Mixology poems on Hello Poetry

Lilly Gibbons Jan 2015

Shame on you for giving up before we reached the end,
No full stop or decrescendo ever came.
Onto you I place this guilt, it was never meant for me,
In time the trees will shed their leaves, bringing clarity.
Endless tappings on my heart to let me know your there,
And after all the good times end, where are you, no where.

Shame on you for letting me get trapped in your everyday,
For allowing the graceful fall, from pillars of beauty,
You have toppled the greatest of trees.
Its not enough to say farewell, times were good.
I should have known better, I shouldn't have looked,
But how clever of you to know that I would.

Shame on you for invading me, my thoughts no longer run clear,
They are fused with you's and wants and wishes,
Can't you see you have created, a cocktail of confusion,
The mixology of fear.

#love #life

Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016

One Thousand Poem Children

one thousand poem children

one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,
eliminated

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just womb excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode

I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,
dreams

*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict
assured

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled
"denial"

until the next nights dream

#one #thousand #poem #children

Francis Scudellari May 2010

Mix me a fixer upper

He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).

His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.

Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ******, then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.

Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.

Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015

rolling turtles

now if an apache shaman became a president of the "free world" i'd be glad, over the moon sort of speak, but a former kenyan export of a cotton picker? not so much, puppet for the pseudo-europeans to my sour distaste. if a native indian made it to the throne i would have applauded: someone who's native of this land, actually in charge of it... you don't say... but a former slave ethnicity? that just breaks the jaw chandelier: i'll be impressed when i die and see the big picture. it's a bit like in europe, the modern renaissance happened in england in the 1960s... then disappeared to birmingham... the other venus of the north (2nd only to st. petersburg)... and then the resurrection of rome became the job of eastern europe "barbarians / invader," who became the cotton pickers of europe, told they were not europeans but closely related to neanderthals... while chopin boomed replicas in japan... i feel discouraged from being european altogether... i think i'll translate myself as japanese... and shake off these western rats... i'll don a beard and a samurai haircut... yeah, i'll do that, they might get the idea that's behind the rolling stones of numbering 4, ageing to be about
2 galapagos turtles in terms of accumulated age... oh you
won that capitalistic child-plot to compete, i assure you.*

all these dating websites are in the shallow pool
of spectacles, a man logs into a dating website and
looks for what's clearly a cobra, or the end of him,
or a femme fatale... she needs to be attractive,
intelligent and funny... i thought men were supposed to
be that... look what copernican feminism did,
it turned inside-out rather than upside-down...
when i look at women i look for three traits akin...
she needs to be patient...
she needs to be resilient...
she needs to be understanding...

(good looks can wait for the middle-aged lynx,
she got the hang of body after puberty
and became arrogant with it - own one own all
motto - babe your time will come to avoid
plastic surgery;
i'm *******, of course i am,
but i rather show it than suffer in silence
and become ******* in thinking it out;
you understand one, you understand all,
not really, put a hammer in a set of a hundred
*****-drivers and you get the odd one out,
at least picture it, opaque if it makes sense better;
p.s. don't mention the power of older men,
socrates had to become poor to speak wisely,
he got away with it... poor men like jesus
have to suffer in silence because
poor youth, or youth without ambition
is not really a rallying crowd motif)...

there was something else - you immediately stare
a cold blank for a slate that's required a blink
for a square of cement...
sometimes this homosexual dynamics turns
originally thought heterosexual males to try the back door,
the bony ****** of five counts is no longer
adequate... neither is the puppet in the hand...
it requires the stage... a completion of the play
with female genitalia, the empty void...
oh don't worry... i'm sure disney will find your
perfect match in the realm of tech-colour psychoanalysis
perfection... in order to control your "father,"
just so you can salt & pepper a son into a lullaby...
but try a daughter... ooh... pooh tosh too?
how sorry i am... i bet it wasn't as infectious thinking
that one through... malignant cancerous pore of
relating something to something...
but as they say in science in a mongrel relation
of trans-breed mixology of a cosmopolitan...
among atoms we are *****,
among stars we are little men...
remember the microscope and the telescope
are a staff... there are two arguments either side
of the relation of conversing about them...
we can relate to atoms as *****,
we can relate to stars as satellites or telescopes...
in a polite society dialectics is excused...
only because we measure distances of known bodies
to foreign bodies... but this also provides a slack
on what is deemed offensive in casual conversation
because offensiveness is a forced mono-dialectic
where no counter opinion exists due to a third party:
democracy of western society is rife with this.

Nat Lipstadt Jun 2015

Voyage to the Crux (The Hell of Poetry)

for Catherine,
who did not request this,
whose soul prospers, more than survives,
but forced me nonetheless,
this poem~quest to address

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
do not come,
turn back now,
disjoin from a
voyager to the harshest disheartening,
to the crux,
where essence oils aflame
burn smoke, stymied from being
expulsed, expelled,
through organs that have
no natural orificial cavities
allowing escape

the hell of poetry

no, paeans,
yes, pain swirls,
Greek laurel wrapped headbands
squeezing temples, give no relief,
confusion sewn together,
a mixology cocktail
of the ends and the means,
of giving up yourself
in, and to,
poetry

no tribute,
but only that which,
we must pay,
and pay on
in the coin of the realm,
which expires valueless
at the end of the day,
so you awake,
broke
in every way possible for a human to be
broke

busted bird, wing broke bent,
judiciously waiting for
a capricious time to heal thyself,
but time never healed anything,
where grievous grief knows no horizon,
from the absence of some sounds, voices,
that can never be heard again

toil (a/k/a light),
trouble (a/k/a diamonds)
double that,
then raise it again to the power
of anvil crushed chest compressions
preventing basic breathing

all this to get to
the crux,
that tormenting, familiar place,
where difficulty lives on a
one way street
with a "dead end" sign at the beginning,
a self-mocking "no outlet" at the end

this crux,
inflection point,
****** peak imploding,
*** of brains boiling over,
more crucible,
where molten metal
reformulates into words

why do you want to go there?

the heat of me cannot be measured by
any mortal thermometer,
the pressure of blood cannot be calculated,
the stained consciousness maculated
by past and future sadness

of death, no fear,
writing poetry from the places
where it's well down drawn.
terrifying,
like waking up

this is where one goes,
when your pick up the gun of pen,
in vainglorious hopes of venting
the bullets of gases that seek
an unplanned escape
from a place you have no business
visiting for business,
certainly not,
pleasure

this is here, this right here,
where existence is identified,
where the sun only burns,
word life selection, a humming curse,
and the voracious need to write
boils in your blood,
chokes the throat
with your own two hands

for their is no perfection in poetry,
there is only a voyage to the crux,
the hell of poetry...
where Faustus and I
rue the day we deemed ourselves
more knowledgable than the gods,
selling our souls
for fleeting, human skills

**why do you want to go there?

The only thing you need to know about this poem is
that it's all true...

ogdiddynash Mar 2017

every each born in fluid of the belly of belief

every each born in fluid of the belly of belief*

~

every each,
born in fluid
of the belly of belief,
surrounded by unique amniotic liquid

one-of-a-kind mixology combination
flavors of a thousand prior drinks,
love makings
of ancestral strangers

what were they thinking

if they were thinking

every each
will be a poet warrior

son or daughter,
doctors or ******,
judges or criminals,
survivors or end-of-liners?

matters not,
each and every,
both or either

which God will they worship
if to one they do concede,
what etching will they mark
on the mental earth
that all will have passed through and shared,
and
perforce,
ultimately concede?

i cannot write code
because belief seems unbelievable
and I leave a brutal mark upon the earth surface by refusing to procreate

1/22/17

Jayne E Jul 2019

Bad habit.

Bad habit

the moment
you first sprinkled stardust
in my hair
tenderly
caressed my cheek
the husky morning light
throwing faint shadows
bed sheets scattered
hearts caught
by surprise
then shattered
into shimmering bright
as pre dawn
had me forlorn
lost in your
sweat
my tears
kissed away
your tongues mixology
feeding back to me
my tears and my ***
breeding blending
alchemical lust
the birth of
a bad habit
born out of
a good love
this little bird
stuck
in your gilded cage
would become
locked out by
your inner rage
as madness descended
four lives upended
passion
fighting the good fight
biting back against the strain
of this bad bad habit
loves first bloom
birds singing
before the sun rose
you tearing down
all my defences
raw desire
the fire the fire the fire
in your *****
becoming my ******
scribing incantations
secret spells
of love
of dreams
of wanting
with your ***
on my belly skin
glistening in the
early morning sun
when did the love
mutate to ownership
passion became obsession
your misbelief
my imagined transgressions
tearing the silk at its seams
then on your knees
begging to
redeem redeem redeem
too many heartbeats too late
the light snuffed out
stuffing the ****
in loves spout
sweet turned bitter now
just spit it all out
loves lamb slaughtered
throat cut and bleeding out
spitting my teeth on the floor
of our house built on 'love'
feeling my jaw crack splinter
under the strong hands
that once held me "safe'
'loved' me
wed me
then bled me
dry of all hope
love hanging
choked on the rope
kicking me
to pieces
and me
kicking this
bad bad habit

clean.

J.C. littlebird 03/07/2019

Funny, and not in a haha way, how memories invade our dreams, nightmares a crossover of the two, bitter mixing with sweet....messy breakups, nasty divorce, killing the one you love... Humanity insanity...

Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016

maculated conception (but he does not share this knowledge with the boy)

for my Ian

~
Sunday morn in San Fran,
chest, a mish mash
of conflicting
poems

that someday will be written...

the titles I have,
but not yet, not now,
his flesh, unentitled,
to the measuring cup of words
to flesh them
into existence

tho solemn sworn,
hand upon the
bible of his beating chest,
oathed to the gods of his conceit,
these too shall be conceived,
pristine and parfait
avant someday,
when he as well,
be a work closer to
the rounding out of completion

poet's inner flesh is a mixology
of Pacific Ocean tide pools,
amber *** colored,
sea green chlorophyll
of absinthe

contentment muddled with anguish,
the wonder of children's tender undemanded kisses,
topping the texture,
the latency of life

Oh!
those holy kisses,
wholly unsolicited,
head the list,
conquering freshly reheated
crescents of inextinguishable regrets,
the long listing of life's
never enough, never enough,
never enoughs

day yawns before me,
possibilities are fulsome and many,
what drives me now at
preservation band of forever of this instant of life,
is a dialogue recalled
origin born by the Frisco Bay,
but yesterday

tween my be-loving and be-living and
believing,
five year old rambunctious boy,
and his absentee,
would be,
East Coast version
of an itinerant, twice a year,
grandpa

a conversation
re the possibility of
running away from one's shadow

the bight boy brighter with brimming optimism
viewing the day, and as far as he can see,
all through a prism
"of all things are possible,"
certitude of unblemished youth,
which welcomed as a
body wash for cleansing
an old man's soul

the old man's lungs,
his interior thesaurus,
covered with
ne'er do well shadows,
of hard gained experience,
that are
among his very own uneraseable,,
great unwashed,
misbegotten, missed opportunities,
the impossible dreams unfulfilled

old man knows there is no targeted
radiation or chemotherapy,
can history rewrite,
that proof positive,
can conclude that running hard, running away,
from,
or even running back
to those shadows
that will perforce
travel and travail,
that can e're prevail,
o'er man-inescapable need
to morose compose upon his
nettled, untitled,
foretold and foreseen,
own decomposition by
the weights of regret,
of those shadows
never to be
caught, erased

but he does not share this knowledge
with the boy*

~~~

two fourteen sixteen
7:53 am
Market Street, San Francisco

Valentine's Day
2016
running on Fishermans Wharf,
by the SanFrancisco Bay
~
maculated -
marked with spots; blotched;
impure; besmirched

Nat Lipstadt Feb 2018

“marvelous brush strokes”

“marvelous brush strokes”

~for Yocum~

the complimentor favors brevity,
employs these pointy few words

the complimentee, me,
favors the insanity
of the overwhelming
overarching hell of
the over-lengthy

but that would dishonor the symmetry of comprehension,
that would dishonor the comprehension of the symmetry
of painting and writing

select colors, use the old palette, favored,
the cash cache of mixology and finally the strokes

i commence
i brush your grizzled face
i brush your grizzled face with colored words
i brush your grizzled face with marvelous brush strokes

the painting incomplete, my brush strokes need retouching,
my brush stoking fingers need a touch of real
so I am coming to see you as foretold^

so i may sign my name signifying completion

^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/556521/a-beautiful-first-re-union-that-will-be/

2/18/18
0415pm

Nat Lipstadt May 2023

loitering with intent

loitering with intent

a man stands on the corner,
in fashion most furtive, shifting
foot to foot, noting each passerby,
he retains, discards, sifting flour
for flowers, wheat chaff for pastries,
word streams for treasured heated floes

why this corner, why this point?

Here.

Hear is where.

Hear is where the poems gems
can be panned, nuggets retrieved,
smiles and grimaces projected,
laughter & tears mixology’d,
humanity, his, restored,
inspired life, restored,
for all.

<2:54 PM Weds May 10>
NYC, and whoever you are…

#loitering #with #intent #lipstadt

Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017

rhyme-centrism

hacking _ cutting #6
really, it's all about rhyming?!
if it rhymes it's this
art form?
        really? if it rhymes,
it qualifies?
no wonder this "art form" is
currently on life-support
machines,
turning into necrophiliacs;
i can't believe that rhyming
is all that defines poetics,
esp. given the current vein
of journalistic endeavour...
last time i heard,
poetry was both beside
crafting rhymes,
as it was beside crafting novels,
it was one of the things,
in that cartesian / heraclitaen
mixology of an up-kept
continuum of thought:
a sudden pause / a sudden
breath...
  i still can't believe poetry is
rhyme-centric...
      as if poetry really needed to
be easily identifiable...
which it is, when rhymed...
well, **** me, should it also become
grecian, and thereby prosaic to boot!
or perhaps it was just that,
to begin with?
      perhaps this "science"
of writing, was never to be
limited by rubrics of "identifiable
constraints";
it's almost no wonder that
people enjoy poetics,
english teachers killed it,
   telling people to aspire
to a broken arm castes of rigid
insurance of observable technicalities,
rhyme over spontaneity!
rhyme over spontaneity!
      poetry is disgusting these days,
because it settled into
a pose of being "scientific" -
in fact poetry is overly scientific,
which is written, without
any scientific terms, such as noun,
pronoun, verb...
   whereas poetry ought to be a free arm
venture, it's nothing more than
an arm within a caste...
apparently it's only when sentences
rhyme, that there's an identifiable
poetics being presented...
what a horrid scenario to undertake.

Jayne E Apr 2020

bad habit (rewrite)

-some ghosts refuse to stay in the past-

Bad habit

the moment
you first sprinkled stardust
in my hair
so tenderly
caressed my cheek
the husky morning light
throwing faint shadows
bed sheets scattered
hearts caught
by surprise
then shattered
into shimmering bright
as pre dawn
had me forlorn
lost in your
sweat
my tears
kissed away
your tongues mixology
feeding back to me
my tears and my ***
breeding
blending
alchemical lust
the birth of
a bad habit
born out of
a good love
this little bird
caught
in your gilded cage
would become
locked out by
your inner rage
as madness descended
four lives
upended
passion
fighting the good fight
biting back
against the strain
of this
            bad
                      bad
                                habit
loves first bloom
birds singing
before the sun rise
you tearing down
all my defences
raw desire
the fire
             the fire
   the fire
in your *****
becoming my ******
scribing incantations
of love
of dreams
of wanting
with your ***
on my belly skin
glistening in the
early morning sun
when did your love
mutate to ownership
passion
become obsession
your misbelief in
imagined transgressions
tearing the silk
at it's seams
then on your knees
begging to

redeem

redeem

redeem

too many
heartbeats
too late
the light snuffed out
stuffing the ****
in loves spout
sweet turned bitter
now
just spit
        spit
        spit
                  it all out
loves lamb slaughtered
throat cut and bleeding out
my teeth & blood
on the floor
of our house built on
'love'
feel my jaw
     crack
           splinter
under strong hands
that once held me
"safe'
'loved' me
wed me
then bled me
dry of all hope
love hanging
choked on the rope
kicking me
to pieces
and me
kicking this
bad
         bad
                   habit

clean.

© J.C.

this ghost came a haunting recently, bringing with him night terrors, and bringing this poem back to the present...

Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018

todstalker (n.f.l.): language and its parody

/                        kneeling? seriosly?!
             can't we accept this act,
counter to standing,
as...
                fruitously-"intuitive"?
to mimic:
          a, "minding a cohort"?
                    death by abundance?!
val kilmer
         in kiss kiss bang bang?
                 like spitzer on anabolics;
       worth contemplation
                                 akin to jerking off to
a "mind", of a toilet paper wrapping
inside of
                      a bottled glue
                                           ooh-moment
of oozing out
                     the necessary extract.
kneeling...
      kneeling...
                           seriously?
                     that's a "bad", "thing"?
church comes... you kneel!
           what's so bad about that,
and there nothing being bad
about a church-state fission
   explained by excess export dynamism
to countries outside
the u.s.?
    you can't, really, can you?
     america all export all extrovert
and then the "shy", introvert
europeans?
                       no woo'm'ah no cwy
bob marley type of
scenario?!
           ****...
       forgot my barth roberts' lost beard...
and m'ah umbrella!
woof woof!
   started to call her: ride on, anna!
barbados via bonkers:
and the pristine
   Cheshire (chess, make a move =  dire):
copper-skinned
                    mixology of *******
evaluations to market standing, army like,
                           up-right: schtiff!
harp of wanting a loss of silence,
   against an itchy finger -
and a heap of hay -
   with a "missing" needle...
            that's a double metaphor that is...
are these poets sure
that they didn't loose a nail
in that bundle of hay?
    perhaps a squinting eye?
     or a lung to admit the circumstance
of drowning?
no?
                              too bad.

Mateuš Conrad Jun 24

notes: 20th - 23rd June

20th through to the 23rd of June
LS (London Stadium, Foo Foo Fudge
Packers)
then 21st headed to Wembley: wound
in the womb: a fetus
(can't understand why that's underlined
in red when foetus): the disappearance
of œ and øzɔfaʒ

/n̪͡mt̪͡p/ (Yele: Papa New Guinea:
mmm't         or mount: mt.)
Niveneh: no: Nineveh...
                  like Jericho but without chatter:
cauldron in the cold

      the other Siamese Twin of how language
originated in vowels
to later establish itself in consonants...

the digraph of Æ: almost Katakana and Hi:

K(appa) missing the additional 'i (<p)

i.e.                    カ-
                                らがな (HI! ragana:
regina regatta - smooth sailing, averse winds)

could compact the punctuation / insinuation,
hide the exclamation marker
attiring the iota with more than just a dot:
like so:

                 HÍ instead of HI!
also: HÍ = HI!

               as i pondered travelling on the train
sitting backwards from Romford
to Stratford
a quickie: 7 - 10min commute:

the perfections of language and the language
impasse
with the same language (as it were)
we build the pyramids
and the Coliseum
and conjured up the microchip and satellites
but still the ******* graffiti on
the walls like a sad testimony of:
not literate enough?

                   enough Swifties to me have
to exclaim to my ginger nut
i never worked in a response team
on basis / bias of positive discrimination
the industry has been flooded with
Asians (and i don't mean the artisan
Oriental cobblers, sturdy workers
i mean the Raj sleuths and sloths)

   so there i was working with "Brighton"...
4 English guys...
the ginger nut was going through
a breakup with a girl he was with for 3 years
bought Taylor Swift tickets
broke up: patchwork Adams i figured
am i a psychiatrist now?

no: a historian a psychiatrist a poet
a philosopher: all under ONE BANNER:
a HUMANIST...
i am a humanist: never worked with
someone with ADHD:
first time:
could feed off his scatter brain i knew he
was trying to win the girl back

that's the thing with women:
you see enough of them and enter their
personal space
you: realistically enter a harem
so there's no need to blow yourself up
for Islam and (a) Promise... of...
a harem:
me and my "ball and chain":

well... if she's 56 and i'm 38
and there's than new film about about
Anne Hathaway and the IDea of yOU

i promised myself not to have
a ******* and i didn't
but just across from me on the Metropolitan Line
two classical Sappho types:
the type of lesbians that make out
across from you on the train
because you have nothing for an ego
and there's no narrative in your head
you're just this emptiness gravity
sitting down looking
at these two lesbians making out
and they're trying to be lesbians
really hard
but at the same time they start touching
each other
so... you start touching yourself
like: massaging your legs and your neck
and then the so-so lesbians
look like: oh ****! we need a *****!
a living breathing *****!
not the deconstruction of man of: just
a phallus: **** me! get a cucumber
but the sort of lesbians that are not butch
nor twisted rainbow nor political
just purely ******: they need a friend
type of *****: lezbo:
and that's all fine and dandy
but i figured: if this open gay sexuality
can happen: transcendental
then let's not be ableist or ageist about
who we are biochemically drawn to:

i admit in 20 years when Edie's ****
and clothes with smell of grey and moths
maybe then i will shove
fern leaves up my nose:
exchange the warm tingling kiss of chilly
juice for the sting of nettles
and call it cotton: but until then...

there are three language settings in Japanese
and yes: twice at the Fudge Packers
concert and twice at Taylor Swift:
like: i can't imagine this devilish Elvis
(who had a ****** life, seriously)
having any *** at all: Taylor Madonna...
i managed to chirp at least 10 friendship
bands
the last one i exchanged with a 6 year old
groupie who
mesmerized me with my grief over other
exchanges of friendship bands
so she gave me one with
a cocktail of watermelons, kiwis, oranges,
strawberries, lemons and that made my day
because another 20 year old groupie took
my prized possession of a band with metalic
swifts: yes... actual birds...

but like me and Matt were saying:
two years ago... two years?
Red Hot Chili Peppers at the London stadium:
day one opened with
All Around the World...
day two?
opened with
Can't Stop.... or the other way round:
either way! either way...
as a citizen going to a concert having
no experience of multiple bookings
of an artist at a venue
you don't really THINK about the SET LIST...
clearly...
Taylor Swift is an ARTIST...
just like Lloyd Webber is an artist
and there's the Phantom of the Opera production
and that's also Kierkegaard
and the Changelessness of God

but like Anthony Kiedis said
of John Frusciante: the psychotic -
these guys are no longer ARTISTS: they are:
MUSICIANS!
Taylor Swift isn't a musician: she's an artist:
and like any artist: she's not endowed with
some crazy creative demon
of uncontrollable energy to have to lose
and recycle material or just become
insatiable and confrontational like
a brick wall or the sea or gravity...

meh... MERCH! merchandise!
        ugh: honing in: i too bought a t-shirt...
well... two... i caved in...
the silly idiot moi so-so...

                          i'd still give an arm and a leg
to get to see Boris Brejcha...
i don't need to know his personal story:
but yes, he apparently escaped with burns
and bruises from an airshow where
a plane crashed and he discovered Mozart
in electronics / electronica...
so DJing is not so lazy after all?
funny: conjuring up melody with only ticks
and drums and rhythm
because there are no woodwinds
and certainly there's no frantic fried egg jazz
to be the antithesis of classical
which jazz was but
electronica is the antithesis of jazz
it's what i'd call RE-

BIG word: big WORD:
i can't even spell it i have custard for brain
my best estimate is
(even with the use of algorithm,
i'm yet to invest dyslexia into AI usage
via chatGPT so who knows)

COMPROMISING is close... super: cl>o<se...
but not there, yet... yeti yeti yet...
on shift when i repeat myself
over and over again i turn into a slur and slobber
monster i think my tongue is a gigantic worm
that's suffocating me... or at least gagging (me)

one more try: RE-
electronic music > jazz > classical
not necessarily > or <
but what other punctuation marker?
| ...            perhaps: i'm starting a mixology
of e. e. cummings and OLSON
so... let's see...

COMPARTMENT + RE-
spells out, what?
ANALYZING                       that's a pretty picture

i'm actually not, going to,
scribble the correct spelling
of the word that's burning up my brain!

and so much other **** in between
Big Mo was trying to steal my sunglasses
on at least 4 prior shifts...
i forgot my sandwich and coat last shift
managed to stash it: picked it up on cordon
DC3 on Olympic Way
fair enough fair enough...
o.k. have my sunglasses: until next shift
point being so much mush and ****
i'm having to have to build in a FILTER...
veil... membrane:
it's like reality is hyperventilating and
i'm not on any hallucinogenics but
i'm getting so many cues in terms of
what's being communicated
that hearing about Islamic Terrorist attacks
on Christian folk is one thing...
but then hearing about the crushing stampedes
on the Road of the Hajj
and at the place where they stone the devil
(Mina)
ha ha!                  ******* win-win scenario:
you know what i mean?

one thing to put pebble on a pebble
and call it a redemption of the continent of Africa
via the Egyptian "clairvoyance" of:
let's leave something behind for future
generations to remember us for...
and another to throw a ******* rock: at a rock!
magic!

yes: i am the devil: a humanist:
god? yeah: he's the theorist of humanity
nothing personal
but if you have ******* gaseous and liquid
equations like water can contain salt
and the cauliflower sponges of clouds
and blah blah blah
then god is the worst kind of humanist
he's an anti-humanist...
a calculator there's no personality
attached to god
god is not a person
however you think god in trinity might be:
**** me
some magical telepathic extended thing
of Descartes? well he did try obliterating God
almost all philosophers of the circa
8th - 19th centuries tried to obliterate god
until Nietzsche finally said: ASK the FINITE ***
for CARROT then the SCHTICK...

welll) d'uh this isn't readership friendly
but i didn't just read Finnegans Wake
and admired the struggles of Delmore Schwatrz
for no reason...
pressed too long on the L without shift...

in terms of women...
and i've been with prostitutes and i've interacted
with Swifties so i have
a plethora of experience
not to say i'm in any position: advantaged to
"abuse" or reap... or... m'eh...
*** is *** but kinda of pointless
if not procreative...
so *** ON and *** OFF...
there's a switch when not investing pro-creatively
but then i don't want the hassle of
my own bad seed
so tending to a foreign body that's not
my own is ego-soothing
because i have no emotional investment:
just an emotional commitment:
and that's different because
it allowed me to morph my original idealism
of women
into an alternative idealism of women

point being:
of women: well... you won't get any BETTER...
you'll... you'll just get: DIFFERENT...
no better: just different...
after all: women are generic creatures...
you get to see that when a 90,000 event
takes place and egress is summoned, naturally...
men are unruly...
it's sad... it's sad that the concept of
individuality disappears
when people congregate...
people become stupid and no longer
bothered about individuation or democracy
or whatever they do privately
but cattle i understand and
i have my Cerberus Team on hold:
it takes about 5 people
to organize a Slaughterhouse of 300...
it truly does take only 5 dedicated Hosts
to push 300 Parasites through the Coliseum Turnstiles:

methodological: i'm not a Methodist...
i'm being clear cut precise:
it would be stupid not to learn anything from
the Nazis...
seriously: when it comes to crowd management
at large events, concerts etc
you'd be a ******* ******
not to learn from the Nazis...
how... how?! seriously?
what? how they managed to dupe all those
people into walking so serenely to
their death? is there any depiction of people
walking into the gas chambers
kicking and screaming like
children being born?!

                       hmm... not that i can recall:
plus if you see the number 90,000 in an elevated
crater as if a meteor just fell...
i'm not scared of heights...
but even i get the fiasco of vertigo
   on level 5: the whirlpool of a man made
open space:
clearly a meteor should have landed here:
but no... just man's ingenuity to allow
people to congregate and find imitations of god
with idol(s)...

ah yes... Polish could be almost like Czech
in that it could be lazy, slurry... from time to time...
i honestly have to mind this
in terms of language usage: English is provisional
Lingua Bas Franca etc
but i could become more Czech
(i have genetic roots in Bohemia)
in that:

JUS      can easily replace JUSZ
because: eh...        FABRI GAS... not GAZ...
i'm lazy and Polish is too strict for my liking
****... already:

it's not even jusz but już...
      but instead i can just say: jus... like i'm an imbecile
but rather: that's how Polish children
speak: naturally: partially Czech softly
and there's no real Russian softness
just blue blue blah blah harasho...
either way i'm going to be put into some
sort of category of "origins"
as not even Jesus was this Messianic Universal
He-Man...
so... why stress that i'll just be the Polish Matt?

did i miss something?
ah right... filter... i need to filter through
the past 4 days
and think about the best time to have a ****;
not now: i want to read one chapter
of Dune and some Olson poems.

— The End —