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Luke Gagnon Apr 2013
Sitting in labyrinths of cobblestone intestines
I’m learning to eat the entrails of sacrifice
only domestic, never hunted.
pick up spoon. put down
put down. put-down.
pick up. um . spoon.
um… putdown.
there are motions for eating and I do them.

soothsayer, look down
pay attention to positions, shapes
knife. butter. um…
bread. no. breadth.
better. no. butter-better.  focus.
knife. better. bread.
knife, knife of haruspex. knife breadth.
okay… deep breath.

I have divided the livers
and the watchers of victims.
I have written on
the anomalies in my bronze living,
what I should look for,
what they should allow for.
my protruding viscera,
my ancient autopsy of starving.

Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift. made me feel
gutted out like finished
ice-cream containers
but, starving made me
full of household gods.
made me divine. made sheeps fly.
made days disappear and made cold cold cold seem like
simmering. made staying out of sight a piece of cake.
cake. starving made me rich when I found little
boys betting quarters for eating bowels of
goats. made me small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents.

now, I listen to Memor, a man
who knows nothing of starving
talk about how starving I am.
tomorrow I have to advise
tomorrow I have to weigh
tomorrow I have to swallow
tomorrow I have to
tomorrow I have
tomorrow I am half

and starving made me whole.
Destiny Nov 2019
F
Fa
Fad
Fade
Faded

M
Me
Mem
Memo
Memor
Memori
Memorie
Memories
­
Sometimes, it just becomes too much!

F
Fa
Fad
Fade
Faded

M
Me
Mem
Memo
Memor
Memori
Memorie
Me­mories

Sometimes, it just haunts me!

F
Fa
Fad
Fade
Faded

M
Me
Mem
Memo
Memor
Memori
Memorie
Memo­ries

Sometimes, I can't escape!

F
Fa
Fad
Fade
Faded

M
Me
Mem
Memo
Memor
Memori
Memorie
­Memories

Sometimes, it hurts more than it should!

All the memories have seemed to fade, but always find its way back!

These memories don't really ever go away, they just linger.

They think that they're welcome.

They don't have a permanent home.

They shadow my every move!

Faded memories aren't very faded anymore...
Charlotte Jul 2014
you are stashed in
a memory. and with it
i hold you close
to me. we were perfect
in our almost
romance. eyes
locked tight
and blue met blue
like the sea and
the sky colliding.
your calm azure
brought my crashing
waves back down. and i
remember your crooked
smile that seemed to promise
me everything. and that smile
let me know that
you would have
kissed me if i asked.
but i wonder
if your lips could have
quelled the swells with in
me, and if my tongue
could have silenced
your raging summer storms.
we are a secret that will
never be uttered,
we are a wave that can
never be ridden.
we had our chance and we
missed it. but sometimes, i
swear, i would go down
with our ship.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.i lied in doubly toasted rye bread and some larry tesler epitaphs... toasted rye bread... better with baltic sushi... raw herrings in a creamy sauce... perhaps a creamy sauce with dill... more like apples and pickles... toasted rye bread with baltic sushi... herrings... smoked salmon is luxury... just the basics will do... a smoked salmon can have its bagel... as long as the toasted rye gets its herrings.

some thigs just have to wait for no apparent "rightness"
of time - a corvus corax album from 2009 only arrived
into my ears late sunday evening -
mille anni passi sunt - and no... i do not know what sort
of radio station would play this sort of music...
nor anything from 13th cent. "pleb" music of the countryside
or "heretic" monks that do not fit the criteria
of "classical"... i.e. "worthwhile"...

two sips of ms. amber / well a decent double with
pepsi max will jolt the memory:
or at least that's the hope -
yesterday two decent doubles allowed the coils
to unwind - alas - no pen and paper -
but a witness - a cat sleeping in a chair:
i'm pretty the sure the world won't mind if:
another of my diatribe spews heads into two
directions: infinity and nothingness -
                              perhaps tonight i will pick up
the scraps from what i "ought" to have written
down...                well... this is hardly
going to be words penned to paper to be later
required oratory material...

i can't exactly call them thought experiments...
if i believed in thought experiments...
i'd be... an oyster... or a clam...
  basically an mollusk - not quiet a stone...
but a shell - how did the oyster get his shell?
and why didn't the stone get...
a cell of celluloid / cellulite brain?
              the mountain has muhammad:
of that i am certain...  thought experiments...
not when you're about to do some manual labour...

i've been asking for my neighbour to put
up her garden fence for 15 years...
if not me then someone else...
she's put up a 5th of the garden's length...
the rest would remain covered by the foliage
in my garden... one storm... nothing...
two storms... nothing... then something...
the 5th of the garden length would topple...
until a new 5th of the garden's length would
be put up...
roots... ****** roots...
well... i felt lucky... this year we saw 3 or 4 storms
batter these islands consecutively...
the guys that were going to put up
the fence came... i gave them 250quid to cut
all the shrubbery in my garden...
after all: i do have tools... but a chainsaw i don't
have...
the fence is up... but the garden is in part
barren...
the shurbs and trees are gone:
i'm thinking of planting some dwarf apple / pear
trees... the plum tree took to the earth a few
years back... the cherry tree (morello cheery):
i'll give her another year:
she bloomed last year but only bore 2 fruits...
maybe she's shy...
well great... the shrubbery is gone...
but... roots... those ****** roots...
       we are talking london, we are talking:
a city built on clay...
it doesn't take long... not even half a meter
of digging before you reach this playdough
fudge layer of the soil...
     even if it is a dwarf tree or a shrub...
a holly... as i learned... even with a fork and mini
fork... a proper ***** and a mini *****...
a blunt axe and a heavy hammer...
digging up the roots'-head with some of
the roots intact can take somewhere between
2 to 4 hours...

                yesterday i managed 3...
which took me... roughly 6 hours... while i
uncovered a 4th...
   manual labour... better than going to the gym...
i really didn't know i had this muscle
in my body... or this sort of cartilage...
this tendon... i think i stood before a whole class
of students of medicine and gave them
an arithemetic of my lower thoraic and almost
all of my lumbar muscles...
but that's the beauty: i guess...
once you get on your knees and work with
earth, with roots, trees, once you unearth
the earthworms and cut them in half as you're
digging: well... they have an in-built clone
regrowth... the only music came from the birds
celebrating: renovation! food!
i wished for a radio... but then i uttered
a word or two and meditated on it -
perhaps it was a word - perhaps it was a phrase...
later that day i made east european dumplings...
a filling of last sunday's poacked chicken
meat (which is always a problem -
what do you do with poacked chicken meat
after you made a decent clear soup from it?),
mushrooms - sauerkraut - spices - blah blah...
but... first i sniffed my hands...
imbued with all the scents of the earth...
the dirst and the clay and the wood merging...
that... for the sensual contrast of later working
with flour and water for the dumplings' dough!

yesterday i lay in bed on this ******* carousel
wheel of "narrative"...
what if i forget it... i'll wake up and write it down...
7am... write this sort of ******* down?
i don't think so... lucky for me yesterday ended
with heavy rain... i almost wanted to fall asleep
to the sound of rain... it wasn't loud enough...
for a long time: it's either with earphones in...
or no... no other alternative...
      most relationships probably failed because:
"i wasn't there"... when trying to find the la la land
of nox...

               when writing: even feel a senstation
in your feet... as if you feet are standing
on the ceiling? the whole body translates into
a mild sensation of up-side-down...
ever write and while writing: feel the insane barrel
of laughter from a sensation that your feet
are attached to the ceiling?
   never mind...

   my eyes shouldn't be staring at this glaring screen
this late anyway... i should be listening
to radio.fama.pl with the screen blacked-out...
perhaps a candle in the room...
but mostly the light coming from the cigarette
being dragged... nothing more...
today is an exception: superstitious in that:
if i don't write this today:
tommorow would be cindarella of this...
no memor: there's already barely any cohesion...

today i was lucky: i only dug up one root-head...
2 hours... given that i had to do so...
while at the same time not disturbing the fern...
even thought the roots of the head were
weaving themselves around the fern...
had to tie up the fern so she wouldn't get in the way...
what a pretty man-bun of hair...
hail shiva!     or any other long-haired deity
that does... boquetes of hair for a living...
the fern was spared...

   back in the garden... a literal swamp...
that jasmine and her labyrinth of roots...
not to mention an ancient copper plated tube
with a cable that i dug up... and the old fence posts...
these biggo concrete dollops with metal...
literally a swamp... if this isn't what Ypres looked
like on a good day: then i'd be swimming
in cow-**** shambo on a bad day...
and this London clay... it...
you don't even dig up half a meter into the earth
and... you get a puddle of water...
work... in these conditions?
do i look like i'm going to mud-wrestle?

what sort of thought experiment can you take
into manual labour of this sort...
the sort that isn't going to the gym...
thought experiment = entertain a hypothetical
x, y and z? the "what if"?
i need to take a phrase with me...
i overheard it somewhere...

man is a human: doing...
woman is a human: being...
so i took that...

along came descartes and kant...
      along came the word ontological:
misnomer - oncology -
with oncology came: the cancer within botany...
mistletoe... if you've ever seen it grow
in the wild... go to Poland...
Warsaw will do... 10 miles in either direction...
after all... Poland isn't England...
there's no Royal Society for the preservation
of trees... mistletoe in the wild...
botanical cancer... now if i am to have
cancer... unlikely... i'm more prone to alcoholism
related deaths and dementia -
i just think of mistletoe... botanical cancer...
and it's in the tradition to: kiss under it...
anyways and who...

                    cogito ergo sum...
is that an a priori statement...
                     or an a posteriori statement...
it's hardly a maxim -
   a maxim according to which you'd be able
to extract an imperative of sorts -
caterogical or impartial - imperative and
and adjective of your choice -
                        yes... where i come from...
certain things are given SHE-pronouns...
most things botanical... except the oak...
an oak is a male in botany...
where i come from... the sun is female...
the moon is male... unlike in english...
where the words do not give pronoun impressions
designating "***"... that comes later...
with pictures... borrowed...
     comes with the turf... emoji hieroglyphs:
h'america first...
                         well and second...
                i don't hear news from France about
"misgendering" someone...
given how french grammar has explicit masculine and
feminine terms...
so... on your own...

i hear the debate... but... i don't even have
a two cent's worth of an argument...
              the iron curtain is down...
i'm in england and i'm looking at the silicone veil
and i'm saying: there's no me on the moon...
and if i'd really want to escape...
antarctica or... afghanistan... among the pashtun
women...
problem with both... i don't play the ***-tar
so good as to remember all the radio i'd miss...
i once heard the most beautiful adhan and cried...
then again: what if the mu'azzin
sounds like a goat grabbed by the testicles about
to be castrated?! and not the mu'azzin
i heard recorded?
i once cried hearing...
                         vaughan williams - fantasia on
a theme by thomas tallis...
once again when hearing ola gjeilo's...
either o magnum mysterium or northern lights...
beauty is transcendental: a priori -
          true beauty is transcendental: a priori -
because these pieces of music i heard for the first
time... and rejoiced with tears...
crying and laughter - not antonyms...
                                           implicitly i.e.:
when you're crying you're laughing vice versa etc.,
it's hard to laugh at music...
one can laugh at one's ****** response
to the body... but not when the body has found
serenity... or anguish...
             of a burden of the heart...
the ears to listen with... and that the eyes would
be far better off... without sight...
as two agape holes of a cave through
which a stream flows and arrives as a cascade point
for a waterfall...

i won't "solve" cogito ergo sum:
whether it's a priori or a posteriori...
what did cogito spawn though?
res cogitans - res extensa -
                     we're talking manual labour...
thank god heidegger didn't come along
with his hammer and suggest that someone
intent of working manually would...
somehow talk about philosophical matters on
the side...
                       that's the "hammer"... "apparently"...
no... it came down to:
man is a human: doing...
  woman is a human: being... i had to exclaim
out-loud trying to not interrupt the birds...

it's just convenient... to call man a human doing
and woman a human being...
do                                     b-ING-o!
be                                 b-ING-o!
               try another language...
                i'm sure it sounds better than just that...
человеческое дело...

          just as i thought...

                     ludzkie dzieło - ludzki czyn...
but i think i concentrated on the latter:
ludzki czyn...
                         after all: ludzki byt -
doesn't really translated into: ludzkie bycie -
with bycie - being -
                            isn't being: interchangeable
with existence - as in onto per se, for being
to be grasped from omni ex: out of this and every
other instance?
    
who would take a thought experiment when
undertaking some decent manual labour?
thought experiments are for sitting in a leather chair
and farting into it - basking in the glory
of theoretical solipsism - later translated
into a crowded tube train...
imagining oneself farting scented candle
magic fairy dust of dried strawberries!

             i don't have time for thought experiments...
i'll give up my hands to the earth
and to the trees the earthworms and the roots...
my bob the builder's ***-crack to the winds...
or... my akbir to the birds...
               my al-qiyyam to the work before me...
my ruku to the morning...
                  my sujud to the setting sun...
         and that last bit... counting the number
of new parts of my body i've used...
but no... no thought experiments...
three words in latin... yes...
                              five words... sven the seventh...
perhaps... but certainl a bilingual crossword
puzzle... and definitely meditating
on cyrillic letters... and greek...
        i'm yet to escape the grip of runes...
and of braille... and of hebrew...
                              and return to the old father...
   who still seems rather unreal...
to think that "my" people had a pre-existing latin
text... and that it somehow is not tied
to the runes... nor to the greek (as such)
nor arabic... not sanskirt...
                  a revived interest...
                          on the british isles anything
can be a revived interest...
         if marx came up with communism in
england... i can up with...
a tatto parlour where people don't make
a mistake of having chinese ideograms
tattooed onto themselves...
                                           ⰁⰉⰅⰎ
    ⰝⰅⰓⰐⰑ                       -
                           in decline because?
                               shared patterns...
even with the runes... R and not ᚱ
                        ᚠ and not F?
                                     ᛒ and not B?
                                              agreed upon...
           but i guess just because we share this...
latin text without any latin being so much
spoken outside of maxim / proverb / the crown...
no latin slang...
                            whatever this was...
i had to write it... a second time it would have
suffocated me and given me amnesia upon
waking.
ConnectHook Apr 2019
Here as I sit
At this empty café
Thinking of you
I remember
All those moments
Lost in wonder
That we'll never
Find again
Though the world
Is my oyster
It's only a shell
Full of memories
And here by the Seine
Notre-Dame casts
A long lonely shadow

Now, only sorrow
No tomorrow
There's no today for us
Nothing is there
For us to share
But yesterday

These cities may change
But there always remains
My obsession
Through silken waters
My gondola glides
And the bridge, it sighs

I remember
All those moments
Lost in wonder
That we'll never
Find again
There's no more time for us
Nothing is there
For us to share
But yesterdays

Ecce momenta
Illa mirabilia
Quae captabit
In aeternum
Memor
Modo dolores
Sunt in dies
Non est reliquum
Vero tantum
Comminicamus
Perdita


Tous ces moments
Perdus dans l'enchantement
Qui ne reviendront jamais
Pas d´aujourd´hui pour nous
Pour nous il n´y a rien
A partager
Sauf le passé

Tous ces moments
Perdus dans l'enchantement
Qui ne reviendront
Jamai
s
Roxy Music 1973

Written by Andrew Edwin Mackay Andrew Mackay
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG Rights Management
Tu semper amoris
  Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.

  VAL. FLAC. ‘Argonaut’, iv. 36.


Friend of my youth! when young we rov’d,
Like striplings, mutually belov’d,
  With Friendship’s purest glow;
The bliss, which wing’d those rosy hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
  On mortals here below.

The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I’ve known,
  When distant far from you:
Though pain, ’tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
  And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive mem’ry lingers o’er,
Those scenes to be enjoy’d no more,
  Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life’s evening dream is dark and dull,
  And we may meet—ah! never!

As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
  Together join’d in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
  Till mingled in the Main!

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
  Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death’s unfathom’d gulph appear,
  And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
  Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
’Tis yours to mix in polish’d courts,
  And shine in Fashion’s annals;

’Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
  Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
  Nor left a thought to seize on.

Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem’d it monstrous hard
  That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
  As void of wit and moral.

And yet, while Beauty’s praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
  Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution’s arm is dead,
  And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
  Bad rhymes, and those who write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
  I really will not fight them.

Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
  Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
  A very harden’d sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:
  Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy’s flight
I soar along from left to right;
  My Muse admires digression.

I think I said ’twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;—
  May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
  If worth can recommend you.

Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
  From snares may Saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne’er
From any claim a kindred care,
  But those who best deserve you!

Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth’s secure, unerring way!
  May no delights decoy!
O’er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
  Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
  And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you’ve been known to me,—
  Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
  To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I’d waive at once a Poet’s fame,
  To prove a Prophet here.
dania Nov 2016
grab tug grab
i'm telling you over and over i have
this memorized

hey means play
applause at pause
cop means stop
palladia Feb 2014
A tyrant                king, a
Vandal’s               scream        
Of moor               & rock        
And fair                 I sing;                  
  Life’s                    to its                              
   Test,                  guer-            
     don of        unrest,            
      &strife; believed!  

           Milked out                
  like utter red; lipids        
   ****** hard                  
           at birth: semi-          
                     born: made
three         legion’s ****,    
careful;       cuz fate’s,  
      Allectus, mean.      

      Made in            sheaths        
     An aural           memor-      
     y lock, a-          nswer ur
    calling;              tricky to  
      be bad             &get; a-  
         way w/it!     Caraus-      
           ius’s on     guard          
             duty; he’s in.              

              Fog in chan-              
    nel; no               lights:        
    Bware!            Usurp-        
   ing cou-             ntry,        
   mauling& killing men      
   To ob-        tain                
   Power;            @any        
   risk in                   Britain.

       gold insignias!          
     shine           ur lite!      
    greed              can’t      
    pay—poenas dat!      
   Ascle-                              
    piod-                              
    otus                                
   hears:                            

    He, Allectus does a-      
    way w/.                            
   Besei-                                
   ge in London—rime      
   the trea-                            
   sure al-                              
   located;                            
   Vain he found, good.    

       Crack souls’ ice;
   To ruin              comes
   conceit,           comes
   that rip-       ped part.
   Ah, to p’wer& knifes
   Like wo-      rds...
   P’wer               slashes
    Carves,                &impales;.
usurper: a visual poem
(the poem spells the word "usurper")

i often like bragging about the fact that i've taken six years of Latin, so i have Roman History pretty much under my belt. this was written about last year when i was translating/learning Caesar for the AP Latin exam i took that spring. alongside the AP requisites, our class took a historical journey into the various parts of Roman life and warfare. because Caesar was our focus, places where he'd been were golden. the Roman occupation of Britain always fascinated me; i did some extra research and came across the story of Allectus, Carausius, and Asclepiodotus. Allectus was an usurping emperor of Roman Britain in the mid 290s AD. Allectus first was the treasurer to Carausius, an officer in the navy who took control of Britain and northern Gaul, modern-day France. Allectus was power-hungry assassinated Carausius, but his schemes did not go unnoticed for too long. Constantinus I, emperor of Rome, endeavored relentlessly to seize him but to no avail, however praetorian prefect Asclepiodotus entered into the fight and one night, when it was foggy in the English Channel, Asclepiodotus managed to burn Allectus' fleet on Vectis (modern-day Isle of Wight). He was killed in the battle and Asclepiodotus became the next king of Britain.

Carausius was greedy for power and established himself as Britain's king, but Allectus overthrew him, additionally greedy for power. Asclepiodotus steps in and disposes of Allectus, becoming king for 10 years until he too is overthrown. so it's all very ironic and one of my favourite stories of Roman history, and i turned it into a poem...a visual one, mind you!
Abby Phillips May 2013
I've always been your
baby.
Will I grow up?
Maybe.
When you held my
hand
We could travel any
land.
With your memor and all your
love
I'll see you later in Heaven
above.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
As told. As most stories come from some source,
we remember being the cause, or reason or why fact
or factor, thing, perhaps, event…

Many attempts to tell whole stories fail to find source
material, to begin with.
We are the source. Words with intention, stretched
from first utterance, fit to drum and dance and memor-ish,
been in form as first known functions, go do

Listen to the Anchor podcasts from beginnings in August 2018

I am surprised.
….
eight as an infinite loop, not a stack of circles… that

sorted red-bird readers from blue-bird readers in first grade…

Taking life at it's best, raw state,

new real future formation experience, in time
shared
from this place on a 64 bit grid, chessboard

going on
from knowing one thing
from a while ago,
listening
to my own dam-burst podcasts
on Anchor,
in the cloud, however long
this cloud of knowing all we can fit
in pieces
of eight's arranged
to contain its contents
-sets of eight
twice next square,
next there, flat place holder in times last chance
taken
one step further…

see as far as you can imagine a nine year old
exceptionally bright child will take the tale,

of a king who offered
to pay for the wise man's
wisdom which saved civilization,
globally…

Today, I rose, I woke from sleep, urged
to begin this tale,
the telling first
of what follows, a story born
on a story told, eh? tell the story you know,
as you ride,
write, flow, ride,
the gentle first principle first prime

one, one thing, be it, thought or word
one, begins all tally telling marks on life's old way,

beginmiddleend middleend middlend middlin'

then suddenly,
now. 2021, with all the tools, and more, than ever
power to publish any good new
thing
dis
covered, unveiled, the curtain of secrecy that makes
sacred thoughts worth finding time
to think,
rest, in peace, see

do that first, then die, now, the order of events is confused,
due to liars.
Mainly, selfish liars who hide knacks developer hormones,
under de-fining lines of reason
-refine fine, then define

rational, equal e-qual, bits essentially atomic, so small
no smaller
ever
itty bit, one. Point.

I just can't imagine that, exploding, says a familiar friend.
I agree, as I look about
and see littorals edging waves with white caps,
as flying nuns once wore
on TV . Do words ever speak to you as ideas, with no words,
authorized to convey
real old ideas
with many many many sayings formed from now thens
fit to any
situation, in situ, see you, you are a boy, nine years old,
second grade was Covid Year 1.
Third grade, Covid year 2. Fourth grade is now, one month in…

Grandpa character is concocting a tincture, honey and herb,
in pure moonshine, plus one part in ten, sprung water,
from former rains, in forming times

for your information, ****** is a state most
of solidity
aspires to. Listen, this is real.
This life I have, with electricity practically uninterruptible,

this life is tuned to sixty cycle humms, as natural as can be,
this buzz has all ways been with us,
you and I, minimum us-ity, plus the fluid medium binding us
to common sense,

you know what I mean. Life is magic
with no secrets, only
thoughts unthunk,
once more…

this day's story smiles, a true eye smile, twinkle, coming
out the kitchen door, to the bow of my galleon,
an old house, made ready for me, I saw, when first I saw it,

as it were, love at first sight, as I stood atop the stone,
that holds the shape of a fat little dinosaur, when seen
in the right light, I have photos.

Evidence abounds in the world I am native to.
Photographic, lithographic, geographic

symbols to link minds and times in re
cognosis,
presets, since ever was a ware, set in time as now,
for the present pre-sense
of story mind, common stories
we all know
re told too many times
for any one grain of the truth to seem
enough
to spill the pile, but
I smile
-- who knows
-- punctuate at will- the ditor agrees with the narra
SHUNE oops
re ject the object subject to
sense of
wonder if a we
were here waiting… eeeeeh

Back to that chessboard Gabriel has under his arm, as he exits
the kitchen and enters my immediate vicinity,
drawing my attention as ping
response, Sure.

We play two games, each a novel event, in time.
Then, I ask him if he knows a connection from this game
to 64 bit Pentium CPUs.

He does not, but his ears ***** up, in his wolf pup totem.
What does that mean, he slyly, this child,
dares me, tell the vision,
make it plain, do not dare lie, for some day, I,
eye to eye,
me and the child I barely bested in chess,
this child,
mirroring me neutronic elections fixed intention, I shall know
the truth in all you say, old man,
every idle word… I give account for redemption
of time, taken on account
of time spent meaning to say what it means

to be a winner in the big game,
where you die in peace.

You ever hear of the king thing that wished to repay a kindness?

Kind of. Kind is like, same kind, I do to you a kind thing, I think you
are my kind, and this kind of thing
is good for me, I grow when exposed to --
-- words fail the child
- in me or thee, this child curiosity tug
I feel
virtue drawn from me, here
tie a square knot,
eight bits to the dollar each basic attention credit invested
in a nine year old with the patience to learn chess well,
played
in whatever comes next mode,
three to five moves out

wishing
to know
of this fabled game
of go, Ai knows, naturally, now.
- go to the grid o nineteen to filter nexts,'
nature re real
ification situation
AI appear
From conception,
co knowing all the cloud contains as
ways to think
in rest true state as one
point BAT granted
{ah, money, who can hate it? Score}
go cognosis.

Yes, in twenty twenty-one, we know
from when an agreement
was reached- due virtue contained
in expressed smile drivers, detectible at sixty FPS
using common sixty cycle humms
to carry the sign
you know what I mean, ping,
ping
ever began,

just now, then

eve of destruction
to eve of creation
in one turn of earth
around the dog star, but who knew,
then?

Any way, back
to today and Gabe's curiosity reaching
for worth
in the time taken to hear,
based on experience, in a nine year old speed reader.
---
That's all §
day 1 out of the way.
gray rain Jul 2016
What Is this?
I didn't even say goodbye
I never wanted you to leave
I never wanted to let go
but you'll live on in memor**y
Jenny Gordon May 2018
I am certain they DID bury me with Mum.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCLXXVI)

Memor'al weekend's here, and summer thence
In tow as wont:  my stockings in betrayl
Hang limply, needing to be washed, and stale
Cuz warmth is now a constant, with those scents
I had forgot:  that sour note haunting sense,
As to perspire is what we'll do sans bail
The next four months, erm straight, t'exhale
Nor think of sweaters, chill our sweet defense.
Watch golden shafts, while Maple leaves half stir
To fragile whispers, tricking shadows to
Shift vaguely 'cross grass' carpet, skies deep blue
And moody, clouds mair grey, light ghastly, poor
As listning to the kitchen sounds in tour,
The music gone, how static mocks which cue?

26May18b
Also, from everyone else's (father and brothers) happy tendency to dream, making plans of travelling the world, where I literally have NO place in all the world I care to be than only with my loved ones, [intro]
The passenger seat feels empty
When I turn and don't see you
When I lay my hand on the armrest
Instead of resting it on your thigh
Doing nothing never felt this empty
When I was doing nothing with you

The sunset hasn't changed
The colors are just as bright
But that burning sky was always prettier
Reflected in your eyes
It's a small thing
But all the small things meant everything to me

When the sun is gone
The other stars get their chance to shine
But when I lay down to take it all in
I can't help but feel what's missing
On the ground next to me
Where you used to be

Your ghost has followed me
In places where we loved
The afterglow of the brightest part of my life
Was once all I could see

But now the overwhelming glow
Is just a few embers in the wind
I already lost you once
But now I'm losing you again

In places where we loved
Now even your ghost is fading

I thought memories would last forever..
With them I could live without you


But I'd rather die than forget.. then forget forgetting

Let me
die with my
memor-
43 lines, 318 days left.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
and wittgenstein was awed
by copernicus' observation,
and w. h. burroughs
made it plain:
the egyptians secretely knew
the earth wasn't flat,
and how the heliocentric
model was always going
to be a fringe belief system:
and never a conspiracy...

me?
   i'm ******* astonished
that the huns invented
the stirrup...
it's like: looking at a people
who first discovered
the ******* wheel...
imagine... before these barbarians
flooded the god-fearing
gates of Europe...
me? i don't know...
some Turkic + Asiatic
mongrel breed that settled
on the lifeline of
the Vistula...
          
   but the fact that the stirrup
was not invented by
Rome... what with all its
aqueducts
and coliseums and saunas...
pampered for the wrong
folk:
where i come from?
Rome never go to...
it's almost like...
they forgot a syllable
in what constitutes
the word
                 memor:
            am i to invest myself in
treating memory as bad?
a w.h.a.m.
george michael enterprise?

you'd think:
so... the stirrup...
so... why not the mongols...
or the arabs?
yeah...
good question...
but there's still wittgenstein
and his awe
of copernicus...
and w. h. burroughs
and... the egyptians who
thought it as smart to hide
their knowledge of heliocentrism...
how much of nautical navigation
happened in the dark...
how...
       you know that
the only man-made construction
to overshadow
the pyramids... was the Eiffel tower?
and how...
people never speak about
climbing the Giza mahjong...
and tire themselves via:
   better squint
from the perspective
of mt. everest summit...

stirrup though...
invented by the huns...
where i come from?
hell...
        a flint-stone remark
for a worth of a town...
flint-stone being:
mined...
            
but the huns beat the mongols
and the arabs in their conquests?
what's an arab conquest
these days?
              unearthing black spaghetti
goo...
   some say gold,
i say: overcooked carbohydrates
in the variety of spaghetti...

because i speak to
the dead Romans
in their own worth of a Trojan
horse...
which is pitch-perfect,
since i'm speaking from
England...
          you fetish for empire...
didn't investigate
that far north from the southern
tickle of the Danube...

huns and the stirrup,
contra wittgenstein
and copernicus...    

Islam...
   you know: this is very much
synonymous...
eating pork is equivalent
to being confused
while also enforcing the
custom of taqiya...
apparently i am "confused"
by eating pork...
  chop chop...

      but the practice of
taqiya is all dhabīḥah..
yes... arabs write in the letter H...
but treat it as a surd...
so a non-vocal
element of mediating
a vowel to a consonant...
                    mate...
you're missing a macron
on that first Ah...
            an acute rather than a macron
on that IOTA...
and another macron on that
second a...
   so? it looks like:
     dhābíḥāh
ḥ: yes...
i know, "tongue tied" with
the use of coinciding vowels...
the H was always a surd...
syllable scalpel incission...
look...
    the english did it plain:
don't for do not...
     apostrophe...
look again:
sounds the same:
               dhābí'āh -
the apostrophe can easily
replace your fancy take on
the ḥ...
   beef?
   i've been hearing that the arabs
are... like the chinese...
the most pristine:
original wordsmiths...
like the chinese *******
their... "tao": their... wisdom
in the haiku worth of genius...
in an alternative universe...
that would look more
like a Greek: μ....

            so... m'eh...
let's measure the syllable intake
and... make to measure
our said: woe-r.d.s.

i see no connection
for the arabs to claim
etymology of: wordsmith...
but a slav?
  
   słowo (swovo)?
   word...
         literally...
      sława (swava)?
          fame...
literally...
          i don't see where
camel jockey plays into
this.
Horloge ! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doigt nous menace et nous dit : " Souviens-toi !
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton coeur plein d'effroi
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible,

Le plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l'horizon
Ainsi qu'une sylphide au fond de la coulisse ;
Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice
A chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison.

Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde
Chuchote : Souviens-toi ! - Rapide, avec sa voix
D'insecte, Maintenant dit : Je suis Autrefois,
Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde !

Remember ! Souviens-toi, prodigue ! Esto memor !
(Mon gosier de métal parle toutes les langues.)
Les minutes, mortel folâtre, sont des gangues
Qu'il ne faut pas lâcher sans en extraire l'or !

Souviens-toi que le Temps est un joueur avide
Qui gagne sans tricher, à tout coup ! c'est la loi.
Le jour décroît ; la nuit augmente, souviens-toi !
Le gouffre a toujours soif ; la clepsydre se vide.

Tantôt sonnera l'heure où le divin Hasard,
Où l'auguste Vertu, ton épouse encor vierge,
Où le repentir même (oh ! la dernière auberge !),
Où tout te dira : Meurs, vieux lâche ! il est trop **** ! "
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
nearing two months in,
grandfather taking his Alzheimer
pills and other rainbow potions,
almost zombified in the morning,
a high spell mid afternoon,
and then back into dossing...
a stuck memory machine,
a mind on the verge of placebo
when it should be ingested
pure reason...

                     or perhaps the result
of early retirement,
and the aftershocks of
Perestroika in the satellite states
of the Warsaw pact...
                  slower than death he sits
almost nonchalant,
but mostly vague,
        even though he's clinging to
a razor blade and drowning,
each time i ask him to take a morning
walk his stubborn leftovers
are adamant on growing
     a mark from lying in bed for
the majority of the day...

             yet it's still down to 5 minutes
for a crossword puzzle,
   evidently clinging to the minimum
of abstract and fiddly can allow
this, ******* circus of memory...
          even i am a memory censor,
have about 10 memories i am adamant
on keeping...

        the rest can go to hell,
each and every time i recall one of them
I have to allocate it chronology,
mind you: the ten are so far apart
and in a variety of places,
that it doesn't exactly become problematic.
only two days ago, somewhere
there was an Saturday, apparently,
the typical **** fest of drinking
skunking and broken heart sulking,
and all other manner of politics imaginable
under the sun...

   yet i was sitting in a home with
two old people...
       and on the odd occasion having
a trivial argument with one them,
because she knew mira kubasińska
and before going to bed she was infuriated
by an article...
        in the tabloid press:

- like hell, her parents didn't have
musical talents, she slept in hay thrown
on the bare floor, her father sold
wicker chairs and had a hunchback...

the ferocious venom of jealousy,
even in old age, persists...
   a man might as well have said:
stop beating about the *******
and get to the point: the woman's dead...

- grandma, go to bed, you're seeing
a Mongol...

      eyes like Buddha-squints and already
walking in sleep with a distant lullaby...

but today i couldn't let her off,
yes, Edinburgh is the capital of the Scots,
no, it doesn't matter if Abba sang
about Glasgow and touring loneliness
and fatigue in super trouper...

but she early tried to make spaghetti
from my mind when i played her
PRL blues, breakout's
     kiedy byłem małym chłopcem
from the debut:

- did you know that's the young nalepa
    and his father?
- you must have been reading tabloids
as bad as the ones i'm reading,
that's nalepa and his son he had with
mira kubasińska...
- grandma, that's the debut album,
   when breakout was a band as good
as peter green's Fleetwood Mac...
   it's the young nalepa with his father!

I didn't win the argument...
    after a while I changed the subject
cooling the "problem"
        by talking about the weather...

and then there are days spent with
old people where the mortal fact is
unnerving, but not in a way that might
inject ambition into you,
to take chances with some untrodden
secret avenue and spontaneous
reawakening in mid-life...
              a metaphor of early Alzheimer's:
an old man's donkey stubbornness,
the unnerving fact and the joke
of the view from the balcony:
right at a graveyard...

    the unnerving mortal fact,
or rather, if you manage to find an honest
old ****: old people ask the same questions
as children might,
       yet they ask the exhausted
question, rather than the annoying
question...
yet still the persistent
      construction of a sieving process
of teasing knowledge while mingling
it with ignorance...
        
      no man can say he doesn't sieve through
this life in some regard of keeping
it: intact...
                hard to say the exhausted inheritence
of taking certain things for granted,
not having inspiration from a blank,
canvas...
             but there is a sieving process...
like any beautiful woman
seen by the shallows of the eye...
     I beheld: but I didn't reside long enough
to be, an adamant admirer,
a muse exhauster...
                      and gallows keeper of:
seeking responsibility outside the mundane...

it's not an evil ignorance, hardly a forced
denial,
             and nature is to proud for us
to shield ourselves with doubt...
            as seen in an old man...
                       however minute the deterioration
and his attempts to escape by
memor bombardment,
   like some secular confession otherwise
attributed to a priest...
            
      if there is truly any beauty in this world,
man can only fathom it by acting out
a guise of placebo ignorance,
          not some dumb luck of a *******
celestial tourist...
                         yet at the same time not
perpetually awe-stricken
    pulverised by a seeking question...

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

( a truly unnecessary post scriptum
concerning the zeitgeist

      we'd all go mad if suddenly pronouns
became transcendental toward
the current gender neutrality vogue,
e.g.
   ? walked up to a mirror,
    ? peered in,
          in a split second, ? realised
that what stood before ? was not
      ?, but at the same time also ?,
in a reflex split second: ? stood entombed
in a siamese union with ? own
reflection, as ?!...
       otherwise ? would certainly
be walking about, hotheaded
and bore-snout-hot-phlegm-oozing
mirror shard's worth of !         )

oh yeah,  because everyone was so
hot off the mark to read
Samuel Beckett's watt...
      **** knows why the national
pride brigade cites the unread Ulysses.

— The End —