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My couch,
Is death,
And avoidance is a second language,
Ask me do I speak it?
Conjoined twins,
Of misery and manipulation,
No calls,
Only cushions and customer's custom complaints,
From tomorrow,
The phone wont ring,
So I'll stay down this road,
Listening to headlines and headlights
Moody music dwelling,
Where the lies and shame met in between,
Cut the cue, end the scene

The stage has been rebuilt,
We talked like teenagers,
And you told me that I've changed,
But the same,
Still that same number,
No more gap,
But your smile still kills,
Pain with palendromes,
We were here before,
And so again we,
Our fighting saying goodnight,
Street lamps in different cities,

I'm just fine,
Playing my part,
My mainstream maybe different,
Obsession has been overcame,
By the rising tide of a smile,
If the teleprompting signs shine through,
Meanwhiles and meditations
What can I do,
Except hope I'm reading,

The couch,
It asks,
Where have you been?
I set down another,
Kind of scattered
Mike Essig Mar 2017
I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.

The short answer is: I don’t know.

I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.

First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.

Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.

I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.

I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.

This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.

From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.

And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.

I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.

Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.

Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.

Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.

Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.

And then, sing out.
palladia Dec 2013
i cannot face a day without acknowledging a loss.
i cannot fathom such a wilderness grew so close to my place,
my society-free, impositionless place
a tepid forest inhabited
by the requiems of the agnostically murdered
and the cogged wheels of the deceased's clocks.
sometimes they stick and the clockmaster unsticks them,
but they stop up again ever so quickly.
there is nobody who has the time or effort to continually watch the clocks.
and they return to ticking an eldritch song
which may cause pain.
it has not abolished mine, nor shall forth be disseminated to do so.
i am an ascetic mastermind, abiding in my messy pool
of thought, without my womb, without my brood, without my broom
to tidy the mishmash of unruly cobwebs and such.
the fumes cause me to wonder “where is my world,
which i’ve fondled so dearly?”
i detox and recycle memories, it’s to no worth of you
a venomous whisper on a silver lining of a dream tells you everything:
a fanatic’s agenda degrading urbane,
a plummeting depth to deep impact,
i drift away on a molten lava lilypad, and fantasize that...
i am god
but i haven’t found time to juggle your sect
reissuing lessons to mind the sheriff
and i cannot bear to lead me, to my own cultural death.
i cannot receive your moral disease, a signal on my knees
con e preghiere sbiancante. can’t you understand it?
my life is spent with hope placed
on each pair of snake eyes i roll
chance is the meter for everything.
dare i dare go back to my fantasizing,
i am god
ashamed by the lack of hope, and regret
disgraced by the hate and intolerance of man
and i see now their perfect world, is everything i detest.
and the tears produced
form new embryos of emotions
crystalline structures of psychological proportions
which develop into mature,
sentient, and emotion-proof organisms.
which become i.
and i respond vehemently yet come to my senses in a diplomatic tone,
because i am a diplomat.
and i have learned to nail my destiny to an altar each night,
an altar which can sacrifice my pensive motives
and my self-incriminating philosophy
that i should be able to write my destiny, and not
have it planned and read aloud,
read out loud, out in the air, outside.
i try myself.
i tempt myself.
and i return to supplicated suffering about my own mortality
and the atoms i will never see
and the universe i will never span
and the people i will never meet
and the times i will never live.
what if i rivered thirty silver-coins:
what if i
i might be ****** for this: but i’ll still set fire to the catacombs.
i might be scourged for this: but i’ll still hold on,
hoping there’s skin on my bones.
ecclesia, – a common, a sanctuary, a vanguard from the darkness in the world.
i know what i should do but never ever get it done;
i know what i have been and what i will become.
not defined by a dimension nor reputed by a benchmark
but shaded by the passion and dissuaded by the lashes.
i’ll do anything you want me to,
if you **** the self-inflicted psalms i plead!
the ulcer grows
that sweet cologne
i ***** it into the unknown.
i won’t tax your soul, i won’t stick a price to it:
coins ◌◌◌◌◌ won’t fill the hole -in a business deal (assets corrode)
i won’t tax your soul (i won’t buy it with blood money ◌◌◌◌◌, no)
it’s yours alone (but in business deals,
deficit is prone)
and there’s an aspect {a static} of forever and the inescapable gap
between the conscious
and the desired.
i sit here, ever so comfy and lustrous,
and habitually wait the day
they merge.
my invitations stand clear.
if you cannot come, i’ll wait for you. hidden
in the grillework of my past. but if you cannot come,
i’ll be waiting. hidden in the warmth of our teepee haus,
i’ll wait for you.

if X Marx the spot then why Kant i Locke it up?
*could living hand-to-mouth so long make me so Jung?
There’s a complex relationship with the earth, Pleroma, God, and mortality. And none of it can be solved. We live in such a saddened state today.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
.one of the great dissatisfactions of life: dreaming... which makes me suspect of the anglo-saxons and their subsequent branches of sub-ethicities... they dream... they have recurring dreams... lucid dreams... i find that slightly suspicious... i rarely dream and if i do dream, the dreams are so bogus or so uninteresting that they make no sense to: "interpret" them via any freud-cubism schematic - that a woman's sun hat implies: the depth of ****** and promiscuity, or some otherwise bogus stretching it mate, really stretching that analogy... but why do the anglo-saxons have such lucid dreams, even recurring dreams? are they descendants of joseph: der traumgehhilfe? last time i had a dream? oh... family invites me to say, three memebers of the family don't like me... **** the rest of the family with a knife, a gun and a baseball bat (somewhere in south east asia)... a few of the killed members run into the street to die... i somehow pick up a kalashnikov and shoot the murderous 3... then i jump into slender boat with a motor with 3 or 4 women... 'jesus'... and i escape the scene of retribution sailing to... cambodia! **** me... even sylvester stallone or jason statham or arnie wouldn't star in a movie as b-movie as this... but anglo-saxons seem to have the most vivid dreams... two good examples: h. p. lovecraft and william burroughs... is dreaming a form of escapism? if so, then evidently i'm quiet content with reality... like today: too much pop psychology, too much self-help guru mishmash, too much advice: not enough stories... video streaming a game being played... etc., so i retreat, even from modern music, into? here's a beginner's guide list to medieval music:

       1. qui habitat in adiutorio altissimi
       2. da pacem domine
       3. agni parthene
       4. dum pater familias
       5. chevalier, mult estes guariz
       6. virga iesse floruit
       7. walther von der vogelweide's
       8. codex buranus no. 179:
                     tempus est locundum
       9. non é gran causa
      10. herr holger
      11. herr mannelig
      12. die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft
      13. meie din liechter schin
      14. under der linden
      15. mayenzeit one neidt
      16. mönch von salzburg (das nachthorn)

   why would i have stopped at merely
Orff's reading of Carmina Burana -
                 sure... that's the entry point...
   but the radio only plays o fortuna till
the cows come home in a full-moon lit night...
    if only: fortune plango vulnera,
      veris leta facies, omnia sol temperat,
     floret silva, or... or!
   a monk's love song for the queen of england -
were diu werlt alle min:
              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.

but no... it's o fortuna or nothing from that album
on the radio...
    i get it, great song...
   but why is auld lang syne only sung once
a year, on new year's eve?!
as with women, so with music, one simply tires of
contemporary examples: not exactly the music
but the lyrics behind the music...
                        music will never change to appease
the brute and the beast... but modern lyricism
is just agitating... it exhaust with its choice
of subject matters...
                                and by the looks of it...
    i spend too much time with music to find myself
in needing the comfort of a woman's voice,
a cuddle or relationship or whatever you want
to call it from now on...
           i am wedded to three women that will
never materialize: Euterpe, Sophia and Amber...
and all the better...
                                i could never wallow in what's
currently being wallowed in...
by some who have these recurrent dreams
and are unable to stop them from recurring...
hence my suspicion with the anglo-saxon traits
of vivid dreaming: this cruch of relying on dreams...
of so easily being ***** by celesto-cerebral powers
that impregnate their sleeping heads with
these realities that only exist in the mind and
a sleeping mind at that!

(nb. not proof read, apologies in advance for any mistakes, upon rereading will correct if any appear - or i'll just keep them...)

look at these two slogans: let's make America great (again)!
complimenting the English variation
let's get our country back! ring any bells? i guess you must
have heard one or the other as an English speaker -
it's hardly surprising - the English Prime Minister singing
a little toodeloo then uttering the word right upon
reentering number 10 - shambles ahoy! every rat and
mutineer bailed - we're in free-fall, Trotsky had it coming,
this guy hasn't - hardliner but a bubble-gum tongue -
it stretches like a joke my English teacher said:
how was copper wire invented? hmm? two Scots
tugging and pulling in opposite directions a two pence coin -
for all their worth, they joked the blond quiff of
both Boris and President Donald Yeltsin - where one
gets drunk on egoism, the other just gets drunk -
even though they don't like him in Scotland, they sure as
hell bought the slogan like a Big Mac - the problem is
there's a zenith, and then a necessary decline -
you can reach the zenith of breaking the 100m sprint,
but then a stock-market dip (necessary) -
much of Britain's exit from the European Union was due
to the campaign trail of the Doodle T - the best politician
i assume is the one that enjoys the most prodding jokes,
which also means the majority of votes,
jokes and votes walk hand-in-hand - people don't want
leaders, they want caricatures - after all, the little existences
have to matter with a joke in the Oval office.
i can't imagine the unholy alliance of feminists running
the place in the west - Theresa May in England,
Hilary Clinton in America, Angela Merkel in Germany,
Ms. Le Pen in France, the Polish prime minister
Beata Szydło - it has to look like a 2nd Cold War scenario,
a break from World Wars... Putin and pukka Tyson Trump
on the other side, macho v. macho - man talk and
the ultimate bromance. i know that Nietzsche referenced
genius too much, assuredly i hear that a lot too around
here with child geniuses storming around for silverware -
children geniuses and not original? so technically you're
talking about data storage in porridge - trained monkeys,
right? those children will be scarred for life as if they
saw their parents ******* - what sort of genius is a genius
if he doesn't work from blank but is there are a memory
gimmick to boost hopes of curing dementia?
philosophy doesn't do geniuses, it does things like Spinoza,
solitary wanderers, loners - outsiders and mesmerisers,
there's no genius in philosophy - there's only solitude -
granted that an open-minded psychiatrist is a modern subplot
in not reading philosophy - where is the ultimate source
of compassionate solely theory based (anti) psychiatry?
in reading philosophy books rather than exercising authority /
abusing it - R. D. Laing is a perfect example -
who wrote after reading philosophy books - i mean read them,
in the English speaking world i recommend reading
the works of the anti-psychiatric movement of the 1960s,
which was much bigger than the Beat Movement - obviously
not as dazzling, but with poetry you're imitating Philippe Petit
(film, the walk) - i watched it and my legs experienced
needles, and a firm assertion of gravity and the location
of the floor - films like that are worse than horror -
you share the heart of the original, but given it's Plato's cave
we're talking about representing the events, you realise
that no matter how much you want your shadow to be
Philippe Petit, you hear from the outside world, your legs
are firmly on the ground - basically: **** that - men are not
born equal, they have to live by principle to be at least moderating
their excellence into a respectable cohesion (democracy) -
quiet simply juggling their strengths with their weaknesses -
man is not born equal, he was to strive for equal measure -
when subduing their strengths and when exfoliating them -
no man is born equal, as no man is an island - the two synchronise.
(i'm deliberately masking what's coming)...
but there is genius in philosophy - but only in one area of
interest - religion... we know that popular beliefs are
grounded in plagiarism - the Trojans became the Romans
via the accounts of Virgil, and we know the Trojans in
becoming Romans plagiarised the Greek polytheism -
Zeus became Jupiter, Poseidon became Neptune,
Cronos became Saturn, Hera became Juno, Aphrodite
became Venus... etc., it was done to mimic the Greek heart
from the defeat at Troy, to invoke a heart that overcame -
every pauper and every king would identify with
this pluralism - but a second plagiarism had to come -
it was prophetically echoed from approximately 2000 years -
the Greeks later plagiarised the Hebrew concept -
the monotheistic concept, yet because their thinking
was so advanced (or so they thought) they dismissed the
sects of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essenes and
the Zealots... their hero was their antagonist - and nothing
of their learning was actually work their concerns since
they boasted of their Aristotle and their Plato and their
Socrates - the peddle-stool effect appeared -
but what if a Latin man (well, these letters are Roman) were
to say - never mind the son, how about the father?
in Christianity the father is rather anonymous in his
omnipresence etc. - but let's assume on the biological tenet
that we are referring to the old testament god -
would we want to plagiarise the Greek plagiarism of
Hebrew? i already mentioned the four prime canons as
imitations of the tetragrammaton - of course they're
intended to not be identical accounts, but there must be
two that are mirror images - i.e. referring to h      &      h
of the tetragrammaton - if there are no two mirror images
then we are bothered - i can see why the Greek mind thought
that Y refers to a convergence, a mother, a father, a child
and the entry point to the gospel: a genealogy -
Y being representative of a convergence - past and present,
following through - this is all about first impressions,
from what i can remember and regurgitate back -
in Catholic school we were taught by majority the gospel
of St. Mark - the others were discredited -
i can't tell you if there are two identical gospels (or at least
with very little variation between them) - what comes after
them is what comes after all essences of religion,
bureaucracy - imams and priests, yoga teachers and
whatever it is that comes with religion for the common man,
but in the new testament this is the essence, a shady
reinterpretation of the tetragrammaton - but a Latin man
who didn't bother to attribute symbols with nouns,
but made his alphabet musically orientated for the
castrato and the choirs to come - a (alpha) b (beta)...
o (omicron / omega) it became obvious that the four letters
arranged as so with missing Adam and missing Eve
would provide more than just four interpretations of
the same event / person - for when a Greek has to cut off
-lpha from a to attach it to another letter to create meta,
the Latin man has only to cut off less, perhaps dentistry's
ah, or otherwise cut off -ee from b... the world is full
of such possibilities, and this is the only area where
genius can be applied to philosophy - the genius of
philosophy is within religion, and nowhere else -
of course mind that i don't identify myself as one -
i treat genius as an angel or a demon, that fairy-tale
race of creatures that whisper into your ear - markedly
geniuses are more powerful in demanding an individual
rather than clones of the individual, e.g. Mohammad
and Muslims, Jesus and Christians... which is why i suppose
the genius of Moses also allowed others to write on sacred
paper, but of course excluding Malachi for falling into
heresy with a polytheistic concept of reincarnation, not
oddly enough Malachi's was the last book before the two
major strands of his heresy emerged like Behemoths.
Marshal Gebbie Sep 2013
A moment’s inspiration to grasp a building thought,
A panicked, surged excitement, now achieved, where once was naught.
In plucking crystal thought from the yonder crisp, blue air,
And coalescing mishmash into meaningful repair.
To seek a path of verbage realigning phrases bright
And feel the resurrection of creative works this night.
In pulling rich vocabulary from within the concrete hash
Concocting circumspection in this brilliant verse from trash.
Annunciating clarity and a purity of class
To haul yourself, abruptly, to get off your lazy ****…
To burst forth in immaculate and spontaneous wordage clear
And blithely blow away your critics on their loathsome, leering ear.

11 September 2013
Bo Tansky Oct 2018
The Buddhists Teach
There is a door
Between the conscious and the unconscious
On the threshold of awareness
Where, from this sleepy place
Mind-door takes in space
A snap-shot of what’s around
The shapes and the sounds
Be it red, blue or brown
Sensory fed and felt and judged
A conceptual conclusion
Based on memory and illusion
Served up ofttimes with a bit of confusion
The sixth sense of inclusion
Transcending time and allusion.

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
The unaware
From where?
Memory Lane
What a pain
Insane and mundane
Tainted and sainted
Familiar and unfamiliar
It’s the object and the flavor
It only makes sense
To bring in the other scents

Can you feel it  
Through my poetry?
Because I have no other way  
I’m sending you the sweetest berry
In bloom
And tea scented perfume
For some lazy afternoon.

Starting out so poetic
Descended into the prosaic
I’d like to stay in those high-minded places
Between the sheets of my faces
I’m at peace and war with myself
No one else.

I know I shouldn’t get attached
Shrug it off with panache
When I think about impermanence
Makes me cringe and  
create another circumstance
A twirling happenstance
A devil’s dance
A devilish lance

It’s getting better
Like frankincense
Then it fades
Like the past tense

How does one let go
When clinging’s become a way of life?
A hunting knife couldn’t pry
My pathetic fingers lose
Holding on to
A hangman’s noose
I’d scream and rail
Holding on
To the nail
That pierced my travail
As life stomped and pounded
grounded me down
But, I wouldn’t let go.
Oh no, not me
Fool that I am

Was it a question of pride?
A fear of the night
The ego chasing its’ tale
Personal blackmail?
A forgotten memory
A mishmash
Lack of mindfulness
A Pandora's box?
I confess
A little bit of everything.

I tell myself
Baby steps
Baby steps
Baby’s need to let go
And fall and get up
Or they won’t learn to walk
Or talk or grow up
It’s baby talk
And baby steps

Knock, knock
Who’s there
No one

Then come on in
Naked and all alone  
Rest on the threshold of time
Rest on the threshold of awareness
But, In all fairness
Don’t expect it to last
Such is the nature of impermanence

Only the bliss shall remain.
You can find it once again.

When you learn to let go.
Don’t listen to my advice
As you can see
I’m still holding on for dear life.
The Mendacity of Beauty,  Marvels of the Mundane

<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>

commissioned by Pradip^

A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems

all mundane, all marvelous

an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating

precisely, it’s the enormity,

of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization

I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to

“whom it may truly concern…”

I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,

ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!


^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Steve D'Beard Apr 2016
I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.

Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.

Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.

Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.

In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.

You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon

The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.
1 in 4 people will experience a mental health problem
DM Aug 2015
Mishmash, that's my life sort of, I'm isolated
Companion, acquaintance, colleague
I left them, primly, nothing worth of trust
Not that I know, how many out there, bungled
It's been months since, I locked up myself
by my realm of picturesque creation
Zero delusion, illusion, hallucination
Not to tell no one, where am I
Glad to initiate, these, quarters of sanctuaries
Landed massive words, of
aspirations, ambitions, inspirations
lift up my life, soul, spirit
dwelling there, a hope
No matter how wrecked my previous is
I'm eager to take on new adventure.
Life must go on
Live Your Life
*meant no mean, simply want to get on new path*
NitaAnn Aug 2013
The ticking clock, a symbol of time moving forward, leaves me in a peculiar paradox, wishing time forward and also fearing the night...

I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. But what choice do I have other than to trudge on like a quivering, jangling, empty cadaver, shuffling slowly and quietly in the dark, flinching at shadows, caught up in the cluttered mishmash inside my mind. I ache and I throb with exhaustion. I am fearful and crazed and the machinery controlling me continues; whirring along, shifting gears frequently, and causing my words to become disjointed. As my heart beats it sends something blistering and rancorous coursing through my veins. The sadness of the past few days has given way to an acidic anger that I am having trouble harnessing at the moment. There is no prioritizing the distress. I have attempted to alleviate the pain but seem to have lost the ability to soothe and pacify them today. It is not possible to mitigate or ‘make space’ for the parts of Nita right now, and the fear of the familiar internal hostility is hanging above me like a looming funnel cloud.

The clock ambles on…slowly…leaving me in bizarre paradox as I seek to wish time forward and yet at the same time I fear the darkness of the night. This constant battle within myself stretches me to the threshold of my very existence. So many nights I find myself here, in the early hours of the morning, trying to write out the congealed sediment of my mind just to keep myself from dying. I realize that sounds dramatic and theatrical, but it’s how it feels – as if at any moment, it will finally become too much and my heart will simply stop beating. It’s like somehow I believe that if I can just purge all of these thoughts, memories, feelings…if I can somehow allow all the parts of myself to write out the pain and the anguish that is rooted into the innermost part of my being, that the lethal depression will dissipate and I can salvage what is left of me. Metaphorically speaking, I want to dig deep and wide until I pull all of the shame and pain out by the very roots that continue to allow it to grow like a **** inside of me, smothering me, taking away my oxygen, until I can no longer breathe and I just wither away… and I’ve tried. The struggle of putting it out there, on paper - words that I have been unable to write, or speak, even to the one who knows more about me than anyone else, still feels like too much, and my own fear of judgment and ridicule, disgust and abhorrence, prevent me from exposing too much of myself. I cannot permit those parts of me to be seen, taking the chance that anyone who may read my words might see the true me, the real me, as I often see myself~ bad, *****, worthless, unlovable…disgusting and ugly.

Unable to purge all of this shame out of myself, like arsenic, it continues to poison me, as each night I find the different parts of myself thrashing and straining, fighting each other until every muscle in my body aches and cries out in pain and anguish. They carry me away to somewhere so dark and desolate that each night I fear I may never return. And each morning I feel even more battered and bruised from the battles of the previous night and each night I struggle to make it till morning.

Every night, as I wait for the cocktail combo of drugs and alcohol to take away some of the pain, I listen to the clock ticking away the minutes, the minutes turning into the hours, as I face the East, awaiting the first light of dawn, a sign that I made it through the darkness of yet another seemingly hopeless night…
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
you see it...
the Cartesian pH scale...

i think
             the acidic               concerning
       evil thoughts


i am
         the alkaline                 concerning
evil action...
                          sketching mezzo in Spain...

but still so much resides in people
expressing da- -denken,
no fallacy with that,
to express thinking you're there
is no fallacy, there's no wrong with that,
being there is a fake,
Heidegger spoke of plagiarism,
rightly he's a magician, a quick hand,
a droplet of Mercury -

sometimes music overpowers,
there's no music, only meaning, after all,
aren't we to decipher our encoding?

philosophy has no access to music,
it can't enter the realm of syllables, or alphabetical
units, its limit is reasoning and meaning,
it cannot perform autopsy on words,
for philosophy words are cursors, vectors,
it cannot dissect words toward syllables
and units of sound, it relies on compounds
ending with a -logy-, pristine ~arithmetic ...

the therefore sequencing
akin to 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 4 can be discarded,
acceptable the Newtonian causality
and the mishmash loss of vector, of Einstein's paralleling
for the parabola, or vacuum dipping...

we are concerned with therefore acting as
a multi-facet mathematical function,
with two algebraic modes of expression -
as much bewilderment entombs Newton's theories
as much bewilderment entombs a serial killer's actions...
acidic or alkali are expressions of pigmentation
or activity, yet when encompassed within
pH scaling, non-differential...

in that so many concerns enter the verb thought
(verb - activity of expressing it) that thought per se
excludes nouns to revel in pristine form...
what basis is there for nouns if not automation
rubrics that are settled for a rekindled encounter?
if thinking is an activity, it turns the animate thing
into an inanimate thing, a philosopher's stone
away from peculiar assortment -
and when god seized walking freely,
he turned into a stone, apathetically accepting
monotheistic prayers - once an animate thing,
chained into inanimate enthroning.

what is the prime category of words utilised
in thinking, should no narrative schematic be utilised?
we all know the cognitive schematic narrative,
in fear of linguistic bombardment
that provides puzzles from syllables and
eyed-encoding shapes such as mm or dentistry's
A having cut out the tongue.

but the Cartesian balance - being does not
prove thinking, and thinking does not prove being -
better that unsolved than perpetually
exhausting the argument of being via beings sacrificed
to enshrine a memory - lesser concern
for the thought that spurned others to think
a similar complication, via allowance of the leisurely
timing worth consuming -
with the former a gas chamber, with the latter
a library - there is still a scaling,
not necessarily attributing acidity or alkaline superstition...
                                     ­  Δ
on topic of pivots and Archimedes.
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2015
I’m phased out to sepia, Pet,
The last cab on the rank,
My good looks and *** a memory, Sweet,
For which, I’ve you to thank.
One day blending through to next
Increasingly a blur,
Dissatisfaction total now
For things ain’t what they were.
Ignored by all and sundry
Quite invisible to they
Who converse in hieroglyphics,
Incomprehensible, I say.
Overtaken by technology
Can’t figure out the phone
Facebook, watch and wallet mishmash
Won’t leave us alone.
Confusion at the pace of things,
It’s all moving far too fast
Queuing up for life
Leaves us, inevitably, last.
But bitterness ain’t with me
For I’ve loved your churlish ways,
Tho we’ve sailed through life on cobblestones
That old sunshine warmed our days.
But now I’m phasing out to sepia, Sweet,
Cos I’m the last cab on the rank
One quick kiss before departure, Pet,
For which..... I’ve you to thank.

22 April 2015
Reflections of an elderly gent who sees his demise just around the corner. He shares his ruminations with his, somewhat abrasive, lifelong woman.... and,eventually, gets his prioritys right in coming to terms with the pros and cons of a full liftime, well spent.
(Actual context taken from sympathetic conversations over the last few months of Grandpa's life and with his fading old brother in law, who now suffers from debilitating, advancing dementia.)
Brittle Bird Apr 2015
I'm collecting each passing moment
with a pinch of salt and sugar
sprinkled in my memory

One, two, three shakers full.

but the sands of time keep slipping
through my mortal fingers

I keep an empty jar on the top shelf.

and everything else is a blinding mishmash
of my mind in the morning light.*

Please don't look under the bed, it's embarrassing
what I forget to think about.
Day 7 of NaPoWriMo.
About trying to keep track of what this life means to me, but not getting very far. Also, I'm not a morning person, so that's obviously when everything falls apart.
after the rain
tide out
  the sea
   a sliver of mauve silk
    in the distance
     sand pockmarked
    with footprints
   like paintbrush stipples
  a mishmash of patterns
naked to the sky
all pastel hues blended
with a slippery finger
   into a violet yawn
    into a lavender blush
     into an apricot kiss
    the mellow slosh of water
  sun setting
as a pinkish glimmer
slithers over the beach
Written: August 2016.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, inspired by an image of Perranporth beach in Cornwall, England, that my friend posted online. All feedback welcome. Please note that, for some reason, some lines have not indented as they should - this is down to HP, not me. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
Olivia Kent Jan 2015
A conspiracy of co-existence.
Belittled in buckets of disaster.
A house full of twisted intelligence.
Decry the mind that writes for fun.
Fun and release.
No peace.
Demanding gang of children.
Sought explanations of the words that poets use.
Today's one was ominous.
The poet took it as a warning.
A threat of things to come.
And they both smiled and said..,
"You don't know what your on about."
A bucket of words this poet spills.
A mishmash of nouns.
Verbs with just a bit of adjective.
An adverb from time to time.
Occasional omnipresent onomatopoeia.
As if the poet doesn't know!
An awful lot of fun.
Allison Wright Aug 2011
He doesn’t understand that everything I take from him is a story, every word floating through the air, another line. He doesn’t know that my open mouth is the pen, my rolling eyes, the style. It doesn’t occur to him that he doesn’t know a thing about what his daughter might be thinking, because if he did, he would know what kind of novel she writes.

She is hardly a professional. She cannot fully comprehend metaphor, symbolism, allegory. For her, it becomes like another soul's voice, a trembling thing filled with a measure of ambiguity and a touch of wisdom, but still distant, still muddled. A lovely concept existing solely for the purpose of distraction.

No, for her, poetry must make sense from the beginning; it must make sense to everyone. If it doesn’t, then it is only words, a mishmash of thought and action made to look attractive. It is simple: if she hears a work is bad, it is bad, if she thinks a thought is stupid, the thought is stupid. Her reality is the true reality, thus, words are only a reality if they are hers.

So she writes underneath Bohemian pillows for now. The papers crumple in her hand at the slightest creak, lest the scrawling letters find her out.
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
There are things stuck on my mind.
Incomprehensible glueing, which
befog beleaguered fitting-in.
Becoming a mishmash, realization
bugs me. What to do with the cutouts?

Pictures of life instances that can't
be reconciled, just carried on and on,
blister and bubble within. No smooth
surfaces that cleanly represent
anything wholly identifiable are
depicted on bruised brain cells. Pity
it is. Pity I have become. Pity the
nitty gritty magazine photos slapped
together,  an ugly collage called,
"Mercy Never Saw Fit."
It is an ugly art form, cutting up memories.

****, ******, survival, these themes
are hardly ever pretty. Art therapy
*****. I'd rather paint a canvas black.
b e mccomb Aug 2016
will you walk into
my room
lie on my bed and
stare at the ceiling i stare at
every night

smell the
mishmash of
stale perfumes
on my clothing

play my guitars
read my books
touch my walls
clutch the afghans
i made in your
tight fists


or will you think
that somebody
made a mistake
and that mistake
wasn't me
but was you
Copyright 5/14/16 by B. E. McComb
Rococo Jun 19
I have this list of things,
many, ruinous, mundane things.

   -2 cokes,
   -1 bread,
   -existential dread

And I write them as the come,
tapped into existence by my fingers,
in a rush.

   -Baby names

And they bask in the otherness,
that brings them together.


I feel protective of them,
the mishmash, ugly family of things.

   -Mom’s birthday
   -Father’s Day
   -“I want to go away.”

Because I made them, and they know me,
the real me.
and long since abandoned suitably
   casual to figuratively hack
an itch to be scratched, cuz social security -
   social anxiety did high jack -
qualification to received unearned income,
   boot aye and da missus lack

financial plenti tude, and oft times
   scrounging along the scrim edge line of life
   doth make me postulate to sever ties
   with the living courtesy of a big mack
truck, but that induces immediate revulsion,

   since that modus operandi
   would leave a messy track
thus, the follow ah share
   as this good humor man
   feigns bing out ta whack!

sum *** pull cull me a schmart ants
e'en though i lack an iPhone,
   five, but take
  a fox trot ting pooch cha cha chance
at let mooch hutch
   ah dog gone words dance
across the screen 4u 2 glance

and envision this chap
   to bow, wow and en-hance
springing sprightly
   like a human lance
hoping nada
   to get a rip in his pants
so...kick back n try
   to comprehend this bard *** rants.

sprinkled e'er so lightly with ra asp pea common
snazzy, snarky, snaky
non constricting boa tock nickle terms.
akin to a termite ex
   pending energy thru wood to bear

   bore ring search for income quite
   arduous, andslow as a bookworm
   burrowing some great literary tome
back the day, the slogging chore
unsatisfactory, thus, soon tubby sue pine
   wordsmith thought (in jest) to spruce quest per

   my non-conformist
   poetic je ne sais quois
   x cell lent cover letter de jour
for hue to access and me to entertain
   as a minimum less or more
and then...into circular
   filing cabinet ye will store
this non-formal reap ply,

   which email
   will take an cyberspace tour.
pixar could nada pay enough
   for this trainer
   of apple chomping antz
so i wonder if any chance
   whisker of employment

vis a vis thru
   this contrived virtual
   toy story qua ratatouille poetic brew
could materialize
   into a likely chance
such an idea generates me

   to shrek out with excite
   ment and dance
just in case a glimmer
   of some prospect exists
for self anointed bard,

   one who dislikes formality
now presents his technical skills
   which he hopes to enhance
p'raps e'en earn enough moolah
   to sight see the arc d'triumph,
   louvre, paris france

i offer the following poetic expression
   for ye to take a glance
and mebbe help
   this intuitive **** sapiens
   per his income
  to expand and en-hance
which byte size bit torrent humor
   might Putsch chew in a permanent trance

after misinterpreting this mishmash
   as some rave and rants
per even a part time need exists
   please let me share
   some positive stance
with subtle intent
   to place me as worth hiring,
to sway some au currant
   series electronic charge
and ideally affect hypnotic trance.

i betcha never chanced and to reddit
   perhaps you espied a similar post elsewear
   like this iambic pentameter electronic wire
from a boyish looking
   blood muggle father although up in years
(whose nonpareil courage
   to face Voldemort never does tire)
and two near grown girls,
   would consider him a worthy hire

less so to rake in gobs of moolah,
   but to satiate
   this unquenchable hunger and thirst
for further (ahem)
   bits of computer know how to acquire.
although this cover letter of sorts
   conveys teensy weensy, itty bitty
byte size actual work experience
(per this older mist ta lives a boot
   thirty plus miles

   northwest of philadelphia city)
nonetheless, i hanker
   (NOT to be confused with HACKER)
to employ my computer skills, plus bits of moxie
playing at nearby Roxy
burrow, which prompts the following ditty
to express interest to apply manual
   and mental rooted tasks
   ala computer trouble shooting
some ascribe passe or as nitty gritty

on a par with
   the secret life of one walter mitty
whom destiny protected and took pity
merely meant to be silly
yet also an attempt to be witty.
yes no matter how many miles by car
(actually your company might be within
   dead man walking distance)
this nectar savoring opportunity

   would not be considered to far
to use my acumen and interest
   and technologically spar
using graphical user interface programs
   to get unstuck from virtual soiled feathery tar.

iambic pentameter might be a faux pas
and not traditional standard
   genre for a cover letter
i see no reason with rhyme
   why non-conformist modus vivendi
cannot serve as modality

    communicate pursuit
as a computer repair technician go getter
which honest to stem -
   a grounded confession
hopefully affects grim prospects against
   other respondents at least a bit better.

this budding pure breed
   mud half blood muggle prince
born (whom most think me
   full o wart colored hogwash) - yea
truth seeker for employment
does reckon the following poetic way

devoid of employment vitae,
   since that would show a dearth
yet decided to resort to verse
   to induce a byte size mirth
of requisite (sought after)
   technical flowery expertise,
   i do possess the attributes well worth.
Little Ricky found a place to hide
where everything and nothing
came together to conquer the
demons that haunt and torture
his nostalgic thoughts.
Little Ricky locked his doors away  
and spent his time reading books
for months that bled into years
until he turned gray and the sun
started shying away but you could
still feel his shine.
Little Ricky felt the warmth of old
friendships as he drained cup after
cup but could not get drunk and
stayed in solitary with one song that
he would not share with this enrapturing
world that forgot about him.
Little Ricky plucked the strings until
he mastered his instrument but his
guts were filled with a mishmash of
passion, skepticism and captivity.
Little Ricky had an abnormally large 
financial burden but no matter the circumstances when he saw dying
flowers he always replaced them for
her and the audience cheered,
applauded, threw roses at his feet
and roared for an encore as he took
a bow and slowly disappeared
behind the red curtains where
nothing is forever certain....
except the end.

Pixar could nada pay enough
   for this trainer of apple chomping antz
so I wonder if any chance
   hello Morris the tender vittles

commercial kitty cat whisker of employment
thru contrived virtual toy story
   qua ratatouille poetic brew
could materialize into a likely chance

such outcome would generate me
   to shrek out with excitement and dance
just in case a glimmer of some prospect exists
   for this self anointed bard,

   who dislikes formality
   of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
   now presents technical skills,
   I wooly cotton to enhance

this chap offers poetic expression
   common in differ france
     so take a glance
to help this intuitive **** sapiens
   sharp pen mental acuity like lance

which byte size bit torrent humor
   might cause ye to soil pants
after misinterpreting mishmash
   as raven shrieking twittering rants

even part time income would buoy positive stance
subtle intent to place me as worth hiring,
   with mop pa trick sway zee
   au currant electronic charge hypnotic trance
in consideration to ad-vance.

I betcha never read a pseudo cover letter reply
   like this iambic pentameter electronic wire
from a boyish looking blood muggle father up in years
   (whose nonpareil courage

   to face Voldemort never does tire)
deux darling northern belles,
   would consider him a worthy hire
less to rake in gobs of money,

   but to satiate unquenchable hunger and thirst
   for further bits of computer
   know how to acquire
in tandem aim to present the write stuff.

This faux pas whey to ripple eye conveys an itty bitty
     raw bit size actual work experience
(from this chap, who lives (Kenye bull heave
   ~ 40 miles north
   west of the Philadelphia city) via dashing car
nonetheless, i hanker (NOT to be confused with HACKER

though offset by merely one different third letter)
   prompts the following ditty
per computer trouble (making)
   and shooting abilities

   some may ascribe as nitty gritty
on par with the secret life of Walter Mitty
whom destiny protected and took pity
meant to be silly, yet also attempt to be witty.

No matter how many miles by car
(your company might be
   within dead man walking distance)
   this opportunity would not be considered to far
hoops responding in rhyme
   being considered nada mar

gin hilly atypical to use ecumenical interest
   and technologically spar
using graphical user interface programs
   to get unstuck from virtual feathery tar.

Iambic pentameter might not constitute
   traditional genre for a debtor
no reason why my non-establishmentarianism
     cannot serve as me own mode to communicate pursuit
     as computer repair technician go getter,
which honest to goodness confession
   hopefully affects responsiveness a bit better.

This pure breed mud half blood muggle prince
bona fide seeker for challenging income
   does reckon poetic way
not necessarily follows formalities
   to reply most would readily say

why adhere to conformity,
   whereby paradigm frowns on creative hoo ray
which atypical modus operandi
   viz positive reply and job i pray
even if interest turns out to be nay
mien hometown nada abbott may
cost 'hello far west where Philadelphia lay.

The resume (quite slim as jail grub gruel –
an extended hiatus taken
   for medical reasons) shows dearth,
yet versed inducing byte size mirth
of requisite technical expertise,
   i do possess attributes well worth.

If you might allow me to boast
and blithely use rhyme without reason to coast
given cents and sense ability opportunity to eradicate
Re: exorcise any binary elusive ghost
and offer bytes of helpful information from pc host
with brio and confidence, i respond to your post.

Without further ado, i will slightly brag
to tell of ability to conduct understand dos
manage common system utilities (non passe)
   such as scan disk and defrag

installed, resolved dsl issues, performed
scan-disk and troubleshooting glitches
   such as removal of dos files, installation
and/or removal of hardware

   likewise uninstalling software,
   running registry sweeps
   in an attempt to remove bugs and errors
   mice, or roaches, that cause machine
   to cough and gag

invariably impede processes
   as downloading, sending, uploading, et cetera to lag
and if chance smiles on further consideration
like a happy pup his tail will wag.

Oh...and by the way i would accept a starting
negotiable/competitive salary as starting wage
to support this self proclaimed sage
whose role can double up
   as court jester, joker, or page

hopeful this poetic synopsis
   offers favorable gauge
in tandem enriching fount of know
   ledge valuable at any advancing age.

Y'all might think this reply balderdash and rot
which may matter Bo diddly squat
no matter i herald from royalty
   with salient strengths being prestigious Scott
butta masta Harris

Does not smoke ***** nor drink from a chamber ***
a student of the establishment he is not
yet ad foxy, hocks moxie by proxy, this poet doth got
might elicit salient characteristics similar to humanoid bot
and, oh by the way, I lived
   in montgomery county, penna for some years quite a lot.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
.yiddi yiddi: breakdancing via the yod
to establish the mongrel language of
                                     yiddish in german,

since he always would speak with pronounced
  slavic accents that even, without a kippah...
   payots' worth of the rastafarian dread:

the ethopian connection, that's settled! applause!
what about that spaghetti drying piece?
  the tzitzit... spaghetti drying...
   or a collection of tapeworms...
i grew up above an estate agents
                     overlooking a synagogue...
21b beehive lane gants hills...
i'd notice the rat-imitation come yom kippur...
the orthodox would scuttle for a sly prayer...
in nike sneakers...
being unable to wear any animal leather:
whether shoes or belts or hats...
i watched, and i watched... sha! schtill!
come to think of it...
i like to think of the bastardißation
of hebrew via deutsche... yiddish...
i guess the hebrews began to blossom:
making themselves comfortable!
sha! schtill! as if, "as if" borrowing from pop culture:
ein botschaft von der taufel:
haben sie je getanzt mit ein rabbiner
                              im die blassmondlicht?!

    hobn tog
        zayn oyser aher...

                  that's the beauty of the jews...
nomads... or gypsies...
            casimir III understood this...
lucky parrots...
or parrots in general...
                    but i can't imagine
that much of yiddish survives in modern
israel: he who struggles with god...
of course i would be drawn to judaism
away from christianity...
   why would i succumb to islam if
the only plus is the antithesis of usury?
as a proselyte i'd be treated by the muslims
in the way that the janissaries were,
and the mamluks were treated...
bangladeshi slave labour in the u.a.e.?
        for every rabbi a guardian devil...
   un oyb em horav tantz?!
                             ikh tsu veln tentsl!

cheap joke:
   a jew a nomad and a gypsy walk
into a bar...
'we're not going anywhere,
anywhere but here,
all that anywhere is is this everywhere
that's already bound to a carousel...
and is less a people,
a people with bureucracy...
a nation... we're here for the folk...
the people can do what
people do when they need to be
people and when
being a people is not enough...'

                        loyt neyn farshribn din...

out of the 2 slaps i received on
                                                           my face:
                       one was justifiable...
at a party, drunk,
        showing the *******
at the host...
  (i remember sharing
music tastes with her only two years
            big into mortiis,
   and that german guy who
made an abandoned warehouse
                    his home)...
                              fair enough:
that sort of slap you appreciate -
like a coffee in the morning...
but the first slap?
           that was the jealous,
   suspcious one...
                as if i had another woman
on the sly, in a different country...
and there i was thinking:
this is the thanks i get for all
the *******, home-made dinner
                                 and what not?
beside the point...
   so i wanted to tell the two apart...
two nights ago
   i started pounding my face
                              with 20 punches...
only today has a slightly plum eye
emerged... (when you're doing it yourself
there's less velocity) -
    sorry it's not a proper bashing
in a brawl:
                 apparently the hand moving
back with an intention
of a clenched hand is not as effective...
    i wanted a line-them-up
                        the ******* had to be
found somewhere along the way...
20 punches and a black-eye later?
    the slap that came from:
probably my best ****-and-****-with
anatomy of a woman's body?
   20 punches later:
   the slap still stings...
         like drumming in the rain...
          pulverising with a resonance
that only raindrops and the drummer's
sticks might
                   rekindle, to the effect of:
nothing's changed...
   in a bowling alley we used to run
into walls...
until one of us pierced the plaster-board
                   but how
desperate do you have to be...
to make amends for a slap in the face
   with 20 punches of your own
mea culpa...
                                   circa 11 years later?
not to mention:
you have to ease the knuckles
              into being bruised...
                    before an honest face
                            comes a brick wall...
to level the knuckles...
     meaning that the 4th is slightly bruised.
that one slap, from Eleanor i
can understand...
                  that other slap from Ilona?
hence my 20 punches...
         and, my my:
    how the world is -
      without any "why" -
                              and this mishmash of hows;
hard not to join the queue
            of addressing painting on
                     an already painted canvas!

perhaps with the muslims...
we could explore... like we did with the jews...
we all know what happened to
the muslim population of europe,
once upon a time...
in the Balkans... when the Serbs (sleeping
Nazis) did with the muslims...
but these current mulsims?
  aren't they trying to find the short-cut?
they're going for the short-cut...
the jews never lent themselves to shortcuts...
me learn rigid arabic?
  look how hebrew adapted in german:
it became yiddish...
  maybe i'm blind...
but i don't see arabic bending the knee
to mongrel itself with some
european language...
  all i see are pseudo-arabic speakers...
english accent and one or two words
of arabic...
             if the arabs adapt...
mongrel bastardise themselves like the jews
did to become yids...
and create yiddish...
    no problem!
                       but these puritans won't...
where am i? in england, or saudi arabia?!
hell... might as well be talking to turks,
after all... they were the only muslims who
figured: it's best to adapt the latin script
if we are to control the balkans and greece...

the rest of the camel jockeys
should look into learning some mandarin
to compete for the most complex phonetic
encoding with the most:
   displeasing aesthetic of resulting speech;
arabs and the chinese:
sure... it looks amazing on paper!
until they open their mouths...
the beauty sooner than soon
fizzles out.
Dada Olowo Eyo Oct 2018
You give me reasons to hate you,
But I am in love with the mishmash,
Held by the strings of your confusion,
Never, ever, to set myself free.
My Dear Poet Apr 2021
said the clang
said the drum
said the flute
said the gong
said the strings
the violins
Mishmash was the noise
“                      “
said the voice
It’s so loud I can hardly hear anything
preface: prays of purse filled legal tender
this ****** NOT ******
   (hue coward know who eye mean)
   hie do attest

that poetry may not be best
to express whoosh to chest
*** a lee till bitta chump change
boot overpowering literary force 

   to pocket earning for a grange
(hmm...who knows maybe
   formerly owned by Jessica Lange 
thence might be within my financial range
even though this har chap 
   decades older than college student - iz that strange?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Let this dog gone prime mate ova simian sketch out 
   his general doggerel to free
unleashing a swiftly tale lord 
   of the flies - harried styled brush stroke of strengths
me retracted claws, which might find me 

   barking up the wrong tree arf find yarself
cat a tonic taking a nap - 
   in the land of doctor ah zee.

akin to a termite expending energy 
   thru wood to bore search sans income 
   an arduous slow book king chore thus,
   i spruce quest per 
   my non-conformist poetic je ne sais quois x cell lent 
   cover letter de jour 4u2 access and for me 

   to entertain as a minimum less or more
and then...whoosh
   into circular filing cabinet ye will store
this non-formal reap ply, 
   which email will take cyberspace tour.

Pixar could nada pay enough 
   for this trainer of apple chomping antz 
so i wonder if any chance 
   whisker of employment 
vis a vis thru this contrived virtual toy story 

   qua ratatouille poetic brew 
could materialize opening virtual community chest 
   into a likely monopoly winning chance 
such an idea generates me 

   to shrek out with excitement n contra dance 
just in case a glimmer of some prospect exists 
for this self anointed bard, who dislikes formality
presents a brief poo whet tick summation
   sans technical skills, he hopes to enhance 

p'raps earn enough moolah to see arc d'triumph, 
 Louvre, Paris France i offer
   the following poetic expression 
   for ye to take a glance 
and help this intuitive **** sapiens income
   to expand and en-hance, 

which byte size bit torrent humor 
   without use of strong arm, nor lance
   might cause ye to soil pants 
after misinterpreting mishmash 
   as some rave and rants 
part time con sit hard so positive stance 
   a subtle intent worth hiring, 
   2 sway au currant series electronic charge 
and ideally affect hypnotic trance.

betcha never red a poe sting like this faux 
   iambic pentameter electronic wire 
   from boyish looking blood muggle 
   father up in years (whose nonpareil courage 
   to face voldemort never does tire) 

and two grown girls 
   would consider him a worthy hire 
to rake in gobs of legal tender,
   satiating unquenchable hunger 
   hunger game of thrones,
   and thirst qua knowledge = powerful
for bits of computer know how to acquire.

this cover letter of sorts conveys
   teensy weensy, itty bitty 
byte size actual work experience 
   (this older mister rhyme stir 
   lives northwest of philadelphia city) 

kenye bull heave that,
   nonetheless, i hanker 
   (NOT  confused with HACKER)
   though disparate deeds offset
   by difference of third letter 
to employ computer and writing skills, 

   + rooted tid bits of moxie playing at nearby Roxy 
burrow, which prompts the following ditty 
express interest to apply mental tasks
   ala computer trouble shooting 
some may ascribe as nitty gritty 

on par with secret life of Walter Mitty 
whom destiny protected and took pity 
this merely meant to be silly 
   yet also attempted to be witty.

No matter how many miles by car 
(actual company might be within dead
   man walking distance) 
   opportunity not be considered to far 

using acumen huck cull interest 
   and technologically spar 
+ graphical user interface programs
   to get unstuck from virtual feathery tar.

Iambic pentameter might be faux pas
   not the traditional standard genre 
   for a cover letter 
i see no reason why 
   non-conformist modus operandi 
cannot serve as mode

   to communicate pursuit viz philologist technician 
   and paperback writer wannabe, 
   cuz i love each english language letter,
which honest to goodness confession 
   hopefully offers unique outlook re: 
   other respondents at least a bit better.

this pure breed mud half blood muggle prince 
born (whom most think me full o hogwash 
   to *** rid of hog wort) - yea 
truth seeker for employment reckons
   the following poetic way 

not necessarily follows formalities 
   to reply would readily say, 
yet why adhere to conformity, 
   which paradigm frowns on creativity 
atypical modus operandi to reply

   positive job offer i pray 
even if outcome per offering interest 
   turns out to be nay 
perhaps because where mien hometown 
   west of philadelphia lay
boot methinks tis cuz mine longish
   wavy hair follicles fifty shades of gray.

no employment vitae shows dearth 
hence decided to resort - thou add verse 
   to induce a byte size mirth 
of requisite (sought after) technical expertise,
   possessing attributes FitBit wool worth consideration --

   so just allow me to boast 
blithely riding iambic pentameter to coast 
given opportunity to eradicate
re: exorcise binary electronic bookworm 
   even Casper the friendly ghost 

n offer bytes of helpful information from pc host 
information technology position tacked on fence post 
with sought after salary goal fair n equitably per year 
would necessitate celebration 
   tete a tete vis a vis teetotaler toast.

So...without further ado, i slightly brag 
telling ability to conduct understand bit size crag
reckon obsolete intricacies such as dos 
    passé, and hardly requisite material,
   i learned to manage 
   common system utilities 
   such as scan disk and defrag 

installed and resolved dsl issues,
   performed scan-disk and troubleshooting glitches 
removal of dos files, installation 
   and/or removal of hardware 
uninstalling software, running registry sweeps 

attempting to remove bugs and errors
   causing machine to cough and gag, 
which invariably causes processes
   as downloading, sending, uploading, et cetera to lag
if chance smiles on consideration --
   a happy go lucky dog this tail will wag. the way, i would accept a starting 
and/or negotiable salary as a starting wage 
in an effort to support this self proclaimed sage 
whose role can double up as a court jester, 
   Batman joker, or jimmy john page 

hopeful this poetic synopsis 
   offers favorable gauge 
in tandem enriching fount of knowledge
   More valuable at this advanced age.

y'all might think this reply balderdash and rot 
which may matter on par bo diddly squat 
no matter i herald from skid row royalty
   with salient strengths being prestigious Scott 
**** tuckus, butta Matthew Harris 

   does not smoke ***** 
   nor drink from a *** 
and a student he is not 
nor a gentleman quarterly kennedyesque fellow
   who would be called really hot 

yet moxie by proxy this poet of doth got 
and might elicit salient characteristics 
   similar to a humanoid heterosexual bot 
and, oh by the way, i lived in lower merion 
   for some years that = quite alot.

This from - a generic johnny 
   come lately jim crow chee 
can tackle the junkyard dawg, 
   while trump petting, swaggering, 
   rollicking with rod ham 
   pomp *** city but,

who **** house trained 
   and can use snout to play putt putt 
plus extricate moss elf from tread full rut.

this sub woofer snapper papa pooch, 
though scrawny and essentially 
   a generic mixed breed
   bowled with dennis the menace 
   plus jeff and mutt 

an older dog gone college alumni 
   of hard knocks
   relied on powder milk bone dog biscuits 
   to hone courage, and overcome shyness 
   (predominant among norwegian 
   bachelor farmers canine pets)

this diet of powdered raw bit, 
   weighed heavy in my gut 
thus, i conclude air rating whims 
   hoop ping this passes windy muster 
   and makes the cut
if nyat - dag nabbit rab but.
nivek Feb 2017
everything comes through the senses
even intuition is set to work by their prompting
images in dreams are a mishmash of cut up pictorials
gathered and reaped deep in the subconscious
imagination needs a starting point, this too through interaction
so what's left? everything is open to interpretation.

— The End —