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Robin Carretti Jul 2018
He was blown>>>>
>>>> away_--- from
my lace-up
Is She his blue
Mood tie set any bet
to walk the talk

At your own pace
The lustful wake up she
got the face

The edge of his rim sneaker
So prim who is proper
On the brim of ecstasy
He puts sugar on my tongue

Rumors like the "Talking Heads"
All in the bedding sneaker
Jane of the jungle wild tongue
She races Tarzan swinging sneakers
You and I tripped over dreams the sneaker?
Lip to lip disaster

The "Cyberwar" stepped on melting
Gold *** of tar
The loud blaster she moves the
Starwars so far

He could eat her up
his checkered black and white flag
Like a lobster claw his last draw

The racer mouth sponsor

She was born 2-B that way
sneakers love 3 some run
It's not unusual to have fun
with anyone
Her hands were far gone but
solid as a rock
Rollicking flying his rocket
Racing by her own clock Ms. Hornet


His sneaker loud love feud one
the detail on her sneaker
the wild bird of a bud

He shook me all night long
don't do an
A-C-D-C  on me
The sneaker he got the
Crazy eights
 No prank calls
Her hot buns and
Speaker- Frank-flirters
take me out to the
ball game demonized

The Anti Christ be born again
My sneaker group what a tank full
The Antitank no thanks
You cant always get what you want
and if you try sometimes
Charge all plastic but
sneakers like rubber soul

Visa hot runner Lisa no control
The American Express abdominal press
Shop until she drop's gum-drops
Your head was like a
Rolling Stone Jagger
Bigfoot sneaker Friday 13 size
That girl sweet pea Lea surprise
In the Hell, kitchen she snapped
That purr nightcap like Cleopatra

He's the Mantra so passionate fruit loopier
She's the Mona Lisa unfriendly sneaker
Your happy socks are quick
On his bell-hop feet
The sneaker riddle beat


That long meeting so *******
For time baby blue eyes Frank
on the mic
Like the jitterbug tight-knit
as sneaker print rug
Citron sharp eyes 5 Karat
Spicy hot Chili pepper
poem sonnet

The singer swung
Jazzy sneaker band
Dr. Who wears sneakers drinking
Dr. Pepper

The "Red Apple McIntosh" computer
Such a loud mouth hacker Josh
Jeweled Judy cultured pearls sneaker smash

Or her Stairmaster her
sneaker hotties ruffles have ridges
The juicy burgers dill pickles

Desperately sneaking Susan
sneakers to her affair finish line 
What a Lady Madonna
baby sneakers
at her breast rebel of hearts
I wonder how she manages to
sneaker speed the rest

Her best to out twin any talk
bullseye power walk
Buying the triplex sneaker
The loud talker 4 for 4 fame Wendy
Run like a fugitive your alias
name
Go International quite run
for your money I suppose
His sneakers up on her recliner
It wasn't her better rose
She's the high boot lady ever finer

On E-Bay selling your favorite sneakers
Those Australian Huskies biting sneakers
Such a Paws up against doggone heartbreaker

The in-crowd Flynn or another runner Lynn
Everybody is not a star or wedding crasher
Or even the right sneaker lover

Lady that lives in her homeless shoes
Are we all inside a video game
all commercials

Needing bifocals video begins
 Wynn at Sneaker Con
Joy to the world of the joystick
The sneaker of the Torah prayers of
the Temple
All dots and specs out of sneakers
More zits and pimples
I just want one-half cream
The changing Moon 1/2 Wolf
My man (Mr. Drakar) Howling toenail

French onion soup say cheese
her sneaker what a
no-brainer lightheaded breeze
You come so far sneaker trainer
And a grave site plot famous
brand sneaker
name

A million odds to one name in the
cemetery
****** Mary she flies in her
sneaker like Mary Poppins
Going under the influence
Heres looking at you kid umbrella

Hot Hollywood Taurus Bulldog
runner
We really don't have a name

We are writers and ****
good fighters single to mingle sneaker
Not the homewrecker more like the homemakers
Even sneaker has a voice and walks like singers
Shoeiverse sneaker race
became her living curse
The grin of the Grinch green sneakers
On his sled ride the lucky shamrock

I'm the happy heel
The tigress furry feel skip to my Lou
he ordered the
kids happy meal

Getting a ticket for reckless walking
Lights on or eyes wide shut
Are sneakers running for their life?

More fuel- time we get no alone time
Let's go shopping for the
new sneaker called
(Valentine only) sold one
day the sale
Singing her sneaker song a chip
device to talk back hot male
The 'Calvin Klein" dockers her ball of the foot
tennis sneakers It's her loud Owl ******-hoot

The farm girl Ralph Lauren corral
To rope her in lasso-like with morals
racing horse of different color fashion
I cannot hear you I have a hell
of a tinnitus reaction

  She-Devil bickering.>>> No heart like a sneaker
I am a snake too short to run the mile

I was too busy looking
at her long legs
On the Jet
** Plane
The most popular lady
in her sneakers 

Viper car and strings attachments
Ms. Love lace the shoelaces
with hearts
She is tied to his ankles
like condiments
Like Sweet cherries what a
bomb kicker sneaker
The Southern Belle runner
Be the stunner the trucker roadrunner

Hail to Mary the sneaker
Queen of Sheba
Turn on the radio Country singer Reba
What a sneaker rating ratio

When she bent down the crisscross
Watch out cross my heart trainer

Cross my heart and hope to die
To get slimmer
I am the happy sneaker
all the moods hot goods
(Hey Robin Hood)
stealing a rich man and poor women
which is the witch

One string said pull me the
other one said you feel like a
Chrome lead sleepy feet go to bed

Like Beer and pretzels
What an insane sneaker hazard
Hospital beepers sneaker virus
stepped on the most expensive
Venus, I beg you to run
lips we travel bullets and stars
We just want some fun

Marathon key just one clicker
That strawberry shortcake
Versus the "Cherry Bomb"
The Prince and the Pauper
what a toad kisser
That army tanker hurry up
lunch or brunch
What a Patriot Brady bunch

My shoelaces became like a
firecracker candy bar crunch

Who is the loser lover
or the winner
The long trip almost at the end
of the race
What a rivalry those shot glasses
at random
The sneaker fandom

Smile to me if you're not
wearing anything
but sneakers
My wings the wifi cute feet just
say Hi

No, I saw a man 600 pounds
of Reebok gold way too
much belly roll fat
The Dr. Seuss cat in the hat

Nike in the air Robin
bird skydivers
Dark matter gold diggers
Movie (It) Stephen King
skateboard

Penny feet relaxer
The Wise clown got her
The sneakers comedians
Seinfeld stand up sneaker
To be dead or wed Kleinfeld
Exotic sneakers and
cars he made a home run
Hot hell ring my bell
You made me happy
I got to first base

And you all sync into
one of a kind sneaker
Mom Robin the singer
No, I saw a man-eating
out of his sneaker
His head up in the Nike air
Oh! all hell breaks footloose
computer looking
up the sneaker sales

All I am doing is clicking
with a mouse
Where is my lover
sneaker twin, my spouse
This is about a trip not on an airplane flight more down to earth long walk star gazers or runners and clickers but its a comedy around all names and hot runner shes the firecracker don't  eat her at her game
Connor Ruther Aug 2010
This night’s task is surely daunting:
To cure myself and stop the haunting.

Reach arm,
Where is my nightcap?
(A single drink will do no harm)
Twist hand,
Turn down my bed flap.
(No chill shall cause myself alarm)

Look eyes,
Seek that light switch.
(I cannot bear my visage longer)
Be still fingers,
Cease to shake and twitch.
(Of their agency I’m not the author)

Move legs,
Plunge into covers,
(Lest you carry me from this rest)
Deaden ears,
Your hearing smother.
(Let no sound disturb my final quest)

Drink throat,
Imbibe the potion.
(Solutions will come at last)
Halt mind,
Not one more notion.
(Devilish memories long past)

Quite heart,
Take respite from beating.
(All the world begins to swirl)
Escape life,
I’ve finished breathing.
(Past Pain’s deep bonds at last uncurl)

I thought joining my love would be better,
Now we two haunt this place together.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
sample precursor: there are three binding directions of a chemical group (e.g. CH3) to the benzene ring - the ortho-, the meta- and the para-... but i'll ask a different question: what is copernican north what is copernican east a copernican west or a copernican west without a "flat-earth" / how else to read / navigate a 2D map going from point (a) via vector (c) to point (b) along the short-cut of the hypotenuse - which, isn't a short-cut, but the logical conclusion of walking neither the middle path nor the right path, but the logical path? we're no astronauts... we didn't see the proof... we can only entertain the "idea" of a 3D object we live on, but we're still strapped to a "flat earth" in order to navigate... endless stories of how GPS tech. fooled people off the edge of a cliff... "flat earth" is no reverse psychology ploy... i'm no ******* astronaut... i never stood left right or center on the moon to have the foggiest sense of admiration for that awe-balancing moment that leaves so many deluded in it being otherwise: first come first served, last come: what's there's to serve that last man if not merely the drudge-report of a commute? besides... trans- and cis-, why are people borrowing from chemistry and attaching gender to what is exlusive to chemical compounds? look at them... pop chemistry... cis-trans isomerism... fine, let these people have that... my new n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south): orthography, something clearly missing in the anglophone world (no diacritical markers, i and j do not count)... ergo? orthography = east... paranormal = west... since the west is obsessed with either aliens or hush-hush military projects... now... both north and south are meta- coordinates... on the basis, on the basis of what? two words really work well to establish a foundation: from ars poetica? metaphor (borrowed from a change of mind - meta- and -phren - mind, a change of mind, all mental illnesses are changes of the mind, alternatives to alleviate the stranglehold of the commune of the greater picture known as society)... but... there's also metaphysics... which is in the interest of philosophy... how else not to explain the obvious, how else to treat both the reader / audience as the well informed genius(es) but mistreat them as would be grander genius(es) if the socratic endeavour of "pretense ignorance" was not to be established? it's a hard juggle... east is already well established in orthography, west in paranomal... literally: metaphor - a change of mind, literally metaphysics - a change of groundwork physicality of things... a rock remains a rock in either "heaven" or in "hell"... metaphysically there seems to be a direct translation... this is why i'm terrible at crosswords, this whole puzzle structure of either working from a direct definition to the word itself, some random geographical posists, some historical posits, some outdated out-of-vogue words related to specified period idiosyncracy, a tinge of the therausus... my current crossword is an interchange: meta-phor, meta-physics, meta-phot, meta-physics and on and on it goes: even with the isolated prefix of meta-, if i return to the words: as they are... would: denoting a change of thinking (state of mind) or... denoting a change of physics, i'm met with metaphysics, i.e.: a branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles... sounds like a priori physics, yet all i can fathom if i wrestle this word to its casual use: isn't it a posteriori physics?! the what comes after physics? i should think that most people understand metaphysics on an a posteriori basis rather than an a priori basis... hence the question: what happens when we die? last time i checked: death happens last... birth happens first... any question-worthiness (according to heidegger) should begin at: the beginning rather than begin at the end, in the same way that all questions should be sought in a medium of predating the dates of events, rather than with a spirit of hindsight, hindsight belongs to the "what if" of history in that dynamism of expressed time... on the canvas of an infinitely expanding space: we seem to be riddled by a very cul de sac concept / expression of time: our quill - given that ****** didn't learn from napoleon when it came to russia... perhaps finding out what copernicus found out: "we" figured: get me off this ******* celestial carousel where i can't even feel the dizzy immediate of a ferris wheel! again: i'm terrible at crosswords, sudoku? no problem... but words: if not gushing out of me, waiting like a lizard predator for a linear narrative spew? count me out... i don't play with words, i use words... i'm a wordsmith, hence the ethnic origin denote: słowianin: slav - i don't know where these west-saxon punks derived their etymology from: słowo = word... *****-liquor juice teens thought it was: oh fo' sho' smart... still: metaphor, metaphysics... metaphor... metaphysics... disgruntled with the immediate compound readied for pop use... meta-physics... the vector is the prefix... why do philosophers push metaphysics so much, but in turn rely on the crutch of metaphor? to change their mind, if metaphysics is an abstract theory with no basis in reality, then the schizoid / metaphorical mind is an abstract in an abstracted theory of the mind - which has "no" knowledge of reality, or rather: "reality" excludes such a mind from ever absorbing an expression in it... a schizophrenic can't explain the reality of a person who can solve crossword puzzles... just as someone who solves crossword puzzles with a fear of alzheimer's: who treats the fatty tissue that's the brain as a muscle... given that the cells of alzheimer's disease are killer proteins... proteins as the antithesis of white blood-cells that feed of fat tissue... after all: what else could the brain be if not fat and water? slow burner... first the sugars, then the more complex carbohydrates, then the fat: last? the proteins... the process of starvation... you want up? you want down? again: metaphysics / metaphor... ta meta ta phusika... the things after the physics... so what's with the inverted: prior things? hence people associated a life after death... hence how philosophers have to escape into the poetic realm to quickly change their minds on the definition... a change of mind is much easier than a change of what physicality entails... most spew metaphors but keep on course... after all: given the genesis of the metaphor, a metaphor is just a tool, a humble stop-off pause... born from humble poetics: it's only a literary tool, it's not some grand pillar of morality associated metaphysics, which nonetheless dictates: first principles come last and last principles come first... here's my crossword puzzle: metaphor, metaphysics, meta-alpha, meta-beta, metaphor and the meta-alpha, metaphysics and the meta-beta... etc. etc., i will not solve this crossword puzzle, even though it doesn't look like a crossword puzzle... it's a narrative crossword puzzle, i'm just looking for the sort of fixed point people associate with prime words: red, left, blue, right, up, fox, dog... words of readied vocabulary, readied vocabulary dissociated from puzzled vocabulary... i want to established a fixed permanence of the dissociated close proximity grounded in the meta- prefix of the words meta-phor and, meta-physics... i'm starting to find this impossible, given how the words have dissociated themselves from the grounding in the meta- prefix... phor alias phren (mind) and the whole gush of isolated metaphysics of beginnings: meta a priori vs. meta a posteriori - and of course: meta a- apriori... hell if i can't solve crossword puzzles: since i already have a crossword puzzle in my head... what am i to do? try writing pop?! a dog does what his master orders, a jester tells a joke his king would find amusing... i'll just treat this enclave of an audience as a bunch of people subscribed to ulterior forms of voyeurism (dissociated from pain / pleasure gratification, esp. that of a ****** nature).

.you know like in latin you had the interchangeable tongue twisters æ and œ? well... english resurrected one more... au... oh stralia... auntie; ******* hell i've been speaking this since aged ate and i still can't get my tongue into that phonetic plughole... or what's that onomatopoeia for: it really hurts? awe... nah... aw... aw... well no cute kitten about to say aww.

well it began with the usual... i wish i didn’t...
sitting in the autumnal garden
drinking coffee and eating a nicotine croissant,
watching the fog recede into nothing
while the earth showed its naked cleavage
after what seems like centuries of arcane dryness
befitting a story of an egyptian idol...
then the panic set in...
what to cook?! what to cook?!
my mother is away visiting her parents in poland,
who celebrate the feast of all saints with the usual
tackle formidable in poland:
forget the paris fashion week, forget the london fashion week...
forget the next gucci advert...
all the action happens in poland’s annual all saints’ fashion week...
through the cemetery (ahem) cat walks
(more like death on rollerblades donning a tutu
and looking fatter than size 0 models)...
because that’s when the fur coats are worn,
the make-up is heavier and everyone comes
to discuss the materialistic jealousy of a small town...
it is a small town after all...
death knocks with all the nine cat’s lives just to prove
the point...
anyway, so i’m the head chef, and in panic
i search for a recipe... i’ve only got pork on the ready
in the recognisable frozen state...
but i also have shrimps... tiger prawns...
so i look through the usual suspects... thai green curry...
ah ****! no coconut milk!
what’s it going to be? prawn korma curry
(better mild than hot i say, with all this maple syrup
and honey colours about... talk about decay),
active ingredients? chilli powder (1/2 tsp), cinnamon
(1/2 tsp), turmeric (1/2 tsp) and ground almonds (2 tbsp),
there ready... looking suntanned my gorgeous twirls of seabed manure...
enough to spare my father making himself sandwiches (i always
disguised my “dyslexia” by associations... sandy witches...
the t broke the barriers and the floods entered)...
with toasted nannies / au pairs... relatives of some sort...
then onto writing my father’s invoices:
project plaistow hospital and some housing development near
the city airport... beckton we call it... backwards and forwards
stink crowned with drinkers regurgitating on the pave...
now that is a *******... recycling centre or horse manure?
then to tesco... for the nightcap...
oddly enough tesco has become a friend of mine once more,
i divorced the turkish shop, they added 10 pence to the polish beers,
now i’m on the sedative medication of this bottle bavaria beer
and whiskey... 1 quid for the former... 10 quid for the latter -
i’ve sold my soul! never mind...
then to the beacon that’s home... it’s night... it’s spooky...
it’s essex: that non-touristy place in england people with passports
never dare to visit, shambles.
well one thing came out true... none of the above though:
you ever consider the theory of the aeroplane syndrome in writers?
you know, like with rock stars you get the full package,
you get the aeroplane and the retrieved delay of the engine mushroom,
but with poetry (which is competing with music,
philosophers just wait in that queue for the cheese, wink, whine and wrinkle)
you only get the sound... that delayed mushroom...
you see the poet but never hear him...
it’s a typical delusion i’d call parallel or even adjacent to narcissism,
you walk down the street and the closest you come
to someone recognising you is a stranger uttering out: ‘hey richard!’
‘name’s matt mate.’
‘oh... sorry.’
it’s this aeroplane syndrome theory... it’s perfectly acceptable...
you have the image but don’t have the delayed sound...
you have the delayed sound... but you only get a photograph...
you have the english national health service mental health unit crisis...
and then you have people shunning intellectualism
trying to cure people by burning / not reading philosophical books;
the day ends with drinking and reading
an article about keith richard’s antics in the sunday times’ supplement
and the thought: well i gave her a stabbing chance
at feminism... she thought the active ingredient in anti-contraception
pills was placebo... she phoned and gave birth to me...
i said abort... you’re no post-teen mum at university, you won’t be...
******* was great but i’m not that much of a match from a cosmopolitan magazine quiz
(as duly taken on my way from st. pestersburg to moscow to see
metallica play), plus there are no roofing jobs in scotland...
the scots have mountains already... there’s no point building
scratched sky skylines with mountain ranges nearby...
so even though i went to a catholic school...
i did my first redemptive act by reading about gnostic heretics...
and not getting confirmed being the second...
i would have not taken first communion... but playing the xylophone
at the nativity play was too much fun...
plus it is the only salvador dali bit of the story...
after that you have st. sebastian...
plus you see where this is going... the greeks translated
the tetragrammaton into the gospels
of st. matthew, luke, mark and john...
and the romans were duped into the legality of
things... first name, second name, confirmation name...
surname.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
i thought it was ****** obvious what i was doing there,
i walked in with my Slayer band t-shirt off
wiping off the sweat from my face...
ah... a cheap bottle of wine... £3.50... a Chilean Merlot...
nothing like cheap wine for some kalimotxo...
and if that wine doesn't do the trick for a nightcap...
the cheapest whiskey available... no more than
35cl: but i promised myself not to drink both completely...
obviously the wine doesn't have an electronic tag
that needs to be taken off at the cashiers'...
but the whiskey does...
come midnight it's this long centipede winding through
the self-checkout aisles...
two... of the finest quality Hijab mystique organising
the flow of people...
oh... the finest...
                     first you scan the items...
then you're asked to wait for the confirmation of your
age... so someone has to some with
a ticket (so little about all of this is about
self-checking-out)... and then... you have to walk
to the end of the aisle to get the electronic tag off...
with your receipt...
so i went to the end... where the bit that takes
the electronic tags off is placed in a drawer...
along with... this night in particular...
a raw white onion... and some baby clothes that
were returned all piled up in a shopping trolley...
apparently i was blocking something important...
that's when i was asked this profound
existential question:
                           what are you doing here?
oh **** me... it hit me like a rock...
i sometimes wish for three things... a slightly bigger
phallus... a much more bushier beard...
and... a talent for wit... for waspish wit...
for playful wit...
   some whiplash wit...
                 something that i might: snap out of something
instead of... what just came out?
a what... sorry... didn't hear that...
'what are you doing here?!'
     exactly those exclamation marks with purpose
of interrogation...
- am i... just growing from the roots up?
- am i... is Goodmayes a no-go zone for white
boys after a 10pm curfew or something?
i grew up around these parts...
i went to school around these parts...
a predominantly Irish neighbourhood...
is this a no-go zone?

i mean... i don't expect pleasantries from
cashiers at... midnight... but it's not like i was
the only person there...
was i holding a cloud of balloons and
wearing a clown suit with full-make up?
did i have an pink elephants on a string
or a golden fly on a chain?

'what are you doing here?!'
what a snap of juicy vindictiveness in that
tiny Hijab specimen of beauty...
i somehow must have invaded her space
or some *******...
but... i was there to get the electronic
tag off the neck of my whiskey bottle...
i don't think i was there to later come
home and write this nonsense:
if she asked me that same question:
on the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh
at 5am...
but then again: no one asks those questions
at 5am on the longest day in the year
on Arthur's Seat... a good morning:
chirpy one... isn't it? suffices...

    being asked a profound existential question
in a supermarket: at midnight of
a Monday is...

   aha... now it's sort of obvious...
            if i decided to go elsewhere with my wine...
say... to the brothel...
and i came across Khadaya... Khadija...
            Khada... all aspects of nakedness...
so this is what my face looks like
to women... after i lost... 20kg in mass?
  i'm attractive once more...
              honest anchoring... she's about to receive
£2.00 per minute for an hour...
and she likes my face... and i like her face...
eh... *** like a Lamborghini and a body that looks
but more importantly feels as comfortable
to touch as... one might hope to find oneself
sitting in a well worn leather armchair...

always objectification within the need for metaphor...
allusions to...
but a bit different when it can't be so obvious...
she's this Hijab donning princess Jasmine
working in the supermarket
and i'm just a cyclist wearing a Slayer t-shirt
who dropped in for a nightcap of cheap
wine and cheap whiskey...
or perhaps to her... i'm...
   some myth of a northern barbarian who...
arrived in Jerusalem with Barbarossa pickled
in a barrel... hmm?
         well... i'm not exactly a werewolf...
   not just yet...

again: was i there to solve a Su Doku puzzle or change
a light-bulb via mime?!
flow of people... i was placing myself
in the least obstructive way possible:
now... i'm overthinking the punch line...
it's coming off as if i'm somehow autistic or something...
who wouldn't...

in the most un-spec-ta-cu-lar of circumstance
you get such an open question...
before having my wisdom teeth pulled out
i asked the anaesthetic man:
quo vadis?

               seems more correct to ask:
such a generality... but not in such a defensive...
almost scolding manner...
i did mention she was a Hijab gem...
a petite little thing who forgot to objectify me
as human traffic of buyer...
with a purse's worth of whiskey
that had an electronic tag attached to the neck
that needed to be "dismantled"...

after skim-watching a few episodes
of the Sopranos... Tony Soprano is deemed an
attractive man by his psychiatrist...
so... what am i? a ******* ageing Adonis
or something?
now it feels bothersome to have lost
those 20kg in mass...
100 push ups a day... 100 stomach crunches...
cycling...
i knew this would land me in a spot of
bother... no more prostitutes joking
(kindly) that i have bigger **** than they have...

thank god the omission of a sudden limp
**** because: she shouldn't be in the profession
and i'm in no mood to ****
a tender, shy, deer...
               because it works when it's required
to work and i'll go through 5 before
it becomes resolute: that lilac / blue pill
will not make me prove a point on just 1...

dinner? cinema?
if she offers up the full platter of ******* oysters
and her body becomes the whole
complexity of cinema...
but not being corned by two Hijab beauties
at the self-checkout aisle
coordinating human traffic...

again: forever in the reiteration pause...
'what are you doing here?!'
am i supposed to be somewhere else?
the question asks itself:
why would a girl of your "sort" ask a whitey
that sort of question?
is this a no-go zone area akin to Malmo
in Sweden... am i expected to don
a ******* Pakistani pyjama to walk safe...
don a bushier beard than the one
i adorn trimmed by an Ottoman?

clearly i'm fuckable and clearly i also ****...
if she was allowed a different scenario
where she wasn't a self-checkout coordinator
and i wasn't speedily trying to get out
from the concept of a queue she might:
ask a less abrupt a question...

**** anything that moves...
       one motto worth keeping in mind when
reading Kant's labyrinth...
i promise this to anyone who undertakes
the "mission"... the part of the critique of pure reason
that comes last in the second volume
that's: a consolidation piece...
that's title: the transcendental methodology...
oh god... it's like this (almost) revelation:
but it's most certainly a joy a cascade to read...
that's when Kant relaxes and doesn't bother
to stress his... systematic approach to...
not language: to the idea...
what the idea is? that's my own to digest...
even these years later...

if she was older than me...
if she wasn't sizing me up... seeing how...
my shadow is probably larger than her body
come noon...
how she might just be...
constipated / claustrophobic through all her...
restrictions in attire...
how she was paired up with another girl
and there was no forbidding authority
of same-faith colleagues looking over them...
she asked me the most profound
question no one is expected to hear
in a supermarket...

           hence these words as spiral...
it's not the first time i've seen these two Hijab beauties...
i can't imagine...
having the audacity to write an autobiography
post... in vivo mortem!
i can't imagine writing... succumbing to write...
after... having lived... a most...
exploitative life...
i shudder at the prospect of reading...
Seven Years in Tibet...
i have the original copy...
it's enough that i read:
Harold Norse's: Memoirs of a ******* Angel...
that's enough for me...

             in writing there's only the fiction:
the fantasy... or the absolutely terrible mundane:
grit...
lives loved by the gods so that they might
be shared with as many as possible
do not belong in the realm of words...
however terrible it might sound...
all the ancient Roman poets wrote prosaic:
if not maxims then anecdotal evidence of...
taking leave: taking leisure in scrutiny..
too much of what's supposedly life
and how language is employed in "said" life
is limited to... bureaucratic fudge-packaging...
try escape that cycle of: abuse of informal language...
when you're expected to begin with:
dear sir /  madam...
   and end with: kind regards /
the distinction between yours faithfully vs. yours
sincerely...

she took a fancy after i already took her fancy...
perhaps it's a shame...
of the hierarchies of man...
and the stresses brought on by time...
all this... graveyard of space.
The nightcap wears off.
My faded world comes in clear.
Pressed fingers tight to my temple,
help to steady the shipwrecked thoughts.
I see black spots, like blackened pieces of a once finely stitched tapestry.

Unsteady limbs claw at the heavy stench,
tipping then spilling a cup once full.

Behind stormy eyelids, lighting cracks through.
Maddening thoughts spawn, slimming the mind.
Mutant feelings bubble, distilled
ready to bottle.

If this scene had a soundtrack, the chords would howl.
The melodious truth could liquefy our yesterday smiles.
Sudden smacks from the bass come to rustle my withered petals.
Tragedy comes in many pauses.
Reach for your collar, and choke the nonsense.
Don't forget to kick the footstool,
hang the little man, guess the right letter
...it's a vowel.

The smog of the gin, has long passed.
What is left, a hammering build.

The cup once full was my solace.
Solace smells a lot like *****.
From the bottom, I smile upward
To the new day, I flip the *******
and linger back to black.
A poem using all these words I was given at random
-pressed, pause, mutant, cup, hill, collar, eyelids, stormy, cap, footstool, petal, death, blackened,  shipwrecked, chords

I was going for dark, it lead me to a tale of a massive hangover.
PJ Poesy May 2016
}I{
“Sinuhe”

King Khety is blinking madly
Haruspex has left him ominous oracle
Sinuhe is on his return, fugitive no more
Sinuhe brings with him enemy’s daughter
Not prize, Nefru his wife and Libyan lore
Sinuhe from slavery came, poet she did adore

Egyptian tombs do tell in detail
Hieroglyphic tales, this juncture of peril
Khety not King, but Sinuhe’s noble brother
Knows true King come to claim throne
Sinuhe the nobler, knows a life of none other
Than slave sold by Odious, the step-mother

Yes Queen Odious, deep in den of asps
Collected poison venom to undue her marriage
To Sinuhe’s father Merikare, Pharaoh of Moon
Odious’ ghastly act nearly tore Egypt in two
Her derangement sent Sinuhe far across sand dune
Odious took crown, added gilded teeth of baboon

Made her son King, though he did implore
Khety saw insanity and for what, he was in store
Khety remembers his Great Father’s words
“The heart of someone who listens to his temper
Is doomed to follow the stink of camel herds
Better to let heart fly upon sky, as do birds”

Yet by years tormented, Khety became undone
More like his mother and even more sniveling
Than the Odious one, so he did as he was told
Incessant dribbling marked a life for him
He minded his words lest he knew he’d be sold
Mother’s high priest Abhorus was bitter and cold

Sinuhe’s struggles were unknown to King Khety
Years of near starvation and wearisome labor
Made Sinuhe the better man, as he did never forget
Assurances of his noblest Father, Pharaoh Merikare
Virtue ascribed, Sinuhe kept valor in each trial met
Furthermore, his noblest task still to come as of yet



}II{
“Numidian Queen”

Nefru, Numidian Queen to Land of Libya
Recalls young slave Sinuhe’s hostility to captivity
His intelligence overcoming, who once would be King
Of Egypt had not violent arm but ferocious mind
Using wit to overcome adversity and words he did sing
To free his self of internment and all oddity it did bring

Nefru looks upon loyal husband Sinuhe
It is an arduous journey this man has taken
Her commitment be bound now by ivory ring
Loyalty to this man before all forsaken
It is spring, and amongst abundant life come dead things
Fledgling birds first flight failed or so siblings did fling

Now swept into his pilgrimage, Nefru perceives
All adversity Sinuhe did overcome so nobly
To her, he is chukar, partridge of rare plumage
It is to the ground, which this bird be bound
Never reaching sky, low brush be its’ *******
Though its’ song give to her heart an anlage

Freedom from slavery, is Sinuhe’s triumph
Vindication of crown be the mark of new flight
He prays to Horus Behudety, Winged Sun God
Nefru knows of her husband’s will and might
She gifts to him her father’s pinioned golden rod
Scepter of enslaver Mehru, and his feathered shod

It was not of great agreement by Mehru
Should his daughter Nefru marry a slave?
Much less to son of Merikare, an arch enemy
Yet he be so brave, impressions of Sinuhe’s strength
Be made so to change, very nature Sinuhe’s destiny
So much so, Mehru did lament in Merikare’s elegy

So it came to be, a slave marries Queen
Sinuhe and Nefru’s love broke all patterns
Such a love to win hearts of, Gods and Goddess’ unseen
Who rule other worlds and all rings of Saturn
History had never known affection so purely clean
Gatherings from far off fields came to witness such glean



}III{
“Haruspex And Detritus”

Haruspex, soothsayer speaks in half-truths
King Khety believes only small contingent
Be on way to Byblos, presently approaching Qedem
Little does he know, armies of Elephant in tow
Masses of feathered and golden archer’s stem
Blessed by breath of Bat, Goddess and her phlegm

Detritus, Animal Man, hired scout to King Khety
Possesses claws and hair of lion, his home Serengeti
Animal Man’s mane is thrashed in thorns and rubble
Smells of cat ***** but has nose that knows much
Such why Detritus be tolerated, though be much trouble
Haruspex twists tale of tailed man, speaks of him double

Calls him lazy, shiftless, yet Haruspex be cryptic mess
Detritus be banal yes, but true to Khety none the less
Knew his father well, Merikare be his master
It was always Queen Odious, Detritus distrusted
Knowing her demonic betrayal and Egypt’s disaster
She kept him in gypsum cave, scratching alabaster

Kindness had left this Kingdom sometime ago
When Odious and Abhorus overthrew rule
Merikare Moon Pharaoh mummy cry from tomb
Sinuhe ripped from his side by Abhorus
His funeral a very mockery and Detritus’ doom
Haruspex made way from Libya, eyes mucous rheum

Planted by Mehru, Haruspex be sent through desert
King of Libya be wise, sent this oracle as disguise
Not soothsayer at all but spy of opposition
King Mehru knew upon Moon Pharaoh’s death
Peace upon land would not soon come to position
Quickly he sent Haruspex, strangest magician

Detritus knew by the first smell of him
Haruspex came from earth west, not with best
Intentions to natural order of land and sky
And this test of two egos be quite perplexed
With each other and another reason why
This brawny epic riled through years gone by



}IV{
“Ode ‘O’ Odious”

Motioning her battalions, priests and beasts
Evil Queen who overthrow, joins Abhorus’ feast
Beldams be this clergy, **** all about Odious
Snapping of rabbits heads in cacophony of blood
Plunking chalices of malice’s, sacrifices melodious
All in dark chamber halls in depth’s commodious

Stretching of intestine to fine tune harp
Butchers waylay innards with daggers sharp
Mawkish music be Odious’ fame
Concavity’s entrance a perilous scarp
Passers-by enticed by bergamot oil’s flame
Fall to their death to be eaten by dame

Ode ‘O’ Odious, Ode ‘O’ Odious
Drunken mayhap through day and nightcap
She rumpus muck, she ruckus all luck
Ode ‘O’ Odious, Ode ‘O’ Odious
Chambers fill with all matter of bile guck
Bites cobra tails, hooded heads protrude to ****

Death be her power to innocence’s pain
Queen Odious oblivious to her own danger
Seems unstoppable to submissive subjugates
Spinning her terror, cackle calls to maidens
Fem ferocious, how ‘O’ Odious undulates
Casualties collected in long hundredweights

Probity of her high priest be none
Abhorus puppets Odious and will be done
With her second rare blue water lilies run out
The Nile produces this flower of intoxication
Extinction of it is of all certainty, no doubt
Named after her, O Odious flora beguiles lout

Ode ‘O’ Odious, Ode ‘O’ Odious
It is Evil Sorceress and midnight blue flower
Power of it be all in her high flighty head
She misuses its’ tincture to her own final hour
Harvesting it foolishly, nearly till it is dead
And when it is, it will be to all worlds’ dread



}V{
“Oasis In Iaa”

Sinuhe receives word elephants parched
Water need be found, arduous trek campaigned
Nefru never witness such worry, Sinuhe’s face
Ox tail be split to drain nourishment from beasts
No water for miles, no sea birds upon sky to trace
Sinuhe prays, “Montu, God of War find oasis to race!”

Sekhmet, Archer Goddess visits Nefru
Great Lady is besieged by dessert’s spell
Hallucinations bring mirage to Nefru’s sight
Transfixed on dessert’s horizon her eyes
Contingents warriors, bands of archer’s fright
Paths set forth, only to journey by starlit night

At dawn Sinuhe strands his band
Takes his most devoted men of arms
Bhaktu, Parsi, Rhaktu, follow their Lord
Each having faith in man and his wisdom
Eastward they find Syrian tribe in horde
They are welcomed, none need draw sword

Master of Syrian tribe Abu Sefa
Understands who Sinuhe is and was
Orders falconers to find Nefru and throng
Apprises Sinuhe of oasis beyond hummocks
All are soon joined together in wine and song
Oasis found, Iaa, fruited land and lagoon long

Khety is warned of revelry in Iaa
Sends legions Egyptian arms, by order Odious
Anubis, jackal head God given zebra sacrifice
Detritus employed for battle with spears
Copper shields, mediocrity will not suffice
All swords be sharpened by order thrice

Lifeblood battle of Egypt ensues
Sinuhe taken off guard in Iaa,
Elephant screams to be heard for miles
Bhaktu cut down, Rhaktu not found
Parsi’s archers never saw such trials
From lagoons come seething crocodiles



}VI{
Twist Of Fate

Rensi was chosen by Abhorus to speak for Khety
As High Priest, Abhorus did most doling of employs
This proxy Rensi though, be mockery of King
His speech more stammered than Khety’s noise
Grossly disfigured as well, soundings as mice sing
Rensi aware of this, musters all dignity he may bring

Perigee moon at present, o howling now
Hyena laughing at dissertation of Khety’s proxy
Ill ease overcomes this Rensi, an impediment
Speech undone on terrestrial stairs to Memphis
Escalades flora, fauna; monsoons washing sediment
Tefnut, great rain goddess turns world to excrement

This not so illustrious disquisition muted
By torrent winds and torrential liquid compounds
Tefnut’s tears plunk upon all, turning mud blood
Looking out from his great house Khety embroiled
Bares soul to Sobek-Re, Crocodile God; Sun and Crud
Sobek-Re answers prayer, suspending flash flood

In Iaa, as gore of battle ensues, fate lose
As twist of tale find new bemuse and worlds infuse
Detritus sees his lost master Sinuhe encroaching peril
This recognition swells an emotion deep and confuse
Detritus bent in memories flash reacts nobly not feral
With a roar to be heard over all, clamor become sterile

Sounds of battle cease and gaze of majesty
Sinuhe seeing Detritus is overcome by sensibility
Two old beloved friends stare upon each other
Dragging swords behind each move to indemnity
Embrace of each other; secures allegiance another
Sinuhe kisses feet of Detritus; calls him “brother”

As witness to such, all weary legions unite
Moon turn blue, assured sign of Pharaoh Merikare
Mehru’s star battalions federate Moon Pharaoh’s armies
Together as one to Memphis they shall siege Khety
Overthrow Queen Odious and her sinister parties
This mainly being High Priest Abhorus’ autocracies



}VII{
Epitaph Of Detritus

Odious in lair drinks tinctures blue water lilies
Abhorus her advisor suggests only more intoxicants
Khety is shrilling at sight of this deceptive lure
Haruspex makes prophesy of Detritus’ betrayal
Khety sends hunters to trace Animal Man’s spoor
Abhorus finds more legions of archers to procure

Leaving Iaa and moving toward Memphis
Detritus is fitted by Nefru’s maidens new armor
Embroidered with gold, a striped khat is made to adorn
Detritus is humbled by Sinuhe and Nefru’s gifts
His body is perfumed and oiled; his mane then shorn
Beholden to the true King of Egypt, Detritus is sworn

Two men of different lands, both once slaves
Overcome their adversities and rise upon sun
Sinuhe and Detritus’ bond is legitimately noble
Wearing of these worlds bare them new providence
Seemingly this union appears fortuitous global
Keeping steadfast of Abhorus’s archers now mobile

In Sakkara, south of Memphis come tempest
Raining arrows as if raindrops, Sinuhe’s challenge
Detritus’ valor finds reckoning to his last will
Defending Sinuhe, Detritus falls to cumulating
By strength this virtue witnessed, Sinuhe rise still
Throwing down legions of archers, making his ****

Abhorus, Odious, and Khety with no troops left
Surrender to Sinuhe upon his return to Memphis
Odious drinks last vials blue lily tincture, expires
Abhorus struck dead by hand of Khety in resolve
Khety bows to Sinuhe and his Queen as requires
King Sinuhe , Queen Nefru read parchments and fliers

In honor of great Detritus and his noble deeds
Commissioned is greatest sculpture Animal Man
During its’ long construction, most joyful jinks
Song and dance to honor a great warrior true
Each artisan so proud to have heritage to links
Of Animal Man, Detritus, now known as Sphinx
This is my adaptation of The Tale Of Sinuhe. It is the oldest known work of Egyptian literature. This epic poem was written by me with the intent of creating a puppet opera. I hope to collaborate with other poets, musicians, artists and puppeteers to see this come to life. Between each chorus should be arias which embellish the plot and theme. If you may be interested in working on this piece, please let me know via private message. I hope to make it a collaborative work.
Brittany Leigh Feb 2010
he sipped his cigarettes
small, savoring drags
delicate but in no way effeminate
much as he sipped his whiskey
fully focused on each small intake
caressing, in his way,
the few things
he genuinely loved
Dorothy A Nov 2010
The lone eagle makes its
solo journey over the vast horizon

I can see my flag in
the setting sun
as the lemon halo of fire
becomes a vivid pomegranate red,
the turquoise sky darkening
into a sea of navy blue
and wispy, white clouds  
are hovering over us like
spirits in the universe

Lady Liberty,
overlooking the evening
of the New York Harbor,
displays her lit up torch like a
cosmic nightlight
She forever sheds light over
weary Americans
to remind us to
still dream the American dream
but that vision often seems
so out of our common reach

Uncle Sam has put on his nightcap,
a tuckered, old man is he
The crickets are chirping,
singing to me their strange lullabye
as I think I'll call it a night

*Goodnight, America, Goodnight
Timothy H Jun 2016
tall grass
cool this air
for sun
has bathed
fully
A L Davies Nov 2012
(in the dream it is late March)
there's a light rain in Montréal & the sky
is a gorgeous, early-morning variety of slate grey. imagine the lid
of an old metal garbage-can.
everything is dismal, perfect. and quiet; even the people leaving the bars are silent.
dismally, perfectly, silent.

ghosts of old cats—belonging maybe to ghosts of old ladies who lived, say, just off St. Lau, back
in the eighties—ramble downhill, in the direction of rue St. Catherine (Saint Cat! O patron of felinity!) ,
between the legs of those spilling out from the trendy & ****** clubs.
some of the ghosts wander out into the street, flash thru car tires that would've (& have) (at one time)
smashed them to pulpy carpet on the asphalt.
(who goes to pick them up then? when the tires have had their way with them over & over?
when they are just hair & porridge by a sewage grate?)

after a greasy smoked-meat-on-rye or a nightcap at somebody's place, just off the drag,
i'm in a sodden, but warm overcoat, hands curled in the bottoms of it's pockets; mis-shapen mass
of hair plastered to my scalp; walking en bas de la montagne just past the McGill Medical Centre.
—this late, the busses back downtown are never on time.
(driver's probably having a few smokes before he starts that long tour down. full up of drunk kids,
taking one another back to their dorms, etc.)
(and what does he have, to look forward to at shift's end?
        i. a cranky wife—past her prime?
        ii. a buncha dogs—yapping for attention?
        iii. some ******* kid—who's disrespectful & won't shut up or turn his stupid ******* punk-rock down?

—it's enough to make me patiently wait.  i'll wait forever, as long as that isn't me.)

...'spose I'LL have a cigarette too. waiting
in the bus shelter on Ave. Des Pins looking down over the
football fields of the McGill Athletics Dept.
still lit up. no sun yet but
now at 4 AM a dull inch or two of lightened grey out there on the horizon.. dawn will come,

though i'd rather not face the day. all the mornings are so hard after nights like this.
bound to be hungover &
spend the day hiccuping in bed texting some girl; maybe get up
in the late afternoon t'fix coffee, toast & eggs.
sit on the balcony,
make my little guitar sigh,
and try to feel normal until i [have to] puke.

"—and who was that girl i spoke to for so long at St. Sulpice last night? how many gin-tonics did she let me buy myself, nattering on?.. probably too drunk to even get her number."
"—maybe Sean or Dylan will know if she came thru with anyone we knew.."

the bus is finally here. twenty-and-three minutes late. the back of it probably smells of
stale smoke, dim sun, and sweaty, rain-soaked cloth, absorbed from jackets into the seats—the eau du jour.
it's always a bump 'n **** ride down the hill; bound to,
with the other handful of dumb & silent riders, drunkenly sway,
(or is it a natural compensation of the body, to groove along with the curves and stops?)
back & forth like carcasses of half-dozen slaughtered pigs
swinging on their hooks in back of a meat wagon..
(i'll end up getting on, but only for three blocks. i'll ******* walk the rest of the way home,
after that comparison. to hell with the rain.)

SIX MINUTES LATER:
(Avenue Des Pins still—4 blocks closer to downtown)

directly in line now with McGill campus via McTavish; this way i can
cruise down thru the silence of the main drag having a couple smokes drinking beer
(copped a 40 at a Dep before i left St. Lau—frosty under my arm enshrouded by brown paper.)
& be left to my own thoughts for fifteen minutes 'til i get to Sherbrooke
—i adore that fifteen-minute stretch down thru the jumble of
student associations, clubs, faculty offices, administration buildings, resources centres & the like;
all contained in the same red bricked, white trimmed victorian monster, multiplied threescore
on either side of the lane; all built in the early nineteen-hundreds, all acquired by the university in one of several expansion initiatives in a decade i won't bother to guess at, it doesn't matter. you don't care..

midway down the hill i stop and go sit on the verandah of one of the buildings,
the graduate studies in math offices —
cccrack that forty.
sit there with the sun JUST barely splitting the seam of the horizon feelin'
like the lyrics from a Sun Kil Moon song. nothing more or less.  
"off to a good start," says i.
MORE TO COME.. tired as **** right now but wanted to get this up here. get off my back. love A L .
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
Harvey Wallbangers In Times Square was
her teaser, a Mai-Tai bang in Taipan, once
or twice her kisses so, sweet he trembled;
as she let him taste her Irish Coffee making
his Rob Roy so, **** hot and bobbing.

It sprang forth with a twang for her Firewater;
engorging the Latted Espresso between her thighs
as Egg Cream threathened to explode,
dipping into her lustful Brandy Alexander;
spillage between her Champagne Cocktail,
cheek to cheek.

She asked me if I wanted a sip of her Coffee Royale;
I said I wouldn't mind being coated in her behind's
libation, drowning ourselves in lust of a throbbing
nightcap; while I slap each cheek in rhythm in a state
of osmosis.

Drinking from her Schnapps; my mind sailed the
sevens seas of her lubricious ocean; riding her Schooner
as waves pushed me within her lagoon with each motion,
slinging Deep Shots; full of emotion, moaning baby! your
Snifter is so, **** wet; swilling your Dom Perignon
and me, just before morn, intoxicated in your elixir
of life; smiling a lopsided smile still tasting your
luscious liquor.

So, we staggered back to bed; laid bulbed
head in inviting peninsula on the shore of
Demon *** Isle and some more I smiled,
absorbing in slurps her coveted Olive Martini,
lapping like a newborn kitten smitten with her
Mint Julep's robust lips; while Lime Rickey
dipped his straw in ebbing shores; sipping
as we eagerly explored, clawing my back.

I in gentlemanly fashion opened all her doors,
as she infiltrated me in every light; mouth
covered in Hot Buttered ***, tasting from
Highballs to every Gimlet of body with skilled
tongue of a bartending artist.

Tasting salt rimmed glasses with hungry tongue
lashes in places so, naughty I flicked out Mickey
Finn; nibbled her in bites of delight front to end,
such a naughty appetite we fed; breathing in heat
like Green Dragon's brew, going down south of
Manhattan's lower eastside; drinking up her **** hide.

She said baby! it's time to ride; Igniting each of her
rooms with Bullshot Cocktails in flaming explosions;
I couldn't get enough being drenched within libations
of her ***** ocean.

Drowning in waves of ardent spirits like a bolt of lightning
poured through us from head to toe we flowed in slow mo';
sweet bon apetits of ecstasy complete, swallowed nice and
neat; spent, bathed in Brandy Smash of a contented bash,
inebriated in slumbered splashes.

wasted in her folded sashes...
julianna Oct 2018
My nightcap is communication,
because I crave it all day
I spend hours between four walls
And talking helps me get away.
So I stay up late most of the time,
Chatting my time away
Because after all, I have more time
When tomorrow rolls my way.
Ian Beckett Nov 2012
Oatmealed and omeletted, start to a dull grey Seattle day
Mutual “Good morning” yawns wait the elevator gruzz
Cheery maid vacumates my room in a swirl of efficiency
Brundling my notes and my PC together I walk to work
Strumphing along beside the fumes of the grundling traffic

Email mountains confabulate the uncoffeed hordes
Typed kerattle the calm before the budget storm
Subterranean stocks desphorror of legal gamblers
Bonehead logic meets dumbling marketing aspirations
Now silent nerbling excuses of cur-whipped executives

Micawber’s message crystal in strangression of promises
Fundamental economics the only possible bankerage
Blood will flow in abattoir of management incastrophies
Doe-like and frembling in the light of impending execration
The stapression painfully personal as reality bites as last

Beer time comfrunks gather early in a huddle of hope
Sheep-like they absorb the tendralations of others’ fears
Remonstressing their misfortune in a depression of dinner
Relaxed at last in a hopefindation of beer goggle logic
Sleepfully staring at the mortgage arreared ceiling

My thankful escape to the Murakamied Sputnik symphony
Harmony in the silence of solitaricious nightcap with Hilton Mark
Wishing I was home now with my cuddlicious girl again
Grateful for loving and living in this aventacular world
I quietly srift off to sleep in a snozzle of sweet dreams
Alphabet Soup Jan 2012
Death stalks
On velvet paws.
A pounce, a flash of claws,
The small and helpless in its jaws.
Fat Cat!

Milk calls
Emptying lap.
White drops make warm nightcap.
Silky shadow dodges a slap.
Fat Cat!

Warm bed
Invites slumber.
Contented purr thunders.
Muddy paws on bedclothes wander.
Fat Cat!
Penned with Helvetica
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
If I could pick the menu,
I'd choose a tasty appetizer of Hendrix pituitary,
& a huge salad covered with Joplin cortex.
Plant's gray matter for the main course,
sides of Jaggar & Morrison stems,
along with a bottle of Springsteen spinal fluid.
I'd definitely have to order
an ample sweet-portion
of Daltrey thalamus
& sprinkle it with some Cobain lobes.
A shot of John's cranium
with a nightcap of Townsend cerebellum
would surely hit the spot.
I woke to a morning that called out in crystals,where mistletoe ice wands would grant me three wishes and wise men were wrapped up in kaftans and turbans.
The clock stuck at five,so the **** came alive and told time from cracked egg shells and church bells were snowed in,no dings and no dongs,the rights and the wrongs of it seem to fit in quite nicely,when at six the wind whips through the streets where I walk,it's like treading in chalk leaving footprints to read,with my toes feeling the way,so glad I wore two pairs of socks and my wellingtons today.

Then at eight there's hot chocolate and a muffin with jam and the work day begins.
No djinns and no genie,just the boss who's a skinflint and a tightfisted meanie
but it all ends at four when home seems to beckon,
I reckon I'll go and make more prints in the snow and maybe call in to see Andy for a pipe and a brandy,then off to feed Joe,(he's my cat dontya know) and then bed with my nightcap,take the bolt off the catflap and dive into a book I was saving for the time before I nap.
Alec Astaire Nov 2018
I finally tracked him down: the person within me who could live without you
So I made him a cup of tea and he began to prattle
About the demonic conductor of my symphonic heartbeats,
And the chthonic tranquility you once deposited into my life stream.
He sniggered at how, even now, I still attempt to draw from that diluted reservoir
In an attempt to discover anything more glorious that a utopian delusion,
An unwarranted euphoria derived from what someone might call the “good times”-
If I gave you the benefit of the doubt and admitted there really was a time your love wasn’t fictitious.
But, I digress
Because I wish you the best
Even if the good times discarded are times I should regret
There was a time when you uncovered my covert capacity for unexpurgated bliss-
The likes of which I had dismissed
As myth or at the very least unrealistic to attain.
Even if all of the solace I find in our memories is disingenuous,
I still thank you for way you fooled me.
And that’s why I screamed at him.
After the nightcap, I chased him out of the house for even flirting with the idea of his own existence.
For I have not the fortitude to meet with him for more than just a few moments.
Right now, I choose to cherish our memories until I forget that I love you,
Until the day I’ll be ready to unite with my harbinger of recovery.
Jenn Nix Nov 2014
Do you remember December in the valley;
a time of fog burned off by heat?
Sun burned hot in the truck, warm like an oven,
my sisters and I small gingerbread cookies baking in the bench seat while Dad stops at the Nightcap on Main Street
where the giant neon martini glass
is tilted and almost spilling the massive olive
into the dusty parking lot?
It is cool and dark in the Nightcap; it smells of farmers and dirt.

Did you know the pretty lady with flame-red hair
who fed us cherries from the dish at the end of the bar;
gave us quarters to buy grape bubble gum?
Dad smiled a lot then, drank clear liquor
talked about cotton and rain.
Did you know how slowly the day called him out
until he packed us back in the truck oven
we sat, lined up and sleepy and smelling of grape and cherry.
We flew past dusty fields, past roads named Idaho and Kansas and
did you see us coming up on Jackson?

Jackson Road was a tangle of barbed wire buried deep in dirt,
a broken gate and twisted steel, a
car barreling past the stop sign.
Half-drowsy from the heat and the cherries t
that I could still taste on my tongue,
just before the windshield exploded into flying stars, I saw you,
a face in the windshield that was not mine.

We were laid like waifs in the weeds at the side of the road,
My leg was bent there and there and there.
Did you see the ambulances skid through the gravel:
they put us kids in one and the grownups in another?
You and I shared a bed, foot to head, I saw your face
through the windshield just before.

Did you see how I tried not to move?
Your clothes were ****** like mine, you were small like me,
but your hands hang limply while mine were fussily
hanging onto the rails, straining to keep the bed still for you.

When you sighed, the world changed.

Did you know that when we were unloaded, I went one way
where they pulled on my leg to straighten it
but they forgot to check my knee and ankle
so they pulled on it even more
months later and even more after that
until one day I told them
to stop pulling; it was crooked and would stay that way.

Like life.

But you, you went down a long white hall away from me
same as your mother, the last one unloaded from the grownup
ambulance because there is no hurry for the dead.

And did you know that at least your place was quiet
and they didn’t pull on you and sign your cast
and ask was your daddy drunk
and then turn away in disgust
when you threw up red cherries on the white floor?
Greig M Jul 2012
Every night I go to bed,
Stuck with what he said.
My mind is just the same,
I'm dreaming he's in pain.

Paid with public money,
The ****** isn't funny,
If I could have my way,
He'd be sliced and diced today.

I'd collect together all his cash,
Every penny of his stash,
And spend it all on sausage skins,
To wrap him up and cover him.

I'd have him put in sausage form,
And eat him up to keep me warm.
I'd have him smoked and vacuum packed,
And placed upon the market rack.

Folk would come from everywhere,
Even those who didn't care,
All they'd need is just one joke,
To make them wish he'd never spoke.

What pleasure there would be,
In watching my TV,
No channel'd be a stranger,
For there would be no danger.

So I'd make myself a nightcap,
And a big fat sausage bap.
And I'd thank the BBC,
For football's finally free.
:)
Sam Hain Mar 2015
Oh, give to me the freshest drink,—
   A draught as smooth as silk
And whiter than the kitchen sink,—
   A pail full of milk!

Pour it with love, and watch it flow,
   (Nor spill a drop, for dread!)
Pour it precisely, enjoy the show,
   And give it a foamy head!

I drink it ere the morning sun
   Hath waked the early bird:
I wake and make a midnight run
   To taste the lazy herd.

I rise at dawn and drink again,
   And drink throughout the day;
Then drink a nightcap (or nine or ten)
   And dream of curds and whey.

I've heard it said I drink too much,
   And this is understood;
But man has never died from such,
   And oh! it's just so good!


within Zieglerville, pennsylvania

genuine snow white hair
upon her noggin doth adorn,
perhaps she will divulge to me (in private)
after i croon (to said lass),

the melody of Jimmy Crack Corn
hmm...or, maybe this mission
perchance twill be doomed from the start,
and hence finding me forlorn
thenceforth, a backup contingency measure,

would warrant me to don my thinking cap,
and for extra ordinary reinforcement unfold
each Taj Mahal shaped ear flap
plus (for reinforced ironic steeliness),

aye also resort to buttress
any aural "stormy Dani yelling)
via walled in interlap,
which accouterment functions
as a double agent i.e. (or,

to be rather crude),
an audiological jockstrap
to vet or figuratively kneecap
any unwanted infiltrating leaping lap
ping "FAKE" distracting news
inducing madcap

mass media circus
driving this generic teetotaler
to pour himself a nightcap
essentially providing wig gull room
with very little margin of ear err, or overlap
against bigwigs to trumpet pap

pill low ma rendered free and clear
asper insidious (mama mia) paparazzi
charting imp pea ching fear
bringing out bare arms

most likely something internuclear
simply to discover visa vis authenticity
if cute employee
(sporting hair

white as the ****** snow),
which doth simmer and glare
blindingly, thus necessitating sunglasses
(I choose the Ray-Ban brand)
as recommended by cited

all time favorite pharmacist
who unwittingly (or simply because
my myopic eyes didst stare)
fixedly - drawn to such a darling (doll ling)
explaining any reason to go THERE
to CVS - that tis where.
DieingEmbers Feb 2013
She offered me a nightcap

but I forwent

the pyjamas
judy smith Nov 2015
We know the importance of sleep for our health and appearance. But when it comes to getting at least eight hours of quality sleep, this is easier said than done. You could be tempted to watch that late night movie, or read one last chapter in that book.

For many of us, the goal of sleeping at 9 or 10pm may appear elusive. Many sleep at a decent hour but suffer from bouts of insomnia.

It pays to learn how to sleep. Ever wondered why babies and children have such beautiful skin? Research shows skin cell regeneration doubles at night and peaks between 11pm and 4am. Sleep deprivation leads to inflammation and oxidative stress which contributes to aging.

Here are some tips on how to sleep better:

1. Control your exposure to light

To maintain a good sleep-wake cycle, expose yourself to natural light during the day, and complete darkness when you go to sleep. If you work indoors, try to get at least half an hour of sunlight during the day. Let as much natural light into your workspace or home as possible.

At night, avoid bright screens within two hours of your bedtime. Switch off all lights, wifi, and electronics in your bedroom. Rather than using the television to wind down, read a book or listen to an audio recording.

Invest in dark-out curtains to ensure the room is completely dark. If you wake up during the night and need to move around, use a dim light.

2. Maintain a regular sleep schedule

Sleeping and waking up at the same time each day, helps to optimise the quality of your sleep. If you need to make up for a sleep debt, take a nap during the day, rather than sleeping in past your usual wake-up time. Once you’re getting enough sleep, you won’t need an alarm clock to wake you in the morning.

3. Watch what you eat and drink

Caffeine can cause sleep problems therefore try to avoid coffee, chocolate, and tea after lunch. A nightcap may help you fall asleep. However, it interferes with your sleep cycle by waking you up in the middle of the night.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
The Polo Grounds, when first seen,
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.

It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?

Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.

The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.

We rode the subway home that night
side by side, me and my Dad.
We reminisced about the game
Like the most knowledgeable fans..

The Q44 from Flushing took us
up Queensboro Hill,,
past Carvel and Booth Memorial,
I remember it well still.

My father turned to look at me
as five decades creased my brow.
Making us the self same age-
What he was then, so I am now.

Thirty years, about, it’s been
Since last I saw my Dad.
The dead don’t get to baseball games,
Which I think is rather sad.

He can’t enjoy a summer night
on the wrong side of the grass.
And an ice cold beer is greatly missed-
He can’t pour himself a glass..

In memory, we still can walk
With those who came before.
So I took my Dad to a baseball game-
What was I waiting for?
This is a poem about memory. The games in question took place during the 1963 season. As the Father and Son take the bus home past places that no longer exist to a home that no longer exists, the poem abruptly switches from memory to the present. the structure is strange but I hope you like it. Dad saw his last game in 1981
kenye Oct 2013
Did you get to sleep
Or are you marinating
in chemicals?

The nightcap pulled
you down
dragged you
with your breath

You cut deep

Did you figure your
insides out?
You're inside out
spilling your guts
again
off-balanced
like an unstable
vivisection

Combusting your soul
back to a black hole
Counted off stars
in your eyes
you swore were aligned
Do you know what's behind?

Or will you keep looking?
Out there the truth isn't
it's all a reality
hallucinogen
generation of
self-prescribed nomads
It's about the journey
somewhere there lies
a destination
Lying about it's age again
and you can't touch it
Yet
it was here
the whole time
this very moment
and it's so
*******
beautiful
if you can get out
of your own mind.
K Balachandran Jun 2013
The cat with radium eyes, drilling into my sub-terrain secrets,
Hedgehopped silently in to my camouflaged enclosure, for a nightcap, it said.
A companion of mysteries, tip-toes in to the wilderness of night
With a gentle "meow' to hunt
                                                how fast you pulled me closer, with your claws drawn out,
Not any coy maiden, your lust, long nailed and wild,
Known you differently before, now it comes out on the open, I love you in your true colors, yes, but..

Your kisses are bloodsucking vampire feasts,
You need to feel the beast all over you, to quench the lust, from the beginning I knew(my secret)
With caterwaul crescendo we celebrated lust, I contributed in  plenty at your request,
When swelled desire, did burst and waves dissipated, we went to a dopomine induced sleep,
Completely transformed, you just look like a lackluster colleague,
Unexpectedly came to visit, for a cuppa and chat  (why do I feel bit let down, difficult to understand)
Eric Dec 2013
Obliging my son with a bottled formula nightcap
Glanced over at the cover of Rachel Ray
(My wife a fan; me……not so much)

I suspect
(at as far as marketing consultants are concerned)
There is something deeply rooted in the female psych

That says:
Total fulfillment can be summarized as holding an overlarge mug of a hot beverage in 2 hands
(never one hand – that’s business only)

sitting on your couch
feet cannot be touching the floor. tucked, preferably
Added success at life can be conveyed via a thick sweater or (for the wildly tasteless) a Snuggie.
in the night
all by yourself,
with some tunes
in the background
to hit you with the memories,
they all seem very real
you'd thought they
would simply disappear,
but a lot of time
has gone by since
and now here you are
where even the walls have ears,
having heard many stories
over the years
so what's it going to be tonight?
'hold my hand',
says the hour hand to the minute hand
of the wall clock,
tick tock!
as time seems to pause
and you deep dive
into the music,
lyrics and instruments
with their own
ups and downs,
yet in perfect coherence
the harmony taking you places,
feels like a nightcap
for some midnight nostalgia
coming back,
you snap out of it
as the sound waves
fade way
in distance
'well, that was a nice little adventure...
onto the next one!',
your mind goes.
an ode to a little midnight nostalgia induced by great music.
William Barry Jun 2014
The heart wants what the heart wants. The brain butts in and **** blocks our most valued, raw emotion. These feelings that could only originate from the pumping muscle in your chest that hurts after hearing tom petty or watching your favorite TV show's last episode fade away into the sunset.
   In a rare scenario where a man rolls off of his lady friend and has lit his nightcap cigarette, and STILL feels the sharp pang of love despite his release,  the man should ******* follow his heart, and become that cliche that 15 year old girls get wet over. Stay with that woman, I don't care if you've killed, pillaged, or ravaged, whether you deserve that pretty girl or not…you chase after her. Don't listen to you're head, you're head is what makes your **** hard. Follow your ******* heart, because I swear on my lucky cigarette that your mind (along with your ****) will give out long before your heart will.
Smell of wine and cheap perfume...
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
The bells tolling and gallow stools
Carved by a crisp knife sharpened by a stone flint-shaped among the garden tools
The molded and weak rose like the solid and stolid coveting
The dolorous limelight seekers were sure about the fun settling
The call-in your wake is sure to make you disagree, subversively
Pretentious till it leads me into ruinous states, with each verse
Troubled and telling about the stoic salacious dread, of your *******
The sins and arresting rebels brought you minister and spirit
The apologetic and shrieking in their walls their apologies
Am I the only one, who thinks
They don't change their disposition
Time I'm tearing you up into fragments
My stories are getting caught up in their endings
Caught by the hook of standing on the ceiling, rear-ended
The knee-deep hell, mountain high harp, what the ****!
Reelin' and rockin' in heaven, indeed purgatory calls your bulls and porgies
Greed and corporeal blood and recipe for dreadful disaster, and luck you yammer about out-and-out too
It's in your flesh and bones, ****** vain too
Feels like time is slipping and sliding out of my oval face and hateful hands
The friends you seek to hold you when you're ready?
Blows, busy days, France in its hey-day had some passion rather saints who come marching in
Are you ready to read your death in the newspapers, when your stomach lurches like holes in the air
Or here from storytellers like a burnt legacy, in the papers that herald flying guns and leveraging politics
And hate, rising with the ashes, the education burning blue like a phoenix
Apogee, really, after so many a doubt and clusterfuck of redactions, I'm ready to learn about counted visage among the many faces on a business street
About my attraction to nature and fantastic reality, I'm jumping with joy
But, smaller than the cosmic bubble that keeps us from dying
I can tell no one, this is our one and only time with faded humor
You're breeding and you're dying with famished and frayed daughters of petulant sons believing hilarious rumors
I am dismembered much to my won't, the stentorious frolicking reeks around astute anecdotes of my pain of having a name
Even it's a fake one and adopted by pretty old me
The antidote of all this, love and peace, it must be the end of fashion and integrity
Peace and love cradling the waves wandering in mystery
Walking among the feet of trembling rage hungry for power, our love is just an island, but, not the little flower that just matured
If I engender myself, I will be free from being prematurely always on
Smidges and shakes for the collared contingent of successful women
For the one, surreptitiously resting under the invisible sun, sticking out their necks for none
Smack her flesh across till light turns still
The center light pops in expectation of blue days and flooring her money on her mind
On the reeling hail, tying the wrong laces and pushing wrong buttons
I left the hall crazed and surprisingly fully-dressed
Snake-like heads facing away from each other with their smothering hands around my neck
I unhand my royal touch and my license for the cream-crop
Not sure about my violence and clammy hands, but, my old man didn't like it all that much
Handing the trembling papers of my record for another dispensary
The errands that I have to run, I would recommend this to no one
Watching movie reruns and playing my new dreams in my trailer park, every time she was the one
Tea and teeming, brink and livid feeling, reelin' with the great high upstart
Cosmopolitans and Neapolitans, I'm probably going play to Jupiter jazz for another meridian of Earth
Red rain splaying like the sand Andalusian like, waving my hands care-free, only to slam my self down easily
Into another speakeasy with a wake-up call and nightcap, dusk till dawn
The day seems brighter and the sun scintillating like the queenie-eyes on the resting sunshine on the iridescent soil
Ecstasy open miles ahead, the eyes lay in peace and capacious lamps full of soul food and meals
Like lamps and little lintels, the coruscating fire makes the colors of the day seem much more real
The tears in Heaven are adjusted for a place in my salvation
Vitriolic, but, mellifluous in it's surmise, you're sure about the music you're hearing
Crouching upon old times like washed memories
Or is it the waters of the ocean afar from snake-like repellent waves of the oceanic dreams
The snake passes by, in the time of your lifeless soul
You were just pacing yourself, the motto is "Always look your prime and best"
They are your true reflection, this is the one and only reflective surface I will attest to, lest I sound sanctimonious
Bo vine and in vino veritas, you're ecstatic about auriferous objects
Sheep and tipping civilization with the conquest of the times, and the same sundial from Eratosthenes that made citadels
The conquest of Troy is any different from the present oligarchy
Librarian of Alexandria, and the Trojan horse of cursed hands mixed with the opportunity
A couplet for a couple of composite numbers is enough to tempt the prime number
In showing up in your  classes brimming with achievers, some students among them
Eratosthenes' sieve is diligent work on simplicity, so yes, whoever reads this, the wake-up call is not a snake bite
This is Stoicism, and poetry is stoic writing cannot be duplicated
The moral could be looking at hopeless dreams, helplessly
Just passing by without shedding any of it on your probity
A gnomon is the part of a sundial that casts a shadow. The term is used for a variety of purposes in mathematics and other fields.
Terry Collett Jun 2012
Even when Jodrig
fails to show

for the promised date
or comes

on the wrong day
or comes too late

Tibbles never
lets her down

he comforts
with his rough tongue

on her smooth thigh
or gazes at her

with his one good
and one closed eye

or purrs her
to happiness

even if her life’s a mess
or she depressed

he seems to know
the time to snuggle

his head against
her breast

or simply lay his paw
upon her open jaw

but when Jodrig
gets it right

and stays the night
for nightcap

or night love
then snores to sleep

Tibbles moves between
he and she

and snuggles down
where he’s meant to be.
Quentin Briscoe Jun 2013
My waves aren't crashing....

hard enough.

I need a

NIGHTCAP....
addictedtolove Sep 2014
Him
I walked in and took my place at the bar waiting a bit impatiently for the bartender. After a few minutes she came I order a pbr and a shot of whiskey. my shot stings going down but I take a large sip of my beer and it sooths. I talk to some people for a bit but I can't help but look for you. I glance at  the barstool I know you rest and i see you. From the looks of it this may be your 5th nightcap of the evening. And I'm promised it won't be your last. We meet eyes. You gaze at me the same way I, for you. I walk over and give you an I - miss - you hug. He's familiar will thoes. We jabber on about nonsense and and laugh at the strange curly-haried man dancing in the corner. God I love his laugh. I order a few more pbrs and a couple more shots.. my whiskey curauge has me blurting out if he would like to stay with me after all has closed. He says he's usual answer. And for just a split second I wonder if my options were much better asked after he has had a couple of caps or if he would say yes regardless?.. some days I'm unaware. We leave and it's as if nothing has changed between us. The two of us walk to his place stopping for beer no less. Tipsy as we are were acting very silly skipping around, making strange noises at one another. We just go back to the two free spirited people simply infatuated with one another. And I'm flying in bliss. I sit on the bed and look at him. Memorizing his movments. He moves so beautifly so gracefully.  He hands me an IPA,  the way he's eyes meet mine is breathtakingly lovely.  And in that moment, I could look at this handsome, complicated,  loving, courageous man forever.
Damian May 2015
We were probably thirteen. I told
my parents I'd be bowling, borrowed
five pounds and you
did the hard part. Asking men out-
side the off-licence to help us.
I tried to make if look like we were old-

er or together but it wasn't
long before we had the bottle
or six of Bacardi Breezer. Prising
each lid off with my keys,
you picked out seats from the dusk
deserted cricket stand.

A couple through, you showed me
how to put my hand in someone's pants
as sticky alcopops slopped
round and down again. I couldn't open
our last nightcap so we stamped
its neck against a brick and doubled up.

We didn't kiss goodbye, just
staggered into swaggers step
by step across the Common.
My mouth fizzed with syrup
residue and blood from broken
glass.

— The End —