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John Leuven Apr 2014
In seductions of ******
wisps of alarm, tongues fly
catching fire, their croaks
are red-headed matchsticks.

Intrepid hourly, the
blanketed white harassed
the appointed locum, the
cashmere buds of tobacco.

The open mouths adhere to
the King of Limbs, the
experimental corsages that
— bloom —
into existence.

There is a space between
all the noise where
my fetal poise can reside,

forever holding,
holding on,


forever holding,
holding on.
Day of Satan's painful duty! Dies iræ! dies illa!
Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; Solvet sæclum in favilla
So says Virtue, so says Beauty. ***** David *** Sibylla.
Ah! what terror shall be shaping Quantus tremor est futurus,
When the Judge the truth's undraping-- Quando Judex est venturus.
Cats from every bag escaping! Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Now the trumpet's invocation Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Calls the dead to condemnation; Per sepulchra regionem,
All receive an invitation. Coget omnes ante thronum.

Death and Nature now are quaking, Mors stupebit, et Natura,

And the late lamented, waking, Quum resurget creatura

In their breezy shrouds are shaking. Judicanti responsura.

Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, Liber scriptus proferetur,

And the Clerk, to them referring, In quo totum continetur,

Makes it awkward for the erring. Unde mundus judicetur.

When the Judge appears in session, Judex ergo quum sedebit,

We shall all attend confession, Quicquid latet apparebit,

Loudly preaching non-suppression. Nil inultum remanebit.

How shall I then make romances Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,

Mitigating circumstances? Quem patronem rogaturus,

Even the just must take their chances. Quum vix justus sit securus?

King whose majesty amazes, Rex tremendæ majestatis,

Save thou him who sings thy praises; Qui salvandos salvas gratis;

Fountain, quench my private blazes. Salva me, Fons pietatis.

Pray remember, sacred Saviour, Recordare, Jesu pie,

Mine the playful hand that gave your Quod sum causa tuæ viæ;

Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. Ne me perdas illa die.

Seeking me, fatigue assailed thee, Quærens me sedisti lassus

Calvary's outlook naught availed thee; Redemisti crucem passus,

Now 'twere cruel if I failed thee. Tantus labor non sit cassus.

Righteous judge and learnèd brother, Juste Judex ultionis,

Pray thy prejudices smother Donum fac remissionis

Ere we meet to try each other. Ante diem rationis.

Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, Ingemisco tanquam reus,

And my face vermilion flushes; Culpa rubet vultus meus;

Spare me for my pretty blushes. Supplicanti parce, Deus.

Thief and harlot, when repenting, Qui Mariam absolvisti,

Thou forgavest--complimenting Et latronem exaudisti,

Me with sign of like relenting. Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

If too bold is my petition Preces meæ non sunt dignæ,

I'll receive with due submission Sed to bonus fac benigne

My dismissal--from perdition. Ne perenni cremer igne.

When thy sheep thou hast selected Inter oves locum præsta.

From the goats, may I, respected, Et ab hædis me sequestra,

Stand amongst them undetected. Statuens in parte dextra.

When offenders are indited, Confutatis maledictis,

And with trial-flames ignited, Flammis acribus addictis,

Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. Voca me *** benedictis.

Ashen-hearted, prone and prayerful, Oro supplex et acclinis,

When of death I see the air full, Cor contritum quasi cinis;

Lest I perish too be careful. Gere curam mei finis.

On that day of lamentation, Lacrymosa dies illa

When, to enjoy the conflagration, Qua resurget et favilla,

Men come forth, O be not cruel: Judicandus **** reus,

Spare me, Lord--make them thy fuel. Huic ergo parce, Deus!
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.
mEb Nov 2010
My locum outer self is identified as a conferer,
A deep **** stirrer; I frod miserably when trouble occurs
Out in the open I am hidden from sight of Earthly cures
Sparsely telluric on my own
Adroitly celestial in my dome
Scape goat from head to toe;
I'd drown in and out too many populating
Coruscating as you'd spy
Balky the opposite: Illuminating inside
My barbaric inner self un identified as unseen;
Real keen are my advances
I'm a tone deft prancing like I can carry tune
An elitist with the perfect groove
That's what you;d say if given impression hand first
Of course, I'd finish the enitire plate without the quench for thirst
And I'm hard to capture by pithy eyes too
And I'm hard to real inside outside
And neither never am I ever; on cue
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
When Kafka got up to danska
the band played desafinado
for a deliciously exciting polka
and a dreary two step of Vienna
but he only danskaed the tango
to appease his latent fandango
Kafka got lost in the danska
discovering his passionate waltza
embracing his favourite *****
he hastily finished his unfinished
and secretly went to his America
much desafinado about nothing
he mused of dansking in Alaska
by buying a fur hat in Canada
but it only danskaed the polka
back home in Czechoslovakia
the hat was really not bothered
as long as the danska was polka
and Kafka was quite very travodkad
and occasionally marlony brandyed
dancing a lost tango in anchorage
so ominously close to old Russia
and Doctor Zhivago’s new locum
with much more of that desafinado
and even less dansking his tango
he quietly learned to play banjo
but he found it all a bit of a trial.
nivek Dec 2014
The hospital waiting room dragged into a shapeless void.
Felix the locum consultant filled the room with his presence,
a huge man with a huge smile exuding friendliness and a ready willingness to listen, and take interest in what his patient had to say.
Felix said "Yes" to pray he got the permanent residence when I asked him If i should ask for him this favour from God.
Please pray Dr Felix is offered the permanent position at our local hospital. Thanks so much.
August night


Dark, starless night sky, a sliver of the moon
golden scythe is mowing down the old.
Harvest time, forgot to close the window,
a chill settles in ancient lungs evil coughs.

Church bells toll the day; the day is hot and
gives nothing away, the old priest is on holiday.
The locum is clumsy, hasn't had a bath for months,
a murmur of discontent.

The cleric sweats there is a smell of *****
a church’s reject; they do take care of
their own. This isn't swine flu nothing to
report, the old dying as they must
anthony Brady Apr 2018
When I arrive at The Pearly Gates,
I will still be troubled by
the one thing in life I never
really understood. I mean
the second Theory of Relativity.
My nightmare is that St. Peter
is not on duty the day I die
and I seek entry.
He will have, I hope, passed
on the usual questions....

...all of which I have sure-fire
prepared answers,
to one of his locum guardians.
Hope it’s not Albert Einstein.

TOBIAS
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
perhaps i'm just... tired from making christmas eve
preparations...
the mother is fresh from hospital having had
a hip replacement - and she's only just teasing
being 60... and this sort of thing waits for women...
coming to 70+ and in 15 years or so...
there's a high chance of a second replacement
and that's only one leg and socket...
but christmas eve has to be covered...
whether she's sitting at the table or whether she's
lying in bed...
return of the dutiful son... some son,
some duty... and by no means a return...
i can't remember my 20s...
fog of psychosis or... never quiet allowed
to get a neurological perspective outside of england...
when i had the dough to get an m.r.i. scan...
they sent me with my early-dementia riddled
grandfather for the results...
i said: so, doc, kind herr neurologist...
am i mentally ill?
the doc replies: anyone who says you're mentally
ill is mentally ill themselves...
21... 33... 12 years of some sort of brain damage
and i'm still... typing and minding typos
like a neurotic or some variant on the spectrum
of impulsive-compulsive disorder...
i still want to see the face that ****** saw...
when he gave me... what he said was going to be...
an LSD trip shortened... so much for my naiveness....
friendships... ties to growing up and school...
so much for reading any C Castaneda
for that matter...
christmas eve is coming and i'm doing everything
i can to find an hour of drinking and typing...
it's hardly enough to find the perfect lotus...
i have to lay down twelve dishes for the table
come christmas eve...
christmas day is half sorted...
there's the meat already baked...
and all i'll have to do is the *******...
wrapped in an envelope of skin which will
be filled with butter and fresh thyme...
the baked tatties will be just fine and
the honey glazed carrots and 'snips will also be:
just fine...
and when the 26th of december comes i'll
be... hopefully... left with...
so much anticipation... over a month's worth
of advertising... i haven't bought a single gift...
i offer my time...
grandma calls today and says how...
it's nice that her son (my uncle) is there...
i have missed 4 consequitive christmas celebrations
in england... 4 years and now i see the banality
of christmas... in a catholic nation it's...
slightly different would be a major *******
understatement...
i should question... but...
i have come to understand that...
whatever the truth might be...
esp. if its the coincidental unearthing of
the nag hammadi library, the dead sea scrolls...
the year is 1945 and the great bomb just drops...
and... the gospel of st. thomas is only cited by
psychiatrists akin to r. d. laing in the 1960s
about... make the male female...
make the female male... the innter the outer...
or just your casual invigoration of the transgender
zeitgeist... and medicine catches up to the psychological
whims... and...
i'd just like a cold ms. amber...
perhaps a london derby in football...
a robin on a fence in my garden...
a migrating flock of canadian geese in the sky...
and a frosty morning with a cold azure delight
of a sunny pristine sky...
no pompous summer with her sensual ****
of scents and colours and distractions...
and how: winter is never old...
never somber... lucky for me... winter is always
drunk and readying itself for a birth in death...
or some pseudo-mystical *******...
but i can use a plethora of psychiatric terms...
last time i checked...
i was tested for regression in one instance...
regression being: having false memories being
insinuated for you to believe in...
a ***** trick done by psychiatrists...
i still don't mind...
those 12 dishes will be served...
- a mackerel paste salad
- herrings:
(a) in cream with apples...
(b) classic... oil and ocet
(c) kashubian
- a crab, prawn and smoked salmon pate
(cream cheese and trout caviar, dill)
- oven baked salmon with veg trimmings
- beetroot borscht
- borscht "ears" - dumplings stuffed
with cabbage & 'shrooms... or just 'shrooms
- short-crust pierogi (oven baked dumplings)
filled with pickled cabbage, 'shrooms onions etc.
- a trad con. salad
(cubed... eggs, potatoes, leek, carrots,
celeriac, pickled cucumbers in brine,
etc.)
- racuchy
- an oven baked cheese cake
- a poppyseed roulade
- a keks (fruitcake... very much a...
loan of weihnachtsstollen)... i've been feeding
this ******* 3 tablespoons of ***
every 2 weeks for the past month or so...

how many is that? there needs to be twelve...
****... herrings count as x3...
leftover prawns...
so... a...
- prawn cocktail...

and of course a plate and utensils for that...
un-expected guest...
would i go to the christmas eve mass?
the "shepherds' mass"?
last time i went... i dragged a monkey with me...
250ml of ***** is a monkey...
and i had a swell time...
listening to the nuns pray for the alcoholics...
but not the workoholics...
and playing itchy eyelid and nerve tourettes
with an itchy face with some kid
in the aisle in front of me...
and... then walking out mid-mass
to **** on the church: to ensure... it would...
grow!
but... this is england...
i can't afford to go to a catholic mass...
and not stand out...
not that many catholics around these parts...

i have my twelve dishes+...
christmas day is going to be a doddle...
the roast potatoes have been perfected...
the meat is ready to be sliced
with sour dough bread...
there are no children,
no presents to open...
just enough time to survive this over-hyped
*******... enough time to wait for
the true celebrations,
and these ones... if not in the company
of two people nearing 60...
then... two people nearing 85+...
with easter, in a catholic midst...
walking to church with painted eggs...
to subscribe to this... advent of the castrato choir...
easter and spring...
a crucifixion... that we do indeed pay such
obsolete rigour to tradition:
even if we're not expected...
i guess justifies everyone else being
so hyped-up about the birth and death
of a demigod...

i just imagine: but what if i didn't do all this?
what's the alternative to:
r.i.p. marie fredriksson - god rest your soul:
you beau lass... 'spending my time'?
the t.v. zombie? the internet claustrophobiac?
what alternative?
are you a downton abbey up fan...
or a downton abbey down fan?
up? the sirs and the class distinctions
and what the **** it has to do with
a room's decorum?
or... the staff locum?

all i know is that i'm about 20 minutes away
from a 25mg / 250mg naproxen / 500ml
of ms. amber knock-out sweet dreams goliath
*******...
i'm already thinking about...
postcards from Geneva...

the falling asleep part i never mind...
the waking up part: oh god i do, i do...
and there's nothing worse than apathy:
but of course there is...
there's the truth... and having to have
some secular decency...
in attempting to carry the burden
of disbelief...
a natural consequence of an equilibrium...
to have to have experienced the truth
in some way:
you can only carry disbelief with you...
as you somehow try to cover
a poppy's seed's worth of diameter every
year to a nibble of that once
grand truth...
a disbelief... a negation of:
because if i were to believe in... whatever
i have to disbelieve in order to covert and
tactifully let everyone else a place ahead of me...
what's the alternative? will what then becomes
"the truth" / a truth?

to have truth in your mouth...
in your ears...
in your eyes...
and then... to have to stall...
to carry with you a disbelief...
without a plethora of agnostic doubt...
imagine being...
excused from the thrill of entertaining
the plethora of emotions bound to
agnostic doubt...
i miss those days...
when one could simply "wish away"
a thought...
or a thought would disappear of its own accord...

yes the grand-wise master of a grandmother:
she fell from a chair...
which she stood on...
when a cushion was still on it...
because... she really wanted to change
the curtains in the kitchen...
the epitaph would have run...
i lived my life... but i died:
because i really had to change those curtains
since christmas and ****...

i am burdened with disbelief not because...
i don't believe it...
a marijuana hallucination in central london,
located with me hiding in a church: elevated...
a ******* choir, an iPod check,
a great wind...
polite society would not allow me to...
do much more...
i can't doubt... that's my problem...
i have to... "negate"...
i can't negate outright...
logically... premises, presuppostions...
web of rhetorical angst... etc. -
and i can't believe it either... by believing this:
marijuana auditory hallucination...
what? it's already 12 years "late"...
and by belief: will it?
to what end? my own? its: "its"?!

"my prefered genger pronoun is: ITS"...
well hello... ITS...
yes, ITS because it's not it is...
or rather it's because my it's ITS is already
included: so... i-its t t t t t...
have its ****?
em... samuel beckett... watt...
**** up its... etc. -
and grammar is that grand ******* crescendo
moment when all the apes will fall from
Julian Tuwim's opera carousel -
and fall they will: and will immediately
stand-up straight... and figure out...
the blessings of the thumb...
thumbs' up up anyone's ***.

with a thumbs' up like that...
in anyone's ***... you're bound to see
a thumb's peek-a-boo in Beijing...
like: swap-prizes! this one isn't even surreal.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
how can i write anything spectacular, these days?
of all the days: these are not: bon jovi's these days:
full album listened to...
am i going to become a plain jane medium
of events? hardly...
i can't write anything spec-ta-cular...
because... i find enigmas in the details:
the devils can heave their own load of events...
i can't write anything spectacular...
i'm not mad enough to drink 14 strong coffees
akin to Balzac to keep myself: tuned...
the base event: walking at night having your eyes
stolen by your shadow: ending up looking
for a mirror - or a puddle - neither readily
available: back into sketches of language...
because a narrator will hardly come -
or a full cast ensemble - choir-esque...
there's the happy to get along with:
old enough - ft. ricky skaggs & ashley monroe...
pirate of the: ca-rr- ca-rrí-b'ean...
and not: pirates of the: cari-b'evenin'suss...
carribean and not: carry-bean... mr. bean:
mr. magic beans to you...
back in england: as is always the governing
precursor -
mastic fantastic and mr. magic magnolias!
in the construction trade...
turns out rubber is also the prized asset
of constructing a tent -
and the not enough bundles of ****** are
hard to find...
but i can't write anything spectacular...
what's to be allowed: status: spectacular...
when a dancing shadow is everything
while i stand rooted into form like
a turnip and a stump of a former glory of oak...
the shadow that falls from the moon
and lands under a streetlamp...
and i say: forget the mirrors!
i'm looking at the prize: of when narcissus
finally made it to hades!
with additional details... something
of any worth of anything...
a drunkard lullaby who wakes up to a delirium
before finding the calm sea
and a boat... 'who dare bring women
and mirrors onto a ship?!'
voyage like none other...
and we would bring chickens for the eggs...
and violins to ease our ears from
shabby carpenters' work on the deck...
and... we most certainly brought
flutes with us... hell... the whole brass section
of an orchestra... to somehow pray...
and appease... the Anemoi...
if not eased by jazz we'd **** or at least
do the second best of a clarinet quartet concerto...
i did find that men read for a reason:
while women read to pass the time -
passing time -
with all the given space...
it's that one aspect of physical reality
that remains: play-dough riddling...
the Anemoi as the lesser -
otherwise the grand ghost of a breath that
pushes the Gaia into a pirouette in orbit...
some call it the wind -
i call it the ghost's breath - the arch ghost -
otherwise: well h'america is very, really:
the pristine heidegger base of a / the: "being" there...
sidenote... as h'america happens...
old europe is finding its locum among
the feral tribes that: once upon a time
used to nibble -
h'america just happens...
what the hell happened to the mandolin
via the banjo?
it's nonetheless such a distance...
the culture is exported but...
as the exported wheat...
it never becomes the returned dough
of a bread to be eaten -
the wheat to flour process probably
passed via Columbia or... some other cheap-***
metaphor...
these feet stood in russia...
these eyes saw russia...
i hardly think i will see or stand on the ground:
just across the pond...
"mighty me" for wanting to retain the remains
of whatever integrity is to be eaten:
as a leftover...
no qualms...
but i have been duly looking for...
substitute cultural references...
if i had to dig as far back as teutonic crusader
folk songs... that's quiet telling...
because this language is better written -
should it ever be said...
i'm... not exactly looking for a stage -
and clown-make-up.
It took me a long while
To really understand how we inure each
Other in two or threes, taking each number
Like a closed leading to an open door
Contraltos and passive ancestors have one thing in common
Lies and literature, it took to you to be a good person so what
You took to prison and a cell of broken speech and schools took you in peremptory pleasure, with some loquacity and leisure
Mellifluous or mundane, quoting has some substrata of truth, broken down into placid men in Lenin's underground communist movements
Black and broken like the hungry poverty, of the speech and resplendent sum, inventively locum tenens more than the summated parts of clients
Remeasuring the men around me, finding the inclination within singularities
Violent and breathless broken poetry
Yenson Sep 2021
The mad starring eyes holds the giveaway
look within and see the fixation
wrinkled brows lined the receding forehead
a suffered soul with the pains etched on
thinning hairline and greying temples
beckons the imminent baldness not far off
scraggy unkempt moustachioed mouth
shades darkly into greyed unruly beard
around a weak Caucasian  chin and jawline
a bulbous nose sits in the middle of a face
neither remarkable or fetching

Look closer into the mad eyes and read the face
you'll see the little man still looking for a purpose
yet caught in a flummoxed of insecurities
caged in frightened gaze that bewitches vapidity
shooting pretentious visions underlaid with alarm
the arched eyebrows over sunken panda eyes  
gives a withering comical look that is quickly challenge
by that 'recently released from psychiatry detention' ambiance
of the man
he emanates pathos much like the ****** who claims
he's a stud
he fancies himself a poet on a quest and poses grotesque absurdities like a Galaxian quester shooting deers
the obsession of a pathetic loser that never grew up
the locum residential mad poet in fission fixation
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i have died a thousand times
and that's only before...
i get a chance to fall asleep;

i've been taking twitter accounts
and instagram entries polaroids...
reading Milton doesn't ease
the headaches...

this burden of the wriggling
earthworm that's about
to be pulled out from nibbling
on the clay: london proud...

         sheffield... the artic monkey's:
n'est ce pas?
that field felt grift...
smoking baron and the ashes to
lick up lick to keep...

         my furore!
my hunger my guise my everyday
lost case of slumber...
the death grieving the date of
the lost review...

          bygones be left as bygones
of Navarone...
  crown of pandemic proportions...
still waiting for
ol' lizzie to drop it to a down
of pressure on the ol' ticker...
she'll die and hail!
robert the bruce!
            my ivory of white winding through...

each night i die...
i die because i fall to sleep
and there's no dream
for my sort of licking the altar
of open and salting the wounds...
let them breathe they'd be prone
to implore me of to keep...

if there's no darker loot of black
then perhaps it
will sound more impeding
in: altvaterdeutsche...

schwarz! schwarz!
                   came the lone roman ******:

švarц!
            wo alle straßen enden...
der schlamm ist knöcheltief...
            
schlamm ist eisen:
          wenn skulptur ist:
gegeben "die aufwachen" prompt...

             *******: inselwohnsitzleute!
east of warsaw... or west of kiev?!

fetish peoples unite under the rubric
of the scaling prop-up latex
of *** games that...
wir wurden einst kinder...
         wir benutzt zu spielen...
                  verstecken und suchen!

gamma goblin of the "vierte *****"...
or just a fetish for an old version
of english... this... my exhauasted anglo-sax...
reuters... back toward
the ***** of a fake father i too have...

grenadiers of the horseoperamärц!
lernenzuerst:
                kind-deutsche-unger­ade-leere...

for all the english that is given,
why wouldn't i want to escape into
a prehistoric german...
       old saxon the would-be eager
tourist of exhibitions...

      i would, i somehow still persist
to: versuchen...
                     grief from
a tongue... neither...
otherwise a ****** vater otherwise
a ****** mutter...
             zähne auf eisen...
                      zunge auf austern!
sing-along
in alt ***** german or...
            that subtle brotherhood barrier
of neighbouring love...

very far from "home"...
      home... home... what is home?

god i hope every single word spoken
in german will make me out
to be an unrepenting
                         sturmführer...
trägt schwarz... trägt weiß...
trägt grau...

                           the least opposition...
salz bestreut auf zu öffnen
atmen wunden...
                      
easier for the croat...
or the serb...
                              easier: never mind...
new continent h'america...
and but the breadcrumbs of history...
this 20th century locum
of all that had to happen...

                            if a harry can get away
with donning khaki...
i would love to appear
in schwarz... weiß... und grau...
                   prompt galore!
            brechenöffnen - nach vorne!

      as ever... limitations of residue for
all that ever was:
self-help bollocking of a tickling        
of forever "future" events....

— The End —