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Sara Kellie Jul 2018
You're trouble, you're toil.
Yes, trouble and toil.
With you I think I'll bring to the boil.
A pinch of salt and a teaspoon of oil
but not too much, your taste it'll spoil.

I'll take off your beard.
To eat that would be weird.
But gristle that makes your knees
into crackling . . .
. . . oh yes please.

With mint sauce on each cheek,
two kebabs that are seekh.
Not keen on the chin
so I hope you don't mind,
that goes straight in the bin.

Chop, chew, swallow and digest.
Can you guess which part
of you I like best?
It's your nose that I grate
all around the edge of my plate
and because I've asked "Please"
that you try not to sneeze.
It makes a much better garnish
than parmesan cheese.

Savoury poetry by Kaydee.
I'm just messing now.
judy smith Jul 2015
Summer diet: Weight loss summer food

The weather may change but our diet remains constant. Whatever the weather, summer, winter or the monsoon we want our pav bhaji or Schezwan chicken or the spicy kebabs and the masala chai.

But realization never strikes us that change in weather could mean a change in diet as well. For those on a weight loss diet the options are slim, you need food that is delicious, low in calories, rich in vitamins and minerals as well as fibers. Let's peak into your refrigerator and cook up the best summer weight loss meals.

Max on vegetables: Vegetables are the best bet when the sun is unforgiving. Red meat is not advisable for summer as it increases your body's internal energy requirement for digestion - thus, tiring you out if you aren't in great health to begin with. Luckily Indian food is known for delicious vegetarian food, which means that you won't need to make too much of a compromise when shifting to a palette that mostly involves leafy vegetables.

Go easy on the nuts: Dried nuts are rich in calories and to avoid over indulging yourself with nuts have them in small proportion and stock away the rest. Another reason to avoid nuts in summer is that they produce heat in your body, which could result in heat boils. Go easy when snacking on these energy nibbles.

Learn about salads: They are no longer just sliced cucumbers, tomatoes and beetroot. Salads have evolved; restaurants have a wide selection of different salads. Indians are more open to feasting on salads as a meal. It takes less time to prepare and you can toss in anything you want even chicken and fish along with the greens. Add citrus fruits, chilled cucumber and fresh lettuce and you've got the perfect summer meal.

Try the chilled soups: Gazpacho is the first dish that comes to mind when you hear the words - chilled soups. But you can try out soups made of tomatoes, green peas and cucumbers; they are both cooling and refreshing. If you like beetroot, you should try chilled beetroot soup too. Healthy and refreshing, these chilled soups are the perfect starters on a hot and balmy summer night.

Enjoy fruits as desserts: Fruits cool the body, rejuvenate your cells, keep you hydrated, and taste like heaven on a hot summer day. Dice some fruits in a bowl, sprinkle some chat or cinnamon powder and you have an awesome dessert. Watermelon is the most sought after fruit when the sun is relentless.

Meet your summer crush - low fat yogurt: Dairy products are always a healthy option, provided they are low fat. Good for digestion and rich in calcium, you can have yogurt any way you like - whipped into lassi, sweeten with sugar or mixed with fruits. Yogurt is cheap and doesn't need a fancy accompaniment, but you do need a refrigerator to preserve the healthy bacteria.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
THE NEW YEAR TIGER HAS GRACED US WITH HIS PRESENCE



YA SEE GRAWL GOES THE BIG TIGER

AS WE ARE ABOUT TO CELEBRATE A GREAT NEW YEARS FEAST

YA SEE YOU MIGHT BE SITTING AT HOME

WITH YA KEBABS AND SNAGS AND STEAKS AND ****

BUT I CAN TELL YOU ONE THING

THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO COOK FOR THE NEW YEAR TIGER

CAUSE BEING A TIGER HE LIKES IT RAW

YEAH ROAR GOES THE NEW YEAR TIGER TONIGHT

ROAR GOES THE NEW YEAR TIGER, YEAH

ROAR GOES THE NEW YEAR TIGER TONIGHT

AND WE’LL PARTY RIGHT TILL MIDNIGHT

MIDNIGHT, THE ONE MIDNIGHT WHEN HE DROP THE BALL, HAVE FIREWORKS DISPLAYS

ALL OVER THE PLACE, AND HAVE A TIGER GROWL

EXPLAINING, HE IS THE NEW YEAR TIGER

AND COMING TO GRAB ALL THE GRUB AND *****

THAN HE CAN POKE A STICK AT

NEW YEAR TIGER NEW YEAR TIGER NEW YEAR TIGER

WHAT A WAY TO END THE YEAR, OH NO, WAY

THE HAPPY GO LUCKY CAT, NEW YEAR TIGER

PARTIES ALL THROUGH THE LAND

YA SEE WE COUNT DOWN WITH HIM

RIGHT DOWN FROM TOP TO BOTTOM OH YEAH

AND THE MEN ASKED THE NEW YEAR TIGER FOR

A NICE COLD CAN OF BEER

DRINK IT DOWN, BURP IT OUT

MAKE THE NEW YEAR FUN, COME UP AND DOWN

MR HAPPY CHICKS SAID TO ME

THE NEW YEAR TIGER IS THE COOLEST ***** THAT YOU’LL EVER SEE

THE NEW YEAR TIGER GROWLS FOR A GOOD TIME

AND GROWLS FOR A BAD TIME

HE GROWLS AT ANYTIME, TO TICKLE YA FANCY

LIKE MY MATE NANCY, DO A DANCEY

LIKE YOUR MATE CLANCY, WHO WAS THE TIGER THEY CROSSED WITH A LION

TO CALL IT A TIGON,

WE WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR

WE WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR

WE WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR

FROM THE NEW YEAR TIGER TO YOU, GROOOOOWWWL, HAPPY NEW YEAR
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/   adverts say: living with your parents... BAD... FIRE... BAD... NOT IVF CHILD... but what would you make of a man, in his 50+... who applies for a neighbour complaint, about a man he's complaining about, while making a complaint, to the mother, of the man he's complaining about? surely it can't be the old fashioned unfathomability of fear... if he can't approach me... why does he boast a complaint on a canvas of my mother? hmm... might have to look into this... /

and i thought i was living next to an englishman....

but wait...
  what i thought, turned out
to a misnomer...

i was living next to...
a ******* ****!

  (bronson style approach
in giving the gift of
the gab):

so he comes over that i'm
smoking outside my window,
and that the smoke
is somehow, "magically"
flowing through the window
into a room where his
new-born sleeps...

ha ha!
   "new-born"... the ****** is
50+ and his bride is 40+...

there are two alternatives
to a psychiatric waiting room...
a brothel, where the body speaks,
and a dark forest: where you
can scream insults, rather than
mutter them under your breath...

with this **** of a man,
this castrato wannabe cossack
of an, "englishman"...
   i thought i'd go one further...

beginning with...
so he complained to my mother,
but didn't complain to me?
does he believe in property rights?
there's a "his" air that
   otherwise gives us a parallel
expression of life?
      the **** high or sumthin'?
well i know he's not punjabi...
**** reeks of black pudding
and microwave dinners...

          **** says something?
says what?
                 oink?
  **** it... let's eat everything
on him... apart from the snout...
might get a lurking kuru
infection...

so an absolute ****, with and without
a ******* sack: one could
attempt to call "it" an
example of an englishman...

anti-psychiatric treatment:
1. a brothel for the body,
2. a darkened place on
the outskirts of urban society
to give out a: shout out to bronson!
kant! you ******* chewing-gum
aspect of phlegm!
  you ***-crack of a dodo alzheimer's
with a cocktail of down syndrome!

so i'd ask...
   if your "child", or should i say
herr pinguin, you're so over-protective over...
why don't i see a baby buggy?
or why doesn't the baby ever see sunlight,
or ever leave the ******* house:
O mighty landlord of loft essex!
don't be afraid to show us the ******...
we don't mind retards...
but it's not you're complaining
about me smoking, outside my own
window, inside my own bedroom,
like you might be harbouring
the next usain "ya man" bolt!

imagine an england when the next
english native... thinks the white, immigrant,
is treated, as if the native is:
king pompous philip zee dritte!
   or whatever charlie will become -
hope he does...
  but when, every, ahem,
  englishman thinks i'll wipe his
***, in my own home,
  while he'll appear stupendous
gorging on curry and kebabs?!

       i'm about this close        | |
              to ****** this ****... with my thumb;
and this is my neighbour we're
talking about.

i.e. he owns the dictate of personal
property rights?
   because he gave birth to a *******
pokraka?
        yeah: blame the hunchback
for breeding upright children...

  and they say the mood in america
is bad...
      mood in england,
with these sort of "englishmen":
    i'm starting to think of
a liver + kidney pâté: of the rare sort...

     because the ****** doesn't own
our shared air!
      i rather smoke a cigarette out my
window than in my room!
his room... is non-inclusive in the matter!

but then again... they say venezuelan
living arrangements are congested...
sure... in england?
   it's just constipated.
Oscar Prince Apr 2015
Mid way through my kebab last night
You would not have guessed what had caught my sight
A diamond coin that stood out like my thumb
After hitting it with a hammer while DIY for my Mum
It was not the ordinary type
A side portrait of a reptilian *****
It was circular
But it wasn't shiny
It looked *****
But it wasn't grimy
It gave me the feeling of fools
Gold
But with the reassurances of a diamond that hadn't been
Sold

I took it home
I took it home
I swear I took it home!
"Must be with the fairies dear,They'l know"
"You can knock on there little door the next time you go
*** the quicker you shut up the less time you'l be out in the Snow"
Fine
Condemn me
But when I find it
You'l love me
If you don't believe me
You can't trust me
Don't see it now
You don't know me

Adiós I'm
Gone
Into the snow I'l
Run
To the kebab house I'l
Go
By the tall pavements under mounds of snow
where the fairies live and the diamonds do grow
Terry Collett May 2014
Shish kebabs
shish kebabs
that's all they have
Miriam said
as she sat
at the bar
of the base camp
in Morocco

I sat smoking
and drinking a Bacardi
they do salads
I said
in long French loaves
I have those
they’re healthier
and quite filling

she looked down
her nose
can't just have salad
she said
must have meat
of some kind

well don't look at me
I’m too skinny
for a decent meal

she laughed
and sat  
closer to me
at the bar
can you get me a drink?

sure what you having?

same as you

ok
Bacardi and coke it is
so I asked
the bar keep
for her drink  
and he went off
to get it
a cigarette hanging
from his lower lip
what did you think
of the belly dancer
last night?
I asked

not my thing
she said
but I see you liked it

yes it was a good experience
heard about them
but never
seen one before
last night
I said
the bar keep
brought her drink
and I paid him
he went off
and I said
how did you sleep?

not good
I had Moaning Minnie
with me
and she moaned
because I came in
the tent at 3am
what time
do you call this?
she moaned
some of us
are trying to sleep
she moaned on
for ages after
I think she was moaning still
in her dreams
I suppose you slept?
she said

yes I crept in my tent
and fell asleep over
my suitcase
I was too **** tired
to move it
and the ex-army guy
was zeroed

lucky you

not really
I would rather
have had you there
than him
snoring like some bear  

what makes you think
I’d sleep with you?

you did the other night
after the beach party

she sipped her drink
and looked
at the menu card
that was different
she said

yes it was
I said
we went in your tent
and Moaning Minnie
came in
and turfed me out

Miriam smiled
if she'd come
five minutes earlier
she'd have got
an eyeful

yes that
would have been
a bundle of laughs

Miriam ordered
a salad roll
and sipped
her Bacardi and coke  

I sipped mine
and enjoyed my smoke.
boy and girl in Morocco in 1970
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
oh god, how could i forget, the year was sometime in
the 1990s, en vogue released their debut single:
don't let go...
fell in love with it...
                as truant i say true:
before the **** impregnated
the white boy economy,
                 i made it to university on
two thousand and a spare allowance,
studying chemistry you get the hours,
**** knows the humanities...
any self-respecting humanities
student learns humanism the hard way:
psychiatry - not writing novels:
but doing social service - **** pay,
the man is happy,
happy girls of 12 month cycles
disillusioned suddenly by Papa Farmer
Heidegger - not really...
i could sneeze Hegel through my ***
and never get a **** from any
French philosopher's nostril:
born to ****, born to ostrich it...
and that's about as much as i'm avowed to hit...
it was the 1990s, the Poles were part
of the cultural shift including the world war
ii veterans, safety in west London,
then the kebabs came by,
and the kebabs fried the reputation,
they said: SO LI DA RI TY!
                  i remember being 9 at the time,
or whatever age suits the chronology,
en vogue was better than the prodigy,
the jilted revulsion to stagecraft,
Michael Jordan did more than Broccoli Adam
alias O,
                  silver back and the safety net of
philandering Clinton: let the white
boy eat ****... you let the white
boys do the annals and you the *******
to do the opposite of the Christian bypass:
let's the ***** experience it and rhetoric anti-gay
statements...
                       a  bit harsh, a bit too harsh mate...
you use the girl to manifesto anti-gay laws...
i wasn't born with **** stimulation,
but would i agree or disagree with it?
i wouldn't ask a girl to do **** with me...
me? too much pleasure from taking a ****,
who do you hang around with?
                           the Schnitzel Patriots?
but if there be  god i swear:
i decided to buy en vogue's single rather than
the album: music for the jilted generation...
then came about breathe when i
was discovering type o negative
             with the mortal kombat..
then i let gaming sorta sizzle, until i met a gamer
girl... no phobia... the status encouragement
said: read two books, play 33 video games...
1990's England... was it so different as it is today
or was it because i was a a kid born in the 1980's
seeing my first double deck bus aged 8 in 1994?
we never got the mafia Caribbean treatment
worthy of a carnival, i was never part of the Empire,
only a cause for war...
                 the truants moved to Scotland,
we got east London, or something resembling the east...
i loved the 1990s... the music esp.,
                                    well, that was then...
it ain't that anymore... back in the 1990s i'd
rather have listened to en vogue rather than
the spice girls' paedophilia chant
Savile's case bankrupted the b.b.c.,
   they're really trying, showing shows
from 2015 and earlier in 2014,
                                          they're broke!
broke little *******! and the chant is:
i thought she was administering consent with
that ***-selfie while i ****** off..
                i thought the age of consent was there
at the time, the age where you get to abuse
your own body...
      apparently that's slave talk: your body
isn't yours.
                     Huxley was a prophet in his own right,
but never mind the intricacies -
                 there weren't any...
she posts consent he posts shadow...
                    in the extremity of all possible laws:
we defend the defendants rights to an exclusion of conscience,
because, god-forgiving we only succumbed to the idea
of not thinking: i.e. we preferred the idea of god
managing us rather than the idea of thought...
    but it was nice in the 1990s, the brave few that made it...
then the serfs came when the Union expanded....
                         it really doesn't matter now...
apathy Regina, pathology Rex;
                                better fix the toilet
before the **** comes down alright...
                              as one half human potential said:
half of me would have made a quarter of the man
and woman involved in obstructing me teaching
in rhapsodies...
                                 oh well...
born a Glaswegian pauper, always a Glaswegian
pauper...
                       and sooner my fate among the karma
fate of words lost in Herr Censor,
              than me knocking on tombstones and saying:
your life?
                  i'm not that much interested, to be honest,
i care to remember what single c.d. i bought
in the 1990's rather than what could have ignited in
me a neo-socialist sense of community
coming from a communist society, undermined
by a society trying so hard to make the perfect advert;
what a load of *******!
cheryl love Aug 2018
The Zebra smiles at the Lion
Who is wondering when he gets fed
The Rhino looks across at the Zebra
and this is what he said.....

"Why are you grinning my friend
especially at the old  Lion over there"
The Zebra replied that he was in a good mood
and to be judged just is  not being fair.

"I was not judging just a little bemused
and wondering why the good mood todtay
he saw no reason for it  - he wanted some mud
a nice dollop of sticky mud to have a **** good play.

But he knew life was not a bowl of cherries
not that cherries are his overall delight
No rains meant no mud and certainly n o smiles
not unless he put up one hell of a **** fight

The Zebra hated mud could not see the attraction
cherries gave him wind too  and at both ends
What a mess I'd be in he thought he started to think
Looking over at the Lion - what a strange signal he sends

The Lion was drooling over Zebra kebabs and Rhino stew
a little carrot and parsley he thought would be nice
drenched in gravy - his eyeballs spun round - they noticed
and ran off fast they dd not need telling twice.

Blast thought the Lion wheres my dinner gone
has the place gone mad and have I gone wild
This time the Rhino understood the Zebra
and this time they both stood and smiled
Grace May 2016
i.

I think meetings are like satsumas;
the skin
can peel
off in
tiny pieces,
your fingers will get covered in the juice
and you can spend hours picking off the white stringy bits
and then the fruit will taste sweet and it will be all worth it.

Or it peels off in one easy motion and it’s all full of pips or it’s dry or it’s bitter and that’s like meetings.

Meetings are strange because they can go on forever or they can be over in a minute.

Some people you meet everyday.
Others you meet once and never see them again.
My parents had the second type of meeting.
They met at a bus stop and my mother complained about the weather and my father agreed it was too hot and then he gave her his number and then she called him.
He became her window cleaner.
He moved in.
They lived in the same house.
They never saw each other.

Everything was terrible.
They never met again.
They drew up different lists:
Frankie, Rae, Teagan.
Genevieve, Emily, Jessica.
Somehow it became something else that neither particularly liked and the outside world didn’t much like it either. They locked the doors and I watched from the window.

Why don’t you go out? Don’t go out.

Everything was terrible.
Mother saw it on the TV.
Father saw it through other people’s windows.
But I can seem never break the peel.
It doesn’t come off in one easy motion
and it doesn’t come off in pieces.
It doesn’t come off at all.

But I am the girl from the cobweb;
I am the spider who stopped catching flies.
From the smell of gravy and soapy water to the kebabs and urban fox.

Meetings. Where do I begin?

ii.

Adrian Wren was wondering how many leg bones
it would take to build a wall around his house,
or rather round his old house.
The bones would have to go around the neighbour’s houses too
so he supposed it would take quite a lot of bones to go round all the houses.

He was writing an article about a murderer who kept the leg bones of his victims.
This was not a crucial element.
It was supposed to be about the murderer’s childhood,
in which the murderer was the victim.
The childhood did not answer the question: why leg bones of the victims?
The bones were building up in his head.
How would you glue bones together?
Adrian began typing;
the isolation and loneliness of being a middle child, the least favourite son.
The problem with being the victim.

It was actually kind of funny, when he thought about it.
Why a leg bone? Why not something smaller, that could be hidden?

Adrian wondered if the girl in the red boots thought about things like that. The girl who had knocked on the door of the too small flat to use his shower and borrow a cup.

Her shower,
she said,
kind
        of
            just
                   dripped.

iii.

Sometimes, I tell lies. Or not quite lies. Half truths. For example:
• These shoes belonged to a dead woman.
• Sea cucumbers can use their internal organs as a defence  mechanism.
• My cousin nearly died whilst attempting to eat a match.

I just want to tell something to someone but I don’t always have the real story, so I tell a not quite story. Or ask a not quite question. For example:
• What would life be like if humans had shells?
• Do we have shells?
• What do people living on mountains do with their faeces?

Right now, I’m looking at the flecks on the carpet, trying to find faces. Once, there was a house built above a graveyard and faces appeared on the floor. I wish there were faces on this floor. I wish I lived above a graveyard.

I live on the ground floor, above the bins. It’s interesting to watch what people have to put in the bins.

If only you’d concentrate on something important as much as you concentrate on that window.

But here’s the man from four floors away, putting his ******* in the bin. His clothes frown, his hair frowns, his whole being frowns. Frowns are like creases ironed into clothes, but who is the iron, what are the clothes?


*iv.


Adrian Wren was still trying to solve the riddle.
Most people thought they gave cryptic clues
about themselves but they were actually
just the conventional ones reworded.
This was a real riddle.
It was about her and it wasn’t about her.
It began with a J and ended with an I.
Anything could fit in between.

Jaci? Jessi?

She had a habit of appearing,
maybe at the bottom of the stairs.
Adrian was somehow angry at her,
just for being there,
sitting on the stairs,
picking a spider out of her hair,
walking out then coming back in as
if to test she really knew the code.
He was trying to write up an argument about people
on benefits but the space bar
keptgettingstuckandthewordsgotclumpedtogetherintonewwordsthat­noonehadanysuggestionsfor.

Jenni? Jodi? Juli?

Sometimes, he was certain she was trying to steal something.
Other times, she was one of those strange specimens
who attached themselves to another, because of an accidental look.
Mostly, she was just the girl in the boots without a name.

Jerri? Josi? Jani?*

Adrian found that the riddle hung
                                                             on
                                                             the edge
                                                              of­ the mind,
an itch which wasn’t really too itchy.

There were other things to worry about:
• Work
• Old things reopening
• Work
• Ignoring the phone
• Work
• A knocking at the door.
• Do you mind, if I come in – it’s just there’s this programme on telly and-

v.

Just tell me your name. He didn’t want to play this game.
Only, it was addictive, now he’d got started.
Now, it was a matter of having to know.
I gave you all the clues I’m giving, she grinned.


Joni,
Adrian said finally,
looking back at the screen
of his laptop.

vi.

Joni-Rae.
It was hyphenated because they couldn’t decide,
because they never really met.

Sometimes, people will call me Joan if they hate nicknames and Johnny if they can’t pronounce it.

Joni-Rae, but actually only ever Joni.
Begins with a J and ends in an I.
Does that still count, if I amputated part of it?
His middle name was nearly Ray too.
Adrian Ray Wren. Too many Rs.

I’m still looking for my middle name though. Does it mean I’m missing a bit of my meaning? Is there a bit of me I haven’t met just yet? Can we meet ourselves or only other people?
Thanks if you made it to the end. This was part of a writing exercise to change the form of a piece. I changed a piece of prose into a kind of poetry prosey thing.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
eh... i felt benevolent today: i was making some beef doner kebabs with fresh yeast buns... egg + sprinkle of nigella & sesame seeds on top... an onion and parsley (sumac) salad... a hot sauce a garlic & dill and cucumber white sauce... blah blah... i was missing the red onions and parsley... so i walked for a minute to my local co-op... headphones in... so i wasn't going to say hello... to... what can be best described as a gentle soul... no... not a ******.. ******... a genuine gentle soul... a shy man... who... last time i heard: has five children... and there he is... day in... day out... standing outside the shop with the copy of the Big Issue (a charity magazine that supposedly helps the homeless)... some people buy him soft drinks... some people buy him snacks... eh... i felt benevolent today... plus i already touched his shoulder without saying hello... so i asked for £5 cashback and gave it to him... not that it made my feel any better than i was already feeling... there's that... 'god bless'...

there's that and there's this...
we live with these, "people": i don't even think they're people...
more like... itches... itchy things...
mosquitos... beside parasites...
sociopaths most certainly...
   schadenfreude gagging entries...
i can usually put a face to something...
when watching a movie i play this game
of remembering what was the last
movie i saw with the actor or actress...
i know there are monsters in society...
but i hardly thought about
these: "comedians" that can't tell a joke...
how would it stand in court:
conspiracy to inflict harm?
i still don't know how many days
i rode my bicycle without spotting that
something was wrong:
maybe yesterday... while hiding full
speed without holding the handlebars...
the front wheel started to "wobble":
i didn't think much of it...
but today i tested the front breaks...
nudge-nudge... the wheel was...
this close || to coming off...
   so i checked...
  ah... someone managed to... loosen
the bolts...
once upon a time you'd need
tools to tighten the nuts and bolts
of the wheel to the frame...
now... there's this small-handle that you turn
and turn and then lock into a desired
tightness that keeps the wheel to the frame...
what the ****?
i can't cycle to  supermarket... lock my bicycle
buy my wine and pepsi
and... what? bother myself by checking
if the bicycle is: "tight" on all the connected parts?!
i mean: it's not the first time someone tried
to take my life:
first time? the nurse in the hospital who
almost choked me to death because
i was born with a Chernobyl mark on my back...
so my heart inflated...
eh... the hernia didn't help either...
i survived that...
but my heart inflating didn't exactly give
me... a heart to love random strangers...
by now i'd take a knife in the back...
while i might turn around and grab my attacker
and hold him dear and whisper:
i love you into his ear... because as i once
said to a colt who screamed at me
outside a supermarket:
i have a death-wish...
   he gave me a fiver and asked me to buy
him some *****... he was accompanied
by a girl and a guy she was *******...
i bought him a litre of *****...
how mad he was...
he asked for 35cl... and he shouted and shouted
his uncle was going to put me straight:
i placed the litre of ***** on the ground
and told him: shout all you want:
i have a death-wish... you want a death-wish?
oddly enough he, the girl and the guy she was
******* ran away and didn't take
the freely standing bottle...
it's a bit different when you're buying
liquor for a group of colts...
you're the next best thing they have to an uncle...
who the hell walks up to a chained bicycle
and... loosens up the bolts on the front wheel...
oh... it wasn't the back wheel...
this "comedian" knew what he / she was
doing... i'd be thrown in a spectacular
fashion: forward... to the side...
what if i was travelling at high speed in between
traffic... the wheel would come off
and i'd be thrown under a car...
ha ha... fan-e... very ******* funny...
but someone else would be charged with manslaughter...
the police might find fingerprints
on the pieces of the bicycle...
******* Nimrods... ****** humour...
i'm shaking merely thinking i can't perform
telekinesis / telepathy with a desire to...
put him / her into an iron maiden...
to put his / her hand into a *** of boiling water...
cut it off and subsequently feed him / her
the poaching!
what if i were the cause of someone else's
manslaughter...
i can't just cycle to the supermarket and go about
my business... if i had a car i'd
be content with my "ceramics" being treated
with a key...
hell: key the frame of my bicycle... steal the wheel
while you're at it...
but... loosen the bolts so that i might...
my head's not big enough to entertain these thoughts...
perhaps i should have been born with
a sq. head...
for ****'s sake...    NIMORDS! INBREDS!
these aren't people...
if they were things akin to doors i'd love
to knock-knock on them:
no... personally? i just want to castrate them...
they'd be better off castrated...
the guillotine would be too good for them...
by a miracle i tightened that wheel back
to its proper repetition...
what next: he or she started to kick my mode of
transit? jealousy... i rather own a bicycle
than a car? is... that it?
half-wits... mother-*******-retards...
there's that common saying:
afraid to hurt strangers...
           now i'm charged with bile and if it's not bile
then it better be acid...
who does that? massive, *******: EPIC fail...
of seeing someone fall of a bicycle:
it's not a wheelchair... genius...
well... that's sorted: perhaps when i was younger
i might have listened to Bon Jovi love songs...
bed or roses...
now i look at everyone as suspect:
i'm not even paranoid: or will be...
   let's just pretend we're in this project: life
together... we're not...
     we're not going to be...
i don't care if the ******* Dalai Lama comes knocking...
same ****: different cover...
dieselbe scheiße: anders deckel...

if i'm going to be killed: i expect nothing less
than an assassination:
i'm not going to divulge into my death
as if it were an accident... ******* Nimrods...
tease me with death
and allocate however many chances
you get... in no quick succession that
you treated Rasputin with...
sorry if i can get a hard-on with a *******
while you're still idle-hands...
**** finger and tongue with your missus ****!

mateo: calm down: no... i will not calm down!
what if my wheel came off while
i was charging down the A12... and someone
might have been charged with manslaughter?
i'll calm down...
when i poach his or her hand
and later feed it back to them!
to hell with merely cutting it off...
i'd flay: i'd skin... i'd...
do more than my imagination right now allows...

oh i wasn't lucky: i'm just not married yet:
given death ms.,
   half a biscuit is basking in loneliness
in the sky: the constellations came...
i'm fully charged heaving a breath that
would burn a tortoise's shell...

keep imagining it:
this little ****** whether he or she...
i'd poach their hand and later
watch them eat it...
if they'd pass out:
i'd give them a shot of adrenaline mixed with
amphetamines:
just to keep them awake...
they have to be awake for coming
to the end of their... "joke":

mateo: relax... i'm relaxed... look at me...
taking  diarrhoea sort of whim
of what ought to be loath solving no. 12,479
of a su doku puzzle...

here's the original, wait... let me lookalike
to a sq.... spacing can be a *****...

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0     ­ 0
0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0

clearly that's proper spacing...
don't **** with me...
i'll be nice: until i start to imagine your hand
being poached and forcing you to eat it!

this is the original;

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0    ­  0
4      0      0      6      0      0      5      0      0
0  ­    9      3      0      5      0      0      1      0
0      0  ­    0      0      0      0      0      0      0
3      0      0  ­    1      9      0      6      0      0
9      6      8      0  ­    7      0      0      4      0
6      5      0      9      0  ­    0      4      0      0
0      0      9      5      0      0  ­    3      0      0
1      0      2      8      6      0      0  ­    9      0

what am i... a makeshift carboot once a nerd
second time a: loved up...
hype? cant you write mathematics
with letters?
algebra: sure thing...
******* Nimrods... can't do a job proper..
half-breeds: inbreeding
cousin H'arab question marks...
0         0"people"... less than things...
at least i'd want to knock on a door...
these people i just want to mull with
a stampede... little gherkin **** offs...

how does that saying go:
i came cross a woman
and a tornado:
sure as **** the tornado didn't leave me questioning
my masculinity... or that i might be a walk abortion:
glad to know all the future mothers and their sons...
rather walk into a storm than love
a woman... at least: her mother...
can be less: teasing...
most obvious and...
n'ah... i'd prefer...
oh wait... she's not into blonde haired guys...
she's a blonde...
sure... i'm into Turkic raven haired types...
i'm into: Calypso mongrel
                mullattes...
good to know: she's not into me:
i'm not into her... shout and welcome
all those in-between copper-necking that's
to come: what do "we" call them?
when it's diluted?
aspiring Pakistani?
give it two generations...
give it enough dilution...
the supposed authority genes will fade...

a tale of two-number quests...
what's in brackets out to be either:
superscript or... "squared":
hello: the earth is "flat":
fastened to some spaghetti imitating shoelaces... no?

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
4 ­     0      0      6      0      0      5      0      0
0      9 ­     3      0      5      0      0      1      0
0      0      0 ­     0      0      0      0      0      0
3      0      0      1 ­     9      0      6      0      0
9      6      8      0      7 ­     0      0      4      0
6      5      0      9      0      0 ­     4      0      0
0      0      9      5      0      0      3 ­     0      0
1      0      2      8      6      0      0      9 ­     0

let me gives you a map of this flat flat world....
i couldn't find the proper, superscript...
hence some... "details" in brackets...
here's the map:

look at the brackets... wait: don't look
at them... (revised with superscript)

5¹³     8⁴⁰     6⁸       7³⁷     1⁵¹     9⁵⁰     2⁴²     3⁴⁷     4¹⁵
4⁰      2³⁹     1²³      6⁰      8⁴¹     3⁴⁹      5⁰      7⁴⁶­     9⁴⁸
7²⁵      9⁰      3⁰      4¹⁶      5⁰      2²⁶      8²⁴  ­    1⁰      6⁴
2²⁷     1²²     5²¹     3³³     4¹⁷      6¹¹     9⁴³      8⁴⁴     7⁴⁵
3⁰      7²⁸     4¹⁸      1⁰      9⁰      8¹⁹      6⁰      5²⁰      2²⁹
9⁰      6⁰­      8⁰       2³²      7⁰      5¹⁴     1³⁸      4⁰      3³⁴
6⁰      5⁰      7⁴       9⁰      3⁵³      1⁵²      4⁰      2³⁰      8³⁶
8³      4²      ­9⁰       5⁰      2³¹      7¹²      3⁰      6¹⁰      1³⁵
1⁰      3¹      ­2⁰       8⁰      6⁰       4³       7⁷       9⁰       5⁶

such the narrative...  i'll be relaxed:
poaching the hand of one of these and then feeding
it back to then: to hell with your Christianity and love...
your civilised state of
keeping a pacified argument...
no: you experience this sort of *******:
first... come back to me... and tell me: i hope:
otherwise!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.
Terry Collett Oct 2012
You could tell
by Mamie’s face
she was sick

of shish kebabs
in fact it seemed
that the whole Moroccan holiday

was kind of getting
to her sensibilities
from the standing

on the two brick toilets
to the shish kebab
food misadventure

let’s go walk
on the beach
she said

before I throw up
with this crap
and so you walked

with her down through
the path to the beach
the moon and stars

above in a black
patchwork sky
the sound of the sea

rushing in and out
and the voices
of the others

getting less
and less
and she said

looking up at the sky
isn’t scary that sky
why is it scary?

you asked
it’s so vast
like it goes on forever

she said
I think Pascal found
the immensity

of the night sky
disturbing
you said

Pascal?
Is he on the coach?
Is he on the tour?

she asked
no he was a mathematician
and physicist and inventor

and Christian philosopher
in the 17th century
oh right

she said
boring ****
come on let’s get

on the beach
and lay down
and stare

at the sky
and stars
and that bright moon

and then we can snuggle
up close
and we’ll see

what comes
and she pulled you
onto the beach

and the damp sand
eased itself
between your toes

and the smell of the sea
hit you
and the sounds

and the wind
from off the sea’s shoulder
and she pulled you

down on the beach
beside her
and you lay back

and looked up
and the vast sky
seemed to press down

on you both
and she laughed
and said

it kind of makes
you seem small
and insignificant

doesn’t it
she said
you felt her hand

in yours
a soft pulse
of her being

right there
like a small beeping drum
and she turned

and looked at you
and smiled
and her smile was captured

by the moon’s glow
and you said
we need to remember

this moment
this being here
this newness of being

and she laughed
and said
don’t get too deep on me

and she leaned in
close to you
and kissed you

and her tongue
entered you
and the whole sky

seemed to witness
the moment
seemed to want

to embrace the kiss
the bright humanness
in her moonlit face.
Billie Pang Feb 2021
I pull the curtains over tight so the
sticky light will not let in the morning.
I miss waking up in Europe with the
strange European light coming in pouring
in the narrow windows of Dutch Tower
houses or busy Berlin apartment
streets with kebabs cooking and kids crying
the stillness of frosty Dublin suburbs
in the winters and the bite of the air
on bare cheeks and knuckles and the eerie
sound of invisible birds and clock towers belling on Sundays resonating in the crystal air.

And I start thinking about all the things I never did which is sometimes worse than thinking about all the things I have done
Terry Collett Jul 2013
Miryam stands beside
two Arabs
and a camel
to be photographed.
Baruch presses
the shutter
of the camera
and the scene
is captured.

She pays
the two young men
and they walk off
with the camel
talking in
their own tongue.

She adjusts the bikini top.
Brauch puts away the camera.
Someone said
they expect to be paid,
she says.
Why not,
Baruch says,
watching her fiddle
with her bikini bottom,
her fine behind.

The Moroccan beach
is deserted, except
for the departing men
and camel further
along the beach.

She complains of the heat,
fingers her fuzzy hair,
stares at Baruch,
scratches her nose,
gives a Monroe pose,
hands on hips.
Take me like this,
she says.

He obliges.
He shutters the camera,
his eyes capture,
stores away her image,
in more ways
than one.

She talks of his drinking
into the small hours
in that Tangier's
night club
the guide took them to,
the belly dancer,
the snake charmer.

On the way back
to the camp
in the back
of the truck
with the others,
he remembers,
the kissing,
the embracing,
stirring his pecker.

She talks
of the early morning sky,
the smell of kebabs,
her feeling heady,
how she thought
he'd come to her tent.

Too tired,
he says,
besides I had to think
of your reputation.
Others would know.

I'm not a nun,
she says,
getting me stirred up
and then leaving to stew.

They walk hand in hand
along the beach,
the tide coming in,
touching their feet.
She talks of her parents,
medical professionals,
the boy she had a crush on
who went off
with someone else.

Baruch feels her pulsing
along the wrist,
his fingers holding there.

She talks of the other evening
when they came down there
to escape the noisy party
at the camp, the dancing,
the music, the wine.

He recalls the darkness,
the deep tuffs of grass
before the beach
was reached,
she and him,
kissing, embracing,
moonlight shining,
stars like scattered
sparkling diamonds.

No one missed us,
she says,
no one knew
about me and you.

He remembers
the echo of music
over head,
the gentle breeze,
distant voices,
her murmurings,
sound of sea
upon the beach,
both feeling
and touching,
giving pleasure,
each to each.
Roger Hernandez Aug 2014
Step One: Write down on a piece of lined paper that living is a-okay.
Step Two: Tell yourself that Step One is malarkey but realistic.  
Step Three: Make a campfire and have some sweet shish kebabs with strawberries, marshmallows, and bananas.
Step Four: Burn the stick when you finish. (It'll be more satisfying.)
Step Five: Watch five or six episodes of your favorite show and regret every second of it.
Step Six: Learn a bunch of useless facts about a specific animal and relentlessly tell them to your family or friends. ( Or even a stranger if you are feeling dangerous.)
Step Seven: Jump/get throw into a cold pool and as you flail around feel the goosebumps on your skin and the weightlessness of your bones.
Step Eight: Throw a party, and clean up the mess the next morning.
Step Nine: Sit in front of a desk with pen in hand.
Step Ten: Repeat Step One and skip Step Two.
Terry Collett Jun 2013
The music from the base camp
a few miles from Tangiers
could still be heard
from the beach

where you
and Mamie
lay looking out
at he sea and moon

she spoke
of romantic things
her parents
her job

her hopes
you listened
looked at her there
her eyes capturing

moonlight
her hair
her lips moving words
her hands

about your waist
yours on her back
and thigh
some one laughed

from the base camp
more cheering
clapping
music coming

and going in waves
caught by a slight wind  
Mamie became silent
and kissed you

her lips on yours
pressing on
her tongue entering
her hands over you

she closed her eyes
sea sound
wind touching skin
voices from the base camp

a guitar sound
voices singing
she *******
(what was left

to undress)
you moving in
smell of sea
and scent

taste on lips
and tongue
gin and shish kebabs
darkness closing in

moonlight and stars
and her kisses
moving to your neck
and cheek

and you sensing
her warmth
her nearness
skin on skin

tough grass
by beach sands
voice calling
laughter

Mamie wordless
just sounds
and breath
and you feeling

her flesh
the fingers moving
sea waves
coming in

shush of the sea
passions high
distant sounds
guitar and laughter

and singing
riding the waves
you and she
and the god almighty
rough moving sea.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
people should really stop ridiculing this medium of communication, and abusing it to serve out market square profanities against people while trying to sell kilograms of apples and shrimps... don't people realise this is a resurrection of the wild west? there are no laws here, there are no publicist authorities telling us: profit above niche interests... you really want a world where only something akin to the Da Vinci Code comes to your eyes' mesmerisation unglued from that sloppy version of sleep: in the s.e.m. when given the epileptics' digest by the television producers? this is play-dough! we have the ultimate authority - the software within software... all these software brands are also slaves to the hardware companies... please don't let them undermine the content within the content, because that recycles itself back toward the context within the context: i'm only using a computer, not a ****** kettle to make tea.

the argument bypassed all hierarchies of power,
                and it was done in the realm of the shadow people,
    long was the established
authority of man, in that democratic  babble -
until someone resorted to anarchistic measures
and said: well - allpoetry.com is a ******'s pleasure
garden of Pavlov, wattpad.com doesn't allow
                                                           ­                            ctrl c / p,
                 and elsewhere a truest
democratic expectation was
written out, against all established
lumberjacks of print,
   there, it was written,
lay the gambit - two cruise ships set off:
   become rich or die trying,
or...
               speak the truth against
a billion or two people and die not wanting
         a silver-spoon up your ***...
but i still can't believe that *incubus

released their seminal morning view
album in 2001; ****! i was 15 then,
an album of my youth...
                        such that music ages
like wine... apart from classical / literati
music kindred of Bach -
               the 20th century phenomenon
music as enjoyable as alcohol,
        no stiff-necktie princes readied for
louse agitation sitting in an opera theatre
for too long: grit and grime:
the down-to-earth passe that was actually
an impasse in terms of: can't ignore this
outlet.
             there's freedom where you can
find it,
                  sometimes facebook.com
allowed minor computer coding,
   the stroked-out ambiguity of
the zoological enclosure of <u> ending with </u>
for something being underlined,
but it's still all software, the hierarchical priest
that's a chef, but not the hardware wired
slaughterhouse attendee or the butcher -
i still find it bewildering that journalists
treat the medium that's electronic as a form of
surrealism, unreal, psychiatric worthy investigation...
well: dope,
                     people die from interacting on this
quick-action translated into real life "t.v.",
              journalists are basically writing us off
and whatever the internet provides goes against
their famous revolution of the printing press...
they can't stomach democracy of the internet,
they prefer to peer for the autocracies of
their belittling tabloid conglomerates of a Hussein;
they can't stomach freedom,
they can't stomach free enterprise: with or without
a care to have a family, pay the extortion that children
surmount to...
                         they are like priest, in the grey suited
attire of authority that's beyond
       distinguishable...
                                    opinions spewed like
regurgitated kebabs on an Essex dance floor after too
many shots of warm *****... without even a
chance for a dialectical horizon...
                     little fears, little people.
sure, i can be the village idiot: i did the opposite
of people outside of a eugenic background of
Shakespeare or Beckett households do,
    simply outside keeping the motto, if not
merely the motivation to be blunt flints -
i.e. great-grandfather was a doctor, grandfather was
a doctor, father was a doctor, i am a doctor...
embarrassing, this "noble" form of ******...
                doctors and lawyers are alike...
     if you want to know where the neanderthals are
these days? i'll tell you, there, where i pointed
at with the inbreeding of inter-generational "improvements"
but keeping the family name attired in a certain
profession...
                                    to be honest, for all that blah blah
of Darwinism (never stance it off against theology,
                      any -ism isn't a -logy, the former
attires itself with words but simply dictates images)
               we're less bio-diverse than we think we are,
        i call it the ****** plateau, nirvana unplugged
said it better, but i find the hard case of social mobility
          being immovable in terms of
                         a Francis Shakespeare imitating his
great great great, great great grandfather
                                 or a Michael Faraday
                                 Jr. Jr. Jr. Jr., Jr. Jr.
                           securing a patent on a Dyson light-bulb...
****** happens all the ****** time,
               it's just the socially acceptable ****** that
doesn't require rammstein to write a song
         entitled Viennesse Blood
                                            (6-    -en- -ease:
         6 denoting the Welsh ***** to you and ****** to boot,
                                     and the universal *******)...
                                                      ­ was i shocked when
i heard about this story? i could have been...
                                           but then i've been reading
the mentality of the culprit that's kindred of the Marquis
de Sàde (alternatively Sadé... i.e. eh?)
                       and i figured: have you seen how local
  and uninformed the people surrounding the case are,
                  they would have hardly known that
a plebiscite was taking place...
               two carrots a beetroot and a cabbage broth
in their eyes translated the civilised world's shock...
                  but that's what's shocking about
our modern world: you can truly become a barbarian these
days by treating modern, socially progressive / civilised
          antics or behavioural patterns with an
anti-social tinge of revision: basically stating the truth:
      and truth is the newest form of brutality (oddly enough),
incubated by the phrase: brutal-honesty...
              so evidently that's counter to: civilised-deceit.
Sharina Saad Jul 2013
He gave me tulips
But I wanted roses
He bought me golden ring
But I wished for a diamond
He took me to the beaches
But I preferred the malls
He suggested the movies
But I loved  my cosy home
He played football
But I loved the indoor games..
He read only newspapers
But I took all novels to bed
He ate rice and curry and kebabs
But I adored Chinese, Indian ..
in fact all types of food..
He hated vegetables...
Woo... but I adored salads..
He loved his comfort zone
But I loved the adventures...
Between night and day...
Between North and South...
Between someone like me
and someone like you..
Could we ever ever fit in between?
Mad... Off he went to his country...
and left me all alone to ponder...
of how.. of why.. of will... of what...
This opposite attract ...
Love and hate...
hate and Love....
Searching for just a tiny bit of similarity...
so this love could last till eternity...
Reece Sep 2014
That sickly sweet chocolate taste is a lingering reminder
He’ll be back again tonight
Sweet-talking you out of bed
Your father, he does love you, but not the way fathers usually love their daughters
Oh honey, you’re too pretty for the other boys at school
And your mother’s in bed with your brothers giving head
Look out!
They’re alive again tonight, and you wish that everything will be alright
But you’re late again this month
And everything’s a little bit sweeter with chocolate on your lips
Better than the baby on your hips, oh put the cutter down, and bring yourself to bed
So he can “gent-early” caress, and the sounds of the street, come crawling with defeat
Through the window, like your bigger brother the other night
When his crack pipe no longer lights, it’s a habit that she gave to him
Like the deformities of your mind, and the way your mangled body squirms
Oh dear, you've fallen down again
And the kids at school all laugh
Because your shabby clothes smell like kebabs, and ****, and last night’s brown-watered bath
Watch out!
It’s dark on the streets today, when the clouds refuse to go away
So wander the estate wondering if this is how it is, if this is all there is
To be the doll tied down for everybody’s love
Dangled up above, you on the bed
Just playing dead

You tried to not enjoy it, you tried to tell your secrets
But you’re a liar and a cheat, and nobody believes the scars, or bruises on your knees
Get it together; you could leave it all one day
Like your sister did before
Only now she lives next door
With a ghetto husband of not so distant relation
And you hear him beat her when he’s drunk
And you hear him beat her when he’s sober
And you hear him beat her when she’s unconscious
And you hear him
And the whole street hears him
So you wonder if they can hear you too
Echoes through the zoo, that you call home
Monkeyed enclosure of ***** flinging beasts and your mother getting ****** on in the shower
Every hour on the hour
Because your father loves the power
Listen out! Can you hear them?
Dear reader, look outwards from the window
And see the way her winds blow, how she walks the streets so aimlessly
Dead inside her eyes, where the spirit cries out in the morning when she’s late for school
Because her father’s got whiskey **** again, and now she’s trapped underneath him
And her mother’s fast asleep on the floor

Stupor of the soul, it’s always taking hold
Cover up the sadness, or cut away the grief
Everything is different when they’re taken by police
And now you’re sat in a foster home, feeling welcome
Until Mr. Saviour creepily creaks the door
And your freeze in fear
Because you feel that your father’s here
And Mrs. Saviour is in the next room with the others
Loosely inspired by a (many?) Pulp song(s) and one or two families I knew back home. Written a few weeks ago whilst in a Missouri college lounge.
EJ Aghassi Mar 2017
Static still void slowly
Reveals through blurred
Lines and smeared paints

The figure of love or some-
Thing familiar enough. I sit
Suspended between two

Languages, indebted to
Different philosophies, and
At any given time I find

Teeth loosed from my mouth
As they are ripped out; sour
Taste of an omen ever

Present on my taste buds,
Ever scraping my knee
Caps as I fall to them

In some rapture, I bleed
My youth on dusk bathed
Blacktop of the school

Yard. I see towering womanly
Love, a monument to shake
Foundation, almost completely

Out of view, piercing overcast
Skies, yet not taking any
Clouds with it. I sit on ornate

Carpets of kebabs & half
Filled tea cups, stomach
Deep in some obscure

Fear of my desires. The dog
That loves me most of all
Is never allowed inside

The house. He sits valiantly
Outside, chained to a
Watermelon tree. Heavy

Heavy things all around me,
All things light and
Soft, even in sleep stasis

Feel ever as ever
Out of reach; beyond even
The scope of my dreams.
Some more rough experimentation with surrealism; trying to explore moments of my childhood as a dream.

See "Empire of Dreams" by Charles Simic.
MinDiver Apr 2014
Heavy bearing the day in the city of distress,
getting back to my place, in my head there's a mess,
tough to go to sleep, so I stick to my flask,
close up a rizla and take care of my skunk.

Every one racing up - for their personal clap-clap,
running through busy streets with no time to ghasp,
pale and invisible - modern day ghost.
City of kebabs vs beans on toast.

Sunshine's not much more than a shadow from the past,
people puking on toga on a late night bus,
need the medicine - to stop living in a rush,
in this massive brain-washing our life's running past.

I remember the food, I remember the taste,
I remember the beach and I wanna reframe,
I remember the nature, I'm afraid I'll forget,
I remember my life but there's no time for that.

---

9-to-5 ghospel, first-world rap, call it that,
blues for who's got answers, money for the rich ****.
I've no real complain, but it rains over my reason,
living in the city that's got only one season.

I need clearing up, fresh air from this prison,
needa breath something that don't smell like poison,
needa look outside at the end of the day,
and know that there is something beyond the grey.

Been staring for hours at an off-licence shelf,
browsing for nothing, maybe looking for myself,
lobotomised by the lifeless lights,
the only noise: the cars outside.

Nothing and everything - just floating around
a party on a boat, a rave underground,
the late night workers, the drop of a pound,
every night is the longest, every day passes by.

Lot of money goes wasted but nothing to buy,
This city is the woman that I'll never betray.
This city commands, you shut up and obey.
This city is the white, the black and the grey.
mikumiku May 2018
A dog, a cat, and tiny fluffy mouse
Are learning Spanish in their English house
Since they are going to the Southern Spain
They need to train their little stupid brain
The dog says: “My name is el perro grande
I love the singer Ariana Grande
But I hate cats and cats I eat them all
May they be big, may they be very small”
The cat says: “My name is el gato *****
I’m learning Spanish, it makes me alegro
But I hate mice and mice I eat them all
May they be big, may they be very small”
The fluffy mouse says: “I am el ratón
I love some queso and I love jamón
But most of all I love them cats and dogs
In Turkish kebabs and in big hotdogs”
A body skewed
On knobby kebabs
Of sloppy *****
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
well, if you write "poetry", and have no intention
to sing it, to praise some populist theme...
you end up working in a music "shop",
  of your own private library.

saying that... the best albums i ever purchased
were in scotland...
                 english was ****** for original
purchases...
                      nothing really stood out outside
of the charts, nothing obscure.

   and yes, i can enter a trance, listening
    to foster the people's song pumped up kids,
and then downing another blackbeard
   (dark *** and ms. pepsi) -
switching to lemmy kilmister's first band
        hawkwind's song about the partriach
of the nizari ismailis (assassins)
                                      hassan i sahba...
they got high from shish-kebabs and hashish...
               i'm a drunk... and all the better for it.

i don't understand why subjectivity is so wrong...
          i've been watching people stress
science, and the objective paradigm...
              esp. the atheistic paradigm...
              of **** me, the ad nauseam set of rules
to call someone stupid...
          it started with goldfish... only 2 second's
worth of attention span...
                how do you know?
              well... the fish is going mad, being stuck
in a fish bowl, on its own, with no other
fish as worthy points of reference...
    it's obviously going to evolve a coping mechanism,
of blitzkrieg amnesia...
  
the joke hasn't even arrived...
      i remember being apprehensive of marilyn manson
when he stormed the scene in the early 2000s...
but i, for some reason, managed to freak / scare
  two people with my taste in music borrowed
from scotland (the music store fopp)...
   a guy with    greenskeepers' song lotion...
and a former girlfriend with
    gong's song radio gnome invisible...
         mind you, the whole album the latter mention
is derived from, flying teapot is an l.s.d. trip
for the ears;
    **** me... the song ***-head pixies?!
          
          i love the fact that we've inherited this archive
of music...
                     sure, in the 20th century you could
celebrate classical music (as, ahem, one pop poet
did)...
                     but that sort of high-brow attitude
became suffocating...
                   esp. in the current hundred years;
       nothing wrong, i sometimes go to the opera,
and ballet...
                         it's not like i'm saying:
    now, i'll insert this needle into my ear criticism...
all in all...
                    i miss the fact that i could once stroll
through an english highstreet,
      and feel a need to buy something i really needed,
like a new music album...
                then the internet "somali" pirates came...
how many ******* shoes do i actually need?
   or mobile phones?
                             or fried chicken nuggets?

i've been wearing the same clothes for the past
    two or more weeks...
          khaki trousers, chocolate shoes,
         and a chequered green and white shirt...
   does the shirt stink?
            i shower every day, i'm a hygienic-conscious
alcoholic...
          i still use the required amount of toothpaste
as said unto children: a pea sized amount,
        done under 30 seconds, and plenty of rinsing.

i can't remember the last time i was walking down
a highstreet in england...
                       i might, if i went into a charity shop
and bought a second-hand book...
                 but last time i went into a charity shop,
i was donating a book,
          richard dawkin's the god delusion,
            with a piece of toilet paper for a bookmark;
and i wiped my *** on that book, good and proper.
Dave Robertson Apr 2021
We were once well acquainted
with the wee small hours
adept at navigating neon jungles
and the deeps of kitchen philosophies
entwined with kebabs and illicit frissons,  
in vino veritas conspiracies
that took weeks to unpick and apologise for
but passed

Now, if seen, those hours hold different snags,
surrounding plants are far less exotic
but familiar brambles cut deep,
immutable truths roar
when the ***** doesn’t do the talking
and morning burrs not so easily dislodged
by a full English and a million teas
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
you mature when petting cats... oddly enough, dogs only teach you more routine; owning a cat can make you forget that you even own a cat... it's like misplacing your house keys, and they boomerang back into your concern for them when they need something... namely you... it's completely quantum physics... do i even own a cat? don't know... next times i hear a meow, or sniff a bit of cat-****, i'll let you know.

i also like to call it: in imitation of the crow..
those black shapes perched on t.v. antennas...
just so it feels like i'm an arch,
a shadow... to toy with feeling
being *brooding
... or... let's just say listening
to pop was never as difficult,
as it is now and to feel no shame...
people are more eager to discuss doing
*****-strap-on **** than say
they can succumb to the anaesthetic of
certain pop songs... so...
perched on a windowsill
in turkish akimbo -
part of me was always going to
be mamluk in how i approached
islam.... was there a bias to begin with?
perched and hooded and partially drunk
in a void-thought stupor, "acting" -
as a crow might, looking for romance...
typing at a pace that outpaces
a doctor... pecking at a keyboard...
index, peck, index, peck, index, left hand peck...
plenty of breadcrumbs where that **** came from?
in england they call paracetamol the
universal drug... cures all ills...
babe, i spent over 20 years in england
and i had to rent out a bulgar's
*****... you ain't the only delicacy
worth buying oysters for... ugh, i hate this type
of language, it reminds me of things
i should have forgotten...
   too many celts about... anyway...
but it was a fine balancing act
on the windowsill...
drunk, void, listening to pop...
   and there are soundtracks for
the afternoon, beginning with adelle...
you sort of turn into marble...
and then the odd "nervous" twitch
when you forget consciousness
   perched as you are, like a crow aching
for the opera singers to get flowers thrown at them
and, finally bow... to applause...
                  and you exit the statue pose...
   even i get as finicky as animals
wanting to say so much less:
like the animals in want of saying so much more...
i know a cat meows and wants
so much more to be said, but doesn't...
while i say too much, when in fact i want
to say only as much as the σ meow...
           and it's almost a game of intuition
when investigating animals
and that constant eye-contact to open
doors: we're almost dealing with the concept
of royalty!
or what you do with flints... sharpen them!
and i know how i'm **** schizoi that way,
and rarely but sometimes seeing a lucid
future of a **** sapiens that i like
looking into and try figuring out at becoming...
             natural divisions...
they say...
say: naturally we are math proof
to exceed in practicing it... and then dumb-look lockdown
with the word toward the heavens with head askew: huh?
no honey, tangens... a firm **** take on tragedy.
   i see them all the time, sometimes
a kestrel perches on my fence, sometimes i see crows
staging their right for authority
by picking on: search engine insert:
  bird knuckled neck perch pond...
how i remember...
****! that baking butter! stork!
yep, i can be the one witnessing the fact
that crows can attack storks!
   i just meant bent neck...
so, hum... huh huh... elvis ready...
hmph... thrill seeking, or what the french
called: finally the english, without
a stiff upper lip...
   try elvis, or how democracy is only
democracy with a history,
and quiet a lot of dead examples...
that need more resuscitation than
reincarnation... funny thing with english:
i never seem to hear it "correctly"...
american english is too nasal,
they're knitting spaghetti like wool into socks...
kluściaże...
**** me! heaven descends!
just with that, heaven made it apparent...
distinct syllables!
no games, no enligsh,
if nasal american, then overly glottal english
in the original,
   like talking with your mouth full of food...
if i'm being intimidating,
please forget me,
i once talked with a ******* addict
and she kept me interested by talking
about a lighbulb... and how to not fake
a vitamin D deficiency... like that russian girl
who said: a true sign of aristocracy is to
not ever engage in taking to sun-tans...
so all the essex suntan palours will go bankrupt
and we'll have to import oranges,
and then scrape off the zest
  and scrub it into our skin so we can look
proper Hindi, given our diet... of vindalu...
****-smearing, and gaff... those chillies in..
oh the agony, to think that the turks
pickle them and serve them in kebabs...
the agony!
          comedy and horror... the two should
never meet... thankfully they do...
                  poetry as imitation of tranquiliser...
         as a language:
english and it's ****** shrapnel of conjunctions
and pronoun disputes...
             kinda like thinking about how easily
english can become idiosyncratic
and slang, and slurr...
      it's the equivalent of a ******* drug...
i.e. an existential **** expression...
                              ah, hence the colonialism history...
well.. if i had distinct syllable indicators
that other european languages use (i.e. diacritics):
i wouldn't be speaking all acronym...
finally! the internet proved that talk is cheap...
'cos' everyone just keeps talking!
    and thankfully i just like looking at this crap
than have the throth to take it to and speak it
at a market-place, when i should have been selling bananas.
Niesha Radovanic Aug 2017
my body is thick like a tree trunk. the leaves that cling on are the hairs the razor missed last night. the branches are my arms that are becoming weak like sticks every day because i can't bench more than the bar. my body is a home where i  used to leave the door wide open and now it's slammed shut with a padlock but that's not enough to keep the hatred from coming in. my body says you need dresser drawers, bed frames,chairs,couches to keep that door from ever opening again. my body is a sanctuary filled with "likes and ums" because my tounge ran out of locutions a long time ago. my body is an algebra 1 class i've learned to hate. learned like it was something i had to practice perfectly. like it was some sort of equation and i finally solved it. my body is a landfill that can't seem to make it to the home depot to buy soil to cover up the stretch marks, the scars,the bumps from the razor, the cellulite that aligns every inch of my thighs,all of these deficiencies are waste that are crumbling into the dirt. my body is a thrift store that only sells baggy mom jeans and asthetic sweaters but that's never been enough to please my closet. my body is april 8th a birthday full of craziness. my body said try not eating. neglected . deprived from any nutrients. i was pleased when a cool droplet of water  slid down my throat making me feel like antarctica was at my fingertips. i let my cheek bones narrow in. let my hip bones stab every person i embraced. bringing them in just so i could feel accomplished for proving there was something under the fat. letting my lips crinkle and turn a light purple not even chap stick was enough to save them. my body is a broken heart, glass shards skewered like shesh kebabs in my aorta. squirting out the barbarous memories of you. ripping me into pieces and burying me in a place i didn't know existed. my body is an hourglass that's always seems to run out of time but my body isn't skinny in the middle. the sand inside is my weathered down dreams that i've yet to succeed it always seems to get stuck in the middle and i fill it up with more sand that gets stuck in the middle and it all just ends up in my stomach making me want to ***** up everything i ate that day but i don't have the strength to put my finger down my throat. i don't have the strength to put up this fight. i'm using my long nails to gut my mouth open like a cantaloupe **** every taste bud and then i'll never know the difference between celery and candy.
John Bartholomew Jul 2018
Whatever is that urge, that unthoughtful splurge, to annihilate every last thought of that day
to drink to kingdom come, conversations with anyone, and spend all that you have been paid

what ungodly flicker of thought, has you drinking that last drop that you bought
until the sun rises, awake on a bench, lessons that really cannot be taught

Rewind that human clock, until a time when all was once well
hindsight on a wrong word said, tripped in conversation, drink brings up its show and tell
that marriage that you could have had, now stalked each day on Facebook
sent them a drunk friend request, regrets in the morning, crazy thoughts that overtook

I love you man, a Tesco ban, for stealing ***** after the midnight hour of twelve
we laughed and sang, kebabs and dips, only here once so what the hell
the morning after, 12 cans and draught ale, anything that doesn’t touch the sides
your head is thumping, hair of the dog is calling, Round 2 of this stupid drunken ride

But at what point do we put the brakes on, man’s liver this wasn’t built for, the older the less wiser
you’ve tried the lagers, you’ve tried the ciders, lets knock it on the head, time for the Tizer
for the greyer the hair the less you can bare, as our bodies are not getting any younger
now I love to be merry, but it’s a weight I can’t carry, as drink is a thing I can’t do any longer

Drunk

JJB
“ALWAYS DO SOBER WHAT YOU SAID YOU’D DO DRUNK. THAT WILL TEACH YOU TO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.” ~ ERNEST HEMINGWAY

“I COOK WITH WINE, SOMETIMES I EVEN ADD IT TO THE FOOD.”~ W.C. FIELDS

“A DRUNK MAN’S WORDS ARE A SOBER MAN’S THOUGHTS.” ~ STEVE FERGOSI
E A Bookish Mar 2016
Perhaps the day is waning
Maybe corpses in their graves are
Wriggling
With the worms
And in turn
Maybe gods are laughing

I don't know, or care

Perhaps they’re up on high
Maybe they’re just high
Giggling
With their cronies
And ambrosia
Flows like rivers

Perhaps it flows like rivers
Through their fingers
Perhaps their fingers are the rivers -
They are gods after all

And they smoke joints in the park
And they get kebabs at 2 AM
And they get kicked out of bars
And they do it all again
Until their words slur
And they do it all again

And whiskey runs like water
And laughter runs like water
This is a litany, a prayer
A toast, blessing, laughter

This is us giving a homeless person 10 bucks and our last tinnie
Just because we can
This is us waving at occupied taxi cabs and night buses
This is us singing hallelujahs
This is us making guns out of fingers
This is us laughing at
Those poor souls who are too embarrassed to laugh
This is us wasted in a graveyard, saluting all the names
Claiming that we’ll never die
‘Cos we’re gods here, we walk on and run on this town.
May be some day..

The case in my storage fell on my head..when I was hysterically hitting my hands for the lost confirmations of adulthood..
The mother of coincidences and fate was up today..

The box contained all the pictures of my childhood.. which today are on Facebook, and the timely flashes of memories that don’t mean as much, pokes a hole in my heart..

The time where careless was adored and playful and silly was the only way to be.. running behind my little chickens and teasing my parrot for a chilli was the sport that kept me fit..sad that sport today means watching matches at the stadium or late night football leagues..

The exercise that we got when mother ran left and right only to put that bite in our hunger hole.. how so luxurious has that bite of mother’s love become..

When Hotwheels and Funschool and Playdough was the hip of the hour.. when did an iPhone replace it all ?
Popcorns and Rasna, and Uncle Chips and  lime juice were the menu desired.. no one told me Rasna becomes *** and coke and uncle chips becomes Pizza and Fries.. or lime juice would turn into a Mojito, flustered..

May be cotton candy will never be ‘buddhi ka baal’ again..and nutties and gems and boomer bubble gum are left just words..

Balloons outside the park were the reason we went to weddings..who knew weddings will be the misnomer for departing friends..how swing sets and see-saws are just equations of physics and childish banter..

When the only cricket teams were the kids in the colony, and we hadn’t to worry about India, Australia and South Africa..
When gangs rode cycles and ate Eclairs for evening snacks.. how has it become bikes and cars and kebabs with whiskey over the years..
When getting hurt in the knees was a sign of strength..how heart breaks have become a taboo of the weak..

Times when fever was a festival of cold packs and mother’s kisses on the forehead and stomach aches were the cheat codes for skipping school.
How even diarrhoea and fractures don’t get us off work..

Chilling meant Cartoon Network.. parties meant cakes and presents in the house..and birthday songs still meant like Grammy nominated jingles of happiness and satisfaction..

Sitting on the floor with a tiny tear and a wrinkle of a smile on my face, I get spotted by my mother. She’s curious to know, how her ever frantic and running child came to a halt.. and the time turned tides, it was 5th grade again, when I shared with my mother all the happenings and happiness and sorrows.. and insecurities meant bullies and not bosses anymore..

Like my wish of ‘may be some day, all over again’.., mommy picks her mess of a child up, hugs me tight with a kiss full of affection on my forehead..
May be someday, again this box will fall into my hands, and Luck will play its tricks to muster a kiss from my mother..
May be some day..
Party time in the club
Enjoying one selves every day
Loud music playing in the corner
Close to the bar so people can get ******
Then a man came up to the other man and said he was a loser and that man gave him
An almighty wollop
Over the head and he started
To fall down
He went to the dentist to fix up his teeth
And after that he went to see
Damien leith
His music was cool
And everyone danced
And other people headed to
The lounges for a bit of romance
He drank a vb followed by a XXXX
And lied down on the lounge
Waiting for a bit of ***
We see 25 chicken kebabs
On the kart outside
I think the man running it
Went inside
To get more ingredients
To make them happy
The crowd said come on
Be very snappy
Cream sitting on the lounge
Mark sitting there having a bit of a winge
Not good not bad not great
But not horrible
You see the homeless
Are waiting for their meal
All you care about is
Drinking beer and then spew
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
\alt

work-around title: Çymru among the Ottomans (Ę vs. Щ)

a propos: pre-scriptum... in the background demdike stare's - janissary , for one reason or another... the fantasy of being in the legion of either the janissaries or the mamluks... hell... let the sultan have his harem... he's still going to favour the slave girl from the north... Hurrem... give me this one ******* from a past of romance... this Khadaia... i'll see her once more just to catch her name properly: all i have is the prefix Khada- while she hushed the suffix... over all that's on offer in this playground of freedoms... hedonism never tasted this... limited... when it is so freely available... 4 years without touching a woman's body and then... resurrected with a pulverising urge to touch one once more: over the debacle of grooming a female cat who was eagerly entertaining trans-species ***... *** is ugly esp. when animals come to the fore...

in all honesty: i wasn't convinced when i initially
read the list of ingredients...
not at all: or one bit...
i wasn't going to read the instructions
or... watch the video...

   i forget which flatbread i used...
gözleme? no... there was a SH grapheme at the end
of the name...
not the SH of hiding the H with
a Czech caron:  š...
the Turkish variation...
               the cedilla "s":    ş...
certainly not bazlama...

lucky me: first the Turkish barbers...
then the Turkish prostitutes...
now Turkish food...
i had a similar fetish for Indian girls...
hardly a fetish: one uneventful
summer: should we say...

ah... here we go... lavash... flat... bread...
funny how...
oh i can just imagine...
the year when... the ancients stumbled
upon using yeast when mixing
flour and water... watching the first
yeast infested bread rise up
like a sunrise in the heat...

blame the French... or don't blame them...
it's hardly mesmerizing watching
a hot pan with a tortilla on it...
the earth would still be flat for thoese
civilizations...
or how... yeast was used to make:
wine rather than drink ultra-sweet
grape-****-juice of the diabetic h'arabs...

no... i wasn't expecting the recipe to turn out
as it did: better than the local Cypriots
making imitation turkish with their doner-kebabs...
all those raw vegetables to somehow counter
the grease of the lamb...
raw (albeit) spanish onions... i.e. sweeter
and juicier... raw iceberg lettuce...
raw tomatoes... raw cucumber...
pickled chillies...
two sauces... a diluted chilli sauce and...
yoghurt garlic?
i've been gagging for some yoghurt mint:
but no... no... none of that...

- now i'm back from the days of drinking ms. amber...
i'm back on the drip of "blood":
wine sooths... wine... progresses: slowly...
esp. cheap wine in the form of kalimotxo:
the blood of Montezuma!
a toast to Montezuma!
    gradual involvement in intoxication...
never a lag like with ms. amber...
never waking up still drunk...
             drunk in the process of drinking...
much better...
and when enough lubrication has been
downed: 2 bottles for a night worth drinking
through...
3 hours of sleep at best: but all this...
mind like a whirlwind...
ms. amber: you have stiffened me for the last
time... your supposed
cure for my ailments come too late:
i'm stiffened: i'm numbed by you...
i will no longer associate you with good
tidings... never mind my own deeds...
now i prefer a drink that will creep up on me...
there will be a statement surrounding:
succumbing to gradation...

- the same year the ancients
invested their genius / imagination into pursuing
the use of yeast in baking:
making flat-breads become sunrises
as they... started to ferment... grapes?
all the stags and the bears are in on it
come autumn when they fill their belly's full
with rotting... fermenting fruits...
and stumble around the world
like they might be inclined to acknowledge
the existence of Bacchus...
a bear's drunken walk: i can't match
with a dance... perhaps these words might
just suffice...

- come to think of it... since i'm in all my 35 year old
splendour...
i think i fitted the bill for being
an "angry young man"... most of us were...
but... thankfully... as i've aged...
i've noticed how so few people have
the capacity to drink some sense into themselves...
even Nietzsche preferred barbiturates...
i can't say that i would:
in vino vivo! veritas comes after...
animation... scandal... trenches...
at 35 i can say the anger has... slowly diluted itself:
i guess the anger was at youth itself:
it must have been...
to be angry at being young is every man's
ball & chain...
with two exceptions of Paris and Adonis...
now... the sweet melancholic cloud
that makes my sense of humour subtle...
sharpening my ridicule: since i'm still yet to
receive pointers on wit
and...  reactionary tongue-whip anecdotes...
oddly enough i picked up a copy of
Rousseau's the social contract & a letter
about spectacles...

why haven't i picked up Rousseau earlier?
mind you... with this tongue i now use...
i could never read Rousseau in english...
i can read Bertrand Russell in english...
but every philosophy book i ever read was
read in my mother tongue...
the tongue with all the fancy diacritical stressors...
"so-called" by the people
who don't use them... who have Charles Dickens
calling a spelling-mistake
an orthographical transgression... ******* to that...

- suppose i wanted to paint...
well... writing is not exactly painting:
Frank O'Hara noted how terrible orange is
on canvas: unless the orange stands as
synchronised by actual oranges
in a still life depiction...
orange elsewhere? on a metallic alloy
on a bicycle... i cycled a few schoolboys
once on my Trek Marlin and heard
a compliment about it...
i should have painted...
but then i like that self-deprecating joke
i once heard a Glaswegian say
in class: how was copper wire invented?
two Scots arguing over a penny...
i have diacritical marks for contorts...
and if i'm really desperate:
as i sometimes am: i'll lend an eye on reading
some katakana...

why haven't i read Rousseau earlier?
perhaps i was too stupid too young too naive...
perhaps i should have a tattoo of
Robespierre on my buttocks...
perhaps... just... perhaps...
like someone might have a tattoo of
Roy Orbison to counter all that's Hey-Lvis
in that waterboy flick...

wine is like oil on a bike chains...
for the brain... the wine tide as i explore...
a slowly breaking of the dam
of formality...
but i'm not painting: come to think of it:
i'd hate to paint...
i like skeletons: i like sounds...
i like to walk into a forest at night
and listen to some wild animal tender itself
on breaking a dry branch:
or... misstep on a crunch of dry
autumnal leaves... while i bask shirtless
in the moon on a throne of a stump:
where once a tree stood proud...

that there exists a culture of celebrity:
a vacuous life-support machine of cringe...
in my vicinity: some trees have a higher
status than "people" in the greater prospect (potential)
of the world...
of note... this tree: let's call it Henry-eta
near Chigwell... bulging: crass: entity...
breaking all manner of contemplating girth...
famous: by my concerns...
hard not to miss...
try figuring out: celebrity in a forest of pines...
stilettos or anorexic models...
by then: prostitution doesn't seem that
bad... that bad when compared with
what "they" do with the models...

skeleton and skin being adorned with:
a second layer of fabricated: skin... nothing more...
a body that grieves its former status
of being: mandible... all over:
i think of models as i might think of glass...
a shattering: a breaking...
a variation of... arthritis...

        oh... well... in between the wine:
ms. amber returns: like a stimulus... an injection...
to keep me focused on the cascade...
i'm yet to cover the ground of narrative
i was keeping fresh in my mind...
ah... yes...
of note... only in England...
the multicultural project...

  i still retain my native tongue...
in the privacy of my own abode: i speak it...
i don't speak English...
i speak English to the people who speak
English...
a formality...
English in England is a "lingua franca":
i pity the natives for not have enough
incentives to learn another European tongue:
i guess that's what's happens with
"spazzial relationships" in the shadow
under the yoke of cousin ******* the h'americans...
pity them?
oh no no... blame them...

who was Yusuf Stalin? a Georgian...
tactical subversion of the Russian people...
where is the Georgian alphabet and where
is Cyrillic, or Greek for that matter?
where is... Armenian?
"where" is code for: comparison...
   like the supposed people integrated into
English society:
these... born & "bred" types... typos...
they speak English... at least i can resemble
an Englishman...
most likely i'll be mistaken by some
quran pushing ****- as being a German...
insult?     (oi oi... mr. -stani, don't worry...
the English just slosh with slang sometimes...)

the people of the subversion...
they speak English but... ha ha..
if they only managed to retain their mother tongue:
perhaps something of England could
also be retained...
clamouring like ******* ***** in a bucket
to no avail...

Napoleon's ditto: a man who knows two tongues
is worth two men...
all these new integration projects
who want to integrate so bad... so so bad...
that they "somehow" forge their mother tongue...
talk English as the language of mediation:
it's not yours...
it never will be!
**** me... if all these people retained their
mother tongue rather than playing:
i'd feed you to the pigs for playing
this ******* drive-by stealing mobile phones
"gangster":

what if ol' Adoolph was Swiss and not
Austrian?! imagine that... no... wait...
you don't have to...

- of note: if ha ha h'america of the united
is supposedly this beacon: this success story
for all the english speaking people of the world:
it should: by now... be... a well oiled:
bilingual Behemoth...
like the Swiss "project": of the Benelux or
the Scandinavian heap of blondes outbreeding
gingers...
h'americana should be well embedded
in a fluidity of come English come Spanish...

if h'america could be a success story:
it would be a bilingual conglomerate...
i guess it's just easier to speak only one zunge...
no?
how many tongue arrived on these isles?
i should be learning Romanian come to think of
it...
no one is going to meet me half way
concerning my: tongue...
while these asiatic ******* abandoned
their mother tongue to play petty
gangster... i sometimes fall asleep:
counting teeth... i have no worthy comparison
with the point of sheep:
i like to imagine teeth...

how they become the lesser half of Mongol:
with their mongrel "forgetfulness":
if we just cherished the medium
of the tongue used to invite commerce:
real or meta-...
perhaps... we wouldn't be cycling through
Barking looking at people feeling comfortable
donning those Pakistani pyjamas!

don't get me started on the Rotherham
"livestock" affair... i have no sympathy for
not being ******: looking elsewhere
at ol' Turkic raven hair...
at £2 per minute i'm not going to...
suddenly... "suddenly" do what?
pity the high earner
while she *****-off the concept of *******?
thank god i still have *******:
which implies i can ******* with pleasure...
but while interacting with HER...
she can peel it back and i'm left with
her tender mouth and my numbed metaphor...

castration, mr. ******... doesn't feel so bad...
compared with having your "excess" skin
guillotined...
i started to ******* long before i had
any use for *******...
the thrill is in the shaft...
aged 8 i did it myself...
circa 10 i taught a boy a year younger
about the joys of jerking off...
in a bath... while my mother scrutinised us
while she ironed some clothes...
oh... the gloves are off...

it might be a bare knuckle fight:
but i wrapped a leather belt around them
for a sense of purpose... alias for security: covert...
if the beacon of the world
grew up: sensibly: as a bilingual federation
it was supposed to become...
what? the Swiss are all schizophrenics:
for having the capacity to use 2+ languages?
******* retards:
you live with the reckoning that:
some people deserve their own bollocking...
you hear it... in the distance:
like churchbells...
esp. at night... when the air thins out...
i have no sympathy...
no empathy...
the remains of Malcolm X's mantra of
how there can be a never-ending war:
a "cultural" war:
just use the women as ammunition and
shields...
they're dump enough: Sabine as they are...
bring women to the fore of warfare...
you're not dealing with Gaza strip slingshots...
you have invested yourself in: trenches...
show me a Panzer i show you a naked
white girl...
the prize for all these sub-Saharan gambits...
i don't want to **** sub-Saharan girls:
maybe Boko Haram might...
can i... tickle a Turkish *******?
wait: do i "have" to?

you bring women to the fore: this little shitshow
will never end...
drop an atom bomb: no difference...
the supposed "collateral" becomes
the biggest asset... mind-bending load
of: otherwise what a sword ought to do:
the biggest killer: compassion...

don't worry... the recipe is still invested in me
scribbling it down...

- persisting with all these: Asiatic bundles of
"integrated" joys...
living among these isles...
you begin to wonder:
now... i generally think of the Welsh as a bit...
cuntish...
but... at least they have this...
unnerving ambition to retain their:
Briton spreschen: before the Anglicans
and their Normandy landing quasi French
came along... the Welsh still retain their
*******:  Çymru...
i lost faith concerning the Scots...
they're just... accent clowns...
accent clowns...
          they trill their R and sometimes forget
to F their TH with: t'ings...
like their elder cousins that... perhaps:
might... usher in some Gaelic...
astounding: the concept of the Welsh:
because: they are more a concept than some
concrete evidence of nationhood...
oh: they're beyond merely organic...

some says the king's route was to mind:
from London through to Edinburgh: more like St. Andrew's...
all this time, though...
it was en route to Cardiff...

- of these isles... these glorious isles:
where's the Gaelic in a man from Edinburgh?
the Sikh beat you to that tartan turban
or something:
posers of accents... the whole lot of you...
one up with the Velsh...
at least they still retain their concept of mother...
and tongue...
accented pretenders: it's not what they speak:
it's how they might: speak...

******* sing-along sprache Gael...
i simultaneously don't want to stop writing this
as an excuse for: not wanting to stop drinking
wine!

back to that Turkish recipe...
i had to make a full roundabout at some point...

even now i still can't believe it...
frozen beef, which implies: it would be more easily
sliced into an imitation pancetta:
carpaccio?
        **** me: the whole bonanza of nouns!
most not "gender neutral" too!

wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
wine wine wine wine: to hell with whining women!
wine wine wine wine!
bring me more wine!
she can't feed me... i'm the devil in the kitchen:
i'll cook my own!

the "government" of delayed words in
transit toward: a proper translation...
notably?  sunak...
   not aleppo pepper...
   not sunmak...
    ah... SUMAC!
red onions sprinkled with some
salt and sugar... fiddled with...
crushed... a dash of lime juice:
to get the pickling going...
tender hands of a Cyclops...
then the addition of fresh parsley
and some SUMAC...
that's the radish for you...

the meat? beef... beef and rosemary?!
fair enough: let's have "us" a go...
it only takes 10 to 15 minutes since...
the beef is sliced oh so thinly...
plus... the marinate:

4 tablespoons of oil...
2 tablespoons of red... white... either...
wine vinegar: for curing the meat...
after all... you dip any seafood into acid:
it'll cook...
Bolshoi cannibals of ambition
and all that ballet on the side:
raw herrings as: Baltic sushi in a creamy
dill sauce...

believe me: the Ottomans have interrogated
post WWII Germany...
they're stiches and tattoos by now...

tzatziki...
but the marinade of the meat only takes
about 10 to 15 minutes... since the beef is sliced
so thinly: from frozen...
the marinade?
ol' pestle 'n' mortar...
black peppercorns...
4 cloves of raw: living garlic cloves...
2 springs of rosemary...
sea salt... 4 kashimir dried chillies...

strips of Turkish mozzarella...
i'm of the persuasion:
let's see what the Ottomans had on offer...
the ******... the barbers...
this... pristine cuisine...
it sounds like: shuk shuk shugar shig shig:
chug a fog... chappy chappy chim-shee...

bound to the anchor of a revision:
of these isles... i'm starting to harvest more and more
respect for the Welsh...
i'm starting to suspect that...
the Irish don't require:
the Scots seemingly never will...
but the Welsh: forever will...
display their adamant decorum...
to keep in mind their mothers and their tongue...

let me stress is:
ich bin nicht Ęnglisch:
    lie down... szczeka: it barks...
Щ...              

Copernicus Copernicus: seriously:
where are you?! literally: "where"?!
not literally: a somehow a now...
    
counting matchsticks i presume...
to hell with these semi-literate folk who have
the supposed reins: yeah: now... for now...
but not when time is allowed to imitate space
and stretch...
the currency of shouting for "justice"
dies a death slower than a death succumbed via
a crucifixion...
i'm no sadist... i love animals above
the status of fellow humans...
but... there comes a time that...
i'd rather... savour the company of a dog...
above... someone that might resolve itself
to speak letters back to me...

- you can only insinuate when dealing:
dwelling on the furore of the Hebrews...
but in the confine of these isles...
i hae no greater respect than might be allowed
for what's already arrived at:
they have: KEPT... KADŁ...

      EI CWSG GYDA COCH CLORIAN:

almost every Jew will amount to the maxim:
i be: the citizen of the world:
which is borrowed Greek...
   somehow there come to excuse when:
strip-down... striptease...
the last of the Holocaust survivors is dead:
appeasing the h'arabs and h'americans
for their deepened trough and
monzzie?
  yeah: sure thing...
             me and my stupid
delusion concerning that ol' chestnut
of the certainty of death...
i'm not willing to pressure
the delay button... to be honest.
don't get comfortable

they're going to line us up and
use us all for target practise
to
get their eye in and as we're dying
they'll tie us to a barbecue and
skewer us into kebabs.

Eyes
in the mortuary and on the slabs
keeping tabs on dead men and
their valuables

for it's waste not want not
he wants what we've got
and they've got the
time on their side
and they make omissions
set up commissions
give out concessions but
cede ****** all.
We met
in the heat of the discotheque
they played the sixties
all night long


afterwards
I jumped the queue for kebabs
and you had Shish,

Later still,
the hesitation before a kiss
frightened I'd miss the moment
but never
did

and confirmation
of a further assignation
at the discotheque
where we met
next Saturday night

feels like
a hundred year wait
until we get back on the
dance floor
and gyrate once more
to the beat

I can still feel the heat
of your lips.

It's not wishing on a star
that has brought me this far
it's the red vauxhall viva
my fathers old car

she
sits
under the hanging dice,
I think
our names on the windscreen
would look rather nice
she
says
no
and I go along with her.
"These days you are not at home, Somu,
The rooms seem blackened like a dying dumb ghost,
dead and deaf like an ageless planet, you see.
The walls breathe silence,
like flowers which bend with the rain,
And, I twist and age with time like grapes of wrath.

Dear somu, I saw you in the photo, on Facebook dear boy,
To be honest you have become fat, like your mother when she was six,
Eat less cheese and burgers and cream, to fix these things,
Try veggies and salads to make you look thin.
I am storing up some money, this year,
To send you some sweets,
During puja, we had fried chicken and fish kebabs and rolls,
I made it as you liked it, a bit saucy with corn flour and chickpeas and all,
Next time when you come, I would make it again"
Read the letter,
Signed, Your grandma Mini.

Somu, as known as Somnath at his college, MIT to be honest you see.
A good student and an economist to be soon,
Somu is told to be the young Stiglitz,
Who gets a bit sentimental at certain gloomy afternoons.

But this letter came to him last Monday, at work,
He couldn't read it properly as being busy is the way to look more and a bit more, tough and sharp.
And as he came home today at nine,
Like whiskey and lemon and contradictions which never seem to rhyme-
came another Telephone at around ten,
Informing the youngster about the death of one of his grandparents.

"This is Baba, Your Mini is no more,
Today at six, we found her collapsed at and over the toilet floor,
Come home as soon as you can..."

And He was Still holding the letter,
helplessly within the shivering thrills of his cold and goofy tired hands.

It was 11 at night and he was reading the letter once more,
He was all but telling to himself-"this must be a dream to be sure..."
He was thinking about so many things at a pace,
And he felt about the world that he brought his Mini some disgrace.

— The End —