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Wuji Sep 2011
Hester was imprisoned for her sin,
She had betrayed her own kin.
By ******* with a different man,
She ruined her family's master plan.

They could've lived peacefully in Boston,
If it wasn't for Hester's sin.
Now her husband wants pay back,
On the man who was with Hester in the sack.

While in prison Hester had a little girl,
She decided to call her Pearl.
As an added bonus she received a new family crest,
A scarlet letter for her breast.

As she walked out of jail,
Her life seemed to derail.
As the people in the crowd,
Mocked her with a tone so loud.

She stood on the scaffold so she could repent,
While the townspeople picked at her feelings like she was a dent.
Her husband manged to get into the crowd,
He put a finger to his lips for he was too proud.

When it was over Pearl and her went home,
To a cottage far away so they could be alone.
Hester tailored cloths to keep her family alive,
For in family values they were not deprived.

She decided she would still perform good deeds,
Helping the town's people with all there needs.
She beat the system with hard work and determination,  
Even if her sin will send her to an eternity of damnation.

A scarlet letter "A",
To separate night from day,
To make Hester pay.
We'll see what society has to say,
Will spirit be broken, nay.

Her husband went to find the guy,
Who ****** his wife and denied.
He then got a patient for him to care for,
Arthur Dimmesdale, who was the *****.

Almost certain that he was the one,
The doctor had himself some vengeful fun.
He wanted the priest to feel his pain,
At this point the doctor is no longer sane.

He bombed his thoughts with mental missiles,
The words he said hurt like wild whistles.
The priest knew he needed to repent as well,
He tortured himself till blood was the only thing he could smell.    

But that was not enough for the priest,
For the visions of his sin wouldn't cease.
So he stood on the scaffold so he could repent,
He screamed in the night but no one gave him their two cents.

Until his lover and daughter came to the scene,
And then something magical happened like it would in a dream.
A meteor flew down from the heavens and marked in the sky,
A letter "A" way up high.

The Priest and Hester deiced to meet,
In the forest in about a week.
They talked and made a plan,
To get out of this foreign land.  

After the Priest's last speech,
The family would leave for an European beach.
But the doctor found this out,
And boarded a trip on the same route.

But before the family tried to leave,
The priest had some unfinished ends he needed to weave.
He ripped off his shirt and there on this chest,
A ****** scarlet "A" just like the one on Hester's breast.

A scarlet letter "A",
To separate night from day,
To make Arthur pay.
We'll see what society has to say,
Will faith be broken, nay.

The priest then died right there,
Giving all the town people a scare.
The doctor had never got his full pay pack,
The purpose of life, he now lacked.

Now for the good news you will hear,
The doctor died within the next year.
Pearl and Hester left that place,
And went back to their home base.

Pearl married a rich man,
Despite being the "devil's brand".
But as for Hester she had returned,
To the place that she yearned.

Back to Boston where she was labeled,
But this time the scarlet letter "A",
Didn't mean "Adulteress",
It meant "Able".    

A scarlet letter "A",
To separate night from day,
To make Hester pay.
She changed what society had to say,
With her spirit, she had created her own way.
Basically a poem version of a summer reading book I had to read and pretty much my best byproduct of procrastination. All credit to the author and the story he told of course.
There once was a boy, slightly altered, possessed by greed, and terrified of failure. His mother and father seemed to only care about one thing. After he was born, his parents became possessed by wealth. His eyes were the colors of the sky when darkness would fall, the color only the devil would welcome. The vermillion circle stretched to the outskirts of the violet black horizon. The violet black seemed to hesitantly corrupt the vermillion as they intertwine through the abyss of the newborn darkness within his soul. Where his mother and father saw a demon. And from then on they were taken by his nonexistence, and slowly their love began to fade. This boy had a name, a name his parents soon forgotten, Dracoleon.
Dracoleon's mind always averted to wealth. The only time his parents communicated was when taxes were to come. They spoke solely about coins, gold, and work. Draco was soon consumed by it. He was then always busy, always working, counting money, he had nothing get in his way, He never seemed to see the scared, suspicious, and disgusted faces that walked by him, the dream of wealth consumed his entire universe.
It was one day, the king was said to be roaming about town. His parents would talk about the king often, father would say that he wished to be as rich as the king, or be the king himself.  But he would shake his head and continue. The boy wandered about the town indifferently as he searched for his father’s idol. It was once he turned a corner, he saw him. He ran toward the crowd and progressively landed in front. The king road in a chariot, the glistening white horses carried ropes dragging the golden chariot behind, As the silver knights followed. Across the street he saw his parents seek in awe of the glorious presence the king beheld. Then saw them grasp hands as if they were grasping a chance of hope as the king road by. In Dracoleon's eyes the king seemed narcissistic, he looked to be bathing in the jealously, the awe, and crushed hopes around him.
Then, suddenly, the king stopped in front of him. Then strode out of the chariot and stood, twenty feet away, then pointed directly at him; “Come my child!” he said. Impulsively,  he walked then stopped in confusion. “Come; kneel before me!” he yelled. Quickly he snapped and continued towards the king. He knelt three feet away. The king knelt down and looked into his violet eyes and whispered in his ear: “You’re different from the rest.” Suddenly he gasped, quickly stood and started humming a melody as if he was hypnotized; Dracoleon saw a slight gleam in his eye. A few moments later, he stopped and stood awkward and confused, then said “you’re going to be excellent.” At that he spun around, entered the chariot and continued on his way.
The boy stood dazed by the king’s presence. The villagers were glaring at him for minutes till he finally came out of  his hypnopompic trance. It was then he saw a man, just about thirty, wearing a cloak, carrying an odd looking box. No one seemed to notice him. As the people continued on their lives, he decided to wander to the mysterious man that caught his interest. It didn’t take long for the old man to notice the boy stalking him. He confronted the boy. “Hello” He said. “I must ask, why are you following me?” The boy froze in his steps, “w-what’s in the box?” he whispered. The man chuckled, “would you like to find out?” The boy managed to nod…. The man took the boy, not by force, not by manipulation, but by the man simply walking away, as the boy follows.

The wizard and the boy traveled in his single horse wagon in Europe for many years. The wizard showed him a whole new world, and left Draco's behind. The wizard filled his mind with adventure, and fed him excitement the boy had a purpose, but the wizard had rules, ones that cannot be broken. The wizard taught him his ways. And slowly, the boy became a wizard.

Six years later, the wizard was fading, he told him a story, a story about the great wizards long ago, The world was approaching something non existent, the wizards couldn’t escape, he was the only one who wasn’t taken by the darkness, and he watched as the rest of the great wizards, imploded and were trapped by the void. Silence, infinity, timelessness, nothing, it was hell. The great wizard gave him a puppet, it looked like the wizard. “Its the story of our past, a past not to be forgotten” He had whispered and he slowly faded away, joining the great wizards in the void.

It was then Dracoleon became the last wizard in the world. All of the wizards power, all the rules, and all the memories, his, And his alone. Dracoleon only had one thing to do, the only thing that will carry the wizards memories, becoming a puppet master.

The wizards shows became well known, He would come into town and there would be a few people going in and out of the wagon, watching the puppet shows. It was then a strange man came into the wagon, tall, pale, a dark presence around him. He asked to stay after the show.  He walked Beside and ran his thin pale fingers along the small stage the puppets played on. “You're different from the rest.” He said in a death toned voice. Draco froze, and suddenly his past flashed before his eyes, his parents, the money, the king. The king said he was different too. “ You're going to be excellent.” He whispered. “what if I told you, I could make you excellent, forever? Nothing absolutely nothing would get in the way.” Draco was mesmerized by the corruption of his past seeking out through his mind, and setting around him. The money, the greed, he forgot how great it was, to be in power, now that he's a wizard, the only wizard, he can do anything, change the rules, take over the world. Then suddenly, he was frightened, He wouldn’t have time, Time to do all theses things, Suddenly the man's words caught up in his mind, “What if I told you, I could make you excellent forever?” Draco then looked up at the odd man, he was smiling. “what do you say?” Draco manged a nod.

Draco was near death. The man turned out to be a vampire, he altered him. But it was all a blur, “ A three day slumber, and a new universe comes at your feet with a path set to follow” The vampire had said. Then he disappeared, and the pain began.  Draco felt his soul leap out of his chest, the intense burning sensation followed throughout his body, And then, nothing. He felt his soul go on a  journey to comeback with a plan, A plan that would make the universe his, forever. Draco opened his eyes....

The puppet maker became very popular, But to Vincent, he was a question, a mystery, Draco The wizard caught his interest when he saw the villagers walk out, excited, happy, and longing for more.  But that’s not what intrigued him, The villagers stepped out of the wagon, with a look of confusion, but only for a slight second, then there eyes, they fogged over and then reverted to normalcy. As they walked, most hummed a melody, A repeating melody that seemed to be engraved in their throats.
Vincent was a magician. One of the greatest, He owned a magic shop in the middle of the town he was curious on what the puppet maker was to do when he brought villagers into the wagon. When the last of the villagers walked out, Vincent quickly got in line.

Dracoleon brought five villagers into the wagon each time, In Vincent's group there was a little girl, her father, a woman, and an old man.  into the wagon they went and  they sat down and he began the show.  Vincent and the others watched the puppet maker bring his puppets into play. They were familiar puppets, ones you would see of people walking in the streets. His voice matched that of the puppet, the personality’s seemed to fit perfectly. It was nothing like they'd ever seen before. Then suddenly the candles went out, and it was dark in the wagon. “ Time to play” Draco whispered. Suddenly, They felt something behind them, Then, the candles flickered on, the puppets were restraining them,  Smiles on their wooden faces. Slowly, Dracoleon pulled out a watch, a small watch, he whispered something into it, and it glowed blue. He walked over to where the little girl was restrained, he took her wrist and with a small blade, he slit it, she tried to scream, you could see the horror in her blue eyes, his lips pressed against her wrist and he began to drink, you could see her rosy cheeks go pale, He left her gasping for life. “the youngest always taste the best.” He laughed. “ The taste of blood so pure.” He whispered. “But shes not a ******.” He looked at the father. “you see, its sick men like you that deserve to die.” The father looked at him in terror. Dracoleon whispered in his ear but he was still to be heard. “but I've something better than that.” A tear ran down the father's face. “Humans are so faulty. So filled with sin, sickness, you should be thanking me. But you may never understand” He looked at Vincent. “And you, you think you can defeat me.” He chuckled. The puppets grip grew tighter. Blood started dripping down each one of their faces, the puppets were slowly attaching themselves to the humans their strings tightening around their neck and the mouths grasping their skulls. The puppet maker continued laughing “ Let the games begin!”  He opened the watch, the humans fell limp and the puppets disappeared into their bodies. The puppet maker began to hum the melody.
preservationman Apr 2018
Zeus who was in control
A powerful god who was bold
He had a son called Hercules
Hercules being the protector for the weak and defense against the strong
His strength beyond mortal men
Hercules was always the victor at the end
But let’s more to a new seen
Follow me and you will see what I mean
Our tail involves ancient Rome
But the task will be defeat Rome’s army
The call is for Hercules to use his strength one last time
But Hercules has become old, but still his might
King plateau has a beef with Hercules

The king himself states, “my army is too powerful for you to defeat”
But that’s what plateau thinks
However, king plateau must remember, Hercules is guided by his father Zeus, who is a god and could make his temple shrink
ZEUS THE ALL POWERFUL GOD
SO KING PLATEAU WANTS TO TEST OLD MAN HERCULES STRENGTH
YET, HERCULES ALWAYS DEMONSTRATED HIS STRENGTH IN THE PASS IN HIS YOUTH
HERCULES IS NOW OLD, BUT CAN STILL DEMONSTRATE A BEHOLD
NOW KING PLATEAU WANTED HERCULES TO BEND A BAR
THE BAR BEND IN STAGES ONE BEND AT A TIME
HE THEN CRUSHED A SMALL ROCK IN HIS BARE HANDS
TRULY, HERCULES HAD NOT LOSS ANY OF HIS HERCULEAN SGRENTH
BUT COULD KING PLATEAU AND HIS ARMY GO THE LENGTH?
SO THE MISSION BECAME CLEAR
MAKE THE WEAK HAVE FEAR
BUT HERCULES WILL ALWAYS BE NEAR
SO LET THE BATTLE BEGIN
KING PLATEAU’S SOLDIERS WERE BATTLING THE WEAK
YET, THE WEAK WEREN’T EXACTLY POWERFUL, BUT WERE MEEK
OLD MAN HERCULES CAME ONTO THE SEEN
LIFTED HEAVY OBJECTS AS IF THEY WERE TOYS AND HEISTED THEM TOWARDS KING PLATEAU’S ARMY
NOT BAD FOR AN OLD MAN HERCULES
STRENGTH HAVING NO BOUNDARIES
YET A MISSION WAS AT HAND
KING PLATEAU’S ARMY WAS BEING DEFEATED BY HERCULES LIKE BOWLING PINS
KING PLATEAU WAS BECOMING WORRIED AS HE COULD BE DETHRONED
SO HERCULES ENTERED THE TEMPLE AND LIFTED KING PLATEAU IN HE AIR AND THROUGH HIM TO THE GROUND
SUDDENLY, KING PLATEAU GRABBED A SWORD AND STARTED SWINGING,
AND HERCULES ALSO GRABBED A SWORD AND MADE HIS ATTACK ON KING PLATEAU IN A FIGHT TO THE FINISH
BECAUSE OF HERCULES STRENGTH, HE MANGED TO STAB THE SWORD INTO KING PLATEAU’S HEART, AND HE DIED INCIDENTLY
HERCULES RUSHED OUTSIDE THE TEMPLE TO USE HIS STRENGTH ONE LAST TIME, AND DESTROY THE TEMPLE FOR GOOD
THE TEMPLE COULDN’T WITHSTAND THE STRESS OF OLD MAN HERCULES STRENGTH, ANMD IT CRUMBLED INTO DESTRUCTION
AT THAT POINT, THE OLD MAN HERCULES FINALLY DIED, AND THE VICTOR FOR THE WEAK NO MORE
MYTHICAL WAS NOW IN HEAVEN’S HANDS
BUT OLD MAN HERCULES WILL ALWAYS BE REMEMBERED FOR HIS STRENGTH ALWAYS IN DEMAND
The clouds have gathered into darkness
This is a day of sadness
But the weak can contest in being the witness
Strength coming from the skies
Hercules accomplishments having an understanding in being wise
But we must realize
The sunshine is the life of Hercules
The past having a sunset
But Hercules will always be remembered in having full effect.
the San Carlos slum is his home
he roams disconcerted
through the squalor and filth
his owner Pedro Alvarez
long since abandoning him
forlorn this poor creature
trudges aggrieved

he rolls in the debris
and ******* strewn upon the streets
seeking relief
for any consolation
that can be had
his skin agitates
discomfort occupies
his miserable days
no peace is his
incessantly scratching
the itch reoccurs

the coat he wears
is patchy and disheveled
it's hard for this poor dog
no pride
a truly shameful fate
not loved
or attended to
his mange the only constant
this is his life

searching all the while
his paws work overtime
yapping barks
with grimacing impatience
Pedro where are you amigo
your dog Egardi
needs you here and now
Craig Verlin Jul 2013
didn't shower
sitting in the cubicle
for long hours
didn't shower
and blood
is still on hands
and feet are still riddled
with dirt
staining cheap
carpet floorprint
afraid to touch
anything
coworkers peer
over
their fabric palisades
eyes burning holes
through ripped shirt
and crooked tie
head down
don't exist
no one has to
know a thing

didn't shower
hair is manged and
disoriented
I can feel blood
drip off fingertips
pat - pat - pat
on bland slate
carpet design
can't concentrate
didn't shower
everyone stares
black eye
swollen and scabbed
everyone knows
have to
it's all puddling at feet
washing with the dirt
look away

******* look away!

head is severed
on the mahogany finish desk
black eye bulged
black and purple tennis ball
everyone gathers
whispers whispers
jaw opens
teeth fall out
pat - pat - pat
no one says anything
look away look away
look away
get up to leave
the head stays there
dark souvenir

quick drive
home
shower
hours melt away
infirmities recede
sink back below skin
didn't shower
everyone knew
what happened
last night
but now
no evidence
no witnesses
no one knows
the perfect crime
a cruel smile
emerges on
bare white teeth
as night sets in once again
Robert Zanfad Sep 2010
the azalea grew there
twenty years,
its grey body now
but scratchy bones,
browned blossoms
to ponder
until someone with courage
pronounces it over

cuts barren spines down,
and mulches the ground
with faded smiles
aged between pages
found saved in a shoebox
string-tied tight in darkness

will we still want spring
when we remember
our missing fuchsia
or discover
a new color to admire,
forget it ever was,
as we’ve manged
to forget laughter
in passionless winter
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
Swirling colors
paint the market square,
shrimp lie heaped
next to the
bananas & chilis,
there's lemonade,
tires with rubber patches,
a sense of community
hangs in the air.
Deals are made
in hard currency
or in trade.
A natural flow exists,
as if everyone
is on autopilot.
And behind the scenes,
just under the surface,
one feels the depression,
pain is palpable.
You can see it in
the eyes of the dogs,
rib-poking-skinny,
hairless, manged & skittish.
They hang with the limbless ones,
half-humans,
legless & starved,
dragging themselves
on cobbled streets
through ***** matter & *****,
wallowing in the mire,
begging for peanuts & money.
It ain't funny.
It's fall, and I'm falling.
Again.

I can hear you fall into step next to me, our feet crunch the bright blanket of our dreams, susurating the empty outlines of our unsketched pieces.

Everyone seems to be carving jack-o-lanterns, but I can't meet the eyes of the pumpkin patch owner after what we did there last fall. I can't go back to 'our spot' without their carved faces subtly mocking the shadows of the idealist, drunk on the idea of "the one ".

It funny how we manged a smile when the leaves actually fell. The tree's misery masked ours and you carved the rocks on the empty ghats with the same knife you would later use to cut our ties. The leaves grew back you know, and we still never stopped smiling.
How curious.

I'm a little relieved you didn't ask for the coat that still cloaks our past even though it clashes with my wardrobe almost as much as it clashes with my life. Because I like believing the illusion that they still smell of you in a way that your perfume couldn't make up for in our brief dalliance.

I remember speaking to speak at our - no, your wedding. I must have told every ghost floating in black tie or a white gown what a beautiful  person you are. What I didn't tell them was how much I loved you, because regardless of what I said they would refuse to hear the past tense in my voice. Gosh, never have i missed the tragedies of my language classes quite as much.

If memory serves me right, I remember congratulating the groom and telling him how lucky he is. But I don't bother telling him how it would've been me last fall. Some truths are best kept secret.

You even asked me for a dance didnt you ? Was that really needed ?

When it all ended I remember waiting outside, next to the roses littered down the hallway and thinking - what a pity. After all your favourite were always lilies.

Now that I look back I think we swept through, akin to children in a hurry. The haze is still lifting, but the season keeps coming back like a monday morning hangover. So as the clouds part with majesty, you happen to have lost the blur of perfection.

Come next july, you'll open your painted eyes to midsummer rain and think of -
The rain.
And I'll be thinking of how burning marshmallows always makes them taste a little bit better.
Why ? Because not ever tale needs a dramatic ending.

It's fall, and I'm falling.
Again
( Collaboration Piece )
Dark moon Apr 2015
I'm sorry for leaving you alone
I'm sorry for not being able to love you
I'm sorry i made you cry
I'm sorry for making you feel use
I'm sorry.....

Even when i told you I really loved you
Even when you knew I loved you
Even when I  gave you a chance
It was not enough time for you

Your arms were letting go of mine
Someone else steal them from you
But I still manged to come back to you

And back again it was not enough time
But when it was the enough time
I was gone

Gone but with your love in me.

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry for leaving you alone
I'm sorry for not saving you of your new "friends" full of drugs
I'm sorry for not holding close to you
I'm sorry for not giving enough time

I'm sorry because i wont let you stop me from killing my own self

I love you so much......

J.F. you will always be in me
I fallen in love this time but things got complicated just being best friends and even if i just taste your lips more than once i love those moments.
you only fall in love once in your life.
Things have been relatively fair
With the sweet kiss of October's air
Shedding bracelets, now longer sleeves
And of course a smile that everyone believes
Quite factually he's manged to fool himself
Bittling his emotions, hiding them on a shelf
And he's found a girl who might actually stay
Until he thinks, what a lovve story cliche
He's happy, truly happy, so he thinks
But then he realize's he's back on the brink
Slowly bordering relapse and recovery
Without any help from social anxiety
He's capable of laughing at simple jokes
But he fears someday he'll be a hoax
He's the guy girls all adore
Yet he believes he's someone they'll deplore
Pushed people awqay, has yet one friend
Slipping back to old ways, alcohol requisite
Knuckles bruised, self petulant
Tear stained face, whiskey on his breathe
Each shot represents a friend who left
He writes his goodbye letter and crumbles it up
He feels even worse, he's low on luck
And thing is no one knows what's truly happening
Unable to see his mutilating agony
His cries were silent whispers; unheard
No one knew, he never said a word
Till everyone woke up and he was gone
No one knew who did him wrong
Used his blade to create an allegory
And the scars fit together to tell his story
This is dedicated to my best friend who recently attempted suicide on his birthday, He's okay now, thank the heavens. He's so wonderful and I feel this expresses him excellently
Wuji Aug 2012
One eyed frog,
Misses all the flies,
Yet still he gets that feeling,
That he succeeded,
A high.
Poor little frog,
He forgot the taste,
Now his tongue,
A tangled mess,
Never leaves its space.
One day that frog,
Manged to catch a bug,
Never wanted,
To let go,
He felt so loved.
But that stupid frog,
Grabbed the fly all wrong,
It got away,
And still comes around,
But can't stay too long.
O' one eyed frog,
Your song is so unsung,
And the only day,
The world will hear it,
Is the day you have no where left to run.

Now he is alone,
On his lily pad,
One eyed frog,
Only looks half sad.
I feel for you frog.
Francisco DH Mar 2013
When You told me I felt a mixture of emotions
My heart was a *** boiling with sadness as some salt of anger was poured in
And when the pepper of hope was added my heart just went blank
My mind went blank
but my mouth manged to say "Oh"

When I told you about a dream of you and a friend
you told me something I wasn't expecting
Noodles of Hurt was added to the ***
More Peppers of Hope were added
and some more salt of anger was sprinkled
But something was missing to this meal you were creating
then you added the secret ingredient.
I don't even know what it is
but it made the cuisine finished

After all was added and cooked
All I manged to say was "Oh"
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
woman's tennis is always more entertaining than the men's one-on-one, there are more rallies, more play in general, it's not one of those premature ******* stereotypes of a serve >110mph, or three-touch tennis... plus you can just imagine a clean-version of some shady *****, but with maria sharapova suspended... it's gone a bit quiet.

a beautiful day at Wimbledon, a ****** day up in the north east -
calm the nerves, calm the nerves,
go for a walk to buy whiskey and don't
look at the finálé of the Portugal v. Poland
game (yes, that's how i painted the
syllables in, like i manged to get a *sh
sound
in Greek, linguistic surgery, i.e.
σ-                       -χ-                  -ι-                   -τ
sigma                chi                  iota                ­tau
s-                        -h-                -i-                ­   -t         used
-igma                 c-i                   -ota                -au     not used)
i would say cheese grater either - you cut the buggers
up, it's a real mean anatomic revelry to mind what
to use, what to snip off, some might say a fashion
statement - or one of those fairy-tale moments
in variations of Cinderella - in the more gruesome variations
the two horrid sisters have their heels cut off,
or their big toes, they put the glass slipper on
and blood starts oozing out - i'm sure i've seen that
variation on the tale; beside the point,
the neighbours were supposed to get a new fence,
the fence installers called yesterday asking for my neighbour's
phone number, apparently they didn't have it,
phoned today, neighbour comes back with her worries,
a scheming ***** by the looks of it,
doesn't want a new fence, a woman, play three men against
each other - a Jewess recently converted to Islam
(never mind that, i like colour, i hate bleaching
people or stripping them bare to a "respectable"
ennui of defining them by pronouns alone,
if someone identifies themselves as... whatever...
i identify them also... there isn't going to be a a blank
canvas of respectable leftist or whatever language here
just like you wouldn't heave the earth by simply
stating it's an orb, would you now?) -
it's her fence and yet i'm talking and later my father
to the person about to put it up - in England
it's like in Hong Kong - you honk honk clockwise,
not anti-clockwise, the fence to my left is mine,
the fence to my right... ain't...
it ends up being a furore - i'm angry, my father's angry,
Poland just lost - but when i'm angry and don't
write my rage into poetry i enter into an autistic simulation,
i don't make eye-contact, i'm not angry with the
person i'm gesticulating to, an autistic virtuoso of
sharp tongue averted eyes - pretty much a Steptoe and Son
scenario - it ends up being a case of finding one email
(that doesn't exist) among 220 containing a supposed
phone-number... god... why did you endow me with
enough patience to enter relationships with women?
never mind, forget i even i asked that -
the ******* is your answer, i admire that conviction,
why would you ******* if you didn't have one?
being circumcised you definitely need a *******,
being circumcised and still ******* is pointless,
waste of the revision, Judaism, Christianity and Islam
thrown in together - that was the warning
to Abraham about to circumcise (rather than
sacrifice, Victorian polite society is done, gone) Isaac,
don't do it... now you need a constant sparring partner,
oh yeah, and here are some rules: 613 minor commands
in Judaism, 5 times a day prayers in Islam,
and this ****** comedy version of atheism in Christianity:
i'm sure atheists don't congregate -
i guess you need a plan-β - given the fact that the mere
idea of god is ****** into us, you still end arguing
and either / or off Kierkegaard -
for some it's a necessity to pursue ritual -
for other's it's a necessary means of writing books
and earning a backpack's worth of wages... win win
whichever side you choose.
Torin Aug 2018
bring your hands that make the spring
now the seeds are new plants breaking through the surface of the soil
unwinding, spiral tendrils reach and hold
as when the sky becomes jewels above verdent land
flowers are now blooming
in my heart and mind

that dog who has his bone
the one you may find, manged, raoming in alleys or parking lots
half deranged, holding only to what he knows
dog and his bone
he is happy now
for him, right now will last forever

never could believe in the future
until I saw a movie about a maid
and it was only moments
switching places
we travel as witness
unindentured to the day

would only relief last forever
as when those grey clouds on the horizon
finally break over me
and all the world I know
Death-throws Apr 2015
i can hear her giggling from the living room
soft giggles, loud smiles, no more bundles of gloom
shes making the boy smile
making me smile too
because the hay stack ive been looking in doesnt even have any needles
and the path i thought i was following has turned out to be my own ,
i thought i was so lost,
i was so scared that i was alone
but as it turns out,
Ive never been far from home,
i love her,
she makes me love myself
ive never wanted to be with anybody else,
im glad that i found you
because in finding you
ive manged to find myself
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
i keep, and keep, and keep trying
to put on the most sane face... **** me...
   listening to abba's super trouper?
this ***** isn't strong enough...
are these people really
the capitalists they deem themselves
to be?
   they're not reading into
the nah hammadi jesus crap,
are they?
   they must be! so much money in
that flesh, beginning with judas!
            now it feels like another whiskey
short, a mixer withou ice-cubes' worth
of a mixer...
             who the silly billy?
    last time i checked i wasn't named
the billio the reminder.
cares for the bored 'uns...
                     so too, minutes
later: with the scandinavian spandex...
          strut strut or so do the magic dance
invoking the fly-by of a yellow
submarine?!
           talk to me! come one!
   tell me whether there's an eye
                                in an oyster shell!
              glasgow? you live 3 years
in edinburgh,
is a bit like living in london,
imagining birmingham:
no river - no flow -
             islamabad up yer ****...
what?! got that wrong?
you sure? isn't ozzy placed in
a californian mansion?!
            maybe i got that one wrong too...
am i perfect? no...
   would i like to be?
can i be perfect and not write insolent verse?!
no? in that case.... no!
an outer-londoner about birmingham":
hardly a venice, let alone an amsterdam,
or a st. petersburg:
                       no river? no flow!
they dared to call edinburgh the athens
of the north...
  well... birmingham is the islamabad of
the the north... what?!
never ate a red cabbage cumin infused
coleslaw? ******* racist...
   get with the grit & grime of sharing
alt. social normatives...
             you ******* preached it,
mr. bankrupt post-colonial-stress-disorder
(p.c.s.d.) - & ms. blackpool
                                 wanking handy!
what?! not so handy any more? not so
pleased with interruptions from non-colonial
countries?
      oh shay shay, tiresome missy,
aren't you the proper wanked over
  pauper... ms. east-london,
ms.: the grit-&-grind-of-whitechapel...
& that eager chopping worded phrase for
'ackney... poor you!
  oh look... wait! wait!
let me get a cabbage leaf out to imitate
a tissue to cry into!
the english? in the roofing industry?
they're personnas non grata -
   no please, don't sent the english into the trade...
and my father? who did he learn
the trade of roofing from? picts! who?!
                       the scots!
the english are best attributed to their papa
darwin and their fetish for **** ***,
divorce, and having 2nd or 3rd wives,
and a pearly career...
                   as the sing-along of
polish children goes:
             angol pedał...
                                     angol pedał...
no, that's not verbatim...
  the original was better...
   even though the fact that my
little village team made it to the national
leage 1 in 1997 / 1998 -
and i manged to chant
          Ł.K.S.! JEBAŁ PIES!
funny... i was a football hooligan for
one afternoon...
           that feeling of beloning
has schtuck to me, like a leech...
consuming more than blood,
         i.e. memory fusion with thought.
Jonny Angel Jun 2014
Once, I gave
a one-eyed beggar
who looked hungry
a handful of nuts
& he threw them
out into the cobblestone street
for the manged mongrels
who scarved them up.
spysgrandson Jul 2016
on a Texas hot day,
a thrifty bird of prey, was enjoying
a red repast

his plate, endless asphalt, his meal
entrails of a cur, whose flat fate was sealed
by black Firestone rubber

the manged mutt left to be lunch
for a ravenous buzzard, with beak bent,
pecking at his fine feast, until

my mindless Michelins
gobbled him up, faster than his greased wings
could flap for flight
usually, they get out of your way...
y i k e s Feb 2016
Standing still, staring intently.

You arm placed firmly, watching the screen as everything appeared, and disappeared. Oh so suddenly.

Focused, the most perfect way to describe you in that moment.

And yet somehow,  you manged to smile despite how fierce your stare became at the monitor.

Your hair was brushed, for once. Your clothes were baggy, typical.

Your head turned a bit to look over at me, standing across the room.

You smiled. You made a stupid face, that's how we communicate.

And that's when time froze.

And that's when I noticed everything I assumed was corrected.

For I had only thought, and guessed. But everything then became clear.

I'm in love with you.
2/13/16, before i helped you buy gifts for your girlfriend.
Ruby Cushla Nov 2013
You didn’t tie your heart on tightly enough

But still manged to cut off my circulation
Take a good look into my Eyez
and journey with me beyond the wise
the universe never lies as time flies
i see the truth ever since i open up my eyes
from readin' spiritual books n now lets take a closer look
into  society i see them eyein' me cuz i see
an attack on black males masculinity?
they want us to embrace a feminine entity?
but america always been the enemy
public number one and i still pack my gun
just incase of a confrontation you dont drama cuz ima
street cat southside is where the hoods at?
we ain't sellin' out for bucks
you other suckas make like hockey sticks n pucks n get the ****
outta my way cuz i ain't down with the foul play or gay play
but im all about trigger play and watch yo body lay and decay
in the ground htown soldiers stompin' on yo killin' grounds
i see death all around envisions of gun sounds
repeatin' in my head **** i can't shake what these voices said?
im a revolutionist stay true to this i Rock like Chris
yeah im comin' for the radio *****
"Hit 'Em Up" like Pac
ridin' with the homies packin' the glocks it dont stop
im old school baby ridin' the gravy train things aint the same
these young fools ******' up the game
like face said who stole the soul? easy? believe me
white emcees aint got no business in black music
cuz they abuse it no soul behind it yall been blinded
they runnin' minstrel shows so that goes to show
times aint really change embrace with so much pain
im makin' skins manged industry deranged
not me imma stay true to the streets
born in '86 when Rakim' dropped his first classic
"Check Out My Melody"
Im tryna open ya Cerebellum G
and know we was made from the scorn of our ancestors born
in a slavery planatation farm but don't be alarm
**** a good luck charm and since i gotta strong arm take notes as i swarm
like bees makin' all the honies come to me ya see
it ain't about being a mack its about bringin' the game back
black to the hood it's understood
i got rap rhythmn and blues in my soul word? i can't be fade or played out
im goin' out like scarface and at the end of my chapter
theres goin' to be a rapture like the comin'
of the 144 thousands and ill be sippin' daiquiris on a hidden island
laughin' and smilin'
i get away like Asanti Shakur
with boats by the shore give me an encore
lyrically spiritually i spit it better than the average emcee please
don't compare me
to these new jacks spittin' wack i spit facts over fiction
im breakin' jurisdiction and the court system is wack
never workd for us blacks they say we was lazy? imagine that?
america without blacks inidians and mexicans
we built this ******* word to my great grandmother
we comin' back for the lost sons of satan we ain't hesitatin'
revolution in position only times awaits for the great stake
better have your heart sake cuz once my shells shake
somebody body gone break as I rake
up the chaos like leaves fallin' outta trees spirits guide me
and tell me what to say so **** how it comes out
runnin' yo mouth catch a gun quick click
from my index finger now you in serious **** my clique be thick
like ants runnin' on the hill we comin' to veto ya bill cant you understand
i got all eyez on me it aint no surprise as i rise
no compromise black folks wake up and
ya fools betta recognizeeee.......
Oratile Maroro May 2014
You are said to be precious.
Precious mind,
I manged to see by myself.
Beauty that struck so Hard
To leave one unconscious.

The one that tells a story,
A story you can never find in the shelfs
The girl is so Beautiful
Beauty strong enough,
To change egypt's pyramid
Into a prism.

Powerful enough to make a guy
Cry who spent ages in prison.
The beauty that can take you
From a jungle to an open space.
The one when lost,
Can never be traced.

The one to put the meatball
Within your ribcage.
Straight into the Rabbit race.

The one you gaze upon,
And see your whole world.
I'm a man, and she's better than
Just a girl.
She's a woman, and she's beautiful
Dedicated to that one special woman in my life......  Couldn't write this without her presence.... I Love her .
Blythe Barrymore May 2014
I'm wandering like a lost soul,
And as the sun sets, I feel so very cold.
I feel as though I've never been here before,
My feet are tired from walking so very far,
And my eyes have been open too long,
I'm so very sore.
I must look like a mess,
Even in my favorite shoes and dress,
I only came to impress.
Our conversations felt so estranged,
I feel so wrecked,
My heart feels so manged,
And in such little time,
So much has changed.
I'll leave you two at peace,
My attention is no longer needed,
My existence, to you; has ceased.
I run from you,
Closer and closer to the edge,
No more prepared could I be to face death;
But then I awake in a panic,
Trying so hard to catch my breathe.
Clutching my covers for dear life,
I search in this scattered mess for my knife,
I need to end this panic,
I don't want to again become manic,
It's so very hard not to indulge this impulse,
This urge feels so titanic.
Metaphorically; my life is a joke,
Even in the mornings when I wake,
I cant breath,
I cant see,
On my own breathe; I choke.
I'm so scared of being alone,
I'll risk anything to keep my heart strong as stone,
But your kindness chills me all the way to the bone,
The thought of your body on mine makes me moan,
A slave to my depression, no longer will I be prone.
Enathi Mbanga Nov 2018
Will it be a conclusion like no other,
with a tragic plot twist like you telling me that you never considered me to be your lover,
or will be dramatic with me walking into the sunset,
with my heart yelling at my ribs “I thought your job was to keep me covered”.
I wonder why this started in the first place,
I always hated how we ended going in this quick pace,
my lungs are screaming at my brain “***** why we going so quick this ain’t even a ******* race”,
yet we so competitive in the end and we wouldn’t be satisfied till one of us won by coming first place.
Or maybe it was just us,
you and I didn’t realize that we turned this beautiful portrait carved by us into dust,
or maybe just maybe were a perfect sandwich yet we only manged to taste the crust,
but we were ******* by our fragile nervous tongues that we call trust,
its funny because we joined by our taste buds named lust
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
We rolled up on the blast site
like mad hornets on auto-pilot,
we had seen **** like this before.
A Bradley had been incinerated.
two skeletal passengers
grinned at us
through blackened teeth
as the locals cowered
in their metal-door alcoves.
An Apache leveled three positions
surrounding us,
while seven bearded men got bagged,
tagged, zip-tied and hauled away.
I saw a foot without a boot
standing straight up
in the middle of the road,
some intestines were being
gobbled up by a manged dog.
I kept my finger at the ready,
my Kevlar buttoned down tight,
my eyes burned from diesel smoke.
It was no ******* joke,
bad things happened there,
I'll never forget
the way it made me feel.
Sick inside.
KALIGULA Jun 2018
I was a heart that was shattered and yet, I still let you cradle me... Since the damage was already done you figured, "Why not add another crack". I wanted you to mend the manged pieces that became of me while, I lathered you in love that not even I knew I had left, in this hollow shell that found a way to keep on beating. But, the number of feelings I hauled was too much for you to bear... Wasn't it?... Wasn't it? Now I know that all people leave in the end.
Jasmine Reid Mar 2018
constant thinking, never stopping.
A Woman's Brain.
Thoughts and questions, staring into spacious milky-ways and into the abyss of black holes

scheming and thinking of a fantasy land that may never exist,
probably won't, but I'm a sinner that prays for an ounce of hope to bless the idea

But! I do not tend to believe in happy endings, because no matter how happy I try to be.
I never am, it never ends up how you want it to, even if you're desperate for that favorable latter.

a life has no meaning, even if we try and believe and strive to achieve, and prove that there is, it's all just a chemical, it's all artificial in our minds.
love is not real, fear is a trigger, happiness is a drug, pain is just a reaction and when we die that's it.
Nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing to attract us to lies and scams anymore that surrounded our once breathing beings that were choked out.
We sink down under the waves and the ship dies under the moonlit sky, the stars mocking our decent beneath and the world pretending to grieve after we lost our privilege to breath in suffocation...

Even if my dreams will never be real, I even if I'm beat down and kicked in the teeth, I've manged so far, I'll be okay. I invite the pain to wake me up from this fantasy, this pitiful and unlikely belief, this prayer that I secretly beg for all the time when I think of you.
A smile in my mind as the image of you fills my brain with things, but then I'm set free with a punch in the face and a foot on my back.

A nice reminder.
I only wish and crave your arms around me, and your smile and laughter to be heard and seen by me, and I want to hear the beat of your broken heart. It may leak out, but I want to care for you and keep you safe, but you do not.
Avoid it at all costs, because we're living for today, and I am not wanted for the next to come, as the swings are directed to me, braking me down with their fists and feet.

They're still hurting, but I'm trying to push this ignition down so the flame runs out, but who knows.
I'm waiting.
Bit of a long one. Sorry about that!
Thank you for reading
Base 8 May 2018
_ listen to this ! so you want me to lay some answers, please state that you demand it
any specific font? Before I say I'm cancerous, wait I'm gonna hand it
to be specific I don't try to play badass, but mate you said you saw stampers that says I'm a bandit
I may be a pessimist, but I won't say I'm broken, not like break dancers, a bit late for first aid, this needs more than a bandage
many things on my wishing list, got to get a sword, I'm out attacking campers in a raid, take the hunting bate to make a sandwich
I'm over slipping the wrist, but I can't hold a knife, the hand tampers the body, some scars are hand made, I look at my face and I can't stand it
I'm stepped over by an elephant, rot and I feel like an old shape of wildlife, as my bravery scampers away like a puppy, it's a turtle race but I'm a handicapped rabbit
see I'm a mentalist, I'll unveil the untold stories of anyone's life,who am I ? I don't think it matters, but once I stayed on the red planet
I know my words seem irrelevant, I'm just cold inside, imagine that non of the bankers gave you a loan, so you stayed alone, crippled by hate, dying slow under your blanket
attention to my words, I'm the lumberjack to the rotten wood of my family tree, there's no heart cold as mine
detention never works on the thunderclap with his forgotten childhood, clapping happily in every political party, no cake for the minor pushed to start a career in the coal mine
tension when I mention that Karl Marx isn't the worst, people may wonder that I'm from the hood, but I'm actually worse than that the body and soul ain't fine
this invention is backfiring on his lords, like a finger snapped, no I'm not good, the legacy get ****** but no one follows me, and I can't find my role I'm ...


_so it seems that every time I pick the pencil
Everything I write has to suspenseful
You say it's hard, that's not right it's simple
I don't know it's just like popping a pimple
It's not that important, would it give me the life of Paris Hilton_



so what do you know about being broke, so broke that your body parts floats away in pieces
just to let you know I no longer feel like a human being, wishing for a heart stroke, and the peace is
_ death , it's easier than the things I'm seeing, but it seems far I'm gonna use my own rope, so help me Jesus
or I can meet Beth, she helps in my healing, I hope I can do it in some recess
mess and emptiness is the only things I'm feeling, note that I have a heart inside not just feces
_ **** and Molly percocets, are helping me agreeing, I thought it'll ignite the fire of will, but now I stand here as it freezes
_ ladies I don't like to shed light on me, probably you won't like what you'll see, most likely you won't like me cause the most is ain't like me, anyone likes tea ? In the ninja Turtles mentality I'm a mix between Donatello and Mikey, we're the same hight, man it's getting exciting, who wants something to do with the kid from pikes peak, he's slightly weird , but still he manged to grow a beard. Still do you wanna fight me, I just said I'm a ninja and my blades are spiky. Staying still but I might be dead, you'd probably wanna check my vital signs and the pulse in my neck, but don't bother I was diagnosed as a corpse clinically, I won't come back please don't beg there's nothing I can do technically
never give a knife to a criminal, tonight don't put the light on in your living room, act normal despite the bodies in the swimming pool, it's OK act like a fool when see me pushing stool off the wooden stool with a spoon under the light of the luminous moon, when I talked like  this  sounded cool, I never had fight in the  elementary school, I spent all the nights abiding rules, but others on the sight of opportunity would dribble and drool, alright this is enough to deliver the message, you didn't feel it it's subliminal


*
you're just praising my talent
But I wish I never had it
Couldn't have anything else instead
But If I  didn't have it I wouldn't have something to spaz with
I got loose like a black panther now ain't that right Chadwick *

Do re me
_ so I'm just a wanna be
wanna be human ob-vious-ly
I don't know about hu-man-ity
but there's a less of a human left in me
I'd like it actually
_ if my blood would stop in my pulmonary artery
it's no urinary pathology
I just like to *** publicly
I'm just impolite right daddy?
the worst day in my life is when you had me
if wanna disgust me
you'd better pay me some money
_ it's hard to throw up with an empty
stomach but it's OK I can't feel my belly
and hey I'm not here to cause controversy
but ******* nursing
and please don't wait for an apology
play the violin my name has dropped, heading to the asylum because my songs on the stage has flopped, I'm a murderer hear the sirens it's not what for I hoped , I wish I could just caged it inside and then with it I could have coped
but it's amazing how the cops came to tase me, trying to place me on the ground of the hall, but I was trying to act the way they rased me please let me go,but why won't you place me, what would you name me literally a lunatic or generally crazy, go ahead amaze me
_8_
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.                  lindsay
                                                   shepherd...
     talking...

                                              do i even
need to watch
                       ****?

  sure...
i had one of those,
weird,
"love at first"
sight moments...

with a sister,
of a girl i was
"*******"
(trying to lose my
virginity to...
as it happens...
*******
is useful;
nope...
it ended up being
a girl from Grenoble,
and not,
that *******
   from Ukraine)...

   but never actually
know why...
   no... wait...
there's a tim burton
movie soundtrack?

see... that's why i never
managed to fuse myself
to liking,
either punk,
or rap...
   translating movie
soundtracks,
froming classical music...
somehow...
   i needed to feed
off the eerie...
snow...
   night...
tombstones...
   the cemetery...
ever clear your mind...
peering at a cemetery
when all saint's day
is taking place,
in poland,
and... it's not exactly
what halloween
is in the west, is it?

a crescendo of...
tear burning bright
as amber...
how i'd sometimes
walk into a forest,
sometimes the cemetery...
and then...
one night of the year...
i'd be excused
from wandering...
into...
what became...
an equivalent of
the Chelsea flower show...

the cemetery would
"magically" light up!
scary...
  seeing one's own shadow
in a cemetery...
but... adrift...
with no epitaph ascribed...

but there is that one
night in the year...
when the day of all saints
is celebrated,
in the more...
  "refined"...
catholic confined
countries...
   akin to poland...

    the most serene sessions
of treating my insomnia,
were bound
to falling asleep in
my grandparent's house...
which teases the presence
of mingling
with a cemetery...

to sleep...
  it's not so much
a concern to dream...
but to walk,
among the grey matter
of the throng
    of the dead...

and, all it takes is...
is to clech my teeth
and stutter
in finding a skull,
but no jaw...

           like the current
crescendo...
  it made sense when
the x-men movies
came out...
                   now?
eh...
          last time i heard,
when comics became
serious...
  intellectual pillars...
it was...

  either a danny elfman
soundtrack...
   or...
   m. night shyamalan's:

non-replica movie...

and this is where a
          the end happens...
or it extends...
into a conversation
over a bowl of
spaghetti,
and then we magically
kiss...
  
   and then... oops...
1990s gothica
isn't exactly going
to be "translated" /
plagiarized... is it?

          i see...
i too see it that way:
"they" never let me die
when the natural order
assured me, death...
  i became...
  sort of...
offspring of Rasputin...
well...
   i never came
about to playing
the luke perry role...
i just had the *******
audacity "thrill"...
       to play on...

count: 21... i'm almost 33...
12 years later...
and i've manged
to live through a brain haemorrhage,
an infancy "heart attack"...
and, oh gee!
well... i was never going
to test out
the aztec shaman psychadelics...
i was going straight into
the drug plethora
of what the people
were prescribing schizophrenics!

they said i lied...
   hell...        it's all fun now!
i lied...
   ha ha... i lied...
i almost wish i could
have done the psychadelic drugs
avenue...
****... got stuck in traffic
with the anti-psychotic
mind-numbing medicine
ascribed to schizos...

  and... hey presto!
                 this sort of writing...
good to know
we can be allowed
to experiment...
with / in the most unlikely
scenarios.

- and then you're teased
into a giggle...
via Denmark...

      dough k'all m'eh: bath-man;
ha ha...
you just become prone to loop
& loopy!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2018
i've been trying to purge myself from
having read a novel:
      at almost 1000 pages -
it's hard not to:
                 i was told: easier to watch
the movie-adaptation...
        but i'm reading a different book now
and i'm stuttering...
  i have to claim the fallacy
of philosophical literature as being riddled
with the competition of fictional
prose: i keep "stuttering" -
i.e. rereading what is obliviously
there to either absorb or accept -
           not in or with a high-mindedness
i write the following words:
i abhor a need to strutter reading
a work of philosophy...
               it's already painful encompassing
a paragraph, let alone rereading
        a single sentence -
         i assure you: you will not recite
a work of such kind with a belief that
doesn't allow me to question, whether you
are, or that you aren't an: actor.
             oh, sure - we write about what
we read, but there are so many out there who
write about: what they never read...
an uncomfortable word for me,
notably due to the past participle red -
   and to do so in the moment: reed...
         some sort of glitch in the grapheme
æ - ash - something truly gravitates a "soul"
to agitate a body into writing this...
for all the perfections of the modern world
there is a verbal anomaly...
       as pedant i am prone to spot a bulging
crevice... and the shrinking dreihundret...
    i know i will visit my grandfather's
house only once...
      as told to throw the rose into
the fresh burial ground of my great-grandmother
i said: NEIN...
  and later took it home,
put it under a candle inspection,
and gently burned the red into purple,
to later gnash and grind my teeth's
worth of chipping one of them,
just after the wake, sitting alone in a kitchen,
drinking *****...
               i have no germanic affiliation
but it pains me to see them this way,
this medieval masochistic...
                   so i sometimes utter
a few words in german: for no reason
and for no concern for posterity -
  no Berliner can assign me a lineage...
     prior to the chipping of the tooth
there was the laughter on the bus
while the priest did his: evading the status
of a common women who died -
   in the meantime, just recently i solved
what first appeared an unspectacular
"plagiarism" of a ***- puzzle...
  hyphen? forgot the spelling of the rest...
   and in the two number blocks:
  alternatively odd / even numbers, i.e.

3 | 4  1 | 5  6 | 2
2  1 | 6  3 | 4  5
4 | 6  5 | 2  3 | 1
5  2 | 3  4 | 1  6
1 | 3  2 | 6  5 | 4
6  5 | 4  1 | 2  3

just like the sudoku - although alternatively
even / odd in the brackets...
   i attempted it with a sense of failure:
there are three isolated instances:

3 |                       | 2
...................................
4 |                        | 1
...................................
1|                         | 4
..................................

     by comparison sudoku was easy...

+++ 3, 3, 3
++ 3, 3, 0
+ 3, 0, 0
- 3
                      or something like that:

plus the        | via _
                                             x x x
                                             x x x
                                             x x x...

and how many times i wished to be
H'eh-sooz from Barcelona -
        too many to count the number of springs
i already count to: 31...
     well then...
              
    does the following allow me manliness
or armour?

              ****'s a bit wonky...
   funky wonky... but still: dual-stirrup on
that eight legged donkey!
   apparently drinking doesn't allow you to:
"properly" count...
                        
           for if i had an apple i could
press ******* a key and not let go and
it wouldn't be a ctrl c cntrl p scenario
having to copy "eccentric" markings added
onto letters from the HTTP beast...

name an instance?

                 súdòkū -

well no, if i'm being deviant why establish
the study of orthography?

           yes, the -niece word can be contained
with a samurai blade sharpness
    mono-syllable...
            hai...
                      but slow it down?
this is what slow motion looks like...
slow motion in terms of applying
diacritical marks...
     you can almost be thankful that
the english-speaking world has
to only contend with:

                    a. punctuation marks
                    b. hyphenated words
                    as reconstruction of
                        a germanic genesis -
                       missing in chemistry...
                  
hydrochrloric acid is best condensed
and not left as shrapnel...

          -             -      so best to huddle
and count the space between your fingers
when waving like a... ******* idiot.

but i am still going to "stutter" when
reading a philosophy book -
    which is a BIG X (a ******* twist
of +) -
                 plus...
            because i've heard of women who
have reread entire books...
    well... **** two birds with one stone...
read a philosophy book:
     you'll be reading it twice in a single
sitting...
             no point rereading if you're
already rereading it already -
i.e. making cogito scriptums -
   mental notes...
                    
   and then when you get a chance
to hound a blank echo tunic worth of
a page? hell becomes: democratic -
       and each has his own: say...

        why wouldn't want to play around
with punctuation marks in a language
that has no diacritical precedence as bound
to Latin - with the only insinuation
being the lost artefact of carving graphemes?

     already pointed out:
    cheap and short -
   spot the graphemes!
             because, sure as ****,
     there's a difference in cattle heap
       and summer hornets...
                
to imagine: i've learned a language in order
to unlearn it, or better still: relearn it,
   and become a pedantic aesthetician...
  
wel... but if the germans can make S S
     into a ß - ah... the noun game -
   it's a digraph and not a grapheme because
the two letters are twins worth
merging and
not siamese akin to... worth cutting apart:
             is that not just a B, but also
nuanced as merely Zet?via
                      gro-z-es - vizier?
        where is that H to catch the O
   prior to anticipating the hyphen?
      back with god...
              i have to conceed a remark though:
something really made the jews smart
if what smart meant was: hiding vowels,
or rather making vowels into
diacritical marks akin...
       which i can't say the same about arabs...
  lucky the oil's there...
  
     this riddle will exhaust me
and i will never write a decent effort to
satisfy me...
     thus i rather leave it at that:
having exhausted, rather than abadoned
  this palace of a former blank space...
there are bound to be squatters ready
to inherit a peel of an orange for zest
of an orange i just ate.

   but i still manged to drink alone:
under the banner of to-ast!
    and that really is the distinguishable
desire to apply diacritical marks
when to and too are indistinguishable
    when otherwise: pool and pol(l)
are apparent -
         something is honestly wriggling
in english trying to get out...
maybe a death of a certain bilingualism.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2020
WE THREE

Sweeney goes down
on one knee

gathers the ball
safely to himself

before releasing to
the foot of Dwyer.

"Dinger!" he yelps
with pin point accuaracy .

"Thanks Ger!"
Dinger smirks as he chips

the ball over his own
and the defender's head

pivoting/turning
on the proverbial sixpence.

Dinger Dwyer
scorches down the left wing.

Then stops...lays back
at an angle of say 43 degrees.

Impossible to prove
without a protractor

in order to create the cross
that will arrive to me...Dempsey

in exactly say
another 7.7 seconds.

"Dinger!Dinger!Dinger!" I yell
like a little bell on legs.

"Ok memory...
can we stop it there?"

"Sure boss!"
Memory complies.

Time stops.
Enabling us to see Dinger

leap from his body
and run to where

he expects to place
the ball ...right...there

He draws an X
on the air

just like the Spot
the Ball competitions.

He has already chiselled
the ballistic progress of the ball

upon this summer evening
clear as a diagram.

Dinger then runs back
to his slanted body and

pops back into
his self again.

"Ok Memory you can
roll it from there!"

We gasp at
the perfect parabola of the pass.

I am not where
I should be.

Both the Murphy boys
have manged to turn me.

So that now I am
running backwards to

the waiting cross
"Blast. . .!" I am

not going to get
on the end of it.

No magnificent right footer.
No ****** brilliant header.

So I fling myself
straight up in the air

settle there as if I were
reclining on an invisible chaise lounge.

And: almost casually
indeed elegantly

raise a lazy right leg
going for the overhead

bicycle kick
that usually has me

fall flat on face
or ouch ****.

Shaking my skeleton
to the core.

I have the physics
of it down pat.

Even the quantum uncertainty
I only laugh at.

I am a human
vector.

"Only connect!"
Foster whispers in my ear.

Time. Now.
Timeless.

I with all the time
in the world

****** into this
one second.

This second of all
seconds.

The ball whistles
past Mike Murphy's left ear.

A real stinger.
I thank God for a Dinger.

It rockets between
the jumpers and schoolbag goalposts.

Rolls all the way
past the Power Station and beyond

to Sgt. Major Dwyer's plot
who stops  foot on a *****'s lug.

Chases away
a persistent wasp.

My mother across the road
at No. 31 O' Higgins Road

lulls her newest newborn
lullabies him in his pram.

This is the only time
I will ever be

great
morphing  into my hero

Denis Law.
I now a Law unto my self.

I and my icon
blending into one.

The one armed raised salute
fingers gripping the cuff of the shirt

all the better to wipe
the snotty nose.

It seems as if
it couldn't have

been any other way
than this.

The Sweeney/Dwyer/Dempsey magic.
We the small Gods of this little time

that exist now
only in my mind.

Shakespeare is going mad
in the commentary box

his voice echoing in so
many wireless sets

the Bard's spittle
flecking the mic.

"How now, my hearts?"
Shakespeare searches for the words.

"Did you never see
the picture of we three."

— The End —