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Rj Jan 2015
Road trips with old cars
With ski racks and kayaks
Park and open the sunroof
And we can fall asleep
Gazing up at the stars,
Or at eachother, whichever
Who's up for a long escape?
Sydney Victoria Jul 2013
Abundant With Life The River Stretches Its Body,
Bending And Winding Around The Earth's *****,
Cormorants Swim Happily-Their Wings Tucked,
Diving Into The Clear Water As My Warming Soul
Embeds Itself Into The Folds Upon Her Surface,
Fish Swim In Schools Among The Weeds While
Gators Quietly Lurk In The Darkened Shadows,
Herons Stare Deep Into The River; Spying A Meal,
I Felt So Alive, So Free Over The Turqouise Water,
Jungle Like Trees Waved To Me As I Floated By,
Kayaking Really Soothes The Soul, I Realized
Lifting My Paddle Out Of The Water Then Back In,
Maliable The Water Beneath Me Swirled Between,
Nothingness, And Nobody, Here And Now,
Old And Ancient, Spiraling Where Secrets Are Kept,
Plunging Into Her A Slight Drizzle Disturbed The
Quiet Calm That Lapped Upon Her Cheeks As The
Rain Grew Heavier, While The Sky Broke In Two,
Silent My Kayak Drifted, Following The Currents,
Tugging Me Through The Almost Blinding Rains,
Under The Rolling Droplets My Skin Grew Cold,
Vibrance Of The Water Below Then Warmed My Core,
While I Drifted Back To Shore I Awaited For The
Xenophobic World To Come Back Into My Life,
Yelling Loud To The Heavens My Soul Spoke Of A Wish,
Zealous The World Should Be, Great Spirit,

**Take Them To The River
Yesterday I Kayaked Down This Beautiful River In Rainbow Lake State Park, Florida. It Felt So Freeing--The Rain, The Turquoise Waters, The Animals. Sorry About The End Of This Poem Kinda Falling Apart Haha:)
Chase Graham Dec 2014
I have nothing better to do
when it rains so I go to the pier
on vacation with my pole and chicken necks
and rusted traps, drive down

to where the kayaks wait
in the mud, stop to smell
where fresh fish float through
brackish waters and tie a knot

at the end of my string, attach a bob
and minnow and cast
out towards the bay spotting
dead skates and hope

for mackerel and striper,
how my father taught me be gentle
I tie the necks to string and let the meat sink
below the surface and wait to be caught

up with delicious ****** poultry
to feed on and get trapped behind
the jailed walls. I hope the blue
crab knows I had to drive over

the county line in my shoddy white
pickup to the quiet co-op
when she bites into the chicken
for our dinner.
Lyzi Diamond Apr 2014
I've never thought less of you
than in begging moment, flipped
on smooth river rocks, arms wide
on expanded hips, smile
fake and expectant.

You paddle kayaks in
awkward plaids and throwaway
sweaters, grinning sweetly
at dimples and polished toenails
and forgetting my name
while I repeat yours in echo.

On tall bicycle, you look down
at tear-strewn carpet, at
lingering rain, and you lean
to one side, precarious balance
while the sun peeks through the blinds.
CH Gorrie Jul 2012
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.

Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
SassyJ Mar 2016
Vietnam, you uncovered my soul
Gave me a song, a direction smog
Looked at the pandora box I held
Unstripped my flames up temples

A hologram of the graded existence
Seasoned in explosions of burnt haste
Decked on buses,ducked in valleys
Chilled bays, overly paddled kayaks

Such sweet taste of the Halong bay
Undreamt mist of the skies stared
Fishing squids and bellied jellyfish
The soil, the sound,an orotund playlist
Travels.... I miss you Vietnam..... you were hyperreal!
The dweeb lived in the dwellings of a dwindling tribe of dwarves
Who anchored little kayaks at the moorings in the wharves.
He organised this transport so that they might go at night
Deep into the dark dense woods to visit their Snow White.
But the dwarves were very old and weren’t getting any younger
And although they really wanted too it couldn’t last much longer.
Meanwhile the dweeb would study every minute of the day
So studious and serious with little time for play.
The daddy of the dwarfs known as Doctor Joe
Said to him, “Look dweeb, there’s little left to know.”
But still he studied on writing loads of lengthy notes,
Which sometimes he would use to make tedious little quotes.
Until eventually the dwarves found him annoying and real boring
Besides he woke them up at night with his constant snoring.
So Doctor Joe hatched a plan with his little tribe
It was devious and genius and this I will describe.
They knew Snow White was lonely and longing for a man
So this is what they had in mind for this dweeb known as Stan.
Snow White would lie there in a dwam pretending to be dead
And somehow they would lure Stan along to her deathbed.
So they told her that he was a Prince, the great love of her heart
She of course was up for it, and couldn’t wait to start.
Doctor Joe then told the dweeb, that Snow White was no more.
He said that he might save her and showed him to the door.
On their little kayak they paddled up the river
But the dweeb then said to Doctor Joe, “I don’t know what to give her.”
The Doctor reassured him that it would be real bliss
If only one time in her life she had a loving human kiss.
The dweeb replied, “This just won’t work.” So he quoted healing potions.
When Doctor Joe rejected these he suggested soothing lotions.
None of these the Doctor said were right for their Snow White
Only a kiss from a real-man could help her end this plight.
So eventually there beside Snow White all the party stood,
Outside of the stone cottage deep within the wood.
The dwarves should have looked distressed but they were full of glee
And so they had to hide their smiles in case the dweeb should see.
At long last they’d be rid of him, this boring little nerd
Some of them expressed this and they hoped he hadn’t heard.
But the dweeb was now distracted by the beauty of this girl
He didn’t know if this would work but he’d give it a whirl.
He puckered up his lips and planted one before he spoke
Then gob-smacked he stood there as Snow White soon awoke.
Immediately when their eyes met he knew that it was right
Likewise she felt this too, it was real love at first sight.
So you see that all of this now ended happy ever after.
Doctor Joe and all the dwarves left in bursts of laughter.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2016
I wish I had the money
To buy myself a yacht.
I wouldn’t spend it that way
But would love what I bought.
I’d have a huge party
With every friend I know
And let it go on and on
For about a week or so.

And, gifts to everybody
Who was ever kind to me.
Just something thoughtful
To give them gratefully.
I’d pick things out carefully
And wrap them up nice
And in some cases I’m sure
I’d do it at least twice.

I’d rent a fancy house
That overlooked the beach
With kayaks and hammocks
All within everyone’s reach.
And I would hire a caterer
To make delicious foods
So nobody would hunger
No matter what their mood.

And I would hire musicians
To play on regular intervals.
Maybe local songwriters
And super talented minstrels.
And I would wear my finest
Most beautiful things I’ve got.
That’s what I would do if
I could buy myself a yacht.
Mads May 2013
looking down
she writes her poems
clears her throat
breathes the smoke

takes a sip
smiles away
and tries to find
the words to say

sitting in your open trunk
looking over the creek
she can still feel the passion
she felt in that first week

though everything has changed
it still seems
that she's never felt this way
a year has passed
and his heart smiles all the same

from first kiss
and handshake
and kayaks
on that first date
the laughing and love still remains
I've been with Brandon for almost a year now. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has.
Mary Winslow Jan 2018
I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell
they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites
ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks
we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small

As storms build up I walk a coastal trail
where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered
an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge  
and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems

Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete
ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle
gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us

I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car
clicking heels behind me in the parking lot
the castanets of other lives with their importance
arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach
hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm

But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings
all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this
thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!”
its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause

on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east
a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned
a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here

in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather
the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant

This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats
Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs
walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies
none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls
©marywinslow 2017 all rights reserved. I submitted this one to Calyx magazine in October. They've apparently lost my submission and all record of my existence. I'm glad to be able to share it here.
A Mar 2010
She said it was fine
This business venture would make us
It didn’t.
Not I’m standing here
In a forest of boxes
Where the house is cold
The lights aren’t off be choice
Realizing that
We can only bring a few things

Would the sheriff come today?
November 20, 2008?
What would he say?
Nothing?
He’d just hand the notice over
What isn’t clear to me
Is how we get to here
Things were going so well
Trips, eating out, kayaks

Back standing in the bedroom
I go through the boxes stored
Way in the back of the closet
Memories of my childhood
Put neatly away
Stacked far from sight, not mind
All boxed up
Wouldn’t it be nice if
The memories were too?
Written 12-19-09
betterdays Nov 2014
some days i write
rafts and barks,
kayaks and corricles.

some days, a mere log,
set hopefully upon the water.

some days, dories and yachts
pinnaces, sloops, ketches and tugboats

on rare occassions,
great two and three masted ships,
schooners and galleons
filled with treasure..

more often scows, punts
and barges,
work man like and useful,
but not alway pretty

all painstakingly,
crafted...
with planks of words
nailed together with punctuation...
and caulked, with my soul...
sanded down by thought
polished, oiled and varnished,
with love...

then i set my sails,
my inspiration,
to the mast of poetry

and push off....
into the great white yonder....
hoping my xebec...my catarmaran, my dinghy...
my log...
will find a fellow waterman....
sailing, on this...
the ocean of words.
please forgive me,
any nauticalogical mistakes
Breeze-Mist May 2017
For all of my coastie dad's wisdom
My summers spent learning to sail
My affinity for swimming since I was three
The countless snorkeling trips
The hours spent in canoes and kayaks
The trips paddle boarding and whitewater rafting
Somehow
I'm still petrified
By the rushing numbered current
Of a digital stream
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2022
Last Best Shot

July 31, 2020
8:07am

the morning sunlight. high enough to lighten first café & the future.
warming, mellifluous, biding good tidings, a head, ahead for the day.
sun-in-sky-low, so trees stand taller, shadow-makers, just for now.
grass blotched, pockmarked, alternative hints of hope & mystery.
the bay wave waters stilled, unrolled, unroiled, no-thrashing, omen?
is this wellness? is this a green tea soul and soil infusion, calming?


my mind wanders to that remains unaccompanied, unaccomplished.
unwashed breakfast dishes, miles of mail urgently unattended.
poems half-composed, some decomposing, resurrection on the list?
these unwashed word-shards, cry out, if not today, then when?
passerby’s, yachts, kayaks pause, turn, all bow-me-pointing asking?
is today their finale, burial by deletion, or their
last, best shot?

my reflection, neutral-neutered mien in 19oz. Blue Mountain
black coffee, in a Canadian Macintosh porcelain mug, provides
no clue, accident or incident, but inquires: why the adrenaline?
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
~~
for Danel Kessler^
~~~

in the early morning
of one's youth,
going to synagogue,
quite regularly,
a fabulous, honorably believing,
father's sole request,
more than a half-century ago

time eroded,
the fallacies of organizing a public meeting time
with a deity who seemed unavailable,
when most needed

instead we chatted
in the late of night of the early morning,
a time and places of my choosing,
for human fools do like  a setting regular,
comfort food for the divine spark within

rising/writing for early morning
poetry mass,
was a noted feature of the twofold meaning
of my latter years

where and whence, now and thence,
irreverent dialogue
tween the invisible one,
that would be me,

(can you see me now?)
and the visible one,
the you-know-who-
maker-of-custom-suited souls,

(can "you" see me now?)

*had become  
quite the regular artistes salon

witty repartee, elegiac conversations,
the residuals, in a rain drain trapped,
products collected by the light of  the early dawning,
apres skiing of an all deep-night long mournful body scoring,
poetic raconteur-ing

heaping spoonfuls of two-way mutual chastising,
paeans to the divinity in human-inherent,
regular debate team features of a
contested dark bedroom,
lit only by tablet light bright,
one if by land, two if by sea,
which the shining path to be taken by
itinerant signal comedic essays,
crafted aboard frigates and kayaks
voyaging on turgid, turbulent rivers,
mean city streets, 
swath cut by switchblades of greed,
exploring stories of the dying lands
of an aging man
fed by the streaming videos tubing down
the veins and arteries of an aging poseur

so in the sleep hours,
when I did not dream,
instead nail bled from my hands
words upon  a cold sweaty screen
from fevered fingertips,
diatribe prayers of hope ever after,
after every
dialysis of the arrogance of human nature,
removing, diabolical urea of our tainted beings,
replacing, with granular molecules of wishful thinking

then it stopped, for unknown reasons,
unbegotten creativity, chilling like
***** and champagne layabouts,
on the upper shelf of a mind's refrigerator,
always ready, just in case,
say
a new borne terrorist atrocity,
a seasonal wistfulness flu,
a cold virus blue through the heart,
love came and went with nary a
how-the-hell-did-that-happen,
even a new born babe joy
to the family est arrivé,
comld torch that heirloom/heritage seeded
inert patented creativity
into anime wakefulness

so here, so hear, I paid-pause,
conclude-delude, at 4:44am on
January Seventeenth of Two Thousand and Seventeen,
winessed by numerals white on a blackened background,
of a digital alarm clock with time, temperature and
the lunar phase of a madman
who twice was Christ told
would be a poet/story teller,
like his mother

a bountiful clock telling,
precision information detailing,
a tale that tells about nothing about a man,
who no longer requires
an alarm reminder to attend
his own moring reborning mass,
on a regular basis,

for his disheartened verbs,
runaway convict adjectives,
con-nouns, whimpering exclamations,
all on the loose,
nice sounding,
but of no earthly use

his lips like (the book of) Ruth's,
move in silent prayer,
only two can hear,
but the low priest observing,
disbelieves, thinking the piety of the poet
is just drunken emotion, not devotion,
kens not the broken poems
of the morning mass service no more,
but for
this one, irregular,
unacceptable exception
5:18am 1/17/17

^
I don't think I can write a storytelling poem much better than this. So happily gift to Denel, who serves the gods of poetry and our works with devotion, and who wrote this and inspired me

You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive...

You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground

waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish

in your otherwise carefully tended garden.
Mel Holmes Feb 2014
aesthetics

by the Pigeon River in Tennessee,
we pass the day wading in the water in blowup tubes
we are snakes who creep inside kayaks of foreigners
who paddle backwards, already wobbling back and forth, just
asking to be pushed.

in the night our bodies turn, our minds enter their fantastical realm
of distant narratives in our small wooden rooms
with creaky doors, walls with bold purple paint, once
with a putrid air of a dead rodent disguised as a bag of
rotten potatoes that summoned the love interest, aroused
pools of fast squealing maggots-- such
a delicious cleanup that was.

while we ride the river in our ripe age,
county people gather in our yard.
they came to view the spread, the looping tables
that hold masks, masks of old faces
like those elder cartoons in the funny pages,
their rubbered wrinkles and elastic earbands attract the crowds
who desire, who urge to look old
just to mask the appearance of being wise.
Akemi Jul 2018
THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Staid quanta of individuality. Phenom asks if they can go. The Big Mouth replies, babble babble. In a fit of rage, Phenom shouts, I’ve had enough of this. They wrench themselves off the dissection table, fetters flying into the air, but a sudden bout of vertigo sets in. They lie back down. The Big Mouth sticks a thermometer into their mouth and begins heating a can of corn soup.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Professor Kippotkin takes the stage. She coughs into the mic to quiet the audience, but they are caught in sordid *******. She coughs again, managing only to project a trail of spit onto the shoulder of the nearest security guard. He turns immediately, a perfect ninety-degrees spin, automatically signalling the first in command. He has been trained since seventeen for this one task of momentous disciplinary precision. The first in command bellows, Let her speak! a phrase his colleagues repeat in serial down the chain of command.

The crowd soon catches on. An isolated few nod in consternation. Let her speak! they yell from the pits of their lungs, Let her speak!

Thank you, thank you all, Professor Karlpoppins exclaims, cheeks flush with amazement. More and more of the crowd join in. It is a rousing spectacle, a poignant display of human decency. But something is awry. The professor’s gratitude is swallowed into a cacophonous whole. Let her speak! The carnal grip of the big Other’s command unleashes the crowd’s jouissance. United in the master discourse, the crowd fragments into a bewildered totality. Let her speak! they scream at one another, arms jostling, heads tilting back, necks bared to the beating pulse of the earth-sky. LET HER SPEAK! Their combined blows begin to generate an ominous om.

Pl-please, Professor Kibbiezsche sputters, please, everyone! but the crowd have already forgotten her existence. Reams of toilet paper fly through the air. A crashing plane sounds in the distance. Crops burn.

The security team are forced to intervene. They close in from the sides, wielding riot shields and tear gas. HYPOCRITES! one of the members of the crowd screams. OPPRESSORS OF THE WORD! another follows. Footage of security guards flailing on the ground circulate on social media, tagged with the phrase WHO SPEAKS MY SPEAK?

Within twenty four hours, the whole country is ablaze with media coverage. Political scientists gather with literary scholars to speak the unspeakable into commercially-viable forms. Semiotext(e) sign a deal with Hollywood to write a docudrama about Baudrillard’s turbid *** life. Professor Kubblebutts is flown to Hawaii to give a speech on combine harvesters.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
I desire, therefore I am not. Incantation of the other spills through my greasy fingers as I fumble towards the hot sauce, dollop dollop, chicken salt strewn across the nommy wedges. That’ll be $4.50. They have already handed me the note. Our fingers touched for the briefest second, an anointment of the greasy chicken, the wedge fingers, the have a good night mister gurgle bop.

The taxi man sits outside in the cold, back heated by the friction of the smoothie machine, an indefinite spin, western civilisation’s meltdown. The turgid heat breezes past my neck and I sigh, almost in delight, but mostly out of convention and solidarity with the other workers. I hear the pitter pat of my shiftpanion as she scoops hot chips into the fresh night; it is so fresh, there is still so much night, why are you giving me $5 dollars, there is a bug on your face.

I take a break. The cool taxi man glances over just as I put my hands down my pants to shift my boxers into a more comfortable why is it always like this.

Everyone blames Foucault for destroying agency, but agency only arises in the gap between discourses, which is never a gap in power, but rather, the transversal of one power relation into the discursive matrix of another; what appears original is merely the same performance in the wrong site, that’ll be $24 for your **** and condoms.

The crumbled fish is shrinking with each passing day, little gasping body beneath the heat lamp, waffle waffle, waffle waffle, I am suffocating :)

WHY WE OPPOSE:
|||||FEeling BOLD? FeEL BOldbous ;;;; new Paracetamol Jelly and the KINK-CATS tour out the last week—
Thank you for holding. Please note this conversation may be recorded.
To continue, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
and again, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
Please note that this conversation is being recorded for the purposes of confirming your identity.
||"thanks"

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Slowly, slowly, Juniper sinks into the bed frame, the draughty window, the rotting sink. Hibiscus coveted for its prophetic dreams, pale steam smites nostalgia for a vision of the beyond. Streamlined entry into New World, an endless reshelving of family-value Mi Goreng, stormwater through the hollow vessels that twist beneath Juniper’s soles.

Juniper climbs the Garden steps. Pale trace of past motions set to automate at the slightest incline. The cloying rot beneath the pines pulls her closer and closer to the vital cache, the hidden excess. Another hedgehog climbs the mound; it admits its body, it expands in putrefaction.

Exiting onto the street, Juniper is greeted by a sign that reads “Caution. Night Shooting. Stay Out.”

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Steam creeps the mouth of the lid. Pallid flesh of yesterday’s body, settles the kitchen table, the hand, as motes crumple beneath gravity’s well. Mottled refuse, tied with a plastic ribbon, thrown into the street. Keys digging trenches, grandfather, the hollow behind my knee.

Last summer I waited for the rain in the dry concrete channel of the Leith. I was alone with the kayaks and the road cones and the fish, holes festering, showing their ribs in the walls of our flat, legs spread wearing high school sweaters, unable to breathe through cling wrap.

The summer before that, I watched films of myself bashing in the heads of strangers. Every night the ceiling of my mouth would transfigure into a doorway and I’d force my tongue through its serrated edges, waking with a new face. The cassettes would arrive soon after, testimonies of a brute physicality I could not remember enacting.

Earth grins, death strides. Hydraulic incisors pry the dead awake. At the smallest unit of life: phones, condoms, water bottles.
a piece i wrote for a zine

a piece
tangled
upturned
headed towards demise

ouroboros in its last desperate gasp

kingbabel.com/2018/07/09/faff0-plastic-death/

collab with hellopoetry.com/abloobloobloo/
Elizabeth Mar 2015
Paddling my ****** canoe down the whispering waters
With my fishing rod in hand,
I acknowledge the persevering tree buds,
The attention seeking trilliums,
Dazzling all eyes and intoxicating logocentric thinkers.
The perch and bluegill aim to impress my lures,
And wish to give my martyrdom-like worms salvation in the highest sense.
Into the ocean I proceed, jumping ship to swim the length of my beaches,
My spaces of leisure and relaxation.
The May flies clench my shirt in their microscopic fists,
Dropping me cleanly into the nook of the reading tree,
Where I monkey-swing down through the branches,
Onto my napping hammock-
This I cannot call my own, but I act as such.
Yet before I drift,
And the sun begs for bedtime,
I climb, dog leash in hand,
To the top of my mountain,
Where I coo our Star to sleep
And bid the moon good morning.
But too quickly does my rule end of these kindled nights,
As another power swoops up under my running shoes,
At the same time blanketing me in my parka,
My cave until the kayaks hum and vibrate again.
My mountain sheeted in snow,
I resort to observing this complete different beauty
Through the hood of my oversized coat,
While from above my ski poles click into their fitted sockets on my hands,
The only way left to triumph over this land mass I call my own.

For me these seasons progress too quickly,
Yet been it this way for centuries.
Mother Nature shows off her powers as she extinguishes my campfire
With a wintery gust of thinning atmosphere,
And little do the birds complain as they frantically scratch at every remaining frost-lacking beetle.
Life goes on just as planned
While the Does and Coyotes huddle for warmth in their newly knitted sweaters.
Jackie Mead Sep 2017
It's September and the sun is in the sky
No need for jumpers or coats as the sun blesses us with warmth from its rays on this beautiful balmy day
The Quay is busy today, people living different lives mixing with each other side by side
Children in their pushchairs being pushed by their mums
Children, men and woman in kayaks making the most of the late sun
Shops and cafes open, tables and chairs outdoors full
Birds flying in the sky and on the River, swans pigeons and gulls
A homeless man with all his worldly goods feeds the birds by his side with the last of  his food
Cyclists enjoying the sun whilst out for a ride
Elderly people out walking with their family by their side
People saying 'hello' , 'good afternoon'  'it's a pleasure to see you' 'let's meet up again soon'
It was a pleasure to be a part of the balmy day by the quay
ohNoe Jun 2014
Once upon the most important moment
  ever to be crucial to my too-invulnerable soul,
i ****** up beyond all possibility to be believed,
  utter failure for the only forever which will ever matter

confident in my idiot coat,
  i slit my own throat
    (with my serrated knife
      of not good enough
     i ended my greatest life
       by killing her loving our Love)

i cut out my own heart,
  watched my aborted soul
   streak shrieking out the gaping hole
it was mourning for all the mornings
  it would never wake beside her
it hated me for all the adventures
  it will now never share with her
it shall always despise me
  for the forever she denies me

the blade of my inability
  to make her believe in me
carved out my breaking barely beating heart
  but could not **** the boundless hurt
    (this pain shall always forever reign)

Eventually
  i mostly got over the loss of my sister
    because i couldn't keep empowering the horror
and i understood why she couldn't go on
  and she would have wanted me to move on

Eventually
  cannot this time occur,
i can't even minutely reduce the power of this horror,
  it is feral aggressive primordial omnipotent horror

Shannon, oh, Shannon,
  you threw me away
Shunned, oh god, shunned
on my Judgement Day

The One
  dis-believed US
  un-believed US
The One, while crying,
  said she still Loved Me (me!!)
    (and missed me, silly)
and wasn't better without me,
  but wouldn't be with me
and then went back to an ex before me
  so easily and fast into over me.

And i'll never get past that,
  any of that...

how do you meet a miracle,
The One & Only One,
who says sighs smiles you make each other miracled,
  and then just be over & done.

i don't know if you've ever been that broken,
  if very want you've ever wished for
was suddenly sharing a million more,
and then in an instant all was unspoken

and i  don't know
  if the worst experience you'll ever know
was an unexpected assault
from your own ****-up fault,
was a sudden evil somewhen
  banishing the best you've ever been

but she won't let me fix the what or the why,
  so i'll live for decades wanting to die.
and even in my nothing,
  i do know a few things...

i don't want this dark,
  i want her spark
    & the flame it ignited
      & the future it excited
which used to burn with no pain
  & i keep trying for believing
    somehow someday it will again

i don't want this darkness
  that after her i “live” in.
i just want her kiss
  again & again & again

i don't want to know
  any more of this limp limbo,
i want when i make her laugh
  and make her smile two times plus half

i can't know any more of this horror,
  can't keep knowing years exploding into tears.
i want to keep quoting the movie
where You said Yur best was me
      (seriously, ME!!!!)
    she said it was me

Shannon's voice
  her personality
the touch of her eyes' smile
  and trying to watch that at the same time
    as staring at those luscious lips
while aching to grab her *** as
  we pulled us hips to hips.

everything about her
  and about US
the LOVE
  the LUST
the connections from a multitude of directions
  the music
    the emotions
the bodies playing tunes
  as hearts kept the beat
and kayaks under full moons
  whispered we were the shared heartbeat
    that everyone dreams about
            everyone dreams about
we were it
  we are it
it will never not be right
  it will never not be our night

but her eventual belief
  became my eternal grief
as instead of mend it
  and make US even stronger
she decided to end it
  and make US no longer

so sorrows are all my tomorrows
  and volcano tears are my eyes for years
    (they explode without warning
      all throughout every day
     and no-one seems to see the scarring
      as they burn & turn my heart to pompei)

i envisioned holding her for forever,
  tightly when she wanted,
    loosely when she was ultra busy
      and a light touch would make her happy

i remember every time she touched me,
  it was always rhythm & rhyme & HAPPY
seriously,
i still tingle from her first touch,
    who knew June 30th, 2013 would mean so much
      (or that February 3rd, 2014 would **** me)
we sat & spoke & shared beside a fire,
  finally in person with the finest person,
    as her personality & eyes & & voice set me forever afire
      (until the day she emailed me into broken)

and now i remember how a miracle dies,
  i remember with my once bright blue eyes
whose light left when she said
  we will never be wed,
    we will no longer Love instead

& then my eyes ceased seeing my soul,
  not merely blinded
    by all that was reminded
      staring into that bleeding hole,
but instead finally ******* dead

look me once more in the eyes,
  see the agony in their empty,
and cry as You realize
  removing You from me killed me

break my mirror,
  what's left to lose?
take my forever fear,
  i shall succumb & lose

a We that was US
  is naught but a forgotten smile
and yet all the while...

the other we is here waiting,
  my brokenness & i.
forever needing our re-fating,
  DEAD but dreaming of being alive
A face filled with tiny hooks
Chaplin reading ***** books
placards on the street
if
postcard men are the cardboard men that you meet,
let's go eat
ham and pickle on rye bread from the Northern Somme
war cries in the east
at least we're good to go or so the waitress says

days like this are long drifting in and out of song
kayaks on the beach
if I try then I might reach the arms that
reach out to me,

we
let dreams down and die
have you ever wondered why
we're halfway around the bend?
you know it'll never end
but you hope it does.
Maya Oct 2018
regret
comes crashing like the tides
all at once
pulling me under.
i gasp for air but there is only saltwater and tears.

i have a morbid fear of open ocean
maybe because it would mean
being alone
with my thoughts
that circle like sharks
and showers that
sting like jellyfish.

kayaks of self- preservation
shatter against the rocks.
there is no saving me.
let me sink
or i will drag you down with me.
please
leave me to drown.
Religion is a mosaic
'let them eat cake'
and so it shall be.

Prophets I shall profit by,
but when you hit rock bottom
and there's nowhere left to go
with
the stone floor for a pillow
I am aware of the lie,

that all men are created equal.

you can pray to your God or to
Elvis on a slice of bread,
the only thing we're sure of is
that one day we'll be dead.
Jackie Mead Aug 2018
The River Exe flexes and flows, as the water meanders sometimes fast and sometimes slow.

It opens it's arms and stretches wide, wriggles its toes and opens it's eyes, to greet a brand new day.

It glistens and gleams on a bright sunny day as it tumbles slowly from A to B, everyone smiling at how it flows so freely, making them stop and take some time, helping them find peace, become free of mind.

On an overcast day it appears angry and dark, it sounds so loud, like thunder it roars, making each of us aware of its presence, it can bring down trees and power cables, making us feel very unstable.

The rains fall heavy and the River Table rises, we have done our maths there are no surprises, we have built Canals, Reservoirs and Weirs to contain the extra additional fallen rain.

Still this may not be enough, the River Bank is Mr Tough, it will burst it's banks without a care, leaving us in it's wake, no prisoners it will take.

But the path it flows is lucious and green, it's a beautiful spot very serene, birds and fish swim in its waters, flowers and trees grow by it's side, adults and children play in kayaks and canoes, it's somewhere to go where there are lots of things to do.

As the River Exe Ebbs and Flows sometimes fast and sometimes slow, mimicking the pace of life, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, we all need a place to go, where we can feel peace of mind, relax, sitback and unwind - where do you go to find your peace of mind?
CB Hooper Jun 2017
i’m the queen
of the piece of *****
with unlimited potential.
they line in my court,
mostly bummy musicians
with their ****** guitars
and voices smooth as silk.
some wear glasses,
books tucked under their arms,
Nietzches rambling about
the death of god.
others conceal lighters
in their ***** packs
along with keys to old subarus
with kayaks on top,
and a stash of grass.
i knight them
in parades-
the gentlemen of
the modern age.
River May 2018
When I was seventeen
On a summer day
Me and Sarah
Kayaked to the
Gratified brick wall
Across the beach
She had been there
A few days ago with her boyfriend
And I wanted to see it
For myself

A man
Out catching *****
Was a few yards away
We pulled our kayaks
Up onto the beach
And hid them behind some large rocks and trees

We made our way
Up a steep rocky hill
to the abandoned mansion
There was a gated moss covered pool
In front of the entrance
We made our way
Through a smashed window

Inside,
I gasped
The mansion
Was horrifyingly beautiful
Every inch of the opulent interior
Was defaced in graffiti
Names of the local high schools scrawled out across the peeling paint,
Names of young lovers conjoined by a plus sign

There was a colossal chandelier
Hanging in the massive living room
With walls that reached so high
Empty beer cans and glass liquor bottles
Littered the beautiful wood floors

Sarah and I
Opened the door
To the backyard
And were overcome by an unsettling feeling
As we saw trees
In two rows
On either side of a dirt path
our eyes tried to find an end to the path
But they only came upon
Darkness
On the farthest point our eyes could reach

The tress were old and twisted
I had never seen trees like that before,
Or ever again
So mangled
Yet they looked as if they were all pointing
To the dark distance
We heard the mansion give out a load groan
And we ran

We ran into the
A structure that
Looked like a little round open Greek temple
Situated on a cliff
Overlooking the sea
Sarah lit up her Marlboro red

We kayaked back to the beach
Regretting that Sarah yet again
Forgot her camera.
So, this really happened.
:: floods ::

seemed to be the topic, yesterday.

watched the water creep, saw the water

seep.

into the cellar, under the door.

down the lane to see the water,

meet the boys from reading,

their kayaks and head held cameras,

only about £200.

“my battery went flat,

we fell in, swimmimg,

and we cannot say

betws i coed”

i can , and i can say mawddach.

i remember the flood of 2001.
Exosphere Jan 2021
a kayak
no, two kayaks (you need one too)
my school loans paid off
Celtic knot amethyst earrings
a red Honda Shadow 750
the back bedroom remodeled with cathedral ceilings
a back deck with hot tub
a romantic weekend in a cabin by the ocean
wireless earbuds with phenomenal base

I’m sorry but this is kind of easy and
I’m just getting started...
David Zavala Nov 2018
sinners: his cane dislodged

l

Cane:

To an awake friend, he said mesmerized "rest on gorgeous fields are made for soccer players,"

The motion analogy is the lake or the river, at the school, reminds me of that the left row of made of pink lamps is still a malls sweat on their knees, whose above?

I lift your nudged fox to the women with the air filled with music in your clothes

Chicago is today, sick of the warm color warmed colored walnut an elementary something, happy by troubled, world only only world, enter my vision of art - the movie set, really,  

At the table, Socrates came from out of the cave,
of the center opened of the like a snoring beast snoring beast,
up staircases inside the small indent of the university, legs-crossed, lectures partially complete, and contemplated a 4 winged bird which leapt from the ground: cone-less and timeless.  

Frank Sinatra is on center stage, the square, literally, like being the poetess naked in the garden, singing with her husband went missing for several days reciting Shakespeare.

Eden, no that Eden, Eden is gorgeous and mothers multiple their eggs in wombs, they are birds, by way of television - sick of that rhythm, inside the history of museums, public images paint delicately.

                               Fathers are all brilliant and masterminds, the inside of the skyline fits my heart,

Driving to the national rabbit we liked the peanuts which were snacks and
saw walrus near the ocean with non-fury legs, their paws with peaches, pinks from schools like sugar Montessories, whole swarms of bees learning that John Ashberry's  mind used mine to mind dollars bills he finds off the street in New York to tell you that you should learn what a unit is. Close the world, close the window in the other room and when you to go to work and maybe to bring a snack where creativity is here and there. I see differently the trees and red wheel-barrow. My water bottle is purified and the reverse is the Cosmos on calcium. I want more chloride and sodium - make that ingredient good, good enough for your doctor, good enough for me, a cake for us, and faster because Arkansas is always walking, it is plastered rich sandwiches, missing girls are little and little on TV, the bud of a flower is a direction.

Space is big but my things are spill proof, the pumpkin we seed inside the my house next to the popcorns guitars are colored blue and fall immutably pulling loudly from men, in their canes, shaven cane, clean cane, looking at me looking at the portrait saying, I can see the red and blue in black and the dove sits on the statue on Monday and flew in cold from Alaska over whole towns, and the bird said, yes the bird said, he said "A fisherman saw, he was bearded and arrived on Friday, photos on the ground, animals are outside, libraries filled with no books and no their indexes leading to prologues that Freud says is moral but I've been saying better and reasoning that her makeup is missing and no shampoo in the bathroom, blush hands up in Vegas, fold - our cars are stuck on the highways means is leaving the only bar that is yellowish only from blue painters who paint with their paint brushes such that ballet dancers contemplate their watch. The Nutcracker and Animal Farm are complete. Bearded and braided black man, your is hair completely skinless in San Francisco which I've been to for two weeks because the back of the pack on back of the feet of the ton of the ground street lights guide us to a single number such is an exciting job opportunity, inside classroom, the difference is I'm in the front, how ludic it is, isn't it? Get dressed or get in we're going dancing. Drive or I can drive only to recognize a slip of free will, you're in white, the forums we enjoy are for professors which are only in my mind and therefore sprung forth whenever I want them. There are a couple of whole armies giving trees, Dr. Pink wants motion to activate a concert such that I like the words operraeta and subscribing to the dictionary, Mainly up is laughing are diamonds in hands in apartments are feet and hands, and almost wind, fire, water, turning from distance brothers and cowards uses his left hand and experiences sleep and whole days in a single sentence. It's cruel really to be beautiful and no I don't feel back for you. Your just a memory of him riding the shopping cart down the aisle of HEB - insight into psychologist's events - welcomed with nobility bowing down near the single article, sitting in front of our produced and not free laptops, their machines were used to make paintings and sculptures, thousand of journalists in their ties dress with microscopes in front of classrooms like a style that is thoughtful, high on salamanders, wait salamanders? No, a sad living room examining a firefly is a history of museums, it is useless. It is a calm waterfall, it is back from the seminary, it back from the river we sat at before inside of a conference room near downtown, the light of love produced kayaks.

We currently sit younger pondering an ice rink made of children dressed for Halloween, a few feathers but I know down on my injured fence after a tornado came in and placed beautiful women, their naked bodies and all, are here as a college student staying awake from both for Sundays and U-HAULs are only like criminal floats down the formed uselessness of that jars of pennies. But we selected! Entertained and busy, working, on a math problem from universities, I was reading Einstein earlier, bought it and profoundly expressed I am personally interested in Dvorak's String Quintet in B major Op. 77. That is, while watching YouTube videos of mysterious friendly characters although I'm standing naked in a bathroom, a peacock created the world, leaves fell, fire on the dirt, it doesn't burn too bad, does it? We pose another  question, to what sickness can I stand on a bench suit jacket, ill-fitted and have a friend say to me, you look like a philosopher?

I stick my leg out quietly because clouds coolly that day spent on wooden tables is possible and not meant to able to assuage the sun even for you school bus, actual school bus, hiding from large groups of people scared while the congregation sits praying,

Even for you, helmet,
On a football field, orange Spain leant me a hande, our dogs were not beside us though while Mr. Grinch sits in his apartment, editors don't want him pulling flowers from, for example, the baseball fields, doing baseball players are plays catcher, dresses in the same uniform totally is mesmerized by how water becomes ice, such that the eye bending time like a green cactus, objects and mountains and the insides of the restaurants, eight o clock evening dinners,

Dancing with angels the devil is ugly, trains go through time and say biology is easier than white picket fences, it makes me sad, it should make me sad, but there is new hope.

So more difficult the white flower is the candle menacing number 3 thousands of logically lettered alphabets for the alphabets, and for her, waiting at trees rooted but you know, construction men leaving everything at that grocery store where I can sit down and wouldn't buy a lottery ticket, sorry.

II  

Dislodged:

Entering my vision are tragedies
collages of white photos
eat our sons
              we
           swarm
          predators
          slowly
          down
             the
            street
                is
                a
             cigarette
                  is
busting friends out of apartments into huge houses after coming from grocery stores, passing fields, outside and zoos visited, jealous of her offices,
200 page completed novels completed, my way home, it's our problem really, but that comma coulda dressed in a suit, coulda been someone must run the title of his license plate

III

Cane Dislodged:

Settle down, the movie sat at the bar is dumb, i sit alone, I sit alone, still I sit alone, I sit alone. Tea from down the street is expensive so
we can't believe that the founders of the Quakers movement did that and that they are made in the image of empires such that a body ignorant because smudged paintings are the mouse, right?
David Zavala Nov 2018
For Julia Theriot, I want a two bedroom apartment.

Style is every thought you have
thinking every thought you have
is not poetry.

Moments Becoming: It is dressing in black in a history museum, in a museum of history, which means you are high with the salamanders, wait salamanders, and yes also calm under pressure,

Let me provide to you a question: Are you really that much better?

Our father's job is to be such that a poet,
    while the sun
          hits his living room
                where he has a microscope
                       examines the firefly

Because I went from coming back from the seminary, the dead, and when arrived back sat next to the lake which is a river which is dressing as an architect, I dressed as an architect, that is such as an architect as as I dressed as an architect in our small filled books rooms books. Yes in both. And I sat quietly painting, painting with a piece of metal from the microscope, in our room, that I pulled from the ground in that zone under construction surrounded by workers producing lovely light, lovely light, light love, lightly love which were not taken by moments but which were becoming moments such that I am intertwined with the near with the downtown area where we live such that a beautiful women and their smiling children slowly cross the river such that is a lake in their canoes or kayaks,

Huh?

We sit younger near the lake or the river, our arms straighten out, our chests, my chest mainly because not you, not your chest, oh no, such that that is our naked bodies, in the bathroom in the shower, that is our two maturties is an old age instantly caught Dvorak's String Quintet in B major Op. 77 such that is not but is but is and placing it gently in an ice rink such that you are a scientist, he is a poet, me a student, and we stayed awake at night and made one or two Nobel Laureates sing, yes, sing is that such is that is which of la-chula that is such that is that that that that is geniuses, only geniuses confused in San Francisco such that it plays near the end of such not is not you and is not excuses but is a listen to your doctor, listen to your mom, love your dad, call your grandma, call your sister, and call your cousin, and that weighted decision from your university is that poetess that is such that it is nested which is a created the world mesmerized a peacock, yellow bird with feathers injured flies from our fence outside our window two bedroom apartment. We saw it happen.

And yes, and figuratively took a train that was cold did you like your sweater which was yes white. Easy and on our way to the ball crossed the street chasing after a boy with a balloon and looked both ways before crossing the street together. We made sure he got to the other safely. He was not out or ought but is such that a few steps down are thoughts such that a math problem from our universities keep ish us ish busy. On Sunday, I am entertained-ish, but Julie Theriot, let me tell you, if only you knew Julie Theriot, how badly I want to be a smart and handsome you are a smart and handsome you are a smart and beautiful who while the jar of pennies sits in front of me, we start by selecting the candle and light it in front of our first two bedroom apartment and our window, and the window, and along with the bird so that useless as birds and statues do correctly and do right and do it correctly and do what they are supposed to do and what is really is really right is really an is it okay to ask: what does it matter whether I finished the book?

Basically, you are okay, listen to your doctor, become college educated, listen to your mom more or less, remember inclusion?

Our poetic thoughts can never overcome strength such that the bullies behavior really does reflect him or her more than it does you and our apathy? Our apathy, whatever that word means, well apathy means quietly our house has a red bag, a red bag, only a red bag, that is a smart smart red bag, enough to place cards in it, the red bag, which we will use to pay and make a ***** downtown come to life. Only in our city. By the way, because you are a scientist, remember? We don't like the payment at all such that is a student floating down the river or a novel of full of books or of poetry forms, the forms of novels, the narratives of my novel on that page of the novel, unplugged hearts, the unplugged hearts, plug in the hearts obviously, but I don't really have to move a muscle.

P.S. I don't like your name.
6:19 PM
Nov 7, 2018
Ophids vast kayaks
Do shine bright tonight
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
***** please...

  white privilege?

you sure i spelled that right?


the **** happened
with athletics!
jazz!
             suitors to rhythm
and subsequent
dancing!?

now you have me
bewildered...
how did these soy boy
colonialists,
ever
manage to capture
and enslave...
those

beefy African hunks?
kinda funny...
really funny...

i'm drinking my black beard
bourbon and pepsi
thinking about it...

  huh?!
how did that **** happen?
either they made a conscious choice
to be enslaved,
with the Zulu chief...

or they were too dumb
to know any better...

sure, plenty of bony tooshie
from porcelain eager
third parties...
  lap it up... we have work to do...

as the Kama Sutra states...
an elephant doesn't mate
with a rabbit...
you know what the slang term
for someone with size 11 shoes
is in Poland?
you don't care and i don't mind...
the shoes are dubbed

kayaks...

  then again...
hmm... let's look at it, one more time...
why would an African's
***** be 12" long?
  while us petty Europeans are
much smaller...

  looking at the evidence:

oh!
     you seen the size of that Ivory
beauty's ***?!
  **** me... she could
balance a toddler on that...
what appear to be:
a behind cleavage!
no wonder the men need
the extra length...
with what they have
to penetrate...

      well... ever banged a black
girl with a thin ***?
the Elvises make the double pelvic
manoeuvre...
hurts like hell...
her coccyx banging against
the soft pouch of skin
that geographically places
the genesis of a beard,
and all manner of ***** hair:
just above the phallus...

black girl, thin,
unusually boney ***...
         but i do know,
at least... what sort of unrelenting
humor comes with a 12"
phallus...
an *** the size of the width
of Manhattan!
sandra wyllie May 2020
runs beside
the road
with laced sneakers
and laced moonlight
inscriptions clouding his
lavender head as clouds
do the sky
he blends in with
this town
he looks straight
not down

he runs into August
as dust
picked up
by the vacuum
and he’ll eat up September
with a spoon
it’s not June now
July dies after thirty-one days
he can pack up his memories
or pack the kayaks
he can stand awake –
or snooze
what's in a name what's in a name
in the end
within a name there is no name
but a pre-noun and a pronoun
and          that glorious word THING
and boomerang not a boomerang
of I to It
           to I as It           and It a non-It
a spoke
              the spokes in a wheel...
a wheel is an Ezekiel
                     is my first learning of the name:
little Yash                 and jesz? i.e.
are you eating?    my words my silences
my atonement for say:
the miraculous spring afternoon
finding myself enjoying the act of reading:
regardless of what i'm reading:
or rather i am actually reading Frank Herbert's
Dune but i should be reading
al-Masudi's the meadows of gold
and currently that's a first edition
on amazon going for
£47.99
            so until i get a wife and a surrogate
daughter i can and will splash out
on books in the purchasing window
of £30 to £50 and since i'm not rich
enough of rich-autistic enough
or autistic enough
to be splashing on paintings
like that story of the founder of Barbie
no not Ruth Handler
before pornographic magazines
the Swiss invented the Susie Susan Sour-****
to gag men into
the predicaments they found themselves
in as world war ii bomber pilots
then came the infamous poster reel
from Shawshank Redemption and
boys those girls those flinging-mig-magic jazz
of ****
those lonely nights
and days
but mostly the nights
and on my 38th birthday i masturbated
like 3 times
because a day prior i was talking
to a friend outside of the Spurs' Coliseum
and we talked about being 38 and 72
and cancer of the prostate and how he got
it removed and now can't get an *******

i would have killed to venture into
the ear to eye osmosis
of being at the
Boris Brejcha at Arènes de Nîmes...
artist to artist
this is not me Matthew Arnold
a limp **** poet
crying to bed after seeing Liszt play
because music has changed
and there's no genius of music
but a genius of music-inclusion therapy...
"therapy" / therapy?

Friday came a little late: now that i'm imagining things,
writing on a chrome book
in my own room i remember days
when i used to drink a liter of whiskey
and write from 10pm to 5am
having given up smoking marijuana
at the age of 21 weighing in at 65kg
after an experience
with: what i'm guessing...
not Jesus and not Yashwa...
but rather: and i only learned of his name today:

dualism of monotheism: the little yahweh...
                       A

           E          Y         I                   𐤃

                                                   ∇
                  O       U

yad dah...
           YDDH...

                     turbulent lessons in how the consonants
are props and vowels drift in and out
to allow for Semites to transliterate nouns
Semites need to transliterate nouns
which cannot be said
of Matthew of Mateusz of Mateo
but Matthias says it's possible...

the angel: Metatron...

                        i'm seeing Mega:
like the movie Tron (updated like Dune updated)
and the soundtrack and something megalomaniac...
like the affairs of non-existence
of supposing within
pre-noun pronoun
preposition and proposition
are so why can't a pre-noun
exist before i learn the names of things
before i inject conjunctions and adverbs
big and small
i usher in a chemical laboratory of
Ar Na Cl He Fe
no Ar...

natrium chlorum
    helium            ois

                 ferrum...

terra ferrum: iron earth
                              in akimbo venturing for
broken bones and fixation on bones
206 of these...
and i overheard that Muhammad Ahmed
knew the exact number of bones
in the human body (does that include the teeth?)
32 teeth...
   that's 9 vowels and 23 consonants
in the Polish alphabet...
bad tooth England only has 26 letters
and boast all it can about Latin VQ
it does not have...

oh not bones then joints
i heard about the number 350 being cited...
although i sometimes wonder
about O and little o
of degrees and that's really thinking about
the 0 and to the power of
infinity is infinity oscillating in
a duality: even and especially if it's
a monotheism:
why then o why i wonder
at the predicament of Islam
because it is not out simple migration
but the excesses of Dubai must
be hitting the average muslim hard
if they be wanting to move with us
European paupers, no?
us drunken savages we are savages
and we returned to our pagan ways
just as i might have predicted why
Poland defended the pagan power
of Lithuania and why Christianity
never really spread to certain parts of Europe
but was kept in check by some
Russian Greek or Varangian...

i saw it in his eyes when his father
head-butted one of this soldiers
i'd bet i will put a bet on, everything i have...
on Usyk beating Fury...
the odds?

Fury 5/6 ahead of Usyk at 11/10
strange numbers...
i saw Bohun in his eyes
the cossack romantic figure in Sienkiewicz'
with Fire and with Sword...
yes saw it and this is the only sport
i'd bet on with a heart of a gamble
beyond the £1.00 threshold
unlike Bukowski betting on horses
i did similar antics
betting on scores in football...
but nothing major always stingy no greater
thrill than earning money
and saving money
and then spending it on kayaks or canoes
or books or compact disks or
£12 summer dresses and what not
however the trend is these days
last time i tried tapping into anything
relevant on the internet
but same old:

men, bears and £12 summer dresses
that are like the rule
pulled up in the forest on the sly
with no suspenders or tights
just the suntanned skin with no wintry
attaches of still ***** still
playing chess still not playing
backgammon still no chess
unless with a kid
and i loved how i saw the engineering
of AI in chess games
and how the kid was losing and
just because she's a girl doesn't mean
i'll let her win
or that i'd let her win no because
i didn't but i don 't mean playing
chess with a ****** partner
or watching t.v. with her
because no unless there might be physical
dimensions askew like how could
we possibly do it, physically speaking
i mean how could we when we couldn't
and that would be her licking
the eyepop pop-sickle sickly sweet
no teeth grandma ***
or me and her already wrinkled *****
slurping oysters
Bang Dan... Bang Dan... sounds Vietnamese...

why would: ah: authenticity...
38 outside the range
but in the range 21 - 35 have to complete
3 months of agricultural labour
to qualify as citizen of Australia...
i think that's rather nice...
i only submitted the form on a whim
but i received no automated response...
instead a Jamie Chirpseer
got in touch: apparently they have been calling

now i don't know but
last time i "measured"
that's only an 8h50 flight from Auckland
to Hawaii
so i'm thinking why set my foot behind
a door with a mother in law
watching scoop me up Jesus
t.v. and being all paranoid about my status
as ******* on the closed enclosure
of Kauai
but i sure as **** threw a decent birthday
party by the pool
well shared but this is claustrophobic writing
i.e. claustrophilic my ego
says there is a cursor and pre-
to nouns so i'm cleared: cleared by I'II"
however many that is:
1 foot 11 inches last time i checked...
ego-**** that is: the little horn on my head
that turned into a hovering 360 degree eye spin...

seeing those last words written days
ago, happily discarded
now upon return with a pop-sensibility of aging
no new music but there are some unavoidable
stresses in neu alles neu: billy and eddy's
Lunch not naked Lunch not naked
all food in attire:
me sitting in a tuxedo and sneakers
with a baker boy's cap: some unifying piece of attire
whether you're at White Hart Lane
or whether at the Boleyn -
                  unifying attire like some distinction
between the Tribes of London gone out
of the window with the babies in a circus of bathtubs
falling from the sky
because raining cats and frogs
had all the dogs drinking from puddles of beer
morphing into hyenas - crying over Benson Boone
singing all god is jesus
and no god of a muhammad
there is no transliteration of tongues and words on
tongues and words not on tongues
but abstracted thought and missing in crosswords
because like a dyslexic being good with numbers
because is such a terrible word right
now...
but good in manners of speech: or is that speach
like i want to bite into a peachy apple
                         like crossbreeding happens and you
could craft champagne from thin air
breed a german shepherd and a spaniel
or what was used to breed a dachshund
from a dobermann...

   the Q and the Mark i.e.

                     Mark              +                Q(uelle)

                    ­                        =

                      Matt            ­   &              Luke

i came across people interested in religion and
the mammoth goliath that is Christianity
of conversation
and a revamp from the year 1945 from Egypt
the Nag Hammadi library -
and all that invoked by the Church Mothers
maybe another Frank Zappa moment if i could
sing but instead i found my voice
my voice in giving SIA a briefing after having
worked with stewards on a bag cordon
at Wembley...

now how to find respite, next day the cycle
still not fixed so house bound
at least able to wash the bedsheets
and hang them in the garden of sunlight
to then dress the bed once more in all that air
and wool
like floating sheep and perhaps horses with
wings
and perhaps apes to
and perhaps men with four arms and no more
than two feet
and perhaps wheels and fire and the internet
and printing and copying
and all that towers and gardens from Tokyo
to Baghdad -
                               cascade of the human experience
ethics is apparently objective
well i could have sown the swearing ogre oath
i loath in **** me **** me oh **** me
jurisprudence is subjectivity par excellence...
so rarely do you have judgement by the peers
by the jury: jurisprudence -
instead English law and the barrister
and judge and triangles of politics -
i hardly speak in the court of law -
perhaps fellow human will allow
me to think before god:
perhaps i can think before god
if i can't speak in the court of law if i can't speak
in the court of man then perhaps
i will be able to think in the court of god:
at least there's hope with me writing this down...

yes, i put a weird bet on two nights ago...
Tyson Fury vs. Olek Usyk...
bets on, whatever the algebra of gambling
5/6 and 11/10 as a decimal:

      0.8333                  and 1.1111

ニ: 0.747747748
      ホ: 0.9213

if i were to see mathematics with letters,
notably division by the first number
and multiplication by the second numbers
(Ni                   **)

but at least no muddle with too many numbers
like too many notes in Mozart's
'seph II  Holy Roman Emperor (1765-1790)

    ヨーヨー                 (yoo yoo toy boy not
yo! or yo-yo                but no ideogram?

let me rummage...)

                         bandalore... idea: image at least
some     :)                  or some :'(

      maybe get a hummingbird tattoo on my neck
in devotion to the Aztex i.e.  Huītzilōpōchtli

pero āmo tēchentenderoa lo que tlen
tictoah en Nahautl                                 TLEN:
oxi         oz                       oxygen-c-c

                           TKANKA: tis            tss tis tss
Sue: Ssue...                   SS: Ś
                    i.e. tissue:
                                                       /ˈtɪʃ.uː/ /ˈtɪs.juː/

maybe a truly phonetic poem
or a truly transliterated biblical text
a snippet only a snippet because i have enough
of a day to live to spend another hour
or so in akimbo or on my knees
before the writing desk that's my bed
no no: but a short equip-me "poem"
a quirk like a sneeze to base my focus on tissue
and SS i.e. Ś
and other instances i could possibly see it in
in the English tongue...

all of a sudden working with Pakistanis, Bangladeshis
and the Sudanese is or can ever be
about a white English boy with some
post-colonial stresses and ancestry questions
about why the former Commonwealth
Empire imploded and no wonder
given the Civil War in Sudan
why then complain about the English i wonder
but i don't have that problem
given no one can really look sensibly accusing
the Polacks of imperialism and colonialism
base mention of Mongols and the Ukranians
while the Lithuanians dwarfed under Russian Stalinism
and what remnants of German blood
fused during the northern crusades
to give birth to a German fusions of
Estonians, Prussians, Latvians and the Fins
at least we know that the Prussian pagans steered
the gentle happy german soul
for some time or so the romanticism goes...

                  this is still writing under the influence
of Billie Eilish's LUNCH on repeat:
the glad days of my 20s spent never speed dating
not really singing sad songs of psychopathic love triangles
and later sycophantic bare minimum poetry
yuck cringe and are we of the first people
to be given a literacy adventure in proficiency?
so my little historical debrief:
well... it's all funny how i too came on a banana boat
with the rest of them
that astounding reflection of a Pakistani from Luton
born and bred with mosque like a seashell brought
along in the night of the crimson moon
the LESBIAN flag of ISLAM
i.e. the marriage of the girl moon and Venus...
because isn't that "star" with the crescent not Venus
unless that's Venus with a scimitar
and who was the woman of the origins of Islam
running between two hill tops with her son
looking for water?
Hajarah and concubine of Ibrahim?

              at the diner with Ismail having no dinner
but food for thought
in some absent heaven and in some absent hell
but rather in a limbo of grey objects
and a blistering itch of sunshine that
turns a hyperbolic white skin of the north
a golden serpent glee
and invokes spying for the Greeks or ancient
Romans in Lebanon
with: mind you: with all those Pale Orthodox Jews
might just fit in...
but wait: i digress... i've been looking for an ideogram
for a yo-yo... wasn't i?
a yahoo too: a yo-yo playing with a yahoo
when there was whey and rye and lasso and spey
and whatever way was in the where...

          ilocano: aj aj: moje kolano

         (exercise in pain onomatopoeia
         and possessive article: moje / mine
         noun: kolano / knee)

oh yes... and a rubric of the bets i made on the Tyson
Usyk match-up... tailors to the glove
a dash of Polansky on the ring...
left right tango with tango of men
so rough **** so not like ******* a woman
so unlike...

thus:

    no yo-yo: but axle:                        軸
my guess is as good as anyone's
with however many confines of
//     \ |               |||          /|/|/      \|\|\

to quiz up a T                 or an L
let alone an O because so rigid have to swim
to Yippon for the proper edible tongue

now to reveal the Gambler and how i will never be
able to write yet admire
a Hemingway and a Bukowski...

Usyk by technical decision (100/1)
stake... £0.10
Fury by technical decision (100/1)
stake £0.10
Usyk by disqualified opponent (100/1)
stake £0.10
Fury by disqualified opponent (100/1)
stake £0.10
Usyk by decision of technical decision (2/1)
stake £5.00
net return £10.00
Usyk by KO, TKO or DQ (5/1)
stake £5.00
return £0.00

any anyone who might read the newspapers
would tell you
the decision was crystal clear, scientific,
on the margins, within talk of inches and decimals
and... ooh... itchy...
115-112, 114-113 to Usyk
and 114-113 to Fury...

rematch? what is now to be disputed is by winning
through that bet i made: 5/1
or rather 5:1 but ratios would be any less if
using a colon?
                               enough bark to patch up a
cagey sneer and then return to kiss daylights: out
because now somewhat disputable
in the arena or the courtroom
better judgement watching sport
than those daytime zombie land drug-shows
of the courtroom melodrama soaps
and operatic demand for feeding the collective
consciousness split seconds per day
accumulating into binge potato peeling of skin
and intellect on the sofa...
even now: hardly a waste of good coffee
   and tobacco...                with the added "spice"
of BIMBER... beam-bear to spread out the letters
and transliterate: not to imply anything beside
the phonetic arrangement
of the letters as beam-bear: it's still the meaning
behind BIMBER the sweet 45% *****...

(q)uelle: yet there is hardly a similar problem
associated with Socrates...
given the accounts by Plato
Xenophon oh and let's not forget Aristophanes...
especially him
because he was hardly all luvvy-dabbling in
writing works of just fiction...
satire of the lowest man in the village as it were...
well:

who wouldn't have said:

     pleasure is not only unnecessary,
     but a positive evil

i too have had the pleasurable burden and agony
of being able to cite
maybe saying maybe not saying
either way experiencing:
i'd rather be mad than feel pleasure -
further still what of pleasure and happiness
as distinctly opposite or not:
re-imagines (i)
                         the recently digested divulging
on meanings
constricted to words like guilt
and shame...                   thus too:
happiness and guilt                           pleasure and shame.

— The End —