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David Barr Jan 2014
I have an insatiable appetite for oxymorons, as they can be violent in their state of calm relaxation.
Although Bacillus anthracis is truly antisocial within the context of biological weaponry; so, domestic discipline has become intertwined with the Hindu philosophy of Vatsyayana.
So, what do you think about that?
Personally, I have never consumed methylated spirits even though I have unravelled a myriad of ideologies whilst my boots concealed precious opioid syringes.
Therefore, always reflect upon the Code of Hammurabi, because she is the epitome of savory stew.
How alternative are your affiliations?
Blade so cold so right
Taking a joyride across my body
Silver on white

Shaking hand to guide it
Tears, zips, leather and lace
Crimson escaping fresh slit

Lips, soft, supple, prickly
Unshaven you nuzzle and drink
My blood so desirable and sickly

Stop stop blood clot
Immune system allows you only some
You draw away you've had a lot

Violins in my ears
The room spins and I fall down
No sight takes away fears

I awake, white room, methylated spirits
Doctors tend to my open scars
The feeling is so right
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i've sifted through all the youtube videos
of vloggers and...
i'm not sure why i don't go back to
listening to BBC radio 4...
it can be said: you either "move up" to talk radio
from having listened to classical music
or you "move down" and listen to jazz...

i only watched a snipped of:
sometimes always never - starring bill nighy...
and i wanted to watch more...
but... nothing came in the way...
i felt like sitting in the kitchen on a stool
drinking a san miguel beer and smoking
a cigarette: come night i've shot all the birds
dead... there's only me never wishing
to sigh... the vacuum and some wind...

how did i get drawn into vlogging...
i will never know... i listen like a patient
parent and it's still: knock-knock no one answers...
because... this isn't BBC Radio 4...
so a welcome return to... being my own d.j.

in and out of whims... today's whim...
grant green's: green blue...
when jazz is still somehow the blues...

it's not an urban myth...
when the ****** alcoholics became desperate
and there was a shortage of *****...
they'd filter a bottle of denaturant through
a slice of sour-crust bread...
yes... that fluorescent purple liquid...
methylated alcohol...
        and here's not me writing about going
to an irish catholic school where...
they would teach 10year olds about
the pit-falls of sniffing glue...
no mention of LSD mind you...

oh yeah... they would filter the denaturant
through a slice of sour-crust bread...
and then drink it...
otherwise i don't know how they ended
up a tier above drinking perfumes...

competition... competition...
is it always about competition?
what about jobs that are fixed... and do not
allow competition...
how there's a rigid schedule and what not...
i mean... a self-employed taxi driver
can compete... but it's hardly possible
for a bus driver to act like a taxi driver...
not everything is a hand in poker
or...               irregular plumbing...
and sure... i too would be jealous of
all the *** elsewhere...
if i weren't the piston and the sweat and...
the only joy i ever got from ***
was seeing her moan...
                      and that's... toothpicks compared
to when you can be walking through
a square mile of pines and only pines...
and pine needles...

- nonetheless i had to make sure...
is a haig club whiskey worth all that it's worth...
at 25 quid per 70cl?
if it wasn't on a discount... i wouldn't...
i'd stick to the reserve...
problem... well... you can sell beer in cans...
provided you have a glass to pour it in...
for the cushion of head of whipping cream
to sooth your lips on...
you can sell a beer in brown bottles you can
sell beer in green bottles...
you might get away with selling beer in
clear bottles: if it's a corona beer and -esque...
but you can't...
you simply can't get away with selling
whiskey in... purple tinged bottles...

the haig club is a ******: over-priced whiskey...
what's with the scots brewing everything
so smoky?! to begin with?
i get the smoked salmon... but no...
the irish at least allow their whiskey
to mellow... sweeten a bit...
you can drink an irish moon down and out
through and into a dipper of
the lips making plucking sounds befitting
a connoisseur...

but the gig is up when you over-price your
whiske... only because you're selling it
in purple glass bottles...
again: is it whiskey i'm drinking or is it
a perfume? i might as well be drinking perfume...
good that the "whiskey" was on a discount...

interlude: finally melville caught a goldfish
and all of his wishes were: let it be a whale,
let it be a whale, let it be a whale...
      
there's no way in hell getting away selling
over-priced whiskey...
just because the bottle looks "groovy"...
and it's all purple...
as i already mentioned...
    purple... purple reminds me of...
those desperado alcoholics from under
the iron curtain who would filter a bottle of
denaturant through a slice of sour-crust bread...

whiskey and purple... sorry... ms. amber...
and they're selling this over-priced ****
like it wasn't supposed to be equivalent to
a commoners' bells' whiskers 'n' scratches...

a girlfriend of the remains of a bottle...
if you see a tank parked... and it's not a warzone...
let me know... i'd love to gear it up
for a salvo for, no particular reason other than
to make up for straight-lines with a zigzag...

these four walls, this roof... this floor...
this irritated bladder...
this hope for an 8 hour kipper and for midnight
not having to be extended toward sunrise of
a 6am March...

off-the-cut when writing comes this...
spontaneously and lazily...
like it might be reading a proper fold-out
of a sunday newspaper in england...
a harem for each time i ****** off
and performed a genocide into a tissue
on the throne of thrones...
and subsequently took a shower having
simultaneously taken a ****...
and all things remained swan-esque:
monogamous: or waiting for her to come
to aged mid-life and in crisis...

what with: the children or the cats?
the cats or the grandchildren?
i have yet to come across a grave with
an epitaph...
                        again... some reading into:
marquis de sade: i'm waiting for my libido
to fizzle out... otherwise what shame
is there... when i'd need a harem...
a solo project doesn't even help the matters...
so what shame is there:
it's hardly going to turn a profit
if i plug in... **** please oh please
myself on cam in a sultry room...

last time i heard: all that's needed is a toilet
and a screaming ****...
there's no need to broadcast the whole affair...
then again... this was only going
to be a critique of the haig club whiskey...
sold in purple glass bottles...
over-priced...

in a love paralysis... esp. concerning
the "enchanted" periods of lapse of attention
to mind the and any details...

that the monolingual will play a game
of scrabble or solve a crossword puzzle
is his testament to not bothering to learn
a second language...
the bilingual schizoid debate...
or no debate...
                    
a bed fit for two... but then my shadow is
a glutton and a miser and a...
everything that's supposed to be scortched
under the sun...
melted from sand to somehow make glass...
coy fear: the music of...
leaving vacuums and absences...
and cringe...

                     if this was only ever easy...
i'd write this to later don a niqab...
         but lucky me there's a difference between
the french public intellectual...
and an english public intellectual...
of the latter: the public yet not aware of
media scorn... "free media"...
as free as tabloid papers come tomorrow...

a swift hand on democracy... a quick shuffle...
a bit like an iron grip in autocracy...
as long as there's no focus...
no trained eye... a mirage of a "passing of power"...

how overtly faux pas politico of moi...

                   lazily creeping toward golgotha...
and all those exhausted images...
a richard broutigan would call it:
slouching toward...
                       that others live the fullest
and their lovliest...
that they have teeth and grit and sandpaper's
worth of skin to itch a sketch with...
applause! applause!

jerks off every night...
but never makes a single buck from it...
as "others" might... doing it before a camera...
then again: *** is not exactly a flick
light switch either...
neurological patterns and what not...
the lost cinema - the everyday cinema -
the holy trinity of **** **** and *****...
the genocide of scrambled eggs with no yoke...

otherwise know as liberation
from not being circumcised...
                            and no other crescent motiff.

you don't sell whiskey in purple glass bottles!
over-priced, an apology to ms. amber,
outside the bedroom there's still the obvious chance
of keeping up with...
the queue at a supermarket cashier's...
there's the polka-dotted umbrella...
there's the luftwaffe precision pigeon
dropping a proper blitz "cranium" on
a bowler hat in trafalgar sq....
                     there's all this tsunami of the mundane
that keeps the clock a worthwhile
artefact to keep to mind the horizons and
pitfalls of a single day...

call it the heart of the house: a clock...
call it an itchy hand when the trouser pockets
are empty...
call it a *** note...
my god... a return to a formality of language
via a dear sir, letter...

       none of this is to be minded as:
yours sincerely / faithfully.
Liz Apr 2014
In bed together we drank dank methylated spirits 
as your hot water bottle,
my one last reminder of you,
cools to a 
carcass

My heady heart hurts
because I miss you
however I know
you are probably happy
and just a few hours away,
although I will have to
endure several months without hearing the quick stomp
of your feet
up the stairway.
Let's finally see what helps
One pill, Two pill, Three pill, Four
Many colours for every mood
An injection here or there
A puff of smoke for you too
Lets grab that razor blade
See to that pain
No? Still not working?
Lets cut into your head shall we
Take out your brain and shred it into a million red pieces
And stare at yourself in the mirror for hours
Until a smile appears
A taunted simper
A thoughtless tear
No? Still not working?
Lets grab ourselves some Janola
A bit o' bleach and methylated spirits,
Ought a do the trick!
Gulp it back and listen to it gurgle
With a tentative ear of suicidal tendency
No? Still not working?
Pop every pill, swig every spirit,
Cut every main artery and mutilate your lungs
See to that pain
Now tell me,
Is it working?
The down and out's up and about
a dog end on the street
no spare change
no change at all or
none that he will meet.

and today is yesterday but by another name
tomorrow's just the same as well

from the mill towns washing pills down
easing the aches away
a week ago tomorrow it'll be a
week ago today

not much sense to be found
when your bed's made up on
the ground, but
no one is watching anyway.

An ex soldier stands and
nobody pays attention

A lady on the corner
hiding in the doorway
ladders in her stockings
climbing the walls of the day.
If I was a poet Apr 2018
Distance can be miles apart
Or a block away from each other '
We both see the horizon
In different time zone
Separate position
Same direction
Before sun rise
In the still of the darkness
I see a ******’s bloodless love
Flowing at peace ;
The wait was long
But he showed no wrath
Incinerating me in the flames of his glorious path
Have I not walked a natural phenomenon this beautiful before
Never the I'consumed methylated spirit -
That I'engaged in 'tandav
Whilst my boots concealed precious opioid syringes
was un touched .

The same story created multiple more

Even though I have unraveled a myriad of ideologies



I kneeled to the One ;





The exquisitely pure ,

The inconceivable ;

The unmanifest ,

Of infinite form ;

Blissful, tranquil, immortal ;

Everything about him reeks of danger and insanity
His scent gives off a feel of nostalgia and safety
Following sardiness of regret
Caught by the trawler of hope

Here control i s overrated '

The moment of the divine wholeness
Here I sit under it
Incessantly chanting

S t i l l

M o t i o n l e s s

Over an infinite time

It's green foliage adorns the sky
Each flower smiling .
The constraints,
which were built by the mind,
crumbled in an instant .
I look beyond myself and saw you there
All of these years of loneliness !
And though you are right, I've been looking as well,
In different time zone
Separate position
Same direction
Before sun rise
In the still of the darkness

'I 'Offered myself
So,
you want to try amphetamine?
methylated Ketamine?

have you seen the stat's?
that's a bad movie in which to
play a role.

Give me acetylene to set fire
to the dormant dream,
let's wake the sleeping
there's
not much point in them keeping
their eyes closed
when they never see
anything anyway.

I've seen them drinking gasoline,
eating boot polish because it contained
morphine
syphoning paraffin to get their fixes in,
it's some serious **** when you'll die
for a hit or
**** for a spliff.

These are the quicksands
the tightening wrist bands
the end of the good times
the start of the bad lands

hands up who still wants to try.
What's happening
happened.

Memory deceives me into believing that things were meant to be, I see a pattern emerging,

Fractals
digital facts
distorted figures
on postage stamps
changing lives
menstrual cramps
methylated spirits
heroic tramps
then it dissolves
into
telephone red
eyes that shine in the
back of my head
it's 50/50 they'll move me on
changing lives
shifting John.

what happened
happened
but
what is happening?
The father and the son
Jesus on the subway train
dressed down like a ***,

he thinks
methylated spirits, I've
been at this game too long
and when he looked a second time
the one true God had gone.
the muse comes from a film starring Langella and Gould.

— The End —