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Adasyev Aug 2018
Z iniciativy české státní správy byly na stránky hellopoetry uměle přidány reklamy. Ty se nejprve začaly zobrazovat na stránkách mých textů s cílem je zakrýt a odradit moje čtenáře. Návštěvnost textů byla také bloknuta. Poté, co jsem do profilu přidal info o tom, že se zobrazují jen před mými texty, se začaly zobrazovat už všude. Státní správa se rozhodla kvůli mně ničit i texty druhých. Pro srovnání se můžete na hellopoetry připojit ze zahraničí, zda se zobrazí nějaké reklamy. Cílem je mě donutit k tomu, abych smazal tento účet a svou tvorbu, jako pomsta za mou (možná přehnaně) satirickou tvorbu proti pražské státní správě nebo poslancům. Pokud jsem někoho urazil, tak se mu omlouvám, ale útočné texty pokládám za užitečné a dobré, jak uvádím dál. Nikdo si na ně přímo nestěžoval a pokud ano, tak by bylo nejlepší, kdyby to řekl přímo autorovi, tedy mně. Moje adresa: Mezi Domky 255, 251 68 Kamenice. Cenzuru pomocí reklamy bez dalšího vysvětlení považuju za zbabělou.

V reakci na cenzuru a reklamy jsem smazal několik textů, které zasahovaly do osobnostních práv lidí, kteří se jich žádným způsobem po mně nedomáhali anebo neměli odvahu to udělat. Likvidaci nebo poškození zla považuju za dobrou věc. Agresi proti úřední nebo institucionální (firemní) nadřazenosti, která někoho druhého považuje za nekompetentního a ne sobě rovného považuju za dobro, které přináší změnu v myšlení. Rozhodne lepší a lepší ovlivní víc lidí. Můj text v angličtině ("A message from me") platí dál, po smazaní špiclovského účtu (můžou si založit nový) smažu i ten.

Zpráva zaslaná uživateli hellopoetry.com/retardnnn:
Predchozi upravou jsem tady skoncil. Navzdy. Muzete pracovat az do dalsiho ministra vnitra nebo reditele BIS nebo deseti dalsich, az do konce veku.

Ještě chci dodat, že "likvidací" myslím hlavně literární zesměšnění, které mělo v této zemi vždycky tradici. Původní inspirací napsat krátkou prózu "Bezdomovci z kolonie Bubenské nábřeží založili kurýrní společnost" bylo dokázat si, že dokážu napsat něco satirického, tak jak to udělal třeba Jaroslav Hašek. Moje texty vadí právě proto, že jsou dobře napsané a jsou úspěšné. Kdyby dobré nebyly, nikdo by se jimi nezabýval a nemusel je cenzurovat. Pokud mě chcete posuzovat, věřte při čtení hlavně sami sobě, ne informacím někoho druhého, a už vůbec ne státem placeným trollům na sociálních sítích. Žijeme v době druhé normalizace. Pokud nemáte odvahu a vlastní názor, tak v ní žijte dál. Uznávám, že v textu "Orangutani z pavilonu Indonéská džungle založili Poslaneckou sněmovnu ČR" jsem to přehnal a bezdůvodně pourážel hodně lidí. I těch slabších a citlivějších, kteří se nemůžou bránit. Hlavním podnětem k jeho napsání byly ale agresivní reklamy (bannery) ODS, které se mi neustále zobrazovaly na mých vlastních stránkách adasyev.deviantart.com a ve kterých se autoři snažili rýmovat, stejně jako já.

Zkusím vysvětlit některé rýmy:
"Vlez na úřad a všechno sněz, Praha volí ODS".
Narážka na člena ODS JUDr. Luboše Záveského, vedoucího inspektora OIP Praha. Jeho činnost spočívá v tom, že u práce, kde nedostanete ani minimální hodinovou mzdu, dal takovým podnikatelům ještě lepší smlouvy než před kontrolou. Z pokuty, kterou inspektoři vyinkasují od podnikatele za nelegální práci, si sami sjednali odměny (vedle státního platu). Touto námezdnickou prací jsem si prošel.

"Kdo nedává na žrádlo, sponzoruje divadlo."
Narážka na pražskou podnikatelku Ing. Hanu Černochovou, majitelku superúspěšného švarcsystémového podvodu s názvem eKuryr, s.r.o. Paní majitelka se svým manželem byla nebo je mecenáškou Národního divadla v Praze. Na to, že podnikání této firmy je v podstatě sofistikovaný podvod, jsem přišel já, ne státní úředníci, a to ve stížnosti dostupné na tinyurl.com/svarcsystem. Po odečtení nákladů na provoz si kurýr s osobním autem v podstatě nic nevydělá a díky tomuto podvodu firma docilovala nejnižších cen na trhu.

Rovněž třeba parodie "Prague Connection" byla inspirována jiným autorem, který zase parodoval některé verše z mojí tvorby. Nic není bez příčiny... Ani já.

A tak dál
a tak dál
nic jsem tady nenapsal
jen tak

pro nic za nic.

Svoje básně přesunu na nové místo, protože je o ně zájem. Nemůžu už tady zveřejňovat žádné další nové příspěvky. Když to udělám, jsou na veřejném profilu smazány (pro ČR). Takže tento text je jediným způsobem komunikace se čtenáři. Upozorňujte na cenzuru a sdílejte moji tvorbu. Díky, L.

POZNÁMKA: Počet zhlédnutí tohoto textu, tak jak je dole, je ZFALŠOVÁN, s cílem vytvořit dojem, že ** už vlastně nikdo nečte. Aktuální zamrzlá hodnota je 34 (5. 8. 2018). Vyzkoušejte sdílení tohoto textu a uvidíte, zda číslo stoupá nebo ne. Číslům u ostatních básní se teď už také nedá věřit.

AKTUALIZACE: Hodnota zfalšována (snížena) na 45, opět bloknuta. Jako nové číslo se může objevit cokoliv a bude opět bloknuté.

AKTUALIZACE: Místo reklam se může zobrazit rádobyvěrohodný inzerát na sponzorování tohoto serveru. Server Hellopoetry je ale dobrovolně financován členy komunity bez zobrazování jakýchkoliv poutačů nebo reklam. Díky tomu je zachována grafická čistota textů básní. Srovnejte při připojení ze zahraničí.

AKTUALIZACE 22. 4. 2021: Co se tady na Hello Poetry vlastně stalo, doteď nevím. Moje nové příspěvky se nezobrazí na mojí profilové stránce. Při aktualizaci anglického textu A Message From Me byl po přihlášení k mému účtu na zadávací stránce vložen škodlivý HTML kód, který periodicky útočil na operační paměť a shazoval prohlížeč. Došlo k prohození napsaných odstavců v mém textu A Message From Me, kdy verze, která se zobrazovala veřejnosti po odhlášení z účtu, se lišila od originální uložené verze se správným pořadím odstavců. Tento samotný český text byl zpočátku (srpen 2018) zcela překryt nesmyslným obřím černobílým bannerem s nápisem Sudoku, který se prodlužoval na výšku této stránky jak rostla návštěvnost mojí výzvy. Samotné počty zhlédnutí/přečtení tohoto a jiných mých textů jsou skutečně zamrzlé, tj. nerostou pro různé unikátní IP adresy i identity (testoval jsem s prohlížečem Tor). Soudě podle publikovaných textů ostatních uživatelů z Hello Poetry, jejich zkušenosti s tímto webem jsou rovněž podivné, např. někdo uvedl, že nemůže psát vůbec komentáře (to by vysvětlovalo, proč můj text A Message From Me se současnou návštěvností téměř 22 tisíc přečtení nemá ani jeden komentář; to je to, co vidím po přihlášení ke svému účtu). Při mé snaze logicky vytěsnit překrývající reklamy, kdy jsem se domníval, že jsou dílem inteligentního útočníka, jsem paralelně napsal anglický text A Message From Me a toto české Sdělení. K odkazům pro veřejnost jsem použil krátké odkazy služby tinyurl.com. Při jejím opětovném využívání během zdejšího zápasu s reklamou se mně najednou reklamním bannerem zcela překrylo i zadávací políčko pro adresu na stránce tinyurl.com, tak, že služba bez blokovače reklam nešla vůbec použít. Celá věc na mě působila tak, že si ze mě dělá nebo dělají srandu nějací počítačoví šachisté s plošným přístupem k serverům a alespoň částečnou možností modifikace přenášených dat. K účtu hellopoetry.com/retardnnn se pojí rovněž fiktivní jméno "Sarai Hladká" a další podivný účet instagram.com/adamlanza92 (podle jména a roku narození amerického masového vraha). Tento instagramový účet měl před pár lety v popisku text právě jen "Sarai Hladká", tedy stejná "sara" aneb retardnnn, který mě měl mezi sledovanými zde na Hello Poetry v červenci 2018 (a který nebo která má účet taky na deviantart.com/retardnnn). Pokud náhodou víte nebo tušíte, čí je to účet, anebo máte nějaké nápady a připomínky k výše uvedenému, uvítám vaše e-maily na adrese lukas.vejsada@tiscali.cz. Kontaktujte mě také prosím, i pokud narazíte na nějaký "můj" profil na Facebooku. Děkuju, L.

AKTUALIZACE 25. 5. 2021: Profil instagram.com/adamlanza92 byl zrušen.

AKTUALIZACE 14. 6. 2021: Dostal jsem e-mailem reakci k původu účtu hellopoetry.com/retardnnn a dalších. Má jít o účet pubertálního dítěte, pisatel mě ujistil, že rozhodně nejde o účet založený MV ČR nebo BIS.

AKTUALIZACE 6. 10. 2023: Moje zkušenosti (nejenom) s tímto webem jsou nově shrnuty na adrese adasyev.tiiny.site

Krátký odkaz na tuto stránku: https://tinyurl.com/nechcemecenzuru
I thought it right to assess some antidepressants, which philosophers are more inclined to call mood enhancers.
This was during my foray into human enhancement, substances intended to enhance physicality, cognition or mood. Nootropic compounds concern the latter two categories.

The most commonly prescribed mood enhancers are serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SRIs), but it takes over a week for these compounds reach their peak effect.
Thus I approached them with the notion that a limited dosage might point to their character, though  not reveal. These considerations in mind, I set about acquiring a few miscellaneous anti-D's.

Fluoxetine was the first successful selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor (SSRI), better known by its original brand-name Prozac. Fluoxetine has an acute biological half-life of between 1-3 days. Presence of a trifluoromethyl group on the compound deserves note, I wonder what the presence of electronegative fluorine atoms add to the psychoactive flavor of a compound (subjective effects).
I administered a single dose by mouth, there was some indication of subjective character. Light serotonergic sensations and seemingly benign mood-dampening, there is a ****** towards the positive. Waking headspace relatively uninteresting. Observed hints of oneirogenesis, did not manifest in enough character to be detailed - a sort of vivid, 'pulsive wandering, more pronounced in contrast to its waking character.
Good experiment, interesting results.
Ligand     Ki (nM)   Ki (nM)
Target      Flx            Nflx
SERT        1               19
NET         660           2700
DAT         4180         420
5-HT2A   200           300
5-HT2B    5000         5100
5-HT2C    72.6          91.2
α1             3000         3900
M1            870           1200
M2            2700         4600
M3            1000         760
M4            2900         2600
M5            2700         2200
H1            3250         10000

Sertraline is another popular SSRI, also known by it's original brand-name Zoloft. Sertraline has a variable half-life, on average 26 hours.
It's metabolite, desmethylsertraline, has a half life between 62-104 hours but is a far less potent Serotonin Releasing Agent (SRA).
The presence of two chlorine atoms is interesting. The usual, phenomenal serotonergicity is present and pushing towards the positive.
Some nausea, particularly when hungry (this disappeared after some minestrone soup). Some faintness after physical exertion. This dose did not promote onirogenesis. There was a moment of cognitive distortion when the proportions of a focal object seemed to be growing in-and-out, shifting in size.
Site                 Ki (nM)
SERT              0.15–3.3
NET               420–925
DAT               22–315
5-HT1A       >35,000
5-HT2A          2,207
5-HT2C          2,298
α1A        ­        1900
α1B                 3,500
α1D                 2,500
α2                  477–4,100
D2                  10,700
H1                  24,000
mACh           427–2,100
σ1                   32–57
σ2                   5,297

Escitalopram is an SSRI commonly prescribed for major depression and generalised anxiety. It is the (S)-stereoisomer of citalopram. The biological half-life is of escitalopram is between 27-32 hours.
I administered a dose and thought the phenomenal serotonergicity less apparent than fluoxetine but then gastro-intestinal disturbance was noted, I surmised it has a high affinity for 5-HT2C.
Any oneiric qualities were not readily apparent after a single dose, relatively little visual imagery which is understandable given its lack of affinity for 5-HT2A. I found this to be philosophically interesting. Mood elevation observed in bursts of conversation and as odd sensations, possible mental discomfort.
Ligand,
Recptr     Ki (nM)
SERT       2.5
NET        6,514
5-HT2C   2,531
α1            3,870
M1           1,242
H1           1,973

Venlafaxine is a selective serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor (SNRI). Venlafaxine and its metabolites are active for about 11 hours.
Initial subjective effects similar to a very light empathogenic stimulant. Perception of altered attention-span/increased reflexive response; energizing yet paradoxically much yawning.
Ligand,  Vnfx      Dvnfx
Recptr    Ki(nM)  Ki(nM)
SERT  ­    82           40.2
NET       2480        558.4

Tianeptine is a tricyclic antidepressant (TCA) with an unusual mechanism of action. It is an atypical agonist of the μ-opioid receptor and has been described as a (selective) serotonin reuptake enhancer (SRE). It has a short duration as sodium salts [prescribed form] of between 2-4 hours but as sulfate this can be notably extended, some of its metabolites are active for longer than tianeptine itself.
Definitely anxiolytic, quite artificial; possible aphrodisiac. I find its opioid activity dissuading, requires caution.
Site          Ki (nM)
MOR       383–768 (Ki)
                 194 (EC50)
DOR      >10,000 (Ki)
                 37,400 (EC50)
KOR      >10,000 (Ki)
                 100,000 (EC50)
All other transporter/receptor/sub-receptor values are >10,000 (Ki).

Bupropion is a norepinephrine-dopamine reuptake inhibitor (NDRI) with affinity for some nicotinic receptors. Bupropion and its metabolites are active for between 12-36 hours. Interestingly it is a substituted cathinone.
Initial subjective effects similar to a fairly light stimulant. Perception of increased attention-span and improved cognition. It is an onirogen that is neutral in quality, enhancing vivid dreaming (a boon of its nicotinic affinity which is counteracted if the stimulant component impinges on sleep). Completely absent of serotonergicity, curious.
The N-tert-butyl group's effect is most interesting, how it affects metabolism and to what extent ROAs alter pharmacokinetics.
I took 150mg ******, as extended and as instant release (the latter was more pronounced). I thought an altered pharmakinetic profile might result from bypass of hepatic metabolism, so I tried 25mg insufflated and felt as if there was effect that it differed slightly from oral ROAs, but also worried that its metabolic fate is thence unknown (compare to the neurotoxic 3-CMC). What of other bupropiologues,
for example, 3-Methyl-N-tert-butyl-methcathinone? Indeed.
                        Bupropion    R,R-Hydroxybuprpn   Threo-hydrobuprpn
AUC               1                     23.8                                  11.2
Half-life         11 h                 19 h                                 31 h
IC50 (μM)
DAT               0.66                  inactive                          47 (rat)
NET               1.85                   9.9                                  16 (rat)
SERT              inactive          inactive               ­            67 (rat)
α3β4 nic         1.8                   6.5                                   14 (rat)
α4β2 nic         12                     31                                   no data
α1β1γδ nic     7.9                    7.6                                  no data

Moclobemide is a reversible inhibitor of monoamine oxidase A (RIMA), its monoamine oxidase inhibition lasts about 8–10 hours and wears off completely by 24 hours. Inhibiting the decomposition of monoamines (e.g. serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine) increases their accumulation at an extracellular level. It tends to suppress REM sleep and so it lacks oneirogenic properties.
Feeling of well-being, less constrained by the usual anxieties; openness. Relatively unnoticeable side-effects when diet is carefully managed. Made the mistake of eating a cheese and turkey sandwich (i.e. foodstuff rich in tryptophan/tyramine), indications of serotonergicity later became apparent: feelings of overheating and flushing, slight sweating, racing thoughts and anxious discomfort. A stark reminder of Shulgin's old adage: "there is no casual experiment".
Combination with a select few tryptamines (not 5-MeO-xxT) should be safe, and synergistic (perfect for pharmahuasca); reputed to potentiate GHB. However, generally it is extremely dangerous to combine with serotonergic drugs.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
psiór vs.
                        pśιór "debate".

every area of interests has its cul de sac,
its brick-wall, a dead-end as it were,
a point where transcendence is
welcomed, unavoidable,
but nonetheless: miserable stalled.

philosophers have the cartesian
   cogito ergo sum -
whatever arithmetic of wording
they produce, not even samson
could topple this pillar of foundation
for the temple of thought.

the same is with my example...
it would appear that the diacritical
**** ι with a floating head i
did not translate further, beyond
the same treatment of yot (j) -
(gee a jeep! yodh: serif (י) and
rashi (

yet by oath alone, hebrew orthography
invokes itself in letters...
unlike the post-roman orthography
of words...

                   ι    י      
                      Y         (    .    )
                      ي

                            ­        floating alongside
e...
         if only the greek sigma
   had the tetragrammaton of the arabic "ι" -
the initial σ (يـ‎) & the final ς (ـي) are
indeed there, but what of the isolated
(ي‎) & the medial (ـيـ‎) - unless of course
of course we treat to invoke the
upper-case: Σ - such as is missing in arabic,
and is only a question of: how much
the prolonged line?

p.s.

   why would i ever like the evolution
of gaming?
  well... teenage boy, "trapped",
by a video game,
what were my usual saturday mornings?
strapped to an PS1....
tenchu, metal gear solid...
       i am a gamer,
like most people are readers
on the *******...
      i'm here to play a game,
with indefinite time constraints,
as i am concerned about
  massaging my ****,
to ease my prostate concerns...
wankers.

          i'm still going to listen
to byzantine chants...
    because? modern gaming,
well, sure,
   it's, "free"...
but there are in-built
           payment processors...
additions, etc.,

   like me and my maine ****
cat,
      6 candles....
i know he wants to "escape"
via an open window,
but before he can "escape"
(i will let him put)...
he has to play a blinking
game with him,
i squirm, i close my eyes,
he does likewise...
  the candles are still lit...

but gaming has evolved...
"once upon a time"
you'd run into a games shop,
tongue waggling...
for the next big release...

      i know... i know...
war robots...
           that mobile game...
2 lame 2 blame...
that's my user name...
i haven't spent a dime / cent /
penny on this game...

what i do like,
is playing the game with
a...  ah! - - - - - - - - - -

but times have changed,
it was no longer about RPG games
akin to final fantasy VII,
and cheat books...

or playing Sims 3000 finding
the escape wormhole
of playing a Sim playing
a computer game: inside a computer
game...
            
when you bought a game for
$50 bucks...
and was never told:
it's "free"...
but then have to invest in
******* overpriced additions...

- - - - - - - - - handicap!
        i like war robots,
because?
       i like playing with a handicap!
the people who spend money?
mostly Koreans, Russians,
Kazakhs... H'americans,
Brazilians...
            you know,
what really evolved in gaming?
the chance to play in a non-NPC
environment...
   to play alongside live gamers...

that **** broke the ******* camels
****, sack, and *******...
last time i checked...
women were more into gaming
than the men were:
candy cwash saga...
   men fathomed gaming
via the narrative component...
but what of this additional
payments?!
in the good old days:
you paid 20 quid, you had your narrative...
now, "fwee"... but,
no wait... there are... additional
payments, you see?

i like playing a game,
handicapped...
in a free game environment...
when, your prized asset
is patience?
and all the rich arabs / russians
are spending money,

   and you, simply, wait...
and perfect your tactics?!
while they are buying up all
the "cheat codes"?
        sure... they'll serve the purpose
of staging 4000 battles...
you, eh... around 300+...
but their % rate?
      6... they have a 6% rate of success...
with 4000 or so battles...
while you?
           300+ battles?
roughly in the range of
60 - 50% success rate...
        gaming, has changed,
games were never "free",
as they are "free" now...
        
   hell, i'm not a gamer to be honest...
some people treat taking a ****
as the only time required to read
a book, i treat the same "timed" allowance
to play a game...

                 my mother is a gamer,
we've reached a moment in history where
women will play more mobile games
than ever boys would play,
video, narrative games...

          my mother is a gamer,
that's just eerie...
                   i have a second game
in tow....
   a blinking game with my maine ****
cat, surrounded by 6 candles...
oh he has the garden for the worth of
night...

but gaming has changed...
    i like the handicap dynamics of
war robots...
       like **** will i spend any money
on the game...
  i want to play against
the paying russians, chinese, arabs
and kazakhs....

          ******* - my favourite mode...
team work...
every single time i leave
my rogatka to jump and sprint
capturing beacons
when the battle is almost over...

thank **** i just bypassed
the evolution of PS1 into PS2 and PS3
and whatever else came...
     i missed about 10+ years of
gaming...
   and i hit the beehive jukebox...
of games without NPC characters...

i revised gaming at the right time,
when NPC disppeared,
completely,
and gaming became revised
by the internet live-event
game-membership.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
czytając filozofie po polsku, ojciec mój który wyrósł na chemika obudził dziecie, a dziecie pochłoneło ojca mówiąc: od teraz zaczne, carpe annum, carpe zenith ex tempus, filozofia z logiki czy to z rzeczy rosnących - i w garści magika które wzamian za słowa hocus pocus wymawiane są słowa jan nowak urodzony czwartego kwietnia roku 1912 / zmarł rokiem 1973; czy to z rzeczy stabilnych w sensie inspectio ex continuum, czy też na skali micro (atomów), czy też macro (gwiazd); to ja wydam wartości nie-czytne mym ozorem, abyś ty zerknoł na to co jest warte czytania - obudź mnie w ciele ośmio latka twym ciałem dwudziesto latka... bo sam wiesz że przez tyle lat, nic cie nie nauczono -nawet ten bat i ta dysciplina nie wzruszyła cie aby zgodzić się na kawe przy domu pogrzebowym wraz z myślą: jaki to ma być, ten nowy samochód? z dala - ‘taki aby i trumna też mogła zapiąć pasy.’*

zza młodu dziad powiada wnukowi: matematyka, fizyka i sport...
przed dziada rokiem młody odpowiada:
chłód zimy, spacer i myśl;
kocham obiekt zwany kobieta... lecz nie temat...
mój sam bardziej wypełnia sześć kątów niż jej obecność zmartwień,
co jest jakby gra przegrana, więź tematyki mniej
jako wąż a bardziej jak glizda...
lecz chodząc miedzy kratami i domami anglii dostatku...
widze więcej glizd niż kobr czy też pytonów...
skoro geneza słowa jest brana od onomatopeji imitacji bydła,
nic dziwnego że my tesz na bydło zeszli
biorąc teorie lingwistyki darwina przez ch i es -
nic dziwnego że nie jego,
ale czemu brać pod uwage słowem: jak się widzi
kogoś pukającego w dzrwi w tle “słów”
jakby nie jeden knock-knock żart, więcej limit
tego że z nie animowanych rzeczy nic mądrego nie przyjdzie -
tym bardziej dodając do słownika -
jeno ta pierwsza lekcja zagrożenia małpy bez drzewa
z tym pyskaczem wężem, czyż nie?
jaki jest sens utkwić nową lekcje od rzeczy samych
niewinnych swoją interakcją z cieniem lecz bez machania...
jakie zagrożenie od nich? ah wiem, jeno arachnofobia wedle
kamyka rozmiarem ciągu gór mienia: tatry.
więc szkeliet tego boga zwany: komunikat - przez poetów
wyzwany na igrek i mieszanke czasu w pralce
czystości pomieszany: czerń i biel nada szary -
aby zerknąć w igły dotyku bez wargi,
aby te zagrorzenia zostały które miały znaczyć że
zeszły nam z drogi... aby potem tym samym małpim okiem
patrzyć na rzecz dosyć stabilną i sprawdzić istnienie atomowego ruchy
w stajni, między ślepotą a ruchem, mgłą a cieniem.
z Aug 2018
i can hear my brain screaming
taking up another mischief
making another sound of hit
adjusting another kind of yelling
what is this? a disease? or another routine?
it got rid of my will and wits!
father i hear it screeching
it's not coming from my ears!
but it's okay since they're not real
or at least if that's what you think
i feel like ****! stop with the sense of guilt!
i can hear it screaming
i need my medicine
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
chór! i duch!
               blady... rym...
ale i też wygoda powrotu
jako niby żyd... bo
te paluski... i ten *lajkonik
...
kiev w warszawie... na
tym tle: bo to gwar gadania
i autobus w pizdzie nocy i
zimy... ceka... ceka.

   o bodziem...
  punk kot w czekam
i czoło i glebe i rys islamu,
   i szkło skalu w czaszke
i gołote... i ten... pierdolony kosciół!
goły... naked...
         the cat weighs about 10 kilograms
i'm obviously going to head-**** him
to say good morning...

rrrrrryb ah! koscioł! groto i smród!
rekąpis!                   ryba! flu flu flu!
oj tu: pingwin sie zgina! huj! bra!
   tu! zeżre te polsche... te polsche...
zerwie z nią... bo co?
jakie narodziny mam, "celebrować"?
ja na typ o motłoch? baba?!
taki typ by na miet i slóp -czysłav?!
pats! prostak z... miasta...
  chleba mało... tsa zebrać...
seplień seplień se o se: nago
      i choroba... gniew... grób;
padaj! jak gwóźdz w trumne
czy tam gówno w toalete...
       tsa u... tu com sa, tam com sa...
ja na wygnań!
        ja wygnany, co mi te poloki?
półtłoki? boli, nie? zyh poza granicą,
tam, dam ci kwit i... kćuka!
                 kćuka! na witaj huju!
potem -senką: za casów Herod'a...
  co sfe: pio... senką; taki tanz: oi! ola ola o!

taki zemnie polok, jaki ten
pierw żyd, co pyta:
  
  pytam... bo czekam...

(choir and [the] ghost).

    warto pytać, oto wiem że o nic nie czekam
(nie czekam o nic... po? nie czekam o nic...
po prostu czekam; tak tak, nic nici nić nitka nikt;
kurvfa shoelaces... you ******* deaf
or watching kochaj albo rzuć?       );
tym warte pytać of -zyk-
kiedy nie w... kraju...  or-zelek... or-zelek...
              taki kwaśniewski co tylko sepleni...
blah blah blah... potem na gniew
vay vest vey kal it a p-cle... susumber: or cueue...
         oi oi! wrona! hej! wrona!              co tam?!
eh, ten rojs siber tesz popierdolony...
rrrrreeee lee, wrona! co tam?
o kurva... terz troche... mmm uhum... mm... eh?
   is bez powrotu... taki... niby...
dobry fason i wybór słów
    jako dobry wójek... po glebie jak po
grzbiecie psa
...
ah ten pysk.... taki dobry pies
mógł być, a potem, nagle, naturalnie:
wściek! pyska... harem! harem!
         harem! grypa! grypa! ugh!
                                golem!
    co tam wyrośnie, to tam nigdy nie było...
ani cebula co płacze, ani
           burak któremu zęby
   wypadają...
      oś? czy... osa? i z tym językiem
bez tego języka gwarancji?
            taki jam obcy...
   ja nawet obcy gadać obcym... do perfekcji...
jaki to musi być nud... aby było
              jak to musi być, skoro jest?
    last time i checked... pretty **** awful.
Mandii Morbid Oct 2021
Loss
chip
Violence
nic
Trauma
chip

With each chip I find it harder to feel.
Every nic makes my world feel less real.

Bruises
nic
Scars
chip
Tears
nic

Each more takes a bit of my heart.
Tearing me even further apart.

Betrayal
chip
Abandonment
nic
Loneliness
chip

I am losing myself it seems.
On this path of shattered dreams.

crack

Each one a new crack in my foundation.
Till I come crumbling down.
Just a linear step to stagnation.
Losing my words--they're all I have left.
Now I am stuck praying for damnation.

crack

I am slipping. Further away.
Lost in the memories of yesterday.
I have lost my voice-I don't know what to do. What to say.

shatter

I stomp on my broken pieces just to relive the pain.
I worry that I am too broken and just a touch insane.
'Cause I need a little sunshine to balance out this rain.
They say it just takes a little bleach to take out the bloodstain.

I am slipping through the cracks it seems.
But I want to glue the pieces back together.
I want to to be free and chase my dreams.
But my moods are changing like the weather.

I just wanna be lighter than a feather.

I am tired of carrying the pieces around. Some pieces already lost and won't ever to be found.

Can I just grind them to dust and blow them away? Lessen the weight of what used to be.
Can I craft a new vessel and gain the power to be free?

Free of all the broken bits of me?
my love for
her
is strictly
platonic,
because what else
could it be?

I sit on her
couch
and smile at every
single
word she says.
Her soft hand
touches
my knee, exposed
by my shorts,
as she laughs.
Out of nowhere she states,
“I like the
idea
of heaven, but
only
if there’s not a
hell.”
I realize then what
triggered
that statement.
we were talking about religion,
ironic to me is just that,
we were talking about religion
while I worship the
ground
she walks on.

My love for
her
is strictly
platonic,
I worship her,
but only as a
friend.
Thunder Lord Dec 2014
every attempt
or play you invent
I've already done
so go ahead and vent
your rage, don't be contempt
yougi and boo boo, we got a tent
cause picnic-baskets don't cant content
"I pulled your mid lane's card and scored an ace. Told him it read ***-gud and mailed it to his base" -videogamedunkey
AJ Jun 2015
Rivers are meant to be peaceful,
But I promise,
I'm no Virginia Woolf.

I'd love to share a moment,
But sharing was never
One of my best skills
When I was a little girl.
B L Costello Oct 2021
Nic the knife,
Mac's little brother,
His daddy is Jack,
Lizzy's his mother,
A born killer,
He'll tear you apart,
Handsome too,
But not as sharp
Lol, getting in the halloween spirit
Adasyev Jun 2018
Zeptal se dělník k čemu je umění,
když na mojí práci se stejně nic nemění.

Na mý práci se stejně nic nemění,
tak k čemu je umění,
umělci zkurvení.

Umělci zkurvení,
zkuste si umění
a budete tu jak němý.
RebelJohnny Jun 2014
Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.
It’s nearly Christmas in the café; I just got my first card
So please Saint Nic just tell me why, enthusiasm’s hard?
I should be full of Christmas cheer, jingle bells all ringing
Baubles bouncing, tinsel shining, wondering what Santa’s bringing
I’ve not put up my Christmas tree, not hung my decorations
There’s not a single fairly light to hint at celebrations

The talk inside the café is evenly divided
Some can’t wait for Christmas while others have decided
That Christmas cheer has passed them by, can’t wait till it’s all done
They wonder why we bother when the cheer is so hard won
Worrying about the presents, have you got the bird?
Putting up the Christmas tree, the pressure is absurd

Whichever camp that we are in, humbug or Christmas cheer
We know just what will happen, because it happens every year
On Christmas Eve you’ll find us, running round just like a ******
Because you can’t have Christmas pudding without ****** brandy butter
The turkey won’t fit in the oven because it’s so **** big
And Grandad will be drunk by three and snoring like a pig

The kids will all be running round high on Quality Street
And you’ll be close to screaming as they get under your feet
At half past five it starts again with sandwiches and tea
With endless arguments over what’s on the TV
And all you wanted was to watch the new Wallace and Grommit
But you can’t because the quality street have reappeared as *****

When finally you get some peace and the kids are all in bed
You settle down on the sofa to watch Emmerdale instead
You remember that tomorrow, Uncle Jim and Auntie Brend
And all their various filthy offspring are due to descend
You haven’t got the joint out yet, the veg are all unpeeled
And if you're honest last year’s mental scars have not yet healed

So valiantly on you tread, even though inside you feel
You’ll end up in an asylum if another sprout you peel
What is it that keeps you going through this annual affair?
What makes you peel eighty more sprouts, what makes you want to care?
What makes you put up with more stress at this time of year?
What stops you killing Jim and Brend and drugging Grandad’s beer?

No Saint Nic I’m not sure either. Isn’t that quite weird?
It cannot be because of Jesus, the cool bloke with the beard.
I don’t think he would worry about the sprouts so much
Or think that turkey’s so important; perhaps we’re out of touch
Perhaps Christmas makes us crazy in a very special way
Just to make us more grateful for every other normal day

So whilst I’m not entirely sure that Christmas is a boon
I’m fairly sure I’ll be infused with Christmas spirit soon
I’ll hang up all my tinsel, get my ***** coordinated
By the time I have my tree up humbug will be eliminated
It’s a little bit like childbirth, this irrational Christmas fear
But that’s ok because once it’s gone I’ll forget it till next year.
Hello Daisies Mar 2022
Shifting shifting
Into gear
I'm driving without fear
Vroom vroom
So far I go
Where I do not know

Chit chat chit chat
They all speak
Without them I am weak

Swirling swirling
My Brain is fried
I let out and cry

Nic NAC nic NAC
Give myself  a slap
I need to take a nap

Plic plac ship lac
I need a whicky snack
For I am not a bat

I'm losing my mind
It bellows obscenities
Can I still follow the rhyme

I lost track of time
I have no dime ?
Save me save me sir mime

It makes no sense
Too much suspense
My body is too tense

I want it to stop
   Please God
Let it stop
I'm tired
It's screaming
Tens of voices
New ideas
So many choices
I forget them
Before I start them
Then I'm off exchanging myself
For a new shelf
I'm talking
I'm dancing
I'm cleaning
I'm
ScrEAMING  
It's creamy~
Words words
They don't add up

Help me help me
god above
Help me help me
Ones I love
I'm losing my ****
I'm losing all of it

Am I bipolar
Or just ******* nuts
I cannot contain my lusts
I want it all
I want a nap
I want to fall
And run a lap

La la la la lee do da da
I sing a little song
La la la le do da da
I cry a little long
La la la le do da da
I scream hahahAHAHAHA

I am not an Artist~
I am not a talent
I am nothing much
But leftover lunch

Molding and burning
In the evening sun
My end has begun
I am in need of savior
No chance with my flavor

Throw me away
Let me sleep
I am a jumbled up mess
Trying to count too many sheep

Peep peep little one
I am insane
I took your brain
And set it on a plane
It'll never return
The same

You are to blame
Who are you
Who am I ?
Maybe I'll know
When I die
Just a jumbled up mess of what's going on in my mind haha
ERR Jun 2013
Speed up, said Angel
Don’t pump it, smooth
These people cruise, I drive

Over six, wide and heavy tatted
Bald head cold eyes

Pay attention, stupid
He tapped log ash into
Cigarette box trash
Hands rugged and rough
Great deserts full of highways
Barren, arid, brutal

He held Lane’s finger in a vice
Casually, without effort as he
Squirmed and wormed and begged, full
Body efforts failing
H-drained skeleton unable to muster muscle

Angel loosened his grip, to allow
Some circulation mercy (stay on that positive ****)
We dodged Victoria crowns and
Made smoke monsters with our lips and
Tongues, watched our sins cloud-crafted
And float fade privately

Want a clam strip? Said Lane
Want a granola bar, want a cookie?
Want a strawberry?

Ya, no, sure, maybe later
We stopped for some disgusting sidegrub
And pressed on into the mountains

Talented feline peaks I peep, winding
Green tree ever-stretch left-right-wise
Central concrete snake swirls higher
Our cabins line the rocky river trail
We joke about fighting bears

The thugs bunch and separate
Breakfast with Chewbacca
The wooks sit in sun, tangled
Wool clump hair strands smell

Angel had complained about taxes
Uncle Sam taking perks
The hippie wooks against
Government and Blue Law
From behind cigarettes (**** jar [stuffed])
Injured on the job, collecting
Unemployed, collecting
Tripping, bumming, badly strumming,
Hustling, collecting

Lisa is a toothpick and she has the blowsy jitters
Moon pupils grind tooth, sniff nose hard ball hitter
Saw no shame in her strip pay
I would vouch for her when they tore apart her room

Hipsters half trying and
Lumberjack draft drinkers
No place for thinkers or clean
Shady music belly festival
Drone guards drain cancer
From lit sticks for nic fix
Ritual, and bored means

Twelve hour rain sessions
Can I see your pass?
At my gate

A questioning look
I’m Warren Haynes, he said(?)
Nice to meet you, said sheep
Oh, and Les may come
Walking in here

Terry stood with me through the torrential
The first crowd name I learned
Revisit on the daily
Easy spotted in the thousands
I made stupid jokes
And she
Laughed
At them

The final night of jam
There was sun, there were stars
In my new backstage post I heard Phil and his friends
I made every bus, some
Friends, shot ****
The time type where nothing’s wrong
Volunteers brought water
Marshal’s girl, a chicken kebab
No sitting on the job!
From crowd Terry jester
A stranger gave a moonshine gift
Another, a hug and said well worked

A tie blue dye hippie dippie
Looked at a beautiful woman in a dress
I would totally **** that
*******
Disgusted

Even he can’t damper
At night I hear a sweet beat
A boots and cats boxer master Rob
The Mortar Mouth
And DJ Caesar
Laid back tracks collaborated
As the Tree narrated
We three held the jam
Classic, dream fulfilled
(Dead ***)

Chris shows me nerve ache
In a once stabbed high cheek bone
We guard the stage against
Ghost town robbers trudging sticky fingered

Mister Chicken sips from his confederate
Mug and sloppily asks to sneak, surprising kind
He brings me water and a meal
I pretend to check his wrist and
He hops the wrong fence

The Celtic tattoo on
Mike’s neck reads
My brothers mean everything to me
Latin ink, he tells me of the
Shapely thing in loose skirt
Up the stairs, not a thread
He stands all day on a
Broken back, brightens
Gloomy shifts with smiles

Andy loves his family
And promises to sing his
Grandmother’s favorite
Song when she dies
Every note he practices
Is a jagged pill to swallow
His voice haunts like
Newspaper faces
Or last words whispered

I watch the sun rise as
Magenta melts the mountain mist
And drift off counting constellations
AJ Jul 2013
"There's nothing you can do that I haven't already done to myself."
I can dance naked to MSI if I really want to.
I really do want to.
That song awakens my inner stripper.
I'm making a tattoo appointment for this week.
Going to get a semicolon on my suicide scar so I never forget,
That I was once a dumb teenager
Who had more courage than I do right this second.
It makes me panic to think that they don't call english muffins
English muffins in England.
Two types of muffins?
Who would've thought?
It gives me anxiety.
My computer keeps translating all my pages into Polish.
Nie wiem nic.
Strange thing, but I don't mind.
I need more coffee,
Possibly *****,
But most likely coffee.
Jacob is going through a new phase,
And I will wonder if it'll last a few more months,
Till he turns four.
"You can't do that"
"Aaaaactually..... I can."
Aaaaaactually you can't munchkin.
But you keep reminding me you're not a munchkin,
You're a boy.
Silly boy.
Silly me.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
pre-scriptum: zapisałem sie... jutro wyśle zdięcia... fatalnie zakochany w tych grotach.

jak by mnie myślnym / myśliwym tokiem myśli nie chcieli równać z sobą to bym odmówił, lecz nadali film wedle Sokratesa, a ja Anglikom odmówie, bo chcem, nawet po kurz Mongolii, mam dość tępych Irlandczyków! przeciąg mnie dusi! te wyspy to wyryty gnój Ameryki.

te zdzięcia zbyt kuszaące - jak już powiedziałem pewnej dziewczynie na internecie... nie sprzedam mojego głosu jeżeli mi nie zaplacą! a nic nie dali, jeno gówno! to powiem je w gromadzie takich co mówią na migi - jak ten co z pochodnią na wejście smoka a poszedł trysta razy! zapominieć mówienia po polschu (ja niby Żyd, w Buenos Aires? no, niby post-Holocaust, to takie tango a nie tanz Bar Mitzvah w aleii Golders Green) - jak jedna: wiem skąd burak jest jak niby pochodnią nad ziemi chwytem w otchłan piękna i stokrotki... czyli: co jabłoń da, to róża odbierze, piękno niby było jadalne, a owoc ten jadalny był pięknem, który nigdy nie odda cierpieniu zacmienia, a jednak ponownie, ponownie, ponownie; jednak nadal w wstecz na gre: ojczyzna! ojczyzna! z agrafką po to by odnaleść tą sfobodną szlachte naszego rozbroju: co znaczy życie nasze a ich jeno kichnięńciem, księcia, ktoóry ksiądz imitacją ochlał wedle vino veritas!

kurwa! kartoflana gleba tłumaczenia Joyce'a!

Londyn to ino klejnot Arabii, tu nic nie rośnie, jeno głab czyli muzg kapusty, to znaczy oklask Mensa... nie?!

te zdzięcia i ja to jak ramie w ramie ze złudną imprezą za tą Ostanią
czyli mortum fatali

jak Narcyz wpatrzyłem sie w nie i myśle by nawiać na wyspy Owcze czy też Mongolie, zdala z tej lachy "swiata" i ludobójstwa ekonomicznego, wkoło mnie tylko wieprz gra na wiolonczeli, i tak dobrze gra że motłoch nie zna falszu od falsetto, jeno udaje na tle cytatu psa mówiącego: sausages! sausages! how! how!

więc wole w tych lochach odbytem powiedzieć co Zachód zna jako rękopis mojej zdrady, bo ja tu następnej i tej cholernej minuty wole w Syberie gnać, z duchem czy bez ducha... Gangrene Green... mysli tu jakiś z Essex'u tuman że Rzym odlalazł bez akcentu na literach; bo tu każdy pyta czy jest szalony czy tylko napisał Alicja w Kraine Czarow i Pedofilii.

post-scriptum: czemu nie piszom Řešów? bo im škoda? Wojewoda Prostanoga ptija - bo to po Ruszku pyta... a cygan... to znacy chyba. Holender i stare smieci... ale boli kiedy powrót stanowi więcej niż tempus lux.
Ottis Blades May 2013
What are they to do with their hands if they no longer care?
if they would rather take an iPad over fresh air?

If it’s auto-correct teaching them how to spell words?
when raising your child: is Nicki Minaj doing a better job?

It’s because they now live in that neon-green X-Box glow
blasting strangers from all walks of life online playing Halo.

While Smokey the Bear goes around lighting matches
there are no more sandwiches left in our pic-a-nic baskets.

It’s the Kids!

Because the only toboggan they go through is YouTube
because there are no such things as books in Facebook.

Because it’s behind a shiny screen their ingenuity goes to waste
because it’s the equivalent of dropping Simba on his face.

So lets just Skype instead of meeting up and going for a walk!
140 characters or less to dictate the way we communicate and talk!

Because Clark Kent is not Superman unless his Twitter feed is verified
and behind close doors there's no room to grow a child’s mind.
Keith J Collard Jan 2013
Some start with ****, (I am reflecting now)
or nic on the breath,
but it ends in cadaverine,
all my heroes have been lost to me.

And as decomposition begins( I am angry now)
they look happy,
cuz a skull always grins,
a slow way to die,
as if doused with caustic lye,
the spiritual man is dead,
black vacuity in their eyes.

Now their souls will sin( I am staying away now)
their tongues will boast,
they mock the heavens,
but tempt the crows,
their minds are seared,
their heart debased,
any memory of my friends is all erased. (attending a funeral now)
Sespoquet Jun 2012
I love watching you
connect the dots
on my skin
with your fingertips
i'm a poet i'm a rat i will scuttle in darkness
and shimmering teeth
smiling at the moon
because i

walked the old haunts with myself
where i would sit in the night
drink and lament: by lament indeed
i indeed would cry
like a baby
unabashed like a baby a man-baby
not a man-child
but but a man-baby

i'm no Peter Pan or for that matter
Dionysus
what a poor choice of a demigod
coming from a man high on
barbiturates...
who?! who do you "who"?!
i'm not evening asking i will not drop
the "N" bomb...

        no... i will: with my Hot-Vizier
a man who knows Islam
i swear to god i need to find release
and release i will find
i need the stabbing numbing of the heart
i need to numb the heart
once more
forget this Eden
this slow ebbing Eden...

Nietzsche and the mysterious catatonic
Pole he became...
O wait: i'm a heavy drinker
i'm a mini not-me Dionysus
imagining my psychiatrists wondering
about that original diagnosis
as psychotic
and schizophrenic they mistook for
being bilingual: or they completely forgot
that i told them i heard
"voices" in English
but didn't hear them in Polish...
i wonder where i fit on the spectrum
of categorizing intelligence as a mental
disease:

but i did tell them... square in the face:
once you let me out of "here"
i don't know where DA will be or become
with all the:
-ing
-ing
-ing
-ing                          getting to rubric stance
rather than float about like
rogue planets
devoid of concept of meteor
or sun....

Geidi Prime to Geydi Sigma...
the satellite team nocturnal responding:
skin? mostly peeled otherwise
to my imagining: crawling...
thrombosis -
i like the sound of that word:

skin is crawling with nettle-worm
fluids...
we're constantly itching, Sire...
life is good but we have to complicate
it to make more bearable
even with the surplus of advantageous tools
women have the internet
and washing machines
men have AI

and i've never used too many APPS
but every time i mention that
i used chatGPT to help me complete
my NVQ Level 3 in Crowd Management
it's as if i never actually
studied a BSc in Chemistry at Edinburgh
University...
truly...

              i never once used a dating app...
not once... i never used a dating app...
me? i just went to the brothel.
simple(s): i.e. image-talk:
but not e:'moti)c;ons)

    (there: ode to e. e. cummings
in one word)

                 Arènes de Nîmes:
ahem..
AREN (not, i think: AR Eh)
de... d'uh...
NIMZ... not

Boris Brejcha concert:
i wish i was managing security at that event...

re-calibrating my mind
no... my eyes...
this is a problem of the eyes not the mind
the eyes have blind spots...
like so: put Cyrillic not Greek
to good use, for the sake of the Romans:

a rubric Anti-St. off Peter and Paul,
a reply to the Hebrews, rather simple:

ж = ż (or rz, depending on the context
of orthography,
i.e. able to differentiate between
rzeka: river and życie: life...
now for the rubric, short... and sweet!)

/                              ж = ż
/           у = υ (because of
Γγ               gamma) i.e. ooh ooh /
/                х = CH or samo H, not Z
   HEIM INS *****
         HEIM INS *****
*****...

                      ц = c     tylko c... nic wiecej!

before i entertain the tail on the e
for the sake of Polish
i best regress to Greek from Cyrillic
i.e. these letter elude me:
are problems for the eyes
to see past:

             Ξξ
                 Χχ               these two...

because i know
that...

              Ψψ = Σσς
                                       as    

        Ψψ ≠ Π(Σσς)π

                       approximate to subscript
is identifying a small letter
a progress from Cuneiform and Katakana
i must admit:
therefore establishing chemistry writing...
equations of not words
but artifacts of mind on stone
like able to identify minerals in a Dickensian
pleasure of reading
but i will never finish the Pickwick Papers
i'm sure of that
i abhor English literature
i don't understand why i had to read
Shakespeare like it was a measure
of writing skill rather than skill of recitation
because Shakespeare is not
among the: pardon my Swiss critique
just borrowed it: LOSER poet...
threw in a few sonnets to compensate
but think how lazily they were allowed
to write akin to Seneca...
akin to all these lazily living (also) writers...

ah... back to the rubric of Cyrillic...

           tylko c... nic więcej! nic! poza nic!
            nić

                      [t͡ɕ]

oh yes, that's music, the bilingual music
of speech... maybe i can't write music for the guitar
but i can write music for the instrument
of speech that is tongue...

                       ч = chequers...

mind you if i don't find it a problem with
very popular words
like szczerosc: truthfulness...
i could not probably note improve
but if emoticons are aplenty then
at least troll the **** out of the Roman alphabet
like the lazy Cyril trolled Cyrillic with
the easy e and a
and...
but all that effort in I

щ =       šč

point being: if szcz = щ
surely there might be a letter equivalent to
       -ść

dość! enough!

       thought in reverse:

                         don't make me bring out Jan Hus
and the Czech diacritical study:
you have to remember that there is still
this strange Pan-Slavic
that no Germanic person could or will acknowledge
since: can you believe it!
they don't speak English in Paris!

hence the new Tetragrammaton emerges:

    borrowed from sigma and Caro

   ZHZH...

             ha! and what vowels to throw into it like
stones? perhaps best to think about breaths
but it did dawn on my
when uttering THe letters like so:
the frictive variation of F
that is... in THE but not in THought....
but is also the same in ALthOUGH...

и
         и и
и и и

or

и
ииииии
и

    (meat and two veg, ha... not funny)

Cyril you lazy sod!
hey! look! lookie lookie!
no wonder then: so lazy on the a and e...
bud is going to be the next
Hackney ganster
educating the youth
saying that there is not need to panic
when using AI to pass
NVQ exams:
but believe me...
supervising is dull work...

those forced labor camps in Schindler's List
looked ******* authentic...
then the mood switches
and the women arrive in Aushwitz
and then you know:
a death camp is not a forced labor camp
the snow is falling
the dogs are barking
and the guards are ******* smiling!
i mean: if genocide was that bad
then imagine:
hello eternity hello god
and the people who are last in line
are in front of you:
...
   ...
      ...
******* smiling?!
how genius it must have been
to try to reunite the modern Hebrews:
unchanged
with the Ancients of Rome and Babylon
and Egypt:
to no avail! to no, *******, avail!
they stopped fearing uttering THE NAME
to now openly testifying:
oh, so complicated: say what you will...
we really don't know how to say
the word right now...
we never did... plagiarists of Gilgamesh:
store front: Jesus Saves...

****, this ****! **** it!
well... if tribes galore is what we're mining
then at least the Chinese
and the Indians (blue blue)
don't need mentioning their post-tribal
period as civilizations

in this brief civilization yawn
of Europe
we begin tribal again
thanks to the import of labor from
"elsewhere"...
no... there need not be some right wing revival
i just need to watch Schindler's List
with one more beer
and compare the guards
at a forced labor camp
and the guards at a, the, death camp
and begin to wonder
how the logistics of fooling so many
people to the bowels and furnace of
the birth of Moloch came about
so willingly so sheepishly
fooled by a bar of soap
from work camp to death camp
i'm still rattling my brains
about the coordination of the spectacle:
logistically
if you ever worked at Wembley
esp on the egress.. outside...

i can imagine volume: of people: like water...
90 thousand people dispersing from
a Coliseum
after an event it takes roughly 2h...
circa 100 people per tube carriage...
the logistical endeavor: the livid and drinking
insomnia of it all:
if i were a police officer not a security
officer
or a chemistry teacher would i have
the same sort of language freedom as
i am afforded, right now?

money? for this?! you kidding me:
the 20th century literature is still somehow
the stuff of envy while
i'm doing this for the best reason
other than reading a book
and that's called taming the ego
and ensuring it's like a voyager and all
the suitcases are packed
because i can't stop thinking that
i'm an SS-man or a Harkonnen
because that's how i begin to understand being
human...

mind you i was impregnated with that
thought: of being an SS-man
by my teachers in school:
although i have green eyes they saw blue
since green is rare
because the repressive genes that give blue
eyes
overcame the possessive genes that
give brown eyes
but i was white or somehow grown piglet
in no tux of pink
and blah blah a history reference point
to that song about a Bomber like
a glass bottle on a wall: the IRA and the RAF
joint: closure:

defunct bombs: only architectural damages...
(would prefer that in a non-plural
expression, i.e. damage... never mind)

        so much for heartache when she goes
all teary commando and
i get to feel **** that's not: ****
then i make a quick and sudden
incision and the festivity is over
and i'm tired of living but adore the mantra:
arbeit macht frei

and it's not just that people lose
intelligence when congregating
it's just sad to behold such affairs
on a daily basis
when you could, quiet simply:
isolate these examples of man
and not be as disappointed as
i found myself being:
on countless times...
these... things... magi-jigs...
              
             suppose i didn't want to write
the script to the Apocalypse... what then?
Nietzsche had take 1 and take 2...
everyone is feeling embarrassed by simply
being alive...
or strangely alive...
#metoo: getting the jitters like a girly girly
i so wanted for that Billy Eilish #LUNCH
song to not be a ***** ANTHEM
but it's like the White Stripes' 7 Nation
Army at football stadiums...

tummy ache: tum tum...
tum , tum tum tum tum tum

maybe i might just get the rhythm right
with but one word but
the best, acceptable punctuation
(and no, no diacritical markers...
who's who in the know of known who
i.e. knows: who knows)

tum, yes... about right... 5x tum after the initial
punctuation...
but there is at least one other
that i will turn from the comma
into an apostrophe...

tum, no... 6x...
just listening to the song: sorry... right back no back
just shoulders...
and that Cain plum on my shoulder:
am i an angel or just a simple man
devoid: please please poetic audience
tactic me some variation of a hard-on
no no, pretty: pwetty please...

tum,tum...

****'s sake can't count
what i see though is:

tum,tum'tum'tum'tum',tum

       something like that...
the basics... no gradations of splendor:
just the POINT of INTEREST...
smoking barrel of a gun is a fake
when the chimneys of Auschwitz
are not touristy destinations of Giza...
am i, hearing you...
yo-yo...
sorry... ear wax... am i hearing you just
right
before the altar of the god Alter and Pronoun?!
maybe... ha ha:
by now who **** knows! right?!
Scottie Green Jul 2013
I hope that I don't become one of those poets

That only writes lost-love sonnets

Just because
After sleeping in your bed

I can't get you
Out
Of
My head.
Robin Carretti May 2018
She
so- she
And
He_ so
Never ending
She Comma
Do-So
Shop to Soho

Electronics
Like a Saint
Satanic's
His or hers
Nic's and Pix

Never the end
If so_
Yes Sir
The math flame
Password
To end the
dating game
Hot green
tip
pistachios
Like the long sentence,
Your
Nephews

He was
Huh? ,
So compelled
to be sentenced
The time
treacherous
Was so long
At that end is
where
you
belong
Column
his
comma
She comma

Prima Donna
Oh! Donna
A love
should
be in
the
moment
Too
many

Dots?plots/whatnots

You forgot
semicolumn
The head page
Semi-sweet
column
End chair
Kingdom
Knock on wood
Getting
splinters
He used
Plastic
condoms

Braveheart Lion
Twisted sisters
I was
at the
very end
Wella
She -Comma

The money
Higher up
Society Brianna
Barcelona Cafes
Giraffe ladies
boisterous
drama

Begin now
The beginning
Never met her
  middle-section
Which breed?
She-comma
She could
make
Anyone's
bad heart
Drug fix well
The good
heart
Should be ended
Dead end
&
the
morgue

Her long tongue
All She
_ Rouge
The question mark
All parts dots here and?
What is
next!!!
You hear
the ring you jump
Off the cliff
the text
Meet me
greet him
Chances
are
never
The front
It was
a front
Fine print
you
could
see

Smitten
written deed
And
left her
money

Heavenly
bliss
This
paper
kiss
Did you
miss
Her
signature,

Never a
good gesture
She-devil
Comma,

Never good
ending
movie
Feature

Never ending
Please visit
and come back
Do I need your opinion?
.,,  ...   ??
We always love answers but do we get the right questions all small dots. Bad romances of plots. All we want is a, , this became a soap opera full of drama
TR3F1LD Jun 3
sometimes I̲ wish I could
go back to the time of late childhood & youth
not that that tI̲me was real good (overall)
but those days bY̲gone were some—
—what pleasura[—]ble years
less stress, bother, more fun
while the last several years
have been, like a vengeance by a psychically mU̲cked up per-son
[for example: Jennifer Hills; Beatrix Kiddo; Arthur Fleck]
a mental nightmA̲re (kind of)
[adult life is burdensome & this world is terrible, for the most part]
it's been felt like being stuck inside a **** loop
not the tY̲pe some would choose
there's been some deli̲ght, but the blues
and other negatives have been piling up tO̲
a qua[ɑ]ntum that you'd find somewhat tough to consume
as far as p[ɑ]ossible, you try to rU̲n from the gloom
but, in the end, the dismals hunt ya
down, like you're Beatrix Kiddo fro[ʌ]m the
Tarantino's "Ki̲ll Bill" drama
targeted by the Deadly Viper hit crew
["The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad"]
[the 6th chapter of "**** Bill" called "Massacre at Two Pines"]
and the main thought that I̲'ve been pursued
of late by reminds me of
tragical vigila[ɛ]nte-turned guys, because
it says "nigh on nothing to lose" (nigh on nothing to lose)
besides, it seems li̲ke I have a sick psychopath inside me that
could use a punching bag, like a guy who has
to get prepped for a fighting match
that devil'd be satisfied to have
a mean au[ɑ]tocrat or another black
hat as a hostage to get the spleen dU̲mped on at
times when I'm ******, like sO̲meone af—
—ter having an alco binge; but, in fact
I'd be sO̲mewhat glad
if I̲ just smack or fling sO̲mething frac—
—turable so that the thing wI̲nds up smashed
it'd be nice to have a long-lasting bout of that
as far as possible, I satisfy this app—
—etite for demolition with vicious-sounding tracks
and rhyme-heavy lyrics with evil-minded crap
try to keep that sick **** sE̲rved with
so to speak, loco motifs (loco)
like rail vehicles; I've gotten a mI̲te sidetracked
["locomotives"; "like rail vehicles [,] I've gotten a mite sidetracked"]
let me rewind a tad
the thought that I've been pursued
by saying "nigh on nothing to lose"
as for saved-up money, I would
say there ain't much someone li̲ke me can do
with it; since we can't buy different realities to
live in, I've been thinking... (thinking) of buying a new
PC (for a long while)
[not "new" in the sense of "recently developed"]
as if I were some ****** tycoon
dealing with private military company bull—sh#t
["PC" stands for a number of things, one of which is "personnel carrier"]
[hence "tycoon dealing with private military company bullsh#t"]
a PC, for games are something I'm used
to & that can make hI̲gh someone who's
got pro[ɑ]blems with mood (problems with mood)
neither drown so[ɑ]rrows in *****
nor get high on dO̲pe when I'm low
get lifted up by music listened to by me bO̲th when I'm home
and when I'm outdO̲O̲rs for a stroll
and as someone sometimes
spending some time on O̲U̲tdoor strolling, I'd note
one downright downside
regarding U̲rbanized zones
which is go[ɑ]ddamn mO̲torized road
vehicles: much noise evoken by those
started; that's so much provoking you hope
to find a grenade launcher with a whole lO̲t of
respective rounds to throw a fine show (hell yeah!)
what about drivers &, maybe, passengers present
inside? well, those are so-ca[ɔ]lled
"collateral da[ɛ]mage"
[just in case, I'm joking]
[I just hate motorized road transport for annoying noise it generates]
that's like a GTA-like game come
to life; music ain't one, but the main love
on this dark track to nO̲where I go (track to nowhere)
we're together till the moment I croak
(unless, of course, I̲ end up placed)
(into a mental asylum someday)
————————————————————————————————
since I've brO̲U̲[ɑ]ght up this subject (music)
what should've been dO̲ne's to place mo'
lines with cO̲[ɑ]ntent regarding
it inside this O̲ne; mid-paced so
called "dark clubbing" & dA̲rk synth
some slowed phonk, complextro
trap & hip-**̲[ɑ]p beats, & ro[ɑ]ckish
electronic stuff from Zardo[ɑ]nic
or I can use some lines from a prior-writ pro[ɑ]ject
of mine; went from somewhat generic electro[ɑ]nic
sh#t, both ba[ɛ]ngers & melo[ɑ]dic
ones, to heavier & dA̲rk sh#t, however, I, regardless
still dig some graves, like a fellow with boneY̲A̲rd shifts
[Christian Mochizuki, better known as graves]
[the last 4 lines are from "a depressive rhymefall"]
"nigh on nothing to lose" by TR3F1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)

As Harvey Dent from "The Dark Knight" said, you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
Noah A Baker Apr 2016
(you will say something today!)
yeah, that isn’t stupid
or maybe she thinks it’s cute
when i fumble over my lines
(you’re losing time just say something!)
hey, how are y-
(too generic)
the weather’s nic-
(it’s raining, stupid!)
I-
(you’re fumbling)
but,
she laughed?
(giggled)
butterflies pt 1 and 1.5 were written in 2013. This is a series where I kind of sporadically write down what I envision having butterflies when talking to someone you want to impress is like. I try not to edit it as much as possible, because when you have butterflies, you don't really think. You kinda just start talking, and try to finish nicely. Enjoy
Thunder Lord Dec 2014
ey yo gurl
you make me hurl
champs back to you
for a sweet alley-oop
Give xerath a boop
right on the head
he prolly shoulda read
this ain't yogi-bear
I fill caskets, not pic-a-nic-baskets


feel free to ask it
You know I got a task it-
Starts and ends with a flip
and a stun
so don't give me lip about this tent
I've got the smores, so don't get bent
Czytać nadzieje w poezji jest dużo jak rozumieć niebieski kolor w niebie,
ona czuje, zna ten perfum, co nie może sama sobie kupić.

Ten wiatr ciągnie, utrzymuje ale nic ujawnia,
koty marzą, a ona ciągle czyta te same książki.

Szuka ten kolor wszędzie, jej farby nigdzie nie pasują,
wysyła pocztówki do siebie z miejsc nieznanych z których
zawsze pamięta dziękowac za piwo.

Lata idą, a ona powtarza sie, ciągle zapomina patrzyć na dół,
nieobecna że niedługo ominie go.
"Slowly"

Reading hope in poetry is much like understanding the blue in the sky,
she feels, knows this perfume, that she can't afford to buy on her own.

This wind pulls, maintains but doesn't reveal,
cats dream, she still reads the same books.

Searches for this color everywhere, her paint doesn't match anything,
she sends out postcards to herself from unknown places from which
she always remembers to thank for the beer.

Years go by, she repeats herself, still forgetting to look down,
unknowing that soon she'll pass him by.
SpiritHeart67 Apr 2023
Sometimes
People
Are *****
And I find myself
Disappointed
With the entire species

Other times,
They do
the damnedest things,
Restoring my Faith
Just in the nic of time
b e mccomb Apr 2018
the day starts with shirley
who comes in just after eight
for her 20oz chai
"what kind of milk?"
"doesn't matter"
punches her own coffee card
tells me about her puppy
kayla is next her hair and
makeup always perfect
about as nice a landlady as
one can have in a town like this

from there it's a constant
stream of people
who i watch out for and
who don't know i'm doing it

janice lives alone and thinks
people are stealing her money
doesn't understand
the tests her doctors want
she can't remember
what she always orders
it's a turkey club sandwich no bacon
on toasted oatmeal regular chips no pickle
a to go box for the leftovers
and some kind of chocolate treat in a bag
because she only eats when
she comes in here

two weeks ago
i accidentally switched
barb's 12oz soy chai
with someone else's
12oz whole milk chai
it wasn't enough dairy
to give her a problem
in fact she didn't seem
to remember it
but i made her another for free

nic stopped for his afternoon coffee
didn't laugh at anything just stared
blankly into space and said he
thought he was getting sick
had too many things to finish
the day before when i was waving
to him from the parking lot
so i took my dog to the
back door of his office and
we barked until he came out
patted us both on the head
and said he felt better

we're all creatures of habit
like mckenna who arrives
like clockwork
between one thirty and two
tuesday through saturday
leans on my bake case while
i count my tips and add random
ingredients to different drinks
in a reckless attempt
to break up the monotony
and he drinks them all
like clockwork
no matter how bad they are

rita doesn't smile since she broke her hip
in fact i haven't seen her since
walt got sick and he and joan
moved upstate to be closer to their son
i worry about something happening to ray
who will take care of rita?
whose laugh used to echo off the walls
and fill the place up
pat's smoking again and it turns out
he has congenital heart failure
gail had a fall, a stroke and
suddenly died

i make the same dumb jokes
only a few people smile at
i sing to myself
and people point it out

karen sits in her motorized wheelchair
ice and snow dripping from the wheels
onto the scratched, muddy floor
and tells me i'm pretty and funny
and have a beautiful voice and
i look at karen, her head tilted to
the side and spit hanging from her
buck teeth and wonder why such a
wonderful funny girl with a heart of gold
had to have the body she's stuck in

why life is ****
and why i'm trying
i swear i'm trying
fighting
for something
i don't know what

why we fight
why we try
to make the world
a better place
when nothing can really change
any of these dismal facts
copyright 4/6/18 b. e. mccomb
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
zza okrogląnym (stół
z powyłamywanymi nogami)
ogonem jak smok
w szept kręgosłup przed i w przeciwku
kościosłup'a zwanym krzyż:
te naiwne ocza węża
w futrze:
będą gniewem
na wiele isrk które
zapalą hektary igieł lasu:
i tyle, skoro on robi nic
to wiele nadejdzie -
a ja w nadzei nic zrobie takrze,
tzn. to samo, czyli będe spać:
o wiele mniej zmarszczek
i o wiele więcej
marszu brzucha w śmiech:
na czele wojsk którymi
nie zdobęde chociaż jedną walkę.
Adasyev Jun 2017
Jedno slunce vládne všem,
feťákům i snům šelem.

Jedno slunce vládne nám
a shoří v něm každý trám.

Jedno slunce vládne výš,
uhoří v něm kočka, myš

Vypaří se zuby s hubou,
pokud v našich nějaké zbudou

Vypaří se moře, tváře
a panenky od oltáře

Odpaří se tíha, směr
a životy na úvěr

Vypaří se ženy, svišti
a jejich děti na parkovišti

Nic nezbude po školách
a světlo bude šířit strach.

Jedno slunce vládne teď
a roste po něm každá sněť.

Jedno slunce pravdu zná
a nikdo jiná nepozná.

Jedno slunce má svou noc.
Kdo mu přijde na pomoc?
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
Scarlet

Red eyes no bullseye,
high off our mark,
distracted by addictions,
it’s apparent from our scars,

scars,
lit,
far,
in,
tense,
don’t know where the day went,
intense so I escape in a tent,
camp out just to lamp out without any ill intent.

Since when,

did our past define us,
our destiny we manifest,
sometimes we have to remind us,
that we angels were Heaven sent,

that scent,
mixes with the wind,
sea breeze and coconut knees,
I’m ready when you are just say when,

since when,
were names so appropriate,
Scarlet’s a darling far from a harlot,
actually she’s abstaining,

since when,
were you so absent from class that,
you forgot the facts that,
all women are divine even when abstinent,

honestly,
I’d rather be,
laying in this hammock with a Goddess that’s abstinent,
than rubbing,
when clubbing,
wasting time with a drunken **** that will soon be a has been,

not even a faction,
not even a fact,
I want the real artist,
I don’t want a bad act,

I want laughter,
I want rushes,
and with her we get all that,
it all comes in bunches,

her inner instinct is distinct,
and much more than just what a hunch is,

what’s for lunch kid?

Let’s have a pic-nic this instant and then get down to business,
actually let’s scrap the deal and forget all about business,

let’s get up let’s get up let’s get up and ride like the wind,
let’s let God be our witness,

we’re in this,
no limits,
no gimmicks,
no scrimmage,
no sewage,
no sadness,
no losers,
so tragic,
the truth is,
abusers,
abuse but,
their tactics are madness,
so when they step,
we make them back track with,
apologies “So sorry please,
I didn’t mean to try to take,
all of your Light Energy.”,
ok I accept their pleas,
then tell the fickle fleas “Peace,
I think it’s time for you all to flee.”,

And their gone,
along the whispers in the wind,
and we’re in the hammock again,
Scarlet and I off the mark and still high,
gone like the wind our world continues to spin,
distracted by our addictions,
which is apparent from the scars we wear on the body we’re currently in,

with red eyes,
no bullseye,
no bullSh!t,
just true facts,

think about the best thing you could ever do in your life,
and rest assured we’ve done are doing or will do that.

All true in other words,
all true facts,

from Venus to Mars with,
a darling named Scarlet,
she leaves a print on my soul,
no crayon or marker,

no mark,
no start,
no finish,
no gimmicks,
just this,
life we live that we live to the limit,

with words that are all true,
in other words all true facts.

Vague,
yet exact,
we rush forward,
then step back,
heartbeats and feelings,
all part of our lives’ soundtrack,

Sounds rap,
upon the windows of my soul,
in the form of the flicker in her eyes,
which is a response to the moon’s glow,

and it is then that I know,

that she is a magical creature,
that I could write about on pages for ages,
but then I feel her beauty is so pure,
that I don’t even wish to display it on literary stages,

so I just stop writing,
and give one last look at her by candlelight,
I give thanks for her in this moment,
then I finish my rhyme and go outside into the tropical moon night…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
this girl got me high...
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i także dzień dobry... krytyka? nic dodać , nic ujmnąć, - kwaterka we mnie poligloty wedle przepisu na sto razy: jeszcze raz! pokłon Muzu łmana nad Japończyka - tzn. w dywan, czołem, w glebe heavyweight futryn K.O. i lullaby. Dziekuje Anno, także dusze trzymam w renkawku nad bogiem, by igrać z logiką ponad sen.

— The End —