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howard brace Aug 2013
"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862
talkshows and the yellow press
get excited in excess
over his shenanigans
that delight his faithful fans

rumors of these *** affairs
strong words for all macho players
     in the game of social thrones
texts with threatening undertones
     for minorities and women
     treating immigrants like demons

neither fans nor his opponents 
seem to notice the components
of the white house strategy

     throw them bones
     fodder for the yellow press

and while  they fight
clandestinely out of sight
works the Trumpian policy
 
money laundering   blatant lies
scolding allies   breaking ties
adoring foes   praising those
     usurpers of democracies
     experts in atrocities
slowly yet persistently
     undermine  civility  
     with foul language 
fill all courts with servile judges

court the aristocracies 
         of oil sheikdoms in the East
praising communist dictators
who have helped him build his towers

step by step he‘s leading US
from the groups of international powers
to an isolation desert
at the margins of the world
slogans we have rarely heard
over decades  
      now re-nourished
twittered with presidential flourish
make America small again

warning voices call in vain

no wonder the statue of liberty
is hiding her face in misery (*)
(*) This at the moment still is 'fake news' - but I would not be surprised if she did...!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.how did the political "debate" ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session...  Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session... i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions... bass, a tier above the drums... masturbator-grand-master-soloist... i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write... elephant's ******* choking me to come... oh well... not even a Decalogue will save me... the political art is no art to begin with, curtains... all i'm seeing if curtains... and households filled with retired personel... and curtains... curtains but not blinds... it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar... notably metallica... apart from devil's dance and... where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music... fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar... solo guitar and vocals all you want... it's like... the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo... went, "missing"... i need the bass, man... frantic bass & drum genre type of music will not do lollipops for me... what was the alternative? dub-step? well... vex'd & distance... burial... who were the others? i don't remember... don't make me cite skrillex: white privelege man! yeah... at least with rabbit teeth missing, doing that well known party trick! i don't like bands that have a knack at an over-emphasis of the rhythm guitar, who neglect the bass guitar... it's so counter the jazz-inheritance... tool: grand bass, red hot chilli peppers, silverchair... i need that smoothing out layer of sound that manifests itself in a bass... a layer of sound just below the rhythm guitar and a tier above the base (not bass) of the african drum borrow... bāß... base (not bass)... yes, it's not supposed to look pretty: a phonetic antithesis... as most "things" in english...

             mind you... did i mention how heidegger
has a foot in the door?
       oh... i didn't? did i?
     the reflexive and the reflective quadratic...
the reflex of conscience "vs."
the reflectiveness of consciousness...
       heidegger:
                  language - only if speech has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it become
strong for the hidden play of its essential
   multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"),
of which poets and thinkers alone are capable,
in their own respective modes and their own
directions of sovereignty.

  of the few lyrics i've entertained these passing
"days"?
             the black keys: lonely boy -
              i got a love that keeps me waiting...
borrowing from Kafka i guess:
      in that case, i’ll miss the thing by waiting for it.
   no?
   guess there's no "oops" where these words
come from...
              
    with the "passive" circumstance of the faculty
of memory...
                two tiers of memory:
the reflexive memory type,
the scholastic rubric type...
  1 x 4 = 4, a + b + a +c + u + s = instrument =
counting... etc.,
            that's the reflexive memory type...
a scholastic rubric...
      dyktando...
but memory also occupies
the reflective parameters...
          which involve personality...
a sort of memory dissociated from schooling,
and more, associated with:
disinhibiting any chances of succumbing
to dementia's grinding machine
of the mortal circus...

  the reflexive memory storage bank is
the buffer...
the "placebo": nay... the safety mechanism...
but... too much education,
too much pointless education,
and the erosion of the reflective memory
storage bank: this is not a buffer,
this is not a something equipped with
a "safety mechanism"...
        given that a self is perpetuated
within the confines of
a constant conflict with the "self"...
   a and italics / the and "ambiguity commas"...

well, there's always a place to start...
i find of like philosophy as being
a rigour associated with a satisfactory
form of vocab.,
       namely?
i can use the associated words bound
to a sentence with confidance...
unlike a ****** fiction writer,
sometimes dabbling into loan words
from a thesaurus, to, invoke:
an intelligence superiority...
  don't worry...
  when people lend themselves
to use a thesaurus, having exhausted
their adjective knowledge... it shows...

come on... a background in chemistry nouns?
3,5-methylhexane... you think?
that's the remains of a saxon past in english...
in chemistry...
germans spell like dr. faustus to begin with,
they, compound...
        the remains of a germanic past in
the current state of english shrapnel still
lives... in chemistry...
        hydrocarbons...
                  usually met with a hypen:
hydro-carbons...
       siebentausendzweihundertvierundfünfzig
(7,254)...
well, very german: what a waste of not employing
punctuation marks (', -) when it came
to the caterpillar 189, 819:
methionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyl...isoleucine,

Me­thionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucy­lphenylalanylalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylgluta­mylglycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylle­ucylglycylaspartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleu­cyllysylisoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylgly­cylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylp­henylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthr­eonylisoleucylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucyl arginylalanylphenylalanylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylala­nylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylle­ucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucy­lprolylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparagin­ylleucylvalylphenylalanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylg­lutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylv­alylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylpr­olylvalylglutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarg inylglutaminylalanylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylal­anylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleuc…

or just read the end of james joyce's ulysses
or jean-paul sarte's iron in the soul...
you do have to insert shrapenl punctuation
into this word...

but these are the last remains of the english language
being associated with a germanic origin:
compounding words...
             esp. in chemistry...
                

as any drunk would state,
to suffice...

    what was it that the luftwaffe
prescribed for the night raids
on London?

   and what did isis fighters
be prescribed?

    amphetamines?
n'oh!
   (minus the extended omega:
oooooo enough time
for a katy perry song,
an afternoon shower,
a slap in the face,
and then a few punches,
hey, jerking off became
boring)...

   so the british,
and a few polacks doing their
r.a.f. bit beat the germans
because?
   oh... **** no...
they were ingesting
an impediment factor,
durg, ****,
drunk, numb-skulled...

    we're talking counter
measure to the "enchanced"
mensch...
    high on amphetamines...
insomniac, but still going...
i guess the loci of
the amphetamine adventure
had to relocate to the anti-ego
focus of the phallus
in the variation of viagara...

****...
i care more for my giggles
and a friar tuck physiognomy...
seriously...
   it's more important than mere
gymnastics of
a freudian "metaphor"...
  ha ha...
   i guess conversation is
also allowed...
   try keeping that up...
given that most men are
******* into a solipsism...

     date nights... m'ah ah ha ha ha...
i figured that i don't
need french intellectuals to
redefine absurdity,
or german philosophers
to "redefine" existentialism,
i just needed to leech
off an nativistic english
"public"...

                      what the ruling
class spews:
   i reinterpret...
                  simple, 1 + 1 = 2...
crux, numbers,
   bounce back...
echo...
     compliment to the language...
as i stood in the shower thinking...
well isn't modern gaming
slightly "ingenious"...
money piggy...

or... reversed...
    provided the unlimited time
of experience...
no constraints,
just a game within a game,
like sims 3: making a sim
play a video game...
wormhole paradox
      and a brain shattering moment,
a jolt,

         these modern "free" games?
well... at least if you
do not invest in them,
are... games mostly associated with
time...
time is the game...

   whoever gets ****** into
the money laundering schemes
of these games,
forgot to read the cheat walkthroughs
akin to final fantasy VII,
because of homework,
and... Saturday mornings.

   **** air guitar:
here's to air drumming to posit
a point...

          the allies drunk their pint
of whiskey, slightly debilitated,
without the circumstance of feeding
a feeling of superiority,
the germans over-inflated
their superiority complex with
amphetamines...

         ergo?
    i'm either proper drunk, or just plain dumb,
or... it's related to listen, repeat,
listen, repeat: katy perry
  (sucker for POP!)....

      never mind...

games used to be fun,
games used to lead to a completion,
tenchu, that was fun,
final fantasy VII...
but this current,
money-sucker of an experience?
well... sure...
now games have reached
an anti checkmate conundrum
which it is...
because, the games are "free"...

           apparently time,
is perceived as a non-commodity...
tell that to someone stuck
in traffic...
      time: the "elder" flimsy
              construct of relativism...

try not giggling
while exchanging whislting to
either the british grenadier march song,
and the french la marseillaise...

   it's like eating pork liver with onions
fry funny...
    or at least a stew of chicken
hearts... tight tender little *******...

but modern gaming is just that...
ingenious counter measure
to the old school variation
of gaming,
    games... without fiction,
games, without script...
    continued perpetuation
of engagement "syndrome"...

     thank god,
i'm pretty sure that if i went beyond
owning a PS1,
i wouldn't have spotted this,
and have a narrative subsequently,
for the worth any sort
of compromise...

ergo? i drink...
   eh... i need to dumb down...
it wouldn't be fair otherwise...
it's not so easy,
to acquire a culture,
a psychology,
a mentality,
   and then...
     to ****... (grimmace, burp,
         snigger) it all away...

**** me, the flute always
gets me...
          i mean...
every time i hear that flute...
my feet at rambling,
itching to tap along...

   well of course it wasn't
the ******* jazzy clarinet,
was it?!
  tell that to the broad
who perfect a *******...
see if she comes back
as smart,
as smart to comply with
the intricacies
of playing, the ******* clarinet.

p.s.
aud lang syne: the only song,
of all time...
shakespeare seems
pale by comparison,
"side-note"...

          broad vs. brode,
******* giggles in the afternoon.
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
---

On February 15
a congressman
went out for to ski
never did return that day
he died "hitting a tree"

There was much
blunt force trauma
to the front of his head
elect of California legislature
now Sonny Bono's DEAD


- CHORUS -
Who murdered Sonny Bono?
How did that man die?
Was it all a "ski accident"
or is that just a lie?

Did he have information
of government high ups?
Laundering money for
drugs and guns
doin' things corrupt?

There is an old story
and you know it's true
The Kennedy's were
conspired against
and now Sonny, too.

---

Blunt force trauma
to the skull
but no broken ribs or knees
and no counter coup
to the brain
you don't need an MD

No coroner to tell you
somethin's fishy there
and the back of Sonny's jacket
had a tell tale tear

- CHORUS -

You won't see this on TV
It won't be in the news
all the links have been shut down
They have too much to loose

There's only one who's
brave enough
to convey this, you see
and he has had
attempts on his life
for telling you and me

- CHORUS -
I talked to Bob Fletcher
The man who gave Sonny Bono
all the evidence he needed
to create a scandal that would
make Iran/Contra look
like a mosquito bite.

For the whole story go to
http://www.dcdave.com/article 5/080406.htm

Congressman Sonny Bono
1935 - 1998
May he rest in peace
Mud
For Katharine R. Cole

If gormless is as gormless does unite
That past of him and present me, I’ll turn
His other cheek against his waning sight;
I’ll **** his Hamlet soul to cringe and burn.

But dripping cannot thick or think in depth.
Blobs like blackened bulbous beads of eyes
Persist on shrinking into transits swept,
And down through dullard pools of choking fire.
Yet treacle binds my bole wood vocal chords
In rapture from such silence to withdraw
From sand that quickens, thickens, and distorts.
Can earth and water’s union mask my flaws?
The answer dares to dream but I refrain.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.

The foot: an endlessly dull point
Breathing technique, perfected by Roman Bill,
And a tall, sinewy, fine china ***** heel,
Cheap to most and worthless when submerged, submerges.
The tough Elephant hide surface
Of a swamp-like state and state.

Q. How does one become embroiled in such a located province of mind?
A. Alcohol’s venomous beauty and cheap living costs.
     The South.
    
An Elephant on a scooter stares blindly
At its own reflection circling the limb,
Shrugging dew drop eyes at what man had forgotten.
Not once, but twice.
    
The foot becomes a divulging calf of information
Sputtering in this bubbling torment of beige,
And pulsating around like an African tunnel
Waiting to be filled – fulfilled – ******.

    
The knee complies,
                      Sinking,
                                 Slowly,
                                          Not painlessly,
                                                             Not quick.

     The mercy of a lethal injection’s lie becomes
Absurd when one’s limb is the needle;
One’s brain the plunger of acceptance.
His gasp, a roar of silent fruit ripening in a
Mode too fast, cutting life and laundering
Expectancy whilst hanged from a
Whined whimper of Penance.
Purgatory’s whistle blows for time.  

II

A small red car clenched tightly
In the hands of a tightly tiny black boy,
His eyes huge and deep, but white; untouched by
Time’s clock or the weight of granite black that
He leans upon. Plastic tires screech horizontally along the
Structure of a Library’s historic insight.
Below, the ground is dry.
Beneath him, the ground is solid.
    
        Meanwhile, molten muck pulsates around
Our swirling antipathy of soul crushing
Nullness, with a lack of guilt unimaginable.
It bubbles, it bubbles: it toils in boiling rubbles
Of the past’s present and All I Could Have Been.
And I have never, could never
Sink lower in reality;
Blow harder against punishment’s wind;
Cry for this other as a **** filled wound weeps down her face.
    
The swirl of liquefied dirt and sand bags me,
Drags me, as if some *** lover of Hades is not done
With what is left of me. Disease to spread: just a little, just
A little more, like the detrimental bottle that
Knew me.
    

      As the hip is engulfed, an angle of almost perfect
Ninety creates  itself against the horizontal extremity
And puny ballsacksquash entails. Useless yet overused;
Timeless yet impressionable, pensionable. Gone.
Nothing knows me but this thickness’ quickness.
          That wants too much
From nothing               but existence
And the scab that fastens with time.

III

Turn the bottle back and find strength to
Outpour the clock and grant eternity.
Non compliant strength paid a fiver
For a soul worth two at the most.
A penny for the worthless: For the sickened lame.
Empty time feeds rays of golden from the sun fuelled
Encrusted *******, mudfast on heat.
This somehow seems like action.
Firm firmness but cracked with ease and
Non-returnable once inflated;
Non-negotiable on the bloodorgans of salt.
Weakness and powerlessness: *****.
*** for tat, for ***, ***, ***. For tat.
    
     The Elephant rises.
You brought this upon yourself, this rain of mud;
This treacle that will dry when you are dirt.
You would not let it ******* lie.
All of your ******* life: this strife, that wife.
     Your second leg (the grasper) tries,
     At length, to shield your heart:
     The only thing that cries.
     That does not want to die.
     Cartoonish bubbles of brown pop to the tune
     Of Loonies; of your shoebox brain that screams in vain.
What is your name? What is your want?
There is no blame you ******* maniac.
Everyone knows. Sink awake. Sink.
     Rest: do not sleep. Freezetimeframe.
     There is one more timeless point to make.


The sun and moon meet brief: the seconds count,
But die shy of one minute. Clear the road.
‘Tis dusk, I fear they named it. Raise the mount
And sacrifice another drowned sot load.
The moment thence: Anonymous descent.
The digger meets the dead in buried time.
The wish is washed in mud, the liver spent.
The blood-stained hands of Glasgow dodge the crime.
Make speed my sick sad Miller, grind the grain
Of Galloway, Gibb, Neave, Dunlop and Cole.
Your ghost will haunt your tag if not your brain.
Your heart should part this city river’s soul.
The sunjoke frozen, captured, stumped, and framed.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.
Believe or not
Falsehood, suspicion, anger
Anger, bully, dispute
Unjust, pride, jealousy
Envy, deceit, backbiting
Abusing, exploitation, loot
Adultery, robbery, usury
******, curruption, treachery
Fraud, laundering and bribery
Eat up human virtues
Bring terrible ruins
Devour all faith
Lead to fall
And at the end
Push you into the hell.
..........BOOM............!
******
20-07-2013
Mahatma Jones Feb 2015
Paris is burning.
Tar streets boil in ecstasy as cobblestones shudder in fear.
The city is ablaze, a cataclysmic uproar,
multitudes of disheveled artisans carrying scorched canvasses,
singed paintbrushes and smoldering memory kits,
each individually packaged in flesh encased animal bags.
Flames leap from every heart,
racing down fire escapes into the arms of loved ones
who fret in the streets below.
Sidewalks hiss "Pleeeeassse"
then explode in a thunderous
"OH NO!"

Paris is burning.
Her watercolor tears, not out of sadness
but out of habit.
Rainbow stains for sinners and gentle madmen alike.
It's the end of love.

Paris is burning.
City officials, wearing smoke scented jackets and incandescent alibis,
(both in dire need of laundering),
tell ethnic jokes to the starving hordes of pressmen and reporters
who clamor impatiently outside.
A thousand horrible deaths search through the rubble
for possible survivors, insuring that there are none.
"these two rabbis walk into a bar, see.."

Paris is burning.
Centuries, like antique floral wallpaper,
turn brown, then curl at the edges,
rising in a spiral of thick, black,
gargoyle infested smoke.
It's the end of love.

Paris is burning.
C'est l'aroma fantastique in the air,
ah, but what is it? Escargot? Et vignon, flambeau, of course,
charred bouef, roast canard a l'orange, merci beaucoup;
Don't forget the '59 Cabernet du Normandy,
sipped slowly at a favored cafe but no, wait,
what is this, no.
It has all gone now, up in flames, all up in flames
merde..
so, you go to eat at the new McDonalds,
at the foot of the Eiffel Tower,
built in nineteen eighty-four
by a group of devout new-worlders and,
in the spirit of goodwill and brotherhood
that generally pervades these types of events,
shipped to France in a peaceful exchange
for another sculptural wonder,
the Statue of You-Know-Whatitty.
The enormous expense of this
gargantuan publicly funded project
was explained to the funding public as
a "social experiment", a test
to resolve, once and for all,
which of these two nations
is technologically superior to the other,
by determining which of the icons of modern civilization,
the fast food chain or the statue,
will best endure the ravages of time,
but alas, now,
as both the Tower de Eiffel and the Arches of Gold
are melting into one grande candle du ****,
France, it would seem, is up by one.

"Paris is burning", I thought,
"it's the end of love.",
when I first noticed the young hitchhiker standing by the road,
both lovely and lonely as life itself.
"Get in", I muttered, whilst the Louvre exploded
and was incinerated in the
thermonuclear meltdown at Chernobyl;
the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame were defeated at Waterloo,
and Quasimodo was traded to Cleveland for two femme fatales,
plus a hero to be named at a later date;
Joan of Arc got burned in an insider trading scandal;
Marie-Antoinette gave head to the Reichstag when
Napoleon deserted;
Descartes was discarded along with some rocks, worms and trees;
while the Seine simply evaporated,
and, two weeks later,
fell as rain over Nagasaki.

You see, my desire for her was so overpowering,
I would gladly have burned down any city
that she might have asked me to.

"Have you heard?",
I asked, as she got into the car,
lightly brushing my thigh with her hand,
"Paris is burning.
It's the end of love..."
(c) 1983 PreMortem Publishing
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
This is one of Barry Hodges' most inspired memories.

  'Twas morning time in times of yore and I, bold Barry Hodges, stood outside my store, my giant vegetables on display for all to see, when lo and behold! a luxurious limousine drew up, and from the back there emerged a gorgeous form of voluptuous statuesque feminity.
  "My God!" I cried, it is that beauteous lady from *La Dolce Vita
, the wondrous Anita - and I gazed with joyous on her divine body, imagining it sprawled lasciviously in my bed, legs open as wide as a major road junction on the M1 motorway.
  "Excuse me", said she in that Italo-Swedish voice guaranteed to make any man wet himself copiously, "But I am a-lookink for a shop a-called 6B, and yet all I can-a-see is a Barry Hodges' the Master Geengrocer's, complete with a giant cucumber or two, which I 'av to say remind me of somet'ing tasty."
"Dearest lady, said I, you have come to the right place: 6B is the trading name of my sister enterprise: Barry Bodgers' Boil Bursting Beauty Bureau which is located upstairs, Barry Bodgers at your service, my dearest, most delightful Fru Ekberg."
"Shhhhhhhhh! I am een deesguise, not even dear Federico knows I am-a-here." And thus, assuring her of my utmost discretion, and forming a bond by saying that I too, the famous Geordie seducer, Barry Hodges, had indulged in a slight nomenclatural change in order to separate the two sides of my business interests, and in order to do a spot of money laundering on the side.  "But," I enquired, "How is it that you have need of the rather specialised medical services we offer, you who are so radiant and bella-bella?" She lowered her eyes seductively and promised to reveal her terrible secret.

As I ushered her up the stairs to the studio, my eyes on her ****-cheeks wiggling like two delectable beach ***** in a sack, she told me the sad tale of the immense boil which kept recurring on the middle of her back and which no amount of corrective surgery could fix.
"Aha!" I exclaimed, "Only Barry Bodgers, the world's greatest boil-sucker, can effect the cure for which you long, and I shall operate on you personally, not entrusting such a task to even the best of my boil-bursting minions." I added to myself, "Also I want to give you a good old bonking while we're at at."

Once we attained the privacy of my consulting room, I instructed her to strip off utterly so I might examine her, and I can tell you, dear reader, that her **** **** was a joy to behold. I too divested myself of my clobber, knowing that boil-******* can get a bit messy at the best of times. Jesus wept!, but the mighty boil betwixt her graceful shoulders revealed when de-plastered was a true horror, with a yellow tip as big as a Grade One Belgian Turnip. I explained that I would **** it out whilst I rogered her from the rear and that, when she felt her ****** on the way, she should scream out to that effect and I would then bite the core of the boil right out in a blaze of mutual ******* glory, before applying a dose of my exclusive Boil Preventative Cream, namely a handful of our conjoined love-juices extracted from her gaping ***** by hand a few seconds earlier.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" screamed the Swedish bombshell and with a mighty **** like an industrial Dyson FX334 on full power, I slurped and  razor-bit the boil, bursting it asunder, smothering my eager face in blood and putrid pus, thereby causing me to blow my *** as ne'er before. The green core of the boil emerged from its fleshly cavity with a deafening plop as we came together like a nuclear blast d'amour.

O, but only then, as my seminal outpourings soaked my jim-jams, did I awaken to discover yet another nocturnal emission. And, not unexpectedly, dear Nurse Nellie, having heard my cry of ecstasy, rushed in to my bedroom, head-shaking and tut-tutting as usual, as she knelt down and licked my tum-tum dry.
"Yum, yum" she murmured in her dulcet Northumbrian tones, "Ah've looked after three generation o' Hodges laddies, and I kin tell ye, your *****'s the tastiest of them all, ye bonnie wee man."
"Better than Grandad Charlie's?"
"Why aye, mon, yours is well creamier."
Path Humble Jan 2015
feathers or snowflakes
nighttime,
unimportantly,
cannot differentiate
on the 16th floor
balcony
each an individualized n-vite

fall downy into down
of snow blankets of
freezing releasing cold comfort,
ice cream for the body entire

oh yes,
a sad one penned,
the nullity of his
throbbing everything,
sore tempted for quenching
by the soft permanence of white,
most tempting,
soft offering a laundering downy state

they say
see the good stuff

do,
but I*  feel  the bad stuff
with heartbeat regularity,
temple pounding repetitive asking
what's the next best
and other naming questions


the way in is not
way out...
this hole I dug dark,
no hand holds, dank, elongated

this time
happy you,
brevity suits

for the downy fall
fleeting floating abrupt and
suggesting
wonderfully right-sided answers
to questions his names asks

where is the humble path,
where is shelter at long last..
.
AFJ May 2015
we was in the bando,
trappin, we were trapped..
cook named Orlando,
moved across the track..

used to be my  neighbor, now hes got the paper,
owns a couple barbershops, got myself a taper,

owns a deli too, couple cleaners down the main street,
not long ago we were sitting in the same seat..

back when,

we was in the bando,
trappin, we were trapped..
kitchen hot too handle,
Found ourselves a rat..

polices, driving by increases...
Orlando had a thesis,
Moved in with his nieces..
He says...

"Theyll never catch me in here,
I live without fear,
only time i cry is with this tattoo tear"

A couple days later, cops broke the door in,
couple windows too, just to let more in,
they found a couple rifles, most of them foreign...
Cuffed Orlando, his niece, and his babymomma Lauryn...

multiple charges of distribution.
couple cases of ******...
money laundering, and weapons, his attorney would murmur...


They say my writing *****, this is no place for this crap..
i dont do poetry, i just write reality rap..
and truthfully, nowadays reality lacks.
So i dedicated this to his daughter Natalie Max.

25 to life..
no chance of parole, bottle....

of hennessy,

just *** he was my role model..

They say how can you defend him, when i yell free Orlando..
*** i still remember when..
we was in the bando...




-afj
anastasiad Jan 2017
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tufa alvi Mar 2014
FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of beauty spent and done:
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Claire Waters Jun 2013
liturgies of lethargy
lull their sleepy tongues,
and run among my stumbling dreams
towards the visceral setting sun
keep the soldiers’ safeties off and order no retreat
you can’t afford to chip your teeth for the price of being numb
stay glassy eyed and leave your pride
behind the backs of bus seats
with notes, sharpie, and lies
these men are not what they seem
this world is a messed up dream
while the elite claim to delete the supposed deadbeats
as if they deplete the city’s concrete streets
i want to scream
they’re really the secret
to keeping the working class alive in the heat
to keep the coffee shops open on every street
to keeping the cheap soda purchased
at the indiscreetly laundering cover up convenience stores
you would only see when you’re walking pavement
breathing in the scent of cigarettes and pollen spores
James Shayne Oct 2018
1.   Hi, my name is James                              ( I know that sounds like a start to a really bad dating profile but bear with me )

2. I have lived in New York my whole life, I am afraid that if I don't leave the state for college then I will never leave

3. I'm scared that I might be lactose intolerant

4. I really love the cold

5. If music did not exist then I probably wouldn't be alive today
6. Whenever I am alone I will belt out any song that I know at the top of my lungs

7. I really like to play solitaire... Online

8. I am a Russian/German Jew and when I tell people that their reactions range from "cool" to "How the **** did that happen?"

9. I have a lot of opinions

10. The movie with the best soundtrack is Guardians of The Galaxy 2

11. The TV show with the best soundtrack is Grey's Anatomy

12. When I have a panic attack I will count all the green things possible or recite song lyrics or name as many Gilmore Girls characters as I can

13. My biggest fear is never dying   I used to wish I was dead, came very close to fulfilling my desire but I'm glad I didn't because in the last few months I have met the best people ever

14. I quote John Mulaney a lot

15. I plan birthday gifts months in advance because I expect to still have someone to give that gift to I have throw out so many gifts

16. I get addicted to things really quickly and really easy, things like music, tv show plots, the fact the Mattress Firm is definitely a front for money laundering drug traffickers, also books, toxic people, and drugs      
That's the last one tends to shock people

17. I own 34 postcards, I had about 200 pins now only 17, I have a lot of funko pops maybe 70 all stacked on a shelf like a really impressive game for Jenga, I own too many keychains and way too many stuffed animals

18. My best friend was produced by GC2B

19. I used to participate in GLSEN Day of Silence all day every day
20. The words scarred and scared mean the same thing to me they overlap in my head and on my body
My scares tell my stories                      My tool of choice is not a blade or flame but my nails.
I have my anxieties stuck under my fingertips

21. In my last therapy session, I mentioned the fact that my father lives like a ninja turtle   This made my therapist laugh like really hard

22. Sometimes I think maybe I could be a stand-up comedian but no one would like me because all my jokes would be self-deprecating and I would be on the verge of tears the whole time

23. When I was younger I was told nobody likes sad people so don't be sad

24. When I was younger I was told a lot of *******

25. I'm still learning new things about me,  I'm still learning how to love me, I am nowhere close to complete, I am still growing from experiences and that is okay                          
    
Thank you for learning something about me

(Please give critiques)
Safana Jun 2021
Wow!
We deserve some...
THINGS, which are closely
to rise up like a changes
from the brain with purely
social thoughts in the kingdom
of alkebulans...

A bit change will landed, even
The names of some acts by us
will change, like...
Nigerian Corruption
Nigerian laundering
Nigerian cybercrime
Nigerian Boko Haram
Nigerian IPOB
Nigerian Niger-Delta Militants
Nigerian Kidnapping
Nigerian Political Violence
Nigerian Armed Robbery
Nigerian ISWAP
Nigerian OPC
Nigerian Afenifere
Nigerian Thugs
Nigerian Fraud
Nigerian etc.

To Beautiful U.A.R
May be our values
core will gain again
a golden sight from
the eye of the world
...


For my home country
Everything as a change to...
I welcome it
Robin Carretti Apr 2018
But as sad as it seems

the imposter

Came closer
"Winnie' Con Pooh"
Arrh
Grrh
path
Huh?

Dark
Goth
Earth
Eeeeh
Ever Imagine?

Both  R$Worth

Crooked teeth
To be born
(Singers)
That way
"Lady "GaGa"
Don't go near my
"Mama"_

All people, the stranger

fire up ranger


Conned to be dated

Wrong types
Websites
The bite
"Boston creme pie"

"Boston Cafe Strangler"
All over skype lies

All Don Juans
Fake Hollywood tans

Bad Moon impersonators

when its all said and

done

"We wanted every lie"

No way out 6 feet under

My little big lie slice of

Apple computer
Viruses stay memories
deleted


2 B myself? stolen gadgets
all over my shelf
Money trick hats of
rabbits

My house was empty


New Renovation
Devil Nation
Demolition

Some
R&R
Robin-Risque

My Coffee Imposter
Stealing my good beans


My cup

Naked Gun=Fun


Godfather of the mob
Loan shark
NY Central Park

*     *     *     *    *    

His imposter suit dark
crooked lines 2-B Pressed
Don't start me up
I am not
impressed

Recharge my
I- Am
Linked into the
 Imposter
phone

Why did they pick me
24/7 like a clone

Carnal $ Cuddly

Smart *** got nailed
Long French tipped
knowledgeable

and stealing
Wifes other dreams
remarkable it seems

The ***** laundering no

'Holy Water'

Eyes of the crime

Estee
Lauder*
The makeup case
mob of utilities
Being an Imposter
Such clever abilities

Dealing with morons
City cat felines
no catnip just
Scientology all
  %%%
brainwashing_


Reindeer ****** nose
Big tip Ghostbuster lose


Comic-con of
Roosters & Hustlers
bars filled
with bust her ******

Why are they so good

at what they do


That summer solstice


Throwing wedding rice
It's better when
U-R
fed up twice

My Bentley bruiser
French tickler

The computer browser,


Being adventurist

"Zen"

"Avatar"
Not human lover

Being fooled by the
right star


Was so foreign
"American Uptown Girl"
playing
Cons in her own
"Billy Joel World"
the piano stranger
Start him up Pluto

All heirs no fears

Startup! Uppishness

Her money so played up

The *** drive he rose up
Oh! Gosh!!

So *******

Upmanship_
why did the man
         Go
"DownDamn-no-tip
_
?


And the woman

she vanished

His upper pants

to her underpants



Give up_ Startup


Watching his upper lip

Meeting her lower lip

More deceiving

All con artist doers
Those eyes of snakes
Like a shoe shiner
Demon

Jupiter Mars and
fake stars
Imposter and his dog
trained him well
Just like that to roll the
money over

What a bad start
upbringing

Such laryngitis copycat

imposter singer dead ringer

The good thing she was left

with her wedding finger$$$$$$
Imposters or crooks having loads of fun don't get taken in the
shade and sun you do have  a chance perhaps it's better to run
Francie Lynch Sep 2014
The World's Times* chronicled
Crusades and Fatawas,
Jihads and Inquisitions,
Coups and Genocides.
     Such resourcefulness

The Construct.

Another Cathedral rises
In a destitute country.
     Do-able

We're told
From the leader's lips
     We'll always have the poor.

Uh huh! The poor!
That's what was said.
We can always put them to work,
And there won't always be work.
They'll need membership cards,
And birthings and burials,
Like always.

     See the pyramids along the Nile
     You get up every morning from your alarm clock's warning

Another temple
Will grow from
Rice paddies;
A synagogue,
A mosque will
Cinch tiles
On the backs of peasants.

I've had enough
Laundering by recluse
Single mothers,
By crooks posing as shepherds,
And Holy Wars
     so oxymoronic
     cleanses too


Any Divines
Benefitting from
Our labour and wages;
Our drachma, denarius and shegel,
Aren't worth the worship.
Yet the lenders are good
At getting their pound.

          *Don't drop a coin
          In a wishing well,
          Pay cash for a mass
          Where they'll ring your bell.
          Choose a charity,
          There's so many,
          That need a
          Pauper's Penny.
Sounds familiar? I had to edit and re-post.
Lyrics by The Duprees (*Nile*) and Randy Bachman (*Taking Care of Business*)
My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.

Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.

Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.

I can only imagine if Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of laundering.
As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.
Alex Apples Aug 2010
I used to press my shirts
  bleach out stains and dirt
  laundering can hurt

  when it's all you ever do

When I was a kid
  that's all I ever did
  behind the lines I hid

  the sterile and the new
  
******, mismatch the dress
  let go the loneliness
  settle for nothing less
  
Than the beauty of the mess
Aon Tops Jul 2012
If I could bask today in the ignorance of the sun, would I let it burn my skin?
Because tomorrow could bring a cancerous wave that just might **** the curiosity.

If I could wash and wade in the oblivion of the ocean, would I let it pull me in?
For tomorrow could bring a laundering wave that just might save the day.
Or tomorrow could bring a compelling wave that just might **** the curiosity.

If I could be sedated by the serenade of the thunder, would I gently fall asleep?
Or would I have find 10,000 ways to laugh myself to sleep?
Would I have to face 10,000 ways to intentionally **** the curiosity?
ConnectHook Dec 2016
Fake news indeed:

Is this a fox in the hen-house or a hoax in the fun-house ?
It’s news to them that it’s views from us. Weaning ourselves ***-for-tat while we wet-nurse the networks net-worth, they pull the wool over their own press-cards, spinning yarns fit to knit a seamless weave of tailored narrative (free alterations post-laundering, free press with dry-cleaning). Ironing out the irony, the ship of state suddenly mixes metaphors: a freak gyre of Greek fire, leak-proof talking points for caulking joints on a sinking vessel, a showboat floating fake liars, gloating, into lakes of fire. Let us light a naked fuse to the faked news until their networks ignite like an information overload. Fake news indeed. News to me…
      now watch them form a phalanx as we farm the faux links.
Greek Fire:
an incendiary weapon which appears to have been developed around the seventh century [...] It appeared to ignite in water, and pouring water on it caused the fire to grow even larger...
from: wisegeek.com

Gyre:
1. a ring or circle.
2. a circular course or motion.
3. a ringlike system of ocean currents rotating clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere and counterclockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.
from: thefreedictionary.com
My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.

Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.

Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.

I can only imagine that Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of ancient laundering.

As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.
Satsih Verma Jan 2024
Empirical formula
was a mad arithmetic. The art of
love fails the calculations.

Let me contribute to the academic
race beyond the mountains of knowledge.
Do you find any god?

The Egyptian fear comes
back to make mummies of dead
bodies of success in love.
Respect a fool to avoid noise.
Clever people die fast but fools live long.
Elders said short cut's are dangerous
Indeed its true.
Poverty will never be ended
Only poor can be chopped a little.

Risking life for rhino horn is not a solution.
God need to be thanked for what he gave you not what you choose to have.

Digging up your own grave before God prepare you a nice place to rest.
Remember every cent you have is a thanks to God .

Money have no garden so don't try to  cultivate it.
Those who have million wish to have billions and those who have hundreds wish to have thousands.

Stop money laundering.
Stop rhino horn poaching.
Drop that call is killing our ears.

Life is not for sale.
Live once die once..
We were born with nothing we will die and baried with nothing

In life we need to accept what we have.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2016
The hunky lad passed me smiling.
I sat and wondered what he was into.
I spent the next short time whiling.
Did he like the same things I like to do?
Was it possible he’d find me beguiling?
Or was I just a romantic Ford Pinto;
A bit of data barely suitable for filing?
Not worth a kiss let alone a good *****?

Thus run the silent mental maunderings
Of a fool with little else but fanciful wishes
As he went about his chores like laundering
Dusting, vacuuming and washing dishes.
Dreams like those of a damsel in a castle
Drug me away from the drudgery of the day.
And helped me not see life as a hassle;
Instead it made my mind a place to play.

If fortune could send a lucky handyman
To fix something I didn’t know was broken
I could think it was a very dandy plan
And that God was sending me a token.
Almost like a voice was whispering to me
Everything is gonna be okay, my child.
So go ahead and celebrate giddily.
Your life is will soon go from mild to wild.

Oh yes, I would sing and dance in joy
Around my tiny rent-controlled home.
God was going to send a perfect boy
So he would never again need to roam.
He could stop here in his **** travels
And I would make him so glad that he did.
He could stop pounding the gravel;
Just stay with me, almost on the skids.

I’d serve him chicken from the Colonel
I have lots of coupons I’ve set aside.
Maybe he’d like something from McDonalds.
I would set the table with great pride.
And I would make sure there was wine
By the lovely gallon, here for him to drink.
If he wanted a more inexpensive kind
He wouldn’t really even have to blink.

Yes I would make a lower-class heaven
With our modest Rent-a-Center stuff.
I’d do the scutwork twenty-four seven.
I do it all now, it is nothing that tough.
He would only have to love me madly.
Life would be a fairy tale for both of us.
He’d consent to stay forever gladly;
Life would be simply, totally marvelous.
Brandon Sep 2011
There’s too much you in the world
Capitalistic ****
Running around
Buying and stealing
Material possessions full of transgression
But I digress because this isn’t really anything
But a test for the best to accomplish
The end result is said to have some underlying meaning
But the end result has been fabricated greatly
Deep in some office shed
We shed the light away from our prying eyes
Always keeping silent
The new discoveries that take away from the almighty dollar
And keep the fat cats in Washington wealthy
Keep laundering their ***** misdeeds
But the suits keep getting more expensive
And the poor get pensive
Wondering what they’re doing wrong
Trying to make ends meet
And put food on the table for a growing family
Of twelve or more
Of twelve or more
The way the holocaust looked
With dead and starving
Pilled high as Buffalo Mountains
And the TV is switched to the news
But there’s nothing new to hear
Here is always what’s pre-approved and sugarcoated censorship
Prove to be abundant in thousands of tentacles
From the octopus of government and social media
You are a trend that is replaceable
And if you stand against their collective
You will cease to have ever existed
aphrodite Mar 2014
I spend a lot of time thinking,
so I've had some time to make up my mind.
But you spend a lot of time drinking,
leaving your morals and reasoning behind.

I spend a lot of time reading,
because I crave the escape of a fictional fantasy life.
But you spend a lot of time bleeding,
because you crave an escape only found through a knife.

I spend a lot of time worrying,
because I fear you'll never make it out of this town alive.
But you spend a lot of time hurrying;
dismissing everything that matters to stay busy,
just to survive.

I spend a lot of time laundering
your ***** clothes with stains of blood
that just won't seem wash out.
But you spend a lot of time wandering;
always searching,
but never finding what love is really about.

I spend a lot of time thinking,
so I've had some time to make up my mind.
You can carry on your drinking,
I've decided it's time to leave you behind.
Trying to organize all of my stupid thoughts into a poem, as always.
**
DC raw love Jul 2017
I know a day
Mother may i yes you may
Wait in January and May
Changing time delay
Financial gain repay
Washing with GAIN spray
Water beaches waves
Money grow on tree branch break
Taking a break from life decay
Maybe just stolen fish on bait
Men mastery *******
Mason and teplars template
Money laundering contemplate
Some words can relate
Relationships replace
Playing chess checkmate
Success i will regenerate
All along make a clean slate
The year 1776 to1778
My path clear and straight
I will eat because u already ate
Knowingly frustrating designate
This design is precious simulate
Simulating grids no hesitate
Motherboard and pannel fate
tHe 13th and 9HT gate
Souls and destined key to soulmates
The road 66 or 69 navigate
Mr and Mrs contract negotiate
Go with your gut or go with faith
Coins and diamonds a future await
Inside out
Collar frayed
Ragged at the hem
Stitches showing through the thin spots
The cloak of civiliztion needs a laundering.

Buttons missing
Flapping in the wind
Dragging in the rainy mud
Sliding off stooped shoulders
The coat of civility needs a skillful tailor.

Hands disappearing
Sleeves way too long
Holes in all the pockets
Faded plaid in last years colors
The jacket of humanity is now on sale at Goodwill.
Alex Parka Apr 2014
March came by, swiftly
As if an arrangement
Has been penned down
And a deed has being
Procured with curious secrecy

I used to ink down
My thoughts and fantasies

Come January, February

Spreading them seductively
On a neat whited sheets

Aligning them in stanzas
And meters and patterns and rhythms

But March,!!!

March was peculiar
She came running fast and wild
Wandering my melancholy lane
Into a path of timid hallucinations

I wrote less, and thought more

Her hair stood braided
In losed negligence    
Her carcass of beauty
Spent in dismay

My Words were conceited into ghost characters
Laundering the silky figure
Of a whited sheet
Proclaimed by my careless
Hand of pride

Inspite of heaven's fair rage
Some characters peeped through
Letters of saddened thoughts
Wandering what content it bears
This poem is an unfinished work.
Liam Peare Jan 2019
WAR
Beautiful paradise draping in wanton vain
Men and women visage in pain
Storming the Homeland with sorrow's wind and rain
Laundering the beauty of morning's eyne.

The carcass of Country men blown by the wind- identity.
The Clamour of torment soul of Fellow man to despair- scythed the sanity.
Tears  in woe as thy'd watch the Homeland in ash
Threaded in enduring the shrieking of Homeland.
ConnectHook Feb 2017
Washing tons of money -
laundering gets funny.
Anais Vionet Jun 2024
The bright sunrise made the snow-covered Alp mountain-tips, an hour-away-by-car, glow like they were topped with lemon ice-cream. Was this evidence of magic?

Peter (my bf) and I are low atop the five story Hotel de la Paix, in Geneva, which seems like a small town - with only 10 slightly interesting things to see - like a large fountain - gimme a sarcastic ‘wow’ (so sue me Geneva board of tourism).

Unless you're planning to launder money, go elsewhere (free travel advice). In fact, Geneva is SO boring, they should assume anyone traveling here (who’s not a physicist or the girlfriend of a physicist) is laundering money and just lock em’ up.

The Keurig in our room gurgled as it turned out yet another sub-standard cup of coffee. I’d started the contraption, brushed my teeth and jumped back in bed. But the thought of yet one more lousy cup of coffee was depressing. “Run down to the lobby and get us some real coffeeee,” I wheedled at Peter, helplessly.
“I’m not dressed‽” he exclaimed (he was in his boxers), like that was an acceptable excuse.
“This is Europe,” I foisted, “They don’t care. GO!” I tried my best to push him out of bed, but he was immoveable.
“Order room service,” he offered lamely, ignoring my pushing on him as hard as I could.
“That’ll take forEVER,” I moaned.
“We don’t have forever.” he pronounced smugly, “You’d better hit the shower,” he added, looking at his watch.
I checked - he was right. 15 minutes later, I was showered and dressed - a skill I learned in pre-covid high school.

Pater was on his laptop at the tiny office desk they gave you in supposedly luxury hotel suites.
“Today’s our last calm day, for a while,” I’d said, kissing him on the cheek, “we need to savor it.”
“The flight’s in three hours,” he’d replied - and again, looking at his watch, “Our Uber will be here in 20 minutes.”
“Two points to Slytherin house,” I said, defeatedly - the ‘busy’ was starting.
“I’m a Hufflepuff,” he said, in a ‘don’t you even know me​​‽’ way.

“Maybe we just shake hands and pretend we liked each other,” I said, dryly, “that would be perfect⸮”
He wrapped his long, ape-like arms around me and reminded me of the alternative option.
“You could always stay here, in Geneva, in my little apartment, all day, while I go out and work - for the rest of the summer,” he said invitingly.
“As irrational as that sounds,” I sighed, “I’d end up chewing the furniture, like an angry puppy.”
“They just don’t make wives anymore,” he lamented, “even though there are substantial tax advantages.”
“Aww, my dominant little male, man-baby,” I cooed in baby-talk, “You want to be my tax deduction!”
“I like when you talk down to me,” he confided, “It motivates me.”

I knocked on the door to the adjacent suite (where Lisa and David are), ‘Uber in 17 minutes.’ I called.
A moment later I heard a muffled, “Yep,” Lisa’s reply.
“Shotgun!” I called, thinking of the Uber seating.
“I already called it,” Peter said.
“You LIE!” I shrieked referentially, pointing at Peter like Valerie, Miracle Max's wife in The Princess Bride.
He chortled, getting it.
I was ready. Bring on the flight to Paris, the dress fittings, the make-up planning, the shoe and accessory decisions - the Grand Masked Ball (at the Versailles Palace) was in two days. I was ready, I could take it.
.
.
songs for this:
Nobody by Kate Earl
The Spot by Your Smith
From the Merriam Webster word of the day list: Foist: “to something pass off as genuine or worthy.”

‽ = interrobang - expresses excitement, disbelief or confusion.
⸮ = sarcasm mark (backward question mark)
.
.
Our cast:
Peter (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now He works for CERN in Geneva. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.
Lisa (my college roommate) is traveling with me this summer.
Dave (Lisa’s bf) a wall street M&A man vacationing with us.

11p.0613
The headline told a lie, hiding the scratches of a failed government
We crave for redemption yet we are the sin committed
A suffocating truth carved against our egos and pride
Awoken from the slumber we are forced to dine in, to seek a light
Before you raise your flag in the street
Not a wish nor a prayer but a request that
Flashes of unattended promises from the manifesto blinds your path
Capitalized lies which stood the taste of corruption and laundering caress your choice
Millions of death pools stealing our guts, leaving us with sealed lips tend our wounds
Do you still want to raise it?
Before you raise your flag in the street
Not a question but a simple reminder that
The pay you received stole your pride
Taxes climbed the mountains touching the helm of hunger
You sit with unanswered questions begging for sleep
Void fills your heart, hope is lost
You made the choice
Rethink do you still have a truth?
Before you raise your flag in the street
Hang tight with the answers you gave your mind
Kisses of impotent words will slap your  cheeks
Promises will pat your back and money will grace your pocket
Instead of dining with the moment to impoverish the future
Do not raise your flag
But before you raise your flag in the street
Death never tastes good until it is felt
Another needs to live.
The media isn't helping us attain the country everyone hopes for. Everyone has a conscience to which he/she wouldn't want to sell. Before you support that political dreams I hope you still have tomorrow in mind. A true society can be attained if we don't impoverish the future  in accomplishing the interest of today.
Pk Oct 2018
Thats Right its gandhi's country
Proving intolerance to the person who called us so.
Shirtless actors and leather jacketed alcoholics are fine
But a girl in a short skirt,"thats a ***!!"

We got the best soil and a heavy talent.
Also the most ingenious minds and the best gene pool.
still hunger and poverty grab us like bugs
and we're wannabe amercians coz we thinks its cool.

walks a man alone, walks a man tall.
but the whole ******* country, hell bent on proving him wrong.
im no more scared of the darkness outside,**** it!
coz  those my brothers who put me on a ship to the inchcape rock.

corruption, treachery,scams and money laundering
but demonetisatin,coz notes are the real problem isnt it?
"WE THE PEOPLE OF INDIA,HAVING..."
oh please would you cut the *******?

there can be peaceful processions and hunger strikes
but who cares when we can burn buses and **** children
nepotism is the real trend today
also true talent- that aint nothing worth a million!

Where the head is held high,and the mind is without fear,
applies to the evil, rich or the cruel.
we can have the largest domes and the biggest missiles,
where cast based reservation still prevails withe suicides as a fuel.

Mob lynching is a everyday problem now,also rapes.
it goes on to anti nationalism, corruption and prostitution.
And here is gandhi's country,much like this sonnet
with only problems and no real solution.
These are my thoughts on what is happening in the worlds largest democracry. here is a glimpse of what india is internally.
this is my country and im proud of it, but at the same time true and purest from of patriotism would be to critisize your country to perfection
Brent Kincaid Jan 2018
Our Congresspeople get rich
No matter how much you *****.
They do it again and again
Because fools voted them in.
You can’t make them stop
Because we don’t have a cop
That works for our side in DC.
We can’t call this the land of the Free.

It’s the land of gouge and overcharge;
Of money laundering crooks at large,
Calling themselves patriots and stealing.
There seems to be no thieving ceiling.
Rave and threaten and lie about it
There seems to be no doubt about it.
We are in the clutches of the greedy
Who fashion themselves as the needy.

And like some Middle Eastern nuts
They are constantly showing their butts.
They commit their crimes daily
Then go about almost gaily
Pointing at the victims they harmed
And claiming the poor are armed
Then trying to take away our rights.
They’re the people that rob us at night.

Yes, they are the crooks and now
They don’t even have to explain how
Because a third of our voters are dolts
Who have no concept of the nuts and bolts
Of the complex offices that lead us.
We’re in the hands of jerks that bleed us.
Once this nation was something great.
I hope we fix this before it’s too late.

They don't know the bubbleheads the ones
They don’t really know what they’ve done
Is a simple matter once we dissect it.
And what they really need to do about it.
They wring their hands as they are *******,
And neurotically grab at an attitude;
Then blame anybody else for their misery.
It’s a frightening case of mistaken identity.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
Kaiser Clown

borrowed shoe:
stolen foot.

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

auf die frei zungen ich kennt -
   (of the three tongues i know) -
ich kennt zwei
    und kennen eine:
    (i know two and know of one):

auf die frei: ich lieben dieser
                        äußerst
(of the three: i love this utmost)...
                      
    in my youth i spent a good deal of time
watching Disney's Robin "fox" Hood
cartoon in German, somehow it rubbed off
on me...

      i was never born with anything even remotely
resembling the love of the English language...
can there be a love akin to the Anglophile
that excludes the love of the language?
i love everything English except for the language...

each day i'm slowly planning my escape
into womb of the mother of the isles that
was first spoken in Saxony...
         tired Bavarians? tired Pomeranians?
but the Saxons were a landlocked people
who gave them the courage and adventurous
spirits to claim the seas with more than
oars and steer the winds with
sails?

      English didn't come to me as some
poor Romanian kid listening to current pop music
or back then, early 1990s... movies from Hollywood...
i didn't want to speak gimmicks...
i was ****** into the deep-end of speaking this
tongue by starting off a mute...
even with the influences of cartoon network
none left a too great impression on my ears
as the German version of the Disney cartoon
of Robin Hood...

   even after watching the English version many years
later... i can still hear the German dubbing
and i can't escape it...

auf die frei zungen ich spre(s)chen es
mit ein konkurs auf substantive...
(of the three tongues i speak it
with a bankruptcy of nouns)...

        at least i have made progress with predispositions
and conjunctions:
i am better coordinated...
but how... how can one be an Anglophile
without a love of the language?
i can adore the way the English care for
the countryside... how traffic is managed...
how taxes are collected how foreign cultures
can slowly integrate and everyone can feel
somehow, seemingly at home:
even if the natives do not for a while...
but without a love for the language
i cannot be a true Anglophile...

                the beauty of Shakespeare disintegrates
when a simple German neo-folk is played to me...

   in der zwölften stund (sage vom untersberg)

- in der zwölften stunde -
at the twelfth hour
- wenn die raben fliegen um den berg -
when the ravens fly around the mountain
- tun sie lautstark kunde -
they loudly proclaim
- von des kaiser macht und tagewerk -
the emperor's power and legacy
- solang der kaiser schlafet -
as long as the emperor sleeps
- tief drunt' im dunklen bergensschloß -
deep down there in the dark mountain *****
- solang fliegen auch die raben -
the ravens will fly
- hoch über seinem marmelschloss -
high above this castle of marble...

   no words in English, and their meaning make much
for... however simple they might be in German:
the simple fact that... they're spoken in German!
das: sie sind gesprochen im Alt...
    
it is only natural that i sought out the origins of
the English tongue in German,
as much as i am not interested in the etymology
of designated word:
i could never be this youth exposed to too much
English culture wishing to sing pop songs
or utter single line pin-pointers from
films: ehrilch mein schatz,
   ich tun nicht ein pflege
   (frankly my dear,
    i don't give a **** / care)
    or... ich wille wieder (i will be back)...

so the indentations of learning English in a later
developmental stage of language acquisiton
didn't rub off on me: as it does on people
with accents of their mother tongue
who never lose it... and merely culturally appropriate
English as a spoken tongue of culture
and not a "cultured" tongue...
native tongue: a shape-shifting accent
of an educated "class"...
    even today! West Ham was playing Everton,
Toffees... ******* Scousers... Liverpool dwelling folk...
two younglings asked me to speak to one
of the managers who took their banner away
expressing disgruntlement with
how the football club was being managed...
huh?! am i still in England...
i have an easier time understanding Scots
than i have understanding anyone from
Manchester or Liverpool!
i can't understand them!
maybe that's why the Scots are like the Irish:
they come from a proud literary history...
oh... i spoke to an Irishman today at
the football game... woke up at 3am to come
to the game... i understood him perfectly...
i can understand a Scot and an Irishman...
i wouldn't be able to tell you an Irishman
from a North Irishman...
but i could tell you decipherable English
of the Scot and the Irishman from
an undecipherable, local, "polyglot"
mishandling of the English language with
such local accents and idioms as that of
Liverpool or Manchester...
can't understand the *******: even if i tried...

obviously i can't relate to a love of Russian...
as they might say in Poland:
better 6 years of **** rule: by fire...
than the subsequent how many decades it was
under the rule of the Soviet rule: by ice...
a slow burn of war is more demoralising
than a quick stretch of spandex and all hell
and all fury and all hearts united
than this scuttling of rats and shadow-bullets
shot from shadow-pistols!

of course i would naturally side with the Germanic
side of my upbringing:
i have no itch for rekindling any Russian brainwashing!
and i know that the Germanic side of "things"
has become a breeding ground for feral creature-oids
that resemble as best cuckoldry and at worst
the shadiest parts of the ***-scenes in Amsterdam...
but... bone-headed Russians and their
pride... that Russian pride... it's one of those intoxication
liquid i want to drink any of!

hmm...
   perhaps because i know English as a utility,
there's nothing romantic in it for me:
i buy bread with it, i ask: i used to ask for directions
in it, i ask someone in that conventional
formal way how they are and hope for the less *******
that most Americans reply with: how all is dandy
and it's all Texan blue above and not
the grey of the island skyline...

i did think for a moment: i should haven taken a step
further and attached myself to Swedish...
or Norwegian...
but then that's what a German would do...
as an Anglo-Slav it was only natural for me to succumb
to the allure of German...
the natural dynamo...
i fall on German and the German falls on Swedish...
or Danish...
**** knows who the Scandinavians fall on for
inspiration... the Finns?!
after all: the Finns are somewhat Scandinavian:
more Inuit people than...
        
one is a tongue one learned: or, was rather thrown
into learning...
but it's unlike a learning from it being passed on...
no one passed English down to me...
i'm a first generation immigrant...
i learned the tongue in the same time
as my parents learned it...
unlike all those 2nd generation immigrants
who were born in this land
and learned this tongue outside the dynamic
of their parents learning the language:
the only difference being...
i kept the mother tongue, the native, intact...
by refusing my parents' claim that:
if i only spoke English at home,
the English i acquired from being schooled
in the English educational system...
if i forwent me speaking my native tongue
to them: their English would somehow improve...
that they would, somehow, miraculously not have
a foreign accent!
as a child i picked up three majors things...
Catholicism wouldn't take me... i might have been
baptised without my consent...
but i had all the necessary obligations to
give or not give my consent when it came to confirmation:
i haven't been confirmed... i head too many
Gnostic Heresy texts as a teenager...
their idea that somehow i would mistreat my native tongue
in order for them to gain something for it...
like most Pakistani 2nd generation children...
perhaps, maybe... a few slip through the netting...
who still pride themselves on knowing Urdu...
most? with their loss of the mother tongue pick up
their own idiosyncratic accents within the confines
of English: they are literally children robbed
of bilingualism by their parents...

i mastered it and by mastering it found it with
shortcomings that only the tongue i was born
with could expose...

today this alpha looking male sat next to me on the train
and spread his legs... smiling... listening to music...
**** me mate... how much spreading do you need to do?
what i found:
poetry, best read when commuting...
i'm building up a complimentary package for a friend
of mine... she sent me macadamia nut shells
and dried pineapple and honey and...
a feather... i said to her: i will not send you anything
before i compliment a feather you sent me with a feather
of my own... i went cycling two days prior
and: imagine my luck! some magpie... ELSTER...
was either shedding her feathers or was in a fight...
i picked up about half a dozen ELSTERGEFIEDER...
magpie feathers...
on the train... you're better off reading a book
of poems than a newspaper...
the optics are much more clarifying...
none of the claustrophobia and oczopląs
               of a tightly-knitted (printed) column or opinion
paragraph... spread out text...
  poetry books as an alternative to reading newspapers
in transit... that's how i imagine "it"...
once upon a time newspapers were tightly knitted
beyond the scope of the printed paragraph:
it would require the solitudes of Sundays
to sit in calm and quiet and read them...
these days: that tabloid press with headers
and exploding wordings for the newly acquired
people of literacy: the addition of pictures...

nothing new, therefore nothing old...
mein herzenskummer ist was giBt
                   der Sonnenaufgang seine
      rinnsal auf schüchtern farben...
und! unt!
        der Sonnenuntergang seine
    busen-auf-verkörperung:
                auf: das nie vergeht!

                   how easily the displaced spiders...
turn to new architecture of the spider web
should their former and no sooner
than sooner: distraught with the havoc
of a man's quill of fingers having to differentiate
walking into a spider-web confusing it
with: are my eye-lashes camel's now?!

some shifts at work are terrible,
esp. when working with two females...
everything is wrong...
even telling after-work jokes is wrong...
talk of fish fingers... loads of ketchup...
that's wrong too...
top it all of this one is joking about the other
and the other is lesbian
and she has a new girlfriend
and fish-fingers: well... i am a man and i never
equated the smell of ****** with fish...
i know that tadpoles and ****...
but never fish... fish fingers... *******...
ketchup? i joked: that time of the month?
no laughter... no laughter...
if women are joking about their horrid ****
i better not be asked to, ******* joke!

better working with mute men on zombie mode...
i'm already a year behind having my social medial
stalked... sure... they can stalk me when they
figure out my middle name and some Slovak
diacritical markers... not until then...
just because i look silly when ice-skating
and everyone has seen the video doesn't
mean i'll give up my internet presence so easily: so...
i have a project aligning myself to German
so close to my heart i can find it forgiving...
to desire in the heart-of-hearts
to: **** this tongue enough to speak it when drinking!
because i find that Wilhelm was sort of right...
about how Germany was no empire
expect something on the continent
that gobbled up a part of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
because the Germans were an established people
and there was no sailing spirit in them...
after all: one might be inclined to think they
wanted to upkeep the romantic, familial orientation
of Christianity...
but the powers, the colonial powers at be...
whether the French the English or the Spanish...
who does, Christianity belong to, these days?
one might have asked the same question
before Christianity spread to the Nord Lands...
prior to its prior occupation with the Syrians
and North Africans and the Greeks...
Romans as a side joke?
who are the current mass of Christianity if not
the former colonies of the English
the Spanish and the French?
i know of Christians in South America from
the cross being dumped by the Spaniards with
vain hope... vain hope of the French in Africa...
and the English in Africa... and North America...

at least the Germans didn't... spread this...
Christianity might be allocated to about 12 individuals
within the confines of a single generation...
beyond that? money-grabbing money-laundering:
a religion with only the sole focus on LOGOS
while reading up on Zhuangzi you have several
other, dutiful terms to meditate on...
i might have been smitten by Hindu thinking before
being doubly smitten by Taoist dialogues...
one still remains a categorical imperative...
outside the realm of dialogue:
the best way you can help the world is
to help the world forget you and you in turn forget
the world...
obviously i'm doing X and counter-X...
i'm writing... by extension of writing i "want"...
or is that: "i" want to be remembered...
but thinking is no telekinesis nor is speaking
any telepathy...
             i speak... like today... i get this oddity of looks...
first she asks me: oh what should i reply
to my friend... just been to a Hen-do...
strippers? oh sure... there were strippers...
first time married? no... second... so what's the ******* point
of a hen-do? cluck x2 laid eggs x4?!
  
so her friend sends me a photograph of her newly bought
dress... laces... or whatever the ******* call
a would-be reimagined-curtain...
i tell her: she could pull it off... if she was a size 0...
the lace could really add dimension and curves to
a thin body...
to hide the skeleton...
but you know what would work for her?
a meringue dress...
you know the type? a one piece...
cut just above the ***** line...
simple: smoothed over... no patterns...
all the way from the cleavage to the feet...
so then she shows me her wedding dress...
it cost her £130 while her friend paid over £2000...
exactly what i was describing...
she just sent an AWW and tried to deflate the question,
or simply avoid it...
yeah... she looks like a flayed torso...
because... SHE's fat...

           eat all you want and as much (perhaps)
but at least burn it off...
if there's no work in the fields:
then there's no work in the fields...
but there's enough rubber burning on the bicycle
to escape the monotone drudgery of
urban living... as i found today,
upon Hook Lane cycling up to Chigwell Row...
there's no need to eat excessively...
no comfort in all that fat without
a leather chair or enough warm clothing...

treating people as these existential morons:
conceptualizing the non-existence of free-will is one thing,
another: to debrief them: life is without agency...
a choice-less Darwinism where
jelly-fish are somehow automated: sprouts:
well... no other life could or would ever be!
people without free-will is one thing:
the shackles of the dynamic of choice...
one choice sets you free, subsequent choice shackles
and inescapable binary of freedom-no-freedom...
science governing the flip of a coin...
but... people, robbed of any sort of agency?!
of self-authority over themselves:
so, so easily mangled and mishandled leaving
their fate unto... no fate: double sure...
unto others?!
i watched a few horror movies in my lifetime...
none seem as horrifying as this +mundaneness
of the horrible leftover: forgotten...

i must have a Germanic attitude toward these matters...
i was born into the living spirit of the ****** tongue,
the membrane in situ staging the conflict
of Rome vs. Greece...
or Germany vs. Russia...
i see no end to it...
i was born from the Germans trying to burn out
the Jews from "my" lands
while the Russians trying to subdue the flames
all the while...
i was still borne from a history that required
a solitary antagonist...
less so an protagonist of solitude...
either way: i was going to slither my way through...
like water like serpents...
wie wasser wie schlangen...

mein herz bricht aus hungrig flammen
als ich stürzen blind Samson's
already toppled temple
            
i know i that i will not write the sort of beauty
that's poetry that's everything that's
Zbigniew Herbert's
Godly Claudius
the Game of Mr. Cogito
Mr. Cogito observes his face in the Mirror
the Seventh Angel
   (my favourite of the angels listed?
Dedrael - the apologist and cabalist)
   to name but a few of the poems...

it brings such relief that i can't bring such
beauty into this world: perhaps if my mind was
not muddled by the utility of English
and my romance with German -
perhaps but only perhaps:
i don't even know why i started to write poetry:
maybe it was my lowest ebb
psychotic running on steam and pretend
legs between Edinburgh, Glasgow,
London, Dover, Athens, Belgrade,
Katowice...
                    walking into a bookshop buying
a copy of Rumi's verses...
buying Dostoyevsky's the Brothers Karamazov
and, just by chance... Bukowski...
what was so supposedly special and hiding
within the poetry of this man?
absolutely nothing: i was mad enough
to try it then and to keep at it:
not really knowing why...
  
compared to Zbigniew Herbert i write trash:
perhaps i read too much fiction,
even autobiographical prose: prose in general:
i don't know how to shut up the ten mouths
on the tips of my fingers but
i know how i can seem menacing
on a shift at work... hood pulled over my head
leather gloves squeezing each knuckle
asked by the atypical extroverted woman
whether something is wrong...
pulling my hood up, smiling, yet still being
compared to the grim reaper...
jokes aside: someone is counting the time...

a welcome break from Knausgaard...
this little safe-haven of poetry read in transit...
finally! something that's not mine
and not in English!

that's the terrible difference between men and women...
going to the Fulham shift i was sitting
behind three women... i'm guessing two were
newly arrived brides of war from Ukraine
who also picked up a Thai-surprise bride...
birds sound chirpier and more pleasant to talk
to... sitting behind them reading my little poetry
book... with a magpie's feather for a bookmark...
the women talked... about?
photographs... filters... instagram models...
plastic surgeries of people wanting to look
like their photographs...
impossible dreams! dreams of women...
and some womanized-men...
on my way back... same book same bookmark
and a young man sat down next to me...
put on some decent music i could
make out through the headphones...
angled his horizon to look over my shoulder
as to why i was reading a book with so much
open space and so little words...
not any fiction, not some constipated prose
of imaginary conversations...
and i could feel his leg pressing against mine...

perhaps i am not gay but i can't imagine
being friends with a woman...
i truly can't... there's either *** for me: with women...
or there is friendship with men...
with each man i meet i can achieve this
transcendent: otherwise unpackaged will
of subduing and seduction that only a woman
can provide me... but a conversation with a woman
is painful: at least for the majority of times:
there might be a special place for a woman
who might not necessarily:
but is probably older than me and shares
the same sentiments as me...
probably lives far away and thinks that hand-writing
is like exposing herself all naked...
will go out of her way to send me a feather of a bird
from over 3000miles away...

while i will send her a necklace with a single amber
stone on it... or i will send her a crab's pincer with a hole
drilled in it and ask her to buy some leather-string
to have herself a second necklace...

at work Stephanie the supervisor had to make it adamant
for me alone to know that i would be her Alpha...
whatever the hell that meant...
Alpha... well yeah... because i do try to ensure that
everyone is treated fairly...
the Asians boys of Bangladesh and Pakistan caved it...
this work or this cold of England
finally bit them...
     it's an unrewarding work if you don't have
an escape plan, like i do...
i'm always flying to other pursuits outside of this
work... customer service... being polite to people
that might not be polite to you or simply ignore you...
but even my standards i thought they were
taking it too far...
but i made a pact with them...
they took out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured
out shots... if there's going to be a snitch among
us... it will be the man who does drink...
so when asked if i'd like a shot i replied: why not!
the weather calls for it... whiskey to warm up!
mixer? oh no no... straight!
plus... you can't mix Jack Daniels with Fanta, can you?
a few new colts were bullied into peer pressure
of silence, asked if they wanted a drink: said no...
me? i had a drink... i'm not snitching...
well i did when Stephanie was coming round
when i just said: nothing about the drinking...
but if there are 7 of us standing in one place...
but i'm the only one giving any customer service
by giving directions and good-evenings while
they're just standing talking to each other,
having a good time? apparently some people still
can't internalise being drunk for their own
self-amusement, drinking is somehow: getting together...
clearly these boys haven't been alone
and drank a litre of whiskey each and every single
night for months on end...

what really bugged me is when they took out a spliff
and smoked it between the four of them...
even as the customers were coming to see
Tottenham beat Fulham 1 - nil...
oh for ****'s sake... it's one thing having a cheeky sip of
whiskey on a cold day to warm up...
but to also smoke marijuana on a shift?
in full view and easily scented air of winter
before customers?
these guys don't want this ****** job...
thank god none of them are either bus drivers
or train drivers or plumbers for that matter!
maybe doctors who forgot to take out a pair of
scissors from a patient's body when
the patient is getting stitched up?

the worst i ever did was drink the night before
and sobered up on my way to work...
ah... not to mention that one time this
girl tried to scout her paranoia from prior relationships
with abusive alcoholic boyfriends onto me:
a man she just met... pampered with an array
of chemicals whether that be a cologne or this alcohol
containing face spray...
who i later tried to sooth by bringing her my homemade
weisserwein... cloudy... like any weisserbier...
chirpsin'... 3 way conversation conspiracies...
until the lie stood on dwarf's legs rather than stilts...
and to think: no i wasn't thinking seriously about
getting into a relationship with her...
she tried to get me fired for "apparently" drinking
on the job! a person she just me...
neurotic ******* *****... it's good that i showed her
what she would never, ever... get...

the difference between men and women...
the shift finished... prior to finishing we already knew
that there was some major ****-up on the tube...
the signals went down...
no Circle line, no Hammersmith & city services...
no services on the District line
from East Ham to Earls Court...
ergo? you'd think there might be a northbound
service to Edgware Rd. from Putney Bridge...
nope... Earls Court is a 4 x 4 junction...
sure... there was the southbound service
from Putney Bridge to Wimbledon...
and whatever service that's a station after
Earls court toward Richmond and Ealing Broadway...
as i'm guessing from Upminster to East Ham
and from one station after Earls Court
to Edgware Rd....
this girl was supposed to come with me
to Stepney Bridge from either Romford or Chadwell
Heath for the shift...
i was 15 minutes late because i felt like getting some
tea and an almond croissant...
she was? an hour late...
by the end of the shift when the transport invonvenience
was building up we went for our debrief
and she was all irritated in the eyes
when she wanted to get an Uber to Hammersmith
or whether it was she thought about going
without telling me: where that would cost her £50+
quid...
                  so when i told her...
i'm not going down the Putney High Street rail connection
because: (a) look at the ******* congestion
of the crowd and (b) i don't need to go to *******
Waterloo because that's ******* south of the river...

mmm hmm mmm... what, should we do?
i told you... i'm either walking or getting the bus 220
to Hammersmith...
debriefing over: she stayed behind for banter
and all the things that hinder an extrovert,
esp. a female extrovert... un-decisive, fatalist,
everything just ******* happens by some whisper
from astrology...
    Aquarius said to Libra that the waters were
about to spill... i ****** off from the stadium
like a hart... shook hands with the managers
thank you goodnight... as i was walking out
toward Hammersmith some young stewards were
shuffling really quickly it all looked very much like
they might be scratching vinyl...
i asked... you heading to Hammersmith?
yes yes... see! that's i like to see!
male to male camaraderie...
we have this unconscious motif of: from *****
you came to ***** you shall return...
it's a bit senseless to go to war these days...
less senseless when you're trying to get from
point A to point B...
there was about 40 of us running for the bus...
amongst us? 1 woman...
***** AHOY!
   obviously i left this girl behind...
her other option was asking one of the managers
to giver her a lift... ******* free-loader...
by the time the manager would have clocked out
all the other parties i would have wasted an hour...
just to get a lift... and then what?
stranded with her? even though we weren't going
to the same point B?
   i left with the *****-mentality... happy too:
because i could read my poetry book in the prized
possession of solitude... and no solitude...
because given the hour... something freakish was
bound to happen on the train or tube...
and it did... some proper English boys talking about
not wanting to take a nightcap in Romford heading
all the way to Shenfield joked when this guy started running
down the train carriage...
and those SKANKS so drunk who were blocking
the doors: subsequently delaying us
subsequently not catching their train blah blah...

well... just as today happened: talking so freely to men,
boys, young men, first point of "concern" / conversation?
establishing "taboos" or habits...
you smoke? you drink? first time you got drunk...
when did you start smoking marijuana first?
and then a natural progression into...
so... what music do you like... just... so naturally?
with women? even with Francesca,
this butcher boy of a lesbian...
it's a cul de sac sort of conversation...
she only talks about herself,
even today i received a text from her...
i broke up with Natalie... broke up i.e. she met her
on Tinder... she stayed round her house
for three nights... Natalie made her lunch for
work one time... cooked dinner another time...
4 days and nights they dated... already broke up...
there you go... Tinder-dating-shoplifting hearts...
window-shopping romances...

free market capitalism? sure... but not when
capitalism overstretches its influence
and we're worse off than the despairing existentialist:
PHILOSOPHERS of the 19th... the precurosor
fabric... i'd say the 20th century existentialist
philosophers had it easier...
but anyone in the 21st century, thinking, even remotely:
would be hard pressed not to express something
of substance bugging all of us:
no great war, no great upheaval,
proxy wars, the Thespian dictatorship over all
the other arts (with the exception of pop music, perhaps)
and the journalistic juggernaut of the quickened
availability of almost anything and nothing...
the free market of capitalism having invested
in creating this... Frankenstein in pieces...
this IKEA ******* LEGO model of a Frankenstein:
but at least Frankenstein bothered to construct
the entire monster rather than creating this
shattered Pandora's box... left in pieces and in
some realisation of a Copernican West...
in a Copernican East... Copernican "west"?
there's a "west" without a setting sun?!
up in outer space?
                         capitalism all fine and dandy:
but not outside the realm of a couple worrying about
how many kettle and toasters sets they will
have to buy during the year or even the wardrobe
needs revisions, or whether it might be worthwile
to change the wallpaper in the living room,
or what movie to watch on a date night at the cinema...
all of that is gone when the free market made
us profile ourselves... with some of us being pushed
so far as to fake cubist like pictures of ourselves
and subsequently implement plastic surgery to
double-fake ourselves...

the shrapnel-shelving-of-self...
it's like people are a library with no alphabetical order:
free market on psychology, morphed beyond
any concern for dreams: if there were any
as the luxury of the Freudian rich...
this... what happened to historiology in the modern
sense as stressed by Heidegger?
a study of history of the people by the people
or at least by individuals... morphed into this grotesque
pop psychology: archeological mapping back
to the primordial Pharisee of Ape and Aping...
farce: Darwin's Curtain of History...
   will we ever remember the beauties and horrors
of centuries from the 16th to the 19th?
no... everything of said years is nil: null...
because the ape's origins quickly morphed into
the man hunched over a microwave adamant in his
belief that... the carbon footprint of producing
a kilogram of chicken meat somehow, somehow would
"save the planet" than producing a kilogram
of tomatoes... given that a kilogram of tomatoes would
only yield a fraction of the necessary calories
than a kilogram of meat... and still the growing
of one kilogram of chicken would cost the planet
less than growing a kilogram of tomatoes...
who needs tomatoes in winter?!
eat, your, ******* root vegetables! carrots boyo! carrots!
but chickens don't need solar energy, nor suntans,
nor greenhouses... chickens cluck just as much
in winter as in summer... and eggs are a year round
product... plus you only need a barn in winter
to keep chicken!
tomatoes rot... chickens? they grow old and die...
until they grow old they still produce eggs...
and when they die? you eat them...
you can't exactly call a chicken rotten if it isn't already
days X already dead, can you?
it might not be as fresh... but...
ugh... no wonder

Zbigniew Herbert: from mythology (of Rome) -

   in the end only the superstitious
neurasthenics carried in their pocket a little figurine
made from salt, resembling the god of irony;
since then there wasn't a greater god.

then the barbarians came, they too greatly prized
the idol of irony.
           they pounded it with their heels and sprinkled
it into their dishes.

no clay-monster of the Levant can intimidate
me now!
not armed with these words:
let us witness the great divorce of man from woman!
let us watch!
pray... let us be brothers and friends and
secretly wishing we were lovers:
in the thinning air... let us talk about the strange
glow above the Thames hanging over Kew Gardens
as if: as i said to him:
as if the sunset still claiming an eye
in the night...
      what woman? what woman could i share
this romantic conversation with?
my interaction with women is so blatant so cold
so forced to claim the male in me and the woman
in her that it's only ******...
oh sure... i was going to the brothel...
but i was coming home already late...
i had two pairs of socks on, drawers, trousers...
a tank-top a shirt gloves and a thick coat...
by the time i would get out of all those layers
and have a quick shower...
half an hour i would have paid for would have become
nothing more than 15 minutes...
not enough time to get a hard-on
of being in the mood...
i already had more than ***...
a conversation... and no woman has yet to actually
provide me with one...
perhaps we are not in the trenches...
but men have always managed without women...
for as long as time knows...

a shift prior... at West Ham... ******* guy with a bald
head and a face as endearing as a plump baby
we great with a handshake that turns into
a thumb against thumb contest and a hug
tells me that i should come and find him at Cavern Cottage
and he'll sort me out with some free food...
hey presto i go and find him
i get a free steak and ale pie...
i know it's a one off...
    we already get discounts for burgers from the burger
van... but it's nice to give a reminder when
being invited...

     we do our rounds in the park...
among the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshi who at first
thought i was British when asked:
oh no... i'm not British... an Anglo-Slav at best...
from that lineage of Anglo-Saxons...
the Saxons who came among post-Rome rule
Britain and mingled or not mingled
with the local Celtic and Welsh and Britton populace...
i'm the second wave that didn't make it
because the British Empire collapsed
and the eastern Europeans were not too dearly minded
in the history of the British Empire...
but they know that i'm from Poland
so when asked: where are you from? there...
and "there"... but i've been living here since i was
7 so there's no "born and bred" argumentation
with me and those in your ethnic stratum
concerning any anti-Pakistani villification
of those in the "upper-castes"... blah blah...
they know... while the three of us walked around
this 40 year old Yugoslav woman
who escaped the Yugoslavian collapse of
circa 1992... starts talking as i switch her around
so she can have a walk with us to warm up her legs
from standing stiff still...
where are you from? oh... here...
i'm not going to tell her what i told the boys...
not after she deflects my attraction to her
by paying more attention to the Pakistani boy
of 20... i'm closer to her age...
but... then she does this sick thing of asking
me to hold her empty cups of tea that
have an unused teabag in it and some dried milk...
oh... right? i'm going to be your waiting boy?

******* testing women... this woman is past her prime...
i know it she thinks she can "test" my patience
by me being her ******* pet-shop-boy?!
fine! fine...
the more and more i talk to women
the more i find them diametrically opposed
to any sort of psychologically asexual universalism of:
ecce ****...
                 women have: and will have to...
sexualize everything from Aristotle to Zeno...
there was once a maybe female version of Aristotle if
only the: give me the drill... i need a bigger hole to see through:
these eyes aren't large enough...
if only there wasn't an oppressive patriarchy...
the oppressive "patriarchy" of autistic geniuses?!
oh... that one... the sort of men cowering
from female sexuality?
  wow! how oppressive!
                    magnificently oppressive!
we all should be so magnificently oppressed by the man
who discovered the wheel by meditating
the O(micron) - what came first?
the wheel or the omega, or was it the sun?
if Prometheus brought down fire... by teaching man
that scratching flint against flint could illuminate
the cave and give man a second womb of poison-fire...
before the forests turned to ash...
before Pompeii's negative of a whiplash of history...

i tried loving women... i loved them for:
the many months i would rather not use
the fingers of both my hands for...
    absolutely un-relate-able creatures...
what *** beside that of female would whisper in
man's heart to leave their minds without
reason to stage the Trojan War
                        or bring architecture to kneel:
like Xerxes: but the madness of Xerxes was rather
beautiful wanting to lash the Aegean into submission
rather than that little Pharaoh ***** who might
have said: best to chisel down a rock face
and glue together sand with egg-whites and spit
into bricks and polish up a craggy mountain:
lest we forget: from a lineage of a people
that once said: let us "reinterpret" the mountains!
pyramids...
                at least the South American tribes invented
the pyramid as an altar... not a tomb...
but we're no smarter than they were dumber:
the myopic-vision strategy of the vantage point
of: what came prior... with hindsight...
but hindsight only works in reverse...
the unmistakeably irreversible past
within the confines of the motto: the terrible
has already happened!
  
                       and some variation of the historically
terrible isn't already happening,
on some microscopic level?
                           not if / not yet?!
                                             hardly...

poetry is air and not the prose of water...
i am stranded between wanting to breathe air
and at the same time more in need to drink water:
no wonder i cannot rest with merely breathing air...
if only i were to breathe air and leave my efforts
with so much nuance as to allow others to breathe
the same air... alas i am like that saying of Heraclitus...
i'll pour you a glass of water
i have prior to drank... leave it for you to drink a day
later: it will not be the same water that i have drank...
i wish i could write like these words might be air...
but it's... aqua post scriptum et plus aqua
post scriptum ad fluenta...

                    verschließen dein augen:
    sehen wieder... immer wieder:
                               bis: es gibt
                             nicht freude:
noch aufschub träumen...
                              kalt silber-rasierer
                                 schneiden auf
mondklären... nacht als auch wirklichkeitstoff.

— The End —