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Let me climb the intellectual bandwagon of Chamara Sumanapala of the Sunday Nation in Sirilanka, to recognize a world literary fact that Taras Shevchenko was the grandfather of literature that paid wholesome tribute to Ukrainian nationalism. In this juncture it has to  be argued that it is ideological shrewdness that has taken Russia to Crimean province of Ukraine but nothing like justifiable law and constitutionalism. Let it also be my opportune time for paying tribute to Taras Shevchenko, as at the same time I pay my homage to Ukrainian literature which is also a cultural symbol of Ukrainian statehood. Just like most of the European gurus of literature and art of his time, Taras Shevchenko received little formal education. The same way Shakespeare and Pushkin as well as Alexander Sholenystisn happened to receive education that was clearly less than what is received by many children around the world today.
Like Lucanos the Greek writer who wrote the biblical gospel according to saint Luke, Taras Shevchenko was Born to parents who were serfs. Taras himself began his life being a slave. He was 24 years a serf. He spent only one fourth of his relatively short life of 47 years as a free man. The same way Miguel Cervantes and Victor Marie Hugo had substantial part of their lives in prison. Nevertheless, this largely self-educated former serf became the headmaster, the guru and fountain of Ukrainian cultural consciousness through his paradigmatic literature written basically in the indigenous Ukrainian language. He was a prototype in this capacity given that no any other writer had made neither intellectual nor even cultural stretch in this direction by that time.
And thus in current Ukraine of today, Taras Shevchenko is a national hero of literature and collective nationalism. But due to the prevailing political tension between Ukraine and Russia, his Bicentenary on March 9, 2014 was marred by hoi polloi of dishonesty ideology and sludge of degenerative politics. For many us who derive pleasure from literature and diverse literary civilizations we join the community of Ukrainians to remember Taras Shevchenko the exemplary of patriotism, Taras Shevchenko the poet as well cultural symbol of complete state of Ukraine.
There is always some common historical experience among the childhood conditions of great writers.  In the same childhood version as Wright, Fydor, Achebe, Nkrumah, Ousmane and many others, Shevchenko was born on March 9, 1814 in Moryntsi, a small village in Central Ukraine. His parents were serfs and therefore Taras was a serf by birth. At the age of eight, he received some lessons from the local Precentor or person who facilitated worshippers at the Church and was introduced to Ukrainian literature, the same way Malcolm X and Richard Wright learned to read and write while in prison. His childhood was miserable as the family was poor. Hard work and acute poverty ate up the lives of the family, and Tara’s mother died so soon when he was nine. His father remarried and the stepmother treated Taras very badly in a neurotic manner. Two years later, Taras’s father also passed away. Just in the same economic dint poverty ate up Karl Marx until the disease known us typhus killed her wife Jenny Westphelian Marx.
The 19th century Russian Empire was largely feudal, Saint Petersburg being the exception, just like the current Moscow. It was the door and the window to the West. Shevchenko’s timely and lucky break in life came when his erratic landlord left for Saint Petersburg, taking his treasured serf with him. Since, Taras had shown some merit and knack as a painter, his landlord sent him to informally learn painting with a master. It was fashionable and couth for a landlord to have a court painter in those days of Europe. However, sorrow had to build the bridges in that through his teacher, Shevchenko met other famous artists. Impressed by the artistic and literary merit of the young and honesty serf, they decided to raise money to buy his freedom out of serfdom. In 1838, Taras Shevchenko became a free man, a free Ukrainian and Free European.
As it goes the classical Marxist adage; freedom gives birth to creativity. It happened only two years later, Taras Shevchenko’s collection of poetry, Kobzar, was published, giving him instant fame like the Achebean bush fire in the harmattan wind. A kobzar is a Ukrainian string instrument and a bard who plays it is also known as a Kobzar. Taras Shevchenko also enjoyed some literary epiphany by coming to be known as Kobzar after the publication of his collection.
He was dutifully speaking of the plight of his people in his language, not only through music, but even poetry. However,  there were unfair and censuring restrictions in publishing books in Ukrainian. But lucky enough, the book had to be published outside Russia.

Shevchenko continued to write and paint without verve. Showing considerable merit in both. In 1845, he wrote ‘My Testament’ which is perhaps his oeuvre and best known work. In his poem, he begs the reader to bury him in his native Ukraine after he dies. Not in Russia. His immense love for the land of his birth is epitomized in these verses. Later, he wrote another memorable and compelling piece, ‘The Dream’, which expresses his dream of a day when all the serfs are free. When Ukraine will be free from Russia. Sadly, Taras Shevchenko came to his demise just a week before this dream was realized in 1861.
Chamara Sumanapala wrote in the Sirilanka Sunday Nation of 16 march 2014 that, Taras lived a free man until 1847 when he was arrested for being a member of a secret organization, Brotherhood of St Cyril and Methodius. He was imprisoned in Saint Petersburg and later banished as a private with the Russian military to Orenburg garrison. He was not to be allowed to read and paint, but his overseers hardly enforced this edict. After Czar Nicholas II died in 1855, he received a pardon in 1857, but was initially not allowed to return to Saint Petersburg. He was however, allowed to return to his native Ukraine. He returned to Saint Petersburg and died there on March 10, 1861, a day after his 47th birthday. Originally buried there, his remains were brought to Ukraine and buried in Kaniv, in a place now known as Taras Hill. The site became a symbol of Ukrainian nationalism. In 1978, an engineer named Oleksa Hirnyk burned himself in protest to what he called the suppression of Ukrainian history, language and culture by the Soviet authorities.
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
12 in the dark, I sit awake by the window,
Across from Hyde Park, and the feel of the wind oh,
Sparking a bark, Nana's remarking from below,
Canine matriarch against the boy with no shadow,
Time's flickering by and I begin to rust,
Consumed, I'm high with lust just for pixie dust,
But to fly you must be robust and adjust,
And I can't, though I try, I just look with disgust,
Sitting on the sill, I think of him mournfully,
Hard as I try, I can't think of him scornfully,
Despite the fact that he talks so informally,
He says my name and I know I was born to be,
Part of the family, I think of them nightly,
Tootles, the twins, Curly, Nibs and Slightly,
Second star to the right, it shines so brightly,
Hope he might come back if I ask politely,
He doesn't apologize, he's immature and he's cold,
Lives in a land without rules so he can't be controlled,
But as soon as I saw him I knew I'd struck green-gold,
Peter Pan is a joke that just never gets old,
Don't smile at crocodiles down in Neverland,
And if you hear a ticking clock, hope the ships are manned,
Because there's a high demand for the taste of pirate band,
And if you're not hooked by now then Hook'll tell you first hand,
I flew here like a bird in a night-dress, frilly,
Scared, trying to fight stress, skin like Chantilly,
Found Peter and I confess that the boy's my Achilles,
Now I'm a lost girl treading on Tiger Lillies,
Acorns and thimbles are my idea of 'bases',
And sword fights with pirates are my ***** chasers,
Watching the boys as they fly and admiring Peter Pan,
But he's the boy who can't love here in Neverland,
I wanted devotion, to marry men who were charming,
So I repressed, left my emotion, I left Peter Pan snarling,
My own species no longer, just a common starling,
Caged by age at my window, I'm Wendy Darling.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!
George Krokos Dec 2016
I told you back then what it would be like
but you never really believed me,
by ignoring our love's demanding hike
instead you just tried to deceive me.

I gave you everything you asked of me
and all that I could give was given,
but our love was blind it just didn't see
on that road ahead it was driven.

We tried to make amends along the way
and continued living together,
but our love's seeking of us every day
was heading towards stormy weather.

We were exhausted with ourselves it seemed
and became distanced from each other,
we would soon get to know what our love deemed
when starting to look for another.

We then drifted apart to seek elsewhere
and went our separate ways in life,
wondering who else our love would forswear
to find fulfilment as man and wife.

It would not be again for a long time
that our lives crossed paths in a strange way,
perhaps it was the right season or clime
when we saw each other on that day.

We smiled and greeted then informally
asking each other how we had been,
and how there of all places came to be
that place we had each other last seen.

It was in love forlorn two hearts were bare
and placed inextricably apart there.
______
A difficult poem and subject. Written in 2016.
L T Winter Sep 2014
She is snowless-shadows
Overseeing vagabond centuries
And her smoothness--

Defies halcyon moons
Her hoplite eyes,
Breaks my golem
Heart.

This figurine beauty
Curves informally
With tinder-cove
Allergies.

'You know'

In hanging hands.
Amitav Radiance Sep 2014
Idea ignited incredible ideology
Introduced informally interested innumerable
Idiosyncratic individuals, isolated, ignoring ideology
Wack Tastic Nov 2012
The cornflower blue fields rolled to the edge of the town,
Held lavender and sapphire incense,
Absent produce just steaming scents,
Nestled in a vast valley,
Between pillars of countless smokestacks,
Churning out great sleepy coughs,
There was a place of milk and honey active consistency,
Where the lulled townsfolk dawdled,
The corners of their eyes and mouths thinned,
Within passing minutes and shifts,
From one scape to the next,
Predetermined and provincial,
As the sleepy smoke rose so did the passengers,
After a long and tired trip,
Leveled, gathered, proceeded on,
The machine's hum ringing in the air,

Slowly the air moved,
The townspeople gathered in their huts,
They barricaded themselves inside,
Imprisoned their own lives,
Content to be slow and easy-going,
They feared the one,
The One that they dare not acknowledge,
He strolled informally,
Chaotically, they say, he once lived in the fields,
The one greeted the sleepy folk,
But they didn't trust him,
Once he had been like them,
Until one day the One looked around and became hysterical,

No one know what to do with the one so they ignored him,
Day after day turned into year after year,
Soon the blue mist that rose from the fields turned navy,
It dyed the walls and the machines and even the people,
They became statues of alabaster,
Seeming to move now only slightly each day,
The one became a blur,
An invisible spinning, chanting, living, teraphim,
The one had lived a thousand years,
In a comparable minute to the townsfolk,
He only hoped that he could help,
But they couldn't see him,
Their slumped eyes had grown accustomed to the dream.
Amelia Pearl Sep 2015
Till this day I still wonder why we don't make sense to eachother.
Our unending doubts with eachother caused us too much pain.
Our ego caused too much jealousy and sadness.

Was I supposed to look at you?
Was I supposed to stop on my tracks and lay eyes on such a perfect imperfection?
Was it supposed to be me or someone else?
I sometimes wonder what would I be now if I did not turn my head.

These months of challenges we face together.
This year if needed concentration on important exams.
Why did we meet this late?
Why can't you stay for another year?
So that I can know where exactly am I going with you.

But I realized.
You don't need another year.
This year is enough.
I've been in love with you for over a year and half of it we met so informally.

Rejections and lies that I seem to hold on to so dearly.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Why is my love stronger for you than anybody else?

I just need an explanation because you and I have such little time.
Either we are or we're not.
I fell for you first.
It's time you cut the rope or hold on to it.
Mitchell Feb 2013
We've taken our breaks
Yet we see we need our
Hearts to even speak

The medallions glow
As the naked pines shiver
Winter leaves us now

Crying through midnight
But were learning to care more
Hear that hard rain pour

Dark eyed skinny frantic you
Bitter for no one
But your worthy self

When we are apart
Nights fall the sun still rises
Love's hard everyday

Petals of rose halo
Angels echo out-of-tune
You smile so true

Saying that to pray
Is to say hello to voice
Unknown shadows glow

Growing never was
So hard, but do not mind pain
All's said can be done

Brushing up at night
Dreams are never as good as
When I am with you

For you are what's real
My dove in the burned' sky
So please do not cry

Life is hard for you
Other pains will be hard too
But smile through the blue

Mist on blue refrain
Setting moon ritual croon
Pouring soul for you

Dear feelings too true
That come in the cracked leaves of
Autumns boring death

How embarrassed I
Am to love you like I do
I hide within you

Feed me the hatred
Engulf me in betrayal
Father I am not

God! What a namely
Name that works informally
Lingering blank names

Do you like to be told
What to do in this free world?
NO NO NO NO NO

Scientific farts
That cannot help themselves from
Being Animal

Struggle over rocks
Of resembling forefather's
Their faces old numb

Too dumb to tell scotch
From water and *******
Joining wine for brunch

But back to present
To New York through telescope
Orleans, if so?

And our range has
No horizon if we will
It so in a wish

We will part for now
But we are always meeting
Spring our armor

I am forever
Falling through space heaven cloud
With you only you
Devon Brock Sep 2019
We got 6 bars and 6 churches,
each with similar congregations.
You might say we got that perfect
balance between grace and humiliation.

It doesn't end there, though.
We're run by a council of six,
if you include the mayor, Orin,
who lost the state election
because he couldn't represent
a cow if he had
crayons and construction paper.
He's got some creds,
if you take into account
he built a tractor museum
in a train depot
moved a half mile down
a minimum maintenance,
travel at your own risk road,
frequented by the hormonal.

But I digress. Oh yes,
we have a council of six,
each from one of the six
similar congregations,
each from one of the six
houses of libations.

However, every first Saturday,
they meet, informally so to speak,
under the torn tarp at Ernie's,
next to the beach volleyball pit
nobody uses, between the dumpsters
and the railroad tracks,
to discuss matters too urgent
for the formal published minutes.

They crinkle their Grain Bin cans
like phrenologists picking
out small crimes that paint
this town true, rural,
downwardly mobile,
cordoned off at the rim.

Few years back, they annexed
Bob Olson's back forty
for one helluva football complex
for our losing team. GO DRAGONS!
But we gotta have it.
Pay itself off in five years they said.
Rentals, events and all that claptrap.
Gloria walks her dogs on the track
everyday. Return on investment.
R O I.
At least she picks up the ****.

Third and Main got ripped up
a year ago last April.
Ain't been paved yet.
I suppose we're waiting
for those more appropriate
appropriations to accrue.

But that's alright,
we saved a fortune firing
our Andy and Barney PD
while Andy was in Afghanistan.
Don't know how they got away with it.
We get two hours of laws a day,
Deputy Dawgs, and meanwhile,
somebody's siphoning gas.
Pretty much sure it's that Keiser kid,
can't hold a job anyway.

I thought better of mowing the lawn today.
I looked at it a bit. Betty, across the street,
is giving me the side-eye as she sweeps
harvest dust from her shingles.
Well Bets, you fussbudget,
I'm working two jobs,
six days a week,
to live in this runt of a town,
so back the hell down.
You may be eighty and spry,
but you got five, count 'em five
courters with John Deere riders tending.

You see, here in the heartland,
where politic is a game played
with cheap beer and hard glances,
where the clapboard houses lose their paint,
where the new, polished surrounds
of seamless siding dictate appearance,
priority and expenditure,
where the churches and bars conspire
to define reputation and aspiration,
the manure-booted men
are denied the dignity of manure
for a sham - for a show
that barely covers the crust and wrinkles
of a town dying slow.
Onoma Nov 2014
...You don't have to come
anywhere near me...just
to dance our self-evidence.
I Am always dancing with
you informally...the
formalization of Our dance
is a realization Open to you...
pre-post-intellect.
Public opinion

Confusion reigns until his lordship explains
that our best interests are served by
remaining in service

no education for free for this
subject,
subject to decree from
her highness,
most royal majesty

Informally known as Lizzie.

His lordship is marking our card,
we must work very hard
get little pay
not too much noise
and
no *** on Sunday,

what a way to have to live
they take, take, take
and we try to live on
**** all
they live in a bigger hall
which still means **** all
to me.

I'm voting
one way or another
I'm voting

boring into the dead wood

Breadcrumbs.
I am Hansel and Gretel being
dead good.

Liz gets down to the business of queening,
cleaning the silverware'
getting rid of the peasants who get in her hair
tending to Phil
having her fill of kedgeree
and sod all for the likes of me,

She's off my Christmas list

if we were a republic

A peasant? revolting,
his lordship puts the boot in
but
the fault's in the system
we all need rewiring.

I'm going to Grimsby
that place will suit me
fish, chips and a
mug of tea
bye bye your majesty
don't wait up
I'll be home late.

Dilemmas may take the role to commit anything;
either an error; a mistake; finally in a sin ending;
May be it will end up in a discussion or in a debate;
Yet, you emotions will take up forward either to create
Or to motivate; or will come back as a subject of delicate;
With an intention by colleagues informally to recreate;
This will drive you towards an endless road of mishaps;
Or walk to cross the meadows of beautiful landscapes.  
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
williamsji@yahoo.com
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli­.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
From MICROTHEMES, a collection of short poems, written by WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
betterdays Apr 2016
framed in driftwood
we stand, gathered informally
standing on sand, at the waters edge
with blue sky and sun behind

father, mother, son.
zinced but still pinked
by the day, on the beach
smiling, carefree

intertwined by love
and history,
the gene pool, strong.
hair blonde and curly
the feet, long toed
and the clefting dimple
on chin, the slight turn of nose

we are held for posterity
together,
for this moment
of memory.
smiling, laughing, loving.

as the tide recedes,
as the sun sets,
as the sand is blown hither.

we will remain......family....
Napowrimo2016bd
Chase Elsner May 2016
Bang!!!!!
Another silent gunshot falls on deaf ears
Draining one man of his life and another of his humanity
It’s a good thing it was a fair trade

The theory of equity dictates that only objects of equal value can be traded
This is proven in the taking of a life

When a gun is fired the one who shoots loses himself inside the bullet
Putting his soul into the destruction of another
The soul is then used to cancel out the soul of another

A soul for a soul is fair
The theory of equity is not

Will’s theory of contract law is a theory that dictates a contract can be made if both parties agree
If one party is a gun and the other the shooter then a contract is offered
The offer consists of one party carrying a soul in order to decimate the shell of the holder
When its terms are carried out a soul and a squirming carcass are found broken like shards of crystals

A soul for a shell is fair
Will’s theory is not

The theory of an implied contract is that an agreement can be formed informally and swiftly where both parties understand the terms without them being expressly stated
If a person is involved in gang related activities then they know that when a rival gang appears no one will walk away
The offer is swift and signaled by one of the parties drawing the .45 caliber firearms and it is accepted when the other group fires

A gang for a gang is fair
Implied contracts are fair

It’s a shame life isn’t
The theory of life is that **** happens and you’re supposed to go on like nothing else matters
The theory of life is that we stand by as obligatory witnesses to events that destroy the people who we are and who we were
The theory of life is that no matter what happens we are not allowed to bend the rules around the only two truths that we have or will ever experience
The theory of life is that we will also have to live with the theory of death

Why is it that the theory of life is the same as the theory of death?
Because they are equitable they must be of equal value
Because we either breathe or not we have agreed to one
Because no one will explain what either one is, it is implied

The theory of life and death is that in the end there is nothing left
The theory of life and death is that you can exist freely in either
The theory of life and death is that you can never exist in both
The theory of life and death is that you are nothing if you’re seen from the other plane
The theory of life and death is that you are nothing

The truth of nothing is that we have no control
The truth of nothing is that we are nothing

Bang!!!!!
Another silent gunshot falls on deaf ears
Draining one man of his life and another of his humanity
It’s a good thing it was a fair trade
Amanda Mandez Jul 2016
A permanent commitment of growth
Strength knowledge and wisdom waxed and positively twisted into the main stream.

Unique & rare is what you are to society. Bold and brave is what you stand for.
A lioness leading this jungle like world, marking her presence to protect not harm.

Informally blindsided by you. You remain loyal to your pack as I roam searching to return to mine and be home.
(20 minute poetry)

Getting off on the wrong foot wearing odd socks and this is what knocks me for a six.

Can't concentrate in this narrow strait, too much shipping, feels like it's slipping away.

Only the coffee is hot today.

I cooled in the breeze of a Southern night to wake in the morning
cold and goose bumped

No cats on this tin roof.

It sorts itself out and I do too
on the wharf where the stevedores sing.

Plimsoll lines are fine if you're not wearing them, I wore
tropical palms and drank coconut milk for tea.

amusing myself by abusing the truth

no cats on this tin roof.

Informally normally but not always so  or so the thesaurus informs me and though centrally located I relate to the suburbs.

They call this the bullet as it pulls through the tunnels under the streets where you walk,
but they talk some **** don't they?

if it meant we could fly we would,
most hit the pavement wondering why
there are no cats on the tin roof

truth hurts more at thirty two feet per second per second.
dean evans Jan 2015
In dreams I think about this life, and my place upon this Earth
The most part being heart and mind, and soul for what it’s worth
The cosmos stretches far above, although my eyes can see
These thoughts that haunt my mind at times extend out…
endlessly.

Mentation turns to destiny to what the future holds
And back again to legacy, and the gifts I feel I must bestow
Upon those left behind me, to instill within their minds
When finally the Universe and I are gently intertwined

To think that I may one day see my spirit thus transversed
Against the awesome paradise where God and I, softly converse
To witness what this life has shown, that now is torn apart
Beguile anguished felicity, and so appease my tattered heart.

Although my hope remains suspect, that somehow hopeless dies
Far too many questions, too few answers to where comfort lies
Though I suppose simplicity awaits the ones who grieve
Patiently anticipating those who seek to so believe.

It seems I have no hope of prolonged years in soft repose
My eyes must blink you see... but I have seen, and I suppose
That time is just a cruel mirage shimmering, as light
Then pulls away and so reveals the truth of things, there…
In the night.

But still I dream about this life, and what awaits us all
When time and understanding finds us lost, what will we recall?
About these moments spent together, so informally
Listen… to the sound,
and the Whispers of Eternity.

Dean Evans
6-28-14
momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught entrapment also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men

     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
child bearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
     where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet

tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee

less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
i mean: i can sit for about two hours drinking cider:
strong cider... Weston's cider comes in at 8.2%:
but unlike the equivalent of a strong beer...
well... the stronger the cider is: the drier it is...
it's not as sweet as that Irish one or that Swedish
one... at around 5%... it's too sickly sweet...
the genius of a good bottle of cider is when it tries
to imitate the strength of wine...
but two hours... sifting through a wide range of music...
dark-wave, post-punk...
    new-wave... a return to daft punk:
    the best time i ever had was listening to some daft
punk while having rolled my first marijuana cigarette...
lying on the floor next to my bed in Edinburgh
and convulsing with laughter...
   i guess the better drug was the fact that i was alone...
but three bottles in and still nothing...
you can write anything if you can't tap into the music
you're listening to...
ergo?
    (a) i need to switch gears... drank the cider...
moved onto the whiskey... o.k., now i'm feeling something...
and (b) i need music i associate with a thrill...
the thrill of a crowd...
    what are two main songs stadiums play
just when they realise the people are flooding the stadium?
usually it's either right here right now
by fat boy slim or... it's faithless' insomnia:
or that other song... we come one...
    and that's the prompt... now i'm feeling something...
it's like... you've been arranging something
in your head for the past two yours...
then the music prompt: the dam breaks and out comes
a cascade of words...
you pull the rubber-string up to the moment where
it might snap... and then: release!

i was so lucky having sat through last night's
thunder and lightning storm...
it was glorious to watch...
   i always wanted to capture a photograph
of: the roots of the sky... those white streaks of...
i'm sure that fire speaks...
   you can hear fire speaking in the fireplace...
by the crackling of the wood...
you can hear water speak: by the sound of a rushing
river or the bashing over the waves
as it fights the element of ear...
you can hear the earth speak through earthquakes,
landslides...
hell: you can also hear water speak
   in an avalanche...
     but lightning... lightning is the fifth element...
isn't it?
               electricity is not exactly heat:
heat is the byproduct of electricity...
           electricity being the technical term for what
inspired man: or rather the second "Prometheus"
of Norse mythology... when Thor broke Odin's heart
and brought down lighting to the people...

you can read intellectuals, philosophers, poets...
journalists... it's about standing outside of all space and time...
electricity wasn't invented...
you can hear lightning... but at the same time:
i once saw a stroke of lightning... but didn't hear
the thunder... because i also didn't see or feel any rain fall...
i call that: taubtrockenblitz...
      deaf-dry-lightning...
            
                   i forget what i would want to go to the cinema...
if there was one... that showed old black & white
films from the 50s and the 60s...
better still: those early acrylic looking colour
films from the era of Technicolour...
          i was in a cinema last night...
           i felt like a demigod...
                  everyone in my vicinity was asleep while
i was sitting through a lightning and thunder storm
and rain drinking with a smile on my face
like i might have just discovered the continent of
America in a can of sardines!

oh the thunderous disgruntlement... the sky is hungry:
some words sound better in other languages...

burczy mi w brzuchu (my stomach is growling...
    stomach rumbling)... buRRRRczy...

what's a HABAN? or an OSIŁEK?
   a male... who's strong... well built...
i'd prefer the former term than the later...
since the latter is etymologically tied to donkey:
i.e. OSIOŁ...

there are plenty of other peoples...

  - but that's how it goes... i need a prompt: song...
and until i'm finished what i've started:
right here right now... is currently on repeat...
i can't concentrate my writing if i have
to listen to the entirety of an album...
just one song: on a loop...

         most of the time: it's just a piece of a song...
because i need to concentrate...
i need to relive an atmosphere...
associated with a song...
              the size of the crowd at Wembley
is the perfect example when this song comes on...
i'm usually bound to tapping to the rhythm with
my feet... or if i'm bound to a vicinity
of a railing: i'll be using my hands...

currently there's work to be done in the garden...
i have my "great wall of China" of kango
(i never thought that the origins
of the noun for this tool was in Japanese:
Chinese language - カンゴ...

    why the special status of the letter N
in Japanese?!
switching songs... from fat boy slim to daft punk's
robot rock...
the N stand-alone among the vowels...
the only time you can actual write the indefinite
article that is complicated with a word
that begins with a consonant... not this time round:
you wouldn't write: with an consonant...
with A... consonant...

                    that's a massive mistake...
the N is employed when the indefinite article
encounters a word that begins with a vowel:
you can say: a fox...
    but you can't say a aeroplane...
        you have to stress: aN aeroplane...
                it's like a divorce from the ancient world
of the diphthong of the vowels...
i know some modern diphthongs...
but they're consonant related...
  
in english... SH... that's a diphthong...
you could SH as you might couple CH:
you get sheep and chatter...
   subtle... the apparent surd "nature" of the H...
i ascribe it to the Hebrew deity...
or... is it the Zipporah way...
                   the Midian woman...
    from the known smiths... origins bound to Cain...

why then... the Japanese place such high esteem
for the consonant N?
that it's: this: ン - the only stand-alone consonant...
with the vowels

ア(a) イ(i) ウ(u) エ(e) オ(o)
ナ(na) ニ(ni) ヌ(nu) ネ(ne) ノ(no)
アン(an) イ­ン(in) ウン(un) エン(en) オン(on)


and it's almost like for the "first" time you
can write the Latin prefix un-
   and write the English word: on...
and in... and... an...
                    and... AIN...

アהイン

                  whatever the soph implies...
i'm not bothered...
i need one H as the vowel catcher and the other
H as the instigator of laughter...

the work in the garden isn't even finished...
from here to there: i feel like being undercut
in my labour working in Auschwitz...
but i enjoy it... it means i don't have to cycle...
plus...
i get to prep the most cut of steak meat...
if i **** up: cooking a piece of steak?
i'm toast...
medium rare...
two of them are thicker cut than the third...
three minutes one side...
nothing but sea salt and pepper...
three minutes one side... two minutes the other
side... max...
i don't cut up the garlic...
i crush it... i like bold pieces of garlic in my mouth:
pockets of garlic...
plenty of butter... fries from the ol' chippy from
Friday: kept well in the fridge... can reheat them...

but i can't doubly butcher this beef...
i can't eat it well done...
it's one thing being a Hindu and not eating
beef... but it's another...
eating beef steaks well done...
why not?! try the alternative option:
of roast pork?!
if you're eating a steak: you want all the juice!
i'm a great fan of steak tartar...
i need to order a bleu steak sometime...
see if the people serving me get it right...

so why is N so special in Japanese?
   her name is Anna...
       アンナ
                         it's almost like watching Muslims
pray... the segregation of women from men...
the vowels are the women and the consonants
are the men...
but it's not that easy as simply that...
since vowels are free-standing...
and most men are free-standing bachelors...  

there's work to be done in the garden...
today i shifted half a tone of soil from pint x
to point y...
  the skip is still waiting for next week's Tuesday...
sooner me performing manual labour
than going to the gym...
   another half a tonne moved by tomorrow...

but for the past months: three? four?
the bane of my existence...
   a smartphone...
with what i can only describe as a "disappearing" screen...

the bane of my "existence":
the disappearing act of half of my screen turning
black... i was supposed to check it out...
get it "fixed"...
oh wow... what's "this" flickering at the bottom
of it?
a deficient app? Samsung Pay...
it kept flickering and...
readily... eating away at my screen...
whenever it was something work
related i had to switch: flip.... left to right...
right to right... to find the entirety of the *******
keyboard...

what was "bothering" my smartphone...
it's like with the invention of the internet...
you sometimes get this one troll
that thinks it's... permitted: to talk to a stranger
informally...
without consequences...
that's what the internet was invented for?
this... anonymity cult?!
that's why the telephone was invented:
to make prank calls!

            three or so months with my smart-phone
screen being completely black-out...
i managed... only recently i noticed that flicker
of hope...
i have to solve this problem myself...
so this app: Samsung Pay was doing
all matters of haywire...
i wasn't using it...
but it was flickering...
like... bad recipes for advertisement at
Piccadilly Circus...
              strobe lightning:
zombie epileptics dropping dead...

    if i still hold sway on my bladder
or my pen... i'm good to go!

                            life is as much little as is required
for "things" not becoming enlarged...
life small is kept manageable...
i know my father is envious when it comes
to my "work": he hates the idea that i get
paid for seeing... Tyson Fury glance...
he didn't properly upper-cut Whyte...
he glanced him...
   and i get paid... for seeing the "history"...
he might be less jealous if i were a plumber...

today has become a terrible day to write:
anything...
   i want my liver splintering into
pain and... mollusks oozing pornographic juices...
i'm waiting for Saturday...
it's not that i even hate the people i work
with... they just like me...
which i find suspect...
             i rather be liked and find it suspicious
than... not being liked and not finding it
suspicious...
i don't even think it's related to being liked:
i think it's more related to:
                         whatever...
lose me in London... or Athens...
    i'd be perfectly alright...
i'd wreck Warsaw... i hate Warsaw...
i turn into a feral creature in that town...
          why? i'm always travelling through it...
i'm never going to... stop and admire something...

there's nothing in that city i want to admire...
i just want to get out!
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter

paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen

commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met

aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator

(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday,”
the other three hundred
and sixty five or six,
when leap year occurs,
especially Jewish mothers smother
also manifest courtesy
eldest sister or brother.

Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter

paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen

commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's embolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met

aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator

(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men
     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
     lionized, revered re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
für poesie
seinen widerlichen
lebenszweck:
seine autobiographie /

    for poetry
      his disgusting
      purpose in life:
      his autobiography

    (to borrow from
ernst jandl)

lazily: a thought
experiment -
    the front drive:
more like a patio...

deweeding
trimming the shrubs
and most certainly
armed with a hook
working at
the miniature canyons
in between the
brick-o-slabs...

chaos at first...
before i actually managed
to relieve myself
of a self-conscious body
and the prospect
of the other making
inquiry: which did happen
at the beginning of
the task...

   an old man with a grandson
passed me...
inquiring with delight:
you'd get this chore done
with a iron bristle brush:
what joy emanated
from his face as if i had
a promethean rather than
a mediocre attempt
at: boulder upon a hill...

in all honesty i was chaotic...
i could have attempted
at a systematic:
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓

i did get there in the end,
but at first it was more
like

↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔ ↔ ↘ ↔ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓      ↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↙ ↓ ↙
↓ ↓ ↓       ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↕
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↗ ↓ ↘ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔
↓ ↓ ↓ ↓ ↔    ↓ ↓ ↓ ↘ ↕

i wish it was a thought
experiment -
                 but...
before reaching a ******
of automation and a variation
of pristine methodology concerning
such a base posit of: use...
no... not talent...
              if i were a bricklayer...
hell! if i were a surgeon!
not today: not this life...

    but once the hedge trimmer was
out and hanzel und gretyl
was blasting in my earphones...
well... a running theme as
if borrowed from: texas chainsaw
massacre:
        just the odd chore outside
the house in full view of
a public in transit turned
into a would be horror flick...
but not really:
i tamed the self-conscious
body with a borrowed mind
and some sponges and
some electric fishy-things
of the oceans -
    
               by god: so much easier
to borrow snippets of life
for life from these
"mediocre" underachievers...
i agree: one might appreciate
focusing on a pillar or two
from the yawning aeons
of literature:
   but oh god: the crushing
ambition to go against
more than a status quo...
      
                       just a life where
i can live with myself:
that's enough...
   just a life where thinking can
relapse into the old truth
of narration for the limbs
to move with... synchronise
themselves with:
   i hardly think about literary
ambition: once a hard-on
now a burn-out...
   thinking of those days:
a litre of whiskey a night...

now a strict diet of circa 500kcal
of whiskey...
and what is a litre in kcal?
    2000 kcal... one can almost be
envious for ******* models
and champagne socialists...

    anything to let me
live with myself:
                   perhaps a way
to imitate some 20th century
dictator and how they
managed that incredulous feat...
because in my little
world of mediocre and
only being above average
with my 6ft2 posture...
    which is still pretty average...
no lungs to be a olympic swimmer...
no springboard
ambitions for a basketball player...

at best: self-deprecating
humour to sanitize me with
a blameless insanity...
                
   because i can tow long
a funny tickle of a day when
i reach a ******:
cut down on the whiskey
to only compensate cutting
down with three cigarettes -
and... some talking heads on
the headphones...
           is it safe? is it copping out?
burning with a fade...
well: simmering then...
the chemistry of metaphors
when fame is in play...
    it's such a terrible rouse...
unlike a fame of a plumber:
practical fame...
                    implying:
by reputation by the intricacies
of perfecting a trade...
by recommendation:
by excellence...

          nothing's ever excellent
about starting at poetry
afresh...
           it's not like:
         don quixote was a lightbulb
in that if don quixote was:
not-expected -
                         some would
argue... the lightbulb was
intrinsically seeking status of:
awaited-ness...

one "thing" led to another...
and that... the argument follows...
if it wasn't Edison...
then someone else would have
conjured up a lightbulb...
like that first and last eureka!
i guess:
no one went looking for
don quixote...
                or leopold bloom...
or mr. pickwick for that matter...

   poetry and gems...
of note of late?
       well... if it wasn't that i chored
over finnegans wake:
then...
      i would spare myself
with something
like fliegen eintag polyglott
              (oskar pastior)...
which pretty much reminds me
of having cross the european
continent only a month prior...
passing france, belgium,
holland, germany and ending
up somewhere
that teases Ukraine...
       wow! english is spoken
by the english!
not everyone speaks english!
it was obvious that
the french speak french...
less so concerning
the belgians and the dutch...
but that... germans are not
bilingual?! imagine my shock...

well... it's not really a shock...
it was a fake superstition
of tourism: which i never really
held... i just wanted to stand-on-pretend...
notably in germany...
i would think this lie and find
myself awe-struck: not all germans
speak english...
like the 20th century never happened...
i hardly think it was naive:
it was an evil joke for
the entertainment of one -
notably when we were stopped
at the Germany-Poland border
by the guards...
and asked in german and broken
polish (but not english)
whether we were smuggling
guns or drugs...
   or foreign currency...

     aghast... the german border
guards thinking it was necessary
to even search my wallet
to see how much spare change i had...
true story...
   it just so happens after enough
time has passed and someone
might ask: formally or informally...
'so, what have you been up to?'
my atypical reply is always
the same: 'nothing' / 'nothing much'...

perhaps i am writing a book...
but i hardly think i am...
    i am riddling a concept of bed...
i'm getting ready to lick
a stamp with this worded
doodle before i send a postcard
from the life of the believably living
to the filing cabinet of either
the Land of Nod or Nox:
wherever grand-grand-grand-grand-etc.-
father Cain has become
the reformed archetype of -
   returning to keeping buggies and
other parrots... something:
that sort of -esque.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
you'd never believe how certain
Polacks trolled the **** slogan

arbeit macht frei

until, of course, you hear it,
see it...

    wait for it...

              arbeit auszeichnen

and that is figuratively,
but also formally -

                   it might be literally,
informally...
    i.e.                 arbeit adeln / adelt...

and it means?
    
   work... ennobles...

   and yes, i have been hunting Jews,
sure as hell their influence in Russia
and Poland and the Ukraine
and Belarus has diminished,

and i'm pretty sure Yiddish has no longer
the influence it had,
as it did in Germany...

   so where, then?
the influence has become shrapnel,
unless you look closer...
atomized, you have to look into
linguistic more closely,
cryptically -
                            you have
to look at English through
             the tetragrammaton lens...
and this is not some conspiratorial
observation,
     some hidden Zionism theory...
nope...

      it's an observation, based upon:
where are the Jews most concentrated
these days, outside of the established
Israel? in the English language...

mind you...
                 i'm pretty sure the Yids
were the first to conjure up what i'm also
working on...
well... because why wouldn't you...
have a crypto-nationalism
when you already have a crypto-currency?

and you could have a globalized world
if everyone spoke their native tongue,
and a lingua franca -
                   yet since no one is exactly
sure which language is
   the lingua franca,
i.e.: is it English? is it German?
is it Russian? is it Spanish?
              is it Port-und-geese?
   is it Chinese?
                                is it Japanese?
is it Arabic?
                        people suddenly decided:
upon the Napoleonic maxim:
a man who speaks two languages is
worth two men
compared to a man who only speaks
one, who is worth a single man.

the allegiances are not that clear,
some of the Yids i've encountered see
Israel as a tourist destination rather
than a welcome revival of a, "home"...

                   me?
   too little of my childhood was spent
in Poland,
   and i've had a romance with Scotland...
but for practical reasons
i'm still living in my other romance,
which is England.
Evicting poison in this chemical. Irrelevance...
I'm a girl.
My many symptoms.
Shine example  lack of genitals
As evidence....
Its medicine. Thats meant to cut.
The confusion.
To a conclusion.
I'm inevitable going to get it cut..
The guy I want...
Will set us up...
Hes got ****. And love.
Lots of fun wont get enough...
If im actually swallowing
The letters spelled
In devils blood
Mom ***** dad. Dad had a ****
I got one that ******* actually settles it...
Its not the devil. Its my heavrns wish.
To solve these gender quips
Like **** boy...
Tuvk your ***** in
You'll scare away the feminists
Or eminem your **** is big
I dont pretend its that big
When I mention it
But staring off to space
Makes me wet and crave
A thought to mention it
If only my left 12 year old brain
Could pleasure it
I'd leave home.
**** my dad. 8 mile road
Us together yep...
******* I'm a boy
I'm confused whst ******* road is this...
Conforming to a stormy pattern
Of ignoring anything
They're ordering...
Smoking grass and bordering
Whats more to me
Than ***** dreams of you in mortal
Wounds with me torn between
Your ******* cranium.
And ghe way
You don't say bless you
Just ignore my sneeze..
Now you buy me presents...
Like I was never going to have you notice me...
Chocolates ugh disgusting they make me hofny so abnormally....
Its performing.. acts I shoulder lean...
I wanted Chris roan to notice me
But he loves something im without
You can perform the scene
Alone and we.
Forget it. I'm sore and sweet
Like **** this hurricane of enormity
And **** these tears form into poetry... im alone. The story seems.
I'm abnormally and disproportionately totally
Utterly and informally...
Requesting your attention...
Dress up. **** once I swsllow this
Cordially extend your mobile flex and text me... ill get a message if I'm meant to see...
Eventually... i guess ill be... left without a purpose....
A turtle for a shell... no cloister. Squirtle. Water pistol.. just my dads
Hand me down... squirt gun... ***** with a perfect circumcision... still no ****** identity or purpose...
This ain't right.. fix it first...
And get you search...
Your so **** worth it...
Morph and you'll be perfect...
Maybe not 8 mile wide but at least you'll scratch the surface
The South African,
And even at large the continental economy,
Is rough on bankers and economists alike,
It has become a hub for capitalist business,
Corrupt politicians sharing the spoils,
Coffers not safe
Left-overs given to criminals
And the crumbs for the citizens
Each party in cylo even in cylos
Even race has lost the race to poverty
The runner-up being unemployment
Local investment is not even in the race
People have lost their ability to govern their patience
Essentially the economy is ungovernable by policies
It has become artificially influenced by patterns and trends,
By globalisation
With the only investment being foreign
Whilst local resources and labour
Are being exploited
Even the world bank is alarmed by the 80/20 wealth proportionality ratio
Its all about economies of scale ,
Margins and bottomlines
Sometimes even tax is not profiting
Debt has captured even the debt-collectors,
And tax-practioners alike
Making it difficult even to debit creditors
Black-economic-empowerment struggling to break-even,
Making it a loss trajectory
Entertainment industry booming whilst tourism is strough
No recovery from fraud
Crime at its peak
The economy is reflecting its health status that there is no adequate intensive care,
And no unity,
Even in classes by educational wealth
Imports does not produce exports
Not to mention the ports-system
Cant even afford to pay attention to service delivery
Subsidy housing erected everyday,
And yet there is no adequate infrastructure
It is a tendering system
Informal industry petitioning to be formalised
Whilst formal sector is behaving informally
The supreme housing of policy we knew as the parliament has become
A magic circus
The show sold to the highest bidder
Whilst the reserve bank has a weak bladder
So many loopholes in the system,  
In constitution the economy has no scapegoat,
The agricultural industry is not alive,
Development is banked
When we do a post-honourous dissection,
We see natural disasters instead of manmade causes
After a hiatus of countless years
plus an additional
almost three months
since a major makeover,
(I experienced the magic
wrought courtesy
a bonafide big hearted
beautician at Salon Nova
located in beautiful
downtown Limerick, Pennsylvania

to render my straggly long hair
cut about twelve inches shorter),
whereby a mensch looked back at me,
a gorgeous reflection mirror reflection
yours truly returned to the mecca
Thomas Paine would feel right at home,
and surprisingly enough
a small number of attendees
at said name sake Unitarian Fellowship
nevertheless recognized me,

(and remembered my late mother
Harriet Harris,who passed away
twenty years ago come May 5th, 2025)
ushering yours truly courtesy older,
yet nevertheless familiar faces
while jesters tumbled and unrolled figurative
Scottish Tartan welcome mat
and provided a warm welcome.

As a small boy
parents of ours
(mine two siblings
included then and now,
an older and younger sister)
attended the Main Line Unitarian Church,
(a general hunch we regularly
made our appearance
at aforementioned site
during late 1960's early 1970's)
816 S Valley Forge Road, Devon, PA 19333,
when the then minister Mason McGinnis
facilitated the program.

Skads of decades,
née scores of years elapsed
since boyhood found me heading
(more accurately prodded),
thence shuttled to age appropriate classroom,
albeit informally structured learning environment.

Chronologically doddering oldest people
(such as fathers, mothers,
gray haired grandparents...)
plus young adults
bid their charges goodbye, albeit temporarily
as their younger kin got gently routed
to one out of quite numerous
ample size preschool/nursery room.

Infants, babies, young kids
i.e. most easily antsy, distracted, oblivious,
when days of our live young and restless
(unbeknownst to those recipients)
got their inchoate intellect sparked.

Their coerced, coddled (molly),
and coaxed... reluctance rewarded
(aside from with sweet treat)
courtesy lofty, mighty, nifty...
young rabbit ears raptly attuned
(most like a couple seconds maximum at most)
feigning listening at (iterated above)
Minister Mason McGinnis
who always gave rousing sermon.

If not him, perhaps a previously
scheduled guest speaker
enlightened, enhanced, enchanted... audience.

Nonetheless upon attaining mine prepubescence,
or thereabouts, (and most definitely
when yours truly crossed his horrendous,
perilous tumultuous wretched pubescent Rubicon
marking naturally ordained metamorphosis),
they abruptly ceased mandating
what both parents considered
(as well this middle aged son
recognized in retrospect –
cuz hindsight of mine always 20/20),
a golden opportunity to mingle,
and perhaps even (horrific as this reads)
befriend shy lads similar to yours truly.

I felt quite at home being attended, pacified,
pampered, and pulled up by bootstraps.

Without warning this baby boomer
invariably, suddenly felt shell shocked
and zapped courtesy post traumatic stress disorder
incurred while in utero.

Suddenly out of the blue,
paralyzing horror found this AARP eligible cardholder
aghast with fright as if scary
boogie woogie bugle boy monster mash
(with cooties) prowled premises on the lurch
to spring summat ploy.

Nightmarish visitations
while finding my religion
(crept along the edge of night
regarding dark shadows
from outer limits of twilight zone)
extolling virtues regarding return of native son
also witnessed me
being precariously hoisted,
and (analogous to dangling modifier)
suspended me in mid air by my own petard.

— The End —