Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
bypassing the 502 error: title - whiplash...
body... cream...

original intent:

they're doing road works on a stretch of road
where the brothel sits:
house of the rising sun or whatever you want
to call it... i'm not ready for the thrist:
for the plunge that will extend into half a decade's
worth of not *******...
i'll give it a week or so... before i take the plunge:
proper... mind you... i've already found
the perfect formula for drinking...
the cheapest bottle of australian wine...
at 14%... mixed into the glorious Mayan drink
of the gods' that's kalimotxo...
and if i'm still not "feeling it": i'll top myself
off with some slender-man's whiskey glug-glug...
it worked so well for 4 years without
touching a woman's body...
what the hell prompted me?
to wake up from this slumber?
oh... right... i own two maine **** cats
and when i was grooming the female...
she stuck up her brunt right into my hands...
it felt like: trans-species ******* for a while...
a cog in my brain went loose...
for days i cycled in the night into central London
looking at the flesh market:
of the free peoples of the western world...
what prompted me...
i was grooming my maine **** cat and she
was tempting me with a: ******* hairy apple...
no... wrong... just plain wrong...
perhaps i swing around beard envy & ha...
***** envy (well... imagine a rabbit ******* an elephant...
big **** genre of: and how deep is that...
ahem... hole? standard kama sutra...
not one size fits all)
but when your cat starts to imitate getting it...
**** me... the night... cycling... sweating it off...
until you have to touch the antonym...
but suppose you come across a timid girl
and you get a case of erectile dysfunction...
while you end up caressing her: timidly kissing
her because she's timid...
pointing at her eyebrows... nose... eyes...
ears... pimples... freckles and moles...
the mirror... fingers... elbow... knees...
and asking her to say the Romanian words for them...
sure... a momentary lapse in sanity:
the reason(s) was already self-evident...
take a woman like Ava Lauren...
now... my god... by god... that's a ****-machine...
an *** like a Lamborghini and a body
like a leather armchair...
and she stuck through it... a mandible body
of the extension of the jaw...
some people are born to be boxers...
she was built to be ****** in the confines of
orthodoxy...
dead pornstars though... i.e. Shyla Stylez...
it's really a joke if i ask: would it be necrophilia
if i'm doing it to images of a dead pornstar?
"doing it": best on the toilet...
no... no scented candles... no eager kangaroo *****
no webcam... no thrill...
3 birds:  1 stone: on throne of thrones...
no better way and all the best excuses to later
jump under the shower and get on with the dead...
sorry.. day...
4 years i did... grooming a cat awoke in my a thirst
i thought i had long forgotten...
- kinks: mostly foreplay...
       kissing after all that 2nd base foreplay
while she's on top of you veiling you with her
Turkic raven hair...
immediately after the act: all that virility...
now... dilution...
            kinks: i still tend to rub my hands against
a brick wall before i enter their abode...
i rub my hands against bricks
to demand more from when i'm touching
flesh... nothing can come close when standing
at the altar of a woman's naked body
in dim lighting... with at least 2 mirrors on the wall...
reassurances of cleanliness are highly
welcome... even though by a tonne load of surprises
she would perform ******* with the rubber
commoner of promiscuity...
- kinks: any body attired in latex...
  that's the height: ms. gimp...
                          well... there's that or me endowed
with a cockerel sized endowment about
to **** a maine **** cat during grooming...
as "sick" as finding out you've been doing
the nos. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones
to a dead pornstar like Shyla Stylez...
in third person: lover-boy all smooches
and octopus tentacles reading the geography
like he might pick up the braille of all the grooves
and hinges...
interruption: i'm no pornographer!
although there's this one allusion:
    Venus in Furs... ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
on the tip of my tongue:
at the tip of my fingers...
to turn stone in skin...
   - i remember being in a strip-club once...
i had to fly to Athens for that one...
i walked into a market sq. and met up with
some random... Greeks... Algerians...
Medi- olive skinned folk...
complete strangers... we drifted around the nightclubs
and watched the girls coming out...
how's that scale of nought through to ten?
below average... and highly demanding...
the four of us decided: **** it...
we climbed into a car and drove to the outskirts
of Athens to a strip-club...
unlike a dog that's chasing cars
i couldn't just... look... a few drinks down
and still eyeing the prize
i had two women around my arms
and my face buried in one's *****:
while some demon-she look on from
the other side of the platform of lost clothing...
another put a green peg on the table
informing me i could have more...
by then i was out of debit... my card was
returned... a bouncer escorted me to the nearest
cash machine in a hotel... started talking
to the receptionist while i was pretending to
withdraw money i didn't have...
right there and then i became a child:
******* my clothes... excitement, fear... both...
dunno... drunks have this build in GPS...
Athens... a city i only just arrived in...
blind drunk mad with love...
i managed to find my way back to the hostel...
**** the guiding beacons into my dreams...
eh... a ******* is never going to be a brothel...

i don't like the argument of:
look... but don't touch... touch... but don't taste...
taste but don't... what comes after taste?
if ever i catch myself watching pornogrpahy
it has to be classic Italian flicks...
on silent...
i can never be fully absorbed:
i'll wait for a real experience to come
with the flood of the senses...
i can't give myself to simulation with all
the sense...
after all... i was probably one of the last
boys who bought a ***** mag in a shop
with... actual expedience of trade...
it was still in the open...
i might have died of shame but at least
i didn't hide it...

                  no shame in Belgium though...
we were visiting world war I graveyards
and the trenches... but at the same time
we were looking for the best brothel in Ypres
while i was the only boy buying a ***** mag...
all ****... shaved... unshaved...
no *******: because a man's imagination
was still fertile... you had a woman's body
impose itself on your psyche like
an x-ray... and you had all that imagination
to subsequently have to swallow...
third party ***** weren't involved:
you never felt like a cul de sac ******...
oddly enough... limp **** hey presto:
can't perform when asked...

ooh... ol' Turkic raven hair:
all her talents in the foreplay...
and all the smooching during *******...
thank god i could never marry...
father children...

4 years it has taken me to wake up to this...
"repressed" reality...
repressed or... even the Teutonic Order
had a brothel in their capital-citadel of Malbork...
Marienburg...
for the love of women who also love:
cleanliness... and the aesthetics of arousal...
for all that's love and all that's not love...
for all that beside love: intimacy without question:
but all the answers...
for two bodies imitating slugs or serpents
where no words are exchanged or given
toward *******: autonomous bodies reaching
for braille with eyes wide open...

- the road to the brothel was closed...
the guys doing the road works cut it off...
not tonight... tonight i'm going to bemoan how:
well... when you start writing...
don't expect to have the same sort of privacy rules
implicit of... whatever the hell you do besides...
why wouldn't a plumber raise these words
from the domain of thought that's probably
his most cherished freedom?
people can still pretend to hide in anonymity
on the internet...
but... why would you... write bogus comments
and troll...
before words become carbon on paper: pencil...
the circus of thinking ought to be enough...
unless: like me... you're going at it like a bull...
i don't think i can have "privacy" anymore...
not that that bothers me...
i'll wear a mask when i put my face on...
but literacy so squandered for the upper-hand
in slighting someone anonymously...

                    ha!           someone would have
written a confession: Anne Sexton brush-up on:
what's important... Anne Sexton... now there was
a ***** that if she was willing could make you
dream all day and night...

why are so many pornstars so... ******* attractive
that you'd wish to push them
into bird-cages with the parrots
or adorn them with white linen niqabs?
as much as i want:
my words are not sacrosanct:
but they're also no Mammon slot-machine
golden-goose mine: perhaps when i'm dead:
something might trickle down into the coffers...
but i doubt that...
words never become shapes or colours
or therefore paintings...
words burn... words and all that becomes
collateral as they dig and drown into
the unconscious: of course... no motive...
just a motif...
    
brother Balaam: fellow diviner of the god
of the Hebrews...
brother Balaam... give me the strength of purpose
to chase more shadows: more more more!
speak to me from under the depths
of the sea of death...
they have left these northern lands...
and as they now stand: proud in their multitude:
and still persist in their clinging to the diaspora:
for i will not glutton myself over
the accomplishments of but one Hebrew:
when i can glorify their deity!

literacy has been squandered:
best strip these people of their "knowledge"
of letters: letter by letter:
let them return to smearing **** on cavern ceilings!
hostile barbarians: paradoxically:
the Vikings were renowned in their celebration
of "effeminate" males: poets...
i could warn a dog or two to bark as i thus:
howl...
               little creatures of dispute...
little belittling lords of shovel ****!
hey! prompt! all verb no noun...
something these leeches might understand... "might"...

all this lubricated tongue has made me think
of something else that happened today...
beside me revisiting the cinema of memory...
grandfather and i: the hyenas of the graveyard:
although even he pronounced that
he was unable to laugh: i guess i started to laugh
for the both of us... eagerly, proper:
with the vowel catcher of the first
arm of the tetragrammaton: HA HA...
while the "other" vowel catcher would
smother the vowels in sighs: AH AH!
exasperated... almost...

       call it PR or whatever you want to call it:
i'd rather stack shelves in a supermarket
than work at a call-centre...
the deceit and the Peter Pan *******
i said: it's not the Shetland Islands...
it's the South East...
i was rummaging on an internet speed
of... 0.1Mbps (megabytes per second)
for a while... i reached a zenith of 0.6 - 0.8(Mbps)...

for a year... if not longer...
and there she was: she came...
this bleached-blonde pchła of a... she did put on just
enough mascara...
obviously taken...
i don't think *** entered my thoughts
when... she... didn't... parade her keychain
that involved a picture of her and her child...
pchła: an endearing term for a girl
of timid build... a body my shadow at noon
could break like a walnut...
i called her an engineer...
she wasn't going to construct a bridge...
she was going to fiddle with my router...
my internet connection...
a woman who had desire for fiddling with:
"dead" things: shadows...
arteries... veins... a concept of a heartbeat...

i just admired her hair...
obviously not natural... bleached...
     she was a body occupying a space...
a welcome intrusion nonetheless...
i sort of enjoyed the silence i surrounded her with...
"sort of": i clearly did...
best be on your way...
a female engineer...
well... from 0.1Mbps... coming up for air
now standing at... 5.6Mbps...
she asked: how did "we" manage?
we just watched a lot of the show live...
but... there were more important things to mind...

the bothersome truth is that:
you can't exactly dig into: pristine good...
this girl who became a "cable guy" engineer...
engineer: "engineer": "tech. support":
i'm not trying to demean her purpose:
i'm the one doodling words on a makeshift
canvas...
i'm no painter or mind having
enough nepotistic authority of: father painter
so i become a fashion designer... etc.

i pin-pointed the proper term though: no?
nepotism?
you just can't objectify certain women...
both of us beguiled having internet providers:
so... shouldn't they penalize the companies
that are all software and bar users?
will the software providers turn off my...
electricity?
the PR Peter Pan stunts... as i told her:
you being the engineer and me being the customer...
we can talk... face to face...
but over the phone?
put me in a confessional booth
with a woman from Mecca and her... double take
on what's to be seen: what's to be heard...
what's to be ******... what's not to be seen / heard...
eaten...

an eager *****: if a ***** is going to give...
but if... she's... this occupied presence...
it's impossible to penetrate her with words...
all i have is:
bleached blonde hair...
heavy mascara... something insinuating combating
nervousness: i am what i am: sorting out cables:
i reassured her: the aesthetics will be dealt with...
a drowning man will cling to a razor's edge to save
himself...
why do i feel so hardly alone
around people who invest so much
in... having children?
it's not like i'm expecting 3rd party sources
to come and salvage me: when completely decrepit...

a woman completely devoid of any ****** advances:
perhaps performing the role of a dentist:
a surgeon: it's already exploited by me
when it comes to: seeing her most ******
parts: her hands... at the grace of a supermarket cashier...
let her be... she's already averting her eyes:
i might insinuate a receding question:
there's the moon... the forest...
come autumn...
maybe i'm focusing on exaggerating myself...
i am: exaggerating myself...

toward a focus of timidity...
as best i can...
    i am a dead end joy-**** at best...
an underperformer at least...
              my own very self worn down
skipping barefoot in memory
right now probably better adorned by a straightjacket...
but who's fooling who...
the readied ***** or this girl working out
cables?

i can respect this one without a need
to pressurise her with a... ******* niqab...
until she might bloat over:
over-suckled... fat... nothing more than
a speed machine for *****-count...
something that doesn't deserve limbs:
is all torso and belongs
to the cult of the bone tomahawk cannibals...

that one motto cited by all Arabs
and pseudo-Arabs: there no water in the desert...
spoken in dearest of the dear that's England:
this green and pleasant land...
where's the ******* desert?!
shovel! both a verb and a noun...
how rare.... perhaps not so much...
        proverbs from the Middle East...
******* to the Middle East and let me
riddle my own: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
how's that?

better joy in the immediacy of your own:
than peace among your closely associated.
******* H'arab...
you're no Jew... esp. when sitting
on Dino-Lamborghini juice...

castles in the sky: so the psychiatrists says...
or cities built on sand...
every Pakistani / Bangladeshi knows this
proverb...
the times of appeasing the "forever" sober
Arab and his sober-Arab libido...
i'll wait... are now... like i once said:
the horrible has already ah-happened...

and if it hasn't: then i'm still... pretty much
taking a proper role in being the only watchman
on a sly of a kipper...
n'est ce pas?

irritation culminates with:
when you make your own wine...
but don't have the filter equipment...
all that excess "fibre" probably gets your more
drunk than expected...

i haven't had enough to my liking to
somehow dissolve the pledge
to keep at least 72 ****** on a leash...
all that's eternity: given all that's
available and will be:
within the confines of un-chartered space...
send me a postcard from the eye of Jupiter...
i'm more than asking:
imploring: i'm... sort of making:
chain you to me: demands...

tomorrow's a sober head:
tonight... i'll be drunk with both wine
of my own making and...
the memory of a naked body of a woman...
exactly: if she's an engineer: "engineer"
fiddling with my phone socket...
she has a photograph of her and her child
on her keychain...
i wouldn't even dream of...
usurping her... status...

            looking at her felt like eating...
oats... something wholesome...
i met up with you... herr grey...
i did't find any child-fiddling bits...
what... were... you... hiding?!
i will laugh: if you tell me: a heart...
melt my stony enclave...
burn the whole world while you're at it!
there was never going to be any sacrifice
in the crucifix pose:
only purpose for focus: for... submission...
as someone devoid of wanting to continue....
he didn't die for "our" sins...
he died in order to be worshipped...
**** him... let him hang on... father of proselytes...

- point of closure...
for now... i never rose high enough
to suddenly turn cold-turkey: goosebumps
on the *******... still... dead...
i wasn't born into a Buddhist harem...
therefore i sometimes relapse into
the gimmick of the tease...
periodically... every half a decade....
i drink unfiltered self-made wine
and talk about hardly the ******
"exploits":
i come across magnets equivalent to
timid schoolgirls...

some supposed ****** revolution happned:
lob-sided...
given how the girls took the strap-on off
and shoved the **** down
the ******* brains of their bank account
squadron...
     the ******: "******" revolution came out
***-****-side first: thirst:
lopsided: the girls have all their fun...
we die... they come close to old age:
it continues: men tend to think throughout:
that period of concern: supposedly-deemed:
life...

the feminine agony of old age...
grandma's apple pie: **** grandma's apple pie!
i want to drink my wine
with... blisters and...
dis-ingestion...
              
         sucker punch:
            suckle toward a knuckle that might just...
make creases with caresses.
The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than daisies to a munching cow;
Just a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,
Mother Goose and Oberon,
Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood
Take together to the wood,
And Sir Galahad lies hid
In a cave with Captain Kidd.
None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts
Of timorous heart, to linger on
Weeping for lost Babylon.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
only today i learned ø denotes
        an encoding of diameter,
and it's Scandinavian,
                     or how the globe is
past the equator,
         and the lob-sided earth,
winters in Australia in the Summer months
in Europe.

    high philosophy begins with Beijing
dialectical highs,
    but take the route of lower philosophy
and encounter diacritics rather than dialectics,
because that matters, too,
        θought, a moral ought,
   and φilosoφy - and missing ought -
          and the two being irreversibly twins
in said... or θought an immoral ought,
                 sure, tubes, mistook ø74 for something
akin to φ...
    high philosophy never acquires a diacritical
dilemma...
                  or why local don't do anything
but actuate automatic application
   and those immigrant, or bilingual troops question...
    ø = diameter, not to be confused with the θ;
             higher philosophy begins with dialectical
beginnings,
               "lower" philosophy also begins with
dialectics, but it ends with diacritical application,
rather than utopian: nowhere from nothing.

what am i going to say next? *machado de assis's

philosopher or dog? introduction.

          ........................................­..................................
..............................­......................................................
..........­.................................................................­.........
.......................................................­.............................
...................................­.................................................
...............­.................................................................­....
............................................................­...........
(or a paragraph on the pleasure of drinking,
    or how to save you an optometrist appointment,
or how to take an interlude,
   to do the opposite of the Andy Warhol stipend
for making enough buggers hearing your
opinion, unchallenged,
                    but never having a diacritic concern).
hence the pending, or what everyone seems to
desire these days, circa 100 years later,
     how to provoke an interlude, how to hunger
for interludes rather than fame,
           i also drew a sketch before starting,
       shat -
                  and hey presto!
           ****!
                   yuck in orange in florescent.
yellow (florescent), F, pretty pretty pretty,
          in pink the bit about diameters and phi,
           again in yuck orange: swigs and the wiggle...
a paged concern for graffiti.
                  again, pending, yet to be hottie
and poster boy of a poem,
        again the impromptu break worth of fame that
actually isn't fame, but a chance to compare
                   how much whiskey makes up for the
Niagara continuum.
        again, (pending):
............................................... (how the hell do you
write pending ~15 minutes later?!)

the concept of Monday is greatly undermined
by Darwinism,
    as is Tuesday through to Sunday,
generally the function-able week desists the idea
of an Iron Age, as does the pantomime
of all that's worth celebrating -
generally speaking Darwinism is anti-history,
theology has nothing to ask of Darwinism
to argue against,
                             theology isn't a history,
but Darwinism is the purest variation
of history, variance of how we define logic
and its applicability, whether it's
i + think            /             1 + 1
    and have the moral attraction toward a 2
         or variate a moral action into a 3:
cos Radiohead simply sang 2 + 2 = 5 in a song:
cheat! matchstick principle regarding counting!
machado de assis? Darwinism is peppered with
overt imagery than salted with:
you get to sneeze a lot...
             a writer's voice: irony, mockery,
         consolidating the lessened counter-productiveness...
Flaubert, Dickens, Zola, Balzac, etc.,
                    homie, rap that **** out, condense it,
i thought Brazil was half the way America should have
endeared you? i had problems with Prussia
Austria and Russia... guess i was wrong how thuggish
i had to be with the Orpheus *******...
       cos the lyre was dumbo blunt deaf and therefore
cacka...
     higher philosophy begins with dialectics,
"lower" philosophy begins with diacritics -
     a return to the source, a debate with Ivory scales
concerning the Rosetta - a neo-formatting of
what's quiete
                           right: Sophia: hence anew: Rosetta.
and all for the pear that's woman and whether Satan
chose the fruit prudently according to Milton.
or the progress of a drunk:
centipedes and Fitzgeralds, Hemingways,
lust and last said...
                           the cf. of every apparent transitory
made to provoke the quasi and quack,
              ducking the Donald and the *****,
in agreement,
                     a happiness toward the tiresome
encrusting of what's worth being stated,
and then the deviatory,
                              as marketed a deviation
from a Louis Napoleon -
                                    because no Belarus was
to be chequered by an impeding force...
                      hence the cha cha cha...
                                    and hence the stanzas of
Argentinian tango...
              juicy and later the cruelty choking
of what some might make of Macbeath's habitual thinking
                                       worthy of a classroom
                audience; and that too is
exposable in return for being disposable.
higher philosophy is regarded as such with
dialectics,
                        but "lower" philosophy is
yet to be regarded as such with diacritics -
     not a case of what's to be said, and thus bedded,
but a case of how's something said,
                                and thus given a freedom
of: bedded, wedded, pimped, or whimpered into
                                     surviving writing a poem about;
also achieved by Humphrey and that chuckle of
revising Casablanca for an unnecessary quote dynamic /
diatribe when Hiroshima said
                 much more than the above certified:
boom! 1 million ******* dead.
       that's an overt-quote that gropes the many
amens among the citations of Marilyn, and still gets away
with                     a memory of J.F.K.,
           because that ****-honing masterpiece
was needing my memory rather
                                   than a b. b. q.    scewing.
          i find people rather forgetting:
jeopardy battered boundless gym orientational
                     thoughtless two shots of tequilas
            and three paraphrases of sours in biting a lemon
to upkeep a trough of a suntan with the H-He:
boom boom, higher tier laughter,
             ingesting that inflation of prop
                    boom boom, v bomber,
                     squeeze...
                    lob-side lo & behold,
                                       'n'        - squiggly extra thus born.
murari sinha Sep 2010

observing the ardent eagerness of the wind
it is clearly understood
that nascent pollens are overflowing
the niche of her heart  

in response to the signals of the river
she keeps on ringing
all long the month of earth-quakes

the bench of the rail-station
wants to hug her

the medicine-counter of the ***-end of the day
beckons her with the hand to come nearer

in the assembly-hall for musical demonstration
adorned with ash-trays
going on the rehearsal of her dancing and singing

she also distributes some life
to the meticulous dressing
of the magnolia

2.
let the swimming pool be fully absorbed  
with its dark-room

when the feather of your fore-finger
becomes green

the merchant of venice
will leave his business of photo-coping machine
to start walking directly
in search of new earnings

evening sets in
on the boiler of the delta

putting on yellow-dress comes
the water-vessel of the paper-balloon

there is no singing bird
shivering with cold
in the fold of the dear bed-sheet  

it is possible that the boldness of the metro-railway
may give some wood of tamarisk
on the expanded palms  

yet oh the western page of night
do tell today
why so much tamed polythene
are here in our cohabitation

3.
after so many days
published in the wind
painted in wings
the recent heart’s desire
of the doors and windows

they have rolled up their fairy-tales
from the ignorant drawing-room that wanted
to set her mind to the hill slanting downward

they did not want to know
how much rheumatism is there
in the hands and legs of the bark
to whom is delegated
the control of the mason-made bus-journey

sleep hugs the eye-lids of the rivers

though there is no postage-stamp
within the reaching-point

then what magic is there
in the hill slanting downward

why the wall does not learn
how to swim like a fish

truly it is he from whom
those negligible moments of man-ism
itch for blue candle-stand

4.
the ***-appeal of the telephone
and the bugle of the carnies-breaking ****-crows
are all harmonised seamlessly

the noon in the blood
is flowing along the river

all the dialogues are covered
with misspelling of men and women

the tailors want to increase life
cutting rightly the walking of clothes

after the vanishing of collyrium
from the eyes
there is not a single being
in the relief-camps

as far as the eyes can travel
i can notice in the ear-lob of the village-boats
the water-colour of fire-flies
twinkles

then let an agreement be signed
with the defence ministry
on the right
to enter into private bathroom

5.
in the air
on which flowers are engraved
the union of the betel leaves are making their outposts
anew

before the calling of the next pine-woods
you all the butterflies do take on board the tram
to go to the south-pole

is it well to incline so much
towards the tv-screen

who can say
the waves of the terracotta
would never make revolution

i’ve sent some full-moons of winter
and some water-bodies
into the holes of the handkerchief

the lacking of the colours
may kindly be excused

the birds that are blind from their birth
has been singing till now
the songs of the cave-civilisation

there is no question any where
this eclipsed-valley is adorned
with the answers only

6.
i am to be blown off on the first bombardment
then it is to be flown
in the crowd of  fire-flies
on the bushes of the scented-lemons

and it is to see the memory race of the grown-up girls

it is to see more
that after the opening of the sluice gates
one by one  
how the gathering in the hindu hotels
increases
by leaps and bounds

the pores of the skin of the body
whose hoods are open
and who are running up
along the spiral route
that leads to the top of the mountain

their child
due to late-marriage
now only knows
how to move on all fours

7.
under the table-glass
i  unfold the life-chronicle of one lakh year

and in the olive-cabinet
all the applications for living

from the monsoon-noon to the winter-afternoon
the lines you draw on the parchment

none of them is so condensed
as to touch the palms of a sailor  

from the numerable timber-joists
come down the swarms of personal white ants

no spring seems to become corporeal
without the spell of misunderstandings  

so of late
besides the dry statistics
with the cough
comes out grey thermometer

prickly-heats spread over the whole body  

the sticks of young antenna
shake off their wings

behind the bath-scene
lies the succulent hailstorm

8.
there is no lovely add
yet the market-value of your headache
is going up day by day

all the noon send her mad
the intellectual kisses
the coos

or is it the running about of the tennis-ball

so much pop-corns are flying out
from the draw-well

or that sound of foot-steps
in the north-east

may be
that is of some brown horses
or some horse-drawn perambulators

when the moon spreads out the platinum
does it judge the recipients

thus the bin-leaves can ring
from head to foot

it unfurls an incorrigible right-angle
in the early-evening

the troop with armours
open a shop of ******
beside the vainglory of the lake
Andrew Rueter Sep 2017
Your intrusion
Is conducive
To my city burning down
So I defend from inside my castle
Civilian hordes
Wield swords
And I've gotta flail
In my chain mail

My city walls have been manned
So use your battering ram
And intrude on me
Muscle into my muscles
And burrow into my bones
By disarming my mob
While catapults lob
Incendiary boulders
That protect me from
Temporary shoulders
That have exploited my nation before
Mining the resources from it's core
Avoid all the blasts
So we can clash
In the arena of my mind
Where steel strikes time
And my defenses
Defend me from my life
So intrude on me
And shatter my protections
And shatter my conceptions
So intrude on me
And break my perceptions
But be careful
Intrusions have reflections
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.a very prominent interlude of bitterness - something that needs to be drank as an antidote of the aftertaste of a brothel... bourbon - sickly-sweet bourbon of a brothel... otherwise the best beer on these isles: the original stout: st. guinness - second, 13... hop house lager by the same culprit... i don't know about you but a regular IPA doesn't float my boat... stale pale ale of 3 day old sputnik ***** excavation of bio-matter living off of iron shrapnel and termite ****... let's not go over-board with the bitterness of fenugreek seeds added to a curry... but... a hop lager is not an indian pale ale... because? well: because of the excited circumstance of extra bubbles! once upon a time that horrid absinthe period... last time i checked i became the st. peter of the drug details... ***** tells you too many truths come the moral-hangover the next day... but ms. amber in her guise of adele bloch-bauer by klimt: take her for a whiskey, take her for a bourbon... a chanel no. 5... or a brandy or a cognac... please excuse me from drinking the ales... goldwasser: athens, sparta, venice... dan dan Danzig... i'd call the genesis of world war II to be... that envy of the city-state... the little cosmopolitan high-heavens of a concentrated locum... of affairs of both tourism and the subsequent merchant class... that Danzig didn't belong to anyone: not really... does it even matter now? the current city-state model is... don't bother filtering the excesses... it has to become diluted... you'll find pockets of concentration near them... yes... homogenous... therefore solaced by that fact alone... only teasing incorporating outside influences... it's not going to be a replica venice or danzig... for that you'd need a window... st. peter designated the window into europe as a capital with an access to the sea... not land locked... even though i'm pretty sure that moscow has a river running through it... jump-start the window: a capital by the sea... hey presto! a window: the baltic sea into europe... words that become apparent: microcongestion of undigested souls... a schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... another foot in reicarnation... lob it or nutmeg the footie: it's a particle when observed and a wave when not observed... an orbit for the schematic... but a cloud when getting into the nitty-gritty details: specifics oblong... misnomer... if my ******* into a tissue, subsequently flushed... then a baptism of a shower... is not a genocide? then... bullseye... the ***** that made it into the ****... it's an abortion mid-week... i'd count that ****** come a certain count of months... otherwise... well... there's that cat of his... one foot in limbo and one foot in reincarnation... wasn't it the western exhausted theological mind: from that god of the omni- litany looking toward the budding-ha-ha? abortion... prized ***** makes it to the egg... ah... ****** from the argument of effort... me and the basic schematics of genocide... otherwise: schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... one foot in reicarnation... better still... Farinelli! drop the ******* don a niqab! the muslims and an eye-fetish... mind you... i do have a hand-fetish... "fetish"... i can count five of hers and only four of mine... fingers! unless she is a proper Arab bride with roots of synonyms in the Ukraine... and she has butcher's hands... hot-dog fingers... and a kardashian thick-*** that is just readied for a 12" dung-digger of ******... while at the same time... breaking the floral patterns of a porcelain geisha's... "missing tongue O"...

manícorona: peanut-crown!

               in between the hype and...
in between the trough...
and the happy pigglets of prop
and grandour...

little charlie little dervish of
a dar: gift...
                        win-win scenario...
i'm worried about...
constipation...
           terribly bothered...
                    
         but there's also the fact that
i haven't seen a dentist for...
a donkey can count a decade:
at least that's my hope...

my tooth filling has become lose...
having finished with yesterday's
etc. i tried to fall to sleep...

the pain came as a blunt object
in need of sharpening...
it wasn't a sharp object per se:
to begin with...

the radio was off...
the dream of falling asleep to the sound
of rain like it might be
a song off the cure's disintegration
album: lost...

                 i concluded:
it must be a dream...
how else explain this trivial pain
of a tooth when all the bones lay
intact in a body in an impeding grave?

to have been lullabied by a trivial
pain of a loose filling...
                   i'll give it until monday
to check a dental clinic...
i'll wait... because:
god only knows i am bound
to learn something new from
this crazed - infuriating pain -

          but at least that has
constipation covered...
    fear not: ****** **** of the golem heights!
no chelsea smile up your alley:
any time soon...

        the crown virus...
sooner or later: yes my liege...
yes my sire...
i'm sure the africans will... jump the queue...
we've been raising money for
a malaria vaccine...
i'm sure they'll be quick-on-the-mark
to raise money for the crown-virus
epicenter! europe!

oh... come come... komme komme, meine liebe!
it's true!
the europeans will be fundraising
money for malaria...
while the africans will be fundraising
money for the peanut-crown virus...

or... i like that one quote i heard,
"somewhere"...
   a stewardess asks a mother whether
or not her son would like some peanuts...
the mother says... he's allergic to peanuts...
he's allergic to maize... air...
glutten... ******* haribo gelatin and all...
he's allergic to hiccups...

                           there's a winking match
involving imitation chess between
the very sick psychiatrists
and the mildly sick schizophrenics...
a bilingual comes along into their foray...
and asks: who's multiplying
and who's in charge of division?
all a splendid metaphor... wouldn't you agree?
there... metaphor...
already the focus is gone... splinters...
some go to metaphysics,
some go to metaphors...
some go to orthography...
some go to: telepathy...
        some go down the para-
hello, my name is Norman...

         it's natural then... darwinism in action...
hold a peanut to a crowd of
people allergic to peanuts...
the joy of cashews...
the joys of pecans...
   cashews, pecans, brazilians...
macademians... hazels and waldorff's...

no other feeling...
like a ripe hop lager in between
a bourbon's drip drip drip...
      
                   horrid breaking up an already
comfortable ideology... isn't it?
when something like this speaks for itself
and the "lamm von gott" is brought before
the altar...
                           darwinism sings!
sings! like the brian jonestown massacre...
this is my body... my peanut...
brought to a cult of peanut-allergy-riddled
anemics and haemophiliacs...
        
the darwinian ideology fizzles out...
when it's not longer looking up through
the telescope of a primate's ***...
but looking through the form most primodial...
i've been gardening for the past week...
i've watched an earthworm here...
an earthworm there...
        life without eyes without ears
without music... but this idiotic god-given
impetus, imperative, "will": "freedom"...
virus... crown virus...

sooner or later we'll all be kings and queens,
sneezing and waiting for the entire
small intestine to come out of our noses
like glue: glut and gelatin pieces
wobbling where once bones stood
to be later broken...

a beer in between these slugs of bourbon
will do just that...
all good when it concerns
of apes and men...
           the similarity greatly helps...
but of course we'll borrow from other
skeletons...
                  no one ever heard of a headache
from having "too much"...
i.e. od przybytku: głowa nie boli...
o ale boli boli boli...

      constipation...
            the peanut crown virus...
and a loose tooth filling...
                ***** blondes and "how many"
light-bulb jokes it would take
for a tsunami of bleached ***** hairs to turn
into a happy cousin itsy-bitsy:
a spider cravat... what else?

otherwise history...
   either a wet-dream or a castration...
              or the bull wrestled by the horns...
or a dog wrestled by either kicking it in
the ******* or wrestling with its mandible jaw...
echoes of warriors...
warriors and pirates... the lesser muscles
of a farmer? a blacksmith?
              either a wet-dream or a castration...
lost avenues of "heroes":
all leading to: up my ***... otherwise known
as my original churchill's V...
the welsh longbow men: ditto the fwench...

such a shame that so much of history
is to be filtered when the children learn of it...
and whenever returning to it...
it's as stale as an antique's roadshow...
or it's: skimmed over...
whatever natural selection gave...
i don't know whether it's natural
to witness this historiological selection...

some would say:
too much of a congested toilet: n'est-ce pas?
too many of the dead are still haunting us...
natural selection contra:
historiological selection...
                             the ape versus the virus...
it is over-inflated...
where are the boils, the blisters...
the glutton spew of ****?
                              
                     this is... it?
panic riddled neurotics?
   so... so... twiddle-thumb-twiddle-toe...
where are all the psychotic:
airing of the soul examples?
smoke and mirrors...
   if i see a *****?
   i'll let you know!
          we'll huddle and watch
tom hanks win an oscar for
Philadeplhia...
                          show me a *****
******* a zombie...
         this, this grand disguise as flu...
it's almost a precursor
to a greater joke...
       of... phantom limbs that
had grenades worth of champagne
bottles being uncorked as
the origin of the demise of...
if only they named the ship Prometheus...
Titanic is so general...
     Atlas... Hyperion...
                  Oceanus...
                                   you can't expect
to keep an adjective as a noun: afloat...
or could have... could you?

but about time you listen to all the darwinists...
when the seas are: a'rough...
ask them about not looking up from
that telescope via a monkey's ****...
about the darwinism of a...
very original... very basic: a first...
first in line end result...
that might have been us...

                 tough luck bringing
no wine and no bread...
to the congregation...
nut-allergy riddled whisperers and soon-enough
to be drop-off counts of: the sieve...
the peanut! crown - and:
if only it was as simple as a reconquista
of what the goths left behind having
stalled spain's worth
and having died off in north africa...

now's the time to stop looking through
a darwinistic: famous detail of:
the peeled banana on the inner-sleeve...
the root or yellow...
teasing you unpeeled for all that was
the velvet, the velvet and the underground...
a very pushy bladder...
i mean: fickle bladder little gremlin
with a yappy-yappy for a mouth...
and it's not the sort of mouth that echoes:
hungry! hungry!
the sort of mouth, though...
give it the plumber...
                          
        how very pedestrian of me.
Writing is, as most hobbies are, an art when taken seriously. Perfect practice makes perfect works. Don't just write a poem or a blurb...

Wrap the vines around the ankles, pull apart the pelvis until it cracks like a pistachio. Take the loosened intestines and wring them out quickly. Lob the liver high in the air and smack it away on its way back down. Creep up the exposed vertebrate as you fish through the guts and flesh. Watch as the skin looses color, and emotion fades with last breath. Itch your fingers through the fluids, crack apart the spine. Work to the nook of the back, where hands fit snugly in hugs before. Punch holes with your nails, and tickle the lungs from asunder with your teeth. Bite and claw through the chest like a bullet through a milk jug. Feel the blood run cold now, for you've been at this for a while. Push the shoulder bones out of place, since they need not be there anymore. Feel the bone grind and pop, smooth without resistance. Watch the arms flop lifelessly and inhumanly away from what was once a body. Creep up the esophagus like a bad acid, tearing and destroying. Reach the mouth, and cut the tongue. Lob it too with the liver. Break teeth, and crack cheekbones. Finally, wriggle into the skull, wrapping around the brain, and squeezing until it falls through your hands like raw beef from the fresh chopped cattle.

Don't just write. Be wretchedly beautiful.
Joanna Nov 2011
I can't get enough of you.
You're careful not to lob my heart.
Though you don't feel for me.
It hurts honestly.
I'm being eaten from the inside.
Flay my skin.
I do it out of rancor for myself.
But then you smile.
Adorn.
I've fallen.
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.

The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely

in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in *****-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.

Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.

In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
An N+7 from a passage by Marx,
copyright (c) 2015
#n7
Mallory Michaud Dec 2018
You know,
Maybe,
It’s just me but I guess I just find it
Funny
That people say it’s girls who have loose lips
When the boys at this table have mouths
Like open caves
With stalagmite teeth
Bats come flying out

I guess,
Maybe,
It’s just my magic trick,
The way I become invisible
When the boys
Sit down for dinner
And they open up their backpacks
And their gym bags
And pull out butcher knives
That shine like brand new quarters
In the cafeteria fluorescents

I’m not sure,
But maybe
The churning of my stomach
Is a sign
That there’s sharks
In these waters
I feel my wet socks in my wet shoes as I jiggle my knee
And watch the boys
With their knives
Start chopping up girls on the plastic top table

They cut slices off of Julia
and Megan
And Kara
and lob them across the table
to their friends
Just Like the men at
Pike Place Fish Market
Fling whole salmon
Into each other’s gloved hands
I saw them do it
When I went to Seattle once.
I feel water climbing up my legs.
I see a shark fin.

Did I blush red?
Maybe,
When the boy next to me catches
Katie’s legs
In his calloused hands
And laughs a laugh that sounds like
An out of tune violin
They’re all laughing now,
Like car horns and fire alarms
Laughing about
Katie’s legs
And Kara’s ***
And Megan’s hips
And Julia’s ****
It’s the ugliest orchestra I’ve ever heard

And perhaps,
Maybe,
I’m the only one who’s noticed,
But we’re not in the cafeteria anymore
We’re right there
In that room
In that bed
In that moment
With
JuliaMeganKaraKatie
And I don’t want to be there.

And I know,
For sure,
No maybes,
That If JuliaMeganKaraKatie knew
We were all here too
In her room
In her bed
In her
That she’d cry enough saltwater
To flood the whole earth
And wash it clean.

We leave the table
Bones on the floor
Shark boys clean their teeth with toothpicks
My clothes are soaked
All the way up to my neck.

-I never go in the ocean, I’ve seen the sharks when they frenzy.
miranda schooler Jul 2013
my four-year-old sister asks me where we live , and I tell her
that we live in a land where america is the punchline
to one of god’s jokes
that half of us are busy debating
the existence of ,
while the other half of us are holding
our bibles like they’re grenades that we can lob at
anyone who doesn’t agree with our opinions .
I tell her we’re still busy digging through the mine rocks
of our subconscious for some hope of gold ,
while on the other end of the world there are tribes of people
who are happy just to have charcoal to eat for dinner .
we live in a world ,
I tell her ,
where streets are filled
with the bodies of people who work harder trying to find
a place to live than the people with 5 million paychecks ,
and those bodies get stepped over like doorsteps just the same .
where “ soup kitchen " is a synonym for “ system failure ,"
where sometimes the pops of firecrackers and gunshots
are indistinguishable .
here in america ,
I say , we wear
those pops like bling rings on our index and middle fingers ,
and we flip the middle one at anyone who dares to suggest
that handling a gun like a solution is actually the thing
that creates the problem in the first place .
my four-year-old sister
wants to know about how come
we tighten our coats and purses closer to our bodies
whenever we pass someone of a different color on the street ,
and I tell her that in america ,
we only trust the people
who’ve got the same color of a mood ring as we do .
we live in a place , I tell her ,
where the system has failed
but then again ,
the system wasn’t very much
of a system in the first place.
a mistake she made in telling all*
to that blackmailing gentleman
at any time he may drop the ball
in divulging her secret's pan

to that blackmailing gentleman
entrusting personal data
in divulging her secret's pan
disclosing every cantata

entrusting personal data
without checking out his dodgy side
disclosing every cantata
yep she'd be on a slippery slide

without checking out his dodgy side
where beans were spilled by the gob
yep she'd be on a slippery slide
so many details would easily lob  

where beans were spilled by the gob
in divulging her secret's pan
so many details would easily lob
*to that blackmailing gentleman
i wake
    it is 8
    i am seven
the sun floods in through the window
(late!)     2 pop-tarts and some juice and out the door in 9 minutes flat.-
r   u   n   n   i   n   g
recon the neighborhood. "Hey, Scott".  We team up. A few of the"little" kids are out as well.
Check at Ricky's. Some sort of punishment, but a little whining and he is free as well.
More kids come out.
          DIRT CLOD WARS!

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                  seek cover

They go behind a dumpster.  us, in a ditch.
we lob (never throw! ) the chunks of red clay which hit the asphalt with a puff
of puce vapor.
Some kid hits my little brother with a thrown clod,
               with a rock in it.
   He cries.
Honor demands a fight.
taunting , shoving,
I hit the kid in the nose and it bleeds. Crying he runs home.
                                                           ­                                   (and I feel a glory Alexander would envy.)
"FELIX, COME HOME FOR LUNCH"
                                                    (5 minutes to devour a bologna sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk)
then ****** into round two. this time hide-and-seek and she . .
                                                                ­                      (the new girl ; corn-silk hair and eyes that . . ??
so i'm "it"
but even the "little" kids are getting Home
      ( i am way out left      
                                                      ­                                      because i know . . .)

- suddenly - 
 she makes a deerlike dash for home, but i am ready,
and like a javelin
appear between her and Home.
"you're out"
as  my hand grasps her shoulder.

                        e v e r y  m o l e c u l e  o f   m y  f l e s h  
                                                             ­                                    !ignites!
                                                                ­                                                                a­nd  i  feel as a god)

The game is over.  Scott, Ricky and I spend an hour tricking the"little" kids into sitting in piles of dog ****.
Suppertime and we are called home.

years have come and gone,
still i remember those summers.
with Scott and Ricky.
and  the  heady . . .
                 . . .dizzying
                breathless . . .
                 . . . bliss
of
      p
          l
              a
                   y. . .!

Sometimes . . . from time to time
I also remember the girl -
                                                                ­                     *(and I still feel a tingle in my right hand.)
Universal Thrum Nov 2014
We stand on the bluffs above the breakers, watching the sea foam swirl like the madness of our broken world. We linger. The dense feeling of fate pervading us. The unbreakable diamond line tethering us to the crystalline moment, frozen in a picture, put in a box, never to be seen again. The wind blew and a pinprick shift in movement, insignificant as an eyelash, brought down an empire made of ash.  We walked those charred triumphant streets, riddled with rotting bouquets of flowers from yesterday’s parade. It was time to take comfort in strangers. She turned to me, “I want love like the ocean, it always comes back”. I think of her floating on the Adriatic contemplating our blossoming love, croatian street art, and holding her body close as a baby in the floridian waves. Now a million shards of glass laid lost on the savage sea floor, mirrors reflecting a thousand truths, hidden from her eyes by the churning tide.

Words don't matter anymore. I scream in frustrated contempt, “Why are you acting crazy! Why are you disturbed? Where is redemption here?” It is gone for now, a dog running wild in the woods. I wake up and try to explain the unconsciousness, but it’s like singing to a self possessed crowd in a run down karaoke bar. Grasping at cigarette smoke.

My last act of friendship could be to obliterate you and expose you for the liar you are. Instead I will let silence settle over any righteousness I feel, any angle of truth I claim to possess, letting the birds sing their songs for us, and the thrum of the world will hold me in its arms.  I will release the great burden there alone. “There are things I can tell you, and there are things I cannot say, I hold nothing against you, I forgive you.”

“You are a child, I do everything for everyone, I give everything, and everyone just takes from me!”  She viciously hisses in another’s voice, a harpy sent for blood, *****, and sacrifice, lashing about with claws meant to tear out the heart of man.

“I may have a child’s heart, filled with infinite forgiveness. I may be a flawed man, but I won’t turn from that truth, in it is wabi sabi beauty. I’m not seeking to rationalize or justify my actions, the past doesn’t interest me that much anymore. The feeling you give me now is a toxic one, like a ****** hitting rock bottom, I want the poison out of my veins.”

More screaming. Rampage, wrath, hell fury and doom. An **** of anger directed at my peaceful countenance, an all out assault fueled by brimstone, baiting the Buddah under the bohdi. My murderer is my muse. The citadel is overrun again by the Amazonian hordes set for the massacre, spear point to throat, mutilating the glinting marbled halls, painted red. So **** me now, my quiet pride and solemn truth are unassailable. You lob bombs at an iron sky. One built after years of hellish wildfire to bring down Zion. Yet the walls drip with life, you can taste it in the air. The overcoming of emotion, like fresh white clouds drifting above bloated bodies floating dead on the burning acrid water. And maybe only a dry heart pulp remains in the humid sun, but I don’t think so, there is juice here in this soul, the nectar is still sweet, tempered by age. I bite my tongue and laugh at the helplessness of love gone wrong, a faux pas matched only by a priest farting at a funeral. I wink at death, clapping and singing songs with a final gasp, we die like Hector dragged in the dust.

Days later, she writes a mixed apology. Staking a claim on humanity. Can she see into her own eyes? Does she know the past as I do, can she own her duplicity, her renunciation of all that she claims to hold dear? We were one once. Symbiotic, duads, all I did, she did, all I was, she was. Blame still taints my heart.

I want to strip off my clothes and howl in the rain, as the forest sends thunderous chamber hall applause to my release. I want to howl for the toil. I want to howl for the ecstasy. I want to howl for all the unrecognized love, all the unfulfilled expectations, the selfishness, I want to howl for the sacrifice, and the collapse of return, I want to howl.

Somewhere, does my scream still echo? A voice on the radio answers.

“Those things you keep, you better throw them away. You want to turn your back, bury your old ways. Once you were tethered, and now you are free. Once you were tethered, well now you are free. That was the river, this is the sea!”

I walk around a drafty room, hugging myself like a crying orphan seeing all the doors closed on the last day of autumn. If I can make it through the biting winter; holed up somewhere in an abandoned hollow, hands in ratty brown clothe gloves, patched pants and ***** scarves, spring will be beautiful, and I will lay in fields of burgeoning new blossoms. A thousand times Odysseus.
Jack Trainer Jul 2015
You take more than what you're due
Replacing joy with tears
Compelled to a destiny you thought was yours
Will you ever get it right?
He is a lonely, ****** soul
Delegating his passion from one to another
A back office Romeo
Roll it over and accept your penalties
Replace the tears with self-determination
Toss it all away
Cast it in the fire
Lob it in his face
Sienna Luna Oct 2015
There’s a time in the heart
where all things go to rust
and to forget
is not the path
to forgiveness.
When one hand claps
the world falls down.
Little strings
old sheer tissues lob off and peel away
creating a raw clean mess
that can only be healed by a new love.
So for now
the heart only feels what it wants to feel
empty as a plastic cup.
Clear clouded calamity.
So far away is the future
murky as the waters that puff in the wind
away they go, singing out into eternity.
Krista Anna Jan 2013
Ah! An idea! Bouncing neurons bump
frontal lob to ear canal, rushing down
veins, pulsing through arm muscles and finger
bones until the tingle erupts for a pen.

Arms scramble, books over desks
shoved onto their sides, French homework flies around
Mozart concertos swirling up towards
ceiling fans and floating down, down, down ,down
until landing gently on, of course, a pen.

A pen- the holy instrument that will
transfer innermost thoughts and emotions
into beautiful prose and poetry.

Held by fingers, the pen is power- but
wait, the pen has no ink. (Gosh-darnit-all)
John Carpentier May 2014
“Last Call,” I hear the bartender gurgle
him with the potbelly, and tousled red hair
slick with pork grease and beer slosh.
I hate him.
He withholds my whisky with dignity and disdain,
remembering when I said I’d never see him again.

So I tell him the toilet is overflowed
and as he waddles off
I grab a bottle of Jim Bean, wishing it were Scotch,
and sneakily amble out the door
hitting my head on the frame.

Quicksilver
is spouting from the rooftops,
sloshing, washing
or burning
clean the gutters with its molten-ness

Drops sizzle into my skin
and I am
a few hundred dollars more valuable.

Some neon pamphlet slaps my face
and tells me of sales on lingerie
while the sky cracks open;
burning vermillion.

An aging drag queen shouts,
“The poles are shiftin’, honey!”
but they seem fine to me as I slump
on a lamppost and knockback more bourbon.

The sky’s red mouth smile has split
into a yawn
and somethings like oily pigeons flutter out.
Instead of hovering, they thrash the air with angry swishes
and dive to earth, spearing my bartender
before throwing him
off of the Chrysler Building.
When’s last call now *******?

And around the corner of Houston and Broadway
I see a skeletal horse:
all bone and gristle
and glowing chartreuse.

Feeling clever, I walked over
and told him he was looking thin

He raised a bone-eyebrow and smirked a bit,
told me I was looking sickly.
Being cleverer and far more ironic
he shook his flames
nodded to his friends
and cantered off;
flanked by blurs of black and red and white.

War
Conquest
and Death
ride on ahead
But greeny looks over his shoulder-haunch
as if to say,
“You sure about this?”

With something like a pout,
I drop my unfinished drink in the trash
Fine, fine.
I lob my flask in too.

The night is just night again
and skin is less valuable
but my horse remains,
glowing with awkward judgment.
“Jesus Christ, really?” I say,
and move my bottle to the recycling.
Isaiah Carpenter May 2017
Dust & Rain

Walking through fallow fields
I stop to breathe the sweet approaching rain.
Can I speak of freedom here
in open air? Now? When I can't look
my-self (or both or all my selves) in the eye and
ask: Why are you here? What are you?

Doubt thunders while I cast my eyes
toward shadowed skies. It warns “don’t
look today in the eye until
you’re worthy.” Though even the rain
sings acceptance my eyes only drown
watching the drinking dust.

I see mossy stones laid in that dust stretched
over property lines where neighbors
lob tired words across, where hunters
hounds no longer run, where stone shards
lie memorizing winter. I lift one stone
firmly by its top and see the ancient
marks etched in its face. I lift it (cold dead thing)
and cast it far from me.

“Maker come unmake me, please.”
the gurgle of your laugh
   is mouthwash
in the bathroom sink
charging across beach
   like zips on coats
yours is red
   breath ragged
a tyre with a puncture
but keep revving anyway
   feet crash as bells
**** as waves
   cheeks like the Japanese flag
raspberry-ripple drink
this fizzy petrol
   makes us buzz
our vehicles rumbling
   full of three-dollop ice-cream
rattle of matches
in my back pocket
   hear the scratch-ffttth
as I let one go
   lob it towards the sea
grab your hand
swirl in a circle
   so we become smoke
swarming from incense sticks
   then we go back
the way we came
over our xylophone footprints
   if they could chime they would
me and you now froth
   spilling down the side of a pint
dialogue luminous
as a blue margarita
   ankles chatter together
ladder on your tights
   and we sail in bathtubs
to where we’ve never been
wearing sunglasses shaped
   like briquette-black hearts
Written: June 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, not based on real events.
The poem was written without a great deal of thought, but deliberately contains unusual imagery.
The title is a line in the song 'Hiding Tonight' by Alex Turner, which featured on the soundtrack to the movie 'Submarine'. My poem is very partially (emphasis on 'partially') inspired by a scene in the movie in which this song plays.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2015
Crow on the ground—
In his pecking lob sidle walk,
Struts with airs unlanding
On the sleeping lawns.

His black eyes are sideways,
Eyeing me as I watch—
What a rude intruder.
Is it me or is it he?

I make my coffee—
At a window into his world,
He waits, wades with indifference,
Goading the flighty songbirds.

The blackness moves—
With the dimming, trailing sun,
So many things left unknown,
Crown on the ground.
I am nothing but a simple fool,
from under the stairs you walk down,
forgive my puritanical perceptions,
but my banality proceeds my sins.

May I be set upon by savage dogs,
that tear me limb from limb,
For am I a wretched creature,
with purpose of a simpleton?

Let me rest my head on this block,
lob it off without a second look,
yes I'm a failure and a low life ****,
come on! call your insults it's just began.

Why not burn my body on a cross,
so deviant I deserve the humiliation,
for what is one man's opinion,
to the voice of a nation.


By Christos Andreas kourtis aka NeonSolaris
the outside of the house
was looking rather dull
and over a color chart
I did ponder and mull

a shade of maroon
made for great appeal
so did a rich shade
of Kensington teal

with the color decided
for the paint job
into the local hardware store
I did nonchalantly lob

the chap behind the counter
asked if he could assist
I said of course you can
as I waved my wrist

we walked to the paint and putty
section of the store
where there were gallons of paint
sitting on the floor

we discussed the advantages
and disadvantages of exterior gloss
and I opted for a shade
known by the name of Rock Moss

the paint was placed in the trunk
of my Nissan four wheel drive
I then set out for home with a paint
which would bring my house alive

the overalls that were in the tool shed
I quickly hauled on
and I proceeded to paint
the exterior walls with great aplomb

there I was on ladder high
slapping the paint brush around
when all of a sudden
I landed face first on the ground

the house painting job
came to an abrupt finish
ye olde ladder and I parted company
after the skirmish  

a painting contractor is finalizing
what I didn't quite complete
and by next Friday week
he'll have the outside of the house looking neat

it has been an adventure
improving the exterior of my home
yet I wouldn't have had the adventure
but for the ladder wanting to roam
Raquel Butler Jun 2016
you:
humor used to disguise,
your vacuous lies,
a smile seemingly bright,
a knife stabbing my insides.

sarcasm used to disguise,
my wrung out insides,
chopped cropped lob,
cleansing me of your scorn.
me:
read it either way, it makes more sense top to bottom tho
Jane dale Apr 2014
Why are men so happy ****,
Wandering round, just eating food,
Manhood dangling between their thighs,
Never shy, whatever their size,
Sitting causally eating lunch,
Lazy lob, it's all too much,
When they slide along my palest couch,
My heart is really in my mouth,
For confidence, ten out of ten,
Just don't bend over, no not again!
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Tyrant vandal Belly buttons born from tongue toy hammer whack shameless pantomime gold-digger jezebel ***** archetype bad product off food witchy fingers green fluorescent pink yellow ray of backwards twist mother truckers flat wheel tyre engine fire engine whoop weep tear tears down ripped up feeling face straight up to ceiling baby crib our tired little limbs break against the tide I want to swim away from here place island Caribbean holiday at Christmas I don’t want to be here when I get back lead trail hike walk up the stairs followed my shadow tie me up to lamppost dead flowers bouquet take give taker giver relationship spit out the blues by Benny and The Jets riddle saxophonists up walls and silly laughter clown faces you are a good morning stream streamer party thrower down sink lob me up pipes plumber broken loo place to sit and ponder on my **** think too many faces cherub fat little smile me a river bend down here we build a fort like kids and you’re home for ***** sake safety traffic cone orange still scares me to death bobby pins left on windowsills I chuck the memory out back it makes me sick pummel the cheekbones down flat face two face baby feet get into bins bin trash bag split when I picked it up I’m covered in rotten courgetti hipster you’re a stinking mess I hate your stupid shoes walk in a straight line you drunken ******* skip home with me hop scotch decanter glass slips off side crash pop Rice Krispy cereal noise white noise rain playlist through the walls
I push through in pure stubbornness
I
leave us be
lots of love,
distance.
Manipulated stream of consciousness poem from the 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY...' collection.
Dagoth I Am May 2012
lob some spit at the window
watch it drop down the pane
it's only the guilty who concern themselves
with clearing their names

you bring tidings of hope,
false tidings
when you come here
there's two friends who did me wrong
that you're protecting

it's so clear
and when you speak
it's those two who speak through you
who'll speak for me
the burning and the electricity

sun goes down San Francisco
friends are hard to find
chew them up just as quick as I can find them
try to clear my mind

remember hours at the table
gauze flight light easing through
if there's one thing that I'm not going to do tonight
it's die for you

'cause when you speak
it's those two who speak through you
who'll speak for me
the burning and the electricity
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2014
Crow on the ground—
In his pecking lob sidle walk,
Struts with airs unlanding
On the sleeping lawns.

His black eyes are sideways,
Eyeing me as I watch—
What a rude intruder.
Is it me or is it he?

I make my coffee—
At a window into his world,
He waits, wades with indifference,
Goading the flighty songbirds.

The blackness moves—
With the dimming, trailing sun,
So many things left unknown,
Crown on the ground.
Julie Grenness Jan 2017
Here is a nonsense thought,
A really silly new sport,
Not the sport we were taught,
What about underwater tennis?
Hitting a serve would be a menace!
Then you could volley and lob,
Underwater ,what a hard job!
It's only a nonsense thought,
Can you invent a silly sport?
Feedback welcome.
Ronald Jones May 2015
You're intense as Einstein
as you brush that brush to
make some fanciful line
You're one of my ancestors
and I am proud of your kind
The designs you find
come directly from your mind
Designs garishly entwined
Shapes pleasingly sublime
You daub and lob
-a ******* intact-
While we observe with awe
your very talented knack
Scotty Reynolds Jun 2018
Impulse buys and crap meat pies,
crispy snacks and cans
Fast food bags, discarded **** all chucked from sweaty hands

Into bushes, roadside drops or tossed from speeding cars
Consume and lob, “it’s not my prob”
junk stuffed from fist to gob
 
Foods that ****, eat our streets, Mother nature’s ******!
Disrespectful, scant regard, her beauty hid amidst
 
A correlation, may I address... littering to health
Or on a controversial note, worst areas lack in wealth
 
Discarded dreams, stretched at the seams
Life’s stitching’s come undone
 Scratch paper hopers, ciggy smokers
Our streets are overrun
 
Deadly habits, toxic foods, mainly line our streets
Left for volunteers to pick, a never-ending feat
 
Healthy trash? Avocado smash?
Imagine streets adorn
 
Kale and spinach everywhere
We wade through piles of corn
 
“There’s ****** carrots are everywhere, why don’t they use the bin”
“That courgette’s dropped right next to it, why not just put it in?”
 
Coastal towns with plastic seas, wildlife getting sick
All tangled, trapped in Ghost nets like a phantom sailors’ trick
 
Above the ground to the depths below the litter never ends
Poor old Mother Earth, being driven round the bend
 
So how do we control this?  Education is the answer?
Let’s all work to turn it round for Generation Alpha
 
The new emerging vibrant minds, absorbing like a sponge
The lessons passed on down to them, by loving Dads & Mums
 
A shift in thinking is afoot, I feel it in my bones
Let’s join as one community, it starts within our homes.
martin challis Oct 2014
Fiona

a beach ball floated on the waves
it bobbed and rolled and went along
if i was fishing that day i would have seen it
- there on the beach  
and above
a hang glider left the grassy cliff
to swing his feet in time with
sea gulls who never tired of laughing,
he saw their white wings and the crests of the waves beneath him,
they were one and they were many
but there was only one beach ball
floating and bobbing along.     laughing
in many colours
at the fish in their sea
and the birds who looked like clouds

Angie

a happy face floats in the air
it has a curling ribbon tied to it
i think it is a balloon
a bright red balloon

Eliza

crystal jar - tight sealed lid
full - full as you can be
bursting sometimes with colourful buttons
of all sizes
they are names, and when you call them
they dance
like fireflies scattering into dark places
they light the world with campfires
we are warm,  apprehension runs away when you
sow these buttons  and
we're all well clothed
with garments so richly fastened

Cassim

a feather brushes the nose
of the giant
will he sneeze
or carry the bird?

Kat

excellent tennis is rare
I think of Wimbledon
the best of the best
the court divided
as are the spectators
they cheer, they sit in silence
they see you serve, they see you lob
they see you backhand a winner
they see the choice of the chosen
and when victorious
you acccept the trophy
and the defeated

Kat - again

ok you’re a bird
then fly
fly above the nets but
don’t stop for trees that
look like antennas
and when you pick through leaves on
the forest floor and
find the king of worms,
eat him slowly
he will feed you forever

Sheridan

the sharp sword cuts sweetly
it leaves a cool incision
knowledge is apprehended and
the red well flows over
fields are rich
strength knocking timbers
builds a house,
we live and eat well,
your house prospers
you are graceful
your love is light
and air is for breathing


MChallis © 2014
www.martinchallis.com
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
i still think
                                           that literature's       "      "
is better assumed as
     mathematics'                             ~
or what's simply abbreviated
                                    ambiguity, sort of,
as apologetics for Heidegger is concerned -
     that there is moral ambiguity in the interpretation
  of Dasein as ecstasis about, e.g. the war in Syria:
    but is that a self-serving ecstasis for the fact per se
    or that other interpretation for concern, which
with the above mentioned notation is a lack of,
       as in for peace to resume as common sense
      and less of what's suitable away from the apathetic
route, and indeed the ecstasis to shout for forced peace
            rather than see it all as without your moral
judgement with you being no moral agent in the matters
     that themselves have to resolve, without your input.
- and it always comes like this, cute little things,
or how you can condense all the theories surrounding
the psychological trinity into superego,
or that verse by Philip Larkin
        that begins wonderfully:
they ******* up, your mum and dad
  (this be the verse) -
  and the two other bits and bobs,
the Gemini scalpels -
       depending on how you wish
to make incisions into thought (or
any other moral quality, for that matter) -
do you wish to be a surgeon,
your own man as it were, and with the ego
cut your own story?
        or perhaps you'd prefer a butcher
psychiatrist lob pork chops of you
    with his depersonalising id?
         after all, he will say:
the laws of the state demands you have
so sort of i.d. (identification credential);
only the rich, a Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany
could ever fit the programme of Herr Doktor,
         Ode Odi Oedipus            Olé!
Herr... auto-****** means i have enough
******* on my ******* that
a gentle rub of the ******* gets me all
hot & bothered and juiced up?
   after all, the maidens of Egypt have
to have theirs cut and endure docile mantras
of why, why, why.
    and please, Herr Doktor, when
will Latin actually die? they keep saying
Latin is dead, familiarly like Nietzsche's god
is dead... but Latin isn't remotely dead,
  the blimmin' alphabet is still here,
how do i know? well, d'uh, i'm using it...
you say id             i say es
   you say ego               i say self
(then you make a Frasier joke about elves)
       and we go on and on in
this cat               mouse              game,
it's all a matter of fashion,
      they all said the above Mr. N was a
great stylist, after all an aesthetician is,
   and now they blabber on as if talking
Gucci pooch'e - this is dead, that is dead,
it's a fashion industry: but less obvious,
more inclined in       what you talk about
than what        you wear.
             said,
   '            ', he said
     "        ", he thought he said,
                                 or the narrator said it for him,
                         or the narrator thought he said it
for him, when in fact he didn't say anything
    nor the fact that there was anyone to actually
  say anything at all -
                 kinda a Beckett Watt moment.
           the Watt waltz, and that truly is a mind
   ******; as i sometimes wish narration was
kept in the Irish / Polish standard of notation
- and off we went to the poll booths.
- aye, and we vetoed rather than voted.
who would have thought that two ****-heads would
make the unlikely politicised duo of escapees.
             akin to Ulysses - but i get the
picture, the hyphenated compound words not
yet approved to be actual compounds,
        cite the Oxford committee for doing
****** paperwork, or none at all to modernise
  the Anglo-Smackson.
      ****... in the real world this could be
called pimping - but here... mm hmm:
peacock exfoliation - and i know it, so it's less
smarty and cared about: just... done.
yes, it usually starts rigid, that bit about
    Latin not being dead is extremely rigid
in composition - it's a sore the size of a ****-steak
   on my forehead -
            as is my lack of desperate attempts
to applaud Delmore Schwartz attempt to bring
    Finnegans Wake (the pearl in the crown
of all things difficult) to the people and the swine...
            so he didn't think Ulysses was
difficult enough? jeeze! and this alone reads like
a modern aversion to how young people are
drawn into mutilating themselves -
                  rampant ids             less acknowledged
Larkin moments in discussion:
        or perhaps the opera of suburban happy-go-happy-do?
       kids without even the foggiest of
the lysergic acid of Hanna-Barbera
                        and the Loons -
                                the fun-go-to lunacies of
cartoon network 20th century 90s...
                                       and hell: when we actually
        lived in times of toy story toys;
                 these days i'm getting the impression
a girl is probably going to play with a ***** than
   a barbie - must be the pink and the blonde
                         matched by the how many? jokes
    in mouth as in look doppio standards of not getting it;
but of course, the many other stereotypes.
            well, us kids, back then,
                          ah...         nothing like that coming again.
       summary... in ref. to the title,
   it's next days shrapnel from the debauchery of
the previous night, or why i write drunk and sometimes
get lucky sobering up and do not indulge in the bottle
      and not write something, and end up not writing
something like William Styron's Darkness Visible,
    who also drank, but didn't write and drink,
                  drank on the sobering up note, like
this poem.
well, i figured, if i don't exploit the drinking
       as a sedative unwinding and be bashful
then, resolutely, the sobering up me is still making
  that blood wine:
                          and never did liquidating
   two kilograms of caster sugar in half a litre of water
             feel like handling mercury.
xavier thomas Sep 2021
Me-
“D” UP! “D” UP! put them hands up, hands up.
And I’m robbing folks on the pass if they slip up.
Don’t allow nobody to pass by you, move your feet.
Don’t go for every reach, just keep them in front of you my G.

They dealing with a team full of experts.
Juice & I will double-team, so squad be on high alert.
Make them work, cut off those passing lanes and
once they turn the ball over, we’ll be gone in an instant.


Juice-
Aye, look at these wanna be play makers.
Zay steal that, now pass that.
Cause I’m about to lob that to my boy Doug.
BOOM!!! I see you Doug with the 360 alley-oop dunk!

YOOO! Ball is thrown in, watch for the pass and skip!

Me-
No worries I got the ball my guy, don’t trip.
Here Juice! Run 54-hip.

Juice-
Aww snap! Time to ****!
I’m about to put the boys in their feels!

Cross-over stepper, step-back decker.
I’m a G.O.A.T. getter, nobody does it better.
Weak mismatches and easy pass dishes.
Pick & role to the pocket, they can’t stop this.

Zay-
Man, we about to hurt these fools on the other end too.
About to get tortured as we break their hearts in shambles.
And when we rock them and stop them at the rim, it’s straight blocking.
Even if they try to shoot, BLOCKA, BLOCKA, BLOCKA!

Juice-
It is what it is fam, to bad they about to lose.

Zay-
At the end of the day, what the hell they gonna do?

Juice-
Now this is epic. We got them looking pathetic.
I said what I said, ain’t no room to be apologetic.
Game-Time
Keith W Fletcher Dec 2015
Amazing how opinions
Suddenly become facts
When the court becomes a minefield
And no one ever backtracks
They just keep on marching forward
Stomping all over the sanity
Of those who have no hope of any reward
For keeping a check on their  own vanity
They don't scream it from the rooftops
They pace themselves like a funeral dirge
Slow and steady till everyone's ready
For the real persona to emerge

Hyperdrive.... man alive
Where the hell did that come from
It was hiding in the darkend corner
Waiting for the time to be right
To emerge upon the senses of those around
Who absolutely positively haven't got a clue
That imagination is not ...just
An abstract situation
Where part timers can go to feel
Some sense of satisfaction

It's a full time job
Where the verbal grenades that you lob
May make a point or get a laugh
Or blow up in your face
But if there is dedication
To the value that you accepted
As a reward
For your part and expanding the mundane
From small talk and small thinking to....
Revelations and education and new paths
To be explored
Where the minefields have become diffused
And reality has become... so confused
By an opinion that has suddenly become
Chiseled into stone
Where you and you alone
Know the combination to
The lock........ You possess
To a strong box
Full of small talk and small thinking
That you are always finding is impossible
Impossible....impossible.....
IMPOSSIBLE.....
   ............TO  DISPOSSESS

— The End —