pondering about pointless stuff to forever elaborate
on some stupid **** simultaneously,
making it look poignant and clever,
'cause even though I might be not good at, let's say, baking cakes or pies,
I do have a black belt in piling up rhymes.
In case you, however, deign to teach me some manners and whoop my ***,
spank me with your hard and heavy raps,
do it fast, if you must,
'cause my level by now is supposed to be advanced.
So good luck with that,
break a leg.
Oh, what the hell,
break the whole ******' neck.
Make me repent the sins of my pen
that inks more now about the future
than I think about the past.
Give me your masterpiece, please.
Show me your master class.
It sounds good, ain't it?
Feels good too, *******,
‘cause this kinda martial art matters,
especially when you know what to do with all this talent.
It should have become a cakewalk at some point, anyways.
Otherwise, what's the point, though, right?
I gotta raise the bar, writing catchphrases,
fire a metaphorical gun, shooting punch lines in your face
right between the eyes
blow your brains out,
scatter ‘em all over the place
and expand your mind,
entering outer space.
Now feel the silence in the gaps,
read between the lines,
find your peace there
for no more war.
RIP so I could reap what I sow.
Master peace to become a masterpiece.
And don't even try to rise from the dead, bruh, like eva.
(Although, it actually sounds a bit too smug,
because, like a "normal person",
I've written the whole poem behind your back.)
What can I say?
I just love to make people laugh
until they cry at the same time,
breaking their stereotypes.
****, you're gone.
A divine supernova bursts stark into a black-hole devil.


Evil love

‘Course, I know you’ll always be my master, but it’s okay,
‘cause masters also depend on their slaves.
I think you understand that there would be no you as you are now
without me and your fans.
When you make jokes to yourself in your songs,
aren't you glad when someone believes you and sings along?
Gods exist as long as we believe in 'em.
By the way, what's up with your fanatical bots?
Man, you know, I don't ******* like it
when your butthead bot-like fans cooking up their idol
out of themselves, insane impostors,
stupid rookies, a bunch of clowns with clone accounts,
pathetic imitators,
******* fakers,
******* impersonators,
poor sick dumb *******,
millions of ******* minions,
limitless hordes of tedious idiots,
boring unstoppable morons
seek for my attention and approval,
**** me off, and
at the same time make me laugh, 'cause
they keep mistaking me for one of them, your AA support group,
godforsaken flock, your army of lovers,
wrapped around your *******,
breathtaking, irresistible humdinger.
I think the only person that can save you from yourself is you.
Suppose I left you for good.
Can I really forget about you?
If only I could
dump devilishly evil love that's tough but feels so good,
so **** good that even bad.
A burning pleasure that hurts
with the sweetest pain I've ever felt.
So should you hurt me, do it gently,
as you still can do it,
I mean, are naturally good in bed, I bet.
Wait, man, not again!
Forget what I said.
That's not what I meant.
Sorry, my bad.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.
It's just a silly relapse.
It's not like I'm gonna sit on your face
or your lap
even in the context of rap.
I guess when you click with someone,
you can have this kind of fun.
That's okay.
But hey, let's not get carried away.
I'll keep doing my best to stay sober and sane till I collapse.
I’m so sorry for the innuendo.
Next time I'd better be more circumspect,
'cause it's probably inappropriate.
Should I take you for a friend, though?
You know, I prefer to believe I could pull that off
and refer to you as a friend
even if you were a ******* ****** or a ******.
Let's pretend that I'm your friend.
Would that be enough?
Anyhoo, it wasn't my intention
to make you feel any tension or unwanted passion.
It has nothing to do with you, man.
Don't take it to heart.
I'm crossing the line again,
take it too far.
You can't be that bad.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan.
You combine cockiness with humility,
quality with stupidity.
It doesn't matter even if you say that
it feels so good to be bad.
I'm sure whatever you wish you could do should be said.
And it's not your job to solve other people's problems or suit
the expectations of a stranger you've never met.
Not to mention that you don't have to pay too much attention
to every nonsense and stupid ****
that comes from my sick *** head.
I reckon, while looking like a bad boy on the surface, you're a good guy inside
or at least a good-looking bad guy.
Neither can I lie like that.
C'mon, of course, I don't really want to sit on your face.
In my defense, I lie to myself and justify my words by saying I'm just a good writer.
So I'd rather sit on the fence,
fooling around.
Yeah, I don't really want ya.
You realize I'm just ******* with you, doncha?
Oh dear, but I'm afraid you'll notice that I'm a bad liar.
What the **** did you expect, man?
Every your hater is your latent, negative fan,
accepting the rules of the game,
trying to change them later
except for one: the love of hatin’ you.
They dis you but have to respect you,
‘cause deep down they are afraid of you.
And you love your haters too
'cause you feed on your enemies' energy.
A feud with your foes you treat like hoes with irreparable flaws is the fiery fuel for you.
They made you too.
You slam ‘em with your rhymes, hit ‘em with your bars
about slaughtering ‘em with a chainsaw and the whole range of guns.
You love them masochistic ******* hard,
like you've been loved by God.
What the hell were you thinking
when you wanted to become a rapper,
starting as a rising star of your future fans' local newspapers?
As if you don't know what's going on in the heads of your fans.
All they want is to be you, like you or with you, *******.
But you don’t even give a ****, do you?
Well, whad'ya know! I guess **** happens.
Sometimes you think you recognized someone
when, in fact, you took 'em for somebody else.
Even though, I ain't deny it,
I am a terrible liar, god awful at this.
Still, it was worth trying.
What choice do I have? I can't help it.
It's like a bad habit.
And you know they die hard.
So what?
In order to look more decent and less rude,
I'mma… keep lying
until it becomes true,
the dream of the reality reboot.
When I convincingly lie to myself,
I believe it, then in myself too.
While my mind screams, "Oh, hell no! I don't think so,"
my heart says,"**** yeah! I'm almost there."
Yeah, right, I know.
Again, I write like a *****,
incapable of controlling the ****** energy,
trolling her own insatiable libido.
Oh, Gee! **** this **** destructive love,
******* me over again,
demolishing everything on her way.
I can't feed her.
In no way did I mean to be mean and delve into the devil dancing, dude.
I just like dancing.
And I don't wanna use my words as a weapon.
I'm not rapping.
Baby, I'm telling the truth!
I ******* love you.
I love ******* with you.
Too bad, this love is evil.
I feel like I fell in love
just for my heart to fall apart.
Besides, it sounds too good to be true
for an oxymoron,
a beautiful masochistic figure of speech for morons.
I'd better ditch this queening *****,
'cause it seems that all I do is try to forget you.
But do I really have to?
Even if I do, I'm not sure I can get over you.
****, you don't give a ****, though,
and still have no clue.
And I will never matter to you.
While I wouldn't kiss and tell,
I doubt that you'd even care
to notice my love, being in love with yourself,
such a ******* ******* child.
Well, all this beauty is for me then, not for you.
It's not that I want to bust a cap, rhyme, or a myth.
But how many women have you really been with?
I hate to admit that it must feel good to eat a forbidden fruit.
What if I ate this ******* apple?
Why an apple, by the way?
It could be a banana, for ****'s sake.
Whatever, it doesn't matter.
The point is it's a metaphor
for liberation from the paradise prison for apes,
who painfully grow up
to find out how to become a free from human morality god.
But if you can't handle your sins,
maybe, you don't deserve that.
What I can do
is pretend
that I should understand
how to push through
and move on till it seems I can finally forget you
to change, evolve, create and grow,
'cause I can't take it anymore.
I gotta dig in my feet
till I start digging it,
throw you out of my system,
lest you become too real, way too persistent,
get control over the hideous, insidious monster,
hiding inside my aching soul,
get rid of the bad habit of diving into the gaping hole
of ferocious fears of love turning destructive, feral, and fierce
when life is atrociously real,
feel free to recover from the past,
buried in time at last,
leave the weird, love, solipsistic symbiosis behind,
say goodbye to the human neurosis of being alive,
realize that I should open my eyes,
wake up and smell the roses
in a terrifyingly lucid dream I live in,
in the elusive present moment,
find life balance, hormonal harmony,
learn to turn suffering into pleasure while surviving,
go through the metamorphosis
from the cocoon of verbose neurosis
to a beautiful butterfly,
the free poetry that can fly
into the unborn future where it can thrive and die.
And if I need to escape reality again,
I hope I still will be able to find the way.
Despite all the **** happening in this world,
all these wars, travesty of life,
lurid farce, insane asylum,
senseless grotesque circus,
the theater of the absurd,
where things are not what they're called,
please, Love, don't let me go!
Even though I keep saying no,
I know you won't let me go.
And I'll give it all to you
lest I be lost like a wretched wreck, sad sack of ****
and disappear in my own misery.
So I guess I have no choice.
You don't understand anything in this world.
And laughter is a normal reaction to being overwhelmed with awe.
When you look at yourself from afar
and laugh at your stupidity,
you free yourself from it and your ego
and become a self-sufficient god,
who doesn't look for the meaning,
for he's already been found.
This world is magical, and you are magic and a magician.
To see it, just open your mind.
You must know by now,
as various fairy tales like life and comics show,
that while there's always a reason for evil,
the true power is love.


This verse is alive

This ****** verse grows like a red, hot rose
from a stinky dark mess that smells mighty bad, so gross.
Thorny, aggressive, *****.
Take a look. It's already bloomed.
One touch, It will sting your skin and nerves
as if it's poisonous.
As if the venom can spread to your brain,
while the sweet aroma crawls through your nose.
You inhale, you inspire.
Goat, you wanna devour the whole ******* flower,
‘cause it gives you the illusion of power.
You stand beside it, staring,
like a hungry cat at a sparrow,
hearing your soul sing and flood,
you think that you see yourself sink in the sea of blood;
In fact, you merely bleed into spring muddy streams and puddles.
Playing my heartstrings, you scream and squeeze the crimson rose even harder
and want some more than your usual dose,
‘cause it's outrageously beautiful and shamelessly pure,
as you can feel your blood dripping from its thorns.
Don't be so cruel,
fill me up with some more fuel.
You will be my first, I will be your last
to come from intellectual lust.
Do you feel my words make you mine?
Do you wanna know why?
That's because this verse is alive.
It eats you all and frees your mind.
In this moment is your entire life for you to sublime
and see your soul's growth.
There's a place for everyone
on the planet Earth
except for those who are being eaten.
So beat it not to be beaten.
The show must go on.
So be it.
One life has to end for the other one to be continued.
Or stay, 'cause I want you to feel me in ya
the way I think I see god in ya
and wanna feel you IN me.
Like you and I, this verse constantly changes and grows,
expands like the universe,
as if it wants to consume the whole world
and destroy the cosmos
where it came from,
drowning in self, unfolds
to reveal its true form.
Inexorable entropy relentlessly dissolves
in nonsensical chaos
of nauseous word *****,
lyric verbal diarrhea,
disintegrating into syllables, letters, stream of consciousness,
being caught by a flight of the thought of the flight of a thought,
hilarious convulsions of ridiculous subconscious mind flow.
When it stops, it will eventually die.
So if you read this,
it probably seems that
Schrödinger's cat is trapped in your head,
neither alive nor dead.
And the fact that I might be still writing it
is, frankly speaking, quite frightening.
But also, in the process of growing, I'm enjoying my poem,
being obsessed with the idea of the illusion that I'm obsessed with the image of you,
the fantasy that embodies itself in the form of this verse in the virtual world,
searching for perfection in the night sky, lit by dead stars, reaching for the moon,
in time, to leave the space where I am now for the real one, and then one more.
This may actually become a masterpiece, as it already is, after the death of the author.
At the same time, it's possibly
one of the most narcissistic verses,
written by a presumably the most modest person,
that has ever existed in this world
and will stay in the history
as the distinctive but illusive evidence,
based on evasive traces,
a pale shadow,
the echo of the stars long gone.
Whatever it is, it's for you to decide.
It's your choice, of course.
Is it, though?
For some reason, it always seems to be Sophie's choice.
So I guess it is what it is.
(By the way, it really is a masterpiece.)
But why on earth does it always have to be like this?
I don't know.
It isn't easy, is it?
It's easier to be decapitated by a mind-breaking wizard
than to choose between two ideally evil ideas or thoughts.
As if I'm a little girl,
born during a war,
and while hiding from the Soviet Union among the Vietcong,
killed by the American bomb.
Or should I pick a side
find a lesser evil? Why?
Not to die today? Escape endless wars
between heaven and earth?
Why two evils?
Why not funny and spiritual?
**** sure happens.
You may appear in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And you can't do anything about it at first.
But then… Bam!
The bomb drops,
and you're gone. You die.
On the bright side, you are now free,
put out of your misery,
as if killed out of mercy.
So thank you, Universe, merci.
See? Your freedom of choice is in your attitude,
and you can always find something to be grateful for, of course.
To get enlightened, you have to go through darkness, after all,
to see that there is no good or bad,
only happy and miserable.
Don't make it worse.


The word owns you

Anyhow, it's almost dead already, too bad, too old,
too big, too bold,
still straightforward, piercing, and bitter
like one **** with two *****
that ****** you off
and makes you wanna **** it so hard
that it could finally die and go off.
Yeah, it's so sick.
I gotta put it out of its misery with a rusty shovel,
**** it out of mercy at some point.
I mean, no one can heal something so ill.
And what can't be healed,
has to be killed.
I hope you feel me, silly,
understand what I wrote.
It's not that difficult and obscure,
really,
still alive, while yet not cured.
Are you following my thought?
If you're not sure,
I assure you, you do.
You're just unsure if it's the right direction for you.
Don't take my art too literally.
You can break my heart if you want.
I don't care,
'cause it's pretty much virtual,
supposed to be in my chest,
but not there.
Don't get me wrong.
It's not a big fat flattering love letter, you know.
I'm merely studying you under the microscope,
like a calm, unbiased, meticulous scientist,
doing research in silence,
slicing and dicing a frog.
And the more he analyzes this madness,
the more ****** up he becomes,
anatomizing your black soul's dark guardian angel
you are so desperately craving for
who is capable of quenching your thirst
for the only language a dark angel knows,
which is a wild evil love.
He's behind you all the way
in the hall of fame on the wall of shame.
Well, I suppose, two heads are better than one
because you can perform an experiment on one of them.
Stop being a hostage of your own role.
You're on your own from now on,
not lonely, alone only, though.
You were a good, slim fellow.
But now you've become even better.
Keep using your flaws,
rotten pieces of the mind of your future corpse
to hone your skills and master your soul.
And when you're deeply alone and unknown,
you'll gain your total freedom.
I'm sure you've already started to write a song about it,
and, of course, your new album will be double platinum.
To be actually free,
you must just adjust and really need to see
through the prism of your soul
that your self-important beloved self-torture
you are so deeply engrossed in,
thinking it's motivating,
yet instead, it's instigating,
self-indulgent suffering rapture,
absorbing you, is worthless.
Don't feed yourself to your pain.
It will obliterate your brain,
devastate your heart and burn you in its flame.
You're more significant than this.
The contents of your shape are more important than the context of the game.
You became too big for your frame
and keep growing, because you can.
I didn't suffer too much, just enough to be what I am.
You are not broken completely, just enough to be what you are,
to transform the weakness of man
into the power of god.
I wanna evolve with you,
because I’m in love with you.
You need pain to appreciate love,
fear of death to cherish life
so you can feel when it correlates
with the nature's grace in many ways
and shapes your soul, your gestalt.
I love to see my body change and my consciousness grow.
I love life because it's temporary.
It's my favorite show.
There's not much to say. You've been through a lot.
We've all been. So what?
And we all still have this hurt, scared, sullen, depressed, enraged, silent teenager deep inside
we want to protect by creating a strong dark guardian angel
for our inner child to grow up.
So don't act like your sorrow is wider than the universe.
You're not the only one of your kind.
You know, it's not that entertaining
to see the vivid pictures you paint with your pain and
listen to your heart-breaking complainings.
As if your cathartic torments and problems are worth my emotional resources.
Like I didn't suffer from my own losses,
or wait for the right response
as a sufficient answer from a wrong person.
Unlike all miserable people,
I don't want to be miserable like you.
But I do want you to be happy,
like I am right now,
even though I'm not good enough
in finding the right words to show you how.
I mean, you think you own the word,
when, in fact, the word owns you.
You don't come up with words,
they come up to you,
get into your mouth in the form of a ****,
and come into your brain
with mind-blowing-ceilings ideas,
breaking your head’s virginal membrane.
It ******* so deep that it makes you addicted to this game.
It comes into you
till it engulfs you on the inside
and becomes you.
And you play it again and again
in the point of singularity inside the circle of limited abilities
but with the point of view
of an intentionally infinite creative potential
to elaborate on undeliberate liberation
and become broad-minded too.
But how can I know my potential if I can't reach the unreachable thresholds?
Feelings are precious because of being captivating and transient.
This is how this world works.
Well, apparently, life is not only a paradise
but also a hell sometimes.
Still, it's not just black and white.
Between them is a rainbow.
**** happens.
Let it go, just go with the flow.
Life smacks and *****.
You snap and grow.
Should you hit rock bottom,
push off and break through the ceiling.
Keep pushing the limits
till you rocket through the roof of the Empire State Building,
where now only sky's the limit
in the endless space of your heavy mind,
filled with heavenly, godly light
I know you like this feeling
of being godlike dynamite.
You've really got the power when you hold a mic.
Never give in, toy soldier, fighting monsters.
Keep cracking nuts and silly jokes.
Don't be too melodramatic.
You're not a lonely Captain Obvious
on his enormous ship,
drowning in his ****.
You're not a lost cause.
Please, don't say that.
I'm sure it's not that bad.
At least it's better than it was
if you don't concentrate on what you've lost,
'cause there is always pros and cons,
which is characteristic of controversial, dualistic worlds.
As I’ve already told ya,
I want you to be happy.
I kid you not.
We’ll go together through your highs and lows.
Although we all are one in this world, but alone in our lives,
you don't have to be alone this time.
You don't have to be strong all the time.
I'll be with you till the day I die.
I stand behind you as though behind the brick wall.
I am your shadow, you are my hero,
which is an ironical paradox,
as you are also a free-spirited misogynist according to your controversial songs.
The faith in you of like-minded people, your fans
strengthens your faith in yourself,
and you grow as a god,
who's not lonely in the solitude of his art.
And even if no one believes in you,
you always got the guts to believe in yourself anywise.
That’s what makes you the greatest of all times.
Listen, life is more than just a struggle or a competition.
It could be a journey or a lesson.
So start to count your ******* blessings.
And would it **** ya to smile once in a while?
It's not a contest in who suffers more
or whose **** is the biggest.
**** a lemon, dude,
enjoy and feast on your shitburger with gratitude,
don't give up, but embrace bad luck,
put your hands in the air like you don't give a ****,
for your only freedom is in your attitude.
I am grateful for the reality I'm in.
And the creator is glad
‘cause he feels it as well and thanks me back.
There are no mistakes or coincidences in your serendipitous destiny,
nor one rhyme or reason, or justice for all.
Even poetical.
It's just this one sole moment we're kept in,
like in prison for the soul.
So the question is not, to be or not to be,
but can I or am I compelled by the belief that it's impossible?
It just happened to be this way
so that now it can only be called fate.
Enjoy the path that you chose.
Have a nice ride along the road
to the timeless nowhere and nevermore.
Suffice to say that it's a beautiful and terrible world
where we can't tame a feeling by describing it,
not even with sophisticated phrases.
We only follow it, always behind
like a famished wolf, chasing its prey,
softly, with an untiresome determination,
stepping on its traces,
left here with prayers
in deafening silence to the higher self
who's free from ambiguity and hypocrisy,
'cause it's content, self-sufficient, wordless, selfless.


Morfreeda

If your mind resembles mine,
you must know what I'm talking about.
The divine power I feel is the source of
my undying force of vicious words
and a spark that can start a fire,
for which I use you as an instrument or a tool.
Well, what can I say?
I have been using you.
I did need it. So I did it.
Not to humiliate you, but to annihilate you,
I made you a part of my immortal, immaterial, nonexistent speculative art,
the deceiving art of a self-believing word god
in the body of a biological robot.
Good thing if you're also a coder
aside from being merely a human being,
for if you become old and ugly,
then you have to learn how to appreciate the beauty inside you,
else you're either a lame coder
or you go further, do not give up.
I think, in this case, you switch to become a god.
Otherwise, what's the point, though?
So use your brain as a processor
to get access to the database of your soul.
Yeah, good thinking. Why not?
It may sound messy and depressing,
but also interesting and impressive,
'cause when I start writing,
it seems like I stop living and start dying,
putting my heart and soul into words,
can't get rid of my poetical mortido,
doomed to be in love with searching for more freedom.
It makes me think I have enough power of spirit
in the fragile flesh to admit that
I don't live but gradually die
and that I'm worthy of the brave and honorable name Morfreeda.
And once you get to know her,
I think she's actually kinda sorta nice,
quite nice, yeah,
(right, wait what? Nice?
You call that nice?
Jesus ******* Christ!)
as long as she doesn't disturb others,
duh,
describing her thoughts,
when she's out of sorts,
‘cause thoughts being spoken are a lie
despite the theoretical ability to be materialized.
You don't get them if you don't feel them to survive.
And even if you do,
it is still not quite true
as it just seems I understand you.
After art chaos has systematized
with the feeling embodied,
creative energy has formed,
dark matter has become tactile,
it's bound to realize itself and die,
then again to be born
with no end, God knows why.
I accept the fact that I'm not here forevermore,
at the same time
can't comprehend that I'll disappear completely.
I guess my ego just needs to think so
hopefully to complete me,
but I'm afraid, for it to live, it needs to eat me.
After flying around high in the space sky,
I'm falling down to the ground
and even lower, deeper and darker
straight towards the hell underground.
So how come I fell and felt like I'm in hell, dead,
but turned out to be in paradise, more than alive instead?
Here I dwell in my fairy tale
with the consciousness level sky-*******-rocketing,
sitting on the rainbow cloud of love
spitting down from above.
You get it, right? You become immortal too,
sharing your growing soul with your aspiring admirer
through your inspiring art that will never expire.
It becomes a part of us,
united by one everlasting love that turns us into gods.
Why not?
With you, I'm free and wild,
can say whatever I want, smile,
and be not afraid or shy
to look like a child,
be whatever I wanna be,
go as far as I can,
do whatever it takes,
maybe even trip abroad,
wander around the world,
and see as far as it's possible for a god.
You are a hell of an artist.
And I love this about you.
While slowly dying,
you entertain and enjoy yourself by making up your plot,
writing.
Although I know I've created the character of you
in the image of an attentive god in my mind,
while in reality he's oblivious, you don't care, and I talk to myself,
created in the image of my soul, the sense,
materialized in the body,
learning to realize itself in its life
(for what?)
I feel I can be anything from a crushed roach or a stupid woman
finding herself absorbed by a mind-boggling time-consuming thought
to a convincingly invincible, imperishable, really superhuman god.
****, that's some spiritual, awakening, dopest ****. Enjoy it.
Never hesitate, though, to tell me I make a mistake, word slave,
so that I wouldn't feel all too high and mighty.
But don't underestimate me. Okay?
Kindly bite me.
Even if I think it's worth being called high-quality literature,
written by a highly spiritual creature,
every time I say I'm a god,
keep convincing me that I'm not.
Humiliate and humble me with your immodest art,
try to bring me back to my rut.
Even if I am brilliant,
treat me accordingly,
but don't you ******* ever tell me I'm one in a million.
I don't wanna hear it.
Let me silently rot in my tranquil oblivion.
See, every time I open my mouth
some stupid **** may come out.
So don't be too shy to shut me up.
I obviously can't hold a candle to you, duh.
But I'm tired of holding it for you.
And I'm not sure if I can handle the mental state of my “brilliant brain”
with the willpower melting and getting soft like cotton wool.
I will never be good enough,
because even though I may feel I deserve to hold
all the platinum and gold of the whole world,
I'm afraid I would trade it for your love.
Yeah, I may sound too controversial.
But you know that people can be deep like oceans
so we could drown in each other, discovering ourselves through our deep dope emotions,
hearing voices from the depth of our cosmic consciousness,
reflecting as the starlight off water.


Free will

Didn't want to make it too complicated,
but I did indeed overcontemplate it.
One more thing to wrap it up.
Stay my pie in the sky,
my pure platonic love,
unreachable idol, perfect guy,
I made up in my mind,
'cause the cake is a lie.
And what's ideal
in reality is not real.
The farther you are,
the lesser the harm,
the better I will become,
for the bigger my ego,
the lesser I am.
Otherwise, it may swell,
rise to a monstrous size,
get too rad, lit, and wet.
Well, sir Raps-a-lot,
you taught me well
how to reach new heights.
I appreciate that,
thanks a lot.
People love to be in love with their idols,
‘cause they see them in themselves.
So I like you because I'm like you.
Yeah, I know, it's another cliché,
but it's true.
I'm just trying to be as candid as I can.
You don't want me to lie to you, do you?
If so, I promise to be always honest.
And to be frank, I couldn't have lied even if I tried.
I can't hide what I got on my mind
because the feeling is I.
Believe me, your life will be just fine
as long as you don't interfere with mine.
Let's keep this agonizingly screaming secret
about a childish curiosity growing into an adult lust,
getting wilder and sicker between us,
disguising it with passionate patience
characteristic of mentally unstable patients
with unrealistic expectations,
deeply hidden in the **** sculpture,
the virtual statue of forever frozen hot feelings
in my mind, embodied in my body.
I'll be your pipe dream too.
I don't wanna be your fan anymore.
You gotta let me go.
I can't live in two realities simultaneously.
I just need more than this. I choose love,
even if it's not with you.
You can hug me if you want.
I do surrender to my last love.
It frees me and enslaves me
till my death comes.
While my hobby is you,
my hubby and you are actually alike,
have a lot in common.
He's also got father issues.
He's also a poet and a musician.
But I want you, too, to be inspired,
be always capable of more.
Also, at least, my friend, please, don't deny it.
You love the image of a *****.
Hey, what ya know?
Even Jesus's female apostle
is gossiped to be a groupie and a *****
according to the Gospels, after all.
So she's been called.
So what?
Despite the rumor,
she's also considered to be a faithful fan,
devoted follower, and a loyal woman, though.
What a great potential for a saint *****,
for a human soul to grow into a god.
Yo, does it offend you
that I don't wanna be your fan, dude?
'Cause I think I understand you.
I don't wanna have a crowd of fans either,
just one reader.
Nor do I wanna like you as a fan,
'cause I like you as a human
with a very peculiar sense of humor, man,
and as a humble, simple, easy-going person,
the genius of controversy.
Yet, I still feel like I am but the best,
meanest queen of yo' fans
in your a lil’ shady, big fat ******' fan club,
the evilest ***** in your devilish church
or, as you call it, the satanic cult,
where you are the ******* king and the supreme god,
kinda like Jesus, the protector of ******,
poor, weak, bad girls,
who were so delighted to be near someone so enlightened
and so perfectly good,
that it looked as if God himself came on to them and ****** all over their faces,
glowing with the golden light of God's dew.
And they would be endlessly grateful,
kiss him, embrace him,
'cause that's how great, obviously, God's grace is.
(Geez! I think I might be at risk
of being put into jail for this
too free-speech a piece
or, at worst, burned in hell.
Oh, well… some people are just impossible to appease,
like those ******* never flying pigs.
Pardon my French. I meant the police.)
Well, well, well, my hobby’s obviously also rap.
Yep... yeppity, yep, yep, yep.
Even so, should you refuse to be my friend,
that's alright.
I'm not mad and don't mind.
I'll understand.
Hopefully, I won't be banned
because you're afraid of becoming my friend,
like you are in need of another fan.
What for?
To be together in this, like we are married?
You've already got millions of them.
Why would you want one more?
Especially if he’s as miserable as you are.
There are too many of them.
I clearly can't be the biggest one.
I can never be your woman
and gotta admit
you can't be in love with me.
Even if you ban me, hiding behind your fame
knock yourself out. I won't blame you, really.
Man, I'd probably do the same.
So no hard feelings.
Tell me you don't need me,
give me just one reason,
and I'll leave ya,
won't bother you again.
I think, to stop being a fan,
one should be worthy of their idol.
Otherwise, it looks pathologically pathetic and suicidal.
It sounds anarchistic and utopian,
but I believe that everyone
is supposed to be their own god,
a creator of their own art.
Most people just don't know that.
You're designed this way,
it's in the spiral of your DNA, your blood,
undulates like a wave around the golden middle way.
You're a miserable and dissolving in God part
if you do not create your god.
After all, you are allowed to imagine whatever you want
since you've been given a virtual free will
to select your reality version.
It's your only freedom to choose what you want to feel,
which feeling you prefer to be thrilled with or drown in.
You know, you and I,
we don’t even have to die.
I mean, we have been given the whole palette of feelings
not just to disappear.
You can choose your reality now
and stay here forever, if you will.
We have an endless number of abilities in our limited imagination
longing for getting over the boundaries of reality to meet our expectations
for being surprised
and break free from stereotypes.
Reality scares us, it's always unknown.
That's why we run from it by creating our own.
For this, we have art
to interpret it somehow and hopefully find out why
and how to overcome our sense of mind.
We'll see how I can handle my sins.
If I can separate myself from at least one,
that will appear to be nearly a miracle I've hardly ever seen
or will see before I'm gone.
You know, back in the day,
I thought I wanted to stop writing this.
Now it turns out I don't,
'cause if I did really want,
I would have done it a long time ago.
I believe I'm about to let it go
but still ready for more.
Déjà vu
or just a flashback.
I’ve been here with you.
It all had happened already before.
How many times? I lost track.
I don't mind if it dies with me,
don't care what it does to me anymore,
even if it erases me into dust.
Let it be.
Let it burn in me
for me forever to be free.
The rhapsody, annoying like ****** spread with the speed of a viral infection or a rumor,
vile perseverance of an early bloomer,
exhilaration of the generation of baby boomers,
then outgrew me like a tumor.
I'm not afraid to take it to my grave.
But I wish you could tell me it's all not in vain,
that it's not lost on you.
I want you to see my pain
so that you want me to be your friend too.
At the same time, the most important thing seems to be art,
'cause while I'm mortal, it's not.
It's bigger than you and me,
or any human being, actually.
Manuscripts don't burn. They break free
and stay in their authors' souls for eternity,
as the light of dead stars in the memory of celestial gods.
And nothing else matters,
if it's destined to be.
For this, artists sacrifice their lives on the altar of art.
It's a drug that most likely will **** me.
Art engulfs you like dope bliss or ******
and takes you to Shangri-La,
from where you don't wanna come back,
like a ******* sexaholic, hopeless romantic, or a ******* ******,
drowning on his feeble craft in the rough sea of evil love.
Yeah, I know that my poem is a drug,
cruising in your vessels,
with verses, soaked in dope
so you could get off.
That's why I feel I'm more to you than just a fan.
And you are more to me than just a god.
You'd always been more like my rap guide, mentor, brother, and a friend,
apparently the closest one so far,
so good, in fact,
the best friend I have never had.
Even if I don't see how my magic actually worked,
and you read what I wrote,
should you not get to read this before you die,
or I finally lose my mind,
too big for the cell of the scull.
my love will find you in your next life.
I believe I have enough free will for that.
I'm at the same point of the same circle again
to realize that I have free will to change my fate.
How much freedom of will do you need, or you think you have?
50/50? At least you've got yourself.
Sounds fair, not too shabby.
Isn't that enough?
Don't be afraid to love.
When are you really happy?
Tell me, answer, guy.
When you got nothing to lose in your life except your life?
The older I get, the more vividly I realize that.
Don't be a wuss.
You have nothing to lose,
as you are already self-sufficient.
Be happy if you want, trust me.
You've got the power,
just unleash it.
When you believe in yourself,
you are the master,
the master of the Universe,
made of indestructible star-dust love.
I wanna evolve with you,
as though I’m in love with you.
Yo, dawg, you are the goat.
But I gotta go further.
I'll dive deeper into the flow of my thoughts and see how it goes.
While my mind is the figment of the imagination of the creator
and, as a character, I say his words,
the character's free will comes from the subconsciousness of the author.
So my fate is God's plot.
But what if I am the god?
For if I have the guts to believe in myself when no one does,
that makes me the greatest of all the gods.

Farewell*

I wonder if we could be real friends.
Well, I guess it depends
on many things.
And I know it's superfluous, let alone too good to be true,
considering the fact that I can't be a good friend to you
till I feel I so much depend on you.
I ain't saying that I do know you.
I'm just saying it seems to be true.
While in reality, I actually don't give a **** about you,
just like you pretend not to.
But a part of me will always be curious about you
and wouldn't mind if you got to know me too.
I hope you don't see me as an impeding, annoying, rude intruder.
If I could say it more delicately and subtly, I would've.
I started this verse as your worst fan
and ended it as your best imaginary friend.
Even though I recognize you in me, man,
I don't actually intend to be your real friend,
unless maybe a penfriend.
But I know that it all is just in my head.
So I guess it's farewell, then.
Do you need a hug?
Oh, yeah, I forgot. You don't give a ****.
Sorry you had to be involved.
It's not your fault.
Please, don't get mad or upset about anything I have said.
I just needed to clean out my closet,
close it and try to forget.
Well, you know more than me about that.
I thought it mattered what I said and why I said it.
Forgive me if I hurt your feelings.
I thought I was telling the truth.
While I was just fighting my demons,
it looked like I was in love with you.
I also believed I was playing with a toy.
It turned out I was simply paying with my time for the marketing ploy,
the successful American dream embodiment.
I needed to feel and believe in my fantasy
to realize it and create this reality,
wake up in a dream within a dream.
Now I wanna evolve alone, without you,
‘cause I’m not really in love with you.
Indeed, why did I even want you to read it?
I gotta admit,
why would I need you, when I got me?
I know I've said a lot of batshit crazy things
(in my defense, I was high most of the time),
but the only important and sane one is this.
Dude, it's my “ode”, a tribute of my gratitude and respect to you.
Talking to you is a pleasure of making love brutally true.
So in the end, this **** is not that bad, I assume.
However, you perhaps shouldn't even have read about this castle in the air,
evoked by the seizure of inspiration,
a theatrically emotional spasm.
All I really wanted to say is that my imagination with you is a limitless chasm.
I co-create with you.
Anticipation is more desirable than a big-bang ******.
The conversation, spiced up with wicked humor and brilliant sarcasm,
fires up the burning sensation of passion
to always find something new in you
thanks to your enormous confidence,
eminent will power, high self-esteem and IQ.
I mean, to succeed, you didn't even need to finish school.
My evil genius, expressed in being eloquent, angry, and rude,
stupefyingly cool and cute,
feeling eternal spring in the cell of solitude.
For this, I'm forever grateful,
a hopeless romantic, lost in love fool.
Don't ever let me forget you!

Don't let me forget you.

P.S. With all that said, I realized
I appeared to be merely a fan, losing my time,
'cause if I wanna be a peer to a god,
apparently, I gotta have my own art.
Well, maybe not the whole time.
At least I had fun.
You'll live forever in my memory,
even after you die.
I'll resurrect you, for you're my favorite,
concrete matter, indeed divine.
See you. I promise, you won't get lost,
just in case you forgot.
I'll create new you without words
in the best of my worlds, my god.
An epic, free-verse, long poem, rhapsody, tribute to Eminem without censorship whatsoever, work in progress.
20K words

— The End —