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ConnectHook Sep 2015
☮ ☮ ☮

Society needs more Social Justice.
Humanity needs peaceworkers.

Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ******, gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice.

We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE !

WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE !

LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE!
WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE
FOR  **SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT !


POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻
STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻
CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻
SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻
PEACE BRINGS WAR☻
WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻

(SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/04/03/agitating-the-spin-cycle/

☠☻☭
Michael R Burch Dec 2021
The Story
by Kamal Nasser
translation by Michael R. Burch

I will tell you a story ...
a story that lived in the dreams of my people,
a story that comes from the world of tents.
It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror.
It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees.
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them
and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels.
It is the story of the suffering ones
who stood waiting in line ten years,
in hunger,
in tears and agony,
in hardship and yearning.
It is a story of a people who were misled,
who were thrown into the mazes of the years.
And yet they stood defiant,
disrobed yet united
as they trudged from the light to their tents:
the revolution of return
into the world of darkness.

Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser.

Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by *****-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people.

Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.
Laurel Elizabeth Oct 2013
You change my mind like a massive industrial factory.
Because flowers.
Supposing friendly.
What if therefore.

You crush my forethought in your mandible machinery
For after yellow.
Beside a lake.
Through crimson humility.

I melt under your molten supervision on the grandest scale
Melodic franchise.
Hypothesize sunbeams.
And if replace me.

You reorient my viewpoints on your conveyor belt of
liquidated mellow
jurisdiction.
Richard B Shick Sep 2018
HERE GOSE NOTHING  HOPE YOU LIKE I WORKED ALL DAY ON IT....im sure there will be changes....LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK



Class is in session.
Time to grab your
NoteBooks.
And get,
educated.

Think My words
May Have been forgotten.
Or have they,
just  been
miscommunicated

Can you hear what I'm  saying.
Probably not,
 I'm  Too sophisticated.

Don’t take words I say
And twist them and around.
Til They become
exaggerated.

Or I’ll grab my strap
And ****  it back
take aim
Clack clack
Assassinated.

Watch what you saying,
I don't think your  listening.
Better get to running
Or end up,,,,,,
annihilated.

My mouth has no Limit,
It's automated.
I don't have a filter
To keep me,
regulated.

As you get incarcerated,
I get celebrated
For  every thing I've done.
This I created

So Say Good Bye
to what you
Thought were friends,
We're way gone,
Alienated.

Your Words will get you
Eliminated,
Like a effin cockroach
Just Call me
Mrrrr Orrrrrkin,
Exterminated.


Better watch your back.
I can get real spinal,
Don't get,
  disintegrated.

My words  are truthful
Just like the
Guinness Book of records.
Im authenticated.

I write my own words
Im Never collaborated,
Unless it’s me myself and
I.

Will never be manipulated.
By your abbreviated
Stories,
They're fabricated.

Don’t make me
Hunt you
  I will effin ****** you
Its all ready planned out,
Premeditated.

So Let me make things simple
For you,
Like you are  a caveman.
Uncomplicated.

My  moves they seem so cat like,
Very Quick and nimble.
Im Articulated.

I’ll will destroy you
Don’t get blown away
Like a hurricane,
Decimated.

Can't you see me frozen
I’m cold as ice,
And need.
refrigerated.

Do you see my spot lights
Can you see me
glowing,
While up on stage.
I'm Illuminated.

As you sit here
With an old pass,
Done  expired and no where to go,
invalidated.

You can’t even do math,
Always 3 steps behind,
You know what i Call that.
miscalculated.

Me as being stupid.
Don't try be sneaky
I know Your  every move,
I Anticipated.

Don’t  choke on your words
To where you can’t breath,
With A rope around your neck,
Asphyxiated.

Why must  you be so
opinionated
Are you **** hurt.
Or is your mouth
just.
constipated.

Quick,
give him a trophy
Cause He thinks he won.
But you never,
participated.

How’s it feel to be
Hated,irritated
And,  outdated.
Cause you have no *****.
You've  been Castrated,
Dominated
And, infiltrated
Just Like a waterfall
You've been.

Liquidated.

I Think  you over medicated
Here  come the white coats,
Eyes are dialated
Cause your brain
Has become
Contaminated
Intoxicated and,
Deteriorated.


Think you daddy
Should have just
Masturbated
Then
*******
On
The bed sheets

As he Put a pillow on
Your mom’s face
and she,
Suffocated.

Cause she never
Reciprocated
Or consummated.
Was so stupid and didn't
Swallow.
Got inseminated.

Now
Its time that we end
This.
What I initiated,
Hopefully
I communicated
All these words
That
Have  accumulated.

I tried to be illustrated
And innovated.
Just like
A bomb
That had to be detonated.
I’m out
And cool like a fan
I’m  so oscillated.

To be continued
.........

WRITTEN BY
Richard Shick
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
                                       ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
                                       or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
       *** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
  lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary             collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg *sardines
;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
      will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
   ******* par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
    guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
    (heresy input, never start a
sentence with an)          and
there you have it,
                  writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Helena Feb 2013
it's not a problem when there's nothing to sweat,
the humidity between your fingers only exists if you let it.
disconnection from socialization is nothing immoral, more than anything, it's probable.

no eye contact at uncomfortably long red-lights,

don't try to discuss the compartimentalizing in the back of your head.

you are a molecule.
molecules are small,
you are small.

on second thought, think more about what i couldn't stand in the world
than what i would change.
consider the opportunity and bottle enthusiasm like it's a commodity.
segregate mind
from
self.
seperate syllables, content, and over-accumilation.
inside, i would never expect you to work your own way out.

and again, i spat out black, fine lined *******.
there was no more than the predetermined depth that they've come to expect from me,
i went no further than to soak my readers, then force them out still wet:
go ahead,
drip-dry from my dignity.


it's like the fire they insisted deserves to be cradled in a cage.
because freedom is threat:
consuming until she bursts into a sheet of liquidated decision.
but there is still room for appreciation:
for the consistency of
light, warmth and relativity.

swallow back a mouthful of something i cannot pronounce.
what does it matter if losing sleep makes you feel ten,
the lie is still that you're twenty-seven.
but what drove through,
down,
enough to come out the other side, is still being ignored.
my loyalty  proved as a stunt in the precious growth you claim i lacked.
just when it became lyrical the reality becomes increasingly evident,
no woman needs poetry about the sun, or the starving lions out back.

so just let me burn in the grass.
because it'd only be wasting my time,
  airing out.

it's your pope's, not my prophecy that doesn't believe
in the gravity you say
forced you to
fall
into
me.


one day you'll laugh.
one day i'll stop getting lost when i drive to new places.
one day the water will stop running from our taps.

i'm sure you realize i sexualized you,
like the young thing i am.
i should apologize,
but i'm also pretty sure you don't mind.
rewind: you'll go to waste like fine wine, and i'll drive you home over the phone.
#7
If I'm not the problem, there is no solution.* Destiny disrupted by rusted liquor lust. Liquidated terror is the soup du jour. Stale coffee exacerbates the problem. Relapse hangs overhead like a grotesque mobile of alcoholic death. There's glitter in their eyes and a bottle of pills in their pocket. Smoking as self care. I want her to carve her love into my clavicle; I'm dangling by a thin gold chain.
Wilhelmina Nov 2015
THEY walk / Just one / Alone on the cracked pavement / Toes dragging, head sagging / tripping over lines that aren’t there.
High tops / the likes of God himself /sanctified, glorified, / pearly white as the gates of heaven / Consumerism, cleverly disguised / as divine ascension, the righteous liberty of choice / the steering of your own destiny- / and yet / ... / those footprints in the dirt /  seem only to last as long  / as anyone cares to look.

THEY / THEIR / THEM / Words rarely respected / most often neglected / every conversation, a silent battle / for the right to exist as THEY see themselves / THEY are a complete deviance from / the suffocation of two / neither pink, nor blue. / THEIR body, our bodies / once beautiful in our youth and vigor / now condemned as destitute wastelands. / Reaped of any / dichotomized consumeristic value, / that the world instilled during our years of innocent persuasion. / We are dust now, society tells us / just ghosts of what the earth once bore;  / our place is nonexistent in this world. / Little choice but the next,  / a test with limited boxes to check. / Maybe they’ll listen when our cold, nighttime howls / are too loud to ignore. / Maybe one day, we’ll fill the ears with our voice / never to be quelled again. / But until then / existence becomes more a question than fact.


A red rover world; / it croons to us lovingly,  / as does the sun coax the flowers to bloom / come out! the world says / come out! / our wayward sons / come out! / our wandering daughters / come out, oh battered children of the world / let us cradle your broken hearts! / let us see your tears!  feel your anguish! / and maybe we will know you better for your suffering. / And so we came, and continue to come. / not all, but enough for the satisfaction of the status morale / Be different! the world challenges / And so THEY dare to live differently, / and by extension, dangerously. / We ascend, just like the logos told us we would- / only to be brutally thrown aside / because we’re all the wrong shoe size. / our punishment is most often internalized / we knew all along, our woes an offbeat cry / to the rest of the planets unwavering bass line.


Scrutiny badgers us, in the guise of necessity / when in reality, it is the / furtherment of our marginalization. / What’s in your pants? / What bathroom do you use? / How do you ****? / Liquidated words flow free like water, / but stay behind, slow and thick like hot tar; / it hurts just the same. / Has it occurred to you / that THEY might want to share with you / more than the anatomy of THEIR mortal shells? / THEIR minds, THEIR souls transcend ignorant thought. / Ask THEM something beautiful, because that is what THEY are. / Do THEY come together like a star, in a glorious explosion of light and motion? / Or is it more like a flower blossoming, fragile pulses beating under translucent skin?


The labels of today / the toxic expectations building up from within / like residual filth trapped under your fingernails / never gone, bound to return, nearly inescapable / and never directly addressed / for the sake of not / corroding. / The stars are within kaleidoscope eyes. / yes, dexterous hands have crafted this being / see the light, the mystique and wonder of / this stardust child, set to change the spin of things. / and THEIR heavenly shape is beautifully flawed / maybe marred by the solar winds of the sun / or glimmering with interstellar dust- / a lingering kiss of radiation  / from THEIR time among the asteroids. / This person of universal intent / THEY must be big, and THEY must be brave / for whilst joined under flag and name, THEY are still just one  / a lonely phantom wandering cracked, forgotten sidewalks / Where the lights flicker and the air is stagnant and thin. / THEY cast THEIR eyes skyward, searching for something / a twinkling like THEIR own, in the map of the vast unknown / A reflection of what THEY must become / to simply be.


In a way only the universe can, / it whispers back on the celestial winds / with an unnoticed correspondence. / One of those skidded toe marks / Has smudged the lines of / blue and pink / Hopscotch lines, much like unspoken, unbroken lines / that is where THEY reside. / the fray, the cusp, the precipice / THEY see THEIR world in the skidmarks / a grand spray of color, like the nebulas that THEY once knew / Not the line, but the divergence of what is known / into something new... / and a hopscotch hymnal, / a broken prayer on clumsy lips / not to the God with the high tops, / pearly and clean as heaven’s gate, / but to a vast and anonymous universe / is answered.
a post for the lovely people at the Thunderhead Writers Collective- hope you guys can view it now!
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the mystery of lawlessness is bound to the "transcendence" of phonetic application of phonetic encoding... some call it the whirlwind of confusion, but somes also call it E-près and then write Ypres... well, the confusion is all but apparent... i left that in "     " to stress the ambiguity... yes, the -s is optional... it's neither possessive or plural... that, i could have learned in prison, had i ever been a Becontree purple (bishop)... dictionary moment: cranium, crimson, cradle... cardinal... but all these positions of power are on their knees (there's me trying in vain to underline that), they gobble-quote what they quack... which ends up being a circumflex and a wanking hand, embedded with "touching" Adam. oh sure they bypassed the contemporary-of-contemporaries... it was never a grey-matter affair... it was always a gangster's drill-to-the-bone moment... wait till he squeems! i don't mind ******, given the person is dead, i just hate half-asked half-baked half-bollocked Dr. Dre attempts and then failing and then, like a whining dog with its tail between its legs going back to the mantra of mother fiction... i ******* hate it... i start looking like a ******* ******! i hate it... mutter fiktion... all i'll say of a Jew: don't ******* bring an argument against the Palatine Schting right now... i have as much abhorrence against all things Egyptian as i do about English tea, which i deemed liquidated Werther's Original... and then there's this Russian ***** i'd like to the village bicycle... she's had more spare parts done unto her than the working limbs ever gave her the tilt... feminism and the sacredness of all women... name that movie quiz show... charlize theron... aileen wuornos! woo-or-nose? never mind...
   a 1K spectacle at Hastings... that's invoking quid...
and you'll feel more tonguing mollusks than
                          touching a frightened ****** quill-thread's
worth of deer with that lingo, had you ever had one...
              MONSTER!      yes, they all dream of a breakfast
at tiffany's... and i'm john paul the 2nd, and
     henry viii was a joke nursery rhyme
  when charlie bid farewell to diana...
there was no:
         divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived...
there was only a car-crash... you can't make
    a king out of swine... well... you can... Sweyn...
                  but **** me... and i thought i was naive...
guess the ***** didn't kick in when it was supposed
to; once true journalism became the ****** of what
was once the ****** of the people...
             religion... journalism these days is rotten,
it's an Aristophanes to what's really happening
defined by Socrates... it's a schoolyard...
  journalism these days is best defined by Aristophanes;
and who's the globe-trotting-gobbler of all misfits
is not the would-be diarist of returning back to
the local, the usual, the sanctimonious mundaneness
of it all; you **** only once in your life,
you end up having a **** the rest of the time,
either with your hand, or with another body.

oh i'm not bothered about the "perverts"
(funny how only men are concerned with
being named that) -
                               that are watching you,
those third party incisors of
             the bony-**** (hey, you
could be yodeling **** by now) -
                          what i'm
worried about are the perverts that provide
the "perverts" with material,
it's all very much a Turning test...
               that robotics testing ground
of: i can't keep eye contact...
   the lesser privy of psychiatry?
eye contact and biting your nails...
if that can be engaged with and subsequently
avoided:
you're as chirp as chips! honey b.
          can anyone white
feel glamorous using language in order
to tell a joke?
   that's not the question, the question is:
why call it witty comedy...
     but still employ canned laughter?
it's discouraging, i don't know when the joke comes,
all i know is that the editor finds it funny
as that particular time,
                    and that's when he inserts canned
laughter... you can get it with the most
"witty" comedies there are...
  a bit like black girls trying to be white without
the frizz of afro curbing the afro with vaseline...
i've seen catfights over this "third limb"
scenario... afro is no go in catholic schools...
you have to... yum... cow lick that ****
into place... use vaseline...
      and that's an advert-and-a-half.
but you know what really ****** me off?
philosophers... they attacked poetry because
they couldn't care two-****'s worth about
whether language could be musical
or simply communicative... they're the ones
that wrote books without using
grammatical words such as verb, or noun,
because they made them excuses to
their muddles when hoarding from poetry
words of equivalent categorical weight
such as metaphor... so attacking the practice
of poetry, but then encouraging
the categorisation of the spoke
with poetic categories rather than grammatical
categories? can i see Hegel use a noun?
no... but i can see Heidegger using
  the metaphor with two labourers utilising
a hammer... that's the thing concerning
a building site: you either pass the time
tellings jokes... or you don't work
on a building site and hold a hammer
  and question whether someone else might need it...
philosophy is not about the existential dittoing
of the i...
    it's a book, but there's a new category of pronoun
due to universal bewilderment once childhood
finishes... ? opened the door, in stepped !
and said:
     shouldn't we make the stillness of the lake
into a mirror to banish but at the same time
          domesticate narcissus -
yes, replied ?, i'm glad you thought of it...
               domesticating demigods...
                    narcissus was a stillness of a lake,
sisyphus was a stone,
    hercules was bicep,
              achilles was a tendon...
                                       our current affairs are far
from democratic, but at least our history is,
  you get ******... you get protractor...
you get mona lisa... you get 'let 'em eat croissant!',
       too many points of divergence
  in a democracy to craft a convergent "democracy",
what the politics says is that we are all
slaves to what's called a *status quo
,
  i hate the fact that western "democracies" are
no longer tagged as merely status quo...
abuse of nouns... or how philosophy attacked poetry
and never spoke a theory concerned with
language per se being evidently categorised...
     how status quo is actually a -nomer without a mis-
of democracy...
  funny, the spanish... i have no idea
why can i have some ice-cream?
      has to become ?can i have some ice-cream¿
           i guess it's like the english " and '...
  who said what, and who said what for whom?
    is there a narrator?
      is that " + 1 people speaking, or quoting a quote?
or is that direct convo... '   ',
later retelling the tale "     ",
and after that it's all but an urban myth
akin to the kentucky fried mouse...
                the French that blè blé blé blé....
and somewhere in between was the Transylvanian comma...
hmm...
                             i mean... the perverts...
   thanks for the invitation, r.s.v.p.; of sure, great mixtape...
funny thing is... i never filmed myself jerking off...
        i do a 3-in-1... take a ****, take a ****... and
clean the ****-talk ducts of banal sprechen while
      watching a monkey strutting down memory lane
of when i had a girlfriend... and had to juggle,
and go for lunch, and this that and the other,
and a dalmation... or the reflection: but i had a mother...
huh?     i never felt this much ingratitude
for occupying the premises of the oval chamber
as i did creating a signature or inserting
  myself into the least convenient space to have
later come out off using only one digit's worth of
accountability... but hey... that's life.
          are you feeling the guilt trip drug pushed
by your mother from Syria, or Somalia?
     you owe her! you parasite... makes easier argument
for the billion Blue Indians and Chinese to get on
with it and eradicate the over-sensitive ivory dodo;
or at least in Siberia with the mongols...
              so i'm guessing eskimo is the new
                        squint to what's butchery ethics in Kosovo
as: look away... nothing to see.
               still... why call it a witty comedy when
you nonetheless have to utilise canned laughter?
             and that's a novel in itself...
? went up the stairs and ? met ! questioning <
whether ? should be questioning <... instead ! suggested
that ? should be questioned by >, since ? was already
on the 1st floor, having ascended the stairs from
the ground floor...         can you write me
     a novel... replacing all the correct pronoun usage
with mathematical ambivalence structured toward
a mostly unread existential dogmatism using
  mathematical punctuation?
no one will read it...but hey... either you do something
like that... or own a dog or a cat...
           and yes, they call them diacritical marks
when they're within letters... but in between letters?
they call them punctuation marks within words...
or the microcosm of punctuation: syllabification...
          the French just gobble down a lot of
  deviation... mon fhhhhhhhhhhhhré!
don't ask me how they do it... ask Nápŏlyon,
yes, the half-wit from Li-ą... oh no... not
                                               Monsieur Dynamite.
avalon Jan 2018
is
      speaking in french, wrapping our tongues around foreign
                                                         ­                                flavors and vowels,
          intertwining with each other,
                                                                ­ whispering
                                                      ­                                  mon amour,
                                                                ­                                my
        love love love love love love
    
what  
                           her hair and his eyes, gold liquidated, pooling
              in glass orbs and strings,


      shards and pools colliding and cascading

love
                          is this truth?
                she takes his hand and mind
       all at the same time and they both cry



what
is
love?
Populations all wiped out,
Liquidated with no doubt.
All life, gone in a flame;
No one left to take the blame.
Existence cries of extinquished life,
Taken like the blade of a knife.

Fallen civilization now imploded,
Atomic weapons all exploded.
Life is gone, taken all away;
Life is gone, long gone astray.
copyright Chris Smith 2010
Alan Black Mar 2015
"You control our world. You’ve poisoned the air we breathe, contaminated the water we drink, and copyrighted the food we eat. We fight in your wars, die for your causes, and sacrifice our freedoms to protect you. You’ve liquidated our savings, destroyed our middle class, and used our tax dollars to bailout your unending greed. We are slaves to your corporations, zombies to your airwaves, servants to your decadence. You’ve stolen our elections, assassinated our leaders, and abolished our basic rights as human beings. You own our property, shipped away our jobs, and shredded our unions. You’ve profited off of disaster, destabilized our currencies, and raised our cost of living. You’ve monopolized our freedom, stripped away our education, and have almost extinguished our flame. We are hit… we are bleeding… but we ain’t got time to bleed. We will bring the giants to their knees and you will witness our revolution!" ~ Jesse Ventura
No one who actually takes the time to read this can deny it. But, I am willing to wager everything I own that this post recieves less likes, reposts, and comments than an average poem about, heartache, pain, loss, and hate. Who do you think is responsible for all this heartache, pain, loss and hate? If you call yourself a poet, then you should take the time to put aside your own suffering, and consider the source of the suffering of everyone. If everyone on this site wrote a poem about this insanity that we have been accepting for so long then these monsters would take notice.
Chapter XVI
Vernarth Third Finale Fragment, Apud tertium final


Vernarth, runs ripped from himself, after himself, to try to stay in this Parapsychological Regression. His bewilderment was imminent. He was seen in this regression on Nevski Avenue, Saint Petersburg, and in the province of Yekaterinburg, looking for vestiges of the Tungus tribe.
Peter I Alekséievich or Pedro I of Russia, nicknamed Peter the Great Moscow, May 30 / June 9, 1672- Saint Petersburg, January 28 / February 8, 1725.) 1 son of Tsar Alexius I and his second wife Natalia Narýshkina and successor of her half brother Teodoro III (Fiódor Alekséievich), was one of the most outstanding rulers in the history of Russia, belonging to the Románov Dynasty.
He ruled Russia from May 7 (April 27 C.J.), 1682, until his death, and before 1696 he did so along with his weak and sickly brother, Ivan V of Russia. It carried out a process of modernization through westernization and expansion that transformed Moscow Russia into one of the main European powers. He married Eudoxi Lopujiná, with whom he had a son and, in second nuptials, with his servant, who would take the title of Catherine I when he succeeded Pedro after his death occurred in Saint Petersburg on February 8, 1725 as a result of an infection in the bladder.


"... It was reading Vernarth in a tourist magazine when I was on a visit to the region, previously I was in Moscow and its surroundings ..." The parapsychological regression trip, followed and resumed another course with Destination to the Iberian Peninsula, on the Jacobean Route Through Santiago de Compostela and Vigo, in the latter, place passes to see the remains of the crypt of a friend killed in a Crusade. Here the remains rest in the Pereira mausoleum .Continuing his tour in Portugal, Lisbon. In Lisbon, old and melodic Afro Fado, on the sheets hanging from the illustrious houses, saw his escapades continue, rummaging bookstores and offices to get to the rooms of Amalia Rodrígues and the bohemian Lisbonense, who asked for more of his presence than the bartender himself placing port wine on the tables that cover their cork oak tables.


Does your regressive session continue, and was the doctor in charge asking if it was within your will to wake up and end the session? .Vernarth ...; He says with a gesture of his right hand, clutching his left wrist, that he wanted to continue and did not know if he would come back from himself. Which caused the doctor a strange and worried sensation, so he asked for a break before this unusual and abrupt situation. The windows of the room vibrated remarkably low, as if the thick strings of a cello intended to leave everyone diminished, to feel nothing more than himself, the very experience of a simultaneous True Warrior in mere compartments of a life that has currently disturbed him live without being part of any!


The session continues:
"... On a ridge in the middle of combat, Vernarth crosses for more below the positions of the Persians, on him and some like Mardiath, leader of his squad in Tire. Accompanying him, they could feel the thousands of sound frequencies crossing each other. Metals whistling with bowed, high and mid-frequency waves crisscrossing with spears as they skidded off the muffled wheels with their burnt axles.  The herds of fortified elephants, huge towers of ivories slicing bellies and cutting the flag,cloths next to their embalmed suns. Mardiath protects him from the rear, to evict him from the hundreds of boisterous spears, which were intended to target their commander. The Xifos sheared the chins of the almost annihilated Persians. Some of the Greek mercenaries shone with great pride the totemic animals of war to tune the Hellenic ones who cut off everything that was put before them. ”
They continue chasing the peal of spears that no longer spaced more than the shadow of their companions. The ringing of the voices that cut the metal rattle winds continues, diverting the coral trotting of the Macedonians with those of the cavalry, which faster than the others echoed the soon to take of causing always close wounds, where nothing was already with their defense weapons.

Vernarth says: With me there will be nothing ... anything more than how much will be counted, nothing more than being eternally brandishing our Xiphs. Medea ... full sorceress, tell me that I have to bet more than multiply my forces, without being able to unite with your potions of my right breastplate yet?

Medea replies: It must be applied with the woodcutter's hatchet ax. She hardens the edges of the banner, flaming, and the feather that moves the plumes that will be reserved in the squares of your energetic blasphemies. It has already welded your breastplate more than a feeling of longing. She was watered by the sacred steam of the Bumodos and its waters. I am here in full dispute; you can now anoint your throne with squares for more centuries by commenting to the right of the regular rules.

Brisehal in Advance

“They were all in full swing of the latest outbursts of onslaught from both sides. Vernarth gallops across the right side over the spearmen and archers, when suddenly everyone is paralyzed at the sight of a giant shadow of an oversized dog appearing to them from the rear. Some dropped their weapons; others restrained themselves and did not know what to do ... it was even notable that they did not hear the voices of their Persian commanders.


In the immensity of their over proportions, the fusion of reality appears in that of an almost unreal animal that stood between them to intercede and protect Vernarth. Was "Brisehal", which was suspended with its quadruple legs over an area of more than two square kilometers?

It came from Dasht-e-Lut. After Brisehal bellowed and the troops of their self-contemplation were depopulated, they were emerging from the empty Wagnerian Gaugamela. Brisehal with her Anubis-headed mountain, began to move it and shake the space between earth and sky, like the hope of some parishioners to enter the garden-kingdom of Heaven. Before the day trembled with the movement of her trembling footsteps, Brisehal shuddered on both sides and stepped in front of Vernarth to preserve her. When her entire body shuddered, she eliminated the remains of parasites that fell on the insistent achemenids, on their smallest heaps that were seen to be liquidated with the greatest effect of their rotating forces.

They were immense thunderclaps that even scrubbed up to the spheroid clouds reddened by their rising. He turned from left to right as if wanting to exile them to the Desert of Lut, as if to tube his pro generation by the bundles of optical rope or high-density fiber, which could cohabit with Vernarth in his odyssey of the Horcondising (Vernarth lineage paradise to Gaugamela).

From Horcondising; Sudpichi, on the streams channeled like proliferated mirrors, illuminated the sky of his region like haloes of light showing each outcome of the Intervention of this enormous Dasht-e-Lut dog on a huge colorful screen by the celestial air of the nearby clouds.

A guard says: Our Lord Vernarth, is under the protection of Brisehal, just as we with his memory are his succession, we owe him great respect for his bravery and repercussion of his ancestry. I continue from here of the Tower seeing his operations of greater spirit, for the protection of his great heroic sign!

Brisehal, is introduced on the cavalries of thousands of horsemen of the Persians, on hundreds of groups of mounts that flew over their heads the cataphractic armor, also elephants that did not give truce but, the most devastated were the failed cars, which were totally annulled by the bellowing and fierce contortions that Brisehal gave angrily without stopping. From this moment on, Vernarth, who already had contracted wounds, was amazed by this mass of fright in the eyes of the Falangists and the movement of strategies already aimed at deserved success, ******* the huge hordes remained, prey to their fear and undeniable defeat. early.

Alejandro Magnus says: “This Victory has no concordance with others that I have overcome. I must imagine myself supported by the support of my land and my collaborators. Undoubtedly, the tendency of those who have left their sparse sweat on this plain tend to exaggerate, it gives room to further commend the victory of my commander Vernarth and his supporters. The only thing that we can affirm for sure is that our adversaries grasped at the expense of their resources, is that even though they are tremendously superior in quantity to those of the Macedonian army, they were disintegrated at this moment by our overwhelming powers.

Ellipsis Darius III in Arbela

“… In July 331 BC, the army of Alexander the Great would cross the Euphrates River, entering fully into Mesopotamia. At that time, instead of marching south on the river to reach Babylon, where Darius III was supposed to have fled, he chose to head north, crossing the entire Mesopotamian territory until he reached the Tigris River in the second half of September. At the same time, Darius III had marched north to Arbela, just over 100 kilometers from the vast Gaugamela plain. Unlike what happened in the battle of Gránico and the battle of Issos, there he could deploy the full potential of his troops to envelop Alexander's and annihilate him… ”.

Darius III says: Being in Arbela, I should never have disobeyed The Astros. When they moved and I couldn't look at them because of their immigration, I never believed that the nebulae that would cross in front of my eyes would be the chivalry commanded by Alexander Magnus, and the infantry by Vernarth joined Etréstles. Now I see him with his glasses in his hands drinking Nepente in the twilight with his comrades surrounded by Zeus. I meanwhile ..., I still think that I should never have abstracted myself from the last portion of Betelgeuse's movement when he circulated around the border of the emblem of his seduction to the adorned orion belt.

At the time of knowing the movements and tactics of the battle of Gaugamela we find the same problem as always, the veracity of the sources of knowledge, whose account is very similar to that of the battle of Issos. According to this account, Alexander and the cavalry galloped diagonally and to the right, to avoid the caltrops and the failed cars and avoid being flanked by the Persians. Consequently, the Persian cavalry on the left wing moved in pursuit, aiming to overtake the Macedonians and envelop them. However, the Achaemenid horsemen did not realize that in doing so they had separated from the center, where a hole had been opened that allowed them to reach Darius III.

Vernarth says: in the hour that I ate of the black roses and their petals, I must savor the conversation that I had to have with the nature of our military training. Our strategy has oppressed the erratic tactics of the adversaries; the pressure of our Macedonian lancers disrupts the formation of the troops of the satrap Bessos, who end up losing the initiative and fleeing. In the center, the phalanx Me, Mardiath and Etréstles, together with the hipaspistas we will advance slowly but surely, gradually pushing back the Persian units. Brisehal has stood out above the outstanding lightness of the harassed Commander Satrap Maceo, annihilating all attempts to completely discredit him, of which his figure of high countenance was thus tainted. With the sweaty blizzard of the afternoon back then the fully grained shadow of Brisehal migrated to his Dasht-e-Lut desert from where he was confined by command of his allegiance to Vernarth forever and ever where both will always be seen at dawn play and jump.

At one point, after long resisting the burden of the Macedonian sovereign, Darius III makes his worst mistake. As happened in Issos, he gives up the battle when he was not yet decided for either side and flees, progressively dragging with him the rest of the nearby troops. In the face of this movement, Alexander immediately pursued him, and for a moment it seemed that the life of the King of Kings was coming to an end. However, the desperate call of Parmenion, who can no longer resist the fight against the Persian horsemen, makes Alexander desist from his persecution and allows Darius III to escape. When they were abandoned by their king, the Persian army became demoralized and ended up fleeing or surrendering, thus confirming the disintegration of the Persian Empire and the coronation of Alexander the Great as lord of Asia.

The end begins in a new beginning, Vernarth limps along the external bank of the Bumodos with his pectoral reopened and his back with purple colored diaphragms bellowing his resistance. He was accompanied by Kanti and, Etrestles and Mardiath who helped him endure it. They take their steps and approach the store where Valekiria was waiting for them; his consort to apply the sedative ****** essence with waters of the Bumodos to calm his pain, and later return from this great epic of his "Parapsychological Regression" that was soon to culminate.
THIRD  ENDING FRAGMENT
Amber Bowen May 2015
I wonder if you can hear the sound of my heart breaking
With each and every lingering moment that passes between us
Creating an anomaly of congealed insignificance and broken pieces
Pieces of what we used to be when our passion was harder than any metal
I have to wonder if you see who we've created among our tapering bodies
To bear witness to such atrocities held deep within our disturbed souls
To think it does not phase a single cell of your beautiful and vigorous brain
When I say my heart is breaking I mean with every fiber of my being
That the longing aches are gradually moving in with cancerous tendencies
Due to the lack of blissful love and happiness you bathed me in
Perhaps I shall not advance for the benign lies you carefully present
Underlying the very truth that pours from your soft and lush lips
Every liquidated word that snakes down into your veins as chills
Shivering through the marrow of these tired and heavy structural bones
Attacking my nerves and ravaging upon what is left of my being
After the emotional and physical terror you have inflicted upon me
I still run back into your wicked and wanting arms of caress
I still love you.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
ah man... it was just a saturday night,
wet cement
   and street lamps glaring down at me...
it has to be something to do with
password, which i created at 17 "centimetres"...
what's troubling me is the beer i had
on the way... it could very well be dubbed
nameless... bavarian...
but unlike Budweiser... no fermentation of rice...
nothing like budweiser, that ****** albino
of beers...
          no no, nothing crisp either, like you might
drink it on a hot summer's day...
this was different...
     it was extracted from wheat...
ever drink liquidated wheat?
        what, not ever?
    that's why i took the picture which is sitting
in the background...
the beer was so memorable that i kept the actual
bottle...
      who would have thought, that by adding
wheat to the usual medley of barley and hops
you'd get something, worth writing about...
of course, as i spotted the onset of spring
and trees blooming with those little flowers...
  but that beer. ****, on, me...
        it's revolutionary what they do these days,
fermenting wheat, on top of barley and hops...
you almost want to eat grapes rather than drink wine...
want to start a revolution? start brewing beer
incorporating wheat...
   i was actually walking from street-lamp to street-lamp
reading the ****** label...
you sure this isn't belgian?
           either that, or i looked completely stupid...
  it's there though... it's not a budweiser
with that ill aqua-fresh feel of fermenting rice...
it's a co-op (supermarket chain name,
also do funerals, like multi-facet parlours,
or ****) -
what a ****** name for such a good beer though?
wheat beer... bavarian wheat beer:
   made with malted wheat and barley...
   who does that to a masterpiece?
   someone who probably whistles along
to symphony no. 2 in A-minor...
and never bothers with proper titles...
    like.... francis bacon's studies of lucian freud...
i'm guessing they're lazy about naming
their output, simply to they have so much of it,
and it has to look clerical, or let's say:
    surgical, imply that against
the other dictionary that humanity possesses:
an algorhithm...
insert the words: word for surgical, clean...
   ah! there it is, the little ******...
antisepctic...
         just as well... when writing can but does not
reach an elevated status...
   isn't the thing that you take to bed and doze off
using it as a sleeping pill...
    the bit of me that already stated:
i wanna be as rough and toiling as a lumberjack,
as the lumberjack said: writing was never
about creating a *****-magnet,
a bit like a cow, in a field, less bulls to **** me,
yet more bothersome paper-clips like flies to
daunt me... or that's what a tail is for,
to disperse them...
           the devil and a tail and an impotence of
a tail that he uses for a trouser-belt, but doesn't wear
trousers, merely picks it up, that flamboyant additive,
and swings it to a twirl of full circle,
walking away while whistling
and saying: the part where i say: i've eaten the heads
either side of a cooked chicken bone...
heads? those parts that need lubrication,
so the things that are later called gensis: arthritis...
but it was in all earnest, a magical beer,
a revelation... who could have thought that wheat,
that from wheat alone, i'd be walking the night
and actually sniffing the neck of a bottle...
   like an arab in a bakery, sniffing freshly baked baklava...
and that really is, pistaschio galore...
oh right... pistachio... no s... taccos and chow mein...
apologies, i sometimes forget what the "unspoken"
rules of **** schizoi consist of...
write it one way, speak it another way -
sure show... how about a Pinnoccio drinking a capuccino
donning ccinos? again: what i see as necessarily
dyslexic: it's actually pinocchio,
   and it's cappuccino... and it's chinos....
and all that, from the greek χ (chi)...
or whatever χ was doing when the family k c q
came about... i'm thinking q is a mistake given
the already stated optical implants that really do,
deviate from how to base clear-cut memories of:
in case we need to remember.
    i still know that s z and x have a thing going on.
that beer... budweiser tastes nothing like
it might, ever, don a crown to encompass the spectrum...
you're basically drinking this beer
           and you're thinking belgium, but it's
bavarian... and i'm currently in a youtube vlogger's
punctuation mode...
   watch way too much of that **** to end
up writing like i am, right now;
                                          eeek! a teenage girl! run!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i found that only the mono-phonetic peoples of this earth act like neanderthals did: protectively... implying i had a chance with one of their ****** counterparts... the loss of monotheism in a largely diffused area creates them, they're prone to shouting drunk slogans when watching a football march: with no foreign invasion impeding... to say the basics: that they can't intellectualise drinking is their downfall... drinking is shamanic like eating certain mushroom is: drink is liquidated fungus, it's an implication of all things thriving on the degenerative, to thrive on decomposition... even those championing the psychedelic escape route with the fungus can't see for a miles' worth of **** the potential of liquidating mushrooms / wheat and bottling it... i never expected to say profound things... and even if i did, i wouldn't get a ***** from saying them as those quasis who say profound things and leave me limp-dicked anyway.

a bottle of beer in between glugs of whiskey as they are:
the most refreshing and happy: sunshine down
my throat... and with those words unsaid
but typed: how i too can adopt a sarcasm
for all the woes that un-inebriated
people state, middle-aged and sexually frustrated
from socially-invoked inhibitors concerning image...
sarcasm is all they get back...
it's kinda sad... kinda...
all i'm doing in writing this verse
is an attempt to re-enter the haunting
house of the epic i started
writing two days ago...
    on the principle of ensō i find myself
unable to reenter than narrative,
every time i think about doing so
i think of: inauthentic...
                and it would be,
authenticity and the equivalent of
said once, therefore said properly...
but i wish to: only to erased the (pending)
in the title...
   but then i look at the script and think:
i've moved past this...
    why would i want to turn a river
of yore, into a lake of the now?
then unto man, who unable to coerce the elements
sought a fifth for elemental as too sensory
encapsulation and boundary,
   lightning being the fifth element...
candles v. light-bulbs, right?
       for too long the tetra-said-and-tetra-experienced...
or toward encapsulating man in
     water (creativity)
       and within wind (empty talk)
          as with earth (proverbs)
so too with fire (rhetoric)
                    so too with lightning (genius),
how i wish to have been able to write those
belittling notes down in industrial print
away from what would be considered
mindless sketching: that is why industrialisation
of print has created a medium of uniformity,
but also the Picasso's worth of hand-craftship
in what appeared at Belshazzar's feast in
the invention of late, western origination of graffiti:
******* rebel. can anyone else imagine
saying something like that, instead of asking
us why the flu or the tapeworm exists?
       the re-, the one true unfathomable monstrosity
apart from the logic of moving from point A to
point B... the re-, the one true unfathomable
monstrosity that burdens us all: who are rested...
the repetitive dream when we are instilled into
lying back and unconscious...
   for the blinking of the eye: and what is sight...
     for the first oyster gulped wriggling down
our oesophagus, alive,
    to the second and third, on a date with a lovely
   at Harrods... for all that re- is, without the -s,
it can only be a thing...                        as
thus said: that ancient curse of the vampiric
insatiable thirst to continue: under whatever circumstance,
repeat, replicate... oh the woe of the re-
                         as to be endured, heard, seen, felt, tasted...
with the demagogue all suicides rebel against:
master pro, master pro,
         who ***** his re *****, who ***** his re *****
in all of us: as transcendental genetics might not teach
us... bound to only escape such a formula,
staging ourselves within the groundwork of
the pre formulae; or how i can understand true will,
or the existence of will, as only a suicide might
investigate: to take death into his ***** and say:
for what will continue in me is but mere an apathy
of submission, but if i take death to the dancefloor,
i will truly find death's master: for in old age i will
not find wisdom, but merely the plagiarism of
childhood with less haste: to chase, to hide, to speak...
i find old age as not blessing with that childhood
already was... let me take death to the dancefloor,
on the seabed, in the hands of a hurricane,
         in the sunken sockets of gravity...
       please, here, in the crescendo of what i feel,
rather than in a congregation of mourners who
weep only in the thespian courtesy for others.
suicide? that is what i understand as true will -
              man, bacterium infernum: lost within
a blinking of an eye - within which all fates of things
freeze, undisturbed, as if alive and relentlessly blooming,
for within them an untrodden path and
within them a hand that never endured tilling as
a scythe... of that Edenic hope: to live among
the less mechanised things and in turn be a lessened
replica of that mecha-...           should this be seen
as an encouragement? too long has the asylum been
romanticised...
                    few have ventured to romanticise
the eventuality of Camus' culmination...
of what had to become the *sole
question...
          hence the taboos... people demand to think
that certain cognitive states are akin to viral infections...
   as if all those bound to the unexplained are
pulverising leprosy to the general public...
   a common trait, among neanderthals.
I can't sleep...like King Midas I learned a lesson
Like a wild stallion advancing with his stesons..

**** the obvious I want you like you want guitar lessons...

****, I just want to be your everything
Without IG or FB causing a calamity scene

Vibrate...like the trumpits of Jericho decimating your inner walls of wet moist  Marley green....smoking hot...

My thoughts liquidated Jack and Jameson only to execute a formulated high of her.....making that "Beyoncé" trot

**** it I'm high and drunk off her love and inner being that is.....HOT....

Can't catch a break but I'll catch her heart from escaping mine in time of a simplistic woven knot...

Knot or not....bartender, twisted but not stirred in a ***
temajung michael May 2015
i beseech thee to answer
is there still hope???

Forgetting their vows of chaste they become lecherous
fighting for power, they become ambitous.
their actions make people shock
for they forget why they put on the cassock.
respect for God, our clergies no longer have
but so greedy with the things they have.
they dont mix with the poor to help them spiritually
but go for the rich to enrich themselves.
churches are now business centers for money
clergies bless only those who make the offertory box full.

SO BROTHER, IS THERE STILL HOPE??

They stand as if pious to duty
but these our policemen are pious to money,
they check not the motor
but go for “500frs” which is their motto.
they can be seen standing with zeal
hands stretch, they stand still
first, they could be seen to stamp
after collecting bribe, they champ

SO SISTER, IS THERE STILL HOPE??

The rich live mysteriously
and enjoy themselves like angels
while the poor live in mysery
and die because of negligence

TO YOU, IS THERE STILL HOPE??

Embezzlement in Cameroon is a virtue
it is practised in all offices
thieves go in broad daylight unscathed
while the innocent ones are caught and they cant fight

My country is said to be democratic
but elections have never been smooth
for thirty one years the president has stayed in power
using deceit and the gun to rule.
IS THIS HOW IT SHOULD BE??

virgins have now liquidated themselves
they prefer being ravished
everywhere you go you stumble on prostitutes.
my black girls don’t like their colour
they prefer to strive to be whites
thus, monsters they become in a bid to peel their skin
very few believe in “black is beauty”

Brothers copulate sisters
while fathers copulate daughters.

IS THERE STILL HOPE???

Source; IS THERE STILL HOPE???|Inspirational Poems
Mother me in this maze
Blood transfused in your gaze

The flood is high in confined quarters
your eyes shimmer like coins on dying days

The passage through unknown waters
The light reflects white through our barters

My hand extends to a friend, briefly
we make amends with the alignment of lines on our hands

Bull and battered man combined brute force with a weak mind
but even your unkindness inspired warmth in my eyes

Tears tear holes in maroon silk
Blood red rubies fall from the slits in our faces

The salty seas add insult to injury
transport power from poor workers to hungry eyes

We are mere travelers blessed with wooden cognizant hearts
Secretly teasing the embers of life to ignite our hearths

There is more to see than raging seas of empty flesh
Crimes of passion and tears of possession are weaved and liquidated

Run after the river of your ancestor's pursuits
Bright and beautiful lights bouncing off the mirrors

Enticing secular exchange in specular reflection
The same mistakes are made for eternity since antiquity
Chip Wheatly Aug 2019
The Alchemist made potions
he had a workshop, mysterious
it was ever in motion
the atmosphere, serious

the walls were covered in books
tomes of questionable origin
apparatus to cook
and a rusty old storage bin

spoked wheels spun
pistons reciprocated
condensers did hum
solids liquidated

viscous and translucent
solutions illuminated
slightly florescent
masses accumulated

he will put it on heat
and add a caustic injection
hit a switch at his feet
and pause for reflection

all the ingredients
for his ultimate goal
he could finally achieve it
turn iron to gold!
The carts' been put
before the horse again
and now the goods
spill to the floor

Your market shares
have been inflated
and you feel more worthless
than you did before

The black wagon
liquidated the assets
to begin fresh
so you can start over once more

This isn't the bottom
it's an inevitably to the top
apply the failure to the fulcrum
and break through the door.
**** of innocent squaw king “noble savage

as coined by Jean Jacques Rousseau. –

     men of yore abusive, deceptive, heave, murderous scamps, thus no different than modern roman font size twelve times.
     i ponder what this tract of heavily commercialized former farmland looked like before European settlers bull dozed their might (against indefensible right) eventually liquidated every last native inhabitants, and paying tacit homage by hash-tagging those who bore a greater birthright to remain, boot the primitive means of self defense out gunned by aggressive intruders, and now the ghosts of wantonly slain innocent kindred folk, who endowed sanctity to this tortured planet prompts me wonder at the lost innocence (childlike) respect toward aged elderly, whose oral knowledge encompassed the know how regarding survival skills now lost.
*******************­
a column of el nina fury swept ashore
with santa maria frenzy like a beastly bus
gone wild as teenagers during spring break
hedonistically frolic and cuss
oblivious of the native tribes,
who once blissfully n’er dealt with a fuss
of bacchanalian, leviathan,
saturnalian proportions spreading ****
when ill animalistic germs disguised then
triangulated within narrowing pen
contaminated, decimated, eradicated “red” men
once a collection of indomitable
indigenous separate “nations”
plucked by nemesis of free-wheeling
invaders, who usurped america as their den
releasing poison couched as religion into the air
which indignities true colors became readily clear
when europeans “discoverers”
deliberately fomented war-fare
to those whose instincts
found themselves in deadly cross hair
as every square inch of “new world”
grimly rustled peace in every lair

with deadly piping hot metallic bullets with near
e chance for aboriginal peoples that seemed queer
with unfamiliar customs on par with a satyr
without the means to escape any direction they did veer
cohesion of unity did completely annihilate without a trace
forced to endure countless cruelties
i.e. a holocaust usurping space
that belonged to those, who stood apart as
utopian temperate separate race
paraded as “exotic specimens” in some faraway place
bandied about as if they happen
to be some rare refinery like silken lace
cheated, finagled, inveigled,
lured, oppressed, root from entire face
of their rightful home by
chicanery, frippery, illusory and base
though with hawk like vision totally blind
to banality, deviltry, effrontery,
gimcrackery, hostility though dined
with fool-hardy, mockery,
travesty from Europeans whose dreams lined
against so called “brutish
and nasty” original occupants who maligned
innocent amazingly gracefully
lean peoples who did pine
for lovely bones where ancestors
warriors descendants withered on vine
against vanquished population
resembling Asian creed
whence soldiers commemorated
for revenge as worshipful deed

shackled, ***** only in death freed
yet in lethality our forebears flush with greed
which cruelty, debauchery, enmity,
ferocity – essentially genocide knew no heed
feigning sincerity, yet holding
murderous rapacity to slay every hide despite plead
and exchanging peace pipe made of reed!
james nordlund Jul 2020
**** said, "people wouldn't have the pandemic if they weren't tested".  
If he were a comic he'd get this advice, your policy jokes are like a
bridge too far that's not far enough, to nowhere, you'd **** there, go.

Still, he continues to refuse to use the DPA to nationalize producing,
distributing effective testing, PPEs, which would save taxpayers 100's
of billions of dollars overspent now on gouged prices, and 100's of

thousands of their lives, he continues to preach his 'corona schmorona'
policies at his super-spreader of disease rallies, exterminating repubs.
Our outrage can turn the tide, as can a term or two of President Joe.

We've got 614 billionaires here, why can't "...we(e),..." inspire them to
replace our 'should a, could a, would a' situation with a win, win one.
They walk into a bank, walk out with 100 million dollar loans, that can

purchase the combining of medical manufacturers to do what the not
use of DPA didn't, supply States with all the testing, PPEs they need at
a decent price, the guaranteed market would do the same for the loans.

A nation working together can save those 100's of thousands mass-murdered by the repubs coviding, premeditatedly, and those whose
ases, assets will be liquidated by homelessness, hunger, crime, stress.

Only if we insist the model of mass theft of tax dollars by purposely not preventing things is tossed: Lion of The Senate running against Carter = October Surprise, Iran-Contra-gate; S+L gate; Y2K; Silicon Valley Start-

up Bust; Attacks on 9-11-01; unnecessary unending wars; '05 filling the bowl by Katrina, NOLA, by non-reinforcing of levees for decades; '07 great recession; '10 manufacturing of tea party by ebony, ivory, the

Black, white supremacies, working in perfect harmony with the multi-media conspiracy, as they're doing now; '16 non-prevention of hacking of election, if you didn't vote Hillary you voted to illegally install Utin and

his **** into the BlackHouse; '17's seeing **** end the WhiteHouse pandemic response team, cut CDC's funding, etc., to allow the virus to take elderly, poor lives, ***** nil. The insanity can be stopped, will you?
"The root of all oppression lies in (supposed) science", "be the change you want to see in the world", Gandhi.  They're going to ****** your family, if not with this virus than another, unless you protect, occupy, GOTV, "you can't dismantle the man's house with the man's tools", Lourdes: classism, notseeism, totalitarianism, defining power as manipulation through to genocide, instead of learning through to consciousness raising.  Copy, share as you will.  Thanx for all you do and don't.  Be well.  Viva la vida, solidaridad, la evolucion   :)   reality
nivek Jan 2017
the darkness seeps from its lair
infecting all it can
and those it cannot
are liquidated by those it can.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.even the norsemen fathomed a disgust for encouraging ****, and cannibalism, even if it was: christian metaphorical...

the air has a whiff of soap in it,
unlike the casual association of bourbon
to a brothel...

       the air... nearing the end of spring...
at night...
          and it has the scent of soap...
scent of soap: a liquidated toll of melting,
butter...  
but with perfumery additions...
like... once upon a time: squeezing
lavendar...
                 molotov chamomile?
seriously... a bottle of bourbon can remind
you of visiting a brothel...
but... the night...
   remidning you of melting butter,
butter infused with chamomile?

    night-time... and soap... soap...
       no angelina jolie salt...
               no salt: all, about...         soap!
seriously, is it chamomile soap?
            it's buttery glue sickly snort...
                  "doodle"...
                          ­    and when all
the president's men...
oh when all the president's men...
go marching in...
   oh when all the president's men...
go marching in...
oh when all the president's men...
oh when all the president's men...
go marching in...
   the president's men,
the president's men...
go marching in...
   i want to be, in that, tabloid spew!
oh when all the president's men go
tacky 'em 'selves in on in;
    i want to be in that "'umber"...
              because otherwise
the sun would never...
          try being smart...
contra the tabloid press...
      i want to be... in that header...
oh when all the president's men
grovel, at ever, having marched in.

you either learn the flute:
or you learn to play the tongue -
the equivalence of music here
and the equivalence of music
throughout...
            i had to toy with
diacritical marks because
i wanted to be less jealous of
people able to read music
              script;
it's not that poetry became a lesson
in elocution:
     but being able to make
the distinction,
       in that english has
dyslexia while polish has
orthography...
        and there's always
a democratic complexity of god
to return to.
   then again i do slur when it
comes to practice:
   but that comes from
having observed:
       the eyes read more than
the tongue bothers to recite.
      yet the crow is
persistently consistent with
its croaking:
as i will be: adding accents...
not for a reason
to agree with a uniformity
as the end results:
  it's just that i don't like eating
food cooked by other people,
a friday night's fish & chips
                              cooked by turks?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
the art of reading: the art of being selective.

i was never compelled with a need
to write, unlike some people: who are -
i never found myself fathoming
an impetus to write,  
      i never succumbed to such a desire,
what happened is past me,
for i'm already infused in the medium
beyond being redeemed from escaping
it: perhaps there's an inkling as to
why i chose to write, "sparingly":
i grew too much respect to *ars lego
:
the art of selectivity, of reading -
of nurturing a spirit that had the capacity
to lecture, but one that: never bowed
before a chance to lecture?
          i could never undertake a novelist's
levelling of the reader's plateau,
i had too much respect for the reader
already, to allow discouraging him...
as i find that: most novelists have lost
the ability to read, to, read...
                 flaccid buggers of the deep...
writing a book seems less
importune than reading one,
   on the basis of their, supposedly,
excited vocab.
                      i have managed to be
humbled in my expenditure of words -
i respect reading more than writing,
which is why i settled on poetry -
however un-technical, and all the more:
ancient, with the prime component being
narrative...
             21st century is not about
Priam, or Paris, or Achilles nor Hector,
excuse me,
       ensuring we're fluctuating in
history without a clear logic of whether
it's on repeat: or grasped toward the gains
of so much or so little years passed...
that's beside me...
just today i watched the film lawrence of
arabia
and i'm bound to the thought
of: how did the people in the 1960s
sit through a 3h film?!
             i couldn't!
i have to reiterate for my own sake
of knowing the truth:
i cannot, write a novel,
   for the simple reason that,
novelists do not respect novels,
when i cite fiction, they cite , friction...
i respect the reader before i
acknowledge the writer...
  and for this reason,
i am cursed into writing poetry...
               but this statement is more
self-reflecting / revealing than i thought
was possible to achieve...
         i'm not exactly pupaphobic,
only that i'm clauro...
                    mind you,
this whole afternoon minding lawrence:
in the distance,
  the form of man, and horse,
appeared molten...
                 the shadow resonated
beyond an actual body,
the land seemed to be evaporating,
   striking to release a sindwinder's
take on traversing the desert plain,
     forms in the distance looked
liquidated, even though the land was
a carcass of stillness...
the forms molten in animation,
    felt sullen, in liquidated form,
upon a barren plateau...
         water looked evaporating
from ever crackling crevice -
           a grand, oratory:
                                        fata morgana.
- but at least i came to realise
why i was never to be a novelist,
only a "poet":
    i read more than a novelist allows
to have read: to become a novelist;
nonetheless i am thankful for having
achieved this balance of
inquiry and introduction into
expressing my own, work.
Gypsy Aug 2023
The jumbled froth of life
A frayed tapestry of ruin
Made sodden by the rain
Concealing a malignant thought
Those ancient instincts
Become my own tormentor
Filled with the reek of forests in decay
Merging dark in the webbed greasy darkness
Singing for the road
These levelling times
A brainless mechanical automation of jangling discord
Within the silt of memories
liquidated to the transitory currency of destruction
A drowsy chaos of reasoned passions
written on the passing wave
Dawn - hints at the shape of things - flexes
Through the struggles of our ancestors
Forever haunting the abbreviated memory of flesh
In our braided stream of citizenry
We are all the dead and dying..

Gypsy
David Betten Oct 2016
MOTECUHZOMA
            Now, Hungry Prince, let’s brace for weighty words.            
            You know that since our founding fathers’ reign
            Our kingdoms have been linked like tilting twins,
            Sharing the fruits and frowns of war alike,
            Two striding shanks, each foot outreaching each,
            My Mexicans, the eagles of this island,
            Across the lake, your leopards of Texcoco,
            Dainty Tlacopan third and least of all.

CUITLAHUAC
            But, since the death of wise Hungry Coyote-
            Your father- one alone has hitched the wind,
            One arm engirdling our fractious state,
            Which on one mighty truncheon hops her way.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Our Triple Alliance therefore is dissolved.
            Now must this galled umbilical be clipped,
            Tlacopan liquidated for our bullion,
            And you to trudge your solitary trail,
            With gods’ best blessings for your bond and bail.

HUNGRY PRINCE [aside]
            Oh, let my heart freeze up at this cold news,
            For if this tongue should blab the ****** thoughts
            These staunchless chambers seal inside my chest,
            The tyrant should extract this swollen fruit,
            And make my skull the drinking cup of God.
            Thus should I truly mirror this prodigy-
            A heartless sap, who’s plainly lost his head.

TLACAELEL
            Hungry Prince,
            Take aim at only what is possible,
            For you and I alike both know the fancy
            Of human justice only enters where
            The pressure of necessity is equal,
            And that the stout and rivalrous exact
            All that they can, the weak grant what they must.
            Of gods we do believe, of men we know,
            That by a natural proclivity,
            Wherever they can wield the whip, they will.
            This primal rule was not drawn up by us,            
            Nor were we first to heed its nascent call.
            The trail’s long blazed, and we do but inherit
            This trait, and shall bequeath it to all time,
            Content to know that you and all mankind,
            If once enfranchised vast as we are now,
            Would do as we now do.
                                              Exit all but Motecuhzoma and Hungry Prince.

HUNGRY PRINCE                                Thus it must be,
            Since thus you have declared it for a rule.
            And though this outlook seems the sophistry
            Of inharmonious and immoderate minds,
            Who will say ‘no’ when you have said ‘it’s so?’

MOTECUHZOMA
            Do not return, when taxmen come to call,
            And whine that I require too much of you,
            Since now you nod assent to my decree.
            You know the fortune of capricious war:
            Today for you, tomorrow it’s for me.                       Exit.

HUNGRY PRINCE
            Then revel it, old ruffian, while you may.
            Tomorrow’s but a fitful sleep away.                         *Exit.
I have a poster of fame
Posted on every building and street corner in America
I am an outlaw on the lamb
as I am running from the "Law of The Land."
A "dangerous flame."

I am not of criminal nature.
I seem to have let down those who have arrested me
Investments that couldn't be made due to accidents and Ill Receptive Moments
I broke from a dark cell to seek a land which will accept
outlaws such as me.

Such events Transformed friends into Law Seekers
Running after a "rogue comrade"
To be liquidated from the inventory
the names of entities
Scratched off the List of people  
who are titled the  "Accepted Glory."

Friends lost the notions of "balance"
as certain rewards were notable to be  banked
to be received
as amounts of funds
As the situation grew dim with tragedy

To the court of "The Worms Wall"
He was sentenced to exile
Without a chance of debating the Liability
No Balance
Without his own counsel
This fugitive never stood his chance.

Wishing to have someone to become his friend
He was drawn into the darkness from understanding's light
As the empty chair in the court room
They were not there
I sat in the Witness Box
Shivering in the coldness of the Verdict's Plight

To where I am supposed to go while now on the run
I need a retrial
To prove my name of the  truth
As such titles should   be replaced on the list
Until such
My tour shall be advertised on Wanted Posters all over
Friendship city
Until I can prove my true blue loyalty
I have no dignity
I am now the lost one.
After letting down others, in which you look up to and wish to befriend, does not work out to crazy disagreements... Despair makes you feel like the outlaw. Your other friends look down to you enough to be the law men and women.
     Judgments of being disloyal and dishonest..you fail to see how you can defend such a stance as the opposite of such findings.
      You feel unwelcome to return to friendship city until you prove your rights to be among the names of the favored and non-scandalous bright faces looked up too
You wish to prove yourself as what you truly are. An honorable knight defending Friendship's Castle. Never an outlaw with your face plastered upon posters of the "wanted."
Robert Jaensch Dec 2016
I musta been t’only fruit on the tree
Or never you would’ve picked me
I liquidated the first one in fear
If not for me, they should be here
You caught me at a bad time
Mostly all the fault is mine
You placed yourself in serious peril
A long date with a scarred devil
Drew the blank in a deck of 53
Should have run away in glee
Wasn’t bad always I suppose
Better when it came to a close
I marvel at your maturity now
I wanted to, didn’t know how
Travelling now with the best
Easier now you got rid of your pest
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
without disrupting the poem, after all, the original tenant left and someone new has moved in... adding a pr.s. (pre-scriptum / prologue, but not quite, since the praxis of this sort of phrasing is attache in nature), the revised size of a cup that became a mug invokes the following revision: it's still 50ml of milk, but the amount of brew is - 200ml - i lied though, i added an acute iota... and the: must we? surely there are some aesthetic observations worthwhile to be made, like the doubling of letters, the english answer to missing diacritical applicability, ever present, as if god... spleen morbidity, you can obviously replace the ee bit with an iota acute, but would it look ugly? most certainly... but not asking for etymological uprooting of a rooting of a foreign word, akin to shísha... otherwise you'd include the near-proximity of a Y with that automated diacritical mention on the iota... dot what? dr. dotwhat? quack?! then you get cackling of a magpie, what next? a crying hyena?! if no letter follows the last, you can actually pin-point an i with an iota grave... and all i have is a stick and a stone to work my entry into applying diacritical marks in particular instances available, which, as a language, is a inferno in paradiso for a pedant... a dot on the iota and a dot on the be-jesus that's a massive tarantula! that's i have: entry point via i... exit point via j-j-jaded! ah man, that aerosmith gig in hyde park, two girls by my side, joint in hand... the fun of the fun times when some things were still funny; and i lied because i also added the grave iota... which resembles a quick-snap merging of mono-syllable words, otherwise represented akin to this (with iota having its "head" ******* on): cha'i.

the notion that mixing milk with *chaì

is an english invention is simply wrong,
there is another nation of people
who are adamant tea drinkers,
namely the russians...
                     frequently mention
in dostoevsky's novels: the samovar -
which is equivalent to a shísha pipe
of the middle east
(can't we just have the acute i?
it's pretty much the same as p p ee)...
  what do the english have? a kettle.
ah ****, i forgot about the green tea
drinkers, the chinese and the japanese...
never mind,
  but i forgot because... the english are
not the only ones who add milk to their
black tea...
               in siberia they do likewise...
it was never just an english "thing" -
in poland they call adding milk to tea
a vabarka - intended to intimidate
like ordering cranberry juice in an irish
pub...
      i.e. the question: you lactating
or something?
             - and yes (and doubly yes,
you can begin a sentence with a conjunction
if it's predicated with a hyphen) -
    the best tea in england comes
from yorkshire...
       yorkshire tea is the only tea to drink...
and i found out the secret
for the best tea...
    like a bartender in a bar,
i took out the measuring tool,
   50ml on top, 25ml below...
                 the ideal amount of
milk...
             50ml of milk to 186ml of brew...
put a 9 in between the 1 and the 8
and you'd get the year of my birth...
and hey presto! toasted wheat colour,
just the sort of thing worth drinking...
maybe i was misinformed,
but i heard that americans only drink
ice tea, and are more into their coffee,
am i right?
               nothing beats the oozing
warmth from yorkshire tea
with milk...
             almost like ******* on
werther's original candy...
                   liquidated, ready to be slurped
up by pensioners...
                 with subtle hints of
'erbs...
                       so no, the english are
not the only people to drink black tea
with milk... the siberians also take to drinking
it that way...
    and given that the english are popular
for doing so, i suspect the siberians were
the first to adapt the practice...
the loudest gobs are always the ones
to nullify the pioneers...
   like christopher columbus comapred
with leif eriksson.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
and i sometimes why i have premonitions
of sorts,
one i found myself walking up arthur's seat
in edinburgh, converging on imagining
but not actually seeing fields of crosses -
which is the strange aspect of imagination:
you never actually see what you sometimes
imagines,
               and you never know
these these "visions" will precipitate to make
them real,
   i didn't know syria would become a playground
for crosses,
  the world has become too vast to prepare you
with a certainty of locality,
syria being one of these loci;
yet you still walk around three days prior
like a shadow,
morose, bewildered and rarely speaking,
only saying the odd hello,
   because, deep down: something is brewing,
and it will not be pretty,
you *****, take a **** about give time,
reaching a limit whereby you're left *******
a liquidated form of a body of a ****...
and still nothing feel right...
   and then being rudely woken at 3 a.m. in
the the night, left to scout the place and invite
the shadows into your abode...
    as i was once asked:
      let me die on the threshold of death -
fully conscious of the inevitable -
i'm starting to think that mort in somnia
(death in your sleep) is the worst way to go...
as i still can't believe that sophistry has evolved
to the extent that there are no dialecticians
at hand, simply because there is always
a mediating figure in the "discussion" -
i find that staggering -
   that the most eloquent speakers of our times
really do require mediators,
instigators of punctuation marks of a discussion...
just like i find it odd that the american term
pollack is deemed "offensive", actually,
it's quite complimentary,
   it's so near jackson and the randomness of
his paintings...
      between pole poll paul, i'd prefer the original
pronunciation of the term,
sure, the aesthetic of the spelling if
slightly odd, but at least people get
the pollack jokes - and no paul's lacking -
  polak is very much akin to the original spresch...
and i sometimes do imagines the idea of
anglo-swabians, rather than the anglo-saxons
settling among the druids, and calling boars:
wild hogs...
           it was never, and never will be
a degrading term, it will actually always be,
plus / minus the jokes
  akin to the picts inventing the copper wire
why fighting over a penny: stretching it...
a skint debate...
         at least we get be rid of the poles,
the polls, the norths & the souths,
                  and the (st.) pauls...
which brings me to a bilingual etymological
comparison...
   the germanic people see the ethnicity of
the slav as simply a people: shying away from
adding an E...
      let invite you on a little secret -
you that in slavic etymology
          slav ≠ slave, rather -
      słowianin = root word słowo,
meaning word - and that's just shy of
sława, i.e. fame?
what's that in irish? a short hand form of -
scrubbing radishes clean?
      it's just staggering that people require
a mediator to practice dialectics...
    people are so well-versed in rhetorical
techniques, that their supposedly well-versed
staging of elocution, perfected,
actually requires a mediator to calm people down;
i'd really love to see a take on dialectics
without: third party influencers,
mediators, barometers...
     the missing third limb...
     when at least one of the people in the discussion
could aid the cushioning effect,
  and always reply with:
      genesis primo - revertere ut primus -
momentum est in principium...
     all poetry reverts to a beginning -
     there has to be this reverting to a beginning
because only the beginning matters,
and like art, the beginning is an unfathomable
carbasus alba...
        or in scientific terms:
    carbasus nigrum, or the medium
          ex ditto - ad ditto - ad ditto in infinitum -
ad re - idem ditto - ex ditto:

which is very much the idea of a wheel,
worded -
         in more concrete terms, kantian:
a priori ad a posteriori sine ditto.
(without a prior toward an after without
                                     the prior said).

— The End —