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Raven Cloud Dec 2011
Knights clad in paper armor
Draw their pen-shaped swords
In preparation for battle
Against the dragon named Algebra

All year they've trained for this day
Poring over musty tomes
Filled with archaic battle plans
Entire armies have been lost
In the dangerous search
For the elusive variable called X

The informants A and B
Have consistently given
Inconsistent information
And the number line
Has completely deserted them

The numbers taunt the knights
Mocking their puny calculators
Confident in their unanswerable status

Yet one by one
The polynomials fall
The dragon bows it's head
The Knights have won the day.
Peanut Butter May 2015
[Intro: Quavo]
****, man. Brrrrtttttt
Hello?
What the hell you mean Ma? I ain't did ****!
****!

[Hook: Quavo]
Feds hit the spot man I ain't saying nothin
They came around about 5 o' clock this morning (12!)
They telling me I'm copping contraband from informants
Channel 2, Fox 5, I'm America's most wanted! (Ooh!)
Hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy
Hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy
Feds hit the spot say I'm copping from informants
Channel 2, Fox 5, I'm America's most wanted! (Ooh!)

[Verse 1: Quavo]
Yeah, yeah, Quavo
I pick up my **** and then hit the door (Oh ****! **** 12!)
Surrounding my house and they kick the door (Boom! Boom!)
"Don't move, get on the floor!" I hit the window and fell on the curb
I'm trying to get up and take off, the officer speared me, like Goldberg
Say "Where were you 3 o clock on the dot?" "My Momma's house" "You a ******* liar"
Have you heard about your new worker? (Nah) Know I put him in your circle
I witnessed you purchase the pound (nuh uh)
I witnessed you purchase the brown (no you didn't)
I witnessed you purchase the white (no!)
Say goodnight down the road for a long flight

[Hook]

[Verse 2: Takeoff]
Hot Boy like Silkk the Shocker, pull up on your blocka with the Waka Flocka
Momma hit me on my cellular told me that Quavo got caught by the coppers (****!)
They say they've been investigating and Migo gang we connected with the mobsters (Huh?)
Can't talk to you ****** my lawyer talk. **** the prosecutor Mr. Marcus
****! Lookin out of my window, I see a black truck and it's empty
Walk to the door check the peephole (what that is man?)
Then I start hearing a noise and it makes me paranoid (****!)
Thinking what the **** is going on? (What the ****?)
All of these tools like it's Autozone
If I get caught I ain't coming home (No!)

[Hook]

[Verse 3: Offset]
Offset!
They said that I sold to informants
I told them I just got off touring
They circle my house like an orbit (****!)
He telling me he gon extort me (huh?)
50% of my income, unfortunately he not gon get none
Life sentence or freedom so pick one
**** ***** you trying the wrong one (**** *****)
Quavo call my phone, his spot got raided it just got kicked in
We all met up in the Westin
Who know what the **** going on it ain't making sense (who know?)
The police talking they got evidence
I told you ****** bout serving them Mexicans (I told you ******!)
****! There go 12 (****!)
I picked up my **** and I moved out the residence

[Hook]
i lovwe youtoo much yo let you gof
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.
Reece Jun 2014
Try and picture something different, to what's behind the window
When the sun rose, rosy-fingered that morning
summer solstice sing-a-long, kids playing, garden gatherings
Even when the clouds gather, same scenes, new ambiance
That nostalgic smell of rain on the concrete, and you think of family
the old summer days, in Nana's back garden (and the one holiday you vaguely remember but only that smell, and the sound of wood pigeons)
So you lay on the freshly made bed in some kind of silence
And you try to sleep but it's tiring
then you start to cry and the only explanation is that you accidentally thought about your father at work and somehow that made you sad
But, and so, you wipe away the tears and sit back at the vacant desk
Gazing at the faded screen
and you log into OkCupid and scroll through an impossible list of beautiful people with interesting lives and you close the window and you close the windows
Standing there gazing through the wan window (wile old Wilde) and a bright yellow helicopter flies by to some emergency rescue and you turn away and think about your thoughts until you think you thought too much but realise you thought too little about the thoughts that matter
And you stop for a second and turn on some music but ten thousand songs is overwhelming and you turn back to the window
and the rain is easing

Your brother slams his bedroom door and tries to sleep but the light from the Xbox is enticing and so he turns on the laptop
YouTube is endlessly entertaining to a child, he messages friends between videos of people playing video games
and so his friends come online and the Xbox gets a workout if the children don't
Hours pass and the sun hides behind a sandstone structure
Snoring from the next room, where you have succumb to the loneliness of the window
You brother never sleeps, there's no time
Besides, the room is too hot and summer nights are cruel
So the window stays closed, keep the bugs away
Heavy curtains crouch on the bed and hide the seasons, hide the passing nights, hide reality

It's midnight on the street below the window and an infant is crawling on cigarette butts thinking no thoughts
There's an agent on the corner that works for the Eye, and he's watching the windows
So cars pass intermittently and kick steam from the day's rainfall into the face of homeless kids that play football all night, like so many sun drenched favelas at the rocking equator
Drunken men stumble home and **** light posts and letterboxes, collapsing on themselves before the wrong front door

But, and so, anyway the birds rise early in the summer
and the streets are dried in promising dawn light
The drunken men re-adjust their ties and head to work
and the children all fall quiet, hidden from informants
when they should be at school but instead hang around corner shops
and tell pensioners to buy them ***** and Amber Leaf
The sleeping depressed wake and make cheese on toast
fall down the stairs and sleep in a sticky heap by the letterbox
and these lives continue on ever more
but that's just what the window saw
Mitchell Sep 2012
Upscale informants the Hats
Colored black with neck break
Speed colored sand with Heavy
Metal helmet tendencies nonsense
Rent being too high for love or
Life files in minds of man and women
In near to death relations that push
Their souls to a break point still birth

Addiction to laughing near you and
By you where the black is a class that
Annoys penetrates informs tells all
The magazines a burning in their racks
As the clouds spheres make the near to
Them closer to them the hot suit with
The restaurant girl in the ***** jean pants
Makes you turn your head guilt leans
On your temples and up there in the rafters
The ceiling is no longer - each baseball of the
Bell has its so and how about you and I go
For a ride that neither of us will come back from?

The fact of that of being alright will make Peter
Wince because the leak inside the bed of theirs
Will take us to a place whose soot is red and
Whose boots are covered in a mud that will be
Impossible to get off let the apology tear through
Fabrics in speechlessness marooned on each desert
Palms waving in the near sighted pirates of myth let
Me not make my soul a fool but my own body in mourning

I grew up too early or I grew up in the sheets
Of a place that were not my own home childhood
Is wavy like the heat strokes upon the highway
Dust settling on the dining chairs of forgotten families
Their picture frames cracked from lack of love and too
Much sun, the bushes outside wave back and forth from
A warm wind and a whisper that starts at the closet,
Trembles toward the trenches of the World War I dead and
Onward ongoing and unknown to where the weird work
For pennies without faces making them worth nothing

Here the lazy learn that life doesn't a give a **** about them
In turn their eyes collide corode from unpolished moonlight
Lain in graves un-watered and uncared for by the undertaker's
Son so soon He was forgotten by a broken family near to death
For the money was just never coming in the sunlight no longer
Favored their breathing nor their eyesight nor their feet that
Were always walking, working, and fretting over things they
Just couldn't control the cold never left them, only when they died
Were they allowed the fortune of rest, though they did not feel
It whence it came for the dead feel nothing, for the dead feel nothing ever,
For the dead feel nothing when the time has come for them to be

Heat exhausts itself like we do like humans do like people try not to
Effort affronts reverses the hill steep in incline reminds all who accept
Death's challenge snowfall makes the means to the end possible, justified
Benches wooden in their making remind me as I climb where the stuff
Comes from so in the chimes the monks bow their heads, never once
Thinking of women, or drink, or work, or food, or what despair life has
Thrown at them, they seem to only think of their God and the slow, vibrating
Hum of their vocal chords and their breath that journeys through their body
Like their life did through the world once like all of ours has done as well that
Magic wet with the tears of the forgiven youth at the jailhouse or the grieving
Murderer who was never caught but whose guilt and remorse weighs down
Their soul until the final call is made or the final toss out into the gutter from a
Bar who knows what they are, alone now with only their deed in life that has
No feeling of reward or satisfaction, only emptiness with a dream no longer with face

I hear the echoes

They taste
Metallic and golden

Like icicles of the
First rays of Fall sunlight
Through cracked translucent leaves
Chilled with a foreign wind
That is still with a sameness I
Would only associate with
A home drenched with
Childhood memories turned recollections

How the world
Turns and turns

Yet all seems the
Same everywhere

Without
Restrictions

Shackled
No more

With
Past
Present or
Future

None are
Young or
Old or
Growing Old

All
As they are

For as long
As they wish

To Be.

In Dreams,
In Dreams,

We Dream
Of But Only

One Dream
Ston Poet Dec 2015
Young Ston *****, The young ****** Disciple, (keep ya eyes peeled, dawg2)..Keep yo eyes peeled. Uhh..Keep yo eyes open (at all times2)..Keep ya eyes peeled dawg, Aye..Keep yo eyes open (at all times2)..Yo

I'm trying get outta this struggle I been in for so long dawg, I gotta put that work in tho, I gotta work hard dawg, I gotta get up off my *** & I gotta go out & get it for show , & (Imma  go hard
3)..(these demons won't stop me2)..Uhh, (gotta keep yo eyes peeled dawg2)...yo, these ****** & ******* (will cross you2)..So you gotta keep ya eyes open (at all times2)...you (gotta keep yo eyes peeled dawg2)..Yeah (keep yo eyes peeled dawg2)..these ***** ******.. (They plotting2)..these ***** *******..(stay stalking2)..so keep yo eyes open (at all times2)..gotta (keep yo eyes peeled dawg3)..(Yeah2)..Keep yo eyes open (at all times2)
(keep yo eyes peeled2)..Yo

My eyes peeled at all times man,yo Cuhz, its alot of evil out here that wanna take control of me but I won't let em, I got the remote control homie,no Adam ******* but I push my own buttons mane, I gotta keep praying up to God constantly daily mane, (God got me
2)..God got the whole family, OFTR mane, ***** we all eating ***** we straight, (Aye2)..I gotta keep my eyes peeled mane, I gotta keep my eyes open at all times no sleep..

The government dun made me a target now mane.., so I gotta keep my eyes open, & ears clean dude..Uhh, gotta keep my eyes peeled homie these ***** ****** fear me, & they hate on me so much, they so scared of me dawg, Imma weapon of mass destruction mane, I'm more dangerous than the wilderness, I'm more dangerous than a nuclear bomb mane, Yeah Imma terrorist, A extremist, A fanatic, I'm so radical, Yeah man I'm starting a revolution up soon so beware, America ..
Aye my goon ******  don't be scared just join  wit me & let's have some fun ******* **** up, dude,..

(Aye I gotta keep my eyes peeled
2)...gotta keep my eyes open at all times now man.., Yeah, gotta keep my eyes peeled all day everyday, gotta keep my eyes peeled mane these ******* just want (my cake2)..they just wanna (take2)..untill I'm broke again, Shawty,.. Uhh, put a rubber on young ***** don't  be stupid, think wiser & smarter, I don't care how good the ***** looks mane, If you don't play yo cards right then there will be problems,Aye..real talk dawg

& Watch who you hang around Cuhz, these ****** is undercover cops Yeah..They snitching, Yeah them **** Informants be out here looking for trouble, so you better watch who you buy drugs from, &  watch who you talking on the phone wit too partner, Cuhz the FBI, is bugging all of us  Yeah, but **** em we still thugging..we still rebels no matter what..OFTR Yeah..Uhh

These racist cops keep killing my brothers , these busters , they don't give a **** about taking food outta a childs mouth..*******..
So you better keep yo eyes peeled dawg, Yeah (watch out..2)

My young ***** stay on the long narrow route, Yeah it's gonna be alot of times when you feel depressed sad & impatient, just keep waiting, but while you waiting hustle smater not harder & keep scheming dawg,..Yeah..
Aye gotta (keep yo eyes peeled dawg
2)..yeah its alot of  evil (out here2)..that will cross ya,..Uhh, so (keep yo eyes peeled dawg2)..keep yo eyes open (at all times2)..Cuhz, these demons out here will cross ya..yep..they will cross you..(Ohh2)...Uhh

Gotta (keep yo eyes peeled dawg2)!/its alot of haters out here , **** they will even try infiltrating in yo squad..so watch out ..Uhh , (you better watch out2)..who rolling the blunt up too, they might lace that **** dawg, these ******* so jealous, they mad for nothing , man **** they might even try to first 48 yo ***, I'm just spitting game man, You gotta keep watch out, you gotta (keep yo eyes peeled2)..my *****, Cuhz..Imma say a prayer for all of the (real ******2)....Psalm 23: verse 4..Uhh


Even though we walk through the darkest valley, we will fear no evil, for The Heavenly Father is with us all, Jesus Christ is our protector & our saviour, his rod & staff comfort us..Amen.

OFTR keep yo eyes open..
Keep yo eyes peeled up in these streets mane..Aye
I gotta keep my eyes peeled homie,
I know these busters our here (wanna **** me*3)..
Aye
stonpoet.tumblr.com
Zywa Jul 2019
The envoys of Athens
in their comfortable carriages
democratically stripped of finery

are dignified by the inability
to make a decision, divided
by all the nuances of reason

They'll have to wait
because we don't have any news
from our informants yet

We sprinkle the goat
with lukewarm water, it does not shiver
so the god will not speak

until the stars are right again
and we are informed
about the politics of the monarchs

We save expenses nor pains
We are the dedicated priests
of a notable consulting business
The impotence of democracy

The priests of the Oracle of Delphi

Collection “Secrets & Believers”
How important knowledge is, north is south when west is east.
In frenetic use of ease, when lines are dispersed by incorrect use of these.
Meaning knowledge can be news, when news are new and they inform.
When plastic's gold and this is news.

How important knowledge can be, inflated news, so overrated.
Streets inform, informants guard.
And useless thoughts, they are all useless.
In the useless world, where everything is news.
Sameer Denzi Oct 2014
Your 'Top TRP' news team has just learnt that
A consortium of fanatics and hypocrites now claim
That the proprietorship of 'God' is now with them
And will spew hatred on anyone disobeying them.

Our unnameable “reliable” sources tell us that
Anyone desiring to worship 'God' “more perfectly,”
Henceforth, must follow their rules quite strictly
Or floggings will be handed out quite promptly.

Our brave insider informants have divulged that
At last have awaken our pious priests and scholars
To discuss these “disturbing new developments;”
But they're upset most about lost revenue streams.

The atheists were seen rejoicing and saying that
There is no need any more, “for us to self-promote
While our competitors repeatedly self-mutilate.”

But have they forgotten, Stalin also preached hate?

Our unquestionably reliable survey tells us that
We are angry, sad, glad, disgusted and also clueless
In roughly equal measure. But most are just curious:
“How all this bla-bla will effect commodity prices?”

There was however, an 'odd' man who said that
God is Love and God does not hate. Will turn to rust
He who chooses hate. *“Not in someone's deep pocket
Will I find God. But God I'll find, always in my heart.”
A plague that has infected religions past and religions present.
absinthe Jan 2017
feeling burdened—it tends to happen
particularly when meddling impressions run rampant
swarm circles in my hefty head, ignore the next exit ramp, and
let devils' advocates covet the cove i donned my dome once upon never

although i know this may be chalked up to intelligence
and subsequent ignorant claims that swear it's heaven sent
i swear it’s not for me. so tell all the hell-bent docents to leave
and let live my cognizance dim—to do what i can’t. to let it be.

it is what it is
and what it is
is it’s
excessive

i don’t need no informants
playing mentee won’t mend me
i’m torn sufficiently
far as i can see, it seems

don’t mentor she who beseeches
by way of screams and screeches
me and my strings are beat
by ****** and needless needles’
stitches and ventures heedless

i’m piecing my torn fabric
it’s grown so thick
it’s a feat, recognition
when simple addition alters
fact into fabrication

like my elation
in inebriation
guards sorrow
from knocking at my door
knocks my guard down
and has me floored

it hits my inhibition too
and i’m home-free
no guilt signaling
and i pull singles
i switch with tickets
i use to ticket my skin

no appointment
nor disappointment
walking in walk-in clinics
and sketchy shops
flickering the light
it sheds on both
my faces. i can face them
only with this double vision

i watch mark
as his sketches mark me
like stretch marks,
remarkably

in hopes of realizing on the double
the vision i envision into reality
he lets me let him put his hands on me
seemingly steadily
and we feel as our arms stretch

he draws me in
fills me ink
and vibrant me pends
his vibrating steel
and sharp pens
as they liven
my limp existence
reincarnating me instantly  

after sweet sleep
i wake bitter for some reason
feel dull but also sharp-ied
peeping the nonsense i let seep steeply
into my skin last night when i was peaking

now i can reminisce
on the pain of squirming
wallow over it instead, and
not the overflown gore of streams

and catastrophic waterfalls
that break through my largest *****'s walls
they leave what makes me, me,
with breakthroughs of which it can only dream

if only i can fall like the tears asleep
that crash and wave and overshadow my role
in turn leaving without desire
to turn over no stone
nor use any for stepping on
like the ones more close to normal
do coax

i do it all wrong
like they did me
i walk on coal
though from here
it appears
as though i'm an anomaly
only my sole seethes

when on the rocks
my walker, he makes me so strong
he lets me drink him from dusk to dawn  
he says he’d **** for me from here on
i love how foreign i am to him like heron

not the bird though it’s true
us three often see hues blue
we soar blue skies when our hearts fume blue
and they feel too sore like brews do
when they're too soft to heal each bruise or
make room for pain to grow and strength to bloom
so i walk on water as walker

kills me
he’s to die for
imploring in notes low
that i not stop, so i hop on
and once it’s well thought over
he can tell
overthinking’s my problem

i stand alone in the corner,
my core knows
all my o’s and woes
can be all gone
once one o centerfolds corner
and in comes the
coroner

who walks and rear-ends me
and e-r lose hope and leave me
when he cores me from his soul
and i let my breath roam

but he sends me
soaring over the moon
soon as he shows how he listens
and soon we both know
blinding luminescence

my eyes when they glisten
make all my mourning go missing
like the overthinking overkill
i hit when morning rays missile

and he curtails them at curtains
blacker than the blacklist
my man drenched
my nemesis in
deep sleep
with the fishes  

eventually, however
again and against my will, i endeavor
on reading the biography i penned
block my own writing
and let writers block lock me in
i get stuck on the same page
thought no force impedes
the power i home in my palms
nor my thumb's ability to thumb
through the page
yet i somehow flip it
and become my own victim

i did it.
it tells the history of tears
now extinct due to me overbearing
leading to drainage that came as
the very last bead beat me
for forbidding fibs
and calling dibs on *******

still, ringing in my ears
leaks empathy
for crocodile tears
trickling
as they salivate
over their next meal,
me

i swallow my tongue
not realizing fully
i’d just had my last meal
because they consumed me
quietly
with quibbles
and plots of consuming me
openly

ignorance is less so whats lacks
and with no inkling of doubt
worse in terms of that
which the mind keeps
then refuses to release
when need be
hence: me

after i head over
obvious traps
i let flash
atop my head

like clouds overcast
i’m convinced i tripped
on my own heels
like thunder that strikes
one man down twice
out of spite

but in spite
of everything, now that i know,
my eyes and i are drained no more
see, we’ve ever since grown more so
and metamorphosed
beyond words morbid

like those i anticipate
my gravestone
will go on
to hold

this is the reality of being kept cold-cut as meat
that heads *******, idiots, dunces, cons, and so on
those who bring forth obstacles that spurt in growth
inch by inch quicker than their thickening skulls

each time
the sage i pick thinks
my life needs spicing up, either
my screams of agony are mistaken
and my inseams nipped at the bud

or my spirits appear uplifted
and mistaken are my sorrow-filled tears
with joy-plagued wails,
each time
deep-seated sage seeds **** my green

lord knows that while i understand—to some degree
the world can’t come close or know what brews
in the disorganized chaos that is me intrinsically
i don’t fib when i allege that my angle isn’t deceit

nor right, necessarily
just dense as these
basins, wrinkles and dents
my tense cortex insists on heaving  

it would be obtuse of me
to anticipate that anybody
would watch my back
if not mine and me

it's all only a tactic
and i may feign obliviousness
to support this spinelessness
and keep it all in tact

insects fester
i feel each tentacle
extend incessantly
like these rants

they all ax my lumbar
no one's barred from my club
lumberjacks and jack’s slumber
i only lust after the latter

and jack's not all bad
he’s why my caps rested
soon as he hands it to me,
expressing the extent to which

i impress him
granted
my hands-off approach
that manages
to get hard jobs done
better than jills before

he’s a mild nuisance
when one of us isn’t speaking
but he promotes my irritability
with his attempts at weaving
our fingers together

it offends me
and all i long for
is knocking him out
like him and my neck's heart

or my kneecaps’ kneepads
the cap that’s my hat
can at last roll fast,
though no one should ask

i can’t say if i’m ok
jack ko’d my voice box
and i feel highjacked
but i insist, they insist
on the charm of the third

one i get him
like the lights, off,
that’s when i go on to hop off
tip toe off his tip top to get off
on the silence my mind writes off

none of it matters to me
mankind ramps up my love for luxury
the ivory warmth Mr. Browns rain
all over my cold windshield
puts me where i love to be

without them,
antidepressants
would depress and hail on
but their chocolate depressants
elevate me and i hail mary
when they hail hope on me
and i'm newly merry

when it’s all over,
i seek refuge and rush down
and on to the one and only John
where rest can be found
he’s bold as kohl and cold
as his marble floors call for

it's he who keeps my thoughts snowed in
and spares my teeth cracks no dentures can fix
suppresses my urge to purge like Snowden honing in
on how not one man cares less for one careless node in
systems nor the cancerous danger of no protests nor dents

it’s tasteless, the rice that is humanity
so i dine solitarily
in solemn grief
seeing the uselessness we
as crumbs and morsels have come to be

individuals in division
invincible in coalescence
bound to form solid solidarity
likely as the moment

satan and saint agree
to raise their satin
black and white flags,
respectively

to enwrap
two into
one
fabric. silky, smooth, seamless
as is the cocoon
          i once was foolish enough to assume
    would secure the very same wholesome skin
                         it would later go on
to help me consume.

cannibalism.
Words will be written.
Thoughts will be told,
Information put forward.
Dreams bought and sold.

Tales of Inspiration.
Gutter-trash news.
Chaotic Information.
Informants ruse.

Politicians false pledge
Juggling board
Politics on the edge.
Should they fall on their sword?

Do they never blunder?
This Pie-crust elite
Information to wonder
While they're dragging their feet.

Our earth, our nation
With over fished ocean.
De-forestation.
No sun without lotion.

Extinction of the wild
The draining of fuel
No food for a child
The greed of the cruel.

This world where we live,
Earthquake and Tsunami
Have we nothing to give,
terrorised from the sea.

Maybe acid filled rain
don't forget Global-Warming
Is this world that we drain
perhaps giving a Warning.
3rd August 2011 Posted Aug 25th 2014 © Copyright Christopher K Bayliss 2014.
Mikey Jha Apr 2014
We have against all odds arrived at home, Monroe had said.

Inman did not consider himself to be a superstitious person, but he did believe that there is a world invisible to us. He no longer thought of that world as heaven, nor did he still think that we get to go there when we die. Those teachings had been burned away.

At the time, it was a sentiment Ada took with a great deal of skepticism.
All of their Charleston friends had expressed the opinion that the mountain region was a heathenish part of creation . . . Ada’s informants had claimed the mountaineers to be but one step more advanced in their manner of living than tribes of vagrant savages.

He had grown so used to seeing death . . . that it seemed no longer dark and mysterious. He feared his heart had been touched by the fire so often he might never make a civilian again.
But he could not abide by a universe composed only of what he could see, especially when it was so frequently foul.

Ada believed she would ***** towers on the ridge marking the south and north points of the sun’s annual swing. . . . Keeping track of such a thing would place a person, would be a way of saying, You are here, in this one station, now. It would be an answer to the question, Where am I?

We have against all odds arrived at home.

But what the wisdom of the ages says is that we do well not to grieve on and on. And those old ones knew a thing or two and had some truth to tell. . . . You’re left with only your scars to mark the void. All you can choose to do is go on or not. But if you go on, it’s knowing you carry your scars with you.
Found Poem. Pieced together phrases from the book.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
a. seriously! b. but seriously what? what, can't death be faked with amiable limbs and you still will be pressing for a sickness in the realm of psychiatry, you playing a double-irish game with me? oh how i began loving to hate people.*

in secular society, everyone thinks
they've been educated in psychology,
and are qualified to prescribe
medication, when in fact they're just
pathetic informants of deviation that
could easily pass, should the one concerned
by a homosexual: well! my *** is ready!
come on!
Viren Parakrama Oct 2020
I will speak interms of confusing metaphors and allegorical descriptors
for You will never know what I mean,
and I will never know what I mean,
all You and I will ever know is what is said

Beyond that thou art which is not
Who I am and what I am is anybody's guess,
Where I am is in poetry,
when I am is poetry
How and why I am is a poet.
an artist chosen by this art

A puppet of words that string me along,
That dangle my reflection on the scene.

and What's this scene?
The dream of this stage, an age to redeem this day, this momentary cage of sound and phonetics, playing on the morphemes, that sort these informants into proteins that fire the works of this neural chemistry.

A cosmic tapestry... And I've lost the plot of this pointless exercise in passing the time as I pass this chime down to the last rhyme.
With no point but a line, a single continuous line that's only sometimes audible.
With no beginning and no end but always a middle.
A halfway mark between now and then

Half and half all the way to infinity,
Trapped in this trinity plus one.
The subject, the object and the verb plus all the fillers in between,
Adding the jective into obviously obnoxious obstancy.

Abstracting words from subtracting the colors of birds...
Man I really don't know when to stop.
Nor does he, when he spots the plot that keeps the inserting eye from searching the skys to admiring this fly.
Zipping in and out of space, never able to pin it down between his chopsticks.
So maybe I should stop this
Right here, left now and take flight,
Tata bye.
Ken Pepiton Mar 6
{strange to feel so understood
strange that I am not alone}
{{https://hellopoetry.com/cielnoir/}}

Walking out of sleep, into
-- noonday sun
-- post atmospheric river
-- deep gray-purple days past
editreadyreaderprepresent-tensing

noise directed traffic, trending
psy-sci-psilliness dissing

ontological first thoughts, first
stretch, and last yawn,

seeing some connection from
former time to formations now
serving purposes proposed as ifs.

If duty calls us, and we have ears
discerning us as those called, hearers,

saying nothing, listening -
acknowledging life, itself, is not ours,
not experienced alone, ever, after we

agree to merge ourselves into me,
the leader, left-foot first, marching
ants selecting territory to sift for worth,
ax-el-
what good can I find to do, in response
to differentiation, feel the touch of other,
bump spring gentle
level speed to fills and tunnels

others, advisors, certified professional
advisors of the unfinished, unpolished

ones, you and me, creatures of literal

evanescence, perhaps never appearing,
glimpsed as in a zen riddle, popped
when a country kid asks who
tamed the bull… the ox

yes, I see, says the country kid,
I understand, you think oxen are
natural, that limits your wisdom.
-----------------
But of the tree of the knowledge
of good and evil,
thou shalt not eat of it:
for in the day that thou eatest thereof
thou shalt surely die.

Now, hear this, as a stranger in that garden.

Make up a mind that may as well imagine
having access to this single window lens,
in a fly's eye/

see me see you, sit tight. Bee, alright,
flea'ld be okeh by me, ye'll see,

what ever two or more of my kind agree, we be.
'pon acknowledging

the reality of energy, and us being, small,
upto a point.

We break the wave function and drift, pointless

reasons for the faith we take as granted, we think

we have a full portion, rationally, fair share, we think.

But few are free to find time to take words as power.

We agree we means primary person acting as one,
in the spirit form we form as we read, and write,

and hope to hold
the gentlest wind in our fists, as we expand
as breaths, and breathers, nameless alienated minds,

cohere, at once, each point possible,
once…

------------------


Old Jobe, and me,
we considered the works of God,
we saw all the noise and storming

contenders for worth of your loyal
adherence to a plan from a committee,

a party platform, from which leaders,
may stand and look into tomorrow's

victory over all wrong thinkers, leading
away from the best way for all of us,
we, the part-takers in policies of common
wealth taken from the losers to use

for the betterment of all mankind,
losers included, of course, abort no

unwanted child, let society eat them alive.

------------------

Rush to publish, shush nidicolous muse,
Peace awaits inpatient perfecting grace

- long form war, for goodness sake,
- so simple a child can participate,
- the game of life under standing
- constituted authorities established,
Under God, by God, and you
you,
good citizen had better believe we've
GOT GOD, and the entire dairy industry
on our right side, and our enemies,
on our left side, we are destined
to rule over, as gold over silver,

and plutonium ove' all.
Y'all'd know if I lied.
Some ideas are poison,
some are radioactively poisoning,

as life imitates art, foul miasmatics, sniff.

Uric acid industries, good side hustle,
set pots to **** in behind the pub,
public minds congregate to process,
fermented bread purified water,
into precursors for alchemists.

It was a profitable enterprize.
Vertical integration, however…

even then, there were regulators.

Identity, registered voter,
have you read your party's rules for us.

What must we hold true to trust
the committee of good for us reasoners?

Whereas, conjunctive fact fixer, that said,

It being the fact that; inasmuch as.
While at the same time.
While on the contrary…
------------------
Rushing to  betterment, settling
for plenty good enough, betting

on welfare shared by knowing users
of the tools we used
to build the channels of commerce
and learning used to make living easier

inventing means of exchange, symbolic
worth determinants, worth of cows
after…

blah… no mas.

---------------
measure for measure, reassure me,
nidicolous commiseration,
promi-sorry noted aliegiance
conserved determined formal
arrangement of shared woe and weal
- we authorize these changes, we think.
let us imagine, set an image of our wedom,
we… the ready readers granted all meaningful
words ever read by our massively parallel process

of gaining means to branch out and make shade.

Trees, Bees, Toads, Children

Who do I think we are,
who do you think I am,

what do we agree is true,
what do we do to prove it so?

If it is true, any it, we use it.
If it is not true, we see it so, because

we do not trust those ordained to lead.

-----------
Bring measure, come fair trade with me,
take my offering, think it linked to God,
the spirit entity historical Jesus called Father,

when he asked
forgiveness, as with all our debtors
debts, dissolved as gnosis knots
snot-nose brats can have
for a thank you, missed, to whoever
made truth the way life makes us take

at certain instances where signals merge

at a certain round-about in Montana,
we forget forgiveness generally given,
we take if as granted, as we should.

So… with no evil intended, good happens

for all who know not what
we are doing as we survive our helplessness,

and discern the order of effort and participation,

ruled by lines drawn long ago, proper and right,

my peace, my home place, my self assurance,

good by my own estimation, nothing missing,
nothing broken, all things, at scale working
together to gather the harvest, year after year.

-------------------------

Let us project an image we agree to see, knowing
we are showing what we hope to make you see,

a reason for your efforts to be joined to ours,
for your right to influence the rules we use

to keep enemies enemies and workers working…

---- Republican Evangelical shot across my bow

Quantifiable worth of one
person, weight of one person's wish
to willingly partake in persistent life,

life after all is said and done to come this far,

to have taken communication
from the Babel excuse for our misunderstanding,

to these days of Google Translate,
and Assisting Intelligence Coherency, here we be,

now, or never, as we must be to breathe
and have our being orbiting our normal ordinary star.

On the ball we all live on

some rule, some obey, say they who rule.

Those who rule themselves,
obey or stay beyond the reach
of proper societies, as such,

far from the maddened crowds,

herds of humanity harnessed
for war, for defense of local
wealth in terms of valued
conditions to which we become
accustomed, ordinarily following

the leader, as in the children's
games of emulation, marching
as to war

"With the cross of Jesus
going on before… glory, glory…"

Pied, perhaps, are we, on power.

We publically profess to all the world,
say those voting for Donald J. Trump:

We believe in American exceptionalism.

{eh, except ye believe, and say, I see, and
I agree, to this entity inviting all, except those
who are forbidden by religious ties, from knots

to hold yoke to cart or plow. Free souls,
lost in old bet you regret that nows

sould in spirit to a conception, love your enemy.

Refuse to partake in war, deserve no part
in the victor's loot.

Die in dispair, or let go, lose it all…

See the hand hold
a finger, or a toe.

Watch a babe locate a nose,
or an ear, or recognosticate

a familiar face, smiling.

We think, as common, completed
successful sprouts from random
spurts of natural gumption, urging us

reproduce, take pleasure, participate,

in using up our sources of sustained
existence atop the only gravitating thing
equipped to host us.

Chance, and timing, chaos in orderly

coordination with wind and water,
rare fair weather in early March,

beware the Ides, nay, not this year,

March, she came in like a lion,
dumping a whole winter's withheld snow,

at once, reminding many, we are very small.

Reminding few to thank foresighted good luck,

we chose to build upon actual rocks, solid
state soil free to consist as structure base,

for anything two or more of my kind, agree
to see as possible, seeing as believers do,

we must mean the rooting through the fruit

falling to become soil substance for next year.
be seed settled

Be not deceived, as a command, presupposes
reception, once,

be not deceived, many voices in the wilderness

cry this is the way to become lorded over, follow me.

Waveforms collapse, sometimes.

The principle of superposition
of waves states that
when two or more propagating waves
of the same type are incident
on the same point, the resultant amplitude
at that point is equal
to the vector sum
of the amplitudes
of the individual waves…

Slowslooo slide into home. Tune

to zero beat, co hear silence
unbelievable yet evident to any hearing it

as we exhale, in recognosis, this is that

state of mind,
combined,

we free spirit informants,

conforming ourselves to norms, imagined

before the concept of wave coherence formed
in the mind of man kind,
common access
general available knowing,

when, on earth,
as it must be in heaven, if we imagine happiness
constantly overriding common knowledge,
-stretching our hold on the joy of living
chirality insisting we not let our right hand know,
what our left is imagining in this outreaching way,

Beggar's banquets, ***'s rush, breathe

with first reason sought, breathe out,
breathe in, no idea

not a clue, nothing random, but this bubble
we have our being in,
as a liposome time bubble,
when we pause, to think about it….

--------------
In my seeding mind,
reseeding reason to rationalize,

worth and weight, in ancient terms,
57 something tons of silver's worth,

a single talent of silver, once mentioned,
for scale,

to make a warring spirit acknowledge truth,
bow and pay obeisance, kow-tow,
or bolt
upright, how now

may we intercede,
in the spirit of mere words,
redeemed to base value in moral terms deemed

ethical, under these circumstances,
we are free to think this line of thought bought
dearly with the patience taken

to make it all possible at all, what? me worry?
- you may laugh, but take no anxious thought.

We are most alien of all minds, sacred places,

signaling knowers to know, now, time is as a dream,
only if you maintain consciousness of that fact, as art.

Now, consider life a game.

Your move. My move. We agree, we become

one of these things in the form of Paul's God,
all's supreme being spirit form of Truth's Way

taken, as granted any willing to think, why not
me, the stranger in paradaise, asking whom

do we imagine wise,
as the serpent, while remaining harmless,
of no effect, ill or good, either real, or not.

At our we level, we laugh at me.
I become the first beggar in paradaise.
I think we think we know, we meet
at the mean

and we play the balancing Sisyphean
paen to Science of Light Amplification

you push my buttons, I pull your thread,

we make up a mind, to get past this.

This is Ken Pepiton, as he sat in the sun,
thinking of Van Gogh's ghucking sunhat
self portrait,

and laughing at having dropped my name,
where he left his hat.
To all the poets in bemusement.
Julian Apr 2023
THE IATRALIPTIC DISGUISE OF MASKIROVKA IN THE WHIGGARCHY OF SUBLIMATED ELASTANE PREROGATIVES SOOTHING THE MALAXAGE OF A SENICIDE PROMONTORY OVERLOOKING THE ACELDAMA OF NOYADES ENTANGLING DOYENNES FLIRTING WITH THE GLAZE OF INFINITE SPECTERS OF BALEFIRE IN THE WROTH AND WRIX OF A WANCHANCY RIGGED BY ALTARANE AISLINGS MEANDERING IN DAYDREAMS SURROGATE MOTHERS TO NEWLYWED MUGIENCE THAT DERIVES FROM HANDSPIKES OF TANTONY A TENACITY OF TIMBERLASK VISION SCATHING AGAINST THROTTLEBOTTOM SATRAPS WHO MALINGER IN THEIR OWN CODDLED ENTROPY DISMISSIVE OF THE FUSION OF NUCLEOTIDES MIGHT THE BLAINS OF BLUNGE BECOME THE ASCENDANCY OF ALL NEW WORLD POTTERY AND ALL THE GREATEST POTAGERS OF CENTURION GROWTH OF SYRINXES TOO WELL-GUARDED IN KATABOTHRON SYNERGIES TO EVER BE DEFEATED BY BEGUILED SOPHIANIC NEPIONIC NIDOR THAT IN SCALARIFORM HUES DISMANTLES THE EMBOSSED PERFECTION OF ZALKENGUR. WE WANDER WITH THE WAMZELS OF WOODSHEDDING VERDERERS WHO EARN CERBERIC MERIT FROM AS EARLY A SYCOMANCY AS A WAR GAMES VENTANA THAT PREFIGURED GLEBES SERENADE THE AVALANCHE OF TURNVEREIN SURFEIT OF BANGTAIL ECONOMIES OF SPOKESHAVE SPODOMANCY THAT WE CANNOT CALCULATE THE LIMOSIS OF LIMNETIC LOSS IN THE DULOCRACY OF TIMES OF HEYDAY AND BRIMSTONE FEWTERERS THE HAUNT OF JACKALS AND THE BRONTEUM OF THE VENTRAD AND VENTRILABRAL OLIVASTERS OF VEES AND MOUNTENANCE BECAUSE SWASHBUCKLING  SHALLOP IS AN INDENTURED LANGUOR BEYOND THE CARAPACE AND TESTUDO OF FLICKERING ALPENGLOW SUNRISES ON THE DESOLATE PLAINS OF THE NOVANTIQUE BEYOND THE BUTTRESS BECAUSE OF THE ROORBACKS OF SEDERUNT SCUTTLEBUTT OFTEN THE RAFFISH  APLOMB OF VAMPIRES CAROUSING UNDER PRETENSE FOR BLOODTHIRST WITH PRETEXTS OF WIDDERSHANCY BECOMING THE CIPPUSTURE OF THE CHAMOISES AMONG THE GREAT COBALTIFEROUS CABRILLAS THAT USES THE SAGINATED SURETYSHIPS OF JORDAN STOKEHOLDS AMONG CASEMATES IN THE PRODROMES OF WAR AND BELLICOSE STRIFE OF CONTRAPLEX TAMARAWS BELONGING TO THE LIONIZATION OF THE APIKOROS FASHIONS OF THOSE THAT FORESAW WITH THE GREATEST TENACITY OF CAREWORN WORMCASTS OFTEN SEEN AS HERETICAL AMONG ESBAT OLIMS BUT THEIR HEYDAY IS RECONVENED BECAUSE NO LONGER IS  THE BETHEL IGNORANT OF THE CHARADES OF POTEMKIN SQUALOR ABAFT ON THE TURTLEBACK TAFFRAIL THAT ALL DESTINY UNFOLDS WITH PRESTIDIGITATION THAT OUTNUMBERS THE ENUMERATED LEGERDEMAIN WITH ITS PLASTIC PROTEAN SERVITUDE TO ICEBERK ICEBLINKS OF VERGLAS THE EMOLUMENT TO THE PAST HAMARCHIES RESIDUAL TO HACHURE BECAUSE THE AISLINGS OF ONEIROMANCIES ONCE BELLOWING AND BELLIPOTENT EVEN IN ANTEBELLUM CARNAGE THAT THE CARTHAGIAN MOORGANIZATION OF THE MOST PROMETHEAN OF FATIDICAL HEROES THAT COBBLED FROM EMOTIVISM IN AN AGE OF SPHECOID SPHENOGRAMS AN ANZACTILE MOBILIZATION OF AN URBANE SPREE AND SPRINT TOWARDS THE ENTELECHY OF THE AUTOGNOSIS AGAINST NEUTROSOPHY THAT WE MIGHT EASILY DEBUNK THE URCHINS OF WEGOTISM BECAUSE THEY STRAIN THE BARNSTORM OF PETTIEST WASES OF WAPENTAKE DESIGNED TO ENTOMB THE GRIDLOCK OF MANUFACTURED POLLARCHIES OF WEIGHT MEASURED ONLY BY A PRETENDED BARAGNOSIS ENFORCING THE SWARF OF THE BOSCHVELDT THAT EVENTUALLY IN THE TIMEPIECE OF FORESIGHT HINDSIGHT ITSELF DISCOVERS THE GREAT NOMOGENY OF ITS CLEVER BYWORDS AGAINST BACKPIECES OF CARDIOGNOST CARDIMELECH TITRATIONS OF WRATH ARMORIES OF RANCOR IN SUNBITTERN SUMPTERS ALWAYS BROOKED WITH ARRAIGNMENT RATHER THAN THE SURFEIT OF A POLISHED OLIGOPSONY BECAUSE THE STANGS OF THE STANNARY ARE BANKROLLING JESUITICAL JANSKY TO PROVIDE THE PATHWAY TO CIVILIZED SALVATION AGAINST POLTROONS OF ******* HARBORED BY THE CREDENDA OF DISRESPECTFUL MACROBIAN DECEIT AUTHORED BY THE CONTRARY ELEMENTS OF CAMARILLAS DEPOSED BY DEMUR. THERE IS GREAT TIMOCRATIC VALOR IN HETERODOXY WHICH BORROWS FROM BAHUVHRI AGAINST THE STUNTS OF CAGOULES OF YERNAGE AND CATAMOUNTS OF DIATRIBES OF SHIBBOLETH DESTRUCTION BECAUSE OF CAFARDS OF BIFIDS THAT EXIST AS MARTINGALES AS ENTOMBED SILENCE GRIPS THE LAND SUCH THAT THE CACHALOTS ARE ALWAYS MOTATORY IN CONVERSE DIRECTIONS TO HEED THE INFORMANTS OF TIME THAT ASTOUNDED FEATS OF FENESTRAL RELEGATION BECOMING A HABITUE OF THE MOST PROFOUND SPURTS OF BULGURS OF TRAULISM IN THE FACE OF PROMINENCE AND EMINENCE FRONT LIONIZATIONS BECAUSE THE BALDRIC AUTHORITY OF NAZES WHO ARE MURENGERS THAT ARE BLACKGUARDED GUARDIANS OF COUNTERCULTURAL OPHILIOPHILISTS THAT OFTEN CAVORTED WITH THE AUTARKY OF KALIMKARI THAT A WORLD SEDIGITATED BY RACKRENT COACERVATION IS A COAMING MENACE OF PICAROONS THAT ARISE FROM MERIT RATHER THAN ABDERVINE CONTUSIONS ON BLISTERED NIDOR OF NIDAMENTAL NIDDERING NANCIFUL RECKLESS WAYSPAYING MULIEBRITY COAUTHORED BY PLOUGHSHARES OF BLUEPETERS BECAUSE THE NEW TORCHIERS OF ANGLOPHONIC COUVEUSES THE GONFALONIER OF SOTERIOLOGY AMONG THE HIDEBOUND YET PRIVY VOGUE OF A GYRATING ECONOMETRICAL SCALING EVENT THAT HERALDS THE SUBTEXT OF ALL CONFORMED PECCADILLOS OF IDIOSYNCRASY AND REVILES THEIR BACKPIECES BECAUSE THE CORTEGES OF THE OLIGARCHY OFTEN SCRIDE OVER SCRIVELLOS BECAUSE OF CHRYSELEPHANTINE GAMBOLING VESTIGIAL HARBINGERS OF ALL SPAWNED ENTROPIES AT ONCE DISCARDED BY WREPOLIS AND WRIKPOND AS CALCARIFEROUS RANCID BLENCH AND BLAGUE BECAUSE OF PROMINENT BONTBOKS OF ENTHYMEME DESPERATELY BEING PUSHFUL WITH ADVANCED CYBERNETIC VITIATION THROUGH ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE BECAUSE OF HALLOWED HARPOONING GRAMPUS BECAUSE OF NEKTONS ENABLED BY DUGONG MARTYRS OF PRAXINOSCOPES FAR AND WIDE TO DISENGAGE THE PSAMMOPHILE FROM DISCHARGED DUTY AT HIS OWN BEHEST AND THE FLUID DYNAMICS OF TURBINATED TUBIFACIENT ICEBLINKS REGISTERED BY THE SEDERUNT OF SYBOTIC WORMCASTS ALL CONVEYING THE SUBSTANDARD SUBTERNATURAL SATURNALIA OF UNHINGED DECADENCE PROFESSING A CRETACEOUS SERVITUDE TO AN EXTINCT BRAND OF SCIENCE BECAUSE OF CONFEDERATE GNOTOBIOLOGY BECAUSE OF MODERN FIGURATIVE GEITONOGAMY THAT FIELDS ASTRAY THE JOLLYBOAT OF THE VANGUARD THAT IT MIGHT FETCH THE DOOMSTERS OF HAVENED COMBUSTION AGAINST TRICOTEES OF SCORIA WIDELY ENAMORED OF THE DISSIPATION OF SPHACELATION TO INFORM THE WORLD OF ITS DUTIFUL SERVITUDE TO HONOR BRITSKAS RATHER THAN DISDAIN VENDETTA HEROISM. WE IN BLINKERED HUBRIS BECAUSE OF INGLUVIES OF ILASTICAL WEIGHT FOR THE HYPAETHRAL LYTHCOOPS THAT ASTOUND THE SIDEREAL ELEMENTS OF THE HAMARCHY THAT PATIENTLY ABIDED BY THE STRICTEST OF SECRECY TO UPHOLD A NEW WORLD VISIONARY POTAMOLOGY THAT SERVES JAWHOLES WITH THEIR SUBPOENAS THAT THEIR CARDIOGNOST CELERITY IN MOBILIZING THE POPULAR RANCOR OF SIMPLE PRETEXTS ENTANGLED BY COMPLEX THERMODYNAMICS OF MALAISE THAT WE MIGHT EXPEL KILLCROP BODEWASH INTO THE BARTONS OF JARVEY RATHER THAN ELEVATED INTO JASPERATED VESICLES OF JESUITICAL CULTURAL TERRORISM AUTHORED BY DESPERATION EVEN WITHSTANDING VAPULATION TO CONVEY THE CONTRARIAN MESSAGE TO THE WIDEST SPECTACLE OF BYRE EVER WITNESSED BY THE PLUMAGE OF THE PEN NOR THE ARCHITECTURE OF ARCHITECTONIC SERVITUDE. WE MUST INFORM THE SYBARITES KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT MASCON GEOCARPY AND ALL OF THE INTERRAMIFICATIONS OF INTERSTELLAR DEBUTANTES THAT REVILE THEMSELVES INTO CATERCORNERED ATTEMPTS TO THE BALUSTRADE OF THEIR OWN SURMOUNTED EGOISM THAT EVENTUALLY THEIR BANGTAIL OSTENTATIONS GLORIFYING THE DEBUNKED FULGURANT BRONTEUMS OF RHIZOGENIC INSTRUMENTALISM OF CRIME FINESSED BY SPECTER AND ENFORCED BY THE VENDETTAS AGAINST PROPER SOTERIOLOGY THAT THEY ARE IN FACT IN DELUSION ABOUT HOW THE CORTEGES OF VENTRAD MUGIENCE OPERATE IN THE WROTH OF ATTINGENT CONTRITION BECAUSE WHEN WE TITRATE ATTEMPERED PHENOMENA OF IDIORHYTHMIC AND THERMOLABILE POIKILOTHERMIC ELEMENTS THAT GOVERN THE SABOTAGE OF MANY UPSTART TITANISMS THAT THEY MIGHT SIDLE AGAINST THEIR OWN CALCULUS TO SOCKDOLAGER BECAUSE THEIR EFFETE AND EFFUSIVE NEUTROSOPHY IS AN ANGLED ENTRYISM TRYING TO INTERPOLATE NEW WORLD FICTIONS TO FIX THE NIDOR AND CASUALTY OF PAST TORMENTS AND TEMPESTS OF CRUCIBLE TRIBULATIONS SUCH THAT A MODERN ESBAT IS BORNE AMONG REMIGATE OLIMS THAT SUSPEND DISBELIEF IN ORDER TO INGEMINATE SERVITUDE TO DEFEAT THE SONDAGE OF SELCOUTH SECODONT BODACHES WITH THE GREATEST PENALTY OF SENICIDE BECAUSE THEY ARE SWARTHY WITH THE DARKLED RANCOR OF FENNECS THAT THEY DESPISE BECAUSE OF SALIVATING SOVENANCE IN ESPIRITS OF CONTRITION. IN WARTORN REVANCHE THAT EMBATTLES THE SWIFT DEMOBILIZATION OF DEMASSIFIED ECONOMIES TO DISARRAY THE SCHWERPUNKT OF SARANGOUSTY BECAUSE THE ELAPID DISTRACTIONS OF MALAXAGE SEETHING IN TOOTHLESS DENTICLES TRYING TO COVERTLY ASSUEFY ENTIRE REGIONS TO THE NOMOTHETIC NORMALCY OF PERVERSE IDEOLOGIES BECAUSE OF RAMPANT SOURCES OF JAWHOLE OCREATED SWAMP MARSHES THAT SWARF WITH SWARPOLLOCK TO BENIGHT ENTIRE GENERATIONS OF THEIR DUTIFUL PREROGATIVES BY PROSCRIBING IN THE STRICTEST TERMS OF CREDENCE AND COVENANT THAT INSUBORDINATION MUST BE PUNISHED WITH THE STEEPEST CULVERTAGE EVEN AMONG THE MOST VENOMOUS AND POWERFUL ELEMENTS OF STANNARIES OF BULSE AND PROFUSE VENOSTASIS BECAUSE THE HARBINGERS OF TOMORROW ARE DESIGNED TO SCARECROW THE PAST INTO ZUGZWANG BY AN ECONOMY OF QUANTUPLICITY OF GAME THEORY DYNAMICS SUCH THAT FEWER PEOPLE WAGE GIGANTOMACHY AND THE PILLORY IS ENGORGED WITH THE FASHIONS OF FLAMFOO VINTAGE SERICULTURE TO DISMOUNT AND DISCOURAGE MANY A PERSON TO SEEK RECOURSE IN SUBLIMATED PSYCHOGONY RESULTING IN A PANMIXIA ENTRAPMENT AGAINST ACCOLENT PANTAGAMY BECAUSE WE RESORT TO OUR BASEST INSTINCTS IN THE TWILIGHT GLOAM OF THE PARLANCE VERDURE OF ESCULENT DISCOVERIES PREAUTHORED BY COACERVATION OFTEN WITH SYNTHETIC RHEOTAXIS TO ENTOMB THE WAPENTAKE IN A CONVERSE STATURE TO THE BETTER ANGELS OF OUR NATURE. NOW A GAMMERSTANG DELIVERANCE THAT SEEKS THE MAXIMALISM OF ONCOSTMAN OF COMPROMISE THAT THEY MIGHT BE ENTHUSED BY A WORLD LESS “*** IN THE CITY”ADMIXED WITH “BIG BANG THEORY”AND MORE A SOCIETY OF “MASKED DANCER”AGITPROP THAT CONGEALS A HOMONORMATIVE MESSAGE THAT IS DEFICIENT AND DEFUNCT BECAUSE SOME AND MANY IRONCLAD WARSHIPS ARE MARTYRS TOWARDS A DECADENCE OFTEN FORESEEN THAT NOW REMAINS HOBBLED BECAUSE THE DISAGIO OF A DISTRACTED WORLD OF BOWERIES SEEDING MALCONTENT MIGHT BE EFFERVESCENT IN A NEUTRALIZED DIRECTION RATHER THAN FATHERING A NEW WORLD SOLIDARITY TOWARDS NUCLEOTIDES OF NEPIONIC LORE THAT SOLVES CLIMATE CHANGE AND SYLLABATIM PROVIDES RECOURSES FOR THE BALDERDASH AUTHORED BY MANY HOBBLEDEHOY CULTURES OF STULTIFIED SUTLERS IN SECTILE REGRESS RATHER THAN AGENTIC PROGRESS OF GLOWERING LOVE BECOMING CENTRIPETAL RATHER THAN A CALCIFUGE OF SHANTUNG BECAUSE OF STOCKINETTE DIVERSIONS. THE KEY TO THE FUTURE IS TO ANALYZE WITH THE GREATEST PATIENCE AND THE MOST EXPANSIVE SCOPE THE NEUTROSOPHY OF THE AVERAGE CAMPUS AND THE ATHENAEUMS THAT RAISE NEW WORLD LEADERS TO THINK THE INDEPENDENT THOUGHT AND TO ENTERTAIN THE SOLFERINOS WITHOUT TRITANOPIA OR PROTANOPIA BECAUSE WE BELONG TO AN AGE WHERE THE FACTUAL IS FRACTIOUS AND THE MYTH SUSTAINS A BREVITY OF COMPUNCTION THAT IS THE RAILLERY FOR MANY DERAILMENTS THAT ENTHUSE THE SPECTACLE BUT DEPRIVE THE LIBERATION WE SEEK IN PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS OF ORTHOTOMY AND ORTHOTROPISM IN ORTHOBIOSIS BECAUSE OF GEOTECHNIC OPTIMIZATION THAT GOVERNS A HOLLYWOOD SYSTEM THAT REFRAINS FROM THE PALLOR OF NEBBICH GORE AND EXTINCT PREROGATIVES OF CINEASTES WORKING FOR NUBILE GRAFT AND CARNIFICINE CORRUPTION BECAUSE OF MURAGE AND WOKISM MURENGERS WHO GUARD ZEALOUSLY THEIR CULTURAL IMPRINT FOR IMPRIMATUR. LET US AUTHOR A NEW AGE THAT IS CONSCIENTIOUS OF IDIOSYNCRASY IN ACADEMIA AND WORKS AROUND THE HEDGES TO THAT EXCHEQUER OF ASCERTAINED BELIEFS THAT THE TOTEMS OF SCIENCE BENEATH US PREVENT A BARYEICOIA OF REITERATIVE AGITPROP OF BACKPIECES NOTARIZING A FICTITIOUS WORLDVIEW THAT BLARES IN DEFIANCE OF THE FACTS BECAUSE OF SUBORNED AGENDAS OF THE WEIGHAGE OF THE STEVEDORES THAT MANUFACTURE OUTRAGE TO MOBILIZE POLITICAL BARNSTORMS THAT EVOLVE INTO GROSS TEMPESTS RATHER THAN REFORMED MOVEMENTS THAT CONSERVE THE MOMENTUM OF TRUTH IN AN INEXORABLE MARCH FORWARD TOWARDS THE LIBERATION OF THE BAHUVHRI IN THE HEYDAY OF ORIGINAL THOUGHT ANCHORED IN REALISM EVEN WITH SURREAL MAGNIFICATIONS OF ITS MOST MESMERIZING QUALITIES BECAUSE THE FUTURE DESERVES AN ACCOUNTABILITY IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES ON A GLOBAL SCALE THAT UNDERSTANDS POTAMOLOGY AND IMBREVIATES THE STOKEHOLDS OF JAWHOLES SO THEY SUSTAIN IMPETUS AND INSTRUMENTALISM TOWARDS PRODUCTIVE GROWTH RATHER THAN RANCID BLENCHES OF REGRESS UPON CAPITOL HILL.
Ephraim Feb 2021
convened
in my living room
summoned to a setcat
to decide by voulbee or fratricide
the next Father of Thieves.

Blahznivee Semyon rises up
like a winter sun over the steppe
peels off his sable coat and hat
he garnishes round after round of applause
for his tattooist's magnificent skill,
and the number of skulls etched in his skin
one skull for every ****.

Arkady the Krahsnee comes to the front
draws a cross across his chest,
wipes caviar from his pickled lips
sheds his necklace of bloated tongues ripped
from the mouths of informants who sing
and with a halo of bicycle chain whirling overhead
steps drunkenly into the ring

The display turns black
chairs are pushed back
***** in every hand.
The soldiers prepare
with a toast and a prayer
and a drop of blood from each man.

Now squaring off
Dva Rusahky:
a fat taloostee,
the other slim-tenki
wade into the fray:

bez nervee, t-shirts, boatkee or fear
they destroy my hanging chandelier
their bratvas stand around and cheer
pass round smokes and mugs of beer.

Černobog’s hammer sits
inside a chalk line circle
like an *******
waiting for a fist.
Black stars collide
shoulders knees torsos
wheel thrown into ****** slabs
hole punched and wire cut
falling on cigarette butts
nicotine thumbs empty eye sockets
vitreous runs and pools
seeps into screaming mouths
through mangled cheeks.

Teeth litter my rug
like chiclets in berry jam.

Here's a finger,
make a splinter
wounds are washed
in chilled Żubrówka.

Semyon lifts the hammer, the winner
a new skull in his flesh, still wet
when he buys my silence
with a Russian dinner
and a round of Russian roulette.
Some of the words in this story are deliberate misspellings of Czech.
Listen deeply to what the forces said, undercover killers, with the bubble jackets and dreads,
On the corners, scratching for breads, only to get set up by the feds,
So many hood informants, laying dormant, this is another live entertainment,
***** in the barrel mentality, they try to get me, to talk bad about my own family,
Don't matter the skin to me, truth knows no colors, word to my sisters to brothers,
Call me the cookie cutter, shaping women like no other, lay out the duck butter,
Hold up, I gotta stay on a positive note, infamous styles, signaling quotes,
Punched into the afterlife, Hendrix talking to a brothers soul, sitting ol' rock and roll,
On a stroll, left hand pinching the desert sands, man I hope y'all understand,
The rocks crying out to the Gods man, I play it cool breezin' like a fan,
We got stocks from the USA Germany to Japan, 11th member of the clan,
My styles is canned, pop eyes once the spinach is cracked out of the can,
Steaming like a kettle, these posionous darts, keep ya lyrics sterile,
Knocking down Pharoah's, I'm Moses at Mt Sinai, shooting mental arrows,
See how many fall below, the shadow of the gods, playing against all odds,
Everyday I sit it, like it's life support, hold up vintage forts, hard for ya to retort,
I speak on the real, hate for the haters, who squeal, in the spirit like Hanq Neal,
Faces of falsehood, always reveal they deal, chasing the broken wheels,
Of fortune, torture fantasy with facts of reality, everybody lost in this society,
Quietly, I denounce the wicked treachery, witches stewing to the brewery,
Evil and good, cousins of a braille destiny, see where I might be, days of Sean Connery,
I'm bonded, like James take high aim,
Let my critics feel the shame, when they thought they had me tamed,
I broke six out of ten commandments, *******, yeah they can't stand it,

My Lai massacre
Main article: My Lai massacre
On March 16, 1968, Calley led around 100 soldiers of Charlie company into the village of My Lai. Although they faced no resistance, they entered the village shooting. They murdered hundreds of civilians consisting mostly of South Vietnamese elderly men, women, children, and infants using automatic weapons, grenades and bayonets. Infants and children were killed with bayonets, and females were ***** and shot.[10]

The official American estimate of those murdered was 347, but a Vietnamese memorial at the site lists 504 names, with ages ranging from 1 to 82.[10] In the My Lai museum in Vietnam, a marble plaque lists the names and ages of the victims. The count of the dead is a total of 504 people from 247 families. Of these, 24 families lost everyone – three generations, no survivors. Included in the 504 were 60 elderly men, and 282 women (17 of whom were pregnant). A total of 173 children were killed; 53 were infants.[11]
Big Virge Aug 2021
There’s ALWAYS...  
MUCH To CONSIDER...  

When It Comes To...  
... FAMOUS Figures...  

Who Are QUICKER To Pull Triggers...  
Than The Best Olympic Sprinters... !!!  
  
Cos' There Are Always...  
... BIGGER PICTURES...  
  
Where There’s ALWAYS...  
... Someone QUICKER...  
Who Wants To Prove They’re SINNERS...  
  
BIGGER Than New Escobars’...  
And Guys Like Nicky Barnes... !!!  
  
TRUE ORIGINAL Gangstas’...  
  
Who Like Jeru' Are REAL DAMAGERS...  
of Crews of Dudes Whose Managers...  
Employ The BADDEST Characters... !!!  
  
Like Bikers Who...  
Are Sent From HELL...  
To BLAZE With RAGE...  
To Make Heads SWELL... !!!  
  
Like ALI When He DANCED...  
Around Fighters With NO CHANCE... !!!  
  
To Counter How He’d BLISTER...  
With Punches That Were SLICKER...  
Than ANY GQ Mister...  
Or BEAUTIFUL... HOT Sista'... !!!  
  
So DON'T Be QUICK...  
To Be A FOOL And RUSH IN...  !!!  
  
Because Some of These Chicks...  
...... Act SICK...... !!!  
  
When It Comes To ****... !!!  
That They CAN'T RESIST...  
That They Want To Fit...  
In Between Those Lips... !!!  
  
Because The Next Thing Is...  
The ARRIVAL of... Kids... !!!
  
So It’s Best To THINK...  
And CONSIDER Things...  
BEFORE You Get Tricked...  
And Start To SINK...
  
Because Your Ship...  
... TITANICALLY Drifts.....  
Until You're... DROWNED...  
Cos Your Thoughts WEREN'T Sound... !!!  
  
Like A GREEDY ****...  
Whose Business STINKS... !!!  
  
Because of Links...  
Who Are QUICK To Bring...  
... Bullets That HIT...  
HARDER Than Drug Liks’...  
That Make Man SNIFF...  
Just Like SCARFACE Did... !!!  
  
WITHOUT Acting In A Pacino Flick... !!!  
  
It’s Best To CONSIDER...  
Before You Pull Triggers...  
If You AIN'T John Wick... !!!  
  
See I’m A LYRICIST...  
Whose Lyrical Gifts...  
Are Those That Enlist...  
The Type of Lyrics...  
  
That Are Those That Show...  
... Which Way To Go...  
  
When It Comes To Dark Roads...  
That Lead To Black Holes... !!!  
  
YES The... Types of Zones...  
That Can Cut TOO CLOSE...  
To The Bones of Those...  
Who Follow FOOLS Gold... !?!  
  
I Consider The TOLL...  
That Goes With Cargos...  
That Get EXPOSED...  
Within Ships Holds...  
That Face Embargo’s...  
Because of Coc’...  
And Dopes Who Roll...  
  
Into The... "GRIP"...  
of Police Well Equipped...  
To END A Mans' Wish...  
To Be A Drug Kingpin... !!!  
  
Who NEVER Considered...  
Being Cornered Like Tigger...  
WITHOUT Winnie Or Pooh... !!!!!  
  
Because I THINK Things Through...  
And Try To Be Shrewd...  
As Well As... COOL...  
In The Face of BAD News...  
That Can Lead To FEUDS... !!!  
  
With CARTELS Who Pull Moves...  
Like... COLOMBIANS Do... !!!!!!  
  
Who Are Quick To Collude...  
With Informants Who...  
Want To See You LOSE...  
So Will HAPPILY SHOOT... !!!
  
NO MATTER What Cost...  
It Takes To Be The BOSS...  
WITHOUT James Brown Songs...  
  
Or... HEAVY DUTY FUNK...  
Or The Type of Drums...  
That Made His Funk BUMP... !!!  
  
Like The Type of CHUMPS...  
Who Are... IGNORANT... !!!!!!!  
  
So Will Pull DUMB Stunts...  
That STINK Like A SKUNK...  
That Is CLEARLY FRIGHTENED... !!!  
  
So Is QUICK To Let Off...  
Something SO PUNGENT... !!!  
  
That It Makes You ILL...  
And Makes You Wanna ****...  
Like Uma' Did... BILL...  
In A Way That CHILLS... !!!  
  
And Makes You More BITTER...  
Than A CORNERED KILLER...  
In AN... MJ Thriller... !!!  
  
So I Hope That This Piece..  
of CONSIDERED Poetry...  
Has Helped You Young Guns See...  
  
That To Be A Smooth Criminal...  
You Need To Be An Individual...  
Who Has STRONG PRINCIPLES...  
That PROVE That You’re A THINKER...  
  
Who Recognises... THIS...  
VERY IMPORTANT THING... !!!  
  
To Be The Type of Figure...  
Who Inspires Clever Scripture...  
  
Cos’ You're COLDER Than A Blizzard...  
In The Midst of An Arctic Winter...  
  
You MUST SEE The...  
... BIGGER PICTURE... !!!  
  
Cos’ There Will ALWAYS Be...  

“ Things That You Need To Consider ! “
Inspired, in no small way, by, " El Patron Del Mal ", " Narcos ", and the lives of famous criminals, like a certain, Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria !
KG Mar 2020
Accept the first option displayed by the godless black screenless moniter,
honest laughter contains the graveless monster ageless in our hearts whether programmed to or not,
The glowing door appears in low self-esteemed corridors guarded and ignored from the lawless oasis of subconscious statements, eating the fated to grow families graced under skeleton arches of martyrs disregarded, stand united with hand clasps tightened under flags of saturns dying breath in cycles, designs set in circular sequwence depicting the reforms sought after every disaster after the codex of shattered beliefs was writ to be promoted by the gullible innocents lovably prone to systems set in comforting tones, one day we'll wash away wills of peace weakened citizens willingly stagnant but that's a given object of fascination to be replaced like the shackles of fate yet claim them as absent, happily trading their lackluster talents as hostage informants abhorred with the bargain struck between state and the poor

— The End —