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Mateuš Conrad May 2020
.for two days a song was haunting me, seemingly unheard before, hidden in the deep recesses of my mind - unrelated by sound or memory... yet burning itself a presence regardless of my faculties... restless... i had to take a walk through bedfords park, havering country park and hainault forest country park - through sun and rain and two bottles of wine... twice seeing bambi and at times scuttling like a rat / misanthrope from the unusual traffic of these parts... to finally find peace... Borodin's prince igor!

there's just enough of gloating to have to muster...
before some grander detail has to take form:
i've been trying to capture the song
i want to listen to: but it's hardly a genesis
of an #A... or... whistling...
             kik kershaw's the riddle?
                         it's not - now that the hindsight ("spoiler")
is presented... it wasn't a bach aria:
or a batCH... well: who's the good surd?
'ere boy... vat's a good tau: ba'ch...
     the would be baчelor: j. s. baχ...
                            a juggling act of... less than...
what james joyce's finnegans' had to offer:
and more: the diacrcrcr-detail-of-antics...
       pop sort of reference points?
                   would they be... if they weren't...
for the per se reasons?
                  details are in the noumenon -
that... axe-folding: exfoliating lesser demand
for: **** in machina...
                                      the sort of details
that mind: the over-simplified woman...
and... the terrible complicated seance of...
when witches were detailed about...
their broomsticks were to be replaced with...
vacuum cleaners... terrible details of
"unnecessary" complications...
man of science man of technology man
of engineering and man of mathematics...
much later... the man of linguistics and...
the troop of ballet dancers... the choreographers
and the composers...    

i have taken enough days to gloat...
working an addiction in reverse...
a bank-roll filled with: plenty of nicotine...
and chem.,
           just waiting for the completed
day... an exercise in language:
and jack daniels bubblegum:
pale blue... blueberry images... gluttons
of colour: those pearls...
back to music... back to music...

   i wanted: rather than tried...
to fathom a pause in the construnction
of the res cogitans: with the usual
punctuation markers...
it's hardly a semi-colon...
          a full-stop... a comma or a full-stop...
hardly the detail of syllables
with diacritical markers...
    hidden letters...
rare in english that sheer and chisel
should come together...

i was thinking of a punctuation marker
to block of all narrative...
not a mere punctuation marker -
not some apostrophre...
                precursor to the possessive article:
's..              's...
even the russians do not have
what i already have...
         namely... дж...   джик is an approximation...
something is hidden within...
dzik itself (boar)... dzikość - wildening...
        a lost attribute for the civilized man...
   дж is... slightly off from the intended:
   дз - while ж (rz or ż-art - joke) -
              is... well... it appears...
but is a few letters apart...
       for example in: drzeć (tear - ter:
not tier - nor teer - backwards to forwards...
latin diphthong of æ) -
                        to tear paper into pieces...
   a tear ran down my cheek...
   to have read: rather than... to simply: read -
and... the reed - a stalk of a bulrush...
               the eastern lands...
                      synonyms and two best known
aliases: the birch tree and the bulrush wetlands...

this is the only best: approximation
of a song akin to Borodin's prince igor...
that can't be hummed... unless heard proper...
not from an abstract of memory...
conflation of adjectives?
abstract is more an adjective than a noun...
for this presentation...

      hiding letters like a good 'ebrew...
           surds detailed with apostrophes...
mollusk legs... exercised...
  a day later and the extreme cigarette high
is "missing": not found...
   щыт "vs" szczyt / ščyt -
                 no less congested than:
                                       dość! enough!

from the initial fascination of working
english into greek...
                     things had to translate themself
into "mordor" regions: Ruś, Krym, Tartar...
the Caucaus...
                        and the Turkic dwarf plebs
of mythical Constantinople... takeover...

- with thinking i wanted to capture:
res vanus: the empty thing...
       a synchronised: symphony of...
with what's being emptied...
while at the same time... with what's being
filled...
the years passed when pacing
with a heart of a turtle...
compared to... the heart of a mouse...
i call it: no known noun...
              to think is to have the heart
of a mouse... easily agitated...
no room for lost narratives...
      hell: better still... without haikus
and all those condoms of denial and...
delayed view-count murmurs...

          a case of: res cogitans:
a thing most animate...
a case for: res vanus:
   aa thing most inanimate...
         it's... a slingshot... a strain on purpose...
it's an incremental addition of purpose...
it's a punctuation mark akin
to: lost the linear...
up toward the copernican east we go...
and then back toward the flat-earth
project of... being able to read a map:
topography... without: the need for 3D:
3D the copernican: it's all very imaginary...
vector alpha:
points beta and gamma...
to find punctuation: a silence...
a bit like... finding gravity...
which isn't a sound... but if it was...
it would be... the sound of falling rain
on leaves or lead plating of a roof...
or... the sound of recycling...
of water... in a waterfall...

by now all the ******* readers have
disappeared... there's no more...
instagram haikus in the system...
there's the drone drill sequence...
a very distant humming sound...
perhaps an impromptu crescendo of
variations of a cat's meow...

absolute: total: шит... more like шитышит:
    шыт if i was... to be honest...
   sheets of paper... floating about...
                    well... i too once thought:
those russians... with they cyrillic...
but no diacritical markers...
      well K in a mirror: ж...
                      no one told me about brining
mirrors into the project...
     sh-ch-
sz-cz-                щыт - height: well... zenith...
bl-ы'h bl-ы'h: blah... blah...
       it's a letter: the russians call a "sound"...
like the english should start calling
the letter "g" or the "h" a >sound<:
surd...    an apostrophe: gnome: 'nome...
gnosticism: 'nosticism...
                                 'alf the 'arvest...
prop'er: cockers and pouch of punches...
   very ******* irish sober to me...
brings all the harlequins and loon'doon'ish
to the backyard for:
                   milch-schütteln-und-schäkel...

and then i return the cork back onto the corkscrew...
as i pa'k - my... packaging... CCCP... comrade...
the folded soviet shop...
don't worry terrible ivan... there's a new shop
in town... the iron has morphed into silicon...
see-through curtains and...
this virus... did more damage...
than any... brave lion of the jihad would ever...
circumstance of the affairs of westminster bridge...
they would "epstein" one through
one in a while...
                 to **** chicken the populace
into a cucklicking KKK strut dance of:
burning hoods and bras and crucifixes...
and ******...
                              conventional... formal...
language usage? please reserve that for...
the golf course and business talk...
                write? write what? a kandinsky?!

yes... a big hello ******* from
tiktok and twitter...
1 minute videos and... 180 characters...
         i feel constrained... claustrophobic...
if... i can't write an imitation Dickens chapter...
1000 words is ******* lemonade...
2000 words is... regurgitating a day's worth
of a newspaper... saturday edition...
which includes the editorial and the magazines...
3000 words? a truly rare thing...
      given that... conjunctions and their details
are not counted: ' - is both an apostrophe and a surd
letter... t'at all depends: on the "v.a.t."...

the whole point was...
finding excuses to write about quitting smoking
are other... they were all fine: crack ******* smoked
when the levels of nicotine were dropping...
the upper body was exercised...
but the legs weren't... mollusks and oysters for *****...
or... toes...
to count... oysters for toes...
but when the legs have been exercised...
and a balance has been reached...
there's little to gloat about... about...
quitting smoking...
there's a need to say: the glory of the tongue
and its palette when walking...
the budding beauty of things surrounding me...
all blushing envy of the green...
  self-respecting green and its almost
teasing green phosopherscent insomnia
in the rubric of the sun: next to wake...
next to hide... a bud of bishop hues...

insomnia green of the forest...
                     poor bambi (x2)...
                    zinfandel rosé!
count! syllables! nurse! scalpel!
zin!-f'ah-del... rou-s'eh...
                              oh remind me of the night...
and the forest... the blinking moon
by count of clouds obstructing its glee...
turned into a melting moon...
spray-painted over the leaves with
its last will of agitated: clingy mercury tinge...

the debate: "debate" wasn't about...
i took 3 days to gloat about quitting smoking...
there are more important affairs to mind...
notably! notably?

example!

la traviata is an opera in three acts by (giuseppe) verdi
set to an italian libretto by francesco (maria) piave
                                                 (verbatim: i.e. borrowed)...

there... they cite... the composer...
    who doesn't need a first name, since: verdi is...
synonymous with verdi and opera composition...
but...
         yeah... you need to mention the first name
and the surname of... the libretto: francesco piave...
the opera...
      music... and... the words...
well so much for the music...
but... last time i heard... a violinist holds...
a violin and a bow...
                         what's the opera singer
to hold? the melody? no! he needs to hold...
words...

   today i passed a family in the forest...
a mother, a father... two children...
                   and a grandfather...
maternal / paternal... i don't know...
i was already on my second bottle of wine...
the woman asked me:
   'will we get back to the car park if we turn
around on this route?'
        i was already eyeing them with
a curiosity prior...
i uttered the words... 'you should...'
          not... 'i hope so... since i'll be
testing that question'...
or 'you will...'
                           several minutes later
in my own solipsistic interlude...
            you should... i swear to god...
sometimes i say something and can't
see letters behind the sound...
      like: i shouldn't really see: meow...
behind the sound a cat makes...
since... a cat doesn't just make an: ego sum: meow
universal statement...
there are variations...
    'you should'... i repeated...
slightly drunk and... whatever... i didn't see
any letters in the sound i made...
           for once... not the last time, though...

to abide in such joys from a past -
chevalier, mult estes guariz -
                 to cite charmlemagne and prince rolo:
the scandinavian convert -
who's (whoz: not who is) descendents
were the morphed vikings: the normans...
who conquered england...
        since the predecessors couldn't...
walther von der vogelweide:
                    palästanalied...
all through the german autobahn...
                   the word... AUSFAHRT!
the lands owned by the lithuanian who
married: and by marriage became converted...
from the last pagan prince of europe:
enclosure rhapsody of caged
elephants: prior: mammoths...
  the estonian bulwark...
von meer zu meer (von baltisch zu schwarzes meer)
these jagiełło platitudes of envy... chełm...
      sch'war'zes...

begotten not made: blistered...
the scarf of colour to capture the frenzy of
autumn... a shawl best worn to...
loot the colour and suffocate the subject
with: no past a dream and a dream
without rucurrence...
to borrow from the past as much
if not more from fiction!
to say: once they pickled Barbarossa...
come the third crusade... disgruntled oath-breakers...
sought the prussians...
and the lithuanians... and all that land
to the east...
had they only known... what the prussians
would make of the absence of the saxons
of the pomeranians and the bavarians...
i wasn't there... no...
but a romance is a romance is:
here's to... no ode to a ******* sailor:
capn' ahab... or the rodin instruction
knee deep in the mud at ypres...
or the mass-graves of german youth
or: how kaisser wilhelm and that in-breeding
crew of familial ties tore europe
on the altar of the bull...
before this bourgeoisie whittle adoolph HIT!
came about and charged the former
bitzmarck ***** and the elites with...
eh... the story is so told and so old...
"they" couldn't fathom the middle-project
of the khaki and ******* not coming
from their... high-brow... aristocracy...
better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven...
choir boy whittle adoolph said:
i'll borrow the schnurrbart from chaplin...
after all... with a surname like mine...
a ****** or a chaplin is no... WIN-D'SOR!
yes... apostrophe 'ere if not to hide a surd...
it's to elevate punctuation...
for the sake of syllables... the hyphen is not
enough... vowel catcher tetragrammaton
invocation! the first arm of the god:
the second arm is for: ha ha ha! laughter!
cynic and satyr!
            eh... let's leave the stoics to their
love of labouring over the fate of oysters!
protestants and pre-destination-alists...
clarvoyant calvinists!

                         from the decadence of a "lost"
empire... what "pseudo" history is to be
resurrected... romanced...
the angevin empire?! that there is a past...
the "lesser" dream...

a patrick and andrew a george...
and ef bwy newid troi (he who...
altered path) -

troedfilwr - petty velsh:
quasi-silesian / kashubian / little warsaw
of the "bigger picture" masovia...
CAPital neu...
          
- ever write something...
at a snail's pace: crow pecking...
because a moth has just flown into your room...
and... unlike... holding a seashell to your
ear... to find the ivory shore...
and the details of false echo of... galloping
waves...
you clench your hand...
and hear... fluttering... like the sound of...
desperately falling rain..

madame butterfly is an opera
by (giacomo) puccini, with a libretto
by luigi illica and giuseppe giacosa

the magic flute, k. 620, is an opera in
mozart to a german libretto by
emanuel schikaneder:

           der verk is in the form of a singspiel:
singing and spoken dialogue...
my demise: the awe... interludes of...
theatre... in an opera!

               rushing rushing and... kandinsky
the colt serenade kind...
  with... canvas... and an auction house
of reserve that... fridge magnet enterprise
of a single mother of... 6...
              
you couldn't get an opera...
working from the carmina burana...
the... libretto... thankfuly...
constricted the music...
you'd only get what you already have...
a medley... opertics instead of an opera...
sketches of an opera...
    the whole custard mess...
the rhubarb the rasberry "finicky"...
         the Goliards and the... gonnards...

               were diu werlt alle min
               von dem mere unze an den Rin,
               des wolt ih mih darben
               daz diu chunegin von Engellant
                lege an minen armen


the quid pro quos and the... anon. circus
spectacular sheen!
  
  what is the composer without the libretto?
the violin player has his violin and bow
attached: like some... frankenstein's take
on an elaboration of an autumnal fallen:
leaf of: a "false" limb...
dire desires for a lingering crescendo...
of a piece... without an overture...
bothercome children and the good life...
nothing worth clarifying the nouns:
to a supper... a goodnight...

                       bedtime with nabokov?
my take... well... it becomes apparent...
when... the local... easily accessed by the many...
avenues of love... are exercised...
what remains? taboo...
and once the taboo is... investigated...
invested in... well then...
there's that all overpowering tease of
thought not materialised into a will...
a 14 year old girl... below the mark...
she's 16 and i'm 18...
and i'm not her... cousin and this is not
israel...
                  after a while... the only *** available
is... the forbidden type...
and there's... so much freedom in
what's forbidden... when it's only thought...
the complex: θ(ought) complex
that becomes φ(inking)...

              the moment "she" starts to
perceive the mirror...
       and you're looking into the concept
of time and of glass...
  
but then... there's... the libretto... and the composer...
the rare event of: richard wagner...
where there's a schizoid... bilingual...
"in theory": der kommissar working 7/11
on the advent of: neu-muzik zu kommen!

  queen of the night aria contra...
my sleeping karma - satya - ahimsa...
that one: "last" cigarette...
me... a wife and a child...
        tidy... if i only aimed at...
the fraction to no effect...
the wife and the sole child...
i'd be doing all the proper details...
a wife and... the hungarian model...
of at least: towing 2...
      hardly an embitious venture if only
towing the holy trinity of:
fake hey-gay-zeus fake myriam fake josephus...

not looking for queen of the night aria...
   nor satie's gnossienne no.1 sampled...
ezio bosso - under the trees...
           vittorio monti
jean-paul egide martini {/^.5.p 6^)_(0$drd...
toast!
it was... bothering me... started last night...
took 6 rough miles to get the tune
out from my head...
into a coffin... of sorts...
it was... borodin's prince igor! all along!

p.s. re-flex: the politics of dancing...
       duran-duran: the reflex; ******-pointer-ler;
h'american pie contra dad:
   the gay bar: electric sexes und siebens:
hefyd...                         deutsche bankschisch...
zeit (time) and the ruschischen:
              цeit... always conflated as...
indistinguishable by a ****** / lithuanian...
           цeit - bißcuit... crumble: чarcoal...

hey presto: a *******... voilà contra eureka!
rebecca Jul 2018
Broken crayons still color the same.
I mean- isn't that really the aim?
Finish coloring the big picture-
our life picture.
We're all crayons,
or markers, paint perhaps.
Everyone's a little bent,
cracked. Snapped,
in some way shape form.
It's really kinda the norm
nowadays.
But in a box full of crayons-
when they are used, when they live-
they snap. They crack.
They break.
But they still work, just the same.
It may be a bit tougher for them-  
but they're tougher from it.
We're tougher from it.
We're all broken crayons
filling in our own life line.
But broken crayons still color fine.
It's the colour of little flowers in a field

It's the colour of the old easter dress in the back of my closet

It's the colour of princess sneakers most four year old girls stomp to get the little lights to flash

It's the colour of innocent dreams kept by six year olds

It's the colour of the marker I wrote this with

It's the colour that I used to say was my favorite, but can't anymore

It's the colour of my two favorite nail polishes that I always ruin as I paint it

It's the colour that I put on my cheeks to show more happiness because I can't show enough

It's the colour I feel when I twirl in a dress and the
skirts fly up around my knees

It's the colour I wish I could be, young, innocent, stupid, carefree, laughing with friends on the play ground on a spring day, getting small flowers from the boy in my first grade class, who says he likes when I wear my princess light up shoes

It's a colour I want to call "ME"

It's the colour that surrounds my mind when all I can think about is something that I thought was cute

It's the colour behind my eyes when stories that I want to write keep my mind from shutting down and sleeping

It's not the colour that graces my lips during the day, but in the morning when the day is fresh and I have yet to see the world

It's not the colour I wish to be, it's the colour i'm going to strive to be

Pink cheeks, Pink light up shoes, Pink skirts, Pink drawings on the walls, Pink flowers in a field of green, Pink dreams, Pink nails I always ruin, Pink markers and crayons, Pink hair I had before everything went down hill

Pink was the colour of my innocence and i'm going to get it back
E B K Jul 2018
I choose grey markers
I cannot choose colored ones
That would be a lie
My first haiku!
Nick Strong Jan 2015
Cold stone statues of all shapes and sizes
Chilled to the moss covered bone
Standing *****, markers of time
Weather worn words, passages of years

A place of disasters, heartbreak and crime
All gathered there, forgotten by time
As the trees bend to the seasons
And the passing of years

A lone figure dressed in black
Stands above an unnamed gravestone
Reflecting on past memories
Of someone he had known.

Brown wet clinging clay lies
Heaped by the side of a black hollow
Waiting for another invited guest
As the bell tolls, mournfully
Steve D'Beard Nov 2012
Govan bar banter:

Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
crabbit, drookit
moanin, drouthy
yer Havers-yins!
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.

Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!

Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.

Party racket
in Da’s laden jaiket
jangle change
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?

Seldom ventured
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back

Remember love!
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.
Govan is a community unto itself in Glasgow, site of the shipyards on the Clyde where you'll meet
salt-of-the-earth people with stories to tell, like this one
Someone’s white golf ball
lies, abandoned
between moist grass and
desolate wanderers through
municipal courses
during Evening on
Father’s Day. Holding my pin, my quill
Frantically stitching point de capitons
between myself and the calm, fair way
I walk with conviction
alone, among firing-
flies toward all fathers
tonight, as swathing sprinklers gush, displacing
***** in-utero, past fences protecting
femme fatales whose unknown aspects
hang off tree rows
protruding from shoulders
sand-like limbs, flexed, stringy biceps
connect to its plastic dimples
through sturdy, wooden
fingers burrowed under grass and
swaying, pink clouds within
my eyes. Beyond hole
nines, red markers markers and ladies’
tee boxes
unacknowledged from
the green.

Rippling blades cede to setting-
star’s sacrimony in
vacant son-rooms, the
porches left of center, gurgling
traffically enveloped by laughter,
disinterested.

For this sight I cut my hair
inside my cozy, beige apartment
complex with a blue shower
curtain-wearing green, graphic
tease
printed by gray palm trees
swoops a hunting eagle, into the ebbing
stencil-tide of late day
orchestrated by man, this occurrence is
vagueary and seductive machinery
programmed by man
producing all, we are.

Waving tufts and leaves fall from
oaks wafting time past my nose with
rhythms out ciccadas, harmonies out
couples pulsating the sky,
ease pressure on vestigial nerves under
their atmospheres, droning vibrations, hollowed-
out and upholding
like arms do, Earth’s giant didgeridoo
We hum beside propulsive kangaroo
Tendons—see!
we’re becoming
taut on
empty bones holding-
black
birds with wings thrown desperately
toward others, panic
aloft in velvety
blue oxygen.

Picturing our streets’ concrete
burst asunder by
metesticized pipes watering formulaic
grounds
unearthing rock
and shrub
I passed the mangled corpses of adults
their kind, sighing.

I know it is as lifeless as his faint,
decomposing golf ball my dad
may have allowed me to
see. Our drowning star swoops
into the ocean
as eagles stamped on chests do,
unknown to time,
and loving shadows
untouched by yellow,
translucent lamp-
glare avoids the fallow structures
built with cement
inside the boudoir
of this day.
MMXII
My recitation here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1OBjxUlePo&feature;=youtu.be

An explanation of the name:
My father and I have in common, among other things, a middle name.
Sleeves of golf ***** have three and they are numbered 1-2-3.
I don't know where the other two went, but the ball I found on my walk that night
was titled "1," and I am not the first child but rather between two sisters.
Every year, my older sister bought my dad pistachios or something and I would often buy him golf ***** while my younger sister usually bought him candy for this special occasion.
We all love my father deeply and he has been very supportive, but I sometimes ignore
the fact that we did not start from nowhere and there must be some solid foundation into
which fertilizer is diseminated.

There are sacred things and people to be respected. I love my parents and could not be alive
without them. So this is really a tribute to both of them.

Please bear with me as I indulge this incredibly personal sentiment for myself.
the barker in charge
is sniffing markers
& the dog's the one
in the shock collar.

good god.
I'll come back

tomorrow.

galapagos, I'm sorry.
rocketship jalopy
wrote a handbook on
banana boat cutthroat
reconnaissance exotica,
abominable
beast of tropic atrophy
broke folk casualty engulfed
in telescopes & TV shows

being monitored thru a monocle
the theatrical apathy & topical misanthropy

can anybody understand me?
Work in progress. Stagnation. Creative constipation
Here we lie beneath the poppies
Blowing in the Flanders air
Do not forget our sacrifice
Do not forget that we were there

Young men forged in heat of battle
Neighbors, brothers, sons
Lost in time, with just our markers
Lost to lie, beneath the sun

Remember us as men of valor
Remember what we came to do
We came, and died, do not forget us
We gave our lives up, just for you

Forget us not, beneath the poppies
Where the sky is no longer dark
Remember us as long dead heroes
We came, we fought, we left our mark

Forget us not, please pass the torch on
Forget us not, more than this day
Forget us not, we were all soldiers
And we remain so....all the way!!!

Forget us not....
Commuter Poet Sep 2016
In passing
Curved channels
Of green, brown and blue
I absorb information

‘Easy rider’
‘Star gazer’
‘Barge Gladys’

Where will you go?
Where will you end?

Such labels and markers sing
‘I made this’
‘I made that’
‘I am…this!’

Imprinted pride
Everywhere
Screams out names
For us
To forget

Grazing cows
Pay no heed
To the comings and goings
The ownings and claimings

And why should I?

The efforts of the dead
Our forefathers, foremothers
Rest beneath our feet

We break them
We use them
Unravelling the knots of the past
To smooth a silk pathway
To the future

Life’s suckling femininity
Never ending
A flow of humanity
Beats on

How strange our inventions
How peculiar our spirits

We add something daily
Without even knowing
1st September 2016
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
ringo star h'ahmed...
george ali...
paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
right on the plonker...
i'm not finished!
i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
(one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

gehirnablassen...
brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

)  notes to preserve completing
what remained: pending...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos / chaos...
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
graphemes: sz phi theta
compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
german 19th century fascination
with islam...
θought and φilosophy...
greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...                                         (

1. well, let's begin...
        it has taken me two days to complete
my utterances... i've just spent 40 or so minutes
listening to the last of the youtube
stronghold (dangerfield -
               from hash to ******) -
i can relate on the literature,
i can't relate in taking steps of replica...
i started smoking marijuana
aged 21... i think you should start later...
drinking while being a teenager, fine...
i hanged around with some irish in my teens,
we used to have sleepovers at youth clubs
play pool, buy ***** mags and drink
white lightning: bumb cider...
but given that i was sold chemically
enchanced (negatively, i might add) marijuana
that turned me psychotic...
ah... psychiatric terms, used by the mainstream
like some casual metaphors...
     recently i was at a health scrutiny hour...
yes: my psychosis was made stable in
a schizophrenia: which is a new word to describe
bilingualism... oh the english natives!
what competent people...
  no, it didn't become bipolar: psychotic depression...
lucky me... lucky in that:
           bukowski: isolation is the gift...
the rest are a test of your endurance...
no **** sherlock!

  i just look at all the particular instances
when english (the language) breaks rules...
    heidegger merely pointed out
that there's a difference between chaos
and χαoς: well cheap and cha-cha-cha...
but when it comes to the ferryman?
some would say: χαρoν...
otherwise? do the raj bidding of inserting
a surd H... nibble at the tetragrammaton...
   and call the ferryman κ - αρoν
                                            (h)...
this isn't the only example: cheap, chisel...
        chemistry... it's not chem-ístree...
      it's kem-ístree!

2. poor *******, the english,
   they can't discuss orthoraphy...
hardly, to begin with:
what with i (ι) and j (ȷ) -
you have already cut the diacritical heads
of come the CAPITALS: I & J...
what a simple hydra to vanquish...

2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
graphemes: sz phi theta
compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)

                     i like this one...
   letters, syllables, graphemes,
sodium: Na...
  the key and the door analogy of the keyhole...
feminism: it wants to coagulate...
to group existentialism with
scholastism...
sorry honey... play your footie:
*******!
                    key being inserted:
φought enters θilosoφy....
yes, the graphemes are elevated,
beyond the stature of consonants...
didn't you ask?
oh, you should have asked...
- socrates: can yoy give a rational account
                    of syllables, but not of letters?
- theaetetus: it seems possible.
-socrates: quiet; i think so too. at any rate,
surely you'll have an answer about the first
syllable of 'socrates', if someone asked
'tell me, theaetetus, what is SO'?
- theaetetus: yes, my reply would
be that it is S and O.
- socrates: so there's your account of a syllable,
isn't it?
    - theaetetus: yes.
- socrates: all right then, tell me alao of your account
of S is.

sorry... after this point, for B to be a surd?
bottomless pit... let's ask what is a letter,
what is a syllable... and what is a grapheme...
the greeks bargained on dialectical markers...
which they dind't need, since the latins needed them...
what is a syllable is also: what is a grapheme,
and how to account for "strange" vowels?

the greek thought, they thought,
"thinking" that only the greek language
was correlated to universal thinking...
and that universal thinking was only associated
with greeks speaking... pish-poor choice
if you mind...

         syllables... individual letters...
weren't consonants synonymous to syllables?
esp. with added diacritical markers?
play-tongue-think-tank with the greeks...
sooner or later they fizzle out as
redundant...
         couldn't keep Constantinople...
will not regret or revive the bounties of
reclaiming Istambul...

i once claimed to tolerate islam...
tolerating islam is one thing...
    respecting islam: quiet another...
i can attempt myself at
respecting a cloning device...
which any religion is: a cloning device...
i can tolerate it...
which, doesn't imply i respect it;
i wouldn't eat a meal with a muslim...
and sharing a meal?
is my fullest acknowledgement of
respect, i tolerate islam,
i, tolerate it,
   thank **** i don't respect it.
respect it like some 19th century german
philosopher... hegel or nietzsche....

what is a syllable "compensated" by
a grapheme, esp. with a hidden consonant,
akin to the caron "s"...
      i.e. šeep: look at that...
the first time orthography was introduced
into the englishsprechen...
   hid the H: šeep... sheep...

well we already know where the greek
letter went to: modifying scientific
constants... after all π = 3.14....
    Σ = summation...
            last time i checked...
letter, whether consonant or vowel
orientated,
took up more meaning beyond
translating the optic of encoded
sound into expressed sound...
    they became surds...
          tools to think with,
only secondary sound symbols...
you no longer translated the representation
of the sound,
there was an idea behind the letter...
disguised as a "letter"...
chemistry minded the syllables:
Na: sodium, salt...
   and that was that...
              
  fai(s) çe q'(u)é voudrā(s) -
written, but otherwise a surd...
fwench has the most examples...

3. music choice...
brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
     mind you, i will gladly whistle about
three songs while walking...
this is the part where i become an arrogant
*******... teaching yourself does
that to a man, there's no pride in being
lectured, ordered to regurgitate...
for all that pomp & circumstance
that makes pride & prejudice shy...
    she should have always been
first choice on the fiver banknote...
jane austen my ***...
            mary shelley was the dog's *******,
through and through...
the three songs i sometimes whistle
while walking, taking a whiskey for a walk
(good thing i don't own a dog)...

a. beethoven's symphony IX
     allegro assai vivace - alla marcia...
b. la marseillaise...
   c. british grenadiers - fife & drum...
shhh...
    (for all the worth of shakespeare's
poetry... robert burn's:
aud lang syne...
        hell... i can't write sing-along poetry...
poetical commentary...
which still beats poetry worthy of
thee theatre...
shakespeare, no shakespeare...
aud lang syne:
   old long gone song, refurbished)...

5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

       isn't it obvious? england is a metal
asymlum when you wish to see it as such...
somehow and "suddenly" all the social
pressures disappear when nagging either
a polonaise society or a h'american society...
i'll be critical of applied english,
as a language...
but when it comes to living?
               second to none... when i was younger,
and growing up in poland
the english were know as gaylords...
or the bellybuttons of the world...
now, having grown up among the irish
in the outer east-end of Loondon?
want to talk to a 6ft1 115kg "******" about
his lack of obsession with marital status?
his complete disinterest in dating?
what's a dating app?!
                 the same kind of "******"
obsessed with templar chants?
dabbling in helvegen?

  dating... what a weird concept...
whenever i get a chance, i'll sit with a thai
surprise (bisexual, female)...
manage to take her home, play her some
jazz... **** her in the garden...
                            walk her home...
"date"... when it comes to prostituites...
when it comes to prostitutes...
    britney spears  - criminal,
     rihanna - shut up & drive,
   lady gaga - telephone
                       holly valance - kiss kiss
delta goodrem - innocent eyes.....
gay boy got gay rights...
what a boring time to be alive in...
just when homosexuality was no longer tabooo,
norman stephen "typo" *******...
boring homosexuality...
  antithesis artistic homos...
gays are boring me with their antics,
i'd also love latex love triangles...
but...
  i'm not joining in,
since i haven't been made welcome...
         welcome this:
the rightful pucker of a knuckle count's worth
of a sucker!

    i've experienced only: 3, loves at first sight...
kot... i rememher her surname,
she was the first to kiss me,
aged, roughly 7...
    priya.... my ex-girlfriend's
younger sister...
                          isabella of grenoble...
who took my virginity...
oh, ****...
        there was freckles galore daniella...
at st. augustine's... rabbit to her...
there was... milena...
there was samatha...
                there was jadwiga...
                       there was janina...
i fell in love too many times...
there was ilona of novosibirsk...
   gregoria who licked my face
like a cow...
                 the ukranian *******,
the bulgarian prostitutes who i stole
kisses from,
the serbian strippers...
   packaged boy,
  postcard ****-acto...
                 the australian fling...
half hindu half scouser...
towering beauty with the looks
akin to tweety bird lips (as my irish friend
noted)...

women... ah ha ha...
           i guess 3 months is long enough
for me to be with them...
    last time i checked, she was on her period,
and i was gagging...
last time i checked: ******* a *******
her period alleviates the period pains...
she didn't let me,
instead? i received a week
bound to reading Bulgakov...

           condoms are great when used
to **** a ******* her period...
that's how i started to hate relationships...
*** monopoly..
   and readings from cosmopolitan magazine
about the out-dated
idiosyncracy of relationship statuses...

4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
german 19th century fascination
with islam...
θought and φilosophy...
greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...

     i can tolerate islam,
but, i can't respect it....
    how could i respect it?
           i met a greek in warsaw....
he sounded like a goth,
     how the spanish tongue sounded
much akin to the greek zunge...     

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on an ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

          mind you: i always seemed to "mis-pronounce"
words in english... first came puma:
i was laughed at on a primary school bus
heading from st. augustine's (half-way between
gants hill and barkingside) to the barkingside
swimming pool: where i learned to swim
by myself, very much akin to me learning
the english language, by myself,
dropped into the deep end,
i was a complete mute...
my parents were also learning the zunge...
so they couldn't exactly teach me,
i had to learn it myself...
      so it wasn't puma: with that hollowed
out U...
      i.e. pú-mah... it was: pew-mah...
or piu-mah...
           weird...
                   then i found other examples...
i was once more corrected
when it came to the celts...
                       it wasn't cedilla "riddled":
çelts, but Kelts...
    funny that... the football team from glasgow
is dubbed çeltic, not celtic: isn't it?
i loved being corrected about my
pronounciation... get corrected enough times,
and then... light: you get to sprechen such
things as:
   what sort of orthography aesthetic discussion
can i have with an englishman,
when his sole diacritical markers
hover over an ιo: iota: i / ι...
   and that dotless antithesis of java - ȷ -
like in dante's canto XXVIII:
                               Bertrand de Born,
two completely pointless orthographical -
as i would rather call them:
indulgences rather than errors,
otherwise not necessary...
             excess spelling... and particular,
hidden, pronounciation variables...
that's as much of an orthographic debate
you will ever get from an englishman,
given their lack applied diacritical markers...
hey... if the english speaking peoples
love their "reality" chequers...
   their metaphysics...
           i have something as pertinent, ready,
orthography is far more interesting
to me than the grandeour of metaphysics...
so now we have to figure out
the third sister... given the already associated
benzene ring directions of associating
compound groups:
   ortho-,
                      meta-,
                            ­           para-...
  can't just leave it to paranorman / -"normal"...
para- needs to be associated with something
else if we're going to venture
with orthography and metaphysics
and further...

    another decent example?
       gnomes...           gnostics...
why is the g treated as a surd at the beginning
of the word, hence? 'nomes hence 'nostics...
but all the more apparent in a word like
diagnostics?
                               i guess i've found my
new playground: the english vocabulary.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.
Mark Lecuona Feb 2012
The mile markers sound like a fan in the wind
Was that last one three eighty-eight or four-hundred and ten?
They go from green to black and back to green again
I'm so tired the colors are starting to blend

Do you know the soul of a truck driver?
He's starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever
Can you feel the heart of a truck driver?
He's got scars but you know he's a survivor

It seems I can't out-drive my problems
It's an undying bush with unwanted blossoms
I never see my kids because this road never ends
So I keep driving and lie about not needing friends

I know I got my issues
But then don't we all?
When I think about the world's
Mine seem kinda' small

I'm gonna' quit complainin'
'Cause I got some work to do
Yeah I got my problems
I'm gonna start solvin' the one with you

I used to throw the ball with my boy after work
But they cut back my hours and my wife thinks I'm a ****
So I decided to jump back into my old rig
I'm tryin' to get out of the hole I decided to dig

Do you know the soul of a truck driver?
Starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever
Can you feel the heart of a truck driver?
He's got scars but you know he's a survivor

I've never been a dreamer
But this black-top has turned white
Floating above the clouds where I'm free
I wonder if I can trust the light

I realize how angry I am
That's not me but it's who I've been
I know I can be the man my mom raised
It's not a matter of if it's a matter of when

Do you know the soul of a truck driver?
He's starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever
Can you feel the heart of a truck driver?
He's got scars but you know he's a survivor

I don't mind burning my heart on the road
It simmers as I reap what I sowed
I'm trying to save the hearts that I protect
For my children I'll suffer; but never neglect*


Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona
Bus Poet Stop May 2015
The dermatologist demands a pre-summer scan of my visual delights fully magnified.

Peering into places where no one else has ever peered, even me, reminds me that this is a potentially "disruptive" process.

Eye don't know what his eyes have seen.  

He works in silence pin punctuated by the occasional mmmm or throat clearing rumble.

Snappy removal of neutrally colored gloves signify conclusion, he opines as follows:

"Were you aware," he inquires, "that the lines, the furrows on a your forehead correspond to the life your have lead?"

"You have three, deep deep tracks, and that's a fact."

Yes, eye know,
and each one is a tree ring notation
of my existence.

Each a different year,
each a different moment fearful,
a death and a birth,
a passing, a regaining.

No, not children or parents,
illusions.

Markers of our lives are the
birth and death of our illusionary,
our revelation minutes, that measure and scribe
what dug those furrows is now officially,
no more.

Until we start anew,
a different Pretense,
a channel commenced to commemorate.

Living the dream, they say,
aren't we all, eye think, and so inform him.

The doctor did not bill for this
visitation.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
l'amours dont sui espris...

  me and the moon cower,
me and the moon peer into the night,
from behind the cloud
from behind a puzzling thought...
me and the moon cower:
before the altar of the night...

well... i would never **** a fly...
at least i'd try...
the kingdom of insects states:
by some "consensus"
that the females are bigger
than the males...
i've heard it's not so with
mosquitos...

i couldn't **** a fly...
but when Monday's garbage collection
happens and i'm left dragging
an empty bin
into the garden to clean it...
i find... maggots at the bottom
of the pit...
still wriggling in the leftover juices
of meat and others...

carelessly like jerking off:
i pour some bleach into the cauldron...
sodium hypochlorite...
then some water for the foam...
the maggots disappear...
i wish them well...
but not much good could ever come
from drinking a corrosive salt...
alkaline implies corrosive salt...
well... i drowned some maggots in
alkaline...
but i very much care to have
a clean bin...

i ******* crocodiles and tears and tadpoles
into a tissue while
on the throne of thrones and send
them to: nowhere...
just before i take the no. 1 & no. 2
(no. 3 to ease up)...
then baptise myself in the shower...

summer will soon be almost over...
autumn will come
the proper fruits will start to fall...
i'll be making my wine...
it will take me 3 weeks or circa...
maybe 4... the apples will fall...
the pears too...
winter... when insects sleep...
as much as i might appreciate the copper-neck
suntan... i'll be happier to find that
the insects are sleeping: along with
the bears...

i rarely **** a fly... a mosquito, though?
each and every time...
if i were a zombie and a fly *******
a maggot-load onto me... i'd beg to digger...
well...
    i did't feel like killing this large
specimen of mosquito... it wasn't going to
bite me...
never mind...
i didn't feel like merely killing it...
i caught it be one leg...

i have two spider twins either side
of the door to my garden...
one was sleeping...
the other was awake...
how did i know?
the sleeping one curled up its legs
into a bud...
it wasn't awake to play piano with
its cobweb...

        so i pinched this one mosquito
by the leg and watched it frenzied...
trying to escape... my hand led it to the altar...
how quick the spider! how quick
the spider made a mummy of the would:
juiced up mushy meat!
i didn't **** it...
i just fed a garden spider...
a catch it couldn't otherwise catch...

i felt indifferent... more indifferent about
vegans than vegans feel: "differentiated"
from debating the need for milk...
eggs... never mind the meat... cheese...
i don't understand veganism on these three pillars...
milk (cream)... eggs... cheese...
i couldn't be a vegan...

vegetarianism: i can understand...
but... no eggs?! no... milk / cream?!
no... cheese?!
        get out of 'ere!

       maggots swimming in sodium hypochlorite...
or rather... dying in it...
but the prettier sight than killing a bothersome mosquito
was feeding it to a spider...
it almost felt like...
   feeding a cat sushi turkey ******* on
the end of the knife...

this song has nothing to do with the experience:
chevalier, mult estes guariz...
none!
why do i abhor Darwinism...
it... doesn't tease my vanity...
it just kills off history!
from ape to "somehow": now...
that's it!
   **** similis: the ape was known to the ancients...
but the ancients did ancient "things"
and didn't allow themselves to be swallowed
up by a ******* comparison!
metaphor! they would have settled for
a metaphor... but not a comparison!
a synonymous-ness!

Darwinism is right: nature abhors vacuums...
nothing in nature is to be ever wasted...
everything has a purpose...
if... somehow... it doesn't have a purpose:
it will... it will evolve... it will adapt...
but... Darwinism as... the prime idea...
the one & only source of the genesis of
"idea"? only in the anglophone world...
no where else will you hear
Darwinism so celebrated...
Hermes asked... why did Galileo overshadow
the findings of Copernicus?!
why did even William Burroughs undermine
Copernicus by staging a "fact" that...
oh the ancient Egyptians knew!
the ancient Greeks knew too!
but... no mathematics...
then some pope-****-smear of a Galileo
was the one with the telescope
"probing": proving the heliocentric model
most adequate...

one spider whispered to another:
find any cobweb: piano concertos in the desert?
no... me neither...
let's just wait for some of these sand-*******...
camel-jockeys to catch up...
we'll show them... mummification:
hey presto!

- and they did... how quickly that spider
launched into the mosquito...
rapping it up like a... nothing to be
beside the futures of food-stuff...
it felt...
well... not ignoble... a pride in a sense
of hierarchy...
the spider easts the mosquito...
it's really levelled ground in the insect
dominion...
i allow maggots to swim in sodium
hypochlorite...
i catch a mosquito by its leg
and feed it to a spider...
the spider does the mummification
ritual... the world balances itself out...

it's a strange sensation: it's hardly a feeling...
one gets feelings on a graveyard...
count the bones...
wake up... re-wake...
the fickle faculty of memory:
so prone to amnesia...
i abhor dreams.... therefore i dream none...
less Freudian ******* shrapnel....
less & less...

i need a mirror to take a selfie...
i need... the apparition of 3D space...
you can't revise QWERTY!
you can't improve it!

i can type without looking down
at the keyboard: here's to imitating the Liszt...
the Chopin...

eh?!
i didn't cite:  E... did i?
i included the surd of breath...
EH?!

ask the ******* Hebrews why we have concern
to begin to laugh...:
it's trapped in their definite article:
HA! SANTA!

           i'm here for only one thing...
beside thrilling it alive in Thailand...
or... recovering fractures in Europe...
someone... maybe one... or two...
have... stolen my identity...
                  sorry...
             garlic pickled in some red wine
will always go under the radar...
electric six's album should never have:
gat bar! bay bar!

   it's the 1980s and sade...
smooth operator....
             best kept feeling...
feeding a mosquito to a spider
rather than simply killing it...
like... the inversed... imploded...
ploy of game...

who needs tiger blood?
bluff?
i need... a mosquito...
a spider... a spiderweb... like a piano...
i need an awake spider...
the red wine is not to be...
necessarily... mixed with garlic...
although last time i heard:
infusing ren wine with three or four
teeth of garlic (nuggets?)
is a slimming elixir...

father SLiM? *******... yacht...
bogus crew...
feeding a mosquito to a spider...
death soon arrives... "tomorrow".

- still need the geocentric model when
reading the map... hell:
i need the flat earth perspective when
reading a map... i don't really care much
for the equator, the Greenwich meridian
when getting from A to B...
funny how geographic "algebra" works...
from point A to point B:
a round earth doesn't really help...
perhaps if i were sailing but even then...
a straight line...

Darwinism didn't really undermine
man's final vanity... according to Freud...
nor did Freud undermine another vanity...
Freud & Jung created the divided schematic
of what once man:
i wouldn't say man was Leibniz's pristine
monad: something indivisible...
but it was close: to be divided by memory
fickle faculty:
how it dries up through the churn of
pedagogy... so much strain on learning
2 x 2 = 4... a, b, c, d, e... f, g, h...
fair enough: to later rearrange into words...
but i don't appreciate the classical alphabet...
the genius behind QWERTY...
i type without looking down at the keyboard...
it's almost like: imitation of reading braille...

maybe the alphabet should be less: a, b, c...
it's not like the vowels are at the beginning
while the consonants follow...
it just doesn't make sense:
rigid...
i wonder what would happen if children
were taught the QWERTY alphabet sequence...

or... just remember all the letters:
it doesn't matter in which order you remember them...
just remember that there are 26 letters in the English
alphabet...

- it's so pointless just killing  mosquito...
a fly... hardly...
but a mosquito... just at the right time
when it inserts its needle and become a syringe...
that's the sweetest of moment...
lord of the flies? who is the lord of mosquitos:
didn't ha-shem eat up all the lesser
gods of the Levant... but somehow avoided
gobbling up the lord of mosquitos?
i'm conjuring up a deity the Hebrew deity
didn't gobble up into his pantheon...

what name... what name?!
to challenge a name like... Beelzebub?
Be'el'zee'bub...
proper pronunciation with
the apostrophes: intra-verbum...
just so you know...
who: hoo! i'm getting hot from all the cider
and whiskey... god... i'm gagging for
some absinthe... the moon is ripe!
it's full...
     i need some slimming elixir...
some red wine infused with garlic...
to keep the vampires away...

what will i name you: lord of mosquitos...
KOMAR... mosquito in western Slavic...
Darwinism doesn't bug my vanity...
i.e. it doesn't bother me...
it bothers me that it's a history eraser...
nothing from yesterday here on in...
in the anglosphere...
the monkey: mammon key "happened":
an oops! ****! hey presto!
deluxe! no one grieves for Robespierre...
i might...
like i might for the wild imaginings of
the Marquis...
               if only... i prefer prostitutes to these...
"free"... masculine prototypes of... ahem... "women"...
once the woe... once the woo of man...
now?!
i prefer prostitutes...
no need for dating: plus... if they're Turkish...
they like a beard... a hairy chest... a hairy
stomach...

i'll push this dagger into that crux of:
et tu... so far so far as it can be harnessed
collectively that i'm... passionate about...
not angry... bitter... pickling my emotions...
there's a gherkin for a heart if anyone is
willing...

lord of mosquitos: raba'albaeud...
well, i could make that apostrophe disappear...
but i'd only replace it with a diacritical marker
above the A... to imply: "a.a."...
i.e. that there are two... Siamese vowels...
but it wouldn't help the pronunciation...
let's see...

raba'albaeud vs. rabālbaeud...
            eh?          ha ha... "no" difference!
so much for everyone being... "literate"...
they read like they might eat...
i've been told i eat in a way that...
invites other people to eat...
so much for others... dictating pleasures
unattainable...
i was a dinner once... with school friends...
i was the only one who asked for
rare beef... everyone else...
doubly butchered their wants...
they wanted them well done...
beef? well done?!
oh i'm a snob at that...
IT'S NOT MINCED BEEF!
YOU NEED... JUICE!

i kept my mouth shut and ate happy...
so much for friends...
i.e. "friends"... people you spend a lot of time together:
it works in a pedagogic environment...
school's great...
you are ***** into their presence...
you have to have... work-around tactics...
bullies... brutes... nerds... teenage mothers...

the full moon: while everything is attired in:
quicksilver...
the full moon: skin-head BISCUIT...
while everything is attired in quicksilver!

too many vowels... too many vowels...
raba'albaeud...
i "think" i'll rename him...
phonetically, though: ra'ba'alba'ood...
although there's an E & an U instead
of the omega...

Lithuanian: U'ODAS: ooh... not you...
i need bitter... twice bitter than an IPA
Czech absinthe...
i need to see straight... wonky too!
i need my tongue to be aflame!
i need teeth made from iron!

- history has become less linear than it used
to be... it has begot an ouroboros
of repeated... thanks to journalism:
history used to be linear...
time has reached a year 0...
but there's no revision taking place...
don't shoot the messenger!
i'm looking for the name of the lord
of mosquitos...

it's a hard name to conjure:
even though you have all the tongues in the world
available on the palette...
i need bitter... Czech absinthe...
i want to feel: hot... as rot...

Latvian: not Estonian... i.e.:
not sääsk (saaaask):               ODU...
主 / オモ (omo-odu)... that's clearly pushing it...
       オヅ
it would be so much simpler to just **** a mosquito
rather than... purposively...
feeding it to a spider...
i would "feel" much better killing it...
than having fed it to the spider...

Napoleon might have added:
sure... they're literate... but literacy only arrives
as useful when the literate are bilingual...
what use do i have for these people
distract by letters...
what use for the priestly class...
since... their safeguard is... "missing"?

sweet amber... whether beer: gods' juices...
or simply... mead...
from the work around of Hephaestus....
safeguard these names of the gods...
before they disappear...
before the Czech absinthe becomes too
bitter... still drinkable... but hardly enjoyed...

"too many vowels"... the "argument" follows
suite... i'm red... hot... chilly-esque...
chasing zeppelins... chasing diacritic markers...
covert: how you might say:
SPIERDALAJ: DALAI LAMA....
  ARES... his son...
                  Hephaestus....

             while i'm burning!

                         pronoun verb
custard: ich arbeit...
all the nouns the world might allow...

butterfass...
                   i'm itching to pass by:
butterfaß.... consonants ought to have...
better... phonetic encoding symbols...
like TH and PH have to encapsulate F...

who needs buTTer when one Tao might
have... MITE vs. miGHT?!
two consonants coupled...
not another night in Posen...
please... not another night in Posen...

chasing
i don't want to be English so much....
too many troubles...
too many fictions...
i want to be inherently "biased"...
too many frictions...
  too many fictions...
chasing  Zeppelin....
     ditto: base... the Warsaw "boat":
about to... sink.
Kristen Hain Sep 2015
Often times I’m staring
Awing in the curves of full blooming lips
Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss
The journey through the damp forest after warm rain
It is all awake alive and breathing clearly
Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves
I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me
Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up
Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup
Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil
The pools of honey drip further toward me
My feet find it impossible to remove themselves
So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm
Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes
Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way
Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown
You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry
Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times
Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders
Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin
Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down
It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept
Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces
Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings
Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings
Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch
You are the rain forest from sunrise
My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner
But I know such things and if they were to **** me,
I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok
With roots buried miles deep
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i wont bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ...


i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   *wumpscut
, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2018
No quibbling siblings musing in the shallows, patriotism must be dealt with at it's route markers. They are all twisted. It is the duty of right thinkers to untwist
and shout,

All ye, All ye or Oy ye, Oy ye Outs (never Ox) in free. The ransom has been paid, the game of hide and watch is played. Touch, eh?

Nature's what? Original state? Perfected state? Fractured state patched with circuit breaking dams and weirs.

Nature's God, the mind behind Nature.

whose were the buffalo the servants of christmas replaced with sacred cows offered and eaten in Outback Steak Houses at Indian Casino Super TAs from sea to shining sea? Whose God commanded that? Whose God permuted that?

Who has sown bullheads in the squash? Shall we pull them up?

Let the children pull them up. Teach them to see the tiny round leave, which is to be squash or watermelon, sosweet, or water-stealing, sticker-making ****. Goatheads in little running feet all summer long, ouch. ouch. ouch.

Knowledge is power. Power is not lost. Is that enough to know and grow to know more and to spare? Is enough abundance enough to spare and share? Yes. On a broken planet, men of both model may make enough of anything they desire, or sire in their best happy ever after scheme or schema. That part never broke. The tongue-mind interface, that fried. Listen. Wisdom never shouts, you know.
Part of a series with Indian, American Indian, Native Aboriginal whisperers
Edward Coles Oct 2014
The cats sleep on the rooftops,
an ambient beat from the shower radio
comes tone-deaf through the open window,
replacing the hum of lawn mowers
that had been harmonising
all Sunday afternoon.

We buried one in the garden,
an overlooked shrine within the deep grass,
child-like magic markers  with a simple turn of phrase;
yet all I can think about
as I look over her grave
are how the beetles are nesting in her brain.

I lost the knack for sympathy,
ever since they medicated my drink
and told me I was their patient.

I lost the will for empathy,
ever since I tried to hang myself
and still they told me to be patient.
c
cat marie Aug 2018
i always find you in the strangest places.
i find you in song lyrics, dog toys, and timber old spice.
i find you in chicken flavored ramen noodles, every shade of blue and purple, and horror movies.
i find you in rainbow coloring books, permanent markers, and colored pencils.
i find you in the grass at memorial park, folded slips of paper in my back pocket, and gourmet lollipops.
i find you in hot fudge sundaes, too-big tshirts, and icp snapbacks.
i find you in chik-fil-a receipts, gumball machines, and arcade games.
i find you in white roses, blue ribbons, animal crackers, and sour gummy worms.
i always find you in the strangest places.
but these strange places are everywhere.
Joseph S C Pope Nov 2013
“The curiosity of the city rings with the death deliverance of grieving mothers and drunk fathers and optimists who claim the world is made, of more than just those two people. This is the Republic and the gates are open for service. Comedians were once serious people like all the rest who were mocked and remained vigilant in the face of despair. Life and death are part of our lives, but not the entirety. Grave markers have no grace for that truth. Summing up our choices to dashes in metal or plastic. What about the singing in the shower? The embarrassing time we were caught ******* or with ****? The overall fear of death creeping over these moments. Where is the answer? I wish Philosophy had a wick, something tangible to grasp onto, but it is no different than alcohol or drugs. Even that is no different than the dash. It only sums up our existence in simplicity. Labels of any sort do no justice to the comedians, mothers, fathers, republics, cities, and or life. In short, this land is the Atlas-cyst.
I look up at the clouds and see the impression of silver cherubs sitting on  flying horses. If they were real, they'd stab the hearts out of lovers from their aluminum vessels.
We are kings and queens of too much.
How many people have died for something that was not the cause—martyrs labeled as abolitionists. But to the illiterate-pop culture they are the heroes. Zealous posters written by apathetic authors trying to call back to the glaciers till the chimes of apocalypse come. The sad songs are true. Pity is polio too sick to bend and too accustomed to power. More than anything it is the simple moments that make the best music."
I remember telling Kaitlyn all that after we had ***.
"Should I continue?" I asked.
"I guess. I do like listening to you." she said.
“Your name is a word, but I think it is a culture.”
“The dark is a force,” she said, “But it is a child  too.”

She was the first one that made me realize that romantic tendencies are as hollow as realistic ones.
She laughs and I laugh. We are slaves beyond truth and defiance.
I can almost hear the old people that were friends of my granddad saying, “Remember your path.”
A failed proverb. Now as my sneakers hit the black top at night I see a messy web in the gutter belonging to a black widow. Every town in America should have a street named after Leo Szilard, the idealist father of the atomic bomb. I wish the one I was walking down now was named after him, but instead it is named after Hemingway. Hemingway St.--
“Everything I want and I couldn't be happier.” Kaitlyn says as she rolls away from me. Almost in cinematic beauty.
Now Sedans pass by playing catchy music--reminding me of the same melody earlier in the day when we were on our date at a local pizza place. The waitress was late with our order and we were making fun of Communism and Southern women on verandas.
“Oh Charles, I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies!” she impersonated.
I laugh, gather myself, and add, “frankly my dear, I don't give a ****!”
Our giggles and bursts of laughter spawned our waitress in record time.
Later in the night, a ***** sock is still on her door as I leave her apartment. There are things still to be done. We aren't married after all.
I hear sirens in the background, downtown and I laugh to myself.
“Avoid the police! Avoid the police!” I promise myself I'll tell her tomorrow.
As I cross the street and the stench of wet dog in the night becomes second nature to me I add a conclusion to the communist joke from earlier. Imagine nowadays walking around Moscow passing out pamphlets about Communism to Russian citizens. The punchline sets in as lame like a worn lobotomy—no one would get the joke or take it too seriously. It's one of the commodities of sanity.
“You're never angry with me and I like that about you.” I told her once our pizza was delivered to our table. That statement cleaved the conversation to a halt and all we did was eat for the rest of our date there. She is the perfect bride I may never marry—a wedding in a box. Other than that she brings  spinal traction in this rough world—I feel like a man.
3:55 am brings ego death from acid. Not a song for the kiddies, but it is a recycled song for the college kids down the street. Even though the closest college is two hundred miles away. I call Kaitlyn up, she too can't sleep.
“How many times can a woman scream after *******?” I ask.
She exhales heavy when she smiles. “As many as I can.”
I do the same when I smile.
I imagine it all again: “Being absent on death's radar for that one moment. Teenagers dream about it, preachers scold it, tv promotes it, children have no idea what it is.”
“You make it sound so bad. Like ****.”
“It's not bad. It's a faith in a white flag.” I say.
“Of surrender?”
“Yes.” I reply.

The next time I blink it's breakfast, over at her place.
“You have the most fantastic beard.”she says.
The compliment goes down good with eggs over-well, bacon still moist from grease, golden toast, sloppy grits, and hashbrowns flat like a sandwich. I need a cup of coffee to level out her perfume.

No one knows I'm unsure if I'm the one she wants. But I would want her, no breakfast, just her and her aroma steeping in my life till my body runs cold.

“I surrender.”
“What?” she asks.
A torn piece of white fabric lies on the table.


The wine still lingers in my throat an hour after New Year's. The burn creeping down my esophagus much slower than the glistening ball in New York on tv. I taste blood. I wonder if it will last the year. The white flag is now starboard. And there is an opera in my fingers.  That last sentence makes no sense.
I know I am a man with hairy feet, a bruised heart and young. As Ivy Compton-Burnett says, “Real life seems to have no plots.” But it does have star-crossed lovers stuffed in suitcases beside heels and breeches. Traveling along the serpentine east coast watching the world in anticipation. Death can wait. I wonder if the same two people can live in perpetual amazing-ness apart?
I don't know. I can't wait for the answer. I begin, end, and live my life around the words 'and' and 'more'.
She doesn't know I barely move from my bedroom.
Hal Loyd Denton Sep 2012
Landmarks


Once they stood formable stalwart now they are growing faint those barometers of our
Lives they took the temperature of our passions they plumed the depths of our rational
They were sounding boards and they were true assessment of our selves they were not
The work of superficial minds and hands right now if we could get this into our national
Psyche we wouldn’t need politicians in the sense they can be a drawback or detrimental
To the great cause of America of continuing to be the land of opportunity the American
Public is the heart and mind that drives and makes us great small government is all
That is needed if her people engage in real enterprise let Washington take the helm of
State but let the states and their people go back to the landmarks the word even says
Do not forget the landmarks for in them you have knowledge from the past that will
Guide you into a secure and bright future we need to handle an axe handle a *** a
Shovel better yet work with them all this hooey about throwing money at the problem
Reeducate in the fundamentals of hard work go to the land while these places and
Buildings still exist shut up and listen to the groan that used to escape from human throats
In that act of hard back breaking toil listen to the moaning wind allow you’re self to be
Engaged in the great reminding let the panorama unfold see men and women staggered
By the great challenges and with steel in their eye they went to work and insurmountable
Problems fell before their faithful dutiful walk they were building a nation an acre at a
Time they weren’t crying about how hard it was they were throwing themselves into
The notion and belief you can build a better tomorrow but it takes accosting today with
Mental perseverance “Truly the rest from hard labors are sweet” Robert Frost man or
Beast cannot appreciate life without achievement all the small enterprises that dotted the
Land they didn’t match big city terms but string them together you had the strength in
Linear means that were equivalent to those cites that made their mark in the world by
Vertical markers we have lost our way and good intentions or not we don’t need
Leadership that stands and says don’t concern your selves with this we will take care
Of everything for you first off your stupid you can get your army of lame brains but
It will lead to dismal failure our past leaders harnessed the great dynamo of American
Individualism that is self perpetuating mountains rivers great expanses were subdued
Made to serve us all made us the envy of the world quit apologizing and turn around
And look deep into the heart of this country be enthralled and in amazed wonder lead
From that stand point there something sick and twisted when they stand with all the
Landmarks of Jefferson Washington Lincoln in any direction and they feel small there
Is a strangle hold on this nation and it is small mindedness it’s not holding ourselves
Responsible to the landmarks that indicate what was and is possible it’s in our hands
r Jun 2014
Painted ponies of the Paiute
Run against the sky
Cracked lightning lights the orange fire
Desert winds stoke whipping flame
Eagle flies blind to the sun
Scorpion strikes out in vain
Antelope leap crisscrossed arroyo
Coyote calls across the sand
Thatched huts explode in maelstrom storm
First People’s shadows smoke the ground
Clay pots crack and break in time
Fire-cracked stone in communal circles
Markers of forgotten stories
Great Basin parched to cracking lines
Full moon wanes to yellow bone
Awaiting dark clouds quenching rain
And painted ponies once again.

r ~ 6/4/14
\•/\
   |     All in a dream...
  / \
Each town that I walk through
every person I talk to has the hue
of dull grey.
This day is no different from the last
another town passed
another chance wasted
my taste buds are chastened
I have hastened too long
I should settle down in  the next town
or maybe
these feet will betray me
again.

Footslogging ******* the days
finding the pathways that lead me nowhere
and I share this alone
in a muted tight groan that issues deep in my soul.
The hole that I've dug has become the shawl or the rug that warms me
warns me to go on
don't stop
not for no one.
The whisper that chants in my ears
seems to have gone on for years and for years,
and for years I have listened
lay in the dew that glistened as it dripped off the end my nose.
In a field by a road with a rose in my hand
I stand by the signpost that reads,
forty miles to the end by the bend in the lane.
I can't explain what that means
but it seems like I must go on
perhaps I've come to the end
or the place where they send
wanderers.

I wonder about this,
is this life giving me the kiss off
the big fix
the deep six
or is this a test?
Staying in the last town would have been best
but I've never been good at being that.
With my cane and my hat
and my clothes in a sack
I don't look back
never did.
Whatever is hid behind the shadows that slip behind hedgerows as I pass
shall remain secrets
and the towns which I slipped through that never knew me
saw through me
remain
unknown.
softcomponent Jun 2014
Up as early as the dawn, clouds sifting leftward westward shimmer and drip-- half like empty crystal void, half like deep-ocean Mariana's Trench with happy-little-pockmarks all up-in-between.

What in the Heroes am I doing up so early on a Thursday morning? Not sleeping. Downloading new video games via Pirate Bay. Watching old-analog-rendition documentaries from History Channel circa early 2000's-- one doc in particular about U.S. government tests on unwilling (and largely unknowing) civilian populations. I as the orifice and experiencier of the world at large, all at ONCE THRU THE EYEZ and at TWICE THRU THE BRAINIAL CRANIAL and out thru the thoughts and words and cramped headspace full of starships, *******, eloquent and twisting sunrise dimensionals...

The Internet? It'll make you the universe as-if you weren't the universe already!
Straight through the blood and sweat and 'it's-too-earlies-for-this.' You wanted a bit of laughter, and that's exactly what you got.

Though it time-lapses across my faulty-flick'ring eyelids, I can tell past the Buddha-Bottle-Buddha-Themed-Beer sitting empty on the windowsill amidst a wild collection of coffee cups and power converters that the Sun sees the Capital Letters that were written out line-for-line in Times New Roman across my RNA-DNA slow-Saganite Cosmic Poetry by God the Author.

Eyelids are heavy and yet inverted and living-- real and concerned with loving the affair of life rather than the marriage! Life as an unofficial longevity-but-not-forever kinda thing.. like young love, old love, marriage, too, when you really get down to it.. just confused little souls feeling pulled to one another in the proverbial Dark Under the Sunlight and Illuminated by Aurora Borealis Forever-Daytime-Forever-Nighttime-Forever.. Syrian rebels waking up on a Monday morning to the sound of gunfire and ALLAHU AKBAR's in distance.. creeps, yea, a television Evangelist preaching God is Love and God Treats His Children Like Children (discipline the soul, yes? discipline the soul!) (**** the widow and ask her why you did it)

All the preaching homelessers who think they've found God in the same dark alleyway they found their snot-drenched headaches every casted winter night-- neglected by the Government, always remembered by the God-- Lucifer (Government, Passivity, Watchful Indifference), and God (A Few Dollars Here and There, A Shamanic Vision at Franciscan Ascetic Extremity) aaaahhhh all bungled-up and waiting for a Savior when the Savior is themselves or the debt they owe to Royal Life Ltd. and we wait like the rest of them, they angry over my no-dollars-to-spare ("look, I make rent, I grab groceries, I pay debt. In all likelihood, you have more money than I do right now. I'd love to help you out if our poverty's weren't so close to kissing") all such rudeness in one respect and yet delinquently honest.. how I can admire the travelling Hippie Bands reckless abandon and yet never forget to fear Abandon..

and all the preaching Home-Leasers.. the strangeness' clad in glass and patchwork straight-black perm-pressed leadership stench and pastel markers smeared across the sidewalk.. ".. if you take away your consideration of the company's weak future bond equity, there are three different ways we could tackle this project.." busy-ness-man.. snarky and corrected with a Job To Do. But Who Am I?

A Job To Do. A Job To Do Do Do Do.

NOT so much A Job Well Done (Never Quite A Job Well Done) (serendipity has a crease-and-fold collective opinion of our concrete jungles and military juntas.. "'I can't even watch the game tonight.. Brasilia is the capital of Brazil?' 'Sao Paulo, you drunk buffoon.''No, Brasilia!' 'Sao Paulo!'")
stupors, collect-calls, drag-queens, militant armies and school shooters in bullet-proof vests all the best, all the best.. what I wanted was a reason to crease my forehead all adult-like and say to the kid, "I really think you'd do a lot better in computer networking.. check the job statistics! international openings are through the ROOF.." and she sighs at the weight of every crush-ed dream coalescing into filmy-slime-froth at top of inadequately-heated Cream of Mushroom Soup.. what silty salty ****.. all the parochial worldviews of the 20th century being swallowed in the Liberal Boom and Bust, Boom and Bust, Boom and Big ***** ***** ***** Bloated ***** (click the link and see your fantasies pass Disney's red-light and hit **** ******* with a vintage glass bottle of ol' Coca Cola Noir)..

After a sleepless neverend night, I stayed up and bored on the black leather couch with my roommates cat waltzing in-an-out-an-in-an-out still confused at his relatively recent move to our war-zone clone of a home.. poor ******* of a cat, names Tonic.. has a bred sister named Gin.. drink a cup of joseph trying to finish illegal-pirate of newest Splinter Cell (sadly o'sad it demands too much on the vide-ah card and lags all creative and bleepy) all the steam from my ****-preground coffee in'ah French press doves upward to the window and the clouds sifting leftward westward shimmer and drip.. I contemplate concerta to stay perked-out and take a shower, pop just that, XL release concerta.. not sleeping makes it strangest experience, uncomfortable at first.. pressures in lower jaw, electric tightness at tips of front teeth as I talk myself down on the 6 to Royal Oak Exchange via Downtown all freaky-vibed anxieties about my blurring vision and perhaps eternal cross-eyes I avoid looking at reflections *** they father me out of my bedroom, warm sanity.. warm seance dance-arounds-a'naked-and-praise.. I feel okay now, though. Better than okay, I feel elated and awake as if I slept a solid 9-some hours and Alex to left writing stories of horse-drawn labor with Petter on Skype telling tales of his not-so-gladness to be home in Norway for another 3-weeks.

A group of hearty-look hardly-look investors in stock business pajamas march past in strange rabble on way, perhaps, to next coffee joint down road. The unfamiliar block next to window I sit near seems as mysterious in existence as Diagon Alley.. where in the fuckssakes is it, exactly? I once ventured to find out and came across library courtyard I tagged as future-reading locale. The hungry sun above was at snowblind potential and eating away at my lack of protected retinas. I've stopped worrying about protection as it all dis-integrates equally careful.

And it's our covert motives that give us reason to shame-- unrealistic to be ashamed, but ashamed you'll be anyway for disliking the guy or avoiding the girl and slithering into a fetal position to deflect the ***-flack from Moral Mike. You escape yourself successfully, and douse the city in gasoline machines for another 15 years 'til our fossil fuels shivvy dribble flop fade into literal thin air.. bubye.. the sun is getting brighter with every passing minute, it's all summery out and I'm inside typelocking myself to a circumferenced earth at the tip of my bleeding fingers. I'm just waiting for apostrophe, and realize that, some day, I will be a fuel source too (you're welcome, Succeeding Race).

and all races are inevitably lost. This is not the cynics drawl.

it is optimism.
Pauline Morris Apr 2016
There is an emotional graveyard in my back yard
It's for all the feelings that die, and I discard

Innocence was the first to fall
But isn't it always that one for us all

Happiness fallowed soon after that
Because my life quickly turned to crap

Trust was the next to bite the dust
For self preservation it was a must

Ignorance was the very next one
I swiftly learned life's lessons
Under the gun

Love has entered and been dug up from the ground
But each time I bury it a little father down

Sympathy can also out there be found
It's right over there it's the biggest mound

Desire and all the stuff I crave
Is right here in this shallow grave

Lust that I mistook for love one to many times
Deep is it's hole it was such a vicious crime

Joy also has it's place among the markers
It couldn't be saved by the therapist or doctors

Anger was the last that went underground
I just couldn't take any more of it's horrific sound

You'll notice pain, agony, and strife
Very much still have lots of life
So also is fear and my darkness
I have placed their markers after all I'm heartless

And that last little plot way over there
Under the Weeping Willow dug with such care
It's stone only has dates and dashes
That's for my shell when it finally crashes
For it will be hollow void of all emotion
To lie in that grave will be such a promotion
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
These special summer afternoons
have no time markers,
no human dividers,
no watches watching
or clocks clocking,
just grins and smiles,
divining the divide,
painting lovely
the one canyon
of humanity and nature
attending to each other

These summer afternoons
have no time markers,
but drift perfectly sequentially
from sun to nap to
black striped grilled franks,
and red watermelon,
orange cantaloupe,
cold coronas,
and desserts of
indeterminate beach walks,
and quiet talks

These summer afternoons
are as close
as I remember,
what it was like to
be seven or eight,
years of age,
knowing only
carefree summer months
that were
carelessly treasured,
thinking there is
always another,
looking forward to tomorrow
to do nothing in
exactly, happily,
the same way innocently

I am an adult
and that means,
cares are ever present,
ever fair or fear not,,
they lurk and
attack the goalie,
with noisy or subtle unrelenting attacks

but as I overlook the waters,
scenario soul gentling me
under the cooling coverlet of
the perfect breeze and
what lurks
is the moment
the eyes and heart
are fulfilled,
satisfied by what they see

The bay,
dotted with the boat traffic
not too much,
but just interesting,
a right tiny armada
to entertain,
all of us,
inattentively observing
the submerging
descent of
summer daytime friends,

and I think of you only,
at this perfect second

and I am besotted
with grief
and guilt
why can I not grant you the moment,
that I desperate wish to share

my arm is not, not,
careless slung, but
grasping firm with squeezes tight,
finger under chin chucking,
come friend be with me,
and for just this moment


your anti-toil tool here,
your plight beyond my comprehension,
though I live a life on the unknown edge,
what matters is the relativity of us,
and I relate to your weariness,
I weep with desperate knowledge
transporting you here is still an
impossibility

though my eyes see glory,
though my heart cannot refuse
the scene's peace invading me,
it is not fair, it is not fair
and I want you
to have this more than me
so I can keep it too

until then it is a glaze,
surfacing the coating,
that is me
but substance is untouched
until this guilt morphs into a
shared pleasure
And I mean it...just reread this a few weeks later, and, well, I really like this poem
nivek Aug 2021
thin skin, seamless
with stitched scars
a road to journey
leaving life markers.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
perhaps a hannibal lecter interlude...

  after all... pronouns... are they really: all that important...

the first the second the third wave
of secularism...
fine... fine... make religious artifacts
dunce...
               make iconoclasm...
make it sacrilege...

   islamic stessors on: no images...
         you'd think: high praises for grammar,
orthography and all that...
"orthography": without diacritical markers:
a technical term for something pretty
pedestrian: a spelling mistake...

pronouns... i much prefer prepositions
and conjunctions: the sharpnel of the whole affair of:
a sentence structure...

the liberal, atheist, secular cuddly toys
can have everything... except for the grammar...
since... i **** on {[( and }]) and whatever
bracket >            and < is invoked
to "reinvent a piece of paper"...

pronouns... pronouns...
      i am for: remembering that an aardvark is...
not... and is...
i like to bank a lot of nouns...
i truly do...

             if it can't be settled with the already
in place: crown pronouns...
e.g.: one should think so...
                as in i...
veer into: are we being... addressed?
  the royal we.... the crown of one...
hell... even schizophrenics have better
days than dealing with a pluralism...
the horde does: and the host...

trans-     meta-           cis-       ortho-
               para-                hell... is this a chemistry
lesson? with this prefixes?

the royal use of the pronoun...
because of the... visible entourage...
hence: is one to think so...
are we... being addressed?
   a very, a very very different mind-spatiality
to the inconvenient cork
or nail of the common, labouring:
plumber...

                i's dot and no dots further:
nonetheless does so...

trans-gender lessons in grammar...
i know an older lesson...
trans-******... buffalo bill lessons in pronouns...

it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   or else it gets the hose again...
it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   yes precious: it gets the hose...
    it rubs the lotion on its skin
or else it gets the hose...
  it puts the lotion in the basket...
and it does
...
                         (greenskeepers... lotion)

                  we are living in very curious times...
which leaves alluded to...
supposed or otherwise suspect "schizoid-bilinguals"
looking for the chance of playing
poker and someone looking over our shoulder...

have all the religous trampling you can
muster... but grammar is the new religious
dogma... it's the new orthodoxy...

                        it's the old orthodoxy...
a totally wonky pancake of a buffalo bill trans-sexuality
becomes easier to understand than
all the trans-gender-                 -ism...
another -ism another -ology...
              
          **** in the church take a **** on the altar...
tell a ******* like marquis de sade did:
to desecrate a crucifix by reinventing it into
a *****... whatever...

but grammar? can't anything be sacred these...
days? royal pronouns: one should hope so...
are: we being addressed?
    
a grevious faux pas -
      looks something like this: hey presto!
why?
         the colon is a prefix to italics...
     i.e. looks something this: hey presto...
but given the bad choice of e.g. -
i.e. it's also a punctuation mark...

             point being: not like this...
              yes: like this...
              and yes... thus...
                       but....         :        and its
hardly a double emphasis...

    O the low hanging fruit... since:
there's nothing controversial to be said...
this is just the pretty much crass...

     i was sure there must have been a writing
to "compete" with the runes...
that st. cyril had to work with something...
before the romans... well... when the romans
never came...
but the southern slavs
moved into the territory of former jugol...

ⰏⰀⰃⰉⰀ / ⰏⰀⰃⰡ
what once was...
and became:
                        магия...

           well... so much for: "out of africa"....
concerned with the complexity of scribbles
                       and doodles...
so much for those chinese tattoos...
the base is above: the word
is the same...

मघ / मग     and that's just the consonants MG...
it's not magic: it's... magia...
or: "or" magja...

          seems like the greek Π is the roof...
     out of india: perhaps out of africa...
but when did people start writing?

     now for the vowels...
                                   मआघइअ:
म   (m)                
आ   (aa)                      अ
घ    (g)        alt.
इ     (i)
अ     (a)...

                   the H is a surd: a shared
detail of both english and sanskrit...
but i think... मघ / मग... the latter is better suited....
e.g. 'atch: well... there's also
that surd of a G and a K: knived a gnome heart
out... laughed: ah ha ha...
and...                     journalistic insomnia
couldn't care for better days...
or UV paranoia: "paranoia"...

ergo...

                                   मअगइअ:
म   (m)                
आ   (aa)                      अ
ग    (g)        alt.
इ     (i)
अ     (a)...                      

this is still not magic... linear! thank "god"...
    well... this pepper... this perpetuated
thrist... which doesn't leave one satiated...
never completed... just more and more...
disastrous... keep the ship afloat...
while i start to nibble on the anchor!
and take ol' 'aptain down with me like:
a mermaid!
Daan Apr 2014
Cookies in the oven, grass mowed, petrol, permanent markers
her hair.

Flowers, lavender and roses, wet dogs, even the barkers,
her hair.

Dinner ready, bacon barbecue, onions sizzling, fresh soup
her hair.

My sweat, my tears,
her hair, my fears,
morning dew, honey,
misty sunrise
hers.
I started sniffing her, she smells like watermelons,
freshly baked, with meatsauce.
And just a pinchy hint of basil.
Catrina Sparrow Aug 2014
i still leave you love poems on crumbling walls
     like rust-stains on canvas yet to be stretched

there isn't a message yet

but in my dreams
you somehow see it all for what it means
following the commas and line-breaks
right back to where you left me
     and we finally allow ourselves
     to share the light necessary for life to grow



i awake in the morning with whiskey breath
and aerosol stained fingertips

     *can't you hear me slinging siren songs
     across the distances we keep
          while fast asleep?
n White Jul 2013
there are paths

that we know

with our familiarity

we set off surefooted

toward our known destination

then as dusk settles in

we begin to doubt

to wonder

the markers and signposts

appear to have shifted

perhaps tampered with

and our assurance dwindles

replaced by confusion

unsettling in the fog

questions arise to which we believed

we already had the answers

and what was known becomes lost

along with

our selves
Fegger May 2010
The lantern sways, as shadows flash,
Mists draped in night so still;
Illuminating fleshless arms,
Creep-out along this hill.
Such guardians of soul-less mounds,
Wooden markers of the poor,
Bow in hallowed reverence
As sentries evermore.

Weeping, yet un-frightened,
She trips between each aisle;
Casting light against each stone,
Acknowledge each beguiled.
Then memory finds her grasping,
And clenching cold, damp stone
Denoting ‘neath a vacant plot,
For he never did come home.

‘Pon scattered grass and gravelly dirt;
Drops to reverent knee,
While fanning simple pleats about,
Her dress, in modesty.
She twists the **** and raises wick;
And it curls with cloak of flame.
She whets her lips, inhaling deep,
Then summons ‘pon his name:

“Bartholomew,  Bartholomew,
Can you see that I ‘ave come?
Are you near, me sweetest husband?
‘Tis I, your Mary Dunn!
I had me thoughts to come t’night,
To ‘ave a word with you,
That’s pressin’ on me heart so fierce,
Ya’ ‘round Bartholomew?
Aye, that’d be just like ye some,
To wait fer me confess;
A’twisten’ in me awkward words,
No salve fer me distress!
Yet I—I need t’hear yer voice
An’ calmin’ words to heal,
The anxious quiver, here, inside,
A’longin’ to reveal.”

The widow paused, collecting will,
And questioned own intent;
To cast a net to spirit’s world,
To herald self- repent.
She wrings her fingers nervously,
While waiting ‘pon the dead;
When suddenly a breeze did rise,
Then a hand upon her head.

“Mary Dunn, me Mary Dunn,
‘Ave not better things to do;
Than wander ‘bout such crypts at night,
A’hovered by the moon?
What keeps y’here in dank an cold,
So callin’ out fer me?
Ye know fer fact I’m dead by now,
An rottin’ in the sea!”

“It’s good to see ya’ too, my love;
Better then, to hear;
That death din’t take away that tongue,
Or how ye prone t’snear.
I ‘spected that I’d smell ya’ first,
That rancid scent of whale;
Yer eyes were once quite darker,
Yer skin not quite so pale”.

The spirit corpse then spun about,
Examined high and low,
The fiery bride he’d left behind,
With heart so still aglow.
Warmed by her excited eyes,
And cheeks so pink with life;
He felt a distance aching,
Longing for this wife.

“Ye got a bit of lonely, Mary,
That why ye come tonight;
‘Spectin’ glimpse ‘ov me, like this
‘Wud turn ya’ heart to right?
Sensible is how ye was,
Yet be scurryin’ to find,
Such wisdom in yer harkin’,
To terms ye felt unkind.”

“Stop with ya’!  Stop with ya’!
Ya’ stubborn, briney goat!
T’wasn’t me who boarded ship
An’ failed to keep afloat!
Aye, the heaven hasn’t tempered,
The iron in yer will.
Judge me not Bartholomew,
One, amongst the krill!”

The bearded ghost then chuckled,
‘Til tears came to his eyes.
Proud he was to have such time,
To spend with feisty bride.
He then retreats in silence,
As he gleans from her distress,
That she torments with a secret,
To him, she must confess.

“"Bartholomew, me love,"
she embarks to make her plea,
"Ye left me young an' fruitful still,
yet no child ‘pon me knee.
I'm not as sturdy as y'think,
An' tremble at the thought;
deprived I am of husbandry,
my womb be saved fer naught."
Without ye then, I’ll ‘ave no spring,
No child to remind,
Of splendid days, brighter sun,
Me husband now divine.
I’m askin’ yer forgiveness,
And yer permit to pursue,
The kindly callers come to me,
In absence then, of you.”

“Yer speakin’ of the cooper, Tim,
Or Drew, the smithies’ hand?
Aye, better off with men who keep,
Their feet upon the land!
But Tim, I’m sadly knowin’ that,
His time is comin’ due;
An’ if a child be yer design,
There ‘ain’t no seeds in Drew.
I’ll not be one to keep ya’,
To an empty marriage bed.
Lord knows ye d’serve a finer life,
Than keepin’ with the dead.
But ev’rythin’ that’s in me,
Needs ye hurt no more.
Death ‘as grant me favored eyes,
I ‘adn’t known before.
I’ll come ‘ere, e’vry night,
An’ visit, yer desire.
Honest, I will always be,
Tendin’ yer require.
Love ‘been mine for days of flesh,
Then, for eternity.
Go then now, me Mary Dunn,
An’ make a life for thee.”

With courage she did leave that night,
With freedom then realized,
To pair with then, another mate,
Forsaking former ties.
Yet, on the night that followed,
And for thousands after, too,
She chose the comp’ny of the ghost,
Her lost Bartholomew.

Each night she braved nature’s serve,
Through rain, or cold, or sleet;
Imbibing ‘pon such moment’s time,
To feed on love so sweet.
Each minute spent, Bartholomew,
Rejoiced in hardships, laughter;
And only God and Time will know,
Such treasures in hereafter.

One night, amidst November freeze,
Mary staggered there,
Among the stones akin to home,
With her husband shared;
Lungs revolting, gurgling swell,
Mouth of staining red;
Contrasting earthly suffering,
Found solace ‘mongst the dead.
Fevered to delirium,
Wet, silver-tainted hair,
She settles ‘side familiar post
And finds him waiting there.
Struggles so to form a breath,
In hopes that she may speak,
Surrendering the day’s accounts;
But fears she is too weak.

“Aye, ‘tis time, me Mary Dunn,
A’time that ye come home.
Beyond this night, forevermore,
Y’ll nev’r be alone.
I wish that I could reach ya’ now,
An pull ya’ ‘cross the veil
That’s kept us ‘part these many years,
In spite of what’s prevailed.”

“So ‘lighten me, me whaler man,”
She coughed a pale reply.
“Why’d ya’ choose to lie to me,
To keep me as yo’r bride?
The cooper, he outlived us both,
Eight children sprung from Drew;
Ye lied to me for all these years,
What say, Bartholomew?”

“I feared me own accord, me lass,
From terms set forth above;
Ye cannot cross to waitin’ arms,
Unless ye go with love.
An’ I, but one love known to life,
This chance then rest with you
To be me escort to the Lord,
This, I say is true.
Should ye have taken ‘nother man,
I feared that ye’d be his;
An’ ye’d be taken up with him,
While I’d be left like this;
A-hoverin’ in between such space,
An’ time, by lonesome self;
While pinin’ for me heart of life,
Me Mary, ‘n no one else.”

“Aye, such flat’ry from  des’prate ghost;
It was my life ye know;
I seen ya’ for deceiver,
So many years ago.
But I choose’d to keep me vows to you,
‘Til heaven takes me in;
An’ if I granted sim’lar choice,
I’d choose the same a’gin’.

I’m dying love, I feel it now,
Me spirit needs to leave;
This body sez it’s had enough,
Me time is done, indeed.”
“Lay down, me lass, breath peace,
Lay down ‘n be there, still;
Our fate, as love, ‘pears destiny,
As both our lungs were filled.”

Mary Dunn surrendered then,
To callings of her spirit;
With forever longing arms of his,
She had no cause to fear it.
United once again, at last,
Of faith and love of few,
She crossed into Eternity,
With her love, Bartholomew!
As this represents a needed edit, I'd like to extend my gratitude to Drew for precise observation, critique/guidance and to my dear poet friend, Ron Gardner,  who donated several verses to this piece that were clearly more appropriate than what I had penned originally.  Thanks, so much, gentlemen!!!

If you are reading this, you did me a great favor of time...thanks.  

Fegger, 2010
Mechanically he put out his best press
Straightened his yellowing pages
In spite of little pieces flaking off
Like dandruff

Ow !
His spine was not as strong
As in younger presses

He bathed and used aftershave
But still he had that musty air about him

He lay claim to nervous fame
As he fidgeted with the book markers
About to be given as gifts
For her , his blind date

She came in fresh in expectation
Her beauty made him full of dejection
Her cheerful voice proved
to be more than exhaultation

He fumbled for the first sentence
Of subjection , but
Managed only to say
"Please ! I'm just an open book to be read"

She eased over
And ran her fingers over his cover .
down his bindings ,
then inside his yellowing pages

She sighed ,
with pleasure ,
"Yes , this is my perfection "
Sam Hawkins Jul 2013
This hand which moves and rides some voice is not mine.
I have given it over to you, young boy.

This is what makes it fly so, traveling out,
tripping along in dance of shape and sound.

I acknowledge your presence in this fashion.

You tell me by messages,
beaming out the back of your head,
you are the very boy who has waited an eternity
at some upper railing.

You sit and peer through the spaces,
down the twisted stair.

Your hands, they grip the vertical rail.
Silent. Silent. Waiting you.

Let this right hand of mine be your secret voice.
Let this scrawl and scratch be your gravelly tongue—
ick-nicking, ga-chooing, click and stutter.

What language may I shape for our sake?
With you, may I follow, setting trail markers just so.

Will others come mistaking their ways for yours?

My hand is opening and opens wide.
I remember you. I am returning.
Let it be.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
i sometimes find myself listening
into the zeitgeist narrative...
the sort of talk that
is spoken by people who...
have a hard time figuring a hammer...
heidegger's:
can two labourers have
a discussion about philosophy
when solidifying themselves
in perfecting the: repeat labour?
my answer is... not really...
              crack a joke, sure...
but wouldn't a subject matter of
metaphysics counter them
     ineffective in the physical
endeavor?
           the question is still intact...
but the supermarket cashier
is more suspect...
                my question is:
       the jobs that are so pointless
they require sitcoms,
humour,
                        cubicles...
   and not one will you hear
talk of philosophy,
because... narcissus has taken
over...
           as as his brain-child birth
of the sister - solipsi - (σoλιψ:

now i'll ask...
the rubric break-down...

why is it σoλιψ...
  and not σoλιψι...
or for that matter,
not σoλιπσι?

      the Greek fathomed
to give noun-status
to some of their letters...
so...
             alphabet...
prefix-
                and -suffix point of
attachment...

ah...
but no one would read
σoλιψ as σoλι'ψ...
and no one would
read σoλιψι as...
             anything worth
adding the added iota...
unless...
   and the dot above ι
is of what distinctive
                             posit?

but σoλιπσι = σoλιψ...

me? i like trivial observations,
pedantic, yes...
  but my letters are not bound
to having a noun category...

alpha-               -male...
means something...
but in my castrato-sing-along
i have AH...
                      beta-        
  becomes be(e)-             -h...

       punk-*** orthography
of the english language...
intimidating & supposing it
has any orthographical markers...
j & i do not count...

        begin afresh:
and i would know something
about leaving a ȷustιfιed
aesthetιc comment...
  ȷust so!

the Greeks are riddled with
an excess of diacritical
mark application...
they have to look pedantic
before the Latin inheritors...

this is the point where you say:
being overly literatre
isn't helping,
when the English,
the prime inheritors of
Rome look... slumbering...

   i share their burden,
whatever happened to
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
and whatever i am
of a concern for birth...
listen...
they had their chance to breed
a blank slate man...
but as long as they left
the bricks & mortar of grammar
intact...
   they started attacking
grammar...
             what am i not to do?
cook you a ******* k'eh'b'āb...)

     - who was born out of
  solipsism...
                     it's such an airy subject
matter,
         at best: all of it requires
a status of noumenon...
   and someone who has access
to a very frictive vocabulary of
technical terms...
    spotted once in a while...
              crux-verbum constructs...

abortion at 9 months,
state of the union address speech
of the president:
   i'm not walt whitman
and there's no: o captain my captain
from me...

  but what i see...
       the old gods that were conquered
by the hebrew god
of its people resurging...
like Milton's fallen angels...
resurging...
   being reborn...
                with that speech
about abortion: i see, Moloch...
i too see Beelzebub...
mastering the craft of lying
tongues...
     the old gods are back, baby!
there's no need to congest
oneself with h. p. lovecraft
inventions...
      once the old, conquered
gods lose their fallen angel status,
once they are
   liberated from
the thesaurus of confusing
nouns of the lost time...

to me Moloch stands
the most proud...
and yes, i can listen to ricky gervais
talk about:
   the pinnacle
of darwinistic realism,
cultural darwinism,
how there is nothing ever
too suspicious about the natural
world,
and how i have to accept
the ****-manner of
"appreciating" the natural
world...
                   the octopus,
and the platypus...
            and... like...
                between a rock and a god...
the absolute death-row
narrative...
  there are only cul de sac
avenues for thought to exist...
and... given...
i am the deluded one...
then... where's the ******* asylum
and jimmy savile?

              but no one tells you
about anything: enlightening when
they have experienced
auditory hallucinations...
oh... everyone's almost
unanimous about visual hallucinations
esp. if they have ingested
fungus or Hofmann teabag...

as a person who has
experienced auditory hallucinations...
believe me...
   esp. when "thinking" is also
deemd "auditory"...
    in that casual: i can't hear myself
think...
                  auditory hallucinations
are no... pleasant...
    however much visual hallucinations
are championed...
because the fear of the unseen:
yet heard...
contributes to a more potent
fear of what is... seen: but on mute...
because by being auditory:
you can relate to it having
a... ******* mind...
a consciousness of some-sort...
auditory hallucinations are
that much more scary because...
you experience no fatigue,
when the sort of fatigue
you would experience...
from thirst... in the desert...
           "seeing" a fata morgana...

me? i hate it how...
biology and physics have reached
the status of mainstream...
while whatever chemistry
was allowed, of nibbling on
the mainstream
is left rotten in the arms of a zombie
attempting to read some
alchemy text from the middle-ages...

no... i am not mezmerized...
****... mesmerised...
****...
    mez... z'oh: **** it... might as well
employ the german diacritic
marker:                meßmerißed -
because the, "softness" of the S
in that word, is never really: SOFT...
is it?!

      auditory hallucinations...
i can't explain them...
          it's not like you can actually
ingest a fungus...
that would allow you to hear...
say... the philharmonic crescendo
of Pandemonium...
   find me a drug like that:
then we'll talk...
              
   and, if ever, on the side:
poetry would be dead in a day
if everyone started to have a darwinian
hard-on for nature or
the Aristotelian genesis bound
to awe...
                       fear...
                       and it's not like
fear is a pathological complex
that man needs to be rid of...
     sure, i'll make it more subtle:
being... apprehensive...
           and you know what fear
doesn't allow...
          stagnation...
dulling of the senses...
                                     apathy...

mind you:
that half a liter of whiskey,
and listening
to the corvus corax song
                    la i mbealtaine
could never do much wrong in me...
coming to this bud of a blank
space,
and letting it exfoliate into...
this, bargain, of extracted words.
Tunselous Jan 2014
many years ago in the tower of tunselous a man named tunselous was born
he gave birth to androsss ****** parents then he made his way to
rosswell new mexico to see if the ufo was still there and it wasnt
at tall tis but a forrest and a spot were a ufo used to be there was no
ufo so he traveled upwards to find one but instead found thee icy tower
of agnatohniousisoy he wnet on the great ice towar run where he found several dragons but not a single ufo
a man of tis a warden eve e preson seed no matter how hard you look
the ufos will cloak like ice dragons among there once was a man named turok
who find a ufo when looking add that man was me that man was a dino slayer
a king of eriched oreo bread if you know what i mean the point of the matter is
turok did not **** tunselouses parent for no reason then tunselous
said wait turok killed my pairents the warden said yes that is waht he
told me on the nyght we had tea on the icy roads of ufo city
tunselous said wait theres a hole cit7y of ufos the warden said yes
there is tunselous said do you have any left over tea from that night
the warden said no tea for thee then cast tunselous out of window
tunselous falled for inches into a pool of cat eyed johns fisherer
for impaired divers tunselous said wait if i eat theese pills they
will surely give me magic powers tunselous ate the pills and they did
nothing but give him magic powers he used the magic powers for nothing
they were not the ones he were searching many kingdoms ago a man once
said with great tun comes great selous and that man was trokie asked tunselous
if he wanted a robodog and tunselous said yes many kingdoms later tunselous find
the most magic thing that thing was a cat not any cat you see many kingdoms ago
cats were magic he would eat the flesh of cats and gain what litle magic was left in them
he latter went to calling himself tunsalous then he went back to
calling himeself tunselous and on that day he ate many a cat
and i mean many not the many you see on tv but the many catwhips you see for sale at sean johns
apple sale he has evrey year to get rid of his crapy apple computers
many years after sean john would meet on the very spot of the battle
feild where they fought and feasted on goatwich anvicos the goatwich
waS A POWERFUL king a king of druidness and fareness and evilness and
and gun shots in the leg and fair treatment of tunselous and kettlecorn
a bag of human limbs and markers and grocers and ****** enounters
and farawayland and great houses and ufos tunselous relized that
thee king was king of ufos and wnet to asked him for a ufo
and he gave him one and tunsalous studyed how it flyed
for many kingdoms later he discoverd powerfull magic within the the great temples walls of icelion
yes temples and temples and temples temples and temples and temples temples and temples and temples
temples and temples and temples temples and temples and temples temples and temples and temples
temples and temples and temples temples and temples and temples and small children small children were used
for many thing like eating but the story tunselous was not over intell many kingdoms later when a man asked
tunselous if he was a puppet tunselous said tunselous snear and left for a day and came back
to his homeland of akaria where the hut he was born in was the hut tunselous was born in was a small hut cald
tunselous prisom the prisom was a place to eat anything you felt like at anytime you felt like
and i mean anytime
any
time
tunselous traveled to double check on the ice roads but they melted in the sun tunselous drunk
thee blood
they were made of and walked into a stadium and stole mines and huts like the one he was born in like it but
not it like the time he went to the carnavile with ser topemhat (ser topemhat:hey tunselous got a nickle for a ride tunselous: no)
many times of ages ago tunselous traveled to a hut then left to find gold in a mine that did not exist he knw it did
not exist but he wnet anywhy for kingdom is power and power kingdom is the power to control what we belive are granerys
the long celebrated granery special was rice and pancake with a glass olive oil only men of magic get milk and
grand wizards get tea and some hard boiled plates the plate were not to eatbut to eat off of
for many kingdoms and men who day thing of kingdoms would be cast down a sean shower a sean shower was a shower where shawns lived
and bathed and ate the flesh of wales and and somtimes a shawn would *** to tunselous house and they would have *** all day day than he
relized the shawn name was andross and you know who andross was but they did it anyway back to the main topic a house on top of a hill
on top a of a mountain on top of and iceberg on top of a gateway to the best place ever there was only only one way to the best place ever
that is if you were tunselous
evrey day on that day evryone would eat anything they could eat that is how tunselous day started the day that is evreyday the
reason people eat what they want evreyday and not tea or olive oil or milk or rice or pancake or plates or cats or small children
in the words tunselous:
shal not eat u
eat blood of nurses
hav the most *** with any cat you see on the street
use the most elctro sappers in one go
have and eat local small children
do it with a orc
eat u up eat up so good
use magic *****

THAT IS WHY WE SHOULD TALK ABOUT HOW TUNSELOUS GAVE US THE FREEDOM TO EAT WHATEVER WE WANT EVREYDAY FOR AT LEAST 2 HOURS.

if you see any dragon contact tunselous NOW

the details of the next story are witness accounts of what tunselous did to find the lost yew crossbow of agroness

two days ago tunselous was thinking about crossbows when he thought what if there were a crossbow no one could
find what if i found it i would be rich and famous so tunselous went on the internet and typed in lost crossbows
and he saw a crossbow for sale instead of buying it he tracked down the person who owned it and asked him for it he said no tunselous killed him
on the spot and took the crossbow from him and sold it to himself for 800$ but surprise for him he was not rich and famous at least not yet he took the crossbow and
kept selling it too himself so he kept making money soon tunselous made 800$ and spent it on a used crossbow this crossbow
the crossbow he brought was not any crossbow but the crossbow of agroness he took the crossbow and shot it at a wall a few times then he put it in a box
and til this day it is gathering dust.

THAT IS WHY TUNSELOUS IS A MASTER HEADSMEN TO THIS DAY.
POSSIBLE Mar 2019
Ever present life...
Ever present life...
3ver press a k̫͘ń͙ḭ̧̼̳̠͔f̢̺͙̥̣e̵̮̯̟̙̰ͅͅ

against the dying, glowing l̵i̎̓ͣ̚ghͦt͂͌ͧ͌̄ ̛ͣͧ͐̾ͦ̅ǒ̐ͩ͌̓̾͋f̡ͥͪ̑͆ ͝ļ̉̆̎ͮ͛ͪͩĭ̶̎̉̐f͑ͪ̓e͗̏͛ͥ͆̏͐?


W̡̠̘̭͛ͪ͋ͦͤa̘ͫ̆̒̈́͆i̗̳ͭͯ̾̇́̓ͫt̫̍ͭ ͈̠̯̻̖̪̹͌͑̽ͮ͛ͮ̃a̬̪ͫ̅̅ͯ́̈̓ͅ ̵͓̱̰͚̬͓̪̿͆M̞͍̤̤̱ͩ́̆̇i̪̬̟̪̹͍ͦ̓͗ͪ̐ͫ̐n̻͈̦̥͕͉̍͛͆̋̐͊u͍ͮ͌͛ͣ̀͘t̯̣̓͊̍̐̄ͧͦ­̭̝e̺͓̱͈̬̫̊ͯͥͨͯ͜ ̹͔̳̞̇͂͢this can't be me!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕!!

CHECK MY FIELD, REALIZE!

Still Sun Tzu
hit my enemy first
in the verses
no physical damage
no trauma purses to manage
I already lived afflicted with curses
from savage researches

Till I learned to shift my boundaries around me,

...That there’s still power in !̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕category!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕

But not enough to stop me !

I broke the two ton shell OF CULTURE
but I’ll never stop hearing this ocean swell
sailors fly by wave to the 9th sign

Hi.



Î̝͎̪̮̣͎͈̮͖͈̼͕̞̠ͭ̍̓́͛ͣ͠͝ͅn̫̭̹̼̰͇̱̠̠̐̾ͨͦͪ̓̎̅̌ͬ͌̀ͦ̚͟͢ͅ­̭͉̲̱̙̼͎fͫ̆̐̾̂̃ͯͯ͌͑̄̌̀̅͂̔̋̀͘͏͎͇̭͓̜i͈̮̞̙̭͖͇͇̝̗͈̜̽̓̾ͪ͛̿͂ͯ͂̇̌ͣ̓ͦ̿ͮ̈͘͘­̗̤̞͈n̷̷̡̠̘̘̦̬̣̺̟͖͍ͮ̾͂̈́͟͜ĭ̙̳̩͓͕̍̃̌͂͋ͪ̂ͧ̓ͨ̉ͨ͌ͨͤ̈̚͟͜͝t̵̴͖̣̳̤̊̈̎ͥ͊́e­̛̺̭͚̻̠̞̙͍̞͚͉̝ͨ͑̉ like a Shepard’s tone.
      
   
    Passionate like a Shepard's SON.

Intricate like a l̀e͊ͧ̓͛̑ͦ̃͠o͐ͭp͒͢à͢r͒́ͬ̅ͣͤd̑̍̿ͤͮsͦ̋ ̊̈́̀ͯ͐̅́tongue.

[[God said to me]]:

Work under the light of e̴͏ff͠ort͞ SON

You cannot break the stone without the Wind and the Ocean.

So we wander back into the liquid crystaline vision
Waves wander and ponder up through and fill my being
We release the storm my drips speaking.

But I can't hear cause there's still Too Many Lights.


Easily distracted
by how others say
"stay away from illicit people ..."
Illicit people ...?
More like
people illicit

[!?meaning?!]

formed inͧ̒͂ͭ s͑͆͒ͯͪ͊̚tͩͩ̂ͬͬͬ̌e͆̏͗̽e̚ṕ͒l̅ͮͤͧ̉̈ẻ͋̈́ͨͪ̓sͤ̆̍ͥͮ ̉̓̚

Responses from the ghost markers
self-induced parasites better host dollars people!

FC*K that!

>NO MORE BEING SILENT MY LOVE <
-Just watch and listen-

Tectonic plates shift
when I talk back

Demonic cosmic rift silent
when I talk rap

people never seem to mind
unless you say I did that

But you better believe
This ***** not much more than a formality.
Fancy phantasm shorn from reality .
Never base your life in a fallacy.
No waste your life chasing the phallus see?


L̎̒i͐ͤv̡e̓ͪͪ̔̾ͤ ͥm̓̐ͨ̑̈̄҉a̎g̒̽̍͛̽iͩͩ͑͟c̎ͬ̏̕ ̡̂ͫ̒̊ͧͪ͆
Like Harry Potter,
I always catch the snitch
end the game break my fist͆̓̽..̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ

So few leave this life of crime
now I teach yoga
super stack your spine
till that ***** aligned  
so try and find me
I’m in orbit right outside the mind b.

To look up my next move in the dictionary
doesn’t make it a **** move, this is :

"My **** is hairy, I let it out at night like Bigfoot
and its OH so scary!"

Now WHATEVER YOU believe .̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭͔̖̲̓̍̈́͗̉̽
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭̓̍̈́͗̉̽
I’m married to my Wife,

my Diction,

God and Mary.
Easter EGG???????????????????????????????

I'll ask of the berserks, you tasters of blood,
Those intrepid heroes, how are they treated,
Those who wade out into battle?
Wolf-skinned they are called. In battle
They bear ****** shields.
Red with blood are their spears when they come to fight.
They form a closed group.
The prince in his wisdom puts trust in such men
Who hack through enemy shields.
A skaldic poem composed by Thórbiörn Hornklofi in the late 9th century in honor of King Harald Fair-hair and his berserker warriors and one of the earliest accountings of berserkers. Translation from R.L. Page Chronicles of the Vikings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1995, 109.
MRQUIPTY Jul 2016
once rocks .
now weathered
stones inclined
by wind.
something
devout
in that vane
stuck
gold
and facing
forever
south
Somme

— The End —