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next doors cat jade was murray flynn in her previous life


jade jade jade, there is something to come on her

you see murray flynn had cancer and died

but because he had a lot of fun with me

like mowing the lawn in the rain very heavy

and murray flynn was very impressed with me the way i did my volunteer work

and maybe murray flynn is amazed by all the stories and poems i write

and how i can commit to doing my art

you see murray flynn uses his present life jade

to come over to my balcony and say hello

i remember calling murray’s bus murrays buses

and murray flynn liked me when i went to the bowling alley

on the new years eve of 2001

you see jade enjoys catching insects on my balcony

and the owner of the house invited me in to play with the cat

and murray flynn said, you don’t know these people, well you do but you are still working hard

and when i went into hospital in 2013, murray flynn put power

into his present life’s owner to get him to help my parents clean my house

murray is jade and he loves it so sweet, he is now an adorable ***** cat

jade the cat was murray flynn, you see she doesn’t bother me because she’s murray

and murray really likes me, you see one thing i like about murray

is he had the most wonderful sense of humour

you see he drove us down the coast and i enjoyed that a lot

eating fish and chips and joking around with him

and now as murray’s present life jade the cat

continues to live next door to me, you see murray wanted to become a cat because

humans suffer more and when the cat sleeps murray flynn goes to space

and tries to beat the villains who caused havoc on this poor earth

nirvana will happen if people are understand

murray would love that line as he loved life in every thing he did

goodbye murray and hello to your next life jade the cat

living next door to me
Bekah Halle Jan 13
Down by the Murray River,
where life swims all around;
above and beneath the surface,
in this heat, everything flows.
Beers, BBQs, budgie smugglers and babes in bikinis,
memories bobbing above ground
capturing freedom, post-pandemic and pre-celebrations.

Down by the Murray River,
watching things flow safely and soundly,
birthing new possibilities:
boyfriends, babies, businesses and brews?!
Endless possibilities abound,
prophecies realised; salvation.

Down by the Murray River,
with nature, our souls sing loudly,
simplicity is possible,
trusting and enjoying,
everything is allowed.
Mark Jun 2020
YELLOW TAIL MOUSE TALE  
From the 9th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.  
 
This week, I had the best surprise present since Christmas Day, when I received my new grouse pet mouse named, Smooch. But the surprise didn't come from my parents, Archie or Flo, for it didn't even come from my little brother Lemmy's mouth. It wasn't from the mouths of my two much older identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, either.  
 
Believe it or not, it came from the mouth of my mouse, named Smoochy. Yes that's right, he does speak and he told me about his remarkable life story, since birth.  
 
It began when, I was feeding him some of my Mum's delicious afternoon treat. Do you remember the one that I named, 'a colourful fruit-blast'? Smoochy said, 'wow!, I love your Mum's food, it reminds me of my Mums magical dessert creations, she used to make for me, before I came to live with the you and your family'.  
 
I was gob smacked, when I heard Smoochy, actually having a conversation with me. I now knew 100%, that I wasn't dreaming or hallucinating, when I thought, Smoochy spoke to me. Just like the time on the seashore with the whale, and the fairy floss at the seaside resort named, Slipslopslap Bay. Also the time during the circus, while we were holidaying at the big top park circus, named Rolling River Retreat.  
 
Smoochy, told me about his parents, who's names are, Slippy and Sloppy. He also said, 'that his birth name is actually, Poppy, but he didn't mind being called,Smoochy. His name I had given him last Christmas. He said, 'it's grouse for a mouse to have a cool nickname, in the world of humans'.  
 
He also added, that in the animal world most creatures, don't even speak. Except for some mice, a parrot, and he was also led to believe, maybe even the odd Dolphin, swimming around the ocean.  
 
Smoochy, told me, 'how he and his parents Slippy and Sloppy, ended up at the local pet shop, in my local village named, Shimmerdimmerlee, when he was only about 2 years old'.  
Smoochy' said, 'that his parents, used to travel around the globe, with the very colourful and world famous circus troop name, 'Mr. Kazoontite's and his Marvellous, Magical, Mysterious and Musically Minded Misfits'.  
 
They both used to appear in an act, with the circus's ventriloquist, who's stage name was, 'Mumbling Murray the Mouth of the South'.They would pop their heads out of his top, left and right hand side pockets, of his jacket, and pretend to speak in English.They could also speak, a bit of his native language called, 'Ogbogolo'.  
 
When Mumbling Murray, opened his mouth and spoke, they would only be grinding their teeth together, to get the cheese out of the gaps of their teeth. But, the crowd thought it was funny, so they just kept doing it, for every act, over several years.  
 
Then one day, my Mum was having a baby, it was me. So, I was born in a big top circus and was looked after, ever so well by my parents and all of the other circus workers. Then one day, Mumbling Murray had to go back to his home country, to look after his sick sister.  
 
Mumbling Murray, had just finished the circus tour, near our village and decided he should take my parents and I to the local pet store. He thought, 'maybe they can be cared for, by a new loving family'.  
 
While living in the pet store, we noticed, with utter amazement, a very colourful parrot, talking in English. So Smoochy's Dad, answered him back, and the parrot almost fell off his perch. He spun around, about 3 times in a row. He then yelled back to my Dad, 'did you say that'? Yes, I did indeed, replied my dad, with a very proud smile on his face. Wow, said the parrot, 'I thought I was the only non human, who could speak'.  
 
Smoochy's Dad told the parrot, who's name was Polly, by the way, 'that he and his wife Sloppy, had learnt to speak English, from the ventriloquist acts performing with Mumbling Murray, the Mouth of the South, and the world famous circus troop named, 'Mr. Kazoontite's, Marvellous, Magical, Mysterious and Musically Minded Misfits'. They, in turn, taught their only son, Smoochy, mouse language. during the day and English at night, before he went to sleep.  
 
As for my Mum Sloppy and her magical dessert creations she used to make for the family. It was the best mixtures of sweet and colourful ingredients anyone could ever imagine. She used to go looking for snacks that were left on the floor under the seating area after the end of each nights circus performance. She would find things like salted popcorn with a touch of butter, a variety of different coloured chocolate, Neapolitan ice cream, orange Jaffa's and an assortment of lollies. It was so fun eating it all in a large dessert bowl after our main meal.  
 
Gee I miss those days and miss my mum and dad so much, Smoochy (Poppy) told me. So the next day I mentioned to my parents that I really need to go to the loc pet shop to get something really important for Smoochy. They said what do you need? Dad said I have built you a new pet mouse house for your grouse new pet mouse Smoochy and I even hand painted it with such colourful flair using my artistic nous.  
 
What else does Smoochy need, asked my mum. I said it is something that everyone needs in life and can never be replaced. So my parents said ok, tomorrow morning we will go down to the village pet shop and try and find what is so important for you and your grouse pet mouse Smoochy.  
 
Here we are Smoochy, at the pet shop that took you and your parents in a few years ago. Let's go and have a look for you mum and dad together. We saw slimy snakes, sticky spiders, floating frogs, flirting fish, droopy ducks and even timid turtles. Then all of a sudden we spotted several mouse houses.  
 
Smoochy was quietly saying, "Hello mum and dad are you here", even I was yelling out, Slippy, Sloppy, are you here. Then Smoochy spotted his parents in a mouse house which was stacked up on the top of a shelf full of books, towards the back of the pet shop.  
 
Hello son, how have you been and how did you and your new friend know we were living here? Smoochy told them that his new friend Stewy, knows that he can talk and I told him of my early years of life and what had happened to us all.  
 
I then yelled out to my parents, "I've found what Smoochy needs, we have found his real parents right here in Shimmerdimmerlee's village pet shop. Mum and dad said ok, you can have the two much older mice, so Smoochy has a mum and dad like everyone should have in their lives, even though they aren't his real parents.  
 
So back home we went and welcomed Smoochy's mum and dad, Slippy and Sloppy to their new grouse pet mouse house and even showed them dads unusually built and outrageously painted outback backyard shed.  
 
It was a hot afternoon, so we also slid down the "Terrific Triple Tumbling Tremendously Turning Travelling Tubes" to the village pond and introduced Buck the Duck to Smoochy's mum and dad.  
 
Smoochy and I have decided to keep his families secret to ourselves for now. It's ok that my mum and dad don't believe what I say on some occasions, because at least I know what the meaning of family means deep down inside, for myself but also for my friend and grouse pet Smoochy and his loving mum and dad.
© Fetchitnow
20 October 2019.
This children’s fun adventure book series, is only for children from ages, 1-100. So please enjoy.
Note: Please read these in order, from diary entry 1-12, to get the vibe of all of the characters and the colourful sense of this crazy mess.
Paul Butters Dec 2015
Davis Cup to Andy Murray,
Oh my God that man can scurry, in a flurry.
Sports Personality on the BBC,
Andy’s the pride of Team GB.

Andy Murray,
Replaced Fred Perry, the past to bury.
(Yet praise he does not curry).
First Wimbledon, then Davis Cup.
Team GB is on the Up.

Paul Butters
I could have written many more of these!!!
Paul Butters Jul 2016
Here’s a new form of Clerihew,
For Andy Murray who
Won twice at Wimbledon:
The fun has only just begun.

Paul Butters
Celebrating Andy's 3rd Grand Slam Victory out of 11 Finals!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
before i pull this one out of my *** (again - listen, these words are not coming from either head or heart, it's best to pull them from the bowels, a gut-wrenching-feeling is more potent than that "something" that "something" delusional pulled from a clenched heart... as far as i know, the brain is incapable of emotions, it doesn't understand them, and since it doesn't understand them: it ridicules them)... which brings me to point:

(a) perhaps the idea of a soul is out-dated... why wouldn't it be, 21g worth of breath does not equal a soul... hence the autopsy of man, each detail studied seperately, the cardiologist knows the heart, the neurologist the brain etc., but some items work in a solipsistic mode... the heart is robotic, automaton pump queen (and not the kind of pump you'd get from Shveeden) - thump thump thump! come to think of it, most of our bodies are robotic, automated... lucky for me: i don't have to think about the heart doing what it does, it just per se does it... i'm not even sure i'm gifted with the a.i. brain functions... but there's an underlying principle that governs all of these items... some call it the self... i prefer: the Σ ultimatum... some would call it soul... but there has to be something akin to the Σ ultimatum that allows me to become detached from this body, while at the same time be bound to it: high blood pressure, heart attack on the horizon... take the high blood pressure pills... ****... what was (b)? oh... yes...

(b) i'm sorry, virginity doesn't cut it for me, lucky me that it was isabella of grenoble that allowed me to move aside from: god, prior to losing my virginity.... roxette: do you feel excited, you're still the one (shanaia twain), fade to black - metallica... i was such a romantic before i lost this dreaded curse... i was a romantic... 19th century style romanticism... but you really can see past this sort of romanticism unless you haven't ******... these days the right complains about cultural marxism: plenty of things to complain about... it makes as much sense as a pickle in a dollop of custard... or cooking with pale indian ale to make a stew: bad idea... wine, brandy, cider? fine... beer? terrible idea to cook with... but unless you haven't lost your virginity, you can't see what cultural marxism chose as its opponent: cultural darwinism... you know how little you hear about darwinism outside of the english speaking world? zero to none, yes, it's an accepted fact, but this fact does not permeate outside of the fact per se, the fact contains itself and the whole subsequent narrative because subconsciously stored... no other people than the people who found it ensure there are subplot proof statements of a reconfirmation of the validity... the whole social science bogus trap of rating people on looks... contradicting the meritocracy of that old Socratic saying: let me be as beautiful on the inside as on the outside... if you haven't ******: you're still the same old romantic i was at puberty... once you ****... well... cultural marxism dwarfs... yes yes it's there... so? but at the same time you can at least appreciate seeing the antithesis: cultural darwinism... the romantic needs to die the most carnal death via experience... all my ideals were shattered, this perfection of woman... i very much liked the idea / not even the ideal of a woman... but when the idea fizzled out and there was no ideal to begin with... i saw cultural darwinism for the very first time and... it was as ugly as cultural marxism so heavily criticized by the conservative right of the west... so... i decided to walk the middle ground, ignoring both sides (of the argument).

(c) i wouldn't have come up with a point see, unless my favorite square schematic didn't pop into my mind, Kantian, as ever: the best philosophy is the antithesis of English pragmatism and overt-politicisation, so it has to be German, ergo? i will not explain these terms, i figured: if i nail a decent example to fit each category, that's enough: since you can then visualize the concept via the example:

analytical a priori                           synthetic a priori
there's a need to throw                   learning
a ball at                                                to throw a ball
a target                                                 at a target once
                                                            ­  the need has been
                                                            ­  established...



synthetic a posteriori                    analytical a posteriori
there's a  need to                           perfecting to throw
      throw a ball at                               a ball at a target
a target, in order
to perfect this need...

                                            baseball..­. cricket...
at least: that's how i define knowledge of something
simple without having to use mathematics
that Kant used to explain... 2 + 2 = 4...
mathematics isn't exactly a man's best friend
at explaining philosophy...
you write philosophy that alligns itself
to mathematics... no wonder: moths in books...
yawns, unfinished works...
i found that sports work just as well
as mathematics... and you have the already
primitive objects to work with...
rather than pseudo-objects: i.e. numbers...
the abstracts of perception: i'm actually 6ft2...
not 6ft1... karolína plíšková is 6ft1...
       as noted when watching her today...

  i'll admit, i'm always a bit shaky when it comes
to this sqaure, whether it's over-simplified,
notably the top left corner: analytical a priori,
i'm always of a mindset that wants to associated
this definition with: analytical a- priori...
  i.e. borrowing from atheism:
    to analyse something without there
being a prior to example...
               analysis without a prior example...
i guess that's the mojo of science... the driving force...
back to sports... bow and arrow...
   tools: target...
       whether a bow and arrow and a deer
to begin with...
or a hand and ball and a wicket to end with...

there's a need to throw                  
a ball at a target...

            and cricket was the precursor of
baseball, but prior to cricket?
   there was archery...
              and prior to archery...
   there was forever a fundamental need,
e.g. to go from point X to point Z...
   see... as much as Kant wanted...
   numbers don't really solve the "problem"
of explaining something: algebra would be
better suited... x + y = z...
                    with numbers either hovering
above, or below (in the instance of chemistry's
subscript)...

talking of squares... sūdoku...
well, if at any time the french were to receive a hard-on
in terms of inventing something,
the english: rugby, cricket, football, tennis...
the french really did read some of the hebrew
qabbalah literature, as i am doing...
magic squares...
       the secular version of this puzzle
first appeared on july 6, 1895 (the modern version)...

it came to us from India and China...
again... why do western cultural darwinists
always tell our genesis from
the perspective of: "out of Africa"?
aren't there elephants in India?
            i will not believe i originated in Africa,
i'm not an "out of Africa" sorry state of
incompetence... i place my origins in
the sub-continent... at least that's where my
current language originates from...
the great migration across the Siberian tundra,
rather than some African savannah...
after all the Bangladeshi and the Sri Lankans
(the tear of India) resemble burnt cinnamon
in tone, some even as dark skinned as
east africans...
   if the germanic people want to stick to
the "out of Africa" narrative (notably the English):
let them have it... i place my origins in
India...

   never mind, now i'll write a name's dropping
history of how july 6th, 1895 happened...
the "magic" squares...

    from either India or China (chess from India)...
moschopulus of contantinople
  introduced them (the "magic" squares)
in the early 1400s... apparently ancient qabbalists
had knowledge of them
  (so... a trip well spent)...
                             rabbi joseph tzayah (1505 - 1573)
magnum opus: responsa...
             rabbi joseph castro: avkat rokhel...
tzayah in jerusalem wrote his major work
Evven HaShoham (the onyx stone) - 1538 -
   a year later the book: tzeror ha-chaim discussing
the Talmud: he never really bothered about
the Zohar...
               the hebrai word for "letters": otiot...
divided into two:
                         tav aleph (a line of aleph)
and tav yod (a line of yod)...
                   one is to never concentrate
upon the keter within the realm of the sefirot...
hence the matisyahu expression:
   king without a crown...
                         one example of a "magic" square
later dictated into a 9 x 9 newspaper puzzle?
      2     9     4
      7     5     3
      6     1     8     (up down across = 15...
my date of birth? 15th may 1986,
no coincidence, just stating an oblivion's
worth of a "point)... 15 x 3 = 45...
   and that's about as significant as any
                               insignificance can be...

album of choice?
    old horn tooth - from the ghost grey depths...

and without even associating the arabs
to the hebrai practice of gamatria,
i once inquired an old pakistani (who tried to convert me)
what: Alif, Lam, Meem
implied in the opening of the al-baqarah sutra
implied?
   he replied: god knew...
        so i thought, you don't know what
alif (letter) what lam (letter) and meem (also a letter)
means? you have to search for god
for the answers? good look making me into
a proselyte... mind you:
if the jews abhor proselytes,
while the muslims are so so oh so *******
welcoming... isn't that a tad bit suspicious?
how can a muslim convert me
when he can't explain to me what
alif lam and meem implies at the opening
of al-baqarah?!
            let's play some hijāʾī order game...
and the three letters...
       28 letters in total...
alif (28), lam (6), meem (5)...
    i'm not even going to go into the gamatria
mental gymnsastics related to any
"significance"...
   point was made upon the question being
asked... if a muslim tries to covert you...
and he can't explain to you
the significance of alif lam meem at the beginning
of al-baqarah... they're letters...
well... how is he going to explain to you
what's bothersome about those letters
to begin with? ALM... does that imply: zakat?!
to give alms? zakat being one of the pillars
of islam?
  **** me... i haven't even converted
and it would appear: i know more than the person
who tried to convert me!

.i. Yuri Gagarin and the yo-yo

if ever the potency of a "keyboard crusader"
existed, it's now -
   i can dangle a mouse above a bear-trap
and tell an elephant of a phobia concerning
mice any day of the week,
          when in fact i'm talking about
a mousetrap: nothing more.
     hence the exaggeration in the imagery
comparison:
        or it begins with a story told in the 20th
century:
             when women put down their mascara
brushes, men put down their swords:
never mind the voice in the wilderness:
       mind the voice in the crowd -
there's absolutely no reason to speculate
urbanity and tribal environments without
addressing, or regressing the crowd,
or as i like to call it: what Nietzsche said,
minus the Wake... but now inclusive of the wake
and the Bacchus cult of fun fun fun.
            the Wake in condor terms?
we congregate praying for something to die...
      i don't pretend to be whatever
that sachet of concrete-Cartesian labels entitles me
too:        for the most part
        people say 'i am' without a thought to
govern the rain shaman telling you what thought
is required to 'be', oh, a very old ontological
stipend: you need people to experience a collectivisation,
a herding, a "bound together" sort of mentality
before the critic arrives and says: well, that's not
what i'm really about.
                    a bit like the **** firs, mouth second
debacle...
                but what heart they had, our predecessors!
what heart!
             they'd wage war over a woman,
a Helen,
                  would you wage a war against
the feminist version of Helen these days?
would you pluck a Scottish thistle over an English rose?
      true: you might be a bishop
and of lesser rank... but would you wage a war
over the women of these days?
my **** is in a pickle jar anyway! we have become
a *** of a species unburdened by an obligation...
             finally! we can become eternal bachelors
sort of ******* that we're here, and hear less and less
of sayings about the "things that matter".
            you know what vile? really really vile?
oh i know my contemporaries when i bother to
hear them talk, oddly enough never bother when they
think, i'm quiet content with a Godot stage of
a park bench and an old man as my company,
      i know Douglas Murray,
               i know the wild-eyed Icke,
but a thing that concerns me is why: the safety room
parallel to the leftist thesis of offensive speech
was put in play when a discussion took off
concerning feminism, between milo yiannopoulus
and julie bindel - that's like saying:
ask a pederast to talk for a heterosexual man
with a woman safe-space...
                                no one wants to hear
the heterosexual side of the argument....
  you'll sooner see heterosexual intellects have their
marriages come undone then get paired with either
side of the argument...
     little richard is in the pickle jar anyway,
and he's not coming out...
                it's a bit like ****** for dummies....
       hence i have to succumb to violence without
the glory, tongue waggling blah blah
when i'd gladly take a weapon and shove it into
a shattered cranium bone: had i the ****** chance to
do so!
           no heterosexual is taken seriously:
and won't be:
    of a woman to be like a rosy cushion on which
i can lay my head after the darkly toils of
    roofing, or laying bricks, or excavating the sewers...
no! let the Chinese do that:
the basic argument of slavery, although imported
therefore ****** ******* fine.
                         cryogenic fathers,
      pickled *****:      where's the middle in all of this?
     a coconut just fell from the Boddhi tree:
money!           and those that defend it,
don't know squat about the tribalism of squatters!
but hey! they have the ****** stage!
         i have a bench when someone approaches me
and talk, doing the best thing possible:
               knitting opinions -
i don't want the truth of opinions: i want a sweater,
or a pair of socks! that's metaphor for something
different altogether.
  keyboard crusader? really? can i ask you for
directions to the high street, in every single town
across the country? i can't find one!
         no one hears a heterosexual argument
on the various topics: because there isn't one -
                     as of the end of the 20th century,
working classes in the west striving to ensure
there is something mundane to do during the day
and kick back with the family in the evening
are the "inferior" neanderthals: who
haven't jacked into discovering a 3D reality
of what's otherwise a 2D computer screen and
aren't hooked on #crack;
honestly, so much debating ought to be opera,
and so much opera ought to be debating -
    ah: that famous tingle of utopian paradoxes
never in duality, but always in dichotomy.
   keyboard crusader?
really? i thought people were always moaning
about how many emails they receive:
   and never a single postcard from, say,
someplace like Venice?
           it's still early days,
                   and already we're brewing enough
cliches to replace all known nouns in
    the surrogate mother that's the dictionary
of our completed version of a soul -
if ever to be experienced upon meeting the omni-vocabulary;
jigsaws, i know my idiosyncratic version
of events, he says photosynthesis within parameters
                            of photon deconstruction of hydrogen;
'cos' it's sub; d'uh! i say god i say this perfected
version of nearing telepathy - you say god i hope you
don't mean satan's clause - great anagram to frighten
children with: the Babushka surprise of a Pumpkin head
laughing it's way toward: how easy life would be
if we had all that time to think it through as being hard,
rather than that mortal fleetingness in both thought
and body.

ii. Macbeth

it really dawned on me, when i was watching the film
Macbeth (2015) -
            there was an eeriness to it, a near perfection
of Shakespeare on screen...
           honestly? i'd rather read Kant early on in life
while i have the vigour, and leave old age to Shakespeare...
but it truly was eerie all over the place.
      i do recall seeing Romeo + Juliet
          and reading the script, and imagining the fallacy
of word for word translation from theatre to cinema
of the script: the narrator a news channel anchor,
and everything said, word, for, word.
that film with DiCaprio as Romeo and Claire Danes
as Juliet - it just felt itchy, uncomfortable -
                            Shakespeare, word for word, on screen?!
     (surprise, then astonishment, not !? or astonishment,
   then the surprise, because: it didn't really work);
and it didn't! you can't adapt Shakespeare to the screen
and put everything in! i noticed it at that ******
generous scene in Macbeth concerning the battle
of Ellon... so i was like like... this isn't typescript...
(and thank **** it isn't) -
you can't depict Shakespeare word for word,
to be honest, Macbeth (2015) is the only worthy
translation of Macbeth (the text) into Macbeth (the movie);
all this scientific exactness in previous examples
like Romeo + Juliet, the Merchant of Venice
and a Midsummer's Night Dream don't work,
it's their precision making,
     a theatre cast can take it, but a cinema going crowd,
with all these cutting and copying and repasting
    succinct moments? it doesn't work!
maybe because there's no actual narrator in the staged
examples? narrator as a necessary character understudy:
surely Puck and the news anchor are there:
don't know about the Shylock scenario...
           but these screen adaptations didn't work for me,
too rigid, too formal... in the case of Macbeth?
finally! the long awaited piquant version of Shakespeare:
all that matters, and the rest is thrown into
poetic technique: imagery, metaphor,
                everything that's necessary can be given grammar
as image and not word!
       want an example? from the text...
the Royal Shakespeare
  from the text of Professor Delius
  and introduction by f. j. Furnivall, ll.d.
         vol. v (special edition)
Cassell & Company, Ltd.

        sure, it feels like a Roman Polanski moment
akin to the 9th Gate scenic affair of a bibliophile
fetishist, and it is:

     ... (the only enemy of enso poetry
is the bladder) ...

well the screen play first:

banquo: what are these?
macbeth: live you? or are you aught
                          that man may question?
       speak if you can - what are you?
1st witch: macbeth! hail to thee
                    thane of Glamis!
2nd witch: macbeth... hail to thee,
       thane of Cawdor!
3rd witch: all hail Macbeth! that shalt be king in-after.

but such disparity, such **** as if once
of Lucretia, then of the authority,
for i have before me the original composition:
which is not worth cinema -
nonetheless, a **** takes place:
an assortment for the abdication of a king:
or as ever suggested: the wrong footed path:
never was tossing a coin in a gamble
that of tossing a crown into the air
for a court jester to appear less amusing
and more scolding.

act i, scene iii: post the battle of ellon...
  if ever the refusal to give up Greek myth,
then Macbeth's witches
      and Perseus' Graeae -
                            or naturalise a myth:
like you might not naturalise a strengthened
economy.... canonise the nation
with Elgin Marbles - Elgin: less than
what's said to be the exfoliation of the Aegean -
a municipality somewhere in Scotland:
west of Aberdeen, on the Northern Sea's
battering of the coast...
but word for word? or how to write Shakespeare
into cinema?
                 herr zensor must come into play -
you have to bypass imagery in poetic tongue
and relay it with actual images, a direly needed
necessity:

just after the three witches arrive,
enter Macbeth and Bonquo...

   Macb. so foul and fair a day i have not seen.
Ban. how far is't call'd to Fores? - what are these,
     so wither'd and so wild in their attire,
that look not like th' inhabitants o' the earth,
   and yet are on 't?
             live you? or are you aught that man may
question?

                  (how word for word, but the words
waggle from a different tongue, namely that of
Macbeth, and not that of Banquo, hence
italicised).
                   continuing:
       you seem to understand me,
by each at once her choppy finger laying upon her
skinny lips: - you should be women, and yet your
beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.
Macb. speak, if you can - what are you?
         the witches. all hail, Macbeth!
     hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
         all hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!
         all hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
            
so does he really belong on the psychoanalytic
couch? is he really that necessarily wonton of talk?
  Cawdor v. Gondor - it's an ongoing narrative.
but is he in need of a couch?
                 what sort of talk is talk when
in fact the only talk that's need to be said is the talk
of man's sexualised naturalisation for strife,
and here: as if knocking on a door:
you want to simply hear the onomatopoeia of
the Kabbalah in a woman gasping for breath
while puny Jewish boys under strict rabbinical
studies study?

                mama, take this badge from  me,
i can't use it, anymore,
            it's getting dark, too dark to see,
feels like i'm knockin' on heaven's door -
      my big mouth and man as a piston
                                               Ferrari acrobat


(even the soundtrack is a shrill, a strangulation
variant of higher pitch of the bagpipes -
not that braveheart ****** of whisking out
a song like for the love of a princess addition to:
  and can i have a madonna to boot too?
it's piercing, a whale sonar above refrigerator
white noise hum for the new age Buddha -
and that's because all the poetry has been excavated
  to suit cinema: not theatre).

and this is the first adaptation of Shakespeare i actually
could stomach...
     the genius was in how Macbeth spoke the lines
of Bonqua - so the character didn't start smacking
the narrative ****** in terms of solipsism:
even Shakespeare can be attacked on this front...
        if in the movie Banqua said all that was in
the typescript: the film wouldn't have worked...
i don't know what the big deal is with Lady Macbeth:
i thought that in the olden days
Macbeth suggested to King Duncan that:
can i leave the warring if you **** my wife?
i can go on the contract that you **** my wife
and i stop serving you?
      first impressions: strange English.
well, i'm sure she's important as it might be said:
within the programme of Orthodoxy,
            but never catholic (metadoxy) tradition of
saying: way hey! ensnare the mare in a funfair!
       and play the game: pin the tale on the donkey!
heads or tails?      it looks pretty damnable
     in the first place: as all honesty hogs to pout and
***** a hoggish sneeze out of the story.

iii. shaken, not stirred

and indeed, how many a times
did not a neon blossom sprout,
thinking it might rattle an oratory
with an oak in autumn, and behold
a swarm of leaves descend -
not out of passing ease,
but out of wishful thinking
that some indentation might be made:
with whom the hands of will reside,
and yet: to no gratifying effect,
to whatever atomic-centralisation
dream, be that ego or be it hydrogen
(lending hands: so too
electric or thus negative, neutral and
thus proto) - shake foundation
and give a revising repertoire of
              the covering dust humanity
that once made famous: never
again to learn the humility of the start;
        to whatever centric dream that
does not waver in demands of orientation,
be it father (sun), son (shadow)
  or the holy spirit (night) -
  make them earn! be obscure!
            or simply say: in the community
of the stated congregation:
  i find all to be as night,
   and safer that plague the father:
  i am not akin to the shadow:
                   but the shadow in mirror.
so, a centric dream that does not
waver in demands for orientation,
has ever or will be enthroned in man's
heart as the stability of Sabbath's demands
       for less, oh so much less to agitate with!
as too, when the ancient appliances
were adorned by countless demands of
mimic, so too our modern
fibbles are to stage a usurping of
such things demanded and their mimic;
for with such disclosure does all fate
of anewed become burdened in what
history could be: shaken,
rather than simply a stirring of the void,
nothing more than the unburdening
of sweetening a cup of coffee, of that and
the layers: or bitter at the top, drank
through toward the sedimented sweetness -
and all that: hoping i could have retained
that silver spoon lodged in my ***
          when i first met her and thought about
consolidating marriage: so fresh, eager prune
of the flesh embodiment as first
    watered ash, then entombed in marble
and the eternal... ah
               but it was all just the faintest of dreams;
so lumberjack sleep ensued,
                      as did a kindred worth ethic:
we are a long way from Eden...
      there is but the idyll of the absurd fruition of
albreit macht frei... or a redefinement of
such stakes as: what occupies our days?
                    if not war, if not disease,
if not the Chinese... what does, occupy our days?
Mr Bigglesworth Apr 2013
It was only the other day you fell asleep in your old chair
The one that was in your front room decades ago
You didn't see Andy Murray lose but you didn't care
You’d eaten well and heavy eyed you dozed

I’m sorry but when I lost the house it had to go
I know throwing it out was a bit wrong
But if chairs go to heaven though
At least you’ll have something there to sit on

I wish I’d never told you off for smoking by the pump
You looked so sad that I’d made you feel a fool
But imagine how you would have made those people jump
As they were all engulfed by a massive fireball

Enjoy your new lungs and try keeping them clean for a few hours
Enjoy your time with Granddad it’s been thirty years too long
Enjoy strolling through those heavenly gardens with all your favourite flowers
But in heaven, please don’t bag cuttings; I’m sure up there it’s wrong!
Still must I hear?—shall hoarse FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme—I’ll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

  Oh! Nature’s noblest gift—my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which ’twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet’s shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

  When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,
Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;
When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;
E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

  Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!—have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed—older children do the same.
’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.
Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,
Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

  A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure—Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

And shall we own such judgment? no—as soon
Seek roses in December—ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, why I venture o’er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend,—”here’s some neglect:
This—that—and t’other line seem incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden—”Aye, but Pye has not:”—
Indeed!—’tis granted, faith!—but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.

  Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE’S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;
A polished nation’s praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE’S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY’S melt;
For Nature then an English audience felt—
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire’s self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,
And Printers’ devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY’S Epics cram the creaking shelves,
And LITTLE’S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.
Thus saith the Preacher: “Nought beneath the sun
Is new,” yet still from change to change we run.
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,
In turns appear, to make the ****** stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O’er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail;
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;
Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT.

  Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song,
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!—
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner’s brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why;
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard’s grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

  Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight.
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base.
And think’st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet’s sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain!
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo’s venal son,
And bid a long “good night to Marmion.”

  These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.

  The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung,
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years.
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content,
On one great work a life of labour spent:
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory’s niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A ****** Phoenix from her ashes risen.
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,
Arabia’s monstrous, wild, and wond’rous son;
Domdaniel’s dread destroyer, who o’erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e’er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o’ercome,
For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense!
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville’s, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
“God help thee,” SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

  Next comes the dull disciple of thy school,
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend “to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;”
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of “an idiot Boy;”
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the “idiot in his glory”
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

  Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here,
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity’s a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse,
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ***:
So well the subject suits his noble mind,
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.

Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo’s sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak’st thy stand,
By gibb’ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band;
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command “grim women” throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With “small grey men,”—”wild yagers,” and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease:
Even Satan’s self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta’s fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
’Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o’er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o’er,
She bids thee “mend thy line, and sin no more.”

For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue,
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o’er harmonious fustian half expires,
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author’s sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think’st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camoëns in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.

Behold—Ye Tarts!—one moment spare the text!—
HAYLEY’S last work, and worst—until his next;
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or **** the dead with purgatorial praise,
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see “Temper’s Triumphs” shine!
At least I’m sure they triumphed over mine.
Of “Music’s Triumphs,” all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph’d there.

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward
On dull devotion—Lo! the Sabbath Bard,
Sepulchral GRAHAME, pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e’en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

  Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings”
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro’ threescore of years,
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers.
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles!
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing’st with equal ease, and grief,
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse’s hap,
If to thy bells thou would’st but add a cap!
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
’Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE’S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE’S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine;
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone—but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode,
And gravely tells—attend, each beauteous Miss!—
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!—at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If ‘chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first,
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets
George Krokos Dec 2010
Aborigines and kangaroos
boomerangs and didjeridoos.
Leafy gum tree branch and koala bear
black stump in the middle of nowhere.
Jolly swagman camped by a billabong
in 'Waltzing Matilda' a favourite song.
The wild brumbies roaming free in the outback
a scruffy hobo living alone in a country shack.
Aboriginal myths called their dreamtime
the native Australians regard as sublime.
Ring-tailed possum and wombat
aussie bloke wearing akubra hat.
Alice Springs and Ayers Rock
outback stations and livestock.
Ned Kelly bushranger and his law brushes
the Eureka stockade during the gold rushes.
Laughing kookaburra and old man emu
platypus swimming in underwater view.
Banjo Patterson’s poem ‘The Man from Snowy River’
who went riding down mountain side without a quiver.
Surfers paradise and the Great Barrier reef
sixties rock ‘n roll legend: Johnny O’Keefe.
Anzac marches and the land of the Southern cross
old Cobb & Co. stagecoach used to travel across.
Glorious summer sunshine and winter rains
severe country drought and the desert plains.
Eucalyptus scent and Tea-tree oil
good health remedies from the soil.
Fresh water yabbies and the witchety grub
all make good tucker in the bush or scrub.
Crocodiles in the Kakadu national park
Burrumundi and the great white shark.
Sydney harbour bridge and the Opera House
Daintree rain forest and the kangaroo mouse.
Sheep wool farming and old shearing sheds
Melbourne Cup horse race for thoroughbreds.
Riverboat cruising up and down the Murray
passing border country towns not in a hurry.
Cradle mountain and the Tasmanian Devil
saying ‘fair dinkum’ means it’s on the level.
AFL rules football and big crowds at the MCG
playing one day cricket there is exciting to see.
The Fitzroy Gardens and Captain Cook’s cottage
are there for all to see as symbols of our heritage.
The Twelve Apostles standing along a rugged stretch of coast
a Ninety-Mile beach is something about which we can also boast.
The Glass House mountains are a sight to see and even to climb
by those who consider themselves fit enough and in their prime.
The great Australian Bight and the road on the Nullarbor plain
is a great feat to drive across and be able to come back again.
The local native wild dog known by name as the Dingo
has nothing to do with a game people play called Bingo.
There’s also a game called two-up that some people play
by which they gamble most of their weeks wages away.
Luna Park in St.Kilda and the annual Royal Melbourne Show
are places where you can take the kids to have fun people know.
There’s the local pub where you can go and have a drink with your mates
and is what many do all day long having a few too many in all the States.
This great southern land of Australia has so much to see and to offer
it would be a ****** shame if one didn’t give a **** or was a scoffer.
_________
Private Collection - written in 2002
David Bird Feb 2010
Andy Murray lost in the final
Some said he lacked something spinal
  That ****** Fed
  I don't wish him dead
But I'd stick his head in a ******.
......
I know it's not cricket, but I happen to like tennis too.
Andy Murray "lost" the Australian Open final.
Is it a failure?  No.
Should he have done better?  He should have won the 3rd set.
Could he have won?  Yes, but Fed was too hot that day.
Will he win a slam?  Yes.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.when it comes to certain issues, i have enlarged pupils with a lost iris ring, some whiteness of the eyeball... and? ****** in my eyes.

so... wait a minute... wait a minute...
you... want to bleach myself?
somehow, magically forget where
i was born?
forget my mother-tongue -
even though, i speak your tongue,
better than, some of
the migrants you're defending,
primarily focusing on skin color?!
you're mad... just like my neighbor...
who rudely "asked" me...
to... TELL HIM WHEN I'LL BE
COOKING BBQ... BECAUSE HE'S
DRYING HIS WASHING IN
THE GARDEN...
   or?
TELLING ME I CAN'T SMOKE OUTSIDE
MY BEDROOM WINDOW...
BECAUSE HE HAS HIS WINDOWS
OPEN...
AND HIS CHILD IS SLEEPING
IN THE ADJACENT ROOM...
is... this... the ******* king
of England addressing me?!
i thought so...
     no!
you don't get to tell me...
why...
     the following newspaper
articles reads:
     MORE A-LEVELS IN P.E.
THAN FRENCH AS PUPILS DROP
EUROPEAN LANGUAGES...
   only 8,713 A-level students took
French this year...
     in 1996 (22,718)...
and P.E. of this year?
   11,307...
     hmm...
        what sort of post-colonial power...
doesn't at least pursue a...
"schizophrenia" of bilingualism,
with at least one
post-colonial ally...
like France, or Spain?!
     lazy English ***** think their
society will run, "better"...
if i somehow do a hee-hee
of a Michael Jackson bleaching
session,
and somehow, learn amnesia,
of forgetting my native tongue...
*******!
not gonna happen!
        you learn French!
how's that?!
      you dictate elsewhere...
how about you take the time
and effort to teach your former subjects
your language...
and i?!
i will teach you... TACT!
  because you've clearly forgotten
your excellence in exercising it!
example?
   imagine your father,
working for a construction
industry... and a site manager
starts calling him at 9pm...
you do know...
  that work-calls, past 5pm...
are illegal in, of all places, Germany?!
the English have forgotten their
prime attire... of tact...
less tux and more tact...
do the English even know that it's illegal
to make work-focusing phone calls
outside of the sensibility of
the 9-to-5 schematic?!
no... of course not...
the women can't cook pasta...
over-cook it, or under-cook potatoes...
but sure as **** they love,
"working"... work in their sleep...
   wait for office phone-calls at 9pm...
so efficient in their prescribed
allocation timing...
    that's not... "WORK"!
the English, we can thank...
have perfected PROCRASTINATION.
Like a sloop in mid ocean toss
To and fro by a wind boisterous,
Whose fortune is past help and hope, seems he
Among the flotilla of his game--supposedly.

Remember i about two seasons or years
Agone, when it was bruited to my ears
By some analysts and commentators alike,
That the player probably might not strike
Home a Grand Slam at all in his career.
The critics, howbeit, this day wrong were
Proven for his fate changed, when the hand
Of heaven which, as it wills, doth command
The affairs of man, causes at once to cease
The waves, turning a seeming failure to success.
For there in that distant land of America did
That ever presistent and optimistic, avid
For, focusing on a title Andy Murray of Britain,
At last his first Open Tennis Trophy obtain.

No theory new doth his crown prescribe;
Only that a man should likewise subscribe
To those ancient proven principles: believe
In God and thyself, and sincerely give
To every pursuit of life thine very strength and
Power; and whether the occasion be a Grand
Prix or Slam, allow nay no rollicking pundit
Thy faith to cast down. For like a bandit
Are negative words; they do rob the heart
Of its courage and confidence for the most part.

Yea, at 25, the British boy berthed eventually,
Despite the storms, at the harbour of victory.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne' er succeed.
--Emily Dickinson

I was glad that Andy finally won a Grand Slam on September 10, 2012, at Flushing Meadows, New York, after many an attempt of winning one.
In any career "victory is always sweetest."
Tim T May 2010
A Czech? Not to worry
Yet Murray groaned a lot
and went from Brit to Scot
in a frightful hurry
Roland Garros 2010, 4th round: Thomas Berdych defeated Andy Murray in 3 fairly easy sets. The "went from Brit to Scot" part is related to this great site: http://www.andymurrayometer.com/index.htm
Dorothy A Jul 2010
It was the summer of 1954. David Ito was from the only Japanese family we had in our town. I was glad he was my best friend. Actually, he was my only friend. His father moved his family to our small town of Prichard, Illinois when David was only eight years old. That was three years ago.

Only two and a half months apart, I was the older one of our daring duo. I even was a couple inches taller than David was, so that settled it. In spite of being an awkward girl, our differences in age and height made me quite superior at times, although David always snickered at that notion. To me, theses differences were huge and monumental, like the distance of the sun from the moon. To David, that was typical girlish nonsense. He thought it was so like a girl, to try to outdo a boy.  And he should have known. He was the only son of five children, and he was the oldest.

At first, David was not interested in being friends with a girl. But I was Josephine Dunn, Josie they called me, and I was not just any girl. Yet, like David, I did not know if I really liked him enough to be his friend. We started off with this one thing in common.

I knew he was smarter than anybody I ever knew, that is except for my father, a self-taught man. The tomboy that I was, I was not so interested in books and maps, and David was almost obsessed with them. Yet, there was a kindred spirit that ignited us to become close, something coming in between two misfits to make a good match. David was obviously so different from the rest. He came from an entirely different culture, looking so out-of-the-ordinary than the typical face of our Anglo-Saxon, Protestant community, and me, never really fitting in with any group of peers in school, I liked him.

David knew he did not fully fit in. I surely did not fit, either. My brother, Carl, made sure very early on in my life that I was to be aware of one thing. And that one thing was that I did not belong in my family, or really anywhere in life. Mostly, this was because I was not of my father’s first family, but I came after my father’s other children and was the baby, the apple of my father’s eye. But that wasn’t the real reason why Carl hated me.

During World War Two, my father enlisted in the army. He already had two small sons and a daughter to look after, and they already had suffered one major blow in their young lives. They had lost their mother to cancer. Louise Dunn was an important figure in their lives. She was well liked in town and very much missed by her family and friends.
  
Why their father wanted to leave his children behind, possibly fatherless, made no sense to other people. But Jim Dunn came from a proud military family and would not listen to anyone telling him not to fight but rather to stay home with his children. His father fought in the First World War, and three of his great grandfathers fought for the Union Army in the Civil War. It was not like my father to back out of a fight, not one with great principles.  My father was no coward.

Not only did my father leave three small children back home, but a new, young wife. Two years before World War Two ended, he made it back home to his lovely, young wife and family. Back in France, my father was wounded in his right leg. The result of the wound caused my father to forever walk with a limp and the assistance of a cane. It was actually a blessing in disguise what would transpire. He could have easily came home in a pine box. He was thankful, though, that he came away with his life. After recovering for a few months in a French hospital, my father was eager to go home to his family. At least he was able to walk, and to walk away alive.

This lovely, young woman who was waiting for him at home was twenty-year-old Flora Laurent, now Flora Dunn, my mother, and she was eleven years younger than my father. All soldiers were certainly eager to get home to their loved ones. My father was one of thousands who was thrilled to be back on American soil, but his thrill was about to dampen. Once my father laid eyes on his wife again, there was no hiding her highly expanding belly and the overall weight gain showed in her lovely, plump face. She had no excuses for her husband, or any made-up stories to tell him, and there really nothing for her to say to explain why she was in this condition. Simply put, she was lonely.

Most men would have left such a situation, would have gone as far away from it as they possibly could have. Being too ashamed and resentful to stay, they would have washed their hands of her in a heartbeat. Having a cheating wife and an unwanted child on their hands to raise would be too much to bear. Any man, in his right mind, would say that was asking for way too much trouble.  Most men would have divorced someone like my mother, kicked her out, and especially they would hate the child she would be soon be giving birth to, but not my father. He always stood against the grain.

Not only did Jim Dunn forgive his young wife, he took me under his wing like I was his very own. Once I knew he was not my true father, I could never fully fathom why he was not ready to pack me off to an orphanage or dump me off somewhere far away. Why he was so forgiving and accepting made him more than a war hero. It made him my hero. That was why I loved him so much, especially because, soon after I was born, my mother was out of our lives. Perhaps, such a young woman should not be raising three step children and a newborn baby.

My father never mentioned any of the details of my conception, but he simply did his best to love me. He was a tall, very slim and a quiet man by nature. With light brown hair, grey eyes, and a kind face, he looked every bit of the hero I saw him as. He was willing to help anyone in a pinch, and most people who knew him respected him. Nobody in town ever talked about this situation to my father. To begin with, my father was not a talker, and he probably thought if he did talk about it, the pain and shame of it would not go away.

One of my brothers, Nathan, and my sister, Ann, seemed to treat me like a regular sister. Yet, Carl, the oldest child, hated me from the start. As a girl who was six years younger, I never understood why. He was the golden boy, with keen blue eyes and golden, wavy hair, as were Nathan and Ann.  I had long, dark brown hair, which I kept in two braids, with plenty of unsightly brown freckles, and very dark, brown eyes.  Compared to my sister, who was five years older, I never felt like I was a great beauty.

I was pretty young when Carl blurted out to me in anger, “Your mother is a *****!”  I cried a bit, wiped away the tears with my small hands and yelled back, “No, she isn’t!” Of course, I was too young to know what that word meant. When my brother followed that statement up with, “and you are a *******”, I ran straight to my father. I was almost seven years old.

My father scolded Carl pretty badly that day. Carl would not speak to me for months, and that was fine with me. That evening my father sat me upon my knee. “Daddy, what is a *****?” I asked him.

My father gently put his fingers up to my lips to shush me up. He then went into his wallet and showed me a weathered black-and-white photo he had of himself with his arms around my mother. It was in that wallet for some time, and he pulled out the wrinkled thing and placed it in front of me.

My father must have handled that picture a thousand times. Even with all the bad quality, with the wrinkles, I could see a lovely, young lady, with light eyes and dark hair, smiling as she was in the arms of her protector. My father looked proud in the photograph.

He said to me, his expression serious, “whatever Carl or anybody says about your mother, she will always be your mother and I love her for that”. I looked earnestly in his somber, grey eyes. “Why did she go away?” I asked him.

My father thought long and hard about how to answer me. He replied, “I don’t know. She was young and had more dreams in her than this town could hold for her”. He smiled awkwardly and added, “But at least she left me the best gift I could have—you.”  

I would never forget the warmth I felt with my father during that conversation. Certainly, I would never forget Carl’s cruel words, or sometimes the odd glances on the faces of townswomen, like they were studying me, comparing me to how I looked next to my father, or their whispers as the whole family would be out in town for an occasion. It did not happen every day, but this would happen whenever and wherever, when a couple of busybodies would pass me and my father walking down Main Street, or when we went into the ice cream parlor, or when I went with my father to the dime store, and it always made me feel very strange and vaguely sad, like I had no real reason to be sad but was anyway.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


That summer of 1954, I was a bit older, maybe a bit wiser than when Carl first insulted my estranged mother. I was eleven years old, and David was my equal, my sidekick. Feeling less like a kid, I tried not to boss him too much, and he tried not to be too smart in front of me. I held my own, though, had my own intelligence, but my smarts were more like street smarts. After all, I had Carl to deal with.

David seemed destined for something better in life. My life seemed like it would always be the same, like my feet were planted in heavy mud. David and I would talk about the places we would loved go to, but David would mark them on a map and track them out like his plans would really come to fruition. I never liked to dream that big. Sure, I would love to go somewhere exciting, somewhere where I’d never have to see Carl again, or some of the kids at school, but I knew why I had a reason to stay. I respected my father. That is why I did not wish to leave. And David respected his father. That is why he knew he had to leave.

David Ito’s father was a tailor. David’s parents came from Japan, and they hoped for a good life in their new country. Little did they know what would be in store for them. After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, their lives, with many other Japanese Americans, were soon turned upside down. David was born in an internment camp designed to isolate Japanese people from the nation once Americans declared war on Germany and their allies. David and I were both born in 1943, and since the war ended two years later, David had no memories of the internment camp experience. Even so, David was impacted by it, because the memories haunted his parents.

There was no getting around it. David and I, as different as we were, liked each other. Still, neither he nor I felt any silly kind of puppy love attraction. David had still thought of girls as mushy and silly, and that is why he liked me. I was not mushy or silly, and I could shoot a sling shot better than he did. David loved the sling shot his parents bought him for his last birthday. They allowed him to have it just as long as he never shot it at anyone.

David Ito, being the oldest child in his family, and the only son, allowed him to feel quite special, a very prized boy for just that reason. Mr. Ito worked two jobs to support his family, and Mrs. Ito took in laundry and cooked for the locals who could not cook their own meals. Mrs. Ito was an excellent cook. Whatever they had to give their children, David was first in line to receive it.

The majority of those in my town of Prichard respected Mr. Ito, at least those who did business with him. He was not only able to get good tailoring business in town, but some of the neighboring towns gave him a bit of work, too. When he was not working in the textile factory, Mr. Ito was busy with his measuring tape and sewing machine.  

Even though Mr. Ito gained the respect of the townspeople, he still was not one of us. I am sure he knew it, too. Yet Mr. Ito lived in America most of his life. He was only nine-years-old when his parents came here with their children. Like David, Mr. Ito certainly knew he was Japanese. The mirror told him that every day. But he also knew felt an internal tug-of war that America was his country more than Japan was, even when he was proud of his roots, even though he was once locked up in that camp, and even when some people felt that he did not belong here.

If David was called an unkind name, I felt it insulted, too, for our friendship meant that much to me. How many times I got in trouble for fighting at school! My father would be called into the principal’s office, and I was asked by Mr. Murray to explain why I would act in such an undignified way. “They called David a ***** ***”, I exclaimed. “David is my friend!”

Because David and I were best buddies, we heard lots of jeering remarks. “Josie loves a ***! Josie loves a ***!” some of the children taunted. And Carl, with his meanness, loved to be head of the line to pick on us. He once said to me, “It figures that the only friend you can get is a scrawny ***!”

In spite of my troubles at school, Father greatly admired David and his father, and he thought that David and I were good for each other’s company. Mr. Ito greatly respected my father, in return, not only for his business but because my dad could fix any car with just about any problem. Jim Dunn was not only a brilliant man, in my eyes, but the best mechanic in town. When Mr. Ito needed work done on his car, my father was right there for him. It was an even exchange of paid work and admiration.

Both my father and David’s father felt our relationship was harmless. After all, everyone in David’s family knew and expected that he would marry a nice Japanese girl. There was no question about it. Where he would find one was not too important for a boy of his age. Neither of us experienced puberty yet and, under the watchful eye of my father, we would just be the best of buddies.

David pretended like the remarks said about him never bothered him, but I knew differently. I knew he hated Carl, and we avoided him as much as possible. David was nothing like me in this respect—he was not a fighter. Truly, he did not have a fighting bone in his body, not one that picked up a sword to stab it in the heart of someone else. It was not that David was not brave, for he was, but he knew the ugliness of war without ever even having to go to battle. Nevertheless, he used his intellect to fight off any of the racist remarks made about him or his family. He had to face it—the war had only ended nine years prior and a few of the war veterans in town fought in the Pacific.      

Because of the taunts David had experienced in school, I was not surprised what David’s father had in store for his beloved son.  Mr. Ito could barely afford to send one child to private school, but he was about to send one. David was about to be that child. When David told me that when school resumed he would be going to a boy’s school in Chicago, my heart sank. Why? Why did he have to go? I would never see him again!

“You will see me in the summer”, he reassured me. He looked at me as I tried to appear brave. I sat cross-legged on the grass and stared straight ahead like I never even heard him. I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit, and my lips felt like they were quivering.

We were both using old pop bottles for target practice. They sat in a row on an old tree stump shining in the evening sun. David was shooting at them with his prized slingshot. I had a makeshift one that I created out of a tree branch and a rubber band.

“You won’t even remember me”, I complained.

“I will to”, he insisted. “I remember everything.”

“Oh, sure you will”, I said sarcastically. “You’ll be super duper smart and I will just be a dummy”. In anger, I rose up my slingshot, and I hit all three bottles, one by one, then I threw the slingshot to the ground. David missed all the shots he took earlier.

David threw his slingshot down, too. “For being a girl, you are pretty smart!” he shouted. “You are too smart for your own good! The reason I like you is because you are better than anyone I ever met in my entire life. Well…not better than my parents, but you are the neatest girl I ever knew in my life!”

For a while, we didn’t talk. We just sat there and let the warm, summer breeze do our talking for us. I pulle
copywrited 2010
I tilted my head . I wilted and was dead -
No longer entangled in this snare called life -
none the less remembered, respected
Dejected in my illusion -
Where i wander most often, unclaimed and disillusioned -
Whatever was I hoping for-
longing in which to see -
the distorted , unreported - dismemberment of ME -
Expectations are like curses, drowning and alienating ALL who dare to dream -
The Ideals of a stranger - I am now what I seem
Two Bulgarian poets entered “The Second Genesis” – Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry – India’2014
Poems of the Bulgarian poets Bozhidar Pangelov and Mira Dushkova are included in the Indian project “The Second Genesis: An Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry”. Bozhidar Pangelov’s poems are: “Time is an Idea” and “…I hear” translated by Vessislava Savova; as for Mira Dushkova’s poems – “Beyond”, “Sozopolis” and “The Girl”, they were translated by Petar Kadiyski.


For the authors:
Bozhidar Pangelov was born in the soft month of October in the city of the chestnut trees, Sofia, Bulgaria, where he lives and works. He likes joking that the only authorship which he acknowledges are his three children and the job-hobby in the sphere of the business services. His first book Four Cycles (2005) written entirely with an unknown author but in a complete synchronous on motifs of the Hellenic legends and mythos. The coauthor (Vanja Konstantinova) is an editor of his next book Delta (2005) and she is the woman whom “The Girl Who…” (2008) is dedicated to. His last (so far) book is “The Man Who…” (2009). In June 2013 a bi lingual poetry book A Feather of Fujiama is being published in Amazon.com as a Kindle edition. Some of his poems are translated in Italian, German, Polish, Russian, Chinese and English languages and are published on poetry sites as well as in anthologies and some periodicals all over the world. Bozhidar Pangelov is on of the German project Europe takes Europa ein Gedicht. “Castrop Rauxel ein Gedicht RUHR 2010” and the project “SPRING POETRY RAIN 2012”, Cyprus.
Mira Dushkova (1974) was born in in Veliko Tarnovo, the medieval capital of Bulgaria. She earned a MA degree from the University of Veliko Tarnovo, and later on a PhD in Modern Bulgarian Literature, from Ruse University Angel Kanchev, in 2010, where she is currently teaching literature courses.
Her writing includes poetry, essays, literary criticism and short stories. She has published several poetry books in Bulgarian: “I Try Histories As Clothes“ (1998), „Exercise On The Scarecrow” (2000), „Scents and Sights“ (2004), literary monograph “Semper Idem : Konstantin Konstantinov. Poetics of the late stories“ (2012, 2013) and the story collection „Invisible Things“ (2014).
Her poems have been published in literary editions in Bulgaria, USA, Sweden, Hungary, Croatia, Romania, Turkey and India. Some of her poems and essays have been first prize winners of different Bulgarian contests for literature.
She has attended poetry festivals in Bulgaria, Croatia (Zagreb) and Turkey (Istanbul and Ordu).
She lives in Ruse – Bulgaria.

For the Antology “The Second Genesis”:
In the anthology titled „The Second Genesis“ are published the poems of 150 poets from 57 countries. All poems are in English. The Antology consists of 546 pages. “The Second Genesis” includes authors’ and editors’ biographies and three indexes: of the authors; of the poem titles and an index based on the first verses. It is issued by “A.R.A.W.LII” (Academy of ‘raitɘ(s) And Word Literati) – an academy, which encourages literature and creative writing and realizes cultural connections between India and the other countries. Four times a year ARAWLII publishes in India the international magazine for poetry and creative writing „Prosopisia“. Its Chief Editor and President of A.R.A.W.LII is Prof. Anuraag Sharma. He is also author of Antology’s Introduction.
Participating Countries:
Albania, Argentina, Armenia, Australia, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazil, Bulgaria, Albania, Great Britain, Germany, Greece, Denmark, Egypt, Estonia, India, Iran, Iraq, Ireland, Israel, Spain, Italy, Jordan, Canada, Cyprus, China, Kosovo, Cuba, Macao, Macedonia, Niger, Norway, Pakistan, Palestine, Poland, Puerto Rico, Romania, Russia, Saudi Arabia, USA, Singapore, Syria, Serbia, Taiwan, Tunis, Turkey, Fiji, Philippines, Finland, France, Holland, Croatia, Montenegro, Czech Republic, Chile, Sweden, Switzerland, Scotland, South Africa, Japan
For the editors:
Anuraag Sharma – editor and president of A.R.A.W.LII
Poet, critic, author of short stories, translator and playwrighter, Anuraag has to his credit the following publications: “Kiske Liye?”, “Punarbhava”, “Audhava”, Dimensions of the Angel: A Study of the poetry of Les Murray’s Poetry “Iswaswillbe” – a collection of short stories, “Setu” (“The Bridges”). He has also co-editor the volume of conference papers: ”Caring Cultures: Sharing Imaginations. Some of his recent publications include: “A Trilogy of plays”, “Mehraab” (“The Arch”) – translations of selected poems of four Canberra Poets, “Papa and Other Poems”, “Sau Baras Ka Sitara Eik” – translation of Andrew Parkin’s “A Star of Hundred Years”, “As if a wooden house I am”- translations of Surendra Chaturverdi, “Satish Verma: The Poet” and “Tere Jaane ke Baad Tere Aane as Pehle”. He is also editor-in-chief of two international journals – “Lemuria” and “Prosopisia”. Currently he is working as a Professor in English at Govt. College “Kekri” Ajmer, India.

Moizur Rehman Khan – co-redactor, project manager, secretary of A.R.A.W.LII
He studied Urdo and Persian Literature in college and later on competed his master degree in English literature from “Dayanand” College, Ajmer, India. He completed his research dissertation under the supervision of Anuraag Sharma on “Major themes in the poetry of Chris Wallas-Crabbe”. He is a creative writer. His poems and articles have been published in various magazines and journals. Currently he is teaching English at DMS, RIE, Ajmer, India.
References for the Antology:
“No middle no end, the poems in The Second Genesis have been speaking to you long before the beginning and will continue without you…don’t worry, its binding has long since unglued, its pages, worn and disheveled, will always be speaking to you, they’ve been compiled this way, to be read out of order, backwards, shelved or scattered in an attic between the coffee and greasy finger stains…The Second Genesis is the history of the Book where you become its words, ink and pulp.”
Craig Czury

“The Second Genesis is at the crossroads of a new poetic becoming. a poetry claiming its second beginning not only for art but the heart pulsating and feeding the entire body. This anthology is a successful fusion of unique, inimitable and polyphonic poetry, a well-organized improvisation with a solid and flexible structure.”

Dalia Staponkute

“The Second Genesis, a compendium of world poetry which is also a poetry of the world, suggests so much a new beginning as it does a recognition of the ongoing creation that continues to animate our collective existence. Our precarious era requires a global affirmation that we are all in this together. Poetry has always said as much, and here it says it again, in the idioms of our time.”
Paul Kane
**
“Visionary and international, The Second Genesis, introduced and edited by Anuraag Sharma, sparkles with poetry of insight, intelligence and feeling and is an indispensable reminder of our human aspirations and experience in the early 21st century. Poets from nearly sixty countries rub shoulders in this ambitious and wide-ranging collection, and their poems resonate and mingle in a multi-layered voice. It is the voice of our humanity.
In his Introduction, Dr. Sharma points to the invaluable importance of poetry in what he calls our destructive Lear era:
Beyond the Lear Century, across the 21st Century lies the island of Prospero and Ariel and Miranda and Ferdinand – the region of faith, hope and innocence, the land of virtue, and all forgiveness sans grievances, sans regrets, sans curses. The doleful shades lead to pastures new.
We must weigh our hopes. The Second Genesis is at hand….”
Diana Sampey
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
working "backwards" from something already
started in: collateral and the chicken scratching exercise...

how can you not have a hard-on
for mel gibson's beard...
in... the professor and the madman -
detailing the... etymological events
surrounding something more dear to me...
than the pslams of king david
or the: wisdoms of king solomon...
the wisdom: thus derived...
after a man becomes: ostensibly...
bored with a harem...
that would become the blueprint
of envy for future men of the world...

alexander the great...
muhammad...
           it's not a bible... it's a...
dic-tio-nary... stop the press...
pluck all the feathers from all the magpies
in the land... tell Xerxes to stop
whistling at the sea and...
can we just stop with the b.d.s.m.
of the waves?

        head: rotondo! spin ****** spin!
anything in the "pejorative"...
god... this moloch of grammar of a deity...
we need to ensure there's a scrutiny
of each and every, yes: every word...
we need to sieve them through
the categories!

i put to mind:
     it's a comparison of catchphrases...
the war hogs cite it as:
collateral damage...
the civilian will rummage and pluck out:
the... "rhetorical question"...
can... you... put... rhetoric: to a question?
can a rhetorical question:
actually exist... like a unicorn can?
oh wait... kangaroo yes...
a platypus... oh a double yes...

can you... can you... "rhetorical question"?
what the hell is a rhetorical question:
if not, something akin to a fashion statement...
of the calibre: a short-black-'un...
a coco chanel mini-skirt...

what is... a rhetorical question?
a question is, i hope...
something that manages to endorse
the dialectic...
and anyone who engages with a dialectic
will / or should know:
there's no rhetorical question...
when being asked:
one doesn't... "somehow"...
find a magic plot of a forest with smurfs...
and goes off on a tangent speaking...
persuasively...
a rhetoric question isn't a question
at all...

        collateral damage among the war hogs
is a rhetorical question among the civilians...

the story of professor james murray
and dr. william minor...
and to think... the alienists (psychiatrists)
at the time thought that...
enforced regurgitation...
could animate the body to conjure up
an already exhausted soul...
what ancient romans did for masochistic pleasure:
bulimia in the rudiment of:
a fork of fingers agitating the throat
and subsequently the oesophagus
to: bring back... what was already in fractions...

some call it soul, some call it x... y...
that... indispensable will: for animation...
to perform the 80 year old (in total) magic trick
of being: immune...
to the ills and forgivings of others...
a standard praise of solipsism...
as a thought-experiment... nothing more...
from which one can...
come and go as freely as one can vote
in a democracy...

come when summoned... leave when...
not made into any greater necessity other than:
to make fair of the count...

truly: a hard-on for mel gibson's beard...
some can claim ***** envy...
i have beard envy...
like to-hat envy when someone is 5'11"
and i'm still the same old 6'2"...

rhetorical question... i always found questions
to be... of a... dialectical nature...
i can hardly think of a rhetorical question
or rhetorical answer...
a rhetorical question implies:
the questioner has more to say...
than the person intended to answer...
i can hardly anyone burn through oration
when being posed a question...
a question: per se... is not something one
can be certain about: esp. when giving a reply...

a rhetorical question is a k.f.c. mouse urban
myth... a bit like collateral damage:
did we destroy a bullet making factory?
no... but we killed some civilians...
or some sort of entreating variation of worshipping
the drugging and bullet dodging machinery
of: cold the bullet bit...

how can you pose a rhetorical question?
is someone about to make a rhetorical answer?
robots would behave within rhetorical confines
of being asked an absolute:
error message - replying with an absolute yes / no...

a rhetorical question would beg
for a ore rotundo: with a voice filled with assurance...
the question is imposed...
with a curiosity... at best: with doubt...
uncertainty... at worst: with a negation:
waiting for the wrong answer...
but no dialectic is ever to be established
working from a rhetorical question...
a socrates would be:
the dialectical surgeon...
the affair of the question doesn't go beyond...
whoever is questioning:

oh!           oh!
a rhetorical question is... not for someone
to address the question...
but a pursuit of the questioner to continue asking
question...
a rhetorical question is... to further the lineage
of questions... to be therefore "rhetorical"
is to inquire more... rather than reply with
a rhetorical certainty...
a rhetorical question isn't a question...
it's a cascade of questions...

******* and the myth of the gateway...
after **** i did the next best thing...
i rediscovered bourbon as ms. amber...
that once you watch just a little bit of it...
you will turn toward finding out more graphic
content...
so... me looking out for the most *******
music: combichrist... :wumpscut,
vomito *****...
                  *****... graphic... *******?
or... gloryhole ***** *******...
               or pregnant women: so *****...
       or japanese gravure models...
"problem" with japanese models...
              *** bots? aren't they here already...
with these porcelain mannequins?
touch a hand it breaks or fizzles into...
ash...
  as happens when you've been at "it"...
puritanical victorian von krafft-ebbing...
i sometimes know what the ******* is for...
i hardly think it necessary to listen to what's
"moral" from circumcised... gentile...
north-h'americans...
                    jerking off since aged 8...
brain rot started way back... in 1994...
which is before the internet...
   gateway... my ***...
         japanese gravure and Agnolo Bronzino...

who needs "more"... when you have a mel gibson
beard-envy!

the chair can remain a chair...
but there's a termite colony wriggling in it...
i don't need to see it...
i just need to hear it...
combichrist: like to thank my buddies,
    today i woke to the rain of blood...
                   all pain is gone...
       cheap thrill seeing heaven:
better tamed - attempting to listen to the litanies
escaping hell...
a written word in hell is like...
     because the hands are being crushed
in monkey-wrenches and there's Spinoza
cackling...

   who needs more ******* and ride-me-timmy
the horses' laugh when music can
compensate... and otherwise find the better
kind of: the feeding outlet...

a rhetorical question: is that for the answer to
be tinged with rhetorical gravitas?
no... then every question socrates every posed
what a rhetorical question:
and the concern for dialectics is a dummy...
which is probably true: reading what sort
of answers those put under the scrutiny give:
is response...

i must be wrong: a rhetorical question:
is not simply a question...
a rhetorical question could perhaps give
the person answering a spark of rhetoric...
a rhetorical question should:
by default... provide you with a rhetorical
answer... but all it does is...
further a second question...
and a third... a fourth...
    so more for the "famous" dialectic...
when all that seems to happen...
one only becomes a rhetorician: via question...
rather than merely: talking...

the rhetorical question is therefore
the basis of "dialectics": which is no basis for
dialectics per se...
it's the persuaded question-prone antagonist:
who is hardly the narrator...
and the answer is always the same:
shut up! i'm talking over you...
i'll just disguise this whole affair in a question
and minor answer cited: a perfectly well
equipped yes: or no... will suffice:
or a nod of approval worded...
                  socrates the bane of sophists
and rhetoricians...
a subtle project... you are not interrupted...
when to stress an invocation
of fake curiosity: by asking a question...
the sort of question...
a rhetorical question... that will not usurp
your original: intent monologue of sophistry...

an echo is all the rave when it comes
to a rhetorical question...
a rhetorical question feeds of: yes / no answers...
and there i was thinking that a rhetorical
question implies:
whoever answers... will break into
a rhetorical answer... verbatim the quran
akin to a hafiz! nope...
a rhetorical question is a punctuation mark:
one hopes... of what a rhetorician would usually do...
when having a voice in the congregation
of docile elders...

socrates: the elder... found an audience
among the athenian young... because?
        he stressed that rhetoric had to have overtones
of questioning: without really questioning...
what sort of "dialectic" is there to be had:
what: dialogue...
when... the dialogue leaves one side with
a narrator and protagonist semblance?
and the characters: ergo? are nothing but nail-heads
for the hammer to plough through?!

oddly enough... Plato ****** off Socrates so
hard... that Socrates became...
the first non-hasidi...
to be circumcised... by pursed lips...
yep... Plato ****** off Socrates' *******:
right off... thinking the phallus...
was in the no-man's land of comparsion
to a chicken drum-stick!
antagonism: of how favourable the "dialogues"
are cited...
i've had a similar experience...
i really don't know what this... "e-prostitution"
is about...
before the internet... i am probably one of
the last few who blushed when buying a magazine
at the newsagent with all them *******...
and: curated ***** hairs:
less of a chin and more...
the pelvic "hubris" / canvas...

                 brothel: tick...
strip-club: tick...
              what's given everyone a hot-cross bun
shivers...
          "never paid"... but otherwise paid:
for the insinuation...
and the insinuation was: a date...
look at it as... no ******* dysfunction...
and no money for a date...
straight back into the salt mines
and trench digging... no time for honey:
oh boobie and frankly my dear:
i don't drown herrings...

       a rhetorical question is also a compound-misnomer...
yep... the idea of a rhetorical-question
is a compound-misnomer:

take me on a chain to the goblet...
pay the extra to rid the matter:
seven tongues instead of one...
gorging on the inquiry of Gomorrah...
to better couplet to the banquet of *****!
that ***** treat us Gomorrah civically dutied:
as worse than rats and shadows...
and the plebs just entertain...
       what would ever come from
the mouth of ***** as:
       prized bulls of drag-queen story-hour...
shame those without foreskins...
comparison...
a o.k. to be gay...
                what's date-night?
is that... something -esque having coupled
a mahjong with a niqab?!
why don't all the muslim women take
the best route... join the surgeon mask-equipped
crowds... and no... simple forget the hijab...
donning the full niqab?!
why?!

who needs seeking more depraved *****
beside... Bronzino and japanese gravure models...
and all that elasticity of:
electricity passing through an iron maiden
via... combichrist: sent to destroy...
hardly "destroy": cultivate...
recycle... call the parasites into hubris *******
haitus...

also "in response" to: the kinks and the...
"celibate" priesthood...
        because: you know, the kinks and all that:
******* music and fine detaiks of:
when the butcher will be cited...
looking at a slab of meat...
and calling a harem of pigs...
that floral... pinky tidbit "in the middle":
avert your eyes:
how god's finger touched adam's...
and via what...

it doesn't come more ******* than...
drinking lukewarm whiskey...
that i can stand...
but if anyone's drinking ***** not suberged
into gomme syrop consistency...
there's: should we say...
a... "spot of bother"...

              i wouldn't mind...
that bourbon as a quiet distinct perfume
associated with brothels...
and it's just that...
          but... e-prostitution: for the "tease"?
the wrath of adam:
sort of ******* in between:
when the ****** brigade comes along
and stops at thge madonna-***** complex?
i'm scratching my head:
either i'm thinking of a ? or my i.q.
one internet sight should be in existance...
dedicated... to the unabashed puritanism
of dogs licking their genitals...
because: a priori: who would have "known"...

and also to chronicle the sights and wonders
of... KMFDM stand-out tracks...
but a sight levereging "*****" of...
dogs teasing testicles with "prudence"
of a... the fastest waggle in all of: "arizona"...
chant!
chant! F.S.A. - which makes it more and less:
"united"
   the federal states of h'america...
     number 1 subscriber...
albert razin...
    is this... is this... what "integration" looks like?
like hell i'll give up what's
festering knee-deep at the rim...
i'll talk english just fine with
the natives... but when the natives:
tell me that:
true integration is a complete whitewash
of your "former" identity: you
integrate by "forgetting" your mother tongue...
i have... this juggernaut... craze-fit in
my eyes...
   then, why, don't, you, send, me,
a, postcard, from france: IN FWENCH!
this global mantra of: english solves everything...
not unless you're of a Dutch or
Scandinavian origin...
you have already learned this...
"lingua franca": this l'inglese...
lucky for the WELSH! who are you...
you anglo-saxon globalist mongrel?!
where is your anglo- counterfeit bypasser...
UND... wohin ist ihr Sachsen?
and where is your saxony: saxon?
have i an axe to better grind?
           jude-nomade-mischling!
you're no better than your claim!
ficken-jude-sächsisch-anglo-anlage-gehenvolk...
all this: for the insomnia parade?!
24 / 7 news reels?!
         alles diese... für was?!

if they only spoke two languages...
perhaps... less retards spreading the "crown":
licking ice-cream tubs...
open / the end... closed: also the end...
verzögernzüchtung...
          ******-breeding...
        ­                i have to admit... it sounds as crisp as:
gin
                                   &                        tonic...
and lapses into epilepsy...
because the "hierarchy" says: such words...
such words: no no: with a BIG no-no
when used...

                here too, i... will ****...
on every prematurely demented kin of moi...
because... the hierarchy of termites and of ants...
dictates so... while the congregation of:
man and ape... isn't sure... what animal is worth
borrowing a metaphor from!
to... "progress"...
like little **** and please staging all that
copernican ******* ever did...
the surgical masks...
shot dead in the Philippines
for not wearing one... "stigma" and the niqab...
at least the cherries on these cream-pies...
could at least turn proper ortho-and-doxing...
with a niqab...
pwetty pwease...  

all the airs and graces...
some nut would have made it this far...
Kierkegaard as proof...
"you don't think before you speak":
i rather, i much rather entertain
the freedom to think... and extend this freedom
into writing...
before i have to eat my own *****
when having to place editorial pressures
on having made video content...
i much prefer the ignoble citation:
and the devil has had these hands busy-bodied...
and all the blessings to the devil for that...
because...
is there such a concept as:
an idle tongue?

               i don't know:
i would like to, though...
live a month's worth of living...
on a salary of a... h'american...
             preacher...
under communism:
no brain-drain...
not best of the best will ever rise...
but at the same time...
so too will not the mediocre...
i thought it could be cited at:
the meek shall inherit the earth...
   talk about a disparity between
the meek and the mediocre...

if only i was the "correct" pronoun
to want: but i do...
have the capacity and enough excuses...
to start donning...
corsets and... high-heel shoes...
then again: if i joined the army...
nothing stand-out...
not uniforms to stand out within
a caste system... uniforms for
the napoleonic era... and that noting me as...
quick-off-the-mark...
suregon of the needle... and quiffs...
until the wehrmacht period...

  ha! the poles on horseback: "once upon a time"
looked bewildering...
the charge of the Krojanty...
well... horses do not seem that bad...
the poles on horses...
when back west...
you had the Dutch... on bicycles...
oh sure... the horse was somehow the "joke"...
but the bicycle was...
   like the pope appeasing the fuhrer...
and "they" would wonder:
        who's who....
the bicycle is gone...
who's who on the left-over peddlestool?!
postman pat proof:
  i think i oops... forgot to detail
the whole idea and economy with...
licking something... beside...
   that quick-and-made-essential:
              amnesia rubric count... which was?

yep... the poles on horseback look
and will forever look more ridiculous...
than... the dutch defence...
on... ha ha! bicycles!

read my proof: am i... "integrated"
is my: english not a word salad:
the scrutiny will come from someone sobering
up from an irish heritage...
is there a niqab or a bindi or a turban on me?
is my language still a word salad?
am i, integrated... "enough"...
not enough i dare say...

       well... about time these natives
learn some postcard and tourisms' worth
of second lingo... italian would be just fine...
since... they are still... hung up on being
so pround of being the afghanistan of the roman
empire...
          and... where is afghanistan when is comes
to... the house of saud and arabia?
i'd grovel... for that kind of goat herders...
and... pashtun poetics!
   queen of the floral: no **** mind to spare...
and if only this wasn't...
rummaging in essex...
more for the cause! new york!
n'aaaaaah...
                
                        i speak for the devil i speak
in about 12... with variations of invocation...
but this is not god speaking...
i am... not a monolingual pre-nomad arab taste...
sitting on a coal-**** turning liquid into
oil: "all of a sudden"...
Donall Dempsey May 2017
THE QUIRK OF THE  QUARK

(FOR SOMETHING HAVING NO EMPIRICAL SENSORY DERIVED QUALITY IT  
SURE IS ONE HELL OF A PASSION KILLER!

In bed
(between the sheets at last)    

I stroke your breast
with excited fingertips

ask you
“What ya reading Hon? ”

Big mistake!

“’bout Quarks! ”

“Quarks? ”

“You know subatomic particles...duh! ”

“...the irreducible building blocks of
the universe! ”

“Ahhh! ”
Your ****** comes alive
has a mind of its own.

I come
(from a generation)    

where protons, neutrons & electrons

were just
a lot of

coloured *****
hanging from a ceiling

or the stuff
of badly drawn diagrams.

Death by boredom
in a cold Science class
on a wintry morning.

“Unlike previously known particles
a Quark
(rhymes with Cork)    

has only a partial
Pos.  or   Neg.
electrical charge.

“I see! ” I say
(not seeing) .

“They are bound
in families of 3...”

She tells me.

“Really? ”

I interrupt her
but she interrupts my interruption.

“...to form protons & neutrons! ”

She continues on
in a hectoring lecturing tone.

“These triplets
(are you with me?)    ”

“Yes...yes! ”
(I lie)    

“...we call hadrons.”

She absentmindedly
strokes my *******

for(I guess)    
...emphasis.

I become positively
...charged.

“The pairing of a quark
with an anti-quark
of the same colour
is known as a

Neson.”

I can feel my mind
freezing over.

She just skates over it
with a knife-blade intellect.  

Again I grin & feign
an interest.
“So now...”
She continues in full spate.

I drown in her drone.

“The indivisible
constituents of matter

appear to be

the six what we call flavours of
Quarks.”

“Oh, and...six other kind of particles
known as

Leptons.”

I prop imaginary matchsticks
under my real eyelids.

“The electron
(by this time I have lost my *******)    

the Muon
(I feel like a *****)    

& the Lau
(I can’t sink any lower)    

each with its own
Neutrino.”

My eyes glaze
over.

“Now, according to Quantum Field Theory
all forces

between
particles

are mediated
by force carrying particles

called...called

Gauge Bosons! ”

My mind
goes into meltdown.

“One of these
(the Gluon)    
is responsible
for holding Quarks
together.”

“I see...I see! ”
I consider thoughtfully

‘though I
don’t.

“The physicist
who postulated

the existence of a
Quark...”

(******* that
Murray Gell -Mann)    

“...obviously liked a laugh
giving them the nonsense name of
Quark! ”

“And oh...on a whim
described them

as flavours & colours! ”

“Quarks...! ” I ruminate
(in an interior monologue)  
are passion killers
especially the details.

She laughs.
So I – laugh.

“Ha ha! ”
(** hum) .

Brought back to life
by the kiss of humour

I come out of
deep freeze.

Warming now
to her

subject

she informs me

“Each flavour of
Quark

comes in
3 colours! ”

“Horray for the red green & blue! ”

I holler.

She glowers.

I smile stupidly and sheepishly.

“Each hadron
(remember ‘em?)    ”

“Yes, I remember
I had one! ”

I mumble
& mutter

but it’s lost
on her.

My *******’s had it.
It’s more an R.I.P!

She’s blinding me
with Science.

“And what... pray tell...? ”

I dare to ask
a question.

“...are the 6 flavours of Quarks? ”

“Why..! ”

She positively beams
delighted at my interest.

“UP.

DOWN.

STRANGE.

CHARMED.

BOTTOM
(OR BEAUTY) .

TOP
(OR TRUTH) .”

“Really? ”

“Really! ”

“Why...I’ll be a...why
of course I shoulda guessed! ”

I stroke the beauty
of her bottom

(for comfort
rather than any ****** interest) .

“Protons have...”

She drones on and on despite my hand’s pleading.

“2 UP Quarks &
1 DOWN.”

“Oh lucky them! ”
I think
but only in my mind.

“...whose electrical charges combine
to give them a + 1.”

“Neutrons
(on the other hand)    
Are you listening? “

“Yes Mam...I am! ”

“...are made up of
1 UP
Quark
&
2 DOWN! ”

“...which accounts for
its neutral charge.! ”

“Right! ”
“Right? ”

My mind has hit
a brick wall.

I can’t go on.

“Oh, love...
Am I boring you? ”

“Not at all! No! Not at all! ”

I doth protest
too much.

I feel like
four flavours of Quarks
(you know the sort)    

STRANGE, CHARMED(I’m sure!)    
BOTTOM & TOPS

that existing for only
an infinitesimal fraction of a second can only be seen
in those self-annihilating collisions that occur when
protons and anti-protons are accelerated to speeds

approaching the speed of light
in a particle accelerator.

But in a hundredth of a billionth of a billionth of a second
I blinked

...& missed it.
**** that
Murray Gell-Mann

...she’s fallen asleep

Leaving me
with a revived *******

glowing lonely
in the dark.

Quarks
...****!

I design a tee-shirt in my mind.

“Ha ha! ”

“What...! ” suddenly you
awake...laugh

as I imagine
a Quark

would.

“April Fool! ”
You scream.

“I learnt it all off by heart! ”

“By rote
...joke? ”

“But it’s not April Fool!
It’s the middle of February! ”

“Yes but...if I had waited
for April Fool’s Day

You would have known
I was having you on! ”

You somehow
logic.

“Oh, come
here! ” you say.

“And let me give you a hand
with that! ”

“Quark! ”
I moan.
Kida Price Jul 2014
Ode to bill
What a thrill
He makes me laugh till my voice is shrill
I don't need a happy pill
When his face is forcing mine to smile against my will.
Groundhogs day
What a play
On how I feel everyday
Repeating time until it strays
To be the same thing in every way.
What about bob?
Can't you see?
He's making me smirk at MY mental instability.
Baby steps
Fake Tourettes
Getting under someone's skin
And yet
Being loved by all the rest.
Who am I going to call
For the busting of ghosts?
I know a number to dispose
Bill has this **** on lock
As he sarcastically lifts his stock
Of zapping tools and his beige frock.
Zombieland
Of course he stands
Among the living and the ******.
Smoking up with strangers is grand
And replaying his films best moments.
In real life
He appears in random sight
Stealing fries and giving love advice.
Too careless to live up to the lime light
Using his fame to live an extraordinary life.
Oh bill Murray
You're a champ.
I hope to adopt your perspective rants
Make my mind go full blast
Of being the best at being lax.
Monotone and so relaxed
I'd buy him a shot if I had the chance
Tequila despite everyone else's request
Your bar tending skills are still the best.
Feeling laughter rise in my chest
Just keep doing what you do
No one else can contest.
I don’t know how this happened

but here’s a brief summary of what I do know:
At some point in history
a rodent belonging to a group of large ground squirrels
known as marmots
peaked it’s head through the ground
and fell headfirst into the all of mankind.
Observant as we are
we watched said rodent,
presumably for decades,
we named that rodent marmota monax
we named that rodent woodchuck
we named that rodent groundhog
and then
be it because we were drunk
or tired
or deliriously confused by our purpose in this life,
we decided that the entire pendulum of winter
swung on one insignificantly particular day of the year
when a groundhog with a proper name
emerges from his burrow
and either does or does not see his shadow
because the sky either is or is not overcast.

It’s that kind of thinking that brought us here
into the swell of feeling like we are designed to repeat ourselves
same way train tracks prove that most circles are not perfect,
a freight train and a record player tell similar stories.

It’s that kind of thinking that brought us here
into the shape of a species who even on our best day
is literally not satisfied with the everything that has ever existed
same way our taking of selfies is a detriment to releasing ourselves
from the all that we ever were
when all we have are these constant reminders.

I never asked you to be pretty or handsome or perfect
just ready and honest
and willing to take nothing to bed with you
just knowing how to emerge from your slumber
with the entire pendulum of a season
pivoted on your correlation with a specific source of light.
Look at me
my eyes are trying to tell you a story in real time
about how I’d give up the sunburn to live in your shadow
so long as I was never a cloud in your sky.

You are a needle
touching the spiraling grooves
in every square inch of this earth
picking up the vibrations
which you then translate into the sound
of your existence

I’m all ears.

I don’t know how this happened
but one morning I woke up
at the exact
same time
as I woke up the day before
with a song
stuck in my head—
it was you

it was you with a harmony
it was you with a record scratch
it was you with a slow fade

it was you
and you kept telling me,
you said, “Frankie,
if you keep waiting for Bill Murray to show up
you're never gonna make sense of anything."
Jed Nov 2012
You were born on a cusp.
friends on the other side
couldn't decide,
Scorpio or Libra.
You yourself,
as constant as the tides.

A tenth sign ram
was blessed to cross
your lovely path
and the ram learned:

Short curly hair
pinned back reveal
asiatic eyes.
As you pass by and by
Time and time hearts race

Chicken salad sandwich,
its moist mayonnaise
is never as delicious
without a pickle.

Grubhub.
No, Scrubhub.
Too content to leave the room.
Yummy Rummy,
food in our tummy.
forever.

Broth, cheese and wine.
Mushrooms and time.
If ever I tasted love,
it was shared with me,
in a recipe.

Sound opinion in scores.
Royal, like the Tenenbaums.
Bill Murray fantastic.
Pink Moon over and over and over.
Divide that by nine.

And now I know,
almost as well as you,
how good Goodfellas is,
even after the tenth time.

Early morning awakenings or
snooze again and again and again.
Paralyzed in a dream or
awoken with a scream,
we tried a routine:

Once parts of a team,
a memory faster than it seemed.
Ran for miles.

A boy and girl in the hall,
amongst the boys and girls
in the hall.
Digital regulars in ecstasy.
Wake next to you a daydreamer.

So, when life gets hard,
and you're feeling down,
don't be so glum,
ignore your doubts,
don't feel left out,
I'll be there for you,
when you need me to.
Poetic T Feb 2020
Your mouth like groundhog day,
           ever repeating the same melody
sang out of tune.
  
But I'm the Bill Murray learning
that every time has to be different
          or you just living

your weak dreams.

Your just a lame re-run cancelled after
          the second episode,
but you think you famous cos people
recognise you for the wrong reasons.

Laughing behind your back.

       Your girl has had more rubber in
her than burnt out tires on the street.

Telling you she was saving it for you,
   should've  been a used car salesman.
   lying about how many miles
                                   she'd already done.

Ok off subject,

  You were yesterday never today..
  Always thinking you a star,
          but you shooting across
my atmosphere.

And I'm burning you up.


Ye bright for a moment,
                 then you just nothing.
But ash that I flick off my shoulder.  


You dropped and nothing
is going to bring you back.

As you mouths living
         a groundhog day.

                                        Learning nothing,
but that I'm already on tomorrow,
why your mouth living the same *** day.
martin murray Jun 2016
We like to dance
Feet moving in a trance
Transition to a different stance
All of us jump and prance

We get in a groove
People’s rhythmic motion is smooth
The head banging is proof
Dancer’s enjoying the beat and *****

With Deejay YouTube on rotation
Music revives the good sensation
As boys and girls pair up to charleston
The vibe is lively in Camden

Everyone is revelling
In the style of crip walking
Zimmer frames towards the ceiling
As the old start break dancing
tangshunzi Jun 2014
<p><p> Io non so voi .ma il mio calendario è pieno zeppo di occasioni speciali di questa primavera - bambino docce .lauree .matrimoni - è il nome .** intenzione di esso !Mi piace aiutare gli amici impostare i loro eventi .così ** sempre prendere nota di eventuali tutorial per composizioni floreali .Questo fresco .succulento centrotavola fai da te da Bare Root Flora \u0026 Laura Murray fotografia è esattamente quello che sto cercando !Non perdere nessuna delle graziosa nella galleria .<p> Condividi questa splendida galleria Da Robyn : Primavera offre una tale generosità incredibile di bellissimi fiori che non abbiamo potuto resistere alla possibilità di riunire alcuni dei nostri preferiti per creare un lussureggiante primavera centrotavola perfetto per i tanti incontri che accadonoin questo periodo dell'anno : docce .feste di laurea .festa <b>abiti da sposa 2014</b>  della mamma e altre occasioni speciali !<p>è? nostro preferito opacoènave ?pezzo di filo di pollo abbastanza grande da creare una forma abbastanza stretta nel vostro contenitoreè? nostra di cinque tipi di vostri fiori preferiti .Provate a variare la forma un po 'così che alcuni sono morbidi e soffici.alcuni hanno una linea più lunga .alcuni sono più grandi .alcuni sono più piccoli .alcuni sono viney in natura.Variety rende la disposizione bellissimo !Abbiamo usato peonie.lillà .rose spray.tulipani .clematis e rami apple blossom .è? Ne o due tipi di fogliame.Sentitevi liberi di foraggiare dal vostro giardino di fiori e foglie !Abbiamo usato Dusty Miller e geranio profumato .è?coltello floreale o alcuni tagliatori -no forbici!Forbici danno gambo di un fiore .che vieta da bere correttamente .<p><p> Il primo passo per qualsiasi composizione floreale stupendo è quello di preparare i vostri fiori !Assicuratevi di pulire fuori qualsiasi fogliame che cadrà al di sotto della linea di galleggiamento .Foglie in acqua incoraggeranno la crescita di batteri .che accorciare la vita del vostro arrangiamento .<p> successivo .preparare il contenitore .Piegate il filo di pollo per adattarsi perfettamente all'interno del contenitore .Il filo di pollo agisce come una griglia per tenere i vostri fiori dove vuoi .dando il vostro disegno la forma desiderata .<p> Iniziare con la raccolta e l'immissione alcuni dei vostri grandi .soffici fiori in un gruppo qui .peonie e rose a spruzzo.Dà la disposizione  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-2014-c-13"><b>abiti da sposa 2014</b></a>  un bel punto focale .Successivamente.aggiungere in alcuni dei vostri fiori lungo linea ( nel nostro pezzo abbiamo usato il lillà e tulipani ) .Utilizzare i fiori lungo linea per creare una forma giardino - esque selvaggio .Il movimento è fondamentale .lasciate i fiori raggiungere e picchiata !Darà il suo  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49"><b>abiti da sposa corti</b></a>  pezzo così tanto la vita !<p> Trasforma il tuo imbarcazione in cerchio lenti come si progetta .continuando ad effettuare i tuoi più grandi.soffici fiori un po 'più basso .con i vostri fiori linea leggermente più alto .Inizia a riempire con le tue chiome .<p> Abbiamo terminato il nostro accordo con rami di mele e clematidi .La clematide viney è il tocco finale perfetto .Abbiamo lasciato la nostra sbirciare sopra le nostre altri fiori per dare al pezzo un aspetto molto selvaggio .Fotografia <p> : Laura  <p><a href="http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=674" target="blank"><img width="240" height="320" src="http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/4609935353535395473.jpg"></a></p>  Murray Fotografia | Fiori: radice nuda FloraBare Root Flora è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Bare Root Flora VIEW</p>
DIY Lush Primavera Centrotavola_vestiti da sposa
After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.

The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
He fears that she will someday queer his act;
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
He nods for faster music. He will contract
Another partner, under another moon.
Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
Over the yellow faces there below;
Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.

She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
She still clings to the lover that she knew,-
The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
Dak Apr 2014
I remember
Always knowing
that I am different

solidified by the fact that
when the rest of the world
was drooling over boy bands
and muscley men
and I'll never know what else,

I was young,
growing up,
madly in love with
**Bill Murray
Watching space jam again, for the first time in years.
still love him.
Trevor Gates May 2013
Welcome to tonight’s show

Allow me to introduce myself.

I go by many names


Some of which, you may know
But those do not need to be mentioned
a howl, a moan, a scream, a summoning
Let’s keep this interesting.


This is the midnight calling
This is the raven cawing

This is the shadow lurking
And the jackals slurping

The demons wailing
While Charon is sailing,

The Acheron
The river
The first

The Eternal song
Of dripping livers
and Thirst

Stop

This is all confusing
And amusing
To some
And many
But to me it is painful

Demeaning
Putrid
Repugnant
Detrimental
Disturbing

And

­A subjective simmer of passivity
A pious dose of sheer calamity

Once upon a time

In a land past the desert
Was a neon capped city
Devoid of hope

And shaped by
Casual nihilism

And too much money

A powerful portrait in all its brevity
The display of sweltering people melting against the asphalt
The mucous sunscreen and coarse sand between the toes

And crooked nails
And bleached hair
And coffee stained teeth
And pink nails
And Gucci purses
And Versace dresses
Shutter Shades
Corvettes
$5 lap dances

And promiscuous preteen slaves
To MTV
VH1
Pop sensations
Internet ****
Social networks
Smart phones
Model rock stars
Models
Interviews
Auditions
Mundane seductively
For him
Or she
The nepotistic aficionado

of  

Delicious, robust, superb, disdain  
*******: Nose Candy
******: Snake venom
After Parties: ******* adrenaline
***** Film tryouts: Garage studio
LSD: Acid
Plastic: Lips, skins, *******.
24/7
Hits of E
X-T-C

and

Do you have change for a hundred?
Or a change for a life?

Cites in Dust
Thank Siouxsie and the Banshees; A carnival.

Shout
Tears for Fears, they’re Head over Heels

Love will Tear Us apart
From Joy Division, who claims she’s lost control

Los Angeles
“X”
Exene and Billy Zoom’s Wild Gift.

The perpetual rise of sunset rockers and Neon knights.
Teens crawling through the muck of socialites and incubator nightmares
Civil borders wired by racial slurs and salivating bigotry
Water replaced by blood
Spit interchanged for souls
And fire traded for icy methamphetamine

Warriors and survivors

Poets and dreamers

Shooters and inhalers

Geeks and groupies

Burnouts and Dropouts

Sweet dreams are made of this



Such a show, such a show! Bravo Bravo! Thank you, thanks to all I have time to thank: Martin Sheen, Julius Ceasar, Fender Guitars, Randy Marsh, elbow pads, Chuck Berry, Al Green, X, Joy Division, Tears for Fears, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Less than Zero, Alucard, Humphrey Bogart, Grace Kelly, Daryl Dixon, George Harrison, Brad Pitt, Rooney Mara (Love you), Belstaff, Emma Watson (Love you too), Laure Heriard Dubreuil, Manolo Blahnik, Hannah Murray and Michele Abeles.

So many to mention, so little time. We’ll be back.
This is one of my favorites I've done so far in this series. I had just finished reading Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis and watch Gregg Araki's films, The Doom Generation and Nowhere, which all three sum up the existentialism and merging rampancy of living in Los Angeles, California. An experience I will never forget.
Barton D Smock Jul 2012
other than
its ability
to lean
on a wall

and things like that

the ghost of bill murray

is wholly
ghost-like.
After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.
The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
He fears that she will someday queer his act;
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
He nods for faster music. He will contract
Another partner, under another moon.
Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
Over the yellow faces there below;
Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.
She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
She still clings to the lover that she knew,--
The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
by
Alexander  K  Opicho
Eldoret,Kenya
(aopicho@yahoo.com)

Ladbrokes, the online betting firm has once again nominated Ngugi wa Thiong'o as a candidate for Nobel prize in literature 2014.The firm arrives at the probable nominee through a highly polished probabilist mechanism.It also nominated Ngugi as the probable candidate for literature Nobel prize, but the final was Alice Munro the Canadian short story writress.The eventuality of Ngugi winning the literature Nobel prize is a long a waited event in Africa , especially among Kenyans.
However, Ngugi is not the only nominee , he is among others and even to make it worse he is not the top scoring nominee. He has tied with four  others at the score of 50/1 points.These  are; Umberto Eco who wrote the famous book In the Name of the Rose, Nuruddin Farah a Kenya *** Somalian veteran poet and prose writer   and   then Darcia Maraini.
There are eleven writers of global stature who are currently scoring above Ngugi wa Thiong'o.They are operating at the level of 50/1 scores. These include ;Margaret Atwoo d, Salman Rushdie, Cees Nooteboom, Don DeLillo, Amos Oz, Javier Marias, Cormac McCarthy , Bob Dylan, Peter Handke, William Trevor and Les Murray . The missing writer in this category of global writers is Yan Martel the author of Life of Mr. Pi , whose also on the list of the favourite writers of president Barrack Obama.His book Life of Mr. Pi once shared  a prize and equivalent acclaim with Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Legs. So, why Martel was not nominated remains the usual intrigues of Nobel nomination process.
Haruki Murakami ,Assia Djebar,Svetlana Aleksijevitj , Peter Nadas, Joyce Carol Oates , Adonis ,Milan Kundera , Philip Roth , Mircea Cartarescu, Ko Un , Jon Fosse  and Thomas Pynchon  are currently scoring below Ngugi.They are operating between 10/1 and 26/1 scores.However among them Haruki Murakami, Joyce Carol Oates and Phillip Roth were very story contenders and hence competeters for the same prize with Ngugi during last year.But Joyce Carol Oates is a weaker contender this year given than he recently wrote an offensive and tortuous poem against the eminent American  poet Robert Frost .  Oates drew from the book Lovely, Dark and  Deep  which   paints the  Frost  as an arrogant, sexist pig who gave up on his mentally ill children. The story has outraged Frost’s fans, biographers, and  his survivors.
Inspite of all these there is no literary value that can make Ngugi wa Thiong'o to deserve a Nobel prize reward for  Literature. Apart from his first  two books weep not child and the river between that had concrete literary position, his later works are pamphlets of communism , that keep of regurgitating communism as initially written by Karl Marx and France Fanon.His second last book Globalectics is written as annual lectures in respect of Rene Wellek, the books is a practical duplication of Paulo Freire , and Spivak Gavatri.His contemporaries at the University of Nairobi accusing him of tribalism when it came to supervising post graduate students. he was soft on his fellow Kiguyu's and discriminative agains Luo and Luhyia students.He lifestyle as communist ideologue is also self defeating as teaches in america at Irvine University , very busy amassing wealths just like any other capitalist.He campaign for vernacular writing is egually not water tight on the bench of praxis, as he himself teaches special English in America but not kiguyu language.
Another stunning revelation from the Swedish academy is nomiantion of Vladimir Putin the Russian president for Nobel peace prize alongside fifty something  organizations as competitors.the nominations is based on his role he played in the Nuclear disarmament of Syria.The Ukraine question has not been yet raised.But logic of these goes like historical imbroglio that puzzled the world in relation to the role of ****** in relation communism against the then gathering storm for the second world war.
july hearne Oct 2018
i wonder if you still collect postcards
i could send you a postcard
i'de have to find one
i'm sure it wouldn't be hard

sometimes i think of the bad
paint job in your dark red kitchen
and all your cheap furniture
and your emily strange stage
that went on too late in life

i've been back in town for almost six years now
but i wish i was back in chicago

i hate it here
i hate the people here
they are a lost cause
they had many protests for christine ford
but none for the children ed murray *****
because ed's rapes don't matter, not important,
don't matter

**** is only a pecking order,
sometimes fake **** is more important than real ****
it's just all about whatever's convenient

my sister's daughter and husband hate me now
but that's ok because i have no use for them either

i wish i would have seized the opportunity back in chicago
and married that guy who hated obama as much as i did
but i didn't realize how perfect that guy was at the time
because i was stuck on some canadian *******
who didn't treat me like i was a woman who was worth anything
he was in a band and his songs on sound cloud are not any good, but he is still proud of them
that was his prime

bet he loves trudeau and the hundred million of immigrants
who are coming to save canada,
it's the thing to do

that guy back in chicago only knew one song
Dire Straits 'So Far Away'
but i've always loved that song
wish i would have known
wish i would have known

but no, i got to come back here,
i knew how it was going to be back here
what would never happen,
how the people here would never stop being nasty
always with such dormant self righteous nastiness inside of them
always lying in wait
always knew that
but didn't realize how much i would have to pay for it
didn't realize how greedy socialist pigs can be

wish i would have married that guy back in chicago
when i had the chance, he really liked me and we got along
and he was well paid executive, but he said he wore
pleated front pants and it freaked me out at the time
so it's ten years later and too late now
and your youngest daughter is probably your son now
Canada should take in the Hondurans since Justin is so willing to take in ISIS. Hopefully there will still be room for all the Handmaids who need to escape the oh so oppressive USA.
BJFWords May 2017
Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes​ were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.

Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******.
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.

Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -

True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.

£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.
Clubby is a social club in Scotland
****** is bookmaker.
K Alexys Sep 2015
It's been a year since he took you from the world and still I can't see you ever being gone...
I wish that I could take my beating heart and place it in your lifeless body,
bring you back with bleeding arms just to show me you are alive and embodied,
I wish that I could give my lungs to you,
The ones he shot the bullet through,
So you can breathe and be , just to be, but BE,
Don't be dead... just be...
I hate thinking about the truth because the truth is we lost you...
If you have a soul and you really did go ,
you passed on that's all i want to know...
Just that you're okay and you're not hurting to this day,
I don't want to believe that you're just lying in a coffin under the ground people walk on and i dont want to believe that that was the end ...
of you...
i want to put my hand on your chest and feel something ,
i want to see your face and be able to read it... living...
i need to know that you're still alive in some sense...
and since my life hasnt gotten any better,
i think i'll come to you.
to give you my heart and my lungs to use...
i dont want to believe anything about death.
i want to know you're at peace but in reality you're dead.
when i talk to you do you hear me?
when i smile at you do you see me?
when i call your name 50 times a day,
do you come to me to relieve me?
of this empty endless pain....
i just want to know...
that you
are okay...
i dont think i'll be able to read this over without a whole meltdown moving closer,
and i dont want to do that but how can i not?
i've just been through this so many times...

i dont want to make you sad
i dont know if you can see this but if you can,
i love you and i want you to know one thing...
it'll always be
"live on",
never
"rest in peace".
i feel like the loss arrested me... and im in prison awaiting release.
the way your death affected me is like i got smashed to un-fixable pieces..
i never thought i could be destroyed but he did...
when i found out what he did and that what he did could never be fixed...
i want to go to the end of the world and jump off of the highest cliff.
feel my body falling fast and death approaching faster.
nothing to catch me but life that comes after...
and when i see your face again i know that i am home...
and that what was taken from all of us was never really gone.
dedicated to naaire murray.
january 25, 1997- September 8, 2014.
i think of you every day.
im not sure of god but i pray.
to you,
that you're okay.
and that you are never again in pain.
brandon nagley Sep 2015
i.

(Pradip Chattopadhyay)
A man of many stories, letting out thy soul, love, and worries;
As thou giveth us tale's of faraway Land's.

ii.

(Angelina lopez)
Thou hast had it rough since thou hath joined, we art here to helpeth thee be happy and support thy voice, continue in love.

iii.

(Gary L)
Man like me of cell's, man of freedom's Bell's, a dear friend;
A brother to the end, and a speaker of truth in all fashion's.

iv.

(Mysterious ♈ Aries)
Nothing to compare to thee, thou art different than most;
To thee I raiseth a toast dear poetic, to thine openness and pen.

v.

(amiee)
Writing deeply of thine life, of all thing's wrong and right;
As a scholar of inspiration, a poetess of this nation, striking rich.

vi.

(Rainey Birthwright)
Rhymester of old fashioned polite, stylish bold and bright;
As the star's thou writeth upon,,dusk til' dawn.

vii.

(Pax)
From the land of the Philippine's, a tropical place so green;
Thy writing like coconut water clean, as mango juice supreme.

viii.

(Bill murray)
Comic to this site, speaking strange thought's from thine mind;
Though finely crafted is thine character and stance, Old shine.

ix.

(Packin' Heat)
Writing of kisses, reality, wishes, heartfelt aura's;
Untamed, flaming writing of amour' and flora.

x.

(Katie)
A wonder of oldened growth, gold Glow's from thy throat;
Word's relic, ancient, keep them like seen ghost's.

xi.

(Poetic T)
Poetic darkness, poetic scream's, I heareth and feeleth thy pain's;
Like rain thine jotting is intense, no money shalt buy thy sense.

xii.

(SPT)
Compassionate caring being, writing of displeasure, and pleasurable thing's; as thou art a Free willed spirit living beyond.

xiii.

(Cecil Miller)
A man who hateth plagiarism, with narrative's of truth;
A poet on the loose, not tied in some noose, unchained spirit.

xiv.

(Tommy Jackson)
From the land down south, writing for thine amour', and thy guitar, keepeth on with the rock and roll and love in thy house.

xv.

(beth stclair)
I've written for thee before, but thou art one of mine top inspirational being's, a novelist of heavenly thing's, dear friend.

xvi.

(Vicki)
I've written for thee to, thy tongue canst sure speaketh and groove; making melodies of thy living's, and daily giving's.

xvii.

(Impeccable Space Poetess)
A poetess indeed, spreading delightful poetry seed's;
As I prayeth thine hard time's shalt get better, this is thy letter.

xviii.

(Sourodeep)
Romantic of midnight deep, awaketh us from ourn sleep;
As thy word's we keep tucked under our cotton Pillow's.

xix.

(Arfah Afaqi Zia)
Writing word's of love of past and new, a supporter, one so true, I thanketh thee for all thou doth do, continue in light poet.

**.

(David Ehrgott)
Writing master of thy own argot, thou art honest to the government's scheme's and plot's, awaking all who hast forgot.

xxi.

(His Bad Girl ***)
Telling verse's of amour', opening to all thine yearning door;
Telling of amare on thine own shore's, continue to seeketh love.

xxii.

(Randolph L Wilson)
Speaking of sweet glory of Georgia and the south, of the peaches succulent to one's mouth, new thou art to h.p. welcome friend.

xxiii.

(Earl Jane Nagley)
Mine lover, mine queen, mine reality, mine dream, forever we shalt be, as thou art more than worthy, I thanketh thee for thy support, wonderful writer of Yahweh, to me thou art mine muse, mine angel of the celestial church, giver to mine birth, empress to mine search, ruby of mine shine, chalice to mine wine, hand of eternal time, O' how great thou art, O' how magnificent thou art!!!!!!



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©H.p poets dedication
xxiv.

(Natalia mushara)
Thou hath hadst hardship to, continue on, keep going through;
Overcometh the bad and the rude, be thou, be thou oh poetess.

xxv.

(its gonna make sense)
Woman of the unknown, bringing on the 6th sense;
As in suspense thou leaveth us to readeth more.

xxvi.

(Elizabeth Squires)
Old fashioned designer;
Of poetry in its original form.

xxvii.

(Paige Pots)
Woman of the cross, continueth to preach Christ's word;
Scream it, bleed it, to those whom haven't heard.
Naomi Sa'Rai Feb 2012
Far from my reach
Listen to me
Paradise up yonder
Don;t have to ponder
Answers up high
Far from my grasp
Speechless gasp
Paradise from afar
Heavens know
Where i
Are
Lord oh Lord
You've blessed my soul
Sent a paradise
Only i know
Lighters ready
Ready
Set
Blow
Paradise
Paradise
Melted mixture
Needle
Spoon
Paradise
Im coming
Soon
Close to my hands
Running through my veins
Paradise
Sweet home of mine
Time flies
Laying on my spine
Gardens of lilies
Daffodils
Purple valleys
Yellow pills
Paradise
Sounding surrender
Lovely vice
Shooting stars
Paradise
Where
I
Becomes
Our
Glorious place
To meet again
Paradise
You are sin

Murray
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

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