Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Deepsha Jul 2012
Well.. if you must know!
our next door neighbour Mrs. Blue,
she and her husband are like rubber and glue,
So what does she do behind his **** back,
shhh..she dates her oompa loompa butler instead

Oh? tell me more Mrs. Snotnose!

Everyone knows I don't like to gossip!
I am not making this **** up right!
there's a rumour going on about that sneaky Mrs. White
(whisper)..She took some fat off her ****,
to hide that ugly mole of a nut!

(giggle) Bejesus!, really?

Of course Mrs. Dullardmost!
Wait till you hear about Mrs. Brown,
she wore a fake necklace to the charity event at Hotel Crown!
but not everyone is elegant and classy like me,
the sweet natured that I am, you know I let people be

Oh Mrs. Snotnose, you are the epitomy of noesis!
(I would have been on my way,
had it not been for all your delighting prey)

how is dear Mrs. Red doing after that,
you know, that.. incident in her flat?

Oh dear, who doesn't know about that flat incident!
but you know I dont like to pry!
you couldn't take it out of me even if you would try!
I couldn'tell you what I saw through her window,
but um, well, if you really must know!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
all the ******* leave the party early, attired
in cackles, even though stilettos say otherwise,
they laugh and squeamish assort
a waiting line for a mongol tribe:
open all hours minus the sunday,
when jesus' ***** was dried;
got to love a mother of a culprit readied
for sacrifice and prayer lasting 2000 years.
in between the party?
a man walked idly musing his relevance,
he popped a few balloons with his cigarette,
his life flashed before his eye,
notably an error, pornographic photos
flashed before his eyes, not as bad as Gucci and
gob anna in twisted anorexia... **** actresses take
the catwalk... we all revolve around liking curves...
plus **** in ***, plus **** in ****, plus **** in mouth,
a holy trinity through and through;
there was no offensive image shown,
there was no offensive foghorn sound made,
but she's too eager to censor communication,
says f**k... hush... oompa loompa augustus needs the loo
to **** out the roman empire...
what entertains children breeds a fear for adults...
what entertains adults makes children divvy...
say piston and phallus in a rhyming symbiosis
of tact... welcome you, welcome i;
what doesn't entertain children does entertain adults?
the reality of a mistaken fact that childhood passed?
and of those who's childhood was orphanage?
the free distribution of wealth... or a free distribution of justice
be seriously taken along with vitamins?
burp... are we shining with sun and vitamin c?
perhaps we wished to have netted brown skin
in a spider web of self-producing vitamin d of kenyan origin?
ah i see, sneezes from cayenne peppering.
Sunday night and the park policemen tell each other it
     is dark as a stack of black cats on Lake Michigan.
A big picnic boat comes home to Chicago from the peach
     farms of Saugatuck.
Hundreds of electric bulbs break the night's darkness, a
     flock of red and yellow birds with wings at a standstill.
Running along the deck railings are festoons and leaping
     in curves are loops of light from prow and stern
     to the tall smokestacks.
Over the hoarse crunch of waves at my pier comes a
     hoarse answer in the rhythmic oompa of the brasses
     playing a Polish folk-song for the home-comers.
BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues.

Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life's razzle dazzle.

Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor-a giggler, God knows, a giggler-and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square.

The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.
Joel Frye Jan 2016
You ever wonder
why (with so many poems)
why we keep writing?
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
let's have a game of reverse-phraseology....

man up...

   hmm... let's see what i can conjure
up, within this, gender-neutrality...

how about...

  that old english saying...

buckle down,
    buckle up / knuckle down?
  (i never know which
is the correct phrase -
clench your hand into a fist,
or lose weight -
   or, tighten them
for a bumpy ride).

   take the knuckles
to the grit / sandpaper
...

   how's that?

any bwetter?
            no?
   oh ooh um, ah...
          
            i thought these people
were into gender neutral pronouns...
which, oddly, enough,
have to also be singular and plural
neutral:
  
last time i checked: they...
referred to a plural description
of gender neutrality, to begin with...

but hell! ha ha ha ha ha!
we can play this game, all day,
and all night, long...

       but NOW, for a wild idea...
how can you enforce the adrenaline
junk from being stabbed,
not anticipating a stabbing?

i guess... i guess you have to heat
up the knife...
   so there's a warm butter sensation
ascribed to the flesh...
               flesh...
  i like that word...
     i can almost imagine
a slaughterhouse,
   with raw pork in full attire of
a corpse, dangling off the hooks...

and that believable scent,
outside of a Parisian perfume factory
attached: what if i fried this,
exponent of a gutted pork torso?

- and why isn't bush-meat
prohibited in the Qu'ran?
    pork? the most economically constructed
animal in the history of:
anti-vegeterianism anti-veganism...

      rats are, apparently, omnivores...
my neighbor owns four albino rats,
saved from a testing laboratory...
seen one ******, scuttle the garden
looking for a labyrinth
to be experimented on...

oh i love the tease of policing language...
man up contra
            buckle down...
you just sizzle...
   imitating a rattlesnake with
your tongue on trilling the R
with that kind of ****...
   you really end up wanting to poke,
and poke...
    at this sort of genesis phraseology...
with either a reversion,
or an inversion...

i'd prefer you to allow me to exercise
my right for compelled speech,
in which "manning up" is degraded
from the casual phraseology attainment,
and that the old school
english buckling down
is used...

      man? up? there's nothing copernican
about that expression...
please... can you excuse
my politically correct counterpart
to be allowed a phraseology blunder?

we too, are for gender neutrality
in... bashing a man down...
   we call "them" the brash knuckles
brushing off of preconceived
sexuality indicators...

    no blue boy, no pink girl...
no tractor boy, no Barbie girl...
               but there is no...
  "manning up"...
         WE UZ A PEOPLEZ' PEOPLE...
A PEOPLEZ' **** TANK...
running low... on thought -
or whatever the once glorified
moral ought used to be...
   mahatma mah'gandhi -
liked the name for one reason...
see how the H appears and disappears
in the nouns?
   it's there's at mahatma...
but... turned surd in gand(h)i...
   i don't even know why it's not a surd
in (h)indi -
   so blue blue, i'm blue...
      
extensive culinary and musical
traditions kept them afloat,
from biting the razor,
   when drowning...
   and not, exactly, opening
      the oompa-loompa casinos.
Sarah MacCoy Dec 2013
Why do you think society expects you to
1. Dress the same
2. Talk the same
3. Have the same problems
4. Laugh at the same thing
5. Look your best at all times

Because you let it.

We’re tired of seeing the exact same photo of you with the exact same people in a different bathroom mirror every Friday night.

Why can’t you hangout with other people?
Will it ruin your “rep” that much?

Is it really necessary to get hammered every weekend?
Why are we the ones who have to sit in one spot while you rotate around the room telling the same story to every one of your “friends”

Are you sure they’re your friends?
Because they talk behind your back

Why do you stay with that *******?
You know he’s hitting on twenty other girls, including your “best friend”

You spend money to look like you work for ***** Wonka.
Can anyone say Oompa Loompa?

How come we can’t make it through Instagram without knowing your order for Starbucks?
One grande non-fat white soy peppermint mocha at exactly 120 degrees with an extra shot of syrup extra whip and sprinkles put in the cup before anything else. Please?

We can’t afford to buy gas masks just to walk by your locker.
Spraying that much perfume is deadly.

We can never tell if you’re trying to smell nice or trying to start chemical warfare.

Is that makeup or a mask?

Your bra makes you a C-cup but you’re really only an A-cup.
Shhh, we won’t tell the boys.

Is it necessary to stop in the middle of the hallway to talk to your friends?
No, get out of the way please.

We know you have a car
You don’t have to walk around holding your keys all day.

Why do you spend so long trying to perfect the “messy bun” look?
Boys aren’t looking at your hair.

People don’t see you,
they just see your persona.
Slam poem done with Mattea Koebernick in creative writing.
Pearson Bolt Jul 2016
it's true
the revolution will not be televised
but the fascist revival premiered
on all the major networks' corporate channels
in 1080p HD at prime-time hours

with perfect clarity
viewers could see
an oompa loompa
with an orange toupee
a xenophobe
spewing violence and vitriol
peddling snake oil while spitting venom
stirring a bubbling cauldron
spilling over in fear-mongering demagoguery
served like crack candy to the Republican elite
reveling in their privilege
cheering white supremacy

a tyrant
tirading behind a polished wooden podium
flanked by hues of red white blue and gilded gold
like some comic strip super-villain
but this obtuse excuse for human refuse
is not some Saturday morning cartoon
defeated by the heroes after 30 minutes
of selfless feats and epic deeds
a death dirge plays on repeat in the background

you can't always get what you want

meanwhile
we're holding silent vigils back home
carving the sigil of Orlando's skyline into our skin
while a snake slithers into a City Beautiful
bedecked in her $3k pressed pant-suit
leering wolfishly at a local club for LGBTQ+ youth
the downtown heartbeat
of outcasts and misfits
a Pulse
that bigotry and self-hatred couldn't *****

but tragedies are converted to cheap currencies
in the clawed hands of dynastic oligarchs
sporting the support of billionaires and super-PACs
she knows the Establishment has got her back
she'll shed crocodile tears
just in time for the photo-ops

violence begets violence begets violence
humanity's universal language
a tongue shared by despots and presidents
in the wake of stolen sanctuaries
she'll justify razing Syrian children
beneath a barrage of hellfire missiles
and predator drones targeting cell-phone signals
under the pretense of bringing the terrorists
to some sycophantic mirage of justice

we're manufacturing new soldiers
for the Caliphate to brainwash with promises
of dead gods and seventy-two virgins
machine-fed by automatic weapons
to the toothy jaws
that bottomless maw
of endless ******* war
which always vaunts
profit over people

the conceptual construct of gender binarism
becomes an imperceptible selling point
in the incomprehensible and reprehensible rhetoric
issuing from either side of the political aisle
but what will it matter
either way
an egoistic megalomaniac
has his or her finger poised over the trigger
a neoliberal warmonger and hypocritical fraud
or a reality TV star who lauds the KKK on Twitter

our only hope is found in the streets
unchained by compassion's transformative capacity
freed to utilize our minds
humanity's indomitable faculty
nurturing a community that seizes life
in anthems of liberty equality and solidarity
anarchic manifestoes penned in lines
of red and black ink

progressives will insist otherwise
they'll declare emphatically that our only choice
lies in selecting the lesser of two evils
to lead us to the brink of oblivion
but Orwell wrote the future of humanity
looked like a boot crushing our heads
that either way we'd all be dead
and the harsh reality is that the soot-stained sole
curb-stomping this country
fits both the left and right foot
The world has been on fire recently. I woke last night from dreams of hellish landscapes reflecting on two photographs I saw from the past 24-hours. One depicted Trump on stage at the RNC, looking like some Capitol stooge from "The Hunger Games." The other was of Clinton in my city, pretending to care for the LGBTQ+ youth murdered at Pulse. I wrote this in a frenetic fit of ire and outrage.
Sam Barger Feb 2015
Oompa loompa doopity doo, I've got another puzzle for you. If a fatty rolls down a hill, How many times will you hear that fatty squeal? Oompa loompa doopity dee, If you guessed 9, you get a *******.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that *****... boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for ****'s sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2023
Semi-
——-

Something new, in our years of partnership,

during

the early morning semi’s, the half awake, yet
mostly asleep, passageway from rest to wake,
as per usual, I am awake before her, to write,
to think, to read, to do my variety of early morn
chores, but today, her semi is populated by a
new concern, an alert, mind programmed, silent,
no chirp, no beep, just human punctual new instinct,

let us
check if my man is alive and breathing, rub his
thankfully copious-headed hair & air supply,
rub-a-dub,
once, repeat twice, thrice, sense his beating brain,
confirming the night passage, always dangerous,
completed safely, for she feels my warmth, hears
my eyes-crinkle smiling, and ascertains, the
continuation of my existence and the statistical
probability, (her occupational hazard and habit)

that when

she crosses fulsome into the living day,
awakensgladly, that her not-too-hot-black
coffee, will be
mister milkman delivered on schedule with
a bedside delivery like clockwork-blonde, with a
half sheet of enwrapping paper towel within some
morning fruit, to  ensure that her coffee will have some company…

while she dances a beloved tango in her semi-,

I am:

in my only~pretending post-tense,
semi complimentary state,
mentally scrambling scribbling half a dozen
eggs of new poem ideas, mad pursuing these
very words, my way of saying good morning girl,
my beating heart muscling me to be sure I-remain,
in the good company of the Oompa-Loompas,
and yours too
!
martin challis Sep 2014
Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle. He called it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.

That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.

Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fly Fishing’).

Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).

When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.

Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.



Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he senses this  –  and is peaceful.

When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.

They’re good sounds.

They are old sounds.

They bring him…
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
honest to god, with trans-gender i'm retro-******, and i know why the homosexuals were given all the pleasures of heterosexual coupling of social responsibility but not given the opinions, the homosexuals complained that the trans-gender movement dis-appreciated the appreciation of the male physique, god isn't beauty tyrannical, whether here on the anorexic catwalk? god isn't beauty tyrannical, the sea and the mountain, what beauty... but what tyranny!  so the laws favoured homosexuals, they were given freedoms akin to heterosexual relations, they were even given the new breed of *******, the surrogate mothers... what a poker game this has become! god almighty, i'm about to faint! well, you keep looking for genitalia, i'll just take a u-turn and talk to you about T R A N S E TH N I K U S - trans-ethnicity, trans-ethnic and retro-******, synonyms of heterosexual and bilingual non-respectively... and i got a helium balloon handy to mind the writing... chimp-chap and chipmunks - breeze! breezy! breezy! ooh yeah! tina turner gorged on tunas lodged with sardines canned!*

these days it should be called retro-******
rather than heterosexual... just to spice things up - via
in politics telling us to curb colonising the continent of
vocabulary, i.e.: hey foot in New England isn't exactly
Iowa!                                 get the ******* out!
teach them the english language
and censor them with political correctness -
even Stalin would find this approach funny -
'what?! no purges?! ha ha,
this is fantastic!' it's like the everyday
grey experience of failed
abortion and premature cancer
of existence just got a knee stuck
in its mouth - is that chew choke
or chow mein?! i doodle, don't know -
it might be a Caravaggio in the attic
or Anne Frank in the basement -
but given the populace it's still
a **** tourist trip - so take that
******* selfie with a selfie stick
and chomp a hamburger like
a turkey force-fed before thanksgiving.
no, i'm seriously retro-******...
i faked the *** and had a conversation,
neither worked - i mean it
worked faking it - but then the *** dried
and ******* took over
like i was re-experiencing puberty -
and she moaned that it was sick -
that one direction icon left the band
because he wasn't allowed to don a beard...
or smoke a joint...
               forget the 1960s Renaissance,
forget the Holocaust deniers,
come and meet the 1960s Anglo-Renaissance
deniers... **** didn't happen...
oompa loompa do'ba'de'do (insert H when required) -
prof. Kleks - kleksografia - kaczka dziwaczka -
             and other hits - well, mm, d'uh,
imagine trans-
                             (+)    -esse -
                      not gender related - but hence
the polak plumbers and other noose educators,
keenly the rus applaud -
                                               τρανσεθνικóς -
two golds and one silver at the european
championships of weight-lifters:

rank 1 / ****** 1 / clean & **** 2
name: tomasz ZIELINSKI (bernard)
body weight: 93.7kg
******: 176kg
clean & ****: 211kg
Σ: 387kg.
                                     ants laughing in the background:
'check out my exoskeleton!'
                          'boy! you and yo mush inside!'
   'keep the hard outside and the soft inside!'
                  'pecking the pecks of those naked monkeys...
               boy, i would!'
     'give 'em to the earthworms if they're not
               smart to be burned!'
     'goth macabre i too would endorse for a stable diet.'
  'mm, twice the body weight at the limit
    for them, and x5 for our ontological allowances.'
  'you know they call it a natural border of tribes,
      the franks to one side, the germans to the other,
               the rhine in between.'
   'well, d'uh, you ever much wood with rotten wood
           with termites?'
      'that's beside the point.'
                     'well, whatever it is,
          termites are... slogans for culture...
     their mounds rock hard from institutionalised
   saliva squirting -
                             what do we have?
       forest mounds the size of moles unearthing
          protected with twigs and our swarming bodies...
    we live underground - the termites became
     audacious.'
                 'oh stop it, i'm enjoying the joke
      that humans can only lift over twice their body weight
               while we can lift five times our weight.'
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i believe that there lives a counterpart
of me in Spain and in France -
equally critical - not me per se,
but two individuals to compensate
my efforts in England,
Eastern European, hell-bent
to overtax the happy meal and frozen foods
for "the busy lives of 21st century love-e-dub-e's;
a seance of unification might be far away
mind you;
they say they cite the Bible as if it
were an Encyclopaedia -
you reared the African as subhuman,
you think, that other European nations
will succumb to the African systematisation
necessary for integration?
you actually think i'll abandon my
mother tongue to engross myself
in your filthy history and sing god save our queen
like a kindergarten sing-along readying
myself for Oompa-Loompas?
oh i'm sure that's just due to your genetic
makeshift tents on the steppes of Mongolia;
any news from Mongolia? none.
any news from Kazakhstan? none;
except irony... or the great Tao principle:
forget the world and let the world forget you;
i'm not too eager on the Heidegger octopus either
having to be in the world and care for it -
or at least tax my existence with a concern for it.
but of course it's like an inbreeding principle:
little Britain meets the Empire,
Darth Asthmatic... coo khhh... coo khhh...
H vocalised is the best painting
of ancient static in televisions,
motivational ashes lost with digitalisation,
the kaleidoscope of flies and 8-eye spiders
hacking the flight with spider-web geometrics...
prolong the first two letters of the word Khan...
and i'm sure you'll genealogically stress
the origin of Pakistan as being in Mongolia.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
pop a balloon will you, they think i'm a Jehovah's witness not wanting to celebrate this ******* farce... last time i popped a balloon was on Guy Fawkes' night, i went into fireworks shop and asked for a firework, got turned away, walked into another shop that sold balloons, bought a packed, went back to the fireworks shop with the balloon pufferfish... the ****** didn't pop with a smack of the hand, it had some additive in it to strengthen the membrane... a clown parade came after.

i'm 30 today, got a call from my grandparents
wishing me a: hoo ha what not, encore encore,
health and more health -
conversation with grandmother was fine,
but then my grandfather got me depressed,
the lecture about how he'd have been
working 15 years to date my year in passing,
post-war veteran, he was the one asking
for candy from the ᛋᛋ men - *herr, bite bonbon
,
i spent many years with him, walking, talking,
the graveyard was our oyster, our pearl,
we became hyenas of the graves -
but on this day i got hit by a steam-train knuckle,
started thinking about getting ****** right away:
'look, i live in a society where poetry is
under-appreciated, even un-, there are no
rewards in this field, what was the point of educating
myself if all this poetry is, quiet literally state
sponsored? it's pathetic! i would love to come and
see you but i will not use your money to get over
there, i have an addiction to pursue, including
a quasi-career. poetry has been hijacked by
oompa-loompas, the kids they own the internet,
i guess because that's the easiest way to describe
any germination, in poetry you can't be a Mozart
boasting about your genius aged 8...
Mozart was a trained monkey, poetry requires
experience, heartbreak, the gritty bits & bobs,
sure, you can learn all the techniques, write
technical poetry, but from such poetry i'll be
reduced to an english student, spotting poetic
techniques like a statistician spotting trends,
ball-breaking expressions.'
and with that i realised, i wanted to be a bohemian,
but bohemian also means urban, means
other people's company... i can't do that,
i'm purposively lodged in outer suburbia,
there's too much Wordsworth in me to claim
bohemian blue / cool; leave me with deer foxes
hedgehogs and a Noah's ark array of birds...
i can't do the stink, the claustrophobic coagulation
of human sweat... or as i once suggested:
better celibate than mere piston and ******
                                                        "i­mmaturity"...
i **** like crossing the street, look two times each
way and mind the heart...
i can drink a 70cl bottle of whiskey a day...
only because i'm alone, in company the mood is
quiet different, you're not suggesting alcohol as having
calories, you use it as an inhibitor of social insecurities,
medically speaking from my perspective?
sedative... sedative... sedative... i don't know
any barbiturates pharmacist Nietzsche didn't leave
any clues in his writing, what a shame, back
when writing had to be printed and had to have all
kinds of mannerisms of respectability - what ponce.
by the way... you're not actually getting fooled
for those illiterate scraps of the Nag Hammadi library?
word of goat more like... look around you!
the large majority of us are literate, you don't actually
think the Nag Hammadi library is sacred?
even Bruce... ah ****, Caitlyn is having second thoughts
about the "wisdom" implied by St. Thomas' Gospel...
but yeah... 30... ooh... time to bite my nails...
career not off the ground... ooh... what to do what to do...
have a drink and reiterate:
                                               can't do bohemian,
can only do rustic (suits me)...             civilising wieśniactwo -
bo jestem z miasta... ah... bo jestem z miasta...
to widać i słychać i czuć...
                                                alter! hey **, dawaj alter!
bo jestem ze wsi...                         niby widać
i            słychać              i czuć (na grzbiecie mam a pigglet)!
            ah then piękny mish-mash duo-baritone, sz,
                   no no, prawie Tuwim Opera!

hey! don't come running to me, a 12 year old immigrant
said that the majority of polish migrants in england
create a village atmosphere... now that's masochistic
racism - last night i was laughing during a televised
geography lesson... doesn't get better than that in terms
of birthday presents.
Simon Soane Apr 2016
There are a lot of important things needed to be happy in life,
that stop the dark rising and save the mind from strife,
like hilarious acts and moments we find funny
and as much as it pains me to say a bit of money
so we can do other fun things like go on a night out,
singing the hours away with a beam and a shout,
or a sweet song that glistens around the head,
or an engrossing book to read in bed,
ordering a take away and gorging can give a thrill
or back to back box sets on a Netflix and chill,
and just as crucial as having a top mate to phone
is having a place that one can call home.
Having an abode to go to when employment is done
or a domain to grab some water to quell the heat of the sun,
a space to collapse when infused with inebriation,
when getting tired of tracks, a warm safe station,
a place to get ready when revving to go out in the mix,
yeah, you were all of the above dear Flat Six.
Yeah, I’ll hold my hands up, you've been a ace place in which to live,
okay you were full of damp and the bathroom wall flimsy enough to give,
and when the verdant Eden outside was chopped down it made me mad
but you were only a short walk from my Mum and Dads.
You had plenty of perks,
fab tree out back and close to work,
a 24 hour garage a stone's throw away,
that sold the ***** at night and day,
you were near a cracking paper shop that had had 2 bottles of wine for six quid a go,
suffice to say, el vino did flow.
Your living room was massive enough to play big with a cat
"always a good time here" etched on your welcome mat.
Under your roof was awesome, you engendered joy with ease,
effortlessly making great, just like the cleanest breeze.
Now although you as a building yourself is a important component in amaze
other factors also make a simply brilliant phase,
Like when friends came round for fun and revelry
after we had left the club just after three,
we'd all pick up the ingredients for a ***** do
and jump, and groove with soothing coo,
the ether resplendent with "I love you!"
finely balanced between boom and cautious,
chatting committed, gabbing voracious,
sunk into fun under your light,
the wonder of spun on Saturday night.
Now, it wasn't just at the weekend when friends came to say okay,
there were some sweet gatherings on a Wednesday,
no women, no, just a range age of men,
it could only be mid week Breadren,
we could be having a conversation about how New York seems most tourable
when a voice pipes up, "by the way bel ami my cousin has cancer and it's incurable."
There could only be one guy who brings such depressing roars
the harbinger of gloom known as Two Doors.
He'll bleat on about how his niece has no womb and is totally barren
and next to him lives a kingpin drug baron
"they are shifting units at a furious pace
and ski in more in more wizz than ******* Scarface."
He'll change the subject in the blink of an eye
and go from talking about love to who's going to die,
he doesn't like most women, thinks they are a squawking flock,
he loves men though, yeah, he really likes ****.
A mate can come out and say sobbing he doesn't want to be with a lass
while Iain does think, "Ross, let me in your ***."
His friend could weep and cry with a whimpering cough
while all Iain thinks, Ross, **** me off!
Never mind Grinder, get on my fleshy old man log."
The third guy Martin is off shooting up in the bog.
Yeah, lots of people talked in your four walls
but you provided the space for those stupendous *****,
you were brill in December, springing in May,
really awesome in September, probs cos that's when Louise came to stay.
You held our pre festival clutter with happy behest
and often covered in bottles on Monday, a big glassy mess,
oh you had everything, simply one of the best.
As I’ve said, Flat Six you as the area were great
But a paramount importance in that was housemate.
You see some people can bond and connect in the hub of a club
but when sharing an address each other up the wrong way they can rub,
although they can go to a gig and have the most divine of laughs
when they abide in the same abode they go together like low ceilings and giraffes,
arguments start over the heating not being turned off
or who hasn’t took the bins out or who’s had some of the others food to scoff,
they bleat that “you shouldn’t have gone out for that night on the *****
And then made noise when you got in as you knew I was trying to snooze!”
or “why did you have that night on the coke, you see more of Charlie than an oompa loompa
and have World War 3 over a borrowed jumper.
So yeah, it's sweet when you find a shared space dweller
and who you think is swell and you get on really well,
as when after a day at the office and you perhaps want to chill alone
when they rap on your door to discuss the day you're glad their home,
skating through conversations with the p of pace
raucous at pontificating and waiting in the listen space,
bringing the talk with dazzling natter,
singeing the fork with frazzling chatter
to ensure the words cooked go down warm,
go down a treat, go down a storm,
discussing that wowing tomorrow is pay day thrill
and who was to blame for the initial breakup of Ross and Rachel,
top gabbing, it was brill!
Someone who when the elephant in the room is sniff
you both realise it quick and score in a jiff!
And never entertain the waste that is a tiff,
not for us the sign of a rift
simply super, a kind of bliss,
see I love Joe Flat Six, I love him to bits!
Although, like you  and your constant mould
he wasn't perfect (like everyone), if the truth be told,
you see if you follow all the biblical teachings you've been taught
you'd think he would have thought,
"I can help myself to the dental care and washing hygiene, it don't matter that I haven't bought,
I can use what I deem, Si's not the selfish sort,
he'd give me the last drop of his shower gel if he could,
he defiantly would,
so do unto others as they'd do unto me
and as I’ve got this human cleaning fluid for free
I’ll leave him some plentiful dollops on the side so he can bathe in a Lynx Africa infused sea
and I can leave some mouth polish laid in the shape of a cleansing leaf
so he can keep the fillings to zero in his teeth
then I can take the rest as I’ve been true to my sacred beliefs."
Yeah, that's what he could have done.
Instead he grew horns and committed a Luciferian act
and thought "I'm taking all of that!",
Sartini, you Devilish ****.
Nar, I bet you didn't even think that at all,
you were too busy imagining going out and having a ball,
beautifully bouncing off every wall,
riding the waves of Wet Dreams with total aplomb,
spinning tunes while high fiving Tom,
cool as ice cream and hot to trot
country hopping and swigging spirits by the tot,
at least Shannon seems to have diminished, that ****** robot!
she had more wires than C3PO's thighs
and glazed over R2D2 eyes
fair dos you digged her metallic allure
but did you really want to make love with the Terminator?
Ahh but who cares about a bit of shower gel and your cyborg fawning
it was great singing along as the day was dawning
And obvs I know every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end
But it’s only natural to miss living with one of your best friends.
So far be it from me to encourage your narcissistic gaze
but Joe you can add top housemate to your list of fortes!
So dear Flat Six to summarise
I’ll miss sitting out your back in summer rise
looking through your big tree with my eyes
at the Saturday sun azure blue skies,
I’ll miss that whatever there is to unfold
won’t happen over your threshold,
I’ll miss coming in your space with loads of beer
And chill with tunes while mates appear,
I’ll miss the midnight moving across your floor,
miss my key going in your door,
miss that it’s not your clock telling my time
miss that you’re not mine when I say “who wants to go mine?”
But now you’ll always be more than an address and a collection of bricks
I’ll always love you,
dear Flat Six!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
ah... we have an intermediate: oh darling... hush... we know the higher ordeals of the arts or intellectual arguments - but don't debase the manual labour... you have an alternative! menial labour! bureaucracy! and brussels is rife with it! a **** forsaken bog where once the amazon rainforest stood proud! grrr! na huja pana i w: gwałt tego burdelu!

people have no time these days?
no time, in these days?
    what the space-time dip of
the earth into a wave of augmented
space, killed off time?
people have no time these
days, because: they have ready meals?
people have no time these days
because everything is handy,
say, an electric screwdriver compared
to the manual one?
  i still remember my grandfather
having owned a manual drill -
  **** me, those things were fun!
and how about those old telephones:
the old rotary dial telephones
(which were a lot of fun, let me tell you,
it made conversations important,
not the type on mobile phones
en route to a night of drinking:
- where are you?
- i'm on the bus.
- how soon will you get here?
- given the traffic? give me 15 minutes.
and that's probably the logest conversation
i had on a mobile phone).
- of **** me, and a phonebox to boot!
ugh: the disappearing spare change:
next on the list of extinction
is the post-box -
never mind the dodo, or the tiger:
we're talking the extinction of inanimate
things!
but had you the pleasure of
holding this mighty artefact that
the *old hand / "eggbeater"
drill is (or was):
join the club!
             you're prehistory, within
the space of 30+ years... you're a lizard
jedi...
                did i tell you that coffee
was alien to my hometown?
yep... my great-grandfather dumped a ****
load of it into the river:
because people didn't know what to
do with it... mind you... only western powers
drifted away to banana republics and
brought back chocs and harsh coffee brews...
the slavs just mellowed with chai tea
in the samovar...
              and all this, in the 20th century...
seriously?! no time these days?
what are people so busy about?
are they 20th century farmers without
a combine or a horse?
               they have to have with
the 5a.m. cockerel and go to sleep with
sun-set?
         they're into hibernating ultra-*****
rabbits during winter: glugging *****
and ******* silly: just to keep warm?
are they treating the electric "fireplace"
that's the television likewise?
     oh look, the spark electric invoked
by zeus himself taking pity
on prometheus is speaking!
      **** me, well, if i ever had a fireplace,
i'd only think of replacing it with
a television set...
      people have no time?
    what the **** are they doing?
no one in the 21st century seems to have
discovered the shortcut of a microwave?
what's it there for, this thing?
     oh, that's there to give ambiance when
we get bored of the radio...
  it just buzzes and we get to think
about bees...
         huh?!
               people have no time these days...
well **** me... who or what is making
all these people so busy?!
            when i say manual labour:
i don't mean menial labour -
oh right right, most ******* in this "arena"
of expression don't know either both
or at least one, given that the construction
industry is like the army...
there's a big ******* difference
between manual labour &
menial labour...
   you know the woring hours of a roofer?!
no?!
       starts at 8am... and depending on
whether its a day for deliveries...
can end as early as a school-day:
   fui-foorty!
              oh ya ya...
             you think than manual labours
gives a toss about menial labour's
    9-to-5 ***-scratching?!
   nice to look "busy",   isn't it?!
you gonna write a puny & by the way: ******
little column, or you going to also
write a covert propaganda essay akin
to ezra poond for the fascists?
      ah, the former...
   PEOPLE! HAVE! NO! TIME!
              where once manual labour was
championed and natural,
they now "champion" athletics,
and the "natural": oh sorry, sorry for doping
scandals...
              mind you, traces of alcohol
are not accepted on construction sites either...
     PEOPLE! HAVE! NO! TIME!
that's ******* einstein, that is...
    too ******* bored to cook,
too ******* bored to compare a television
for a fireplace...
  too ******* bored to listen...
but **** me: all too eager to talk when
the opportunity comes!
   hear me talking, ******?
   all i hear is: click-tick-click-tick-click-tick
of the keyboard...
             all you might hear in an hour
is that: and an annoying meow of
a ginger maine-****: the "i'm in need of
company" ****** of space...
PEOPLE! THESE! DAYS! HAVE! NO! TIME!
but you know what the saddest
essential of the modern critique is?
  people have forgotten how to
disagree, let alone levy a dialogue -
       trapped in their solipsistic-monologues,
i've seen this countless of times:
how fiction has overpowered platonism,
notably in terms of style,
requiring dialogue...
              no, people these days don't
know how to disagree, let alone agree with
each other...
        it's a sad end of dialectics...
                      no one wants to disagree,
to later agree upon a disagreement...
   i'd be fine with that...
                  i don't ask that people agree
at the end of their discourse,
             but that they disagree,
  and with good deed due, can perhaps
disagree within themselves,
                     to then chance the spectacle
of agreement with someone else -
but people... have no time... to disagree...
they do what the english do:
  they joke...
                            and you know what i find
to be single-most important
"cardinal" sin? let's just call it:
   the papal sin:                   ridicule...
i can appreciate disagreeing -
   but when it comes to ridicule?
   did i tell that i used to collect swords?
  yeah, have a stash of them...
          one's a long hussar cavalry mean
*******, probably the height of
      an oompa loompa with blade alone...
within the dialectical dynamic i can appreciate
the fervour of agreeing & simultaneously
disagreeing...
    but when people turn to ridicule?
     that hussar cavalry sword comes
to mind, and aristophanes' head on it:
   in my regard, the equivalent of a white
flag of defeat:  i surrender! i surredner!
                             (bound to the kind of laughter
within the epitome of loci).
David Ayres Mar 2014
I'm well aware of your existence, orange-skinned fitness aliens.
You mask yourselves with the power of cosmetic force.
Tanning beds are your temples and Snooki is your Goddess.
Say goodbye to your ******* self of natural beauty. For you now have a shiny, new, orange-colored meat-coat that people can admire and laugh at you about. Congratulations, the Sun is now useless in your eyes.
Welcome, UV-A exposure. Goodbye, UV-B exposure. They never bothered to know you and for that, the Sun is jealous of your own insecurity. While chemicals are seeping into the very core of your being, others can't wait to hop onto your fashion train and bed of self-proclaimed beauty. Bravo! I'd give you a pat on the back, but you might scream and my hand might start glowing orange. Others are a nice white, bronze, brown, black, red, but not you. You're on a whole other level of society. Maybe you are an Oompa Loompa created by ***** Wonka.
I think you have separated yourself from the rest of humanity and created your own race of beings. If that's so, than this poem has made me out to be a "racist" *******, but alas, I must digress.
Hey now, the Metro Fitness competition is calling your name. You orange people, go forth, with your brawn and beauty. Your bulging triceps and rippling deltoids have sprayed sardonic smiles onto our faces, much like some of your spray-on tans.
Some of our hearts may be touched, but your pride is intangible.
neko-nae Jul 2017
the rain streaks the house,
mist thick with sticky-sweat
like the furrow of your brow
amidst the drone of fellow worker bees
buzzing furiously in the hive, hollow--

this work we do,
this constant give

and

give,

to the corporation of fools
and zealots destined to become sheep,
however fully compensated & empty, too--

oh to have wings,
but be afraid to fly free
fast, strong & able
as a mind without a doubt, cellophane-
clear and successfully damaged
to take threatening direction,
to find the golden ticket
amongst racist Oompa-Loompas
but walk away from the true reason for being alive--

c'est la vie--
(7.29.2017)
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
by now i'm adamant at not finding a
publisher...
    what i call step higher
than writing and putting
it into my drawer...
by the way, who wants to
live a publishing furore that
only prescribes autobiographies
of footballers?!
   who?! the masses? the masses
will always do!
                 i'm drunk
and have a glum expression on my
(oink) face...
    piglets coming...
      i will own a michel de montaigne
and never read all of it...
       i guess darwinism is an answer...
literary selection comes with
the package...
             as does that question:
what's normal?
                    it's hard to base a heart
on it, more like facing up to a head
and still not knowing...
if we go through all the rubric of
existence we only arrive at:
the english were right... everyone else
was wrong... and to be frank?
i'd love to senda hundred zeppelins
in the direction where the saxons
succumbed to celt blood...
              what pretty songs...
a bit like unlearning that time when
ulysses asked wax to drip into his ears
while his men took to rigour and oar....
    hard to be the *****-man...
celt girls are pretty, don't get me wrong,
but i prefer to locate my own drinking spree;
celt men love their fantasy of a russian
oligarch princess... i had one for 5 months;
didn't bother settling down with her for life,
hence my ars poesis.
all the regrets you could figure out and master...
i have my drinking habits ready,
i didn't mind to write a moby ****
   or reymont's trilogy of the peasants
either... the glass if full: the gob is empty...
           the bed feels unslept in at 3 o'clock in
the afternoon, the cats are busy sharpening autism
in the garden...
         imitation:
feed it enough words so it becomes
fat?
    perfect excuse for a waterfall...
waking up i thought about the irony of
metallica losing its bassist in a car accident...
doesn't the rhythm section explain it?
isn't metallica the band that hates
bass?
                 it does have bass as intro...
devil's dance is probably the best insurance
leveraged song to example,
a few others fall into place,
but the rhythm guitar overtake the need for
bass, therefore the hush...
   yet there's this overpowering of drum,
i'm ego tripping with this music,
i want to hear bass prescribe the rhythm
and isn't it the case that those watchful of
ensuring rhythm make up too many rhymes?
rhyme | rhythm...
                  i need music to replicate
4 dwarfs *******...
bass, solo guitar and vocal, rhythm guitar
and drums...
alternatively bass, vocals, rhythm & solo guitar,
drums...
      4 oompa loompas prancing on the stage
and the maggot-pit of being part of the audience...
and that divergence spectrum akin to
a micro- / tele-        scope.
             you feeling the itch? my scalp is itchy,
i'm getting these thoughts and can't resort to
a pgf. file encoding... and i can't talk about it in
jpeg. like some god-horrid pic of your
former boyfriend's psychopathy of sending a ****-pick...
how about i take you to the zoo
and we watch penguins bathing?
     kowalski?!                                   hoy!
nugget fidgety crackers of concern,
    scheming critters that need you to invent toothpicks
that people, can suddenly become...
        you want a viking wielding an axe
on the opposite side to face that resonates as crux
comb-over... you don't want the pettiest of
the pettiest pickpocketers that steal from the dead...
you never take that to the plateau of nationhood,
that **** is inherent in singled-out individuals...
i am drunk, and i think i'm being lazy
with spelling... god help me...
      i'd freak out if i had a bukowski tactic
to back me up... dyslexics are apparently very good
with numbers... but they rarely tell you that they are,
good with numbers...
metallica is not too keen on bass: ba ba ***...
based on the concept of a hearing-aid;
you sometimes sop over the idea that it is there
at the beginning of a song... and then it: disappears!
magic... like the story of the original bassist for the band,
who died...
             maybe that's the reason that bass
is missing in all their works after his death, like some
sort of reperation currancy that extends into "the next life".
i want bass man... i really want bass to give it
proper polyphony, to give it layers...
but then again you can train an orangutan
to prance about on stage, crouching tiger farting monkey
look on his face;
  and all in all, the drunken humour i'll
never get to say at a party, if ever a party to attend, or if ever
needing to be funny.
i am starting to see the joke:
start slim,
  end:
                                                                                                   fat.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
the internet is getting quirkier than expected,
lucky to be in the age brackets of 20 - 30
and single... it's like a *******
   freak-show out there!
hey, i dig midgets,
and the crass and the oompa loompas:
reservation for odd spelling and vocabulary
also welcome:
i'll wear a ****** on my head
and pretend to be wearing a balaclava
ready to outline a the end of a terrorist
plot if you tell me you're dyslexic backwards:
shrapnel and palette tourists of a broken
shell with the snail asking where ceramics came from?
i sent a postcard from there, i reserved the blank
space with words: i had three wishes, one of them
wasn't here (where's a jinni when you need one?
those scandinavians and gold herrings! /
slavs and gold ferns... well, play my trombone
will you?)
WC Wrights Nov 2019
I looked around.
Me? A short, orange-skinned
green-haired singing little person?

If anything, I was the one wearing the hat
doing everything in halves
watching children eating my life.

No, I don't sing. I scare away
vermicious k'nids as they crawl into my space
telling me to SCRAM, but are obliterated in my atmosphere

However, when pressed to give a reply
to the nebulous question of the entirety
of my existence, squished into a few words, I said

"I'm a whangdoodle." The one creature
who is as undefined as the aliens in space
but is well-known to children who love stories.
This is my answer to my childhood.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
actually, editing poetry, or simple adding to it as a form of editing is the most enjoyable allowance of art... it's the perfectly-pitched whimsical allowance... all you're investing is a second chance viewing of what was originally intended but not perfected. i wish i could have italicised the review insertions so you might mind to tell the original from the revised apart; but, as ever, i write these pre-scriptum intros for an overall stance on editing's graces.*

i don't know, it's like magic... i get state sponsorship
of a debility cheque that's £120 a week, i drink a 70cl bottle
of whiskey a day among a few beers...
i watch the sunset,  i watch the sunrise...
i read newspapers, i laze all day trying to
bring exfoliation to many ****** dreams and ambitions...
i read reviews of books about seismic shifts and some sort
of -ology... get used to reading, rendezvous
at a library, or a graveyard...
carry a concrete crux in the midst of
a "the existence of a soul" psychedelia...
rebel! rebel! oompa loompa! gooey goo mascara!
capitalism can't sell me life...
**** you not, it can't sell it to me...
it can try... but trying is hardly the 100% quote
you need for PREFECT EMPLOYEE VERSATILITY...
i too care for Armani underwear to show
off prior to a hard-on...
look here, a ******'s likened hard-on
upon waking, but really wanting to take a ****...
and so it flows, cascades of the golden drizzle...
man translates toxins as yellow... ironic liquid sunshine...
mind you, it's hard to play a piano that only
voices surds... #plato or descartes-dur?
you get the river invocation too? noting
the chemists i too would have joined in that labyrinth march
claiming to be a river of slacked smoothing over
(connotations with aged silver or crippled dull mahogany):

                      run away the heavenly;
                      lost souls of reverie;
                      running wild and running free;
                      two kids, just you and me;
                      and i say hey, hey hey hey,
                      living along with the renegades!
                      
ah never mind the advert royalties... the feeling
sticks like a pancake to a frying-pan...
arr ma'h matey! to cross frontiers of forgotten
hopes, and an 'o! captain my captain!' note in the margins
for the glory of a sinking ship with
all the immigrant rats on board,
with all the rats seeking sewers at the grand seas;
indeed too much sympathy for the Hindus
burning the dead and never minding the food-chain...
cremation and a sovereignty as nature intended:
overcome the festivity of insects in your zombie
grey body prior to overcoming the tsunami.
Thomas W Case Nov 2023
Don't call a women a ****,
they don't like it.
And don't tell a batter to bunt,
they want to smack it.
And whatever you do,
don't try and give your
cat a bath in the tub with
that Mr. Bubble ****,
he'll scratch you.

When your boss gives you the
newly revised employee handbook,
don't say, that ******, it went
on and on and on.
There was no plot, and I
couldn't figure out, who in the
hell the antagonist was.

And one more thing,
if you fall in love and you
think you found your
soul mate, and it doesn't work,
and you feel like your
heart is being ripped out
through your nose,
don't give up.
Because the right one is
out there, somewhere waiting,
and who knows, maybe they have
a cat that likes baths and
blow-dryers, and being dressed
up like an Oompa Loompa from
***** Wonka and the
Chocolate Factory,

it could happen...
Don't give up.
https://vimeo.com/75540714?  Link to the video/song of Don't

I reposted this.
Hannah Feb 2017
Privilege is the American social caste system
But let’s just pretend the “American Dream” is
still alive and well, hmm?
Cis white men get all the opportunities
While all us minorities
Are stuck in the dregs of society
“Stop whining,” they say,
“pull yourself up by your bootstraps.”
I just wish that I could tell them to shut their big yaps.
I’m trying as hard as I can
Running a race I can’t win
While they line their pockets
With more and more green.
Then they vote in
the Oompa-Loompa in Chief
Who just gives us more grief
With his cronies and their hateful motifs
No matter how much we protest
Their privilege cannot be contested
They’re in power and we are not
And their power can only be bought
Anyone got a spare billion bucks?
I want to buy off these chucklefucks
We could start this country over, us minorities
And turn it into the real-life “land of the free.”
Who’s with me?
Just before stroke o' midnight
slated date above zee wife,
i.e. the missus, aboot
same width and height
(quite an oompa loompa),
she presented quite

oh...somewhat garrulous,
hilarious, illustrious...sight,
what with her
swelled up Betelgeuse orange
flesh somewhat sunkist bright
strove to bounce this light

resting, loafing, humming
like mister kite,
who always takes nap before sleep
got unstrung with minor fright
when both of us suddenly heard "thud,"
and driver side regarding single bunk

slumped noticeably lower, which excite
meant elicited presenting reedsy challenge,
and strategizing avoid rolling on floor,
a humorous lock horned dilemma plight,
she analogous to human meteorite
precariously propped, positioned, perched

courtesy eldest daughter,
who gave ample pillows fortnight
prior to relocating to San Francisco,
California, a stellar future
"star student" sought to ignite
where struggling dirt poor

mama and papa squeezed, pinched
jinxed financially tight
scrambling to remain homeless
which dire circumstance... right,
would immediately curtail
ample leisure time to write.

Out of necessity, we could live
in 2009 Hyundai Sonata until cold
temperatures idle forced us to hold
each other, this despite
my tendency to twitch, a told
foregone conclusion spelling misery

especially if the snoring mold
did doughy wife additionally
prone to scold
and get snappy if unable to affix
CPAP contraption told
to attach to face when lying down
to alleviate sleep Apnea

a common malady bold
forthright primary care physician
stated excess weight major
contributing factor never foretold
back in the day when spouse

light as feather, and yet
contradictory cuz each fold
of adipose tissue
increases her cost when
measured against gold.
Thomas W Case Apr 2020
Don't call a women a ****,
they don't like it.
And don't tell a batter to bunt,
they want to smack it.
And whatever you do,
don't try and give your
cat a bath in the tub with
that Mr. Bubble ****,
he'll scratch you.

When your boss gives you the
newly revised employee handbook,
don't say, that ******, it went
on and on and on.
There was no plot, and I
couldn't figure out, who in the
hell the antagonist was.

And one more thing,
if you fall in love and you
think you found your
soul mate, and it doesn't work,
and you feel like your
heart is being ripped out
through your nose,
don't give up.
Because the right one is
out there, somewhere waiting,
and who knows, maybe they have
a cat that likes baths and
blow-dryers, and being dressed
up like an Oompa Loompa from
***** Wonka and the
Chocolate Factory,

it could happen...
Don't give up.
I wrote this a long time ago while going through a divorce.
It helped my healing process.  A few years later, my friend and I composed a musical score for it, we went in the studio and recorded it...more healing and crazy fun...even made a video...Don't give up.
It's at       https://vimeo.com/75540714
(in an attempt to cover up
(overlay) fruit fly waste byproduct)

At four feet eleven (fifty nine inches),
the spouse longitudinally challenged
hence she browbeats her husband,
(who only stands five feet ten inches)
but boosted in height
courtesy lightweight bench.

He gingerly maneuvers selected picture,
(i.e. wife artfully cut from magazine),
where ceiling meets wall
(right inside apartment door)
as beloved (oompa loompa) sweetheart
otherwise known as me said counterpart
carefully scrutinizes positioned snapshot.

"...More toward the right
and smidgen lower down"
impossible mission quite
challenging, I feel her smile or frown,
yours truly consigned to present plight
since he pledged his troth - downtown
Norristown, Pa (xxv plus years ago) knight

in shining armor agreed
to secure marriage license deed
since unicellular seminal seed
planted - while sowing oats we'd

both threw caution to the wind
(and nine months later
after surrendering to call of the wild
proud parents of beautiful child),
she long since flew the coup exiled
her father (me) and mother
to empty nest syndrome initially riled
with painstaking sadness.

In retrospect methinks how role as dad,
I blundered with countless faux pas - my bad
to mismanage challenges - and exclaim Egad,
albeit silently reflecting back many years
of course now glad -
both daughters overcame being mad

toward him who helped beget
while gamely gamboling, scampering, romping...
with barenaked lady
of course willing poet
(thrusting shaky spear) at large also unclad
(mine eventual permanent counterpart)
bedded upon mattress pad.

Even while solitary bachelorhood (aye
attest said status earthlinked me by and by
completing approximately three+ decades -
whoa how time did/doth fly)
one garden variety generic guy
(who e're since being little boy

felt extremely shy),
a characteristic, he now doth decry
cuz being socially withdrawn,
(yea... think figurative fly
on the wall, or wallflower
mein kampf devoid of healthy development
thus fashionably late socialization went awry

particularly when learning
contra dancing, although
juvenile behavior exhibited plying gal inapropos
became brazen and quickly learned not act slow,
when asking pretty thing, this bozo
genuflected and gesticulated...

ofttimes quickly made to eat crow
communicated with immediate revulsion,
(no matter I imagined myself
modest nonpareil beau)
actually eventually met young lady,
who took me as husband material "hugo
*** yarself a mate" -
track played within mind (mine)
lest celibate state worse than death - ya know?
Lashed with fatigue,
eye cannot fend off lethargy
hazy, hot, humid weather zaps
mental physical, and spiritual energy
even men of cloth
various and sundry clergy.

Undoubtedly summoning Parson Brown
currently out of season,
though stratospheric demand
for his person now
unprecedented as summer
dog days force physical slowdown,

nonetheless he would
experience immediate meltdown
booked solid throughout
"Winter Wonderland,"
when deep freeze
doth make clampdown,

no matter sung by masses
with uncertain reason
caroling 'bout said enigmatic figure
heard in every hamlet
or sprawling boomtown
belted clear as bell

o'er nor'easter howl
undeterred by polar vortex windblown
chilling atlas shrugged
off undaunted facedown
weathering arctic blast
making snow angels

comfortably numb jollity reverses frown
even elderly folks
sport about though grown
spry stick figures shoveling tunnel
courtesy white blanketed lockdown
"careful ma am" not
to fall on keister or crown.

Presence of said parson
linkedin with spate
of blizzard conditions and
Frosty the Snowman,
whose power to bring society
to standstill will not abate

proof positive to commander
in chief who cannot extricate
whether from climate, and trumpets
what he doth cogitate
dismissing global warming -
calling out "end of debate"

twill usher doomsday, cuz he
and trolling henchmen skate
on thin ice, and whose
dawdling crass, base
actions only accelerate
day of wreck conning

when most species will
lack mien ways to acclimate
all the more rhyming reason
to bid mortality adieu
and slumber permanently
battened down hatches
with me sigh ease oompa loompa mate.
ConnectHook Aug 2020


jah
hola
pig igloo
pesky mos
nigerianism
b i g  luau
eskimo pi
big eva
oompa
booga
4  eva
aloha
jiggy
hula
jog
Bugalú battle stations !
This is POETRY.
over & out
Qualyxian Quest Jul 2021
15
Enceladus in the news
Maybe baby life
Assassinations too
The chaos and the strife

My son is now 15
Soon he too can drive
If aliens exist
Will we know if they're alive?

Arrival, Close Encounters
Diana Walsh Pasulka
She went American Cosmic
I went Oompa Loompa

We keep searching, searching
When we die:  Who knew ya?

                      15

— The End —