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Loud Falls Mar 2017
Think of nothing but this night.
The blooded stars, blue leaves and red trees...
Think of nothing...
Nothing but tonightt.

Close your eyes,
Relax your mind...
Unfold my lies
And everything'll be fine

My **** begins to rise
As my moist lips drag along your neck
My hand slides up your sides...
Contemplating left, right or back down to your thighs

Bite me
Force on the aggression
Grab me
****, just simple persuasion.

The night just confides
As I pull your legs apart.
Squeezing your sides
Lifting you up on my hard ****

Biting your neck
As you moan aloud
Squeezing your *******
As you gasp, with each insertion

Aggression but pure passion,
I throw you down.
And force my **** in your tight, warm *****
Hearing you scream aloud, I ******* deeply.

Open your grey eyes...
Realize it's just a poem.
Unfold my demise
And know this night will come.
The moon lies where the night lies.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
.let's begin: i've been watching youtube haemorrhage over the past few years (4 / 5 in total) and... i do still enjoy the sort of cabaret weimar associated with criticalcondition when comapred to beanie hat tim pool... sorry: i just like a bit of cabaret, i know that comedy is translated in the western lands by stand-up monologues, but in germany and poland: cabaret is the toy assurance to compensate the justifications for theatre or opera... i like criticalcondition, trans-, ******: my my, how did the chemistry prefixes of attachement groups of a benzene ring overpower bio-realism? imagine a blocked toilet in terms of hinduism / buddhism in terms of the metaphysics of reincarnation... well: metaphysics by their great culinary understanding implies: a return to the same debacle, perhaps only slightly elevated... we have already reached a post- gott ist tot scenario of metaphysics... gott is quiet apparent, since the ancient greeks believed that "shamed" men would come back as women: now? the women did a shortcut... they said: tod ist tot... wouldn't that be the case? a blocked toilet, well... if god has to die first, then death itself has to die, ergo: tod ist tot! ha ha... imagine... to think of the glamorous concept of eastern theology as nothing more than a plumber's day-shift... looks like the toilet is blocked... since... men are not spawning into female form after death, instead, deciding to spawn back into male form with a female "brain"... who is that god of mischief in hinduism? oh... look! Aditi! well it's not an isolated case, is it? i once picked up a thai surprise from a park bench, played her some jazz, ****** her in the garden... bangkok ladyboys are the duran duran of 1980s electro-puppy-pop! once god dies, death follows suit... after all... death is (a) shadow of (the) god... blocked toilet metaphysics, all the brahmin as running wild, naked, psychotic: but the lesser men were not supposed to know they were reborn into female bodies, there was that safety net in place to: let them reincarnate with an amnesia principle! what's happening?! the women are raiding up the ranks?! contrapoints compared to tim pool? sorry beanie-boy... you're not the beastie... quiet... i'd love to b.j. that make-up off from contrapoints... problem being... i love when a ****** speaks so much sense... but... hands... i find a woman's hands too be the most ****** aspect of her body... 4/5... that's a fraction... for my five knuckles in terms of hand size, ***** "envy" and what my five knuckles look like to a woman's 4? you get the picture... there is also another fraction... 72 genders?! wha-?! i see gender in the 3/2 fraction... a woman can satisfy three men... the ****, the **** the mouth... a man... can only satisfy 2... the **** and the mouth... oh... wait... 3/3... someone can be giving him a b.j. while he's giving him a b.j..... it's still a blockage of reincarnation though... the greeks believed the lesser man was to be reborn in a "lesser" body... ****, i always forget how the ratio works... i always think: 1 man has 3 options of entry, 3 women have 1 point of entry each... but fraction is wonky though... in that... a woman can entertain three variations of entry: mouth, ****, ****... but a man has to entertain two points of entry and one point of insertion... so the fraction still stands at 3/2... which makes the islamic celestial harem nonsense... unless equipped with an exess of res extensa ****** to satiate the hunger of 72 virgins... a ****** gambit if you ask me... 72 virgins sounds more like a headache than what Solomon forsake in owning for the queen of Shēba... king! Solomon! after all the *******, enough wisdom suddenly trickled into his head, and he chose the route of the monogamy of birds! mind you: whatever wisdom king! Solomon ever had to begin with... i would still favor king David... i like a man with a distrust of women and having an unadulterated desire for music as second to none medicinal property to cure existential ailments; i tried *******, no good... sure, great exercise... esp. with prostitutes... but an in depth analysis of the perpetuated banality of life and how to learn to masquerade it behind a veil of seemingly banal? a harem will not help, but music will. even nietzsche understood this... criticalcondition: i do actually fancy him it her they... she does have that: je ne sais quoi air... weimar cabaret "revised"... not quiet the switz cabaret dada voltaire... but all i know is the number of holes of points of insertion and the fact that i have hands the size that could hold a basketball in one... and how... oh, wow! i really came late to the asian fetish party late... here, have some grenades! **** ying, cat meng, na mu han, you mi, ni ye teng, ai sayama, hoshina mizuki, ayaka noda, (l)im ji hye, lie fei er, (barbie) ke er... ergo? this whole asian fetish scene? am i looking at dolls? i'm not even sure... am i white, by comparison to these procelain babushkas?! i'm not white: orange man bad! i thought so too: i'm... piglet! the i'm not white: these girls are... and the funny thing is, the "funny" thing, is? i don't have to see much more beside the cleavage or the ******* or the thighs to... hey! i'm a late bloomer to this asiatic fetish... side-tracked by the european transgender ******* and the thai surprise ladyboys... what is **** what isn't ****: that, really depends on how much you rely on your imagination... if a sight of white, porcelain cleavage gets you off... who the hell needs the whole "show"... after all... even the niqab is a game on how to arouse the male libido... it's pretty hard to be aroused by a fully exposed female torso like some maasai ivory beauty... then the "said" objects are more functional and designated for feeding purposes... than ***** *******... aren't they?! oh i can see a revision of the niqab... imagine this in saudi arabia... both the eyes are not hidden from view, as isn't the mouth! batman 2."oh"... oh i don't like these new communists in the west... white... priv. who, that japanese?! i'm not white, i said it already and i'll say it again: i'm not a porcelain doll! talk to the **** about white privilege... they're the ones with milk veils... my "white privilege" is only associated to having blond hair, green or blue eyes... it has nothing to do with... skin!

i’m suspicious of the ones that say: without telling the truth
we can moralise, by not stating the truth
we can allow ourselves falsehood in the prime
instinct to provide replicas of ourselves
without truth of two subject interacting,
but merely the truth of two objects interacting
reducible into the dwarf of darwinism
that speaks: over-sexualise and feel less encountered
by understanding the opposite!
so much is true in this era - with the english poodle
waggling in frenzies for the americans to spectate and applaud...
i’ve had to become a german in england,
the sort that might be liked by nietzschean arrogance,
but apart from that i’m working on how
certain people simply use words rather than letters,
how they can never use the shovels and pickaxes,
how this congregation of atheists at comic stand-up shows
is doing my head in: a theological mid-life crises,
this blatant take on theology using the logic:
from monkey you came, to monkeying you shall return...
now that trends like the crown all animals have,
all animals already unique do not need to replicate consciously,
but man is stumbling into wasting his conscious on replication,
on plagiarism... it’s so odd... so so odd! why would man
waste his consciousness to simply invoke replication?
where’s the self in that, the anti-frankenstein story so powerful
he does not wish to do anything other than marvel at
the connectivity of the bone to the nerve to the muscle?
the 20th century gave birth militant atheism -
the 21st century is labouring with a different kind of atheism -
the sort of atheism that says no barriers exist between master and servant
as between worm and pigeon - even though
the depression of the master is opposed to the servant’s depression
that he only spots analogues within the framework of
synonymity with other masters... ‘why are we so depressed?’
asked master a, ‘i have no idea,’ answered master b over lunch.
in the lower decks of the ship servant a says to servant b -
- ‘god, i rowed all day long, i’m so ****** tired!
no thought will keep me awake.’
- ‘that’s true, i’m knackered also, broken limbs of my effort
like a chestnut, no thought will keep me awake either,
lucky we exhaust the body.’
- ‘too true, with the body exhausted the mind is never disputed
never disputed by not having origins in thinking
but rather having origins in the body.’
- ‘verily, i rather our fate than the masters’ fate.’
- ‘why?’
- ‘as you said, our’s is the story of ****** demands,
their’s is a story of thought’s demands,
meaning they exhaust their mind in the accesses
thought provides, it’s like a secondary body we have no knowledge of,
they are exhausted by thinking because their body is not exhausted.’
- ‘makes sense.’
- 'hence their malady of melancholia and our as simple exhaustion.'
- 'where’s the buffer?'
- 'in the olympians, the discus throwers, the most positive lot, and due to this, the easiest
to break down from high positivity; they have no awareness
of complex thinking and are quickly undermined with all this sports’ psychology!'
- 'true to the burning tire... it's all dietary awareness and muscle bulk with them after a loss.'
- 'indeed, as our's is with aesop dreamily awaiting a freedom that’s an anarchy,as translated from aesop's fables into
spartacus' resolve.'
- 'ah yes, that old spartan revolt in the roman empire.'
so like i said, i do know that darwinism is the new super cool sensibility,
taking into account more than 10,000 years of history
and talking about it for 2 hours wishing that something
spectacular might happen tomorrow, or any other given day...
but like i said previously... darwinism just killed history...
outside the realm of journalism we’re talking millions of years...
so why would i give a **** if it’s a friday the 23rd of october in the imaginary year 2015?
well if you put crocodile into a pile of hyenas you’ll probably
get a a cuckoo mixed with a squid because of the beak shared by the two...
i know, atheism is cool, for now,
but when the quantum j provides the classical physics’ objects like jupiter
you’ll ask what the quantum of j is... and i’ll say... full-stop...
that’s because, perhaps, i never use language as:
copy - work - paste - with - copy - me - paste - on - copy - this - paste - one,
but rather...
w - grammatical arithmetic (g.a.) - o - g.a. - r - g.a. - k,
because no one can tell me that the letter j
is uniform in the context of i or k...
as the quantum phonetics of uttering the word
onomatopoeia... is no different from uttering the word bull...
so many variables of spotting the quantum physics
in pronunciation... so many varying levels of required energy
to utter j or k... onomatopoeia or bull -
so... what's the antonym of quantum - the maximum
amount of any physical entity involved in an interaction -
i know that poets speak of grains of sand = no. of stars
and that the mathematicians use the curtain of infinity
to digress... but finding the maximum will be harder
given that there will be no socratic knowledge to use as canvas...
i.e. nothing;
added to the fact that there’s a non-differential quantum
that makes ë and em almost identical in terms of the least energy used,
this humanistic paradox of bonding means there is no unique human
sound that doesn’t borrow another human sound to execute a phoneticism,
otherwise ë and em translate as eh and humming anti-treble of the lips, or finger licking mmm of kentucky.
actually... we have the opposite of quantum physics...
the body functions within an ~37ºC emission...
there are four seasons in a year... the earth's orbit is 365 days,
i just took all the known macro units
and consolidated them in the micro unit of joules undifferentiated
in terms of observable "energy."
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.
Leonard Green Feb 2017
Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity

Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach

Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.
Dedicated to the lovers on Valentine's Day
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth;
What, though our “nation’s foes” lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir’d in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur’d his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits “war not with the dead:”
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber’d in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending “’neath the weight”
Of cares o’erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear’d,
Who for a time the ruin’d fabric rear’d:
He, too, is fall’n, who Britain’s loss supplied,
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe’s far-extended regions mourn.
“These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;”
Yet, let not canker’d Calumny assail,
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o’er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour’d marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.—
Fox! shall, in Britain’s future annals, shine,
Nor e’en to PITT, the patriot’s ‘palm’ resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour’s sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar’d to ask.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.i don't know any other music genre, where the bass is left alone, left exfoliating married to the drums, and the guitar? there's no such a thing as a rhythm guitar section in blues... the guitar is consrtantly married to solo... to a sense of orthography... best represented by ´ (the acute accent) without an o: to cream out a "hidden" u, i.e.: ó... or a cedilla (¸) bound to a c: ç to form the greek sigma (ς) - e.g. garçon... waiter, waiter: i'll just wait... that's how i see the blues guitar... the rhythm guitar isn't there, the bass is married to the drums... but the blues guitar keeps the rhythm in a "funny" way... pair up john lee ****** with lightnin' hopkins (on the piano)... and you... keep rhythm, by working solo accents into the rhythm set by the bass and drums... you rhythm by a continous sparring with the solo - you solo by ensuring your remain in the confines of chord, or something much -esque to a chord... milk, cream & alcohol... again and again: the blues... oh my dear the blues... where the rhythm of the guitar is kept with constant soloing... sometimes engaging with the bass and the drums for a reference check of rhythm... but mostly: solo the whole **** through... but it's not the sort of soloing associated with hair metal of the 1980s jerking-off for performance art piquance... sometimes the solos come in the form of chords... it's like i said already... layers:

         waiter -   garçon
                                 and garcon
                                               (¸)

blues guitar? the latter...
                                             solo accents...
rhythm of syllables: gar-çon
                              but mostly gar-con
                                                         ­  (¸)
since the bass and drums rhythm section
is so perfected in the blues,
the guitar is allowed to do what the hands
want owned by the devil...
        a thorough solo to keep the rhythm...
the one genre of music
where the solo works like a rhythm...
     instead of that in between section
of showing off
between verse chorus verse chorus solo chorus
standard of rock...

     another freedom given to the blues guitar?
the rhythm set by the vocals,
of repeating lyrics...
hell... if someone is going to sing
and play at the same time...
                  why explore lyrics as some sort
of narrative... ping-pong along
with the freedom of the itchy fingers...
by having no real verse,
and no real chorus...
                just a steadied momentum...
        and you really need to drink to appreciate
the blues...
                   just like all the hippies
will tell you that dropping acid enchances your
chances of enjoying the 13th floor elevators
or jefferson airplane...
              i don't know which is better these days:
jazz or blues?
sure as **** not rap...
                       and they say the slave trade
was all bad... sorry...
      without these west africans budding
in h'america... i'd still have a clarinet shoved
up my ***... or folk songs...
                  or mozart's woodwind imitating...
or vivaldi's *******' worth of spring...
yes, and we all know that Idi Amin was white...
wasn't he? who died peacefully while
under asylum in saudi arabia...
           Idi Amin was white! oh come on!
he was the last king of sctoland!
              on a side:
   they were picking cotton...
             well... at least they weren't working
the ******* coalmines... where they now?

ever watch that video
of milo
  yiannopolous:
       congresswoman
ilhan omar
           (d-mn)
       addresses
david horowitz's west
coast retreat?

where is the old milo
gone to?
anyone pick
up on the heavy breathing?

there's the stag ***
of only 2 years prior?
he's not here...

         i was never into making
videos,
only because i just liked
those japanese godzilla
movies from the late 80s...

and i'm still a sucker
for modern pop,
currently?
           mabel - don't call me up...
huge, huge sucker
for the expected reaction
to pop music...
synch. vocals and
a very limited circumstance
of lyrical poverty...

sucker... might as well
don a dunce hat...
elsewhere,
on the ibernian peninsula
it's also called
a *capirote
...
and **** gets freaky...

i agree...
the northern crusades,
the polacks became christened
in 962...
   the teutonic knights
were ready
to explore lithuania...
we were about to allign
ourselves with them,
ergo: defend them...

            the concept
of reconquista came after
the crusades...
         i'm pretty sure it came
after...
           jihad is reconquista...
worded differently...
   is it? the crusades were one
thing...
     jihad = reconquista...
         the current form of jihad?
it's like crusading...
     to claim a jihad is to claim
reclaiming lost lands,
there must be some muslim genius
who could come up with
a counter term to jihad:
the jihad on the offensive...
rather than on the defensive...
we need some muslim genius
to come up with a conquering
ideology of islam...
   umayyad script...

i'm reading into the video
and i'm like:
is he angry...
       or is he simply scared?
all that heavy breathing...
maybe it's both?
   do i "think" about
throwing him from
a roof... are you sane?
as they say:
in a mad mad world,
the only sane people
                    are the madmen...

talk about memes finally
coming across "genetic"
mutation...
                why are all the "liberals"
and "progressives"
so surprised by mutation
creeping into memes?
doesn't that usually happen
with genes?
so... what's with all the outrage...
if memes exist outside
of the biological reality
of genes,
then... surely,
any counter-thought
from the est. order is equivalent
to a mutation, isn't it?

               so... what's the outrage
about?
    well if genes are going
to by hijacked by a mutation,
why would memes be immune
to a mutation,
akin to the o.k. hand sign?
you want a script?
i learned this at primary school,
but you need two hands
in tow:

   (right hand RH,
left hand LH,
   thumb TH
         index I
      ******* MF
        ring finger RF
pinky P)...

and now the motion

   RH (I + MF hand down) slap on the
the LH palm of the open hand...
   RH (I + MF hand up) slap
on the LH palm of the open hand...
RH (I + MF
               V shaped insertion
of the V shape into the LH's
side)
      clenched fist of RH slammed
on the open palm of the LH...
clenched RH with an extended TH
poiting toward caesar's favour
in the coliseum (thumb's up)
moving away from the LH open
palm...

   translation?
   why, don't, you, ****, off...
primary school,
some of the kid's parents
must have taught them this sequence
when their children told them
that some foreigner ******
was attending primary school
with them...

                   poor milo though...
notably in that video...
           he's either really angry...
or he's ******* himself...

i'm still left with this sign language...
i don't even know if it's correct...
a kevin spacey "conundrum"...
i'm not exactly going to, *******,
am i?
                knitting and picking
points of criticism...
   made easy:
   no niqab, no turban,
   no copper skin,
             no black skin...
no wonder my fellow countrymen
are leaving
with a massive F          and a U
from this island...
                    good for them...
if i was sane enough,
i'd also leave...
      but given that i'm also a dual-citizen...
well...
         milk the ***** for
her last worth...
    this language...
                    the people are another story,
but my lover affair with
this language is exactly
this.
chris iannotti Jan 2013
ACT I

MR. REYNOLDS: university linguistics professor in his 30's.

MS. LENDER: 1st-year graduate student in the university linguistics program.

SARAH: university undergraduate.

Scene 1

MR. REYNOLDS' office. The walls are covered with prestigious accolades and degrees. MR. REYNOLDS and MS. LENDER are sitting together, both with good posture, on one side of the table. SARAH is sitting comfortably in a chair on the other side.

MR. REYNOLDS

Okay, first of all, Sarah, I want to thank you for taking the time out of your day to work with Ms. Lender and I.

SARAH

Oh, like no problem at all. When I saw the bulletin saying that you guys needed like research subjects, I thought to myself that I would like love to talk and help.

MS. LENDER

(Staring). Do you work in the Student Union? And do you know--

MR. REYNOLDS

Ms. Lender, those questions are irrelevant. Let's get right to the task.

turns to make direct eye contact with SARAH

Are you ready, Sarah?

SARAH

Yes!

MR. REYNOLDS

Great! We are delighted with how excited you are. First question, Sarah. Would a sentence like this be something close to what you might ordinarily hear amongst your peers: 'I think I like like John?'

SARAH

Yeah, totally. Except, if you want to get like technical, I need to ask you like a follow-up question.


MR. REYNOLDS

Oh, there's no need to, Sarah. We're not testing for content. Only grammaticality. There's no need to get--

MS. LENDER

No, please do. Do get technical.

SARAH

I'm just confused with the way the sentence was like worded. Does this person like, like-like John, or does he or she only like John like a friend?

MS. LENDER

I'm sorry, come again? All I heard was a series of 'likes' and what may have been English if we really--

MR. REYNOLDS

Ms. Lender! Excuse me, Sarah. One moment.

SARAH

Oh, no problem.

MR. REYNOLDS turns his chair around to face MS. LENDER. He motions her to do the same.

MR. REYNOLDS

(Whispering). What are you doing? Why are you being so hostile towards our subject?

MS. LENDER

I'm sorry, Mr. Reynolds. It won't happen again. It's just that one of my biggest pet peeves is like-insertion.

MR. REYNOLDS

I understand that, Kathryn, but you are damaging your professional integrity by getting mad at a test subject. Remember, we're only here to record the descriptive rules of English language as it is spoken on campus, not prescribe suggestions or ridicule.Do you understand?

MS. LENDER

Yes, completely.

MR. REYNOLDS

Splendid! Now, let us continue. (Turning). Sarah, may we proceed?

SARAH

Of course, just I have to like leave soon. I'm sorry about that. It was totally like unanticipated that my ride would be here so fast.

MR. REYNOLDS

Oh not a problem at all, we can continue this another time if we have to, but we'll try to speed things up for you.


Okay. So, the second question runs with the same conditions. Would a sentence like this be something close to what you might say personally or hear on campus, amongst your peers: 'John and I partied all weekend. Oh well, YOLO!'?

MS. LENDER

Yes, please think really hard to yourself about this one. Are there any John's that you may have partied all weekend with, or for several weekends in a row with, and decided to say at the end of a good run, 'You know what? YOLO! You Only Live Once, so why shouldn't I be an ******* and steal someone's boyfriend?!'

MR. REYNOLDS

That's enough, Ms. Lender! Out of my office, right now.

MS. LENDER grabs her belongings and exits stageleft. She sits outside the closed office door.

SARAH and MR. REYNOLDS make their exit. SARAH is halfway out the door with an apologetic MR. REYNOLDS following on her heel.

MR. REYNOLDS

I'm very sorry for the unexpected turn of events. You will receive due credit if we decide to publish any work containing your responses. Please take care, and once again, I am so sorry.

Sarah walks offstage


Kathryn, we need to talk. I am incredibly disappointed in you. What was that whole fiasco about? You are aware that she was an integral part of the research for your end-of-the-semester project, aren't you?

MS. LENDER

Mr. Reynolds, please forgive me. It's just, of all the kids on campus, it had to be her...I mean, I'm positive it was her. It's just my luck that it had to be Sarah Ross.

MR. REYNOLDS

Pardon? Where did you get Ross from? I'm afraid I don't understand, Kathryn. Her full name was Sarah Blackstone.
Obadiah Grey Feb 2011
We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...



There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.

they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,

or so the tale goes...
The Black Beast Mar 2020
Candle 1

Part 1

A lonely standing candle
Burning slow and dancing free.
It flickers light across the room
On a naked, you and me.

Our eyes are locked together,
Shadows dancing everywhere.
I lightly graze your cheekbone
As I brush aside your hair.

Your lips quiver in waiting,
Sending shivers to your toes.
Your breath begins to quicken
As our distance starts to close.

Oxytocin fills your body
And you feel yourself set free
As you feel my lips make contact,
And surrender yours to me.

Part 2

Soft and warm as candlelight.
Moist as summer rain.
Our lips divide for one last breath
Before they join again.

A rush now overcomes us
As they merge together fast.
Our teeth, like little soldiers
As our tongues race to get past.

Your arms grab my head tightly
As they don't want me to leave.
My beard tickles you slightly
As our heads just bob and weave.

As the candle wick burns lower,
My lips lower down your skin.
First the neck and then the chest.
Let the escapade begin.

Part 3

With my lips above your cleavage
My hands graze along your side,
'Til they softly cup your *******,
Which are beautiful and wide.

You feel a soft massage start as
Your underboob is tight.
My lips stil slowly falling
'Til your ******* are in sight.

Your fingers knotted in my hair,
Your legs around my waist.
As my tongue begins to circle
Before getting its first taste.

A quiet moan as my lips kiss
And **** upon your nips.
A few more moments, then it's time
To move down to your hips.

Part 4

This candle, nearly finished,
So, the lower I must get.
Your leg lock loosens on me
As you start to pant and sweat.

It starts with long sweet kisses,
Then a jiggle of the ****.
As my arms lock round your thighs and
Pull my face right into it.

My fingers spread you open
As I take on one last breath.
And dive in to taste the sweet treat,
'Til ****** or death.

A loud moan and long shiver
As my tongue now finds its mark.
And so, the candle burns away,
With us breathless in the dark.



Candle 2

Part 1

You light a second candle
And announce that it's my turn.
That I should lay upon my back
And let this candle this burn.

This view of you beside the light,
I simply, cannot speak.
My eyes and jaw snap open as
My muscles all fall weak.

Half lit by waltzing ambers, while,
The shadows claim the rest.
Not to jump up now and take you
Is a difficult request.

My time to wait is over as
You join me on the floor.
Making sure that as you fall our
Yearning lips collide once more.

Part 2

The wave of kissing deepens.
Your hand scrapes me as it falls.
First, my chest, and then my abs,
And then it ends up on my *****.

Our mouths pay no attention to
What's happening below.
As your hand now grips my shaft and
Starts the rhythm off real slow.

My wood becomes pure iron as
I feel your tempo surge.
And my breath becomes more stuttered
As you hold me on the verge.

You kindly ease down on your pace
And pull from one last kiss.
And as your head gets lower down
I know I'll enjoy this.

Part 3

You lick along the shaft and then
You loosen up your grip,
As your eyes engage my member
And you spit upon the tip.

Your mouth now claims it's dinner
As you gobble up my taint
And the sudden ******* motion
Makes me start to feel all faint

The slurping noises louden as
Your neck goes to and fro
With each mouthful getting deeper
As you find a steady flow.

My fingers link around your hair.
Your throat feels my quick ******.
Then while you gag and catch your breath
You turn and then adjust

Part 4

Your lip service keeps coming
As you keep your stable pace.
The only difference now is that
You're sitting on my face.

My mouth now back to action as
My tongue begins to weave.
My hands spread your cheeks open so
My nose has space to breathe.

Your flattened ******* lay dormant as
Your **** now starts to twerk.
And you grind your **** pumpum
Over one ecstatic smirk.

Our need for foreplay, over,
As we finish on our snack,
As the candle wax runs empty and
The room returns to black



Candle 3

Part 1

I vanish in the darkness and
You roll onto your spine.
You hear the sound of a match strike,
And see the candle shine.

You see me jump towards you as
You spread your legs apart.
You giggle as you clearly see
I cannot wait to start.

Your lips begin to open as
My tip begins to breach.
My arms hold on your waist as you
Soon lose the skill of speech.

The steadfast pump continues with
No need to yet go fast.
Let us endure every moment
As we feel each second last.

Part 2

Your eagerness is striking as
You push me to the ground.
As you start the task of riding
And regain the gift of sound.

Your moaning echoes round us as
You struggle to pronounce,
Now your pace sets out to quicken
And your ******* commence to bounce.

As your stamina decreases you
Decide to turn about.
And you pull a full 180
Without letting me slip out.

You then continue bouncing with
More power in each ******.
As our minds are lost to time and
Our control is lost to lust.

Part 3

I sternly lean you forward then
I kneel behind your rear.
Quickly getting back to business
But I take it up a gear.

I hold on tightly with both hands.
You feel me deep inside.
As your ******* hang low and jiggle on
With each and every stride.

Your head now rests on your crossed arms.
No strength to hold your pose.
As the ramming still continues
In the dimly lit shadows.

Our breaths are long and staggered with
Our bodies drenched in sweat.
So I choose to change position as
It isn't over yet.

Part 4

I lift you to the wall and hold
My fingers to your throat,
As I resume the insertion
And your brain begins to float.

A gasp of air revives you as
My hand loosens its grip.
But an intense rush consumes you
As you start to twitch and drip.

I let you sit upon the floor
And offer out my *****.
You swiftly take it in your mouth
And suckle on this load.

A ****** overcomes me and
I blow inside your jaw.
As the light begins to flicker
And the candle burns no more.



Candle 4

Part 1

The final wick ignited as
Together, we lay still.
The time of action, over as
We both have had our fill.

Our ribcages expanding as
Our lungs almost break out.
Overworked and undernourished as
We rest from our workout.

Your head is resting on my arm,
Your eyes stare at my chest.
They mark out a new spot for you
To use as an armrest.

A light cascade of fingertips
Caress across my side
As your hand takes its position
At the place that you had eyed.

Part 2

I see your cheeky smile as
I feel your tickle too
As i let out a quick giggle
And then try to tickle you.

A quick under and over as
Your hand comes up to block
Within moments it is over
As our fingers clasp and lock.

A sudden change of vibe now as
Our pupils lock as one.
As we both, within this moment,
Have been hit with shock and stun.

Our heads both drawn together as
We again lose control.
As our lips are reunited
And our tongues start their patrol.

Part 3

With our bodies spent and aching
The smooch doesn't last too long
As you lift your head and smile at
The thought of nothing wrong

I can see the candle dancing as
Your eyes reflect its glow
As our hands continue clutching as
We both will not let go.

My brain records this moment that
I never will forget.
How beautiful you look right now
Still covered in your sweat.

You rest your head below my neck,
An ear upon my frame.
As you listen to my heartbeat
And you hear it call your name.

Part 4

Your eyelids start to weaken and
Your breaths start to extend
Soon you feel your body slipping
And your consciousness, transcend.

A light snore soon escapes you and
I cannot help but grin,
As I don't want to disturb you
As you sleep upon my skin.

My arm is dead and stinging so
I try to change my stance.
I slide it out as I try not
To wake you up by chance.

I cuddle up beside you as
The room goes void of light.
I kiss your hair and then I wish
Sweet dreams for you tonight.
Jeremy Betts May 2022
(too long version)

Life indeed pushed me to the edge of the cliffs end but the jump was my decision, no one there could ever be bothered to care enough to even explore the simplest question much less begin thinkin' about askin' what I was thinkin' when I settled on the option I ultimately, on more than one occasion, failed at miserably while attemptin', like the byproduct of rabbits ******' my faults are multiplyin' as my spark goes dark at the same time my shine went dim, not worth restorin' this vessel that sits as decoration in a white trash front lawn deterioratin', startin' from the back end then devourin' the engine

One step forward, two giant leaps back pedalin', that was the general motion of regression, lookin' like I'm plagiarizin' Michael Jackson when he's on stage performin', masterin' that classic moon walkin' he's known for doin', never as smooth as him but you get the picture I'm paintin', losing track of my destination as it began droppin' out of sight behind the horizon, followin' the trail the sun was blazin'

Can't see the forest for the trees and vegetation, could have heard the pre-lumber fallin' if you would only humor me and at least pretend to listen, but that there is somethin' you have zero interest in which is interestin' cause if the past has taught me anythin' about what you find pleasure in it's that you're lovin', above everythin', the chance to keep pointin' out and highlightin' how I'm a terrible human bein', a garbage person but not a man and no CDL license, I'm not pickin' up the trash I'm metaphorically dwellin' in only then to have it pile back up again times ten, ultimately creatin' my own land fill location within, wilfully lettin' recycled misfortune to continue hittin' me on the chin, it's due to inadequate trainin', not for the lack of tryin' to defend

No direction just a lie practiced to perfection too keep 'em from noticin' my state of depression, leave 'em guessin'. But to keep the honesty rollin' in I have a confession, I'd loan you the money to pay attention but you'd never take that good for nothin' offerin' and I ain't even placin' blame, just sayin', I know my position, I'm fully aware I'm on the losin' end of this game of tug-a-war life and I are playin', though I think it's cheatin', countin' cards to ensure a win, gamblin' that I'll give in and fold before noticin' I'm the mark bein' taken, the journey of life is a rigged expedition

What am I doin' besides losin'? Why am I here became the daily question, how do I get out this mess of confusion that's drownin' me to the point of extinction? It's an impossible equation even for a mathematician with years of education, so you know for certain I'm lyin' when, for no good reason, I have a go at answerin'. The slipknot is workin' just as I was expectin', slippin', goin' taunt, slidin' into its final position

I should mention, if you're thinkin' this has taken place solely for attention you're sorely mistaken, you never come to that realization, dodgin' conversation in an attempt to avoid confrontation, leavin' me noticin' there's no one standin' by and extendin' a hand to help and lookin' back there's never been. No one attendin' my lonely execution by decapitation in an effort to stop the spreadin' of harmful misfortune I feed myself, bad for my mental health, a deadly addiction that's become somewhat of a tradition through repetition, turnin' a weapon on myself, worsenin' my condition, that's a fact based observation not an opinion

No resolution in the hard hitting revelation that there's no salvation for someone who's gone and done what I've done and gone on livin' in a web of fear that I first spun for protection but couldn't stop the infestation from gainin' the traction it was needin' for the completion of my complete elimination

Cravin' anythin' real to place my faith in, I'm bein' told the hate and pain I'm bathin' in is of my own creation, I can see the connection as I sit broken down in the intersection of real life and fiction, I've lost control again and once again there's no mulligan. Am I seein' the glass half full or half empty or maybe it's all an illusion regardless of perception? Lost my vision, can't see through the pollution and corruption runnin' rampant with no solution comin', I'm a simpleton so this ***** gettin' confusin', a complete brain malfunction

I've awoken the beast within and just as I was predictin' we instantly began battlin' to the death, fightin' for position and a quicker end to the situation I'm always findin' myself in then findin' out for myself that it's always been my own reflection startin' back in my direction, the ugly inside is finally outwardly projectin', can't even pretend to be my own friend, enough is enough, I'm saying when

Its lurkin' just under the skin, waitin' for the moment to strike and beat me down to nothin'. When will it end? Never I'm guessin'. I'm gonna have to try to put an end to it all myself again, tirin' of the repetition to the point I usually take no action, sometimes due to exhaustion but still just lettin' it all happen like that's what I was plannin' from the beginnin' but that makes about as much sense as quittin' ****** right after the needles insertion or waitin' till after overdosin'

Frustration givin' way to aggravation and aggression leavin' little satisfaction even if I could squeak out a win, but I'm no longer wastin' time waitin' for that to happen so I'll probably most likely be caught sleepin', dreamin' about what could've been had I listened to my gut feelin' and put in the same amount of stock I place in what my treasonous mind and heart are always sayin'
and not let doubt creep in and claim top billin' as it's permanent position, knocking out compassion and reason, replacin' both with the hate and weight of a nation

It's a fools mission, I WILL be beaten' into submission, the last thing I'll hear as my energy gives up on existin' is the mortician statin' then time stampin' my expiration, that and the body bag zippin', family left pickin' out a coffin from the bargain bin, not worth payin' a fortune, only payin' little respect to the fallen then quickly forgotten at the drop of a pin

You're sayin' I have a purpose but I'm witnessin' me wastin' every minute of the earths rotation and never reachin' the conclusion that I was slackin', far to laxed in the preparation for a home invasion of this mental prison I'm caged in where I'm servin' a life sentence and I'm mentally and emotionally starvin' while my vision of any kind of future begins to darken

No open invitation, but that's not stoppin' my personal demon from just walkin' right in and startin' the killin' spree up once again, focusin' first on positive motivation just for existin', of course that's just my imagination, but could you imagine? A horrible vision to the average pedestrian, I know, but I still crack a grin at the thought of it happenin', the devil on my shoulder is at it again

My light fractured through a prism and some went missin' and I never got around to lookin' so no chance of gettin' it back into my possession, there's no raignin' it in, goin' from a fools errand to a search and rescue mission seemingly overnight but for what reason, just to teach me a lesson? I don't test well, I won't make it to graduation

Choices made out of desperation got me lookin' and feelin' like a felon, to survive I had to become the villain of the biography I'm narratin', this isn't livin', at best it's just barely holdin' on for dear life and weakenin', a measly attempt at survivin', forced into an intimate relation with the unforgivable, each of the sinful deadly seven

The line not to cross was paper thin, walked it like a drunk person in front of a couple corrupt police men, heathens but feelin' better than, lost control long ago, before I fell off the wagon, I ain't talkin' about drinkin', it started way back when with prescription medication, ones that were suppose to be helpin' but then used for wreckreation and that's when it began draggin' me down to an underground parkin' garage elevation

I didn't have a break down, like I said, it was a break in home invasion with the assumption there was somethin' worth takin' to begin with but everythin' inside is broken and you can see the corrosion of the foundation built on sand, makin' this temple worth nothin', even self worth is fadin'

Graspin' at the air and yet again findin' nothin', grapplin' with the notion I'm nothin', prayin' my emergency flotation device will suffice cause the water is ragin', feelin' the undertow currant strengthen in it's concentration, I think it's attackin' and there's no escapin' so I began blinkin' SOS in old fashion morse code hopin' you don't need help with the translation, if that's the case then I'm done for, why bother debatin', I'll take myself out of the equation, preparin' my soul for the comin' evacuation

You begin lyin' just to raise my spirits but I ain't buyin' into what you're sellin', counterfeit concern bein' spoken with no emotion or conviction, after the extensive evaluation I see it's no garden of Eden I'm livin' in, again, someone's been lyin', I'd be wakin' right into the den of a rabid lion shrouded in original sin, I ate the fruit knowin' full well it was forbidden, straight up poison but zero ***** were given, so this was bound to happen, the writin' was on the wall, who am I kiddin'?

You have my permission to begin the process so let's just go ahead then and get this over with so I can silence the voices within, I've eliminated every complication, layin' on the tracks at the crazy train boarding station, awaitin' the unavoidable, provin' I was correct in the assumption that this is the right time to initiate my endin', a personal Armageddon...oh, well hello, you must be that Satan guy I've been hearin' so much about from everyone preachin' directly in my ear then going out the other, it's still hard not to listen, I'm just tyin' up a loose end or two then I'm yours for the takin'

...alright, thanks for waitin', now then, let the journey to my endin' begin shall we? I'm takin' the lead on this one cause I know where we're goin' and I'm no good at followin' direction...obviously, it goes without sayin'

©2022
onlylovepoetry Apr 2023
When thou and I first one another saw:
All other things to their destruction draw,
Only our love hath no decay;
This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,
Running it never runs from us away,
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.


The Anniversary by John Donne

<>
My body was at Sunday Sabbath rest,
a weekly anniversary of soul refreshment,
my eyes resting and resisting any sear-searching,
no mental irritants, no voke to yoke from a sweet vigil desired,
yet, the rough & smooth cells both, ever mindful and a calming silenced atmosphere,
a frontline of mine~full of hazards, an exposé of vulnerable tissue

when the heart is willing, then eyes will moisten,
and vulnerability is normality’s secret wardrobe’s doorway,
those exposed, thin skinned pores give free entry by the pricking of perfect poetry, re-charged cheeks flush,
and the weight of demanding pangs electric,
insist on an insertion of pen to hand

a long lapses tween love poems,
expressive of calm seas, an orderly life,
soothing waves sound, lapping and lulling,
bursts of affection, easy satisfied by a touch,
a glancing stroke, satisfying,
an actual smile, gratifying

stumble on Donne’s words, a strong coffee stirring challenge,
to the idylls and idles of comfort that cover depths-in-earnest and well earned memories of early times when fierce embraces, verbal chases, intrigues and passions, were the shrapnel of pursuit, battle and sweet and **** surrender

by command and suasion, this pointy finger releases
colored inked stanzas, a combinatory of pleasured sensations, intermixed with so many memories of moments, visualizations, of actualizations, stabbing colored delights of
sun rising and sun setting island habitudes,
and then this, this  birthing of a poem, a freshening release of
sentinel pangs

tho the room’s quietude yet prevails,
she,
(unaware of the effort emotive raging, using old words in
new combinations, tinged by vulnerabilities and graces),
bedded beside me, distracted by book and music, still, yet,
oblivious to the ferocity of my cresting creativity,
soon will
turn routinely,
feigning plaint, inquisitive and inquiring,
do you still love me?

yet and still!
will my literary eyes literally reply,

  yet… and still…
Sun April 16
5:48pm
(still) between the heart & nyc
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
rarely do i have a title before a poem,
but sometimes it feels like i've abstained
from ******* for a month and i write one down;
i'm surprised i didn't take the bait,
i was a blind man that was give sight years later,
every gold-digger's wet-dream some might add,
but what post-Marxism has revealed is that
that bourgeoisie like to belittle those of menial-task
labour rather than the upper-tier socialites,
it's just that they don't possess insignia of power,
they exercise their power on the lowest kind,
men who'd gladly spend a hot summer's day toiling
the fields in full happiness of physical splendour
than spend it pampered in a Versailles parlour kin -
they think books are their macaroons...
i should have not minded my self-worth so much
and settled for the prize of easy-living,
it was more like a self-obsession but made kinder
with the word solipsism... whatever it was,
i spent a month in St. Petersburg like Al Paccino in
Alaska insomniac witnessing the white nights...
i could write a honorary poem with rhyme and
perfect punctuation... but life isn't like that...
it was a night to remember, a great **** on a bed
with a tortoise green headboard and a line of mirrors
where the concept of ******* was made clear:
Narcissus watching himself ******* with nymph
after nymph until Echo's turn came; it was no longer about
the face or beauty, but the insect-like banality,
Narcissus inventing fiction, ******* in-front of a mirror,
discharged and opened a Pandora's box for himself,
pronoun usage... strange how all monotheists contest
the existence of one among no other, like polytheists
contests the existence of one among many... like now...
if they be gods, their names do not necessarily denote
a chance encounter and formal airs or grievances mastered
for a brief conversation; very much resides in their poetic
investment being banked, that Narcissus, less noun
and more imagery is best understood -
for i claim that poetic techniques are equally needed in
the lessons of grammar: such that metaphor,
onomatopoeia, imagery, pun are equal with noun, verb,
adjective... etc.

rude words? crude words? well, i guess
you're fine with the carnage of images,
you abstract someone in alternative versions
of dimension and say a £-D person doesn't matter...
when did Luis XIV ever bow before a *******?
so she calls you up, this rich, pampered,
self-righteous Cinderella hopeful from
St. Petersburg with a flat about 10 minutes
shy from the the Hermitage...
she's walking on glass, i can hear her from
a mile away like a shark sniffing a droplet
of blood from a mile, the salt, the salt
agitates it's senses, god be merciful,
but god wasn't with missing eyelids on
aquatic creatures and serpents, i'm guessing
the Darwin in me swoons to say:
eyelids breed dreams, mammalian blood,
no eyelids, no dreams,
amazing how a rainbow can penetrate a
cave of darkness, don't give me the meaning
of dreams, Freud, give me how it happens,
your why is perfect for the rich,
a second coming of communism -
those neo-**** punks don't know what
they're defending, they think is glam-rock
style obituaries, it's degenerate culture
right on the pitch of saying... it's a fork.
no, i don't have any respect...
why did you leave Edinburgh, she asked.
i don't know, he replied.
now comes the abstracting of rigid
fiction systems due to the psychology of
being attracted to ancient pronouns,
after all psychology was always attracted to
ancient pronoun uses,
we have the scholarly etymology from ego
as the up-keeping of Greek -
fair enough, keep the alphabet, but forget about
the ideas behind it... but wait, you kept both!
and the urban etymology from self
as the insertion of slang & slur and what
other nonsense you'd come up with for applause...
so she calls you up after you asked her:
those anti-contraceptive pills working?
yes.
you asked me to not use a ******.
yes.
can we keep it casual?
yes.
am i looking at torture instruments in a museum?
yes.
**** me, i better get drunk every night and hope
for an early death... 'cos that's what i'm doing right now!
i don't want to live more than i had wished to live...
every ******* time i open *harold norse'

autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel i'm nagging,
i read the **** thing, too much premature **** in it -
or.. swearing... a healthy approach to a vault of vocabulary -
it's not a version of bankruptcy, it's just economics babe,
say it blunt, use a sharp knife... better that than
saying it sharp, and having to use a blunt knife,
believe me, you'll be taking oaths on a guillotine by then...
but you'll find it easier buying a harold norse memoir
than one book of his poetry...
it's antiques we're dealing with, this ain't
alan ginsberg's howl, it's the fringe, a scotland of
the roman empire, antiques!
i do wish i never said: get an abortion...
but the dialectical dichotomy in me that some would
say less eloquently as being schizophrenia now wishes
i didn't... but... what's that argument for feminism?
i forget taking contraceptive pills he ***** me on my period
or he ***** me on my period and i get impregnated,
so this is some miraculous ****-up situation by chance?
she said the exact words: i think i'm pregnant.
the Cartesian in me says: i think... so i'm guessing
she doubts she is.
better still... i don't know!
so she is, she isn't... my truthful reply would be...
i, don't, have, any, money... she's the one with
a spare apartment roughly 10 minutes from the *******
Hermitage and i'm stuck in limbo to her game plan of
having parents and never growing up...
well of course poetry doesn't sell, we don't have
patronages from popes, and if only english teachers
and aristocrats write in this medium...
then you're all about to pack your bags for
Disneyland...
still the first page from that autobiography ****** me off,
i don't know why, there's so much pompous pie
in it... given social stratification the outcasts feel
empowerment by rebelling against social norms and
expectations, while the social in-casts have to feel
shame... and this is an existential shame, a sense of
purpose without a sense of continuum -
that's what's bothering me, it's that shady grey area
of ratios 2 : 1 in China, 2 : 3.4 in England or...
1 : 2 (single mother, two children)... if i really did a runner
would i write for zilch? if i did a runner i'd run blind
completely, i wouldn't expose myself to some minor
event in my life... i'll repeat...
approximately 10 minutes... from the Hermitage...
i can see the Shard of London as a toothpick from where
i'm sitting on the odd day in the park...
my position isn't exactly one of power, but more of gob.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The TSA won't let me fly
It seems when airplane-jailed,
My muse sneaks aboard
Without paying for a seat.

Another airplane poem like 30B,
From a long ago flight,
Found dusty, in the poetry sewing box


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

with every breathe he tithes
a packet of whispered wishes,
a blended osmosis of
past and future scenes,
reviewed, previewed,
moments in time,
actual and dreamed

some received,
airborne plucked,
in his chest stored,
prepared for future
takeoffs and landings,
for ultimate insertion
in both
your recesses
and
your abscesses

some native,
combobulated, containerized
packets of seconds,
of joyous moments,
bytes of historical
hugs n' kisses,
as a child
to a child
from a child

those are vanilla frosted,
residual payments for the
good done and given,  
forwarded with all clear signals,
to his loved ones,
now resent, to you,
fellow travelers and sojourners,
intersectors of our peculiar
coded dots and dashes

thirty five thousand feet high,
composure lost,
he swoons as
Bocelli's voce del silenzio
releases tears so sweet,
which are by nature,
gravitated and transformed
into snowflakes to decorate
the Sierra Nevada's
breasted peaks and valleys,
over which his physical notion
is at rest, yet in motion,
within a Delta flying ship

Yet his fevered chest
beats rough,
for every flight seems
a time warp interlude,
a forced reflecting rhyme,
not of his choosing,
a lawful, thoughtful, imprisonment

having donated to you
his best, the remainders,
the man tallies, recalls:

ancient slights, scaled heights,
requiems for his forefathers
scored by cantorial choirs,
liberation struggle weariness,
offers taken and refused,
aces in the hole that proved
insufficient to save his soul.

goal line stands made,
onslaughts refused,
true lies and false truths,
moist lips and monster tears,
occasional A's and calcu-hell-us,
hand me downs received,
help me ups got n' given,
buildings pricked by airplanes,
death wishes granted
and nothing thereby gained,
children, found and lost,
mine, yours, ours...

The sums, always the sums!

engine noises and pilfered winds
are dulled and semi-silenced,
yet the silvered chamber prison
resonates from end to end
as each ledgered memory,
each packet of the
hidden whispered poems
he does NOT choose to send,
dents the man,
leaving claw marks,
screaming pay attention to me,
as if they were the priorities
of a six year old child,
refusing to be ignored

he does,
attention, he does pay,  
allowing rocking guitar heroes
to overtake weeping violinists,
just as newer transgressions
surfeit even his
most really *****,
ancient sins

No matter how he counts,
unable to master the additions,
no matter how many times
counts are initiated,
taken and retaken,
the tally's net net is
concluded, numbered
"forsaken"

his life's W-2 is black n' blue,
deductions falsely enumerate
and thereby underestimate
dues he has paid summarily,
earnings, distorted,
taxes paid never enough,
to satisfy the justice scales,
so wearily he
cries and enunciates,

The sums, always the sums!

THEN COMES HIS SHOUT OUT,
at his most vulnerable,
when a thin veneer of alumina
separates him,
from a fall inglorious
to an end most gorious,
a rapping beat moderne
insists that he go all out,
disallowing no
airy fairy poetry
to disguise that:

If the integers are false,
the entries of a life lived,
are sucker lies
black eyed flies
toxic shockers
that bust open
stinko lockers
where the B.S.
mocking stories
are kept

don't look close
at his documents
they ain't exactly
heaven sent
and the government men
be back on his track
their aviator shades
protect them from
burning light of the
man's furnace
where he burns their liens,
and the agent's ear pieces
drown out his screams of

The sums, always the sums!

God bless you,
keep and recall those packets of
whispered wishes, good tithes,
that the man bequeaths,
gift baskets of
expresso essentials
with God's love delivered

Tho his words,
amateurish and unvarnished,
silly and pompous,
nonetheless, they are the
return on his investments,
his yearnings for your happiness
are the savings accumulated,
though meager jewels are they,
they are ad valorem,
mixed into his confused murmurings

here then,
are his summings up,
what he wills you,,
the tally finale
the best wisdom is
found on coffee cups
at 2:47am.

Dance
Love
Sing
Live

to which he respectfully amends with a
Write.
(See banner photo)
See Nat Lipstadt
Juggling Thoughts Re Proximity, in Seat 30B
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2019
I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true



7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle
she’ll ken her authorship by the title
Julian Jul 2020
A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor
V L Bennett Aug 2018
In the air, floating just next to the window
solidly constructed
as sure as the golden highway
stretching from Frisco across the Bay
looking square
as the acres of boxcars
north on the interstate
on the south side of Chicago,
it's all atoms...

This morning my son postulated to me a so-far unrealized condition
relating to matter transmitters and, probably, hyperspace. "What
would happen, " he asked, "if some guy transported himself inside a big rock?"
Indeed.
Putting on my ears, I considered the situation.  Would the hypothetical solid mass of rock give way, shudder just enough to allow the insertion of a soft, squishy human being?  Or would the spaces in their respective atoms--rock's and human's--intermesh neatly with each other?  Molecular integration?  But such a challenge to the atomic bonds holding the things together might result in a nasty atomic accident. Would that leave a human-shaped void inside the solid rock, a mold exact down to the finest details of skin texture and even eyelashes? Imagine the crystal-filled waters seeping down to find such a hole--Behold!! Geode Man.

Holding my silver pen extended
like a rapier before me,
I dissect the wispy chunks
of smoke. The balance of air
that gave them form
is destroyed.  They are
no more.
Joseph Sinclair Aug 2015
Sitting and waiting in the hospital reception area,
gave me time to think; and feeling even warier,
having just suffered the very first nosebleed of my life
and carrying within my wallet a warning card so rife
with the advice that its possessor is subject to the danger
(I know this may sound somewhat dog in manger)
inherent in an anticoagulant called rivaroxaban
and (if this doesn’t overstretch your attention span)
in the event of bruising or of bleeding
medical advice must be sought before proceeding
any further.  That is to say, at once, or even faster.
or, at least, with speed sufficient to avert disaster.

So, as I say, there sat I contemplating
(no, not my navel, but) the rather aggravating
progress of events that had brought me to this juncture,
that ended recently in a procedural puncture
preparatory to the insertion of a stent
the culmination of which they had to circumvent.
This gave me time, while waiting for the nurse
to minister to my problem, or at least rehearse
for my own delectation the best course
I would have to follow, not to make the situation worse.
At this point let me interrupt my own amorphous
rambling to pay due tribute to the hospital service.

This versifying for which I have developed a proclivity
means that I’m never at a loss these days for an activity
to occupy a boring period of gross inaction
replacing boredom with cerebral satisfaction.
So there I was, awaiting the arrival of the ****** nurse.
(Sorry, that sounds like an awful curse.)
In fact her blood-related treatment meant a lot to me
and was a simple adjective for her phlebotomy.
At that point my thoughts turned quite naturally
to the forthcoming repeat angiography,
and all the helpful comments by my  tender-hearted
friends, and the advice that they imparted.

I was quite astonished by the growing number
of people who this affliction did encumber
all of whom it seemed were anxious to ensure
that I was quite relaxed about what I had to endure.
Instead of being reassured I wondered
why the pessimists apparently were so outnumbered.
Indeed the views were so greatly one-sided
I found it strange there were no “undecided”.
Are they reluctant because of superstition?
Or is it that they wish to avoid an admission
that their empathic fear of ****** invasion
has led them to avoid arterial-related implantation?

But most of all I felt there should be scored
some “Nos” to balance the procedural record.
but they have been unbelievably silent,
whilst I’ve been growing every day more  violent.
Is it, dare I think, that it is just perhaps
because they may have suffered a relapse?
And then I had the most amazing thought of all,
and your objections I am anxious to forestall:
but I feel impelled to discuss the thought
that there’s a reason why they have not brought
their negativity to this post.  Is it quite beyond the pale
to suggest they’re no longer here to tell the tale?
onlylovepoetry Oct 2023
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “

an early morning insertion,
says writes a love poem of
necessity, no formal request,
but as I am quiet bound to
her chest rhyming rising, falling,
she, caught between eyes closed,
but ears open, in pretense of deep
sleeping,
leaves me treading words,
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “
borrowed for reuse, as waves
that have been here moments ago,
but only now just splashing me
to a place of inspiration, I look
up at the jambalaya of verses,
and declare myself satisfied,
both in love and wish this:

a completed poem that satisfies a
noisy urging~surging to tell her I
love her without disturbing her
peaceful state of drowsy and
permitting me too
(thinking pause)
to
taste a piece
of peace, so
well completed
8:56am 10/4/2023
RILEY May 2014
She asks me “what do you think of me?”
I stop;
Reflect upon what just happened,
When a complexity of a girl
Asks a simple guy
What he thinks about her.

She asks me “what do you like about me?”
I’ll tell you what I hate;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like round circles we used to make
With our dancing bodies
In preschool playgrounds.
I don’t,
Hate your lips;
They could be traced
From a million miles
And they curve so beautifully.
I don’t hate your smile,
The semi grins you keep
Before the flashes,
Before the posts;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like bullets entering the soul
With an insertion of dopamine.

She asks me “do you really think I am worth your troubles?”
You are not.
You deserve my delight;
You deserve my green days and blooming flowers,
You deserve my watering mouth
Nourishing the vines underneath your tongue,
You deserve the sunrises in my playlists
And sunsets in the warmth of my jackets;
You are not worthy of my troubles
I am not worthy of my troubles.

She pushes me away,
The walls are too tight
And the stares,
They scrape on our throats.
The girl is lonely,
Her social circle spreads wide enough
To leave a gap;
Her friends walk next to her
And not on her side;
Her smiles-
Electronic cigarettes that look genuine,
But the smoke never rests
On the teeth,
Just a vapor that fades away.
She’s anchored to her reality
Her ships are not meant to sail
Just yet.

She asks me “what do you think of me?”
You’re a concept;
You’re a fusion of vivid elements
Wired with secret buttons
Hidden in your desires.
You’re an emotional rollercoaster
That we ride
You and I,
When I think of you
You’re just a white canvas
That whispers into my soul
The true meaning of art.

She asks me “is this your real answer?”
She ask me “is this your real answer?”
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
Sensual Spaces


the slightly parted lips,
beseech your entrance,
plead for a soft gracing,
a closing grazing,
a memory of
{entice consummate consume},
complete, fulfill,
long remembered far long, far more,
than the interminable sea voyage of the ordinary,
pressing drowning locking,
rinse repeat...

half an inch, less even,
much less,
separates two dancers,
a gulf, so much more arousing than
a can't-breathe grasping embrace,
an exercise to wondering
where the real pleasure kept...

be in no hurry
tarry, slowly,
seek out the
spaces between each finger,
all an invitation, all a question mark,
awaiting filling, answering...

yours in mine, mine in yours,
lock down this connection,
valley spaces tween peaks
needy for
the rain of touch,
the sun-skin heated insertions,
does not the curvatures of her
neckline,
cry out for
hands and lips attentiveness,
a space continuum
{~}
[^]
<|>
+-+
%

t'is the almost,
the last step,
to the first kiss,
the closing connection,
of that first hand-holding,
crossing over the last span of the bridge,
the lowering of the final descent
to the shock of
first insertion,
the wooing nearness of a n'ere forgot scent,
the last step
to the first step,
that first closure,
that is the
final entrance to
sensual spaces,
hallmark passage
gateway found and instantaneous
lost,
that is ever-treasured as that
door just opening
and as fast
closing
to
love ever after...
Senor Negativo Sep 2012
In the depths of my dark side
Their is another me that worships you.
Mad priest, in black and ****** robes
Devotee of ****** satisfaction
Legate of the armies of conquest of the flesh.
This touch will paralyze your will,
If applied inside, you will see soon you,
Slowly you slip down in surrender,
And render yourself unto me,
So I can see how long I can hold my breath
Between your thighs, inhaling the perfume of you,
Unwilling to exhale.
Sacrifices are made to your majesty
In the temple of your body,
On the alter of your creations
The black and white blood is spilt from my soul,
I lose all control, in a head on collision
Of ****** perversions,
Limitless position and orifice combinations,
My balance overthrow in a coup of your moans
I descend into your dark side,
And liberate the screams hidden inside you.
Saliva slick lips spread spit, that mixes with sweat
Muscles taught, working in time with each motion,
Each withdrawal and insertion,
Tender ***** throbbing, pulsing, clenching,
Moving at multiple angles,
pressing the right buttons,
To start the crescendo,
Of scratching, maddening ******
In the presence of a hoard of revelers
Sharing *** with strange people
On a strange stage.
Your bust displayed,
And ten thousand fanatics slit their own throats
In tribute to your infinite ways
Of delivering pleasures through the pleasures I wish to deliver unto you
Incessantly.
Unlocking chakra with tantric secrets uncovered
In the forbidden texts of ****** servitude to you.
I would service you endlessly,
With fanatic glee, but that me I set free to purge my desire,
Fades away an is replaced with the bland, but no less passionate
Love I feel for you.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2022
Analog, anabasis… trip, short, burn the bug to carbon dust…

Seeking in my treasury of books, pared down to ones with personal attachments,
- I sought a Welsh-English pocket dictionary, gifted me
- by a taller and older, by experience, Overmeyer… Bob,
- but he was one of a few in the corp, band of brothers,
- who sang along with me, when he heard me humm,
- he knew the words, worth-ship fixing words, yes,
- we shall gather at the river that flows by the throne of truth. Mmmmhmm, so we shall see, so we shall see,
Oldman river, you know,
you wait, and wait, fishin' wishin' cogitations got from *** go,
known good, known evil, and evil comes for effect, not cause,
clean up, aisle five
hell, in a target store. And a Walmart, #26.
-- I recognized the anti particle, passing through either or,
becoming here, from there, your thinking my thinking,

wall of text, in your current context, this wall has hat

hooks to insights marked pertinent someday, in the wide ocean
at the end of any river mind me and error master,
as awareness, meandering as all fluids do.
Aligning in honed most saline crystaline form, as
current opinions shapened from dust and ash originally,
then spit the idea out as a word,
imagine
matter… mater, really, bottom first bit, was realized after
paterialization falled to manifest self reproduction…
patterned thought, fabrication, plane geometry… which we
as a team, a man and his tools, gunslinger, plus accoutrements.

Yep. Adam, did not work alone. The egg was first. He named eggs.
And chickens, full of eggs, no, hope, and chaos, nada mas…
- morals from old stories, we had lost all hold on those…
Stepmothers after The Hundred Years war, like as not was
first slave, with only obey believed enforce,
as far as
holy vows spoke allowed, but in a whisper…
hear us,
old folk, we scatterbrained old rockers by the fireplace
listen, this is living, right.
Pursue haps as haps occur, in thinking one thing or this other,

Our kind, fixed position ears perpindicularly augmenting per-
iferal vision, if, just, if. Immeasuarable meanings, justice, yes,

we settled at that point. All the Promises - in any living faith,
even dying proves life is a chance, we all go through it, and some leave marks, while others leave a heart felt
oxitocin, not cotin, red on yellow, **** a fellow, -tocin. Oxitocin,

Rush!- Kettle DRUM after a cello up run, or an old familiar rif,
Goin' up country, ' bought a map for a dime,
from a time lain aside in book, as I was seeking that Welsh word for these experience in side, feeling inside, but being mere, yes, not a limiting adjectival modification, on a word, intended to soothe,

NOT ******, soothe, as said of gentle rolling seas, calm as constant as Jupiter's ever near there, right there, red spot, there,
that is an anomoly, yet, there are those who claim clarity, that

Red spot, Ted-talk phaze, ease in, get a buzz, mmmm, slow, slow

slow
whoa, so slow, what difference can plain-people, just us,
can we ever just know, this is the way, no obstacles,
and we leave trails, and trails widen, and widen, and widen,

wide as the milky way as seen from North Korea.
What a blessing, right?
--- God made these chickens we are eating,

no, child we selected these big red hens, people, like us, we can
know how earthly goods grow and we can help, as gard'ners,
retired guardians and priests can, make soil richer,
by leaven from the native soil,
fresh after fire, sparks the bloom

Patience, paid close attention, over time,
pay is as interest always is, compounding…
complex knots
slipping infinite loops generation systems
spinning straw to gold, bricks to build a tower…

to grow mustard into brocolli and cauliflower, prosper-o

we can engineer squash blossuming
be.. not spelch-pstpst-offt-listen,
- laughing
in my home are children, aged 6 to 13, across a seven year gap…
in my home with complete 5G internal Wifi, with cable
- copper, ah
- the humm, copper wire interference, acceptible as soft
- sub-spectra sfumati self-edged,- cut from whole cloth
abrupt.
Con, is with, fuse, is
blown… but, click, we are past that, where I live, on a pension.
I survived an oath in a war. And in America, the we, as
represented in Congress after Korea, and UCMJ, reach, reach,
- remember the ears that read, need to know
right, MP talk, uniform, all the exact same alignment and weave… for forsake, forsooth, forgotten gains, -- un-fore-gotten
upright walking, living concept, Phoebe Zeitgeist
- she made a word nest in my mind, on March 16, 1968.
- On a Douglas Flying Tiger insertion mission,
Flying to a foreign land more foreign than any thus far, redux.

Surreal stepped up to real, realms of preception, Metaverse/
uniform code under it all, we wished for this, can we, can we,

please, walk back in and watch the shadows morph to home sized I-max with true-fi dolby optimized to your very own, humanity
verified self--
- eyes up, look where we were when ever, then be come you now known as dear reader, responsibility free, cookie or no?
Be any mind you find you can wear with no wish to lie,
the wrong mind set with the ears and eyes, and we cannot lie…
you lose.
The whole ritual of prayer and supersites, tics, ****. We glow…

once illegal exposure
confidential, super-secret, super-positioned tyrannical systems,

whole cloth leprosy, black mold to dust time sequence…
-- such minds as fed us Elliot and Thorough Error-prone Poses,

as seen from the repressed mind of an unassimulated inate-ifity,
We are none of us, Adam sons, his model had nor repro circuits.

Hey, once there had to be something akin to ****** birth,
really, mitochondria developed virally, just fine, so, so fine,

imagine, we got the cell, a wall, with enzyme will efforts on the doors, we open to need, and useful matter is accepted,
as in another phase we open to expel the uselesshit, which then fills the red corpuscles, which use iron to hold the load.

Flushing blushing bride, Mito-mom, her daughters, imagine…

trackless wasteland, aftermath of minor miscalculation
in the dancing cosmos, whirling
whiling, smiling
inside…

I made it. 2022, Everest Pax, is the real name
of my youngest grand son, who randomly
reassures me he loves me, as though he wishes me
to not let that slip, naturally, his version of me is fragile,

what he imagines I am can disappear, in a day,
like Uncle Mike, and Uncle Dennis, and Uncle Richard,
and Uncle Remus…
none of whom were alive, when Everest Pax was named,
by his mother, with no input from me, save
the covenant aspect in the who gives this wombed man…
common pagan ritual adapted to post-Jesus Christ-sanity.

X-mas, nada mas. Agree, and take the cookie,
or risk another death,
on the real wrong battlefield… Well, what the hell… hero
or legend in my mind, thinking, what would any who do?
Raw raw raw
False Poets Oct 2017
An excerpt from           An excerpt from
a poem by T.S. Eliot.     a poem by the False Poets


Between the idea          no permanence in juxtaposition
And the reality              where Falls the Shadow, the shadow
Between the motion.     a divisive notion caught between
And the act                    composition & action, the response is
Falls the Shadow           Falls the Shadow
    

Between the conception grayed outline indistinct, the cognitive sap
And the creation              leaks, contradictions irritating birth sac,
Between the emotion      whereupon Falls the Shadow emerges
And the response            the response conclusive, occlusive, collusive 
Falls the Shadow             Falls the Shadow
                                  
Between the desire          juxtaposition insertion, need to achieve
And the spasm                 the blurted ****** of spurted letters born
Between the potency.      in the potent white seeds of black words
And the existence            coming into existence as a riptorn issue,
Between the essence        essences of scents blood+logic foretelling
And the descent               birth & death, descent & the ascent, both,
Falls the Shadow              Falls the Shadow

Between the desire            the desire desired, completed,
And the spasm                   the latency uncovered,
Between the potency         the potent toxins of spit and tears
And the existence              the birth fluid of  of existence
Between the essence          the formulation of the human essence
And the descent                 from blood dust to blood dust is where
Falls the Shadow.               Falls All the Shadows
October 2017
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
some claim it's an aesthetic, others claim it's the mystery of lawlessness, because in all honesty: upper-case Q could be written in lower-case as ǫ, rather than q, all too familiar is ρ (rho) - and there is no law suggesting any convention should be kept to a model of standardisation... hence the dichotomy experienced by dyslexics to the familiar argument: why the disparaging phoneticism from optical aesthetic, why write that and then only say 'y'? much of modern English borrows from the seemingly unnecessary h insertion borrowed from Hindu... dhal... the aesthetic insertion of a surd-letter into an otherwise convenient phonetic-encoding... although either an umlaut or a macron is missing above the a to prolong it; and depending on your aesthetic palette... i'm already advocating a change to sz & cz by stressing the replacement using the caron: š / č... in English the equivalent is bound to words like shrapnel and chatter.

as anyone would say *idiot
, i'd say tuman,
that's because:
                          when syllables are inconvenient
i'd stress that, and write túman...
if i were saying swamp, i'd be right
in also saying bägno - obviously
there are distinctions, akin to punctuation
marks, diacritical marks are effectually
"punctuation" marks, well... inccissions
embedded in words;
these aren't rhetorical assertions, they're
biased on the basis of optometry.
then i might add: with a straw
                      alternatively słomką...
otherwise the noun słomka, i.e. straw,
wheat shaft... a shaft hollowed out
and as Polish girls know all too well:
snakebite (at English universities,
half beer, half cider, a head of
                            blackcurrant juice),
but back east it's just beer and raspberry juice
concentrate: funny... where's the rhapsody?
if the ą is used at the end of the word
then there's an intended action involving
the stated thing... but it's not a universal
statement, just this particular instance...
it's odd, i wake up from my Alaskan vigil
and realise i didn't take my sleep-synthetic
requirements to go to sleep during the night
and wake up during the night...
  that means i'm annoyed, putting it mildly.
words that shoot into my head like sunrise...
newspapers are the bearable versions of Proust,
   bypassing publishing houses can allow
for diarrhoea talent, and no to constipated
critically acclaimed blah blah...
    it's 8:36 in the morning and i don't know why
it's ****** beautiful... everyone's so content
with being busy, doing something, anything,
everything... it's that critical moment in autumn
when the leaves on trees have lost the stalemate
with ******-twisting winter frosts,
   and fall into the ***** of death and rot...
and then these random words enter my head,
words i either forgotten to use or are too obscure
to use in the first place, polish slang...
e.g. kumam, i understand -
     p'stro, a condescending consideration
     for explaining something worth contempt
to the other, but not the self, i.e. the magpie attitude.
   i can't help myself, seeing English *******
on by lazy ***** with :) and :( and acronym talk
i feel i have to provide an antidote...
  the ' in p'stro?         bulging / building up,
there's no p in any language with a syllable
distinction worth a diacritical mark...
   and now it's 8:42 in the morning, and i have half
a litre of whiskey to sniff... should i?
what's Copernican west to Copernican a.m.?
   gentlemen only drink in the afternoon...
yep, and Ben Hur drank in the morning for
the calories awaiting the chariot races...
ha ha... i'd love to see a drunk goldfish...
    but it's fun like that... so many serious people out
there who learned the Pink Floyd march of
the hammers... i don't think i can take a bishop
with a bishop's attire seriously...
                   or a skinhead Buddhist monk...
they're all baldy baldy vaseline hoping for the sheen...
can any authority be taken seriously?
       now i'm truly bullshiting...
i lost this one word in my head... sieve:
motyl, butterfly,
           ćmá, moth (that's a slingshot need
          for acuteness on the a, slingshot is the stress on
the c, and the stress on the a is the actual missile,
   oh, by no means is this orthodox),
  język, tongue / language,
  ozór, edible cow tongue: very tender
in creamy horseradish sauce accompanied with
Silesian gnocchi...
            Q is the acute version of K & C,
i.e. what would otherwise be deemed é to an e.
   wolny, a penalty kick / someone who's free,
  wapń, calcium...
                  what i'm basically saying is that we encounter
so much vocal poverty in this world,
so many words are disused or underused or simply
abandoned...
                        someone weeps over a disused building
weathered by the elements...
   i see an opportunity to engage squatters,
or in the case of words: poets.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
sorry... have to be pedantic all on you...

   you ever think that some people
are born illiterate, at leat,
partially, to escape the label: dyslexic?

sounds to me, that pretty much
all h'americans are...

     is H... neither a vowel
nor a consonant?
you ******* eating steam-****
curry or something?

fill me in...
last time i heard...
you'd doing what the Hindus do to H...
they put it in,
but classify it as neither vowel,
or consonant...
   some whacky orthographic
insertion...
        
        certain languages treat H
as a... surd...
       you write it... but you don't speak it...
it's like people forgot the pivot letter
for either harking up phlegm...
or laughter!

   and Al Paccino can have his ***** fit
in the devil's advocate
all he wants...
                that famous:
look, but don't taste,
touch, but don't taste,
taste?! but don't swallow.
   sorry... own a DVD...
   because you know how the English
variant of sorry, goes, in England, right?
you're not...
i always thought that
the h'Americans had a terrible
problem with having their
personal "space" infringed...
weirdos...
  a part of conversation is also
a part of what monkeys find
the last bit intimidating,
close contact...
            touching each other by the fur...
tugging along...
     H though?
   it's a surd, not a vowel,
not a consonant in the english language,
a "revised" replica of
Hindu orthography...
which inserts the letter,
as neither vowel, or consonant,
but as a surd...
           oh but the Judea pundits will
what to know this info...
  like?
  you forget harking up phlegm in
clearing your throat for rhetorical
purposes,
or you forget how to pivot on a letter
that encompasses both sighing
and laughter?!
      your choice...
         so is the first H of
ha-shem a sigh of relief?
  and the second H a pivot for laughing
into a vacuous space
of planets, stars, and orbits?!

i cannot not be pedantic about language,
there are rules to language,
which is how, people like me,
ensure it's sustained,
and doesn't devolve into
internet EMOJI hieroglyphics...

         savvy?

           the language stays,
but sure, you can run along and play your
little, pseudo / + crypto- linguistic game
of whatever the hell
a correct spelling doesn't suffice...
mind you...
i'm dyslexic on certain words in english...

e.g. vetenerian...
   as you already know,
it's actually veterinarian...

  and that's because of what, exactly?
quasi-stenography bound to english...
e.g.?

     don't: do not
      isn't: is it not
           won't: will not...
you get the drift?!

   i call that the highest form of
cannibalism,
eating letters...
                  serving the apostrophe
Canni...
            and yes, a (indirect article),
the (direct article),
               's (possessive article):
there is a third article in play when
reading english grammar...

but eating certain letters
within the construct of crafting simple
compounds - i.e. -
simple sentences?
no wonder the spelling errors...

back in Poland?
    you don't have dyslexics -
you have orthographic ronin -
the clarification of syllables
is, to my knowledge, ever question...
but in English?
always.
     i make the mistakes...

the English are a race
of linguistic cannibalism,
they eat certain letters out of existence...
never having noticed
that H, is neither vowel, or consonant...
but a surd in most
obscure instances...

    esp. in that "cultural appropriation"
dynamic of borrowing Hindu words...
or Urdu, whichever...

              hatchet -
  hovering -
              hay -
   wasn't it the Cockney shlang
that ate the H out of existence?
    'ay,
           'atchet,
     'overing...
                  oi! 'ate me sum more!
i swear the Cockney accent
don't allow H...
                      but did the Cockney's
laugh more?
  or sigh more?
   the H is about to become dodo
and people are still desiring to use
it for either sighing,
or to pivot on it for the consummation
of, laughter!

  odd... isn't it?!
       and it's the English who are
attempting to **** of H...
                  via Cockney,
having introduced the surd Hindi
H in... say... words like
dhāl (see how the H "suddenly" disappears,
the macron elongates the spelling to dhaal?) -
lentil curry, decent provided
enough chillies...

not funny anymore?!
      How will you laugH?
witHout this letter?
    oi! Cockney sHdders!
      tHe **** are you going to pivot on?
wHat's your tigHt rope, replacement?!

let's just say...
some of us, are pedantic enough,
to care about setting standards
of literacy...
or at least? up-keeping them...
like gardeners...
tending to the gardens of Buckingham palace.
eden halo Feb 2014
i’m sorry, i’m so sorry
please don’t worry
please don’t worry
it isn’t very much at all
except:
i’m blue-
faced with apologies
and choked-up girl pathology
"i think i’m gonna hurl"
i scream, and taste
another “sorry”,
pressed like flowers,
blossomed in my throat.
speak softer, beg forgiveness,
my voice is not my business:
cut my tongue out,
make me kissable,
more easily dismissible
an echoing abyss for you to fill
with hot air, coffee breath
and sound bites
i don’t **** around,
i bite
and scratch and pound and shriek —
you will be sorry when i speak
you’re gonna look pathetic,
you’re emetic, here’s your drinks back
down your suit
i feel frenetic
i will puke, i ******* swear it,
if you call me unapologetic
like a compliment again.
not apologising
for myself
is women’s studies 101,
and i am done
with what a sorry state
you left my sisters in.
paternalistic praises
of our struggle for assertion
and insertion of your ego
into conversations
you were not invited to
is not the way to ladies’ hearts, though
we know how to get to yours:
open ribs, second ***** to the left
and straight on til morning
some things aren’t about you, little boy,
put up, grow up, shut up:
get your tongue out of my mouth.
feeling v feminist when i wrote this i dont wanna apologise for my gender guys stop telling me youre sad about sexism its pathetic
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
i write this from experience, not really
the one to save the drowning man
who would still, rather,
catch a razor blade to stray the gills,
i find that people are afraid of poetry,
so afraid on the play of words
that they invented grammar,
so i ask: in between laughing at
a telepathic joke that can't materialise
anything feely, after all it's just nothing,
and nothing can't materialise
in any cartesian extension of what
thought provides, which is exactly that:
in cartesia logistics the extension is soul,
where the substance is thought,
and the third part i'm not too clear about
writing... i envelop sartre as a novelist
but i dare say... he's a **** philosopher;
nietzsche matured in my youth,
i read the human comedy on the tube,
attracting homosexuals:
a different kind of voyeurism - what book you reading?
different with newspapers...
is that a monday? by jingles the uvula bells!
i thought i heard northern irish lingo!
by jimmy fitz patrick you did...
send into the green marshmallows,
i scented seaweed i yoda did...
bad grammar and no poetics...
i provide you with the choicest of the least cha cha cha...
i take pun, i take noun,
i take verb, i take metaphor,
i take conjunction, i take pronoun...
free bulbs free bulbs free, bulb! ha ha!
basically you take poetry and sacrifice the isaac
on the altar, the altar is not alternative,
the cats are curious: why does he sleep so long
like us? he drink alcohol and goes against
the prescription dynamism, he's a salmon,
swims against the current, dollops sleeping pills
with alcohol... dies of a weak heart heart attack in
fiji or kenya... make poetry amusing again...
please... don't make it a transition of language
from a weak **** / bladder into teenage feminism
so you wish i'd never *******, wishing i'd
always *******...
well no fucky fucky Thailand not Taiwan
got my bra on and my strap-on... missing a c-ring...
about as ***** as the tower of Pisa...
venice seems nice... nice to auto-shove the dirt
into the digged hole for a mausoleum of mahogany:
shining smooth... no five o'clock shadow to dim
the neon effect on the polished goods grieved over
supremely beyond the maxim of ash
and reductionism in the taj mahal...
nordic necrophilia is not exactly cannibalism
of the easter islands... they left no trace,
bunch of french nosed stone tyrants who sneezed
rather than coughed the truth out:
they did the inverse extinction of the dodo....
reduced to cannibalism they were:
no merchants of mecca or venice you see...
trade died before it could spawn...
but since i lost the track of things i better remind
myself that i'm about to be engaged with
writing out the index of my precisely arranged
"bibliophobia," i.e. the index of my library;
but you know what... some muslim school friend
of mine suggested a rekindling of the wartburg festival
of 1933 just based on a salman rushdie novel?
odd... it happened just before electricity
took over from the blitzkrieg parameters under
zeus' orders...
having written this... i actually don't know what
i laughed at... something to do with telepathy:
projection of pathology as ego insertion into someone's
own substance of being (thought); otherwise
known as pigmentation... well black on white,
diluted if not fading brown in sepia...
contrast in alabaster.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
i thought two things prior, prior walking out
ensuring a tree branch could support
a heinekken bottle on a branch...
well it was as clear as day: thinking proves we have a soul,
the existence of thought proves soul and nina simone...
it would be depressing otherwise, the highest understament
of creation being a dog’s bark and *******...
but there’s something bothersome about monotheism
and the ritual rites of burrial that makes it less sophisticated
than polytheism, such as the pagan greeks knew
and the hindus continue to approve...
see it as: why would man engage with the paradox
of coming from dust, and returning to the element of earth...
it’s missing something... ah yes... intelligence...
the pagans were unified in the burning bush...
the plague that unified the world... the 9th plague
in canada: huh?! w.t.f.?! the 9th plague in japan: huh?! w.t.f.?
the 9th plague is the origin of aztec pyramids...
you’ve been warned.
you see, i see the monotheistic coupling of the corpse
with the earth, coffin and favourite track and ceremony
really groutesque...
i like the hindus and pagans coupling man’s body with fire...
this monotheistic coupling with the element of earth
is too morbid for me... i prefer the bit they put two choins
on the sockets for charon... and burn you,
so the metaphor lives: we had fire in us, even though
we were primarily composed of water... we had fire in us nonetheless!
all this gothic coffin bits: the epitaph post-mortem rather than
vivus maxim... all that tending to the grave like it’s a garden...
no wonder voltaire rebelled with candide...
it be natural that a bush on fire be guidance of man’s true origin
and ontology... that it was fire that spoke... rather than earth;
and yet we give ourselves to the false elemental coercion...
it’s not earth that spawned us, earth was but a canvas...
it was fire that spawned us... with each splinter of the spark
of the brush stroke.
or i could tell you about the many times i spent in the brothel
in goodmayes...
the time i gave one ******* an ****** and she said that it hurt
when she composed herself to put her clothes back on,
the time i cried with one,
the time one almost nibbled my ******* off with a death-stare,
the time one stole my debit card and had me go back
and see the stash load of other cards exhibited by the ****,
the time i thought they were romanian girls but
were in fact bulgarian girls...
the time i ****** a ***** off and was asked: do you want to use it
and thus replied no...
the time i was asked if i wanted a ******* and
took the orthodox route and had the same woman for two hours...
and this concern, the freudian madonna-***** complex,
a fine divide... i can go limp **** with girls outside the profession...
why? because i haven’t objectified them,
in the case where they objectified themselves it’s no problem...
but outside the industrial profession of getting turned on
synthetically using cream it’s more difficult...
i need to know the person, i can’t objectify her in the way
she can already objectify herself...
i can be limp **** with a girl who’s a cashier in a supermarket,
but i can never be limp **** with a girl from a brothel...
it’s not that odd... it’s the explanation of freud,
as all theories, there’s a hyphen inserted to compound
and in a grammatical sense it’s the reverse of mathematics,
in grammar the hyphen is like = when two things are added,
subtracted, multiplied or divided...
time-space is usually a narrative of some sort that’s the adequate
answer...
madonna-***** complex also has a narrative, like this one,
i’m not ashamed of a quasi-impotence...
i just **** professionals drunk, i need the calories...
i’ve had *** with prostitutes and was aroused immediately...
a bit like acknowledging: in a dentist’s chair,
i’m about to get my rotten teeth pulled, rather than get a botox insertion
or a heart transplant.
as simple as that.
(the one that stole my saracens' beanie i will never forget,
i got it buying two saracens' supporters
a pint of beer each at a pub in liverpool st.
by faking delusion associating them with
the actual saracens rugby team...
i really want that saracens beanie back!)
well, we'd get nowhere with space~time or madonna~*****,
only because our linear foundations would
fluctuate in the realm of trigonometry:
they break your heart... you break their mind;
forget direct relation, endear indirect relation
where the former is time-space and the latter is time~space.
The meaning of the trustees and the ablution of the signs respectively were based on the word ficare "in the proportion of providing signs and building", as a complement to the concept, in the case of Zefian's Virola, it is given to the ring that rotates in its elliptical as a virtual particle, similar to the Muon. But always in a semantic ring or circle look. Linguistics will attribute both the Virola and the Fero; in this case "leading or leading" The dissociation here is the semantics in the object not entrenched to be used as a common kind of language, but rather as "Virolifero", it is understood that this word will forge the Zefian Arrow into the amalgamation of the ring that leads, to abduct all energies towards a Central Whole. The product of all this energy will be called channeling of the mental representations of the "sign" of signifying, evoking independence in each terminology by itself and represented, rather in the theological physical elementality, associated with the Virolifera plane.

As the treatise of this codex suggests, a term between terms, to assign mnemonic and etymological chaining of meaning most of the appropriation of terminologies attached to a properly vernacular word. The horizon that is stipulated is of a Vernathian nature, where the average life-turning receptacle is of enormous proportions in its multi dynamics, especially in the moral, ethical and theological, especially in matters of emotional articulation associated with a significant meaning. Vernarthian dreams are of Speed of Quantum Physics, therefore they are pure metaphysical and meta-biological, appending to restricted spaces of stimulus and impulse speed, hiding in the residual mass of the unknown, to attribute to them chromatics that is settled in the Corpus Callosum of both hemispheres. Neuroscience yes, but that deposits physical values in the concentration of rest and active energy in areas of the cerebellum, to unleash a choice of names or anthroponyms. Where all the names with a certain alacrity of reason, meaning is attached according to their toponymy, in this case, Virolifero, could be a factor of canceling choices and adaptation of higher energies, on the universe, as a patronage of the Universe "called Rings of Zefian ”endowed with electron elliptical Muon particles.

The signifier of Virolifero will be its phoneme, perhaps more associated with the subject being the ring, associated with its mental representation. This force of Vernarthian thought indicates semantics and phonetics of speculative endowment, for becoming of building rings associated with an eco-physical and eco-environmental scheme. The entire philosophical Vernarthian range has a Sacred Geometry in its verbal and numeral composition, either in the connotation of concepts-ideas and of signs that represent the mental cultural heritage.  Literality will advocate the chronology of gap and verbal-linguistic space, contributing figurative, Greco-Latin barbarisms, such as Virolifero's verbal vigor if we place it in the reference of a building ring, being able to be figurative as a ring that makes or leads according to its practical verbal use dialectical. And in context, it would appear as something sacred in what will be referred to in this Codex of Nuraga Complexes, where each fold of lithosphere will be of the geological relationship between Stonehenge or Nuraga in Sardinia, each one appropriating age in what could be more or less an archaeological conflict of origins, or of comparative aspects of the referenced union, for the end of times, nations, civilizations, political states, and generations of socio-economic persistence. Making an archaeological contextual fact as in these terms, of such references of reception or political exile, but also cultural, adding the terminology of the intracultural contribution of the region. In the argument of Pythagoras and his self-exile in Italy, it is said that he had been condemned to exile from Samos because of his aversion to the tyranny of Polycrates. Around 530 BC settled in Crotona, a Greek colony in southern Italy, where he founded a movement with religious, political, and philosophical purposes, known as Pythagoreanism, and which generated duplicity of context in his sacred mathematical pilgrimage, towards a process of exercise contrary to his own Pythagorean School, expropriating a persona non grata in internal conflicts with personalities from Crotona itself, where he had to flee later. Here ipso facto the verbal exercise exemplifies his transliteration by an unfailing fact, in favor of what emerges from a coercive task, abandoning the same in what placidly sheltered him, and virtually ostracized as an immigrant from Samos.

Hosted the Pythagoreans in Sardinia, Italy.  Being in the colorimetry of the 6th century BC. He was peering into a universe that wasted infusion, clinging to the unknown roots themselves, with undulating harmonies in what we inhabit as an ethical and religious wave and vibrational entity. The prefix Vilori will indicate sacred mathematics, adapting to the numeral and algorithmic harmony of three plus three + 1, which would be the suffix, Fero. The external exaltation of numerical sensations will lie in human sensations already pre-established as a socio-environmental existential order, towards a divine-human being. What is strictly formative is a sacred legacy, since its equivalence is composed of mathematical formulas and figures that all point to the creation of an ambivalent whole, upward and downward proportionate. Focusing on originality of thought and work, embodying the prose, prophecies,  and intensely solid parables.

Vernarth and Etréstles began the attached Rituals in these megalithic complexes. On each Solstice, they arranged sectarians related to this phenomenology, in such a way as to incorporate them into this millenary civilization. They always attacked the archaeological area of Orroli, which is in the center of the soft plateau of Pran'e muru, in a strategic position to control the territory along the middle course of the Flumendosa River. Normally here they performed twilight liturgies similar to those perpetually held in La Mandragora, Sudpichi, Horcondising Region - Chile. Vernarth, always got all the provisions and utensils off the sailboat. Pyramid Torches, Oil Fuels, Sacred Drums, Proved Firewood, Stonework for Obsidian Workshops. Mapuche  wind instruments such as Trutruca, Cultrún and trompe. Buzzers to repel zoomorphic beings of the Bestiary, Alchemy, and Esotericism. Etréstles, coordinated content and other related duties by illuminating all the souls who once lived here. To which Vernarth masterfully adhered, filing them with impressive themes of the prehistoric world. To consider more than five volumes by concept before departure, to then break into the sacred space and meaning, limpid and originating from the session of totem animals and trance with Navajo drums. Each oar looked like a Karibu daunting a maple or a conifer that wanted to change its bark skin for those of the goring of the Karibu or the Moose him. While the eagle with its claws dropped crashing down on the Rehue line to Gnegechen, on the Cultrun, whose plural palpitations of the mandrake wanted to seem to be more than a hallucinogenic thrilling herb.

Describes Vernarth in Regression of him: Theater and Aeschylus, Dance and Athena, gifts from Stonehenge and Borrehaugene in Norway on Viking ships. They walked over the suspicious stones of the Nuragas.  In each ritual in these sets, they concelebrated next to the gorges, through which said river ran, being globally submerged in two artificial lakes until today. A territory deeply marked by man since prehistory, confirming the extraordinary concentration of remains found; from the Neolithic to the Bronze and Iron Ages, Roman times, and the Middle Ages. The Arrubiu was the main bastion, around it, satellite Nuragas gravitated, dominating strategic points and access roads. Near the complex is the tomb of Giants from the Sword, here they would consecrate their dynamics of the Xiphos Hoplite sword, to develop the bronze rites,  as a heritage from the linear insertion of Sardinia with Patmos,  to which they will go after the Solstice from the Nuraga complex. In his prehistoric speeches, he always had to stand out and go back to years prior to 1000 BC. Today it has become the symbol of Sardinia and its distinctive culture. The typical Nuraga is located in a panoramic place and has the shape of a tower with a geometric shape of a truncated cone or divided in half, some higher, others very low, reminiscent of a Tholos (Ancient Greek circular construction). Right here Vernarth, they poured milk and Pranayama, to delineate the points of the Sun to align them with the whims of Brahma and Xifos; swords that are gleaming over the eyes of a stingray. Vernarth, as post-frontal poetry, in treachery that decorated such a hendecasyllable, undertook to rescue the largest real estate fire, from where his own subsistence will hang. In the main protocol, in a drumming trance, he pierced the brains of all those present. Fragments remained everywhere ever imagined, on the timeless Nuragha ruins under the treetops and their Templum. Misleading beings that attacked the underworld of Persephone, and the Nuragic Gods who were elemented, by prevailing in this ceremony that they did not know if it was their own, not knowing that they were included.

Isaías sings (bis): “The presence in the corresponding versed folio makes it relative to the prophecy of the Immanuel born of a ******, which is associated with a similar Virgilian prophecy of Cumana, justifying its prophetic symbolism. Here is the warning that blackens the skies where the light retracts, thousands of attendants in the Nuragas are chained during the announcement of a thousandth that climbs abysses like the fateful Strigoi, and only tribulated pasture will have to transplant rebellions, which lie asleep for the wind of the ideal of incipient spiritual ******* dressed in execration. Has the conflagration of the heart that resists death and agonizes several times in the Templum ritual been unleashed ... The conditions await for the apostates when they refuse the water that does not make them optimal, and makes the radius of obedience of the Vernarthian heart elliptical, full of granules of lumpy Physconia, whose frequency will become embedded in bodies of treacherous, kingdoms and fungal lineages. The reign of the saints will judge diversity on the thrones with devastation in the fatuous beatifications in Pergamum, already admonished by me also in Sardinia”
Codex XIX -  Ultramundis  Nuragas
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2020
bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan)

”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”
                   BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)


at the drug store, loose poems,
no right-sized envelopes left,
loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’
both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained,
and
bent

all available for purchase
24/7, in these United States,
in national drugstores jailed,
kept in “chains” till discarded

therein hides the rub-bled best,^^
great verse writings, deadline-
inspired in a Ohio bullpen office,
@ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major

composed, vetted, approved, yet
marked ‘failure,’ by quality control,
third Tuesday of every month, ritualized,
manager freshens display, victims chosen

Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked,
the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green
in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place,
where you just may see me climbing-in

(and where America safe keeps its treasures)

droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a
rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just
business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine,
stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there

my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks
me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words,
an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it
great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance

gonna send one of those cards in envelope,
addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp,
inside note, your poems were ordinal, small
plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being

old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus

pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe
in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers
mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus,
which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real

your compositions were breathtaking, literally,
miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms,
glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail,
if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere
in a park, scribbling close by the East River
^

I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree,
and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout,
no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow
it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever...

a very humbled admirer...

NaTTy
^^ https://www.pinterest.com/betteshallmark/hallmark-quotes/

———————-
^emerging from the store, walking home in the
now doubly ***** darkly dusk,
a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me
“you’re home late and have a great weekend,”

she asks, “who is that?”

“why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’

she says:
“he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall,
yet knows your name, your face,
where u buy your lottery tickets,
your coming and going hours,
how came that to be”

but waits not for an answer
she just shakes her head, from side to side

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2220471/she-just-shakes-her-head/
DO YOU WANT THIS
THE INN AND OUT DRIVE THROUGH
PLUNGE INTO STARS –MY STARS
ME- DIPPING UPON YOUR NORTH POLE
TO EXCITE AN EXIT OF YOUR MILKY WAY
I’M YOUR VENUS
YOU ARE MARZ HITTEN ME LIKE -SHOOTING STARS
SEND THESE CLOUDS BELOW A HIGH 9
MAKE THE SUN STAY QUIET
……..
SHHHHHH
SHE IS SLEEPING
LEAVING THE FIRE BURNING IN HER SLEEP
AS WE WARM UP TO ANOTHER LEVEL OF OUR –STAR CLUSTER
AND WE ARE GALAXIES SCREAMING
TO A UNIVERSAL SOUL INSERTION
STRAIGHT INTO MY GALACTIC STARS
YOU –MARZ
THE KING OF ALL PLANETS –REVOLVING –CRASH
INTO HEAVENLY LOVE
WE CAN MAKE ANGULAR MOMENTUM
AS MANY AS YOU LIKE
YOUR HEAVAN IS COSMIC RAYS UPON MY SMILY SPACE
YOU ARE MY ABUNDANT HYDROGEN EMBRACING YOUR GIFTS
AND THE HEAVENS SMILE
CANDID BUT WILD
AND NOW-
THE SUN AWAKES
SHE AWAKES SWOONING TO OUR COMBUSTIONS
HER HEART RACES –WATCHING…..
SHHHH –BLUSH
AND WE'ER RUNNING WITH
SHOOTING STARS
SHOOTING UP STAR-WARS
SHOOTING INTO ME
SHOOTING UP UNIVERSAL -******.

(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII)
© Copyright 2014 S.T. Parish Rebel of Eden
His touch is out of this planet.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
February - 45,000 people in one week watch performances of rokabirī music by Japanese singers at the first Nichigeki Western Carnival.

February 14 – The Iranian government bans rock & roll, claiming that this form of music is against the concepts of Islam and is a health hazard. Iranian doctors warn of the risk of injuries to the hips from the "extreme gyrations" of rock & roll dances.

March 12
Billie Holiday is given a year's probation by a Philadelphia court following her arrest and guilty plea on narcotics possession charges in 1956.

In Hilversum, Netherlands, 'Dors, mon amour' sung by André Claveau (music by Pierre Delanoë, text by Hubert Giraud) wins the third annual Eurovision Song Contest for France. Domenico Modugno places third for Italy with 'Nel blu, dipinto di blu' which, retitled 'Volare', will reach No. 1 in the US Billboard Hot 100, and will win two Grammy Awards next year for Record of the Year and Song of the Year for 1958.

and amongst other things, Sylvia Plath writes a poem,
a modest insertion to the world of history and chess,
but nonetheless more spectacular -
all that candy, all that ******* candy,
the smiles the pristine pomp - the goody suede shoe gimmicks,
but there she is, ravenous woman of the swamp,
one of the Graeae - question is, one tooth cannibal
shared or one eye to see Pericles?
ever wonder why poets solely keep the Grecian myths
alive and not involve themselves with saintly tales
akin to Assisi? boring as cow **** fried with shrimps,
that's me and father jack (father ted, a sitcom)
on the matter... but seriously, the celestial beast that
Sylvia Plath is given her housewife circumstance,
no girl this dying age would write such magnifique
superstition - well, that's pomp in-itself,
i don't know, call me stupid, but globalisation is
hardly an argument to expect being well informed,
i have a graveyard for a library, or the other way round,
i'm reading books that desire to be kept in a winery,
for example... well, anyone will do to fit the following
words: a château 1865 - pompous ******* 'n' all,
but you see, what gets me going is 1958 and the poem
Perseus: the Triumph of Wit over Suffering.
i don't care who won the chess tournaments,
or if Elvis was a high-tonne larder than usual -
whatever the hip-replacement tactic of Iranian doctors
was like, for ****'s sake... this is a religion that
puts emphasis on prayer and "music" five times a day...
the Islamic call to prayer is sang, it's not hamstrung,
it's not smoked salmon, it's not Catholic petition
murmur, it's sang... ting a lick'ah ling...
******* church-bell uvula (i know i swear, oath words,
i told you, in polish kurva is a conjunction word
akin to the Achilles heel,
mind you, a cure seeing **** than seeing f&!k
might help with the **** addiction, and...)
i mean i wept listening to an adhan once,
but please don't get me wrong,
if you'd take Mozart to be rain tapping,
and a bunch of cooking saucers to be a drum-kit what then?!
i don't like Islam for one reason... i love music too much,
and, from the way i see it, Islam doesn't like music,
even though i don't like castrated choir boys either
penetrated by the almighty papa who pretends to
be a Jew with his kippah, i'd rather listen to music than
that godforsaken recitation about 72, and how
pomegranate juice will sustain me better than
a whiskey on the rocks... the end, pa pa!
Bubbly Jul 2011
Standing proud
Standing tall
Standing empty

Were you sweet, salty, sour or bitter
as you touched the tip of her tongue?

Insertion of jagged knife
Above my navel
Below my xyphoid
An area as delectable and soft
As the elixir you contained.

Your neck has been
Played with
Fumbled with
Her lipstick smears on your jaw
Traces of sweet notes
Leading the way
Down, down
All the way
To your base

You are deafeningly silent
But I hear what happened -
so loud -
Yet I say nothing
Because if I crack your delicate crystal
You'll only be worthless to me
Diagonal insertion of myself into this room we call the present moment
its never gonna go to collections baby, obviously checked it in for a week
we found static in the interruption caused by your radio towers and traps
and what you say, is not true- i see whose driving the hearse, shotgun
appeal to the old me. satisfy my hungering for those other things please

and tho i told you not to bother to call her, you did and just to say you did
don't blame you because you are a good time, perforated into tiny fragments
its not legal but this pedestal fits me like a glove, too much for the initiation
but our doubts, are all left in yesterday. how i follow you home after ever show
come help me hack off the vines and roots after every night of this spilling myself

skips on the record, please don't forget me, i won't forget you, how could i
youre just a missed cherry ash falling on my leg, burning me holes through
saying what you want to say, sorry that i don't reply, see me in the morning
shuddering on my favorite words, while screaming death to the secretion !
first we go spinning out                  then go smashing painted stained glass !
Paul Sands Apr 2015
proscribed extra-curious carnality be gone, begin, become the
exigent immersion of a prescribed insertion, deep genetics
within this drowning pool, drooled and tooled. now cruel
jewel, for this dowsing fool, offer up a different inheritance,
draw wider tracks of innate capture, let mortal culpability
sail white whaled, high tailed, to a communal land of
neutral precept not constrained by dictate neuter. one click,
**** temptation, flavoured Russian,  *** Asian. first though
herbal, fruitful,  extension. such friendship investment, one
****-k sensation, new phone, who phone, ***** moan,
iFone©, fear & gear. solutions are here, hear? with 1 or
more I full, sim-pull, sinful maybe? snout deep, cracked
badger’s honey kink, snake in ‘n’ baking ‘n’ shaken sac,
quick, whip crack a flay, today? the way you wear those
ankles so well that far back, a la mode, cherry high pie
and cream, no sweet reluctance of bristling itch, searching
eye ******* incontinent twitch from mondo trespassed
hush-pushed niche.
channeling my Beckett and Burroughs in a set of breathless stream of consciousness forced into an unhappy polygamous marriage

— The End —