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Terry O'Leary Sep 2015
1
Though still within our infancy,
we strive to thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.

Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys survival's harmony,
lays waste to life on land and sea.
Mankind, thy name is vanity!

By doubting Nature's regnancy,
defying laws with levity,
we strain our spheroid's symmetry
(perhaps a fatal fallacy?)

for, swallowed in the 'world of we',
we feed on vain insanity
with thoughts beyond eternity -
so strange when looked at mortally.

No use to seek a remedy
ensconced in ancient prophecy
for if not handled skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.

                              2
The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.

The wind, it reeks of Royalty
(awash in waves of perfidy)
while blowing ’cross the peasantry
(eclipsed in clouds of treachery).

The Queen, well steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of sculpted ebony
while sipping Sect immodestly;

to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.

The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.

Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
exalts the dollar dynasty
engaged in highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery.

Yes, Jesters and the Fools agree
to truckle to duplicity
and laugh about it witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!

                          3
To champion an oddity
(like two times twelve is fifty three)  
one reaches to theology
through paths of circularity.

In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.

Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;

and aged women, randomly
accused of wicked witchery
by justice framed in infamy,
were racked and shown no clemency

That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery

as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;

'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'.

                    4
The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled slavery,

now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.

And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.

To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
bestows a penny, niggardly;

though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies bulge, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.

When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;

and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
in ******-dream obscurity -
a mired madhouse odyssey.

Ignoring mankind's unity,
the rich and poor dichotomy
breeds dismal doomed finality,
eventual nihility.

                        5
Renewing days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting valiantly
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy

to toast the slaughtered enemy,
and so convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.

At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
with arms from finest armory

(embraced in hands so tenderly
bestow benign atrocity) -
and soon atomic weaponry
will extirpate posterity.

                          6
Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.

Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,

and rivers, tainted chemically,
polluted biologically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.

Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.

We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,

but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.

                 7
The modern day bureaucracy
abuses trust egregiously ,
embeds itself in obloquy
and offers no apology.

It paints the past in reverie
to camouflage the tendency
to strip away our privacy
which paves the path to tyranny.

With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering piercingly
we've lost cerebral sovereignty,

and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else crowd a black facility
(with water board anxiety).

                  8
Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…
RAJ NANDY Oct 2015
(Sorry Friends, for posting educational type of poems, I know Haiku are easier to read & comment! But if you happen to like this true story, kindly recommend it to your other friends! Thanks, -Raj)

STORY OF EUROPEAN RENAISSANCE: PART TWO

THE CITY-STATE OF FLORENCE :
The city of Florence lies in the historic valley of Tuscany ,
Along the banks of the Arno river, surrounded by hills
of scenic beauty !
Here during the first century BC , the conquering Romans
established their ‘Colonia Florentina’,
To settle the war veterans of Caesar’s army in Northern
Italia !
But later after the fall of Rome , it became a battleground
for the Holy Roman Empire and the Pope ;
But the independent nature of its people refused foreign
yolk !
They preferred commune rule led by a powerful leader –
called the Signore ,
Just like the city-states of ancient Greece, in those days of
yore !
But unlike Greece , Florence saw no Democracy ,
Since the Medici family finally usurped power in this
city of Northern Italy !
Unlike Venice , Florence is landlocked and not a port
city ;
Relying on banking and trade to prosper economically .
Their gold coin florin became the standard coinage
throughout Europe ;
While through the export of its quality textile and woolen
goods, great wealth got secured !
But to become patrons of art and letters mere wealth is
not enough ,
One must have a refined taste to become a true lover of
letters and art !
And here the Medici carved out a niche for themselves
under the Florentine sun !
Writers like Francesco Petrarca , Dante, and Boccaccio ;
And artists such as Giotto , Lippi, Dontello, Leonardo ,
and Michelangelo , were all born Florentines !
Even classical Athens couldn’t boast of such a vast
galaxy ,
Of artistic talents within such a limited time frame of
History !
These artists embellished their city with their literary
works, sculptures, architectures and paintings ;
Made Florence to reawaken, dazzle, and shine ;
Carving out a proud moment in history for the
Florentines !

CONTRIBUTION OF MEDICI FAMILY OF
FLORENCE :
Giovanni de Medici (1360-1429) :
This Medici family became the Godfather for the Italian
Renaissance ,
And I feel obliged to narrate their story tracing their
historical source !
In those early days Art was considered a lowly craft ,
There were no art galleries, and one couldn’t make a
living out of Art !
Without patronage the artist and his art couldn’t survive ,
So I speak of the Medics, who had originated from the
Tuscan countryside !
Gaining power through wealth and political astuteness,
And not through military force for dominance !
The founder of family’s fortunes was Giovanni de
Medici ,
An educated man with a simple life style , who
traveled on a donkey !
A humble man who had never aroused any enmity .
He established the Medici Bank with innovations
in ledger accounting system ;
And became a pioneers in tracking credits and debits
through a double entry system !
He opened branches of the Bank in Rome and Northern
Italy ,
Facilitated bills of exchange and credit bills, to multiply
his money !
After the return of the Papacy from Avignon to Rome ,
The Medici Bank was made the official bankers of the
Pope ;
And Giovanni became the wealthiest man in Italy , if
not in entire Europe !
In 1421 Giovanni was made the Chief Executive of his
city ,
And he commissioned its leading architect Brunelleschi , -
to glorify Florence city .
The challenging task for Brunelleschi was to build the dome
of the Cathedral of his city .
This was the first octagonal dome in history , a breakaway
from the earlier Gothic structures ,
And even surpassing the Roman Pantheon as a marvel of
Florentine architecture !
It took sixteen long years to complete this huge dome ,
And stands today as an icon of Renaissance Europe !
Giovanni had taught his son Cosimo to follow a simple
life style ,
To patronize art and letters, and to his people be kind !

COSIMO De MEDICI (1389-1464) :
After Giovanni’s death , Cosimo the Elder built upon
his father’s inherited wealth ;
Absorbed most of the 39 Florentine Banks, operating its
branches in London and Bruges as well !
The greatest rival of the Medici fortunes were the Albizzi ,
They plotted against Cosimo and the Medics ;
And in 1433, exiled Cosimo and his family out of jealousy !
But after a year the Medics were recalled back as heroes ,
Since the Florentine coffers without the Medici Bank , -
had become almost zero !
But both peace and prosperity are needed for flourishing
of art and culture ,
So Cosimo engineered the Peace of Lodi (1454) with Milan
and Venice , -
To prevent future wars and misadventure !
Scholars were made to collect precious manuscripts from
the East, and the churches and vaults of Europe ;
And an ensured period of stability , contributed to Early
Renaissance’s growth !
Sculptor Donatello’s bronze **** David stood up as an
unique art form ,
And with paintings of Fra Angelico, and Filippo Lippi , -
the style of art itself began to reform !
Architect Michalozzo built the famous Medici Palace ,
And Cosimo opened the Medici Library for the spread of
classical knowledge !
After the fall of Constantinople in 1453 , the Greek scholars
with their classical manuscripts fled to Italy .
They flocked to Florence where Cosimo established a
Platonic Academy !
Renowned Humanist Marsilio Ficino became its President ,
And complete works of Plato got translated from Greek
to Latin !
Thus the growth of Early Renaissance owed much to
Cosimo’s patronage ,
And the Florentines inscribed “Pater Patriae” on his tomb , –
(‘Father of His Country’) after his death !

LORENZO THE MAGNIFICENT (1449-1492) :
Cosimo’s son Piero the Gouty died within five years ,
Never achieved anything spectacular worthy of tears !
The Medici Bank had loaned large sums of money to
King Edward IV of England and Charles the Bold of
Burgandy,
Failed to recover getting into bad debts and insolvency !
So when Cosimo’s grandson Lorenzo succeeded at
the age of twenty one ,
He focused on other areas of creativity, and the period
of High Renaissance begun !
Lorenzo , a genuine lover of arts, also wrote poetry in the
dialect of his native Tuscany ;
Following the footsteps of Tuscan born poets Donzella ,
Davanzati , and Dante the author of ‘Divine Comedy’ !
On 26th April 1478 , the Pazzi family in connivance with
the Archbishop of Pisa and backing of Pope Sixtus IV ,
Tried to assassinate the Medics during the High Mass, -
in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore !
Younger brother Giuliano was fatally stabbed , but they
failed to **** Lorenzo .
All the conspirators were hanged including Pisa’s
Archbishop !
Ecclesiastic censure was issued against Florence ,
And Lorenzo was excommunicated by the Pope !
But Lorenzo worked out a treaty of peace with the King
of Naples ,
And became the undisputed ruler of the Republic of
Florence !
Unfortunately , Lorenzo died young at the age of forty-
three ,
At the dawn of the great Age of Exploration and
adventures by sea !
During his rule Renaissance reached its Golden Age ,
And literature, art, and architecture blossomed with
Lorenzo’s patronage !
It earned him the title of ‘Magnifico’, now know to
us as Lorenzo the Magnificent !
Leonardo da Vinci , Michelangelo , Raphel , Giovanni
Bellini ,Titan, Veronese, Correggio , Tintoretto ;
All became superstars of the Renaissance era ;
Their works are cherished, valued and treasured to
this day of our Modern era !
In the year 1492 with Lorenzo’s death , Italy entered
a period of turmoil and instability,
And the Renaissance saw a period of decline in Italy !
But the flames of the Renaissance spread to other
parts of Northern Europe ,
And in the 16th century reached England’s shores !
The Medici Family had also provided three Popes to
Italy, and three Queens to France ;
Besides patronizing the growth of the famous Italian
Renaissance !
Now dear readers, to do justice to Renaissance art ,
architecture, and literature briefly ,
I propose to narrate its story in Part Three !
-- By Raj Nandy of New Delhi .
*ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR
For those who have missed out on my Part One, would surely benefit by going through the same! This is a part of my researched work,put across in simple verse. Thanks & best wishes, -Raj
Mash Aug 2014
I want to live in Europe.

I want to run in the Bavarian Forest.
I want to be left in the English rain.
I want to feel the Russian Frost.
I want to skate in the Alps.

I want to feel the French Luxury.
I want to taste the Belgian Chocolates.
I want to sleep in the European Palaces.
I want to feel the Papacy Monastic.
I want to feel the taste of French Cheese and Scottish Whiskey.
I want to hear the Italian Piano.

I want to read English Poetry.
I want to hear the Spanish legends and don't forget the olive there !
I want to feel the magnificence of the Parisian Events.
I want to swim in the Danube River.
I want to be inspired by the fascinating paintings.
I want to be amazed by the beauty of the churches there.
I want to read about the greatness of the European History from there.
I want to search in The Vatican Stores and Warehouses for answers I was looking for.

I want to dream about reading the books that have been hidden in the Invisible Palace of Books in Berlin.
I want to walk among the shelves of The National Library in London.
I want to go shopping in the streets of Paris and Milan.

I just want to be European,
I want to live in Europe.

                                                                             - *Shilo
Marieta Maglas Aug 2015
(Geraldine, Carla and Erica found a letter, which they thought it was an important document belonging to someone living miles away. It was clear that a person entrusted the written paper to a messenger after putting a wax seal on it. The seal was placed on this document in such a manner that it was impossible to read it without first breaking the seal, which was very dry and brittle.)


Carla said, '' Let's read and bring to life the stories behind
These manuscripts, '' ''Let's find who was the owner and who handled
These books and papers.'' ''Some memories come back into my mind, ''
''I love to read; it’s so dark in here, let's light a candle, ''


Said Erica; they saw scribbled notes written on the margins
Of the books and the changing ownership of some manuscripts.
''An Arab medicinal work for Jewish use, that’s for certain.''
''Is it? '' '' It's translated into Hebrew; I think it's fabulous, ''
(… Replied Carla.)

Geraldine opened a book saying, '' This is a Persian
Medicinal work translated into Turkish; it must be
More interesting; they treat using a different version.''
''This copy of the book written by José Vicente.

(..Said Carla,)

Has a lot of geographical and astronomical
Information; you can learn to measure the distance;
It contains the main cities, oceans, '' ‘‘It’s phenomenal! ''
''Mapmakers, '' '' it's like a trip to another existence! ''
(..Exclaimed Erica,)

''It shows which stars are visible or not, the solar cycles
And it is illustrated with tables, diagrams, and maps.''
''Is this a Holy Book? I'm not good in perusing these titles.''
''Yes, it's written by Francisco Javier, a nice one, perhaps, ''

(Geraldine replied to Erica, knowing that she was a Russian not knowing too much Latin. Geraldine continued…))


''It's about a convent established in Mexico City
For any daughter of a conquistador who lacked dowry.
''Look, Aonio Paleario! I think it’s such a pity
To contradict the Catholic dogma; this language is flowery, ''

(…Said Carla.)


''It's a copy of a rare book. Does this contradiction mean
The trouble with the Inquisition in these Reformation times?
''He had the most influential protectors I've ever seen.''
But his protectors died; there are notes between the lines, ''

(Carla answered to Erica. Carla continued…)

‘’The Spanish Inquisition is run by the civil
Authorities of Kings after centuries of Muslim
*******; the execution became official
For the Muslim piracy to turn it down to very dim.’’

(Geraldine intervened in the conversation…)

‘’Spain had asked the Papacy to set up the Inquisition,
But the Papacy refused. Then, Spain threatened Rome
With not coming to give aid against the Muslim opposition.
Their armies sacked Rome and made southern Italy be their home.

The Pope set up the inquisition only for Christians.
Over time, the torture was not to be done more than once,
Was not to threaten life; there were Spanish transgressions
By the lawyers who oversaw this system from hence.’’

(Then, Erica told them…..)

''In England, the person convicted of public begging
Has a limb chopped off; a Catholic priest in England
Teaching school is executed.'' ''There're penalties for bringing
A false witness against someone; England's laws also bind Ireland, ''

(….Replied Carla. Erica continued….)

''There is a secret collaboration between London and
Tsar Peter of Russia.'' '' He is known as Peter the Great.''
''There are notes on a book; while travelling to Europe, he shunned
The persons knowing him, '' ''He wanted to change his country's fate.''

(Carla expressed her point of view regarding what Erica said. Erica continued…)

''He studied new developments in shipbuilding; he lived
In Deptford, at the home of John Evelyn, a writer.''
''This letter is from England and I’m a bit surprised
'Cause this letter should be brought to a Russian.'' ''A fighter


Was this messenger.'' ''Maybe this man is the ghost we feel.''
''Did King William help Peter? '' ‘’He increased trade with Russia.''
''Peter loved a peasant and, wanting his love to conceal,
He made her be his domestic serf.'' I've heard she's from Prussia.''

''She's from Lithuania; her name is Catherine; he married
Her secretly, '' ''But he's married, '' '' He divorced his first wife.''
'' He worked as a carpenter; his interests were varied.''
'' Friend with Marquis of Carmarthen, he started a new life.''

(Geraldine tried to open the letter a little without breaking its seal. '' I think it is written 'Catherine' or 'Carmarthen.' '' ''Impossible, '' replied Carla, ''It would be much more important than any other one and it wouldn't be lost here. Give it to me.'')

(Erica said,)

'' King William gave Tsar Peter the ship Royal Transport
As a gift; the ship's designer was Marquis of Carmarthen.
As King Augustus of Poland, King William showed him support.
'' This messenger traveled many miles to take his ship again.''

(Erica told them that she feels like she's about to faint. Carla ran down the stairs to bring vinegar and water and Geraldine hurried to open the window. Meanwhile, Erica took a document from the box and hid it under her dress.)

(..to be continued.)

Poem by Marieta Maglas)
How about that Polish guy:
Karol Jozef Wojtyla!
AKA Pope John Paul II,
Previously, a Cardinal,
The Archbishop of Krakow . . .
A tough cookie; in 1941
His mother, father, and brother
All died, leaving him the family's
Sole survivor.
Worked in a quarry,
Later a chemical factory,
Enrolled at a university,
Closed by the Nazis during WWII.
Ordained as a priest in 1946.
Holding 2 doctorates, Professor of
Moral Theology & Social ethics;
A powerful preacher,
A great intellect with vast charisma,
Working as a Catholic priest in
Communist Eastern Europe,
He was often asked
If he feared retribution from
Communist leaders? He replied:
“I’m not afraid of them.
They are afraid of me.”


Sounds like a scary guy?
Pope John Paul II,
The name he chose--
Tipping his yarmulke
To Lennon & McCartney,
For “Hey Jude,” no doubt,
Patron Saint of lost causes &
Desperate cases--
History’s most well traveled pope,
With that signature bit,
Coming off trans-oceanic airplanes,
Cutely kissing the ground.
First non-Italian Pope
Since the 16th century.
A strong stoneworker’s body, &
Knowledge of chemistry,
When Pope John Paul I--
Another Beatles fan—died in 1978,
After only a 34-day reign,
Few suspected Wojtyla.
White smoke (fumata bianca)
Announcing a new pope,
Chosen on the 7th round of balloting,
The first-ever Slavic pope,
The youngest pope in 132 years,
Yet conservative, a Papacy marked by
Firm, unwavering opposition to
Communism & war,
Abortion & contraception,
Capital punishment, & homosexual ***,
Coming out later against
Euthanasia.
Human cloning, &
Stem-cell research.
But, hey, you had to love him.
Took a bullet, famously in St. Peter’s Square,
By would-be assassin &
Double ***-*******,
Turkish political extremist named
Mehmet Ali Acqa,
A Muslim, later a Catholic-convert,
An early skirmish in 21st Century
Anti-Islamic Crusades.

Our Polish Pope John Paul II,
Died, succeeded in 2005 by
Our German Pope, Herr Ratzinger,
Calling himself Benedict XVI,
After The King of Pop,
Michael Jackson’s favorite rat,
Benny began the beguine—
Beatifying John Paul II,
During his first year on the job.
Later, acting as if
The Papacy was actually, just a job,
Does the unheard of:  RESIGNS,
Rather than die in office.
Rather like Nixon,
*N'est–ce pas?
Middle man of god,
the management,
awaits his subjects
democratic process...

As mans conscience over-rides the divine.

Dead dirt
waiting
for life
--decomposing--
counting the days.

© S. Wesley Mcgranor
https://ivarfjeld.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/pope1.jpg
Brea Brea Jun 2013
And I love your Saturn hands
the knotted slim fingers
fixed in your fawn fine hair
long 'round your fine mirror accented face
crystal blue eyes that might otherwise send someone into 10 story ocean waves
should I come too close, I'm sure I'd have more than myself to save
Your dry weathered thumb brush my flustered lips
It looks like we're now apart of the papacy
creating an obvious contrast of our opposing polarities
Something in the way that winter craves to reach this upcoming spring
Hard tailored to the rules of some domestic order
the rigidness in your loving touch
leaves the eyes of my heart wide
Can you walk into me, several times more
It wont break the ties that bind our instincts
but It'll give me tastes of what free people enjoy
Kiss me, with more than what it normally takes
we're both starving to breathe
into another
into another
Just as it rains do we lose your leather jacket
that identity we cant force ourselves to leave
Rain to our face
wettness between our smother
lavish expressons of what we hope our wild selves to explore
water to this drought
for which we suffer and for what reasons no-one spoken truely
can they say
Spenser Roper Mar 2014
paper person
paprika kaleidoscope
papaya yahoo!
papa papoose
papacy cyan
ConnectHook Apr 2016
♗  ♗  ♗  ♗  ♗  ♗  ♗

Hopery, changery, stranger-than-strangery
tip the good vicar your hat—
as he sits with Obama, the global Gautama
indulging in neighborly chat.

Popery, popery, changery-hopery
grant the old Pontiff his wish.
Then summon a bishop to season and dish up
a kettle of catechized fish.

Changery, hopery—swing from the ropery,
garnish the Vatican stew.
The Cardinals compassed, the media rumpused
the Protestants joined in, too…

Fakery, changery, safety in dangery
lack of direction was lost
as it became clear that no concord was near
and the threshold of lunacy crossed.

Changery-hopery, soap-on-a-ropery,
buy the Obama a beer.
Let the Lord’s liberation enlighten our nation
as forums and quorums get queer.

Hopery, changery, babe-in-a-mangery
hail the immaculate mess;
until limbo is purged and repentance is urged
and the canonized con-men confess.

Babilo-mockery, roll with the rockery
kiss the pontificate ring;
til’ the old Argentinian wax Constantinian
causing Gods angels to sing.

Jiggery-pokery fooling the folkery
monkery second to none…
what was once sacrilegious is now a religious
conventional focus of fun.

Papacy, lunacy piping the tunacy
Father goose mothered the egg –
but it cracked in the nest while the stupefied West
lit a match to a gunpowder keg.

Yessiree/nopery—smoking the dopery
opiates dulling the masses
who bow genuflecting, with candles reflecting
the shine of their Latinate *****.

Fakery funkery, pachyderm trunkery
hierophants never forget
but the clown and his trainer cut loose the restrainer
and cancelled the circus’s debt.

Piggery, smokery, tighten the chokery
offer the refugees bacon;
their mullahs may howl with a slaughterhouse scowl
but the empire’s free for the takin’…
a poem about our president's date with Pope Frank
for NaPoWriMo2016
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
☺♗☺♪  ♗☻☺♗♪
Graff1980 Nov 2014
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality

The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class

A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence

But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies

Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity

Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled

Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it

Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of

The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity

Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things

So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic

I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire  
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding

I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses

But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice

Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Francie Lynch Feb 2016
I've a question
Needing resolve;
It's not as big
As the start of the universe;
Or the existence of the netherlands.
It's not a To be or not to be,
Or anything about the Papacy,
Or the question of the Trinity;
Or any other religious decree.
It's not a question of good or bad,
Or why I'm here,
Or why we're sad.
I'm not asking about nucleur waste,
Or our desire to travel outer space.
Those are big ones
I couldn't ask,
I can't answer ones so vast.
No, this itch I have
That needs a scratch,
This ***** of an itch
That archs my back:
What should it be.
What will I make,
A caf or decaf?
My great debate.
Depends on your outlook.
Yo feel the boomerang that hangs
Off ya mental it's plain and simple
I pop demos like pimples know the principle
How to flow master the glow like Bruce Leroy I'm turning yellow
Super Saiyan keep enemies on their knees praying
Once my skin touches the sun that's my sho gun puttin' holes in one
I'm talkin' about ya head we never chase the bread instead
Like to knock Wilmas and beat on the mental doors like Fred
In the bed cuz I make it rock hard to cop
Yet I don't stop til my nuts pop and my celestrial ***** drops
I'm speakin' ****** alchemy raisin' that third eye to heights of sunny
Ain't nothing funny never played a *** or a dummy
Mad cuz they womens be up under me sayin' punish me
Once I give em a hit of the weapon' no half steppin' like Fetchin'
This is the third stage of Armageddon no more lettin'.
Off I'm a God next to Amen'ra
Above the law like Segal ruthless on the mic tactics similiar to Siegal check the sequel
I can tell a pig cuz they always squeal for real ya know the deal
So fakers stop runnin' ya mouth
Before death becomes ya permanent seal


Once I enter your head the adrenaline sped
Leavin' ya oozin' and ya brains dead
**** what critics said mad cuz I'm bakin' more bread
Than a baker like **** shakers I be the earthquaker
Rhymes shake ya into a coma check my persona
Got few rukas from Tijuana
Tote marijuana my bicho
Strikes like the tail of an iguana black as Madonna worshipped under
The secrecy of the Romans papacy
Just another black mystery of legacy
Just cause we better than thee
lookin' at the stars I see bars beyond bars
Infectin' my ment'al like lars far from subpar as ya subconscious scarred
From my projectables that's barbed
Like wire it don't matter you still gone shatter
That badder I get the harder I hit
Like pucks to stick
I'm scoring and no goal tending this
This is me at my worse breakin' the curse through every verse
Emcees catchin' bodies
Then I am the hearse soon to take a search
Hikin' up the divine mountain and blessing's counting
It don't matter ya rhymes amount to nothing
MCs glutton as the games unbutton
But I'm dressin' up my flows then all of sudden
I gotta play my guard close soon for them to see toast
Spiritually drained as I hit em back to back like a  boomerang

this huh boomerang
nyant Feb 2018
Professors with professions listen on the sidelines to my cryptic confessions like I'm still under the lineage of the plane papacy taking note of my blank boredom.
Don't even know if I deserve to saint this message.

Look warm,
they'll think you're a sky walker,
be hot they'll think you're an odd joker,
cause these days there's no truth to bat an eye on,
Even christians bail on the touchy topics,
I too would rather travel the tropics,
But we can't piece up the peace in these last days.

It's a relative subjective river that you can choose to glide on.
Why do foolish ants labour to protest works?
Perhaps it's a minor issue and we're digging too deep.
Perhaps the devil's wearing denims down with bootleg discussions,
that bow out but never stand in the gap,
Perhaps there are finer issues like my blessings.
Perhaps everyone will eventually find their way.
One man for himself...

I used to pray for mercy,
then I'd pray to messi,
It's like now I prey for merces,
distractions and direction,
promises of perfection,
leave me licking lumps of wounds that the leaven left.
We all want to hear something new,
twerk the message and please the pew.
I can feel the Ichabod as the teaching scratches my ears.

Can a name be enough?
Can a call really save?
Or is it just a ploy to keep the black man a slave?

- nyant
Graff1980 Jan 2017
The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire  
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more
Suckas be living in temptation
On cloud nine my rhymes leave ya with clogged minds
Cloudy days no more sunshine once I step in line
Reign on parades coatin' brains with my serenade
And if you an enemy be prepared to get glazed and sprayed laid out the roaches raid
I be the black iguana don't need marijuana
To get my mind flow Ill break you down to the last particle
Atom principles formed my scientific leave events horrific rhymes terrific
Plus I got women backed up like traffic
I'm brand new like cover plastic beats elastic
Many wanna step to this only to bloat in they own **** my style'll diss
Any hater who missed the greatest lyricist
Fools claim they hot until they become evaporated
From rhymes I created and intitiated
Feed diesel for my ****** fluids wicked as Druid
Exposing fake guys who ain't that wise despise
Creativity but embrace negativity **** all the rap ****** in the industry
They playing themselves I lay grounds more dangerous then the mobsters
In Italy addin' talley freak a Sally in the alley
As bring the Heat like Pat Riley no smilies


Once the guns get the dumpin' arches made like camels humpin' adrenaline rushin'
A common man like David Ruffin' soon to get a stuffin' from the mortician haters wishin' and dissin' you'll be reminscin'
On a memory like Ron Isley I be the wickedest like B I G got every-body on bended knees to hear the beautiful melodies
Keyed into ya mind I rhyme not sublime grind a beat til a definitive y'all be tentatives
While my assertion affirmative it's my prerogative huh brown as Bobby
Spanish locas call me papi short for M'daddy
I go by the moniker Yosef the most explosive
I rose from the grave once I entered the earth
Laid out my perks making" works like  JC in BC unda the Romans papacy but somehow I see black imagery
All over the nation test me you'll be in an eternal vacation
From my gats wasting walking down the spiritual corridors with no floor as the spirits adore
Yeah like fireworks surfin' the skies you'll see my eyes light up the sunrise feel my demonic enterprise
As shut down the minimes in the industry my touch is deadly
Platinum plaques and got stacks to match that panther in black lookin' for new jacks to catch a wax from my lyrical axe makin' bodies crack back
Blood pourin' still soarin' the heavenly seven gates to chose from born in the black hole but landed in Jerusalem verses ya gotta play em
Or else a chrome cannon will be chillin' in ya melon so ain't no tellin'
I got the nerves of Neopoleon not a short man but demands money in bands as I stand
On the Mount Sinai work a chocolate thai then bake my stick in a cutie pie


Spiritual ties made me wise doubles my size by then you'll realize my flows ain't for compromise sink minds deeper than a Titanic under water cuz my flows Atlantis critics panic cuz my rhymes got em locked and beat down from me are handed
Out lyrically laugh at the empathy show no sympathy to enemies who try to stand against the weaponry
I'll stick a verse til ya touch a Cadillac hearse with my bullets to nurse
Ya pain as ya circling the drain down goes ya fame sick with my range far derange dug the strangest things
I'm talkin' cosmos sibling got hoes dribblin'
Round me *** bouncin' like Cousy in the jacuzzi so haters loose mad cuz the industry choose me knock in between sheets call me Isley


Here's a verse for ya thirst  dry ****** poppin' gums with no figures see my pictures
I paint graphic as Adolf ****** combined with Stalin keep a young stallion Black and Italian where's my nut scent as a medallion
Expose all sins with a couple shots of Gin everybody put they heart in make it reigns more than Noah Arks then
Been puttin' BBC to the ****** of Roman papacy
Built for legacy who better to be lay these verses for my own sanctity
Still rockin' instrumentals that's how it goes rippin' up shows widen mentals like bullet holes from my flows that's goes
In and out see what I'm about war and gothic as i pour pain like a water spout
Birthed another diety from me splittin' energy like Majinbu did in D-B-Z
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
i stopped telling people
meaningful things
when i heard too many
meaningless things
being said -
just as athos predicted -
the best advice:
is to give no advice -
and when asking
also giving advice
by the question alone:
to love a ******* -
what makes me
dis-similar from your
worship of christ?
to hunger one, fair enough,
to hunger
twice: by oliver's seconds:
now you're pushing it;
count the thrice?
now you hunger power,
and that's how the church
abides...
       who's fooling who?
the 266th pope **** the quest
for a ******?
      who's fooling who?
imagine! imagine!
a reinvigoration of the papacy!
a youthful pope!
             oh, right,
that already happened with
the pole...
        dumb-****-shattered halo
on me...
     i take me bride with
a prostitutes tongue:
and thus **** the lamp:
to enourage the goat to buck -
and charge against
the bull: horn-earned
buckle strong!
                 there in the
tomato mush of a spaniards'
song!
                gushing blood-red
flesh bled!
if i ever say to ever learn
i learn from athos:
the best advice is to give no
advice at all:
ants among ants with
the queen: of shooting
         at point-blank range,
make no conern for using
the guillotine to decapitate
the heads of aristocrats...
make better use of
the guillotine by putting
the tongues of priest,
bishop and cardinal tongues
into that ****** machinery
of executing mob wrath!
take to the guillotine with
the tongues of the priesthood
rather than the heads of
the arisocracts...
  for those who speak sweetly
are no more humble in mind than
those who speak an "authoruity" -
shame... they took to the guillotine
with heads in mind...
   like the hydra myth...
but what if they also placed
the tongues of priesthood
upon the same altar?!
   as a drunk musketeer said:
wasn't our common enemy
the cardinal richelieu...
well then, don't interrupt me drinking
you bunch of ponces
               and sacrificial lambs!
Mischievous souls laid upon the dead scrolls
Unravelled hell from unleveled gravels
See the words travel fear provoking thoughts
I was brought by paying attention lynching
Clearing the judges to lawyers *******
On my name **** shame crime flames
Dames makes for the worst claims independent
But use you as a dependent say they innocent
Conscious glancing money chancing dancing
Around the stripper topics flashing optics
Microphone prophet watch me lock it drop it
Like a rocket blast off then back at the loft
Mansion style living still giving sins wind
I invoke pain harder than migraines stains
The medulla see me run right through ya
Mack truck chickens deluxe cobra clutch
Ya losing breath fams got damns my jams
Spread all over the thorough heads read
On the front of your streets sweep creeps
Mix Hendricks Gin and Schweppes
Smoke mean green with Swisher sweets
Lace grape to cherry rary strawberries
Yo I'm tryna miss the cemetery
My thoughts tried to bury enemies hurry
Tied me into a guns flurry scurry no worries
Im use to the threats watch spinnin' bagguettes
Turn flesh into maggots detect the Dragnet
And watch the haters get bit cold glitch itch
If ya want ta fuanta pop ya cells shells
Making body swells fans thoughts carousel
Wondering why I shoot more darts
Than Sam Cassell pours fools gimme yours


Yo i Shook from the world's Cinna swirls but herls
All the Boys and girls mind curls earls pearls
Shining off the neck of my favorite girl
Fifth plus thou how art thou take a bow
See the eyes of a foul owl night stalks
None could walk a pitch out the park
Set a spark causin' a wild fire disaster
Master def plaster soul elastics
Stretch it wider than mr fantastic
You feelin' drastic that's just my magic
Working fools mad cuz I'm hurting flirting
With the goetias through pen and papers
Pentagrams photograph a telegram
Watch my enemies from a birds eyes
view try to slam exposing their shams
Eagles nest buries of treasure laid it to rest divine manifest
Picking suckas off like Lawrence Taylor
Thats how a defense raider degrades ya originator
Playa from birth laid out my perks see the girth
For what it's worth I'm catching mirth
From the demons tryna scheme triple beams
Miss my head cuz I'm brain dead all thoughts shed
Tears the afterlife
Instead pain sticking like a knife said
****** was the case escape the ****
Of life's ******* that scrapes crumbs dumbs
Succumbs by the hallowed numbs media drum
I cut off the melody and choose a new switch
Broke the computer glitch shootouts like Mitch
Richmond hit man
The henchmen fools can't comprehend
While I'm breaking shaking hands never faking
Raw undertakings raking money like dough the biggest baking
Pillsbury industry but no tickling me
I'm just tryna keep a legacy like romes papacy
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i'm an egoist like i might be a spider -
a quizzical pointer and a loiter of hubris:
that word again...
   i must have mistook hubris for hiatus -
i see no future for the arguments
concerning genes -
         beside: solo project i -
                and what will continue is
the concept of a species -
i am quiet thankful that i don't demand
the face of the slobbering gods to be
of a particular inclination -
     in that: i was never fond of english:
philosophy - once the parameters
of darwinism became established:
there was no longer any blinking involved...
or at least missing the abyss -
the abyss forgot to manufacture dreams
and the darwinistic enterprise wanted
me to peer into it with unflinching metaphors:
and scarred details...
that a man might refrain from
potentially petting an arachnid...
   then again: i'm only a cat person because
******* are one thing...
but parading with genitals of dogs
is just another daydream -
      once upon a time:
                   it wasn't like the darwinistic adventure
came with a cute poetry akin
to the copernican revolution:
cited: he stopped the sun and moved the earth...
perhaps to borrow from history:
when people were wrapped up in
a "solipsism" of their own species -
           that not much from "elsewhere"
could be borrowed, tailored to
a mimic... incorporated... slyly suggested...
the full bodied and ****** consequence
of the old lies and emotions of squabbling
men and ferocious women -
beside this current neuter:
flimsy generic loaning of insect:
             ontology?
                for what was deserving for men
to imitate: a rhetorical crux / pinnacle...
that would never become a cocktail of
more robots more a priori nibbling at
the old unfathomable god:
a god outside of a polytheism that can
only become a brain-freeze and a tongue tie...
it's not that darwinism isn't... a truth beggar...
but you can't exactly make incisions
of an existentialism with darwinism -
how the 20th century becketts got "away with it"
is beside me...
but i can't be a man no more
a brick when i'm facing a comparison
from an alien revelation of insects:
to **** is to be eaten - just as much...
hell... i wouldn't mind being eaten
as long as i couldn't be milked...
         i am truly alienated by the task of
preserving genes:
there are a billion chinese and a billion
blue indian raj examples to pick... from...
it's not like the species will die...
i am no atlas and this solo project
is bothersome to have to question: to begin
with...
  i never liked darwinism because
i knew it would go far beyond a mere
observation: it had to be incorporated -
the behaviour of lions or of insects -
          after all: i am not subject to my own
undeciding human...
                  any more than i am:
objecting to: the crowd pleasing objectification
snooker or borrowing from:
these ambivalent critters of pouch shadow
and a thought...
             i'd want to summon
the old gods but there they are...
no subject matter ignites their need for
a presence...
            they might as well have secluded
themselves on the gentle silence
of a scratching orb trace to tease saturn -
i want to find the crows mystifying -
i do - but that doesn't help much...
i don't want to delve into life that's not
immediately concrete -
i followed a whiff of making concrete
but then i knew: ****'s the real stinker
and the juice...
                    i played a ****** when looking
at a spider feast on a moth...
days prior i was inviting
moths to the nursery of my bedroom...
- you simply can't create a cosmopolitan
allure for cafe existentialism with
priding yourself on darwinism -
it's not wrong it's just: i don't want to
borrow from the very base, crude:
psychopathically teasing tendencies
that... well... deviations from mammalian...
if "we" borrowed from elephants alone...
from whales...
were we oh so solipsistic prior...
yes... we must have have been...
we domesticated horses...
we domesticated dogs...
   we created bonsai tigers...
             we probably petted poster / glue
nibbling goats...
we forgave the cannibalism of chickens
when one could meet the stump
and axe: a golgotha like congregation
of drinking blood...
         a violent old god...
death and jester but a pretty innocent
apple...
now a benevolent god and a fruit:
a bundle of metaphors and metaphysics -
it's still the old trick of poetic cannibalism -
i'm sure that if i worked on the apple...
i'd get a cider from it...
am i cured from the curse of the wine -
what if my body is a rumble of whiskey
and a potato chip?
  is my corpus "antichristi" this...
wheat "buckle"... what if i can turn
the bread into a consecration of meaning
with... a ******* gnocchi or a noodle: bundle?

- catholicism - well: perhaps born into it...
but i'm missing the confirmation language
that even the great atheistic tinker and tailor
and: how biology and the rule of
the thespians killed off the alchemists and
poets...
            let's just pretend! let's... let's...
just... pretend...
             years later i can finally appreciate
Al Purdy...
   i know what put me off...
the notes in a copy of his: rooms for rent
in the outer planets...
i need to buy some rubber
to erase these pencil details...

             female handwriting -
i know it... the letters are al bubbly...
they're not akin to chicken scratchings...
bubbly ******* of toads...
"unsentimental view of nature"
a real "treasure trove of antics"...
what put me off: what always puts me off:
a need to annotate poetry:
to teach it like one might teach
a bunch of young Frankensteins
a lesson or two in anatomy...

that language so already sacred in it
being scarce has to endure...
a postmortem of additional details
of: that it can't be left alone like
a floral insignia on a base dulling of
Hittite brown:
     a bark of wood the colour of cardamom...
the argument of: well...
those egyptians were so advanced
back then... even the Iraqis...
hell... the Greeks were advanced peoples
too... looks like they took a *******
bicycle to hiatus land!

burdening me with a past and:
that darwinism doesn't really life...
a concept of / a "concept" of the Avignon
Papacy...
  i'm strapped mr. gill and mrs. gimp all
latex to a spider and some
******* chimp'zee bonanza...
           no one teaches dogs to swim...
in a priori dimming they: know
a duck from a water...
   they know a pancake from a victoria sponge:
hypothetical:
borrowing from the 1960s:
a hitchhiker in the form of a mushroom
apparently opened my eyes
and i am now: the ego-son
of the fungus with potential to:
amass the same sort of gorilla build
architecture from... scraps of...
a plethora of vitamin sources...
i'll eat the deer...
the tame the boars and shave them
to attain crick bacon...
the ******* gorilla will laugh a blank
autistic look at me:
weighing in at a K.O. from...
papyrus and twigs and perhaps
a concept of: straightening bananas...

this slow sludge of walking "backwards"
from **** sapiens to **** similis -
this opposing venture into
anti-literature -
it's not that the mirror of hopes
is now a glass grieving from a lack
of shadows...
  no one wants to find themselves
beside: an exfoliation of tongue...

once more: the church bell of the uvula...
the brain the sponge...
my liver the punching bag
of an alcoholic opponent -

    that bukowski is some this that and
the other: and he knew:
the pressures of 100 years...
that there was also this Al Purdy...
and i too made my own wine -
pretending to blindly support
a Vest Ham -
             way way out west in the east:
that i did see a tease of Venice but
that i probably will never venture
south of the thames to
this cut from the home counties
of: how Burial (dubstep)
originated...
strapped to a mythology of the north...
Thames: a river without a clarity
of mountains:
how the Thames cannot
be celebrated akin to the Vistula
or the Danube...

              murky grey fonz -
this lingering tide amass of custard...
england's last lacklustre exertion
from the 1960s...
some kingly riddle ransom of
crimea associated for the purpose
of crimson -
a taming of purple in the hue
of hooded Burgundian -
  my solving tiresome base for
eyes -
    it's not that Greenwich mean-time
could ever be "important" -
insomniac polyphony of the hours
in passing...
   is more beside the equator...
some topsy-turvy pancake a butter
lofty toast:
that toasted rye that toasted
sourdough... or a ciabatta slice...
             is more and more than this
arrogant prize of english worship
"Blumenthal"...
        
a bonsai tiger's eager inquisitive prompt
from behind a door:
retreating like a lasso or
a folding of bedsheets -
or an ironing of unironic jeans...
some things to be worn should
be best unironed -
   notably jeans -
          azure: clarity chippy of:
variation:
   death's desire to come along
the purpose of lost purples:
in denim like a...

              arbeit macht frei will
forever stand the test of time among
the workaholics...
it's as little infamous as it is:
the currency of keeping with
details of a towing of two un-opposing
factions...

these service jobs and their lowering
of physical exertion:
substituted by gym maintenance -
service jobs and the "work" of...
loitering the hours in...
                 these service jobs and the clocking
in of hours: eternity begot the yawn...
adam begot the scratching of the head:
god conceived of the hierarchy of
taking the knee:
satan borrowed a circus and
a seizure for the future of
ronin imagination...

   can a fire itch?
        i'm pretty sure the licking of ice
can be allowed a fathom of both
an itch and a burn and:
       towing glue...
pockets of dry water staging coups of
crystalised details
of attention *******...
  
and a: between...
   the suffocating mantle piece of...
morbid avenues:
the t.v. robbed the zombies
of their pitiful dues...
machinery hatchling detail...
                  a burden of phallus and
a hammer...
crude "avenue": a **** the size
of a nail...
all life a coffin an scalp that snow
is also dandruff -
and there is nothing of a limit to tow
a continuity -
the species will survive...
the species will survive:
there are enough "stupid" and *****
people to preserve it...
more ***** than "stupid"..

             they are not to be...
coerced with submissions on the grandours
of religion...
having to preserve their appetite
of disinhibition...
they are to be kept on their own
worth of: kept perpetual:
there's no siding of the **** similis project
akin to the lizard kings with the meteor...
so it happens: the moon was sleeping...
when that little nugget of: oops...
****** up the tides and sleeping
patterns of proto-happenings...

    - as i am having "my" kitchen refurbished...
the surrealism of a fride-freezer
occupying a space in "my"
living / civil room -
where the t.v. is this altar of mundane
sacrifices...
at least there's still a concept
of a bedroom and the need for
a bed and the thorough avenues
of abating sleeplessness...

       i dare to sleep because i have
no wish for a *** life that's
a demanding expansion of...
custard-**** of an alter-ego of paragraph...

biting the ******* of
a schadenfreude category:
by the time she becomes an exhausted
**** in the pornographic clogging
of exhausting the machinery:
there were some organic components?
there was a "riddle" of
a lumberjack and a carpenter..
associated to.. ahem... wood?
i want to wish for a plain & simple
trucker analogy...
but then the agony of
conjuring up a chair & table...
and a rocker... and one of those
serpents of moses...

    god blessed grievances
to make elaborations with mahogany
that it would never become:
tantalizing marble:
                            
in a periodical inconvenience of tome:
this time: my lacking...
i will never find it an easy ride
to appeal / appease the
morbidity of the throng...
  having to tow a romance
of england...
a little detail a little of everything
and everywhere...
a pact with celtic / ginger
*******...

    ooh! hot coal... i am an european
5ft8 dwarf... a 6ft6 african goliath
is picking my cotton...
and i own a whip: and i am:

       nie z tego rodzony...
                            it's my little alien
planet of: but it's not important
right now: 100 years from now
when... my contemporaries are
a wish for sanskrit in both
itch and dust...
      
                biGGer... beTTER...
tease the doubling of consonants...
i'm tired i'm just simply tired
of excusing my contemporaries...
whatever they wanted to be
achieved: they have achieve it...
i'm proto-****** little cog little
blister: tamed mustard...
my little nowhere this "here"...

                good enough...
   a variation of aleister crowley bids
you...
      a night knitted with dreams...
and no... pangs of the horror of doubt...
closure for the things eaten
raw... a beef superstition
surrounding... what came to be known
as a tartare steak.

        god - to appease a minor public...
this little ******* gauge of a little public:
this carthage beside a blooming rome...
no... i'm not: excuse me...
i'm not native: this tongue is acquired...
i will not be mentioned in
the colonial anals as
this ******* imbecile of coercion...
this past without ridicule this past
with: goliaths toying the junctions
of exhausted base q. to an "i." unfathomable
first...
               runner junction...
i'm becoming tired of either
side of this bothersome argument...

hail babylon! hail an impeding tomorrow!
**** the 100 year from now.
best of me: no fear mongering
game to tow genes as me too:
a gamer invoked...
humanity survives...
the individual dies...
perhaps a beethoven is riddling
the hive with nuance...
humanity survives:
the individual dies...
i probably wasted my life on
ambition...

   then again: i didn't waste it on
a delusion of a societal project of
poly-                 multi-culturism -
                     i wasn't born on the Faroe Islands...
i had to come about an itching for
life: ventured for a cleaning and a kippah
for a tonsure -
i came across a grief of scalping -
i came across a curry...
i imploded an empire and sent out
invitations and became...
day by day less and less of London...

i ventured out of London and i found myself
in: inbreeding territory -
i became... sick from the homogenous  
zebras of parlance...
   black on black: white is white...
       it's a sickness from detailing
the aftereffects of gravity when having
to sort-out: a belief in the promenade...
            
   whatever... 100 years from now...
i will need to be dead:
for my writing to be elevated from
mere hobby to... this suffocating pride
and orthodoxy canon i want
it to exfoliate in...
then again: no...
                  then again: i am not in a position
to leave behind a pyramid...
i might leave some rattle and bones...
but most certainly not the toils
an wavering of others...
for... a flimsy prospect of: transcending
ambitions...
best played out as truant...
gobshite a god-envy
of a rhetorician's envy...
         stutter to excavate punctuation...

   yes... tomorrow and that: again...
and come sleep come death
come... the tiresome first breathed...
red and ginger...
ginger a tinge or orange ******* with
brown... this precursor of
loiter: a dirtying of earth with ash.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i think i once had a broken heart...
i think i was in love once...

i guess it was more about
the great *** -
it's not like we talked much:
she "was" russian
and i "was" a ******...
she might as well have been
a german:

i can imagine how great
it would have been for
the in-laws to have met...
i can only imagine...
thankfully they didn't...

i was once told: if you can't
find a girlfriend in england:
go to india -
advice of a man who
did just that...

i did almost the same...
working with the greenwich meantime...
Novosibirsk...
a girlfriend from Novosibirsk -

glad girl who escaped that
hellhole and made her
way via st. petersburg to edinburgh
and settled...

me poor oddity: boy...
from a... ahem: haha... "village" -
once a pinnacle of metallurgy industry...
those pivotal poles of
the stade de france
were made in my town...
i know so because my grandfather
worked on them...

yes: i think i was in love once...
she was a real homely affair...
she cooked great food... NO!
the *** was bonkers...
one of those summer nights
in st. petersburg we ****** for hours...
i asked her how many times
she orgasmed in that frozen
snapshot of epilepsy...

   a truly materialistic affair of "love"...
she was on her period
that seemed to last a month...
i still managed to encourage
her to do it in the bath with
a ******... sure... flakes of skin...
anything to ease the cramps...

yes - the *** was everything:
as any boy fed *******:
this easily available "taboo" for so many
years prior to: a canvas to work
with: *** before a mirror...
the supposed conversations
we might have had:
i liked the unbearable lightness
of being -
she introduced me to bulgakov
and in extremo -

           i can't possibly write poetry:
i can't fake in instagram disguises:
i am burdened with prose:
listening to music doesn't help
this anti-lyricism -
there's this sludge monster of
a tongue and a hidden formality
that only works with sparkle
for a niche audience:

niche audience! i don't know what
you're doing here...
i frankly don't know what i'm
doing here either...
we're here... souring in memories...
but i want to forgive myself
for: not going down with the titanic...

imagine: i was sent a letter
from a charity that deals with
alcoholics... they asked me to donate
anything between a fiver or a 20 squid pop...
yes...
      greed of charities...
the same like that anglo-saxon
work ethic: when enough saturation
happens and there's only loitering
left...

skin's burning...
i'd like rhyming: i'd also like
a bouncing ball trapped in perpetual motion
of the bounce:
              bounce: pounce... donce...
i agree: i write very little of
what's already nothing...

     caged gargantuan brat i probably
could stand before a mirror
but i could stand before
a painting that distorts the complexity
of a whiteness of both
lie and magic...

"i" am the fisherman and from
the sea of thought i managed to hook
a tackle of a greasy emblem of what:
a hiding protagonist could fathom:
yet this also brings me into:
the great crushing wheel...
caligula smiles: metaphor caligula smiles...
to have to experience these
bouts of automated thinking:
that everything is this:
**** in machina - and to seek god
as the only way out:
superstitious of those not yet
having arrived at
a cosmopolitan sensibility
of packaging **** arguments of:
transcending this nail needs hammering:
this bacon would require frying...

the *** was great...
there was only ***...
      she liked how i became a chameleon
of diacritical marks:
she had an "accent" i couldn't
be pinned...
i noted that: she had that breath
and a tongue that was a bulging
soul...
               i didn't mind:
after all an ****** of "onomatopoeias"
during *******...

*** primo *** primo...
come to think of it:
i don't think i've had deeply concerning
conversations with my mother...
or with any woman...
well... not to reach the crux
of my being:
   lament?
                   all too easily available paper
and a freely agreeing audience...
thank god they do not find themselves
eagerly commenting on
my ball-and-trimmings-of-a-worth-of-trollop...

hyphen compounding of words:
a very anglo-saxon t'ing...
it's hardly german...
it's not like there's a precursor
story with... anglo-swabians...
or anglo-pomeranians...

         write this mediocrity: go to bed early...
no! how could i be this grieving lover...
i couldn't...
yes... i played the stalker for
the odd occasion -
   i couldn't possibly have fathomed
where she went...
i'm mundane matthew who
grew up with dogs:

youth is all about dogs...
started to hit the plateau with cats:
thankfully my home doesn't give off
whiffs of cat **** perfumery -
these cats lounge in a sterile environment...
but she went down a route
of serpents and spiders...

i am a clarity of arachnophobia -
i like this irrationality -
it's not so much an irrational fear: phobia...
as a reflex...
it's what wakes me up to encompass
the body... that can sometimes be lost
to automated thinking or the sometimes:
pensive reflection purpose of:
what thought arrived at when
it was not supposed to be lost
given the ****** summons
of: "work" - i.e. loitering as a security
guard in a supermarket...

i deserve this pseudo-flaubert fate...
madame bovary might be the book...
but anna karenina steals the opening
of all books...
how does it read, from memory:

all the happy families have the same
story: a generic clone...
but all the unhappy families are unique
in that their stories are:
tenured by misery being selective...
anti-verbatim... d'uh...

       someone once championed
the pickwick papers and encouraged me
to read it...
come chapters 30 - 32...
this book was serialised...
it's no don quixote... it might be
for some native...
but then again: i don't remember
anything about don quixote except
that... the windmills happened
prior to page 100...
you'd think that seeing the ludwig minkus
adaptation of ballet at the royal opera
house would jolt my memory...

hell: bolshoi or no bolshoi...
fickle memory...
i have a ceremony of about 10 permanent
memories -
some have arrived up to now
with a fire of permanence...
"memory" is a yet to fade out cliff...
time the sea and the wind...
i still have to challenge the prospect of:
what i want to remember...
well... what i probably must(ard)
in the arithmetic rubric as every child
must...

i know of the people who talk down
you rekindling a memory cinema...
how it drags for so long that you're unable
to dream... or make futurism a
possible quest: what do i have of
a future to bundle up:
stretched within the pressure of now:
                 nought-here...
    from the Omicron to the doughnut of 0...

give me a day where writing is
not necessary - when drink stands alone
and the bed is teasing...
no phantom body of feuds...
i couldn't have possibly moved furthest
to a shackle...

she became anachrophilic and that
was a tarantula in her hand...
it would have to become necessary
to feast on so much of:
well... i stood before a shelf of
the oeuvre of Dumas and... guess...
well... i was expecting
for people to not have read as much...

we're writing we're digging graves...
we're covered by the fact that
some come as journalists...
that thespians will not gradually belong
to the shadows alone:
that this has to be my lot:
i have to settle with
the mediocre: but what's
almost heartbreaking is that...
i didn't become the cost-efficient
purpose of a ceiling...
i supposed this body or this
mind would never have to fail...

      it's so unbecoming to be this:
collage of works best works least
works at all...
the *** was great but then
my arachnophobia would never allow
itself to be coupled with her
petting tarantulas...
so it's not much a broken heart...
it's the willow of whittle dangling
richards taking a bow from
pump action into a custard pit:
flowery itching: eeeeeee...
no coinage to make purpose
of buttering those floral
patterns of flesh...

            rhymes a' eternal:
closure for a meditation on the tetragrammaton:
apostrophe for each surd H -
hatching a "plan"...
come! come join me!
in this eternal furnace of mechanised
will;
well... there's no burden of freedom
in this already prescribed
papacy of guised choices:
a masquerade of: suppose
the serenity of the atmosphere of
the moons..

   a crushing free-fall...
motivational speakeasies -
                    i am sour... almost nostalgic -
there's a definite article of
a past... the past being deservedly so: the...
but there's also the indefinite article
of the future: the future being undeservedly
so...
it's just one of those prized
assets of a tongue:
a grammar and a nuance...

that it was the anglo-saxons...
but not the anglo-swabians...
            let's see how much of a muddle
of mine is deserving my egoistic ploy
to mind the "numbers"...
how much of a muddle i have made
to crave an itch from a stone's
scratching: to detail the whole lot!
for sale! for sale!

my... my my... how miserable this
least expecting consolidation
with mortality...
a freezing over with details
of understood biases...
               i want to call my **** clearly adow my dog...
then again i am reminded:
i like cats because there's no
believability of tokyo cosmopolitanism...
and there's no leash...
if ever i owned a dog i wouldn't
like to also own either a muzzle...
or a leash...

i therefore decline the need to own
dogs...
no... to no one to anyone...
               bark at an echo...
howl at "dutch wood"...
                 i will only don a white shirt
if i can be settle for a sensibility
with... grey creases come
the suggestion of noon.
A Simillacrum Jul 2018
Isn't it nice that to the community of mental health care patients
Facebook anecdotes now take precedence over actual self care
Out of hand patients themselves take to macros take to words

Isn't it great that through mass social media propagation
My generation and the next now look to Netflix and Hulu
As a means to make themselves feel better than depressed

Oh, the dopamine is flowing and the gravy boats are growing
The market hauls in all the fresh meat to their market stalls
Isn't it nice that we saved them from the other force,
The papacy?

What a ******* catch

No one
Will save us we
Have to
Save
Ourselves

Do you understand
The stakes at hand?
Your mind.
The emotion
You crave
Is manufactured
Packaged
And placed

They smell your
Sweet sweet
Green back

Take it back.
Sit on your hands.
Let them come.
Drag you away.
As you smile in calm.
Do you think they can take.
All of us from the freedom of peace
Before The Human awakes?
<3
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
'ere i r: "thieving" around with some base ęgliş -

it must be admired: this citizen
politicized majority:

that a people can fathom fudge packaging
tier upon tier:

and serve both a democracy of voices
and the necessary vote: illiterate X
"acronym" piece o' pie for a signature's
worth...

wow and doubly: wow... on a continent when
there's this status quo class strictures:

moths, cobwebs(,) and spare change...
this grand asymptomatic clue...
i hope to pretend
to steal a language from
a people... that have no diaspora poignancy -
because: there's this squatting "elsewhere"...

litany of secrecy that has to become:
blunt dumb and grating
cheddar: stoic-esque...
the blunting of the knife and
the sharpening of the tongue...

i will still find the sort of reggae i want...
culture's harder than the rest
(full album)...

picky moi: burning spear's
marcus garvey -
the black voice
that demanded of his
choccy people a repatriation
process:
how alien it must seem
to be african-american
going to a majority black
country...
how unwelcome
one must be...
to be black and thrown back
into kenya...
speaking no word of the native
breath...
what statues of agony
an IDI AMIN could...
and did... dying a slow death
in the ***** of arab racialism...
oh sure joys of sculpture...
unforgiving in how
legs dismembered would
be reattached to sockets where
arms ought to imitate bird flight
with flapping: and vice versus...
i suffer to have not this sort
of imagination!

but that is a song...
   i'm here attempting to steal
english from the english:
it's not "about to" happen
either...
i'm getting drunk on
the cocktail: before, of course...
i come across some
bureaucratic "sensibility":
some angry ***** mad
enough with the least
authority given...

         that people given
the least authority tend to abuse it
the most...

i had to look at europe "elsewhere"...
milan kundera pointed
out this quote
'quarrel in a far away country,
between people of whom we know nothing'
by neville chamberlain
when appeasing ******
concerning the merger of
extended bohemia
into the third *****...
                
  it would seem: it would always
be easier to treat the middle east
with enforced straight lines...
e.g. iraq / jordan never look
like naturally invoked
land masses -

no mountain range no river...
it's not that i have to blame
the english pauper for
a past history of colonialism...
but... to have little knowledge
of your neighbour's lot...
was there any similar ignorance
when: outstanding brits
matched napoleon's ambitions?

i test my own patience with this...
at what point will i finally state:
well... given the air of politics
weaving its way trickle down
into the publically paid bureaucracy...
em...
is it racism or is it...
an african fetish?
     like me... i'm all for porcelain girls
of the orient: no one wants
to **** exhausted gammon... do they:
in this mismatched kama sutra... do they don't they?

i'm sensing a fetish for... it's gone beside
a racism: i'm looking to the east
of what's still europe -
a zilant semblance written
in "old orthography" of the tatars...
   qazan - someone's knowing on my door...
the germanic peoples pushed...
then the slavic peoples pushed...
then the mongols and the turkmen pushed
this great funnel and sieve
of a: pseudo-continent that's probably
only an extended experiment
of great mother asia and uncle siberia...

after all: isn't australia an island?
who ever has to hear the same
soft-narrative: out-of africa...
except those pesky eskimos -
      frisky... but we left africa
with no thinking equipment -
no phonetic encoding...
    if we left with some arabic...
but we didn't...
if we left with some sanskrit...
but we didn't... some chinese ideograms...
but we didn't...
no wonder we left...
i don't endear myself to pursue
hieroglyphics as sensible enough:
to counter the modern emojis...

which they are...
pits and falls in the latin alpha-beta-coy...
then..
to "work" by loiter -
no wonder: grievances
when work is drudgery -
when one cannot perfect
a deed - but has to churn out
appeasement after appeasement:
slurp an oyster from
an ****...

i still must be thieving english
from... the english...
leftovers of the forever debased
schizoid - or the new lineage
bound to bilingualism:
a return to thematic crude-,

no... i can't digest this:
there's some sort of drama:
but there's no staging for it...
an open round-up of applause...
devoid of choice is a higher
tier condescending-
           for lacking will -

to write this very little...
but then to harness the prospect
of a sunrise: an 8am welcome!
welcome to no night
of finitudes... of conclusions...
my foot will never stand
in thailand: because
of the thai surprise...
easily a ****-along story
for a vanguard torry:

        i will have two Plantegenant
old housewives
when there's: the food
i need to curate for my palette:
a sad sad show-story...
when i... walk out from the house
and tug a dead-weight
of consumerism from my
mother's girdle...

          i call it... playing banjo
with toothpick... 'n' esse...
      the pristine curation of sharpening
teeth: to bite into a tide...
into a swelling heave of a wave...

i want to be able to be normal
sleeping with a foreign body
in my bed...
i was once able to sleep with a dog...
i am as finicky as the cat
that attempts
to sleep with me in the same
bed....
shadows clamour and therefore
clash...

  the british isles are too grand...
i want something smaller...
i want a life among the faroe islanders...
escape escape forever
this unforgiving narrative...

can you look at a people you're acquiring
to "ally"...
never marking your own horrors...
with your own black hitlers...
i can attest to the bleach...
but you can't somehow blank slate:
state a genesis without a dichotomy...

let's go! black history month!
now is the time! now i want to remember
IDI AMIN!
  black history month!
i want to remember IDI AMIN!
no... not marcus garvey:
proponent of repatriation...
i want to remember: IDI AMIN!
after all... the mongols have
their "abraham" their genghis khan...
and they have their pocket
of leftover in crimea with
that mongol-europeans: the tatars...

i have no love for history come
the tide of relating the Iberian peninsula...
south h'america... "mine"?
the north coast of africa...
fizzling out of in-breeding...
when the goth came across
the instigators of conquest of the "muzzies"...
cocktails on us! boyos!

i want to... ******* boil with teasing!
i want to fathom a spectacle of trolling!
i want to smear faces into ****!
i want the wholesome crescendo!
i want to itch with
******* out buckwheat digestion!
i want chocolate!
i want a swiss fountain of chocolate!
i want to see IDI AMIN
a proud addition to:
no blacks ever do or did:
any b'aah... b'aah ad ad...
            
i wish "my" people came to "origin"
with a post-colonial narrative...
poor shmucks the scots are...
but they were: "missing"...
you can't retrace a colonial past
to the present citizen of spain:
how well the post-"racialists" peoples
of the southern continent managed to:
you can hear talk
of an argentinian... but he's not spanish...
a brazilian: but he's not... portuguese!

this anglo-saxon "pond" livestock
of memory... do away with us...
i know it's terrible to have a genesis
story so short-lived that europe
is a *******-riddling reminder:
when there's an already political class
harvesting the least worth of fathom...
don't pretend to be historical tourists:
my dutch ancestry...
my german ancestry... my "ancestry":

you deserve the quiff and joking slander:
superior the world's a-hole all over...
who are your little people looking
for in our little funnel of
a constipated asia looking for?
currently?!
the greek aren't admired...
they aren't admired because
they gave a birth to the antagonist
in cyrillic...
and that's that!

or... the greeks aren't admired
because: the metaphor: byzantine -
a complexity of bureaucracy -
but the singing... deaf tone reading of plato...
forget aeschylus -
they were prone to heave
a turkman invasion of
the balkans... given...
the venetians sacking:
the supposed holy place of...
aan eucharist convo. with a pagan "pope"...

like... the 4th crusade was not
a hard-on... for anyone to not fathom...
the inheritance of a history
i must truly deserve...
otherwise: the history overtly given...
to subsequently filter...
how the capetian king philip
augustus is known to me
is: it's not a beyond noticeable
comparisons...
it's just stalemate...

i am furroging in asp and waspishness:
i need a language of antagonism...
i find my most pristine "saint"...
i could cling to a fetish for
interracial *** exploits...
but then i'm a bland white man
and i might require a dodgo lemon
squeeze of eyes...
when a ***** is not in use
and it's hardly a reserved reading
for: expansion... broadening one's mind
with: *******... that "sort" of phallus
size just wouldn't do...
it's no joke but then i prefer
jerking off to... something akin
to... bronzino's venus, cupid,
folly and time...

even then! then!
a woman directly descended from
the titans... aphrodite was...
beside the lineage... from hyperion...
astounded... passed into
the ***** of the olympians...
cherry picking my vavous ego-foetus
of mind into a progress and
future investment...
how the **** spoke...
and became apparently a parody
of parrot chokes...
given the farts would have
to commence at some, point, or "other"...

to demand "pushing boundaries"...
i have them here: ever present always
apparent...
i would sacrifice my whole for these...
as to never have to:
speak a language of appeasement...
as to never speak a language of
a gradual inclination...
or / of never rocking the boat...
i want to drown drunk!
i want to drown a drunkard!
i want to savour a relfish for...
autumn perfumes towing
accents of a variation of timbers...

now i want to stand naked!
i want to be awash with moonshine...
i want more of the night
i want more of the creases in
attaching bone to the formidable
tendon pressures...
i want the technicality of nouns
being lost... i want misnomers...
i want all this supposed word / techno-salad
to be all! furore!
i want to eat the native
with an imagination worth
of a tartar -
  
           i want my tongue to sliver into
the cheddar spronge of their borrowed
brains every time they test themselves
on eating a tartare: notably raw beffrey (b'ee'f)...

yes... this is my former european
status: having to cleave... from it...
because the liberal authorities of
vest-inwested western georgian:
gregorian: kiev is my own project
of last interests...
how isn't it...
ukraine might somehow
rely on article usage: notably:
the ukraine...
there's that "a" associated
with the polish-lithuanian commonwealth?

from sea to sea:
from the baltic sea
to the black sea...
oh look! i too can inherit something...
like a hebrew might inherit
the aesop the king solomon...
like aesop might inherit Tironian
notations...

i am drinking but my cat isn't agitated
by it: troll troll lullaby!
let's celebrate!
dancing monkeys dancing
truants!
it wouldn't: it couldn't possibly
be a black history month
without mentioning
IDI AMIN... dying peacefully
in the arms of sleep
among the saudi camel-jockey "racists"...

how they have been fleeing
the ****** status of harems...
how they were escaping polygamy...
how i wasn't racist how i was
merely ill-conceived over
a work-around of fetish...
i was already a walking abortion...
manic street preachers' debate:
i wasn't enough gay or
feng shui enough...
or brilliant neon purple enough...

hello brilliance! hello party! hello
gay...
ancient europe:
ai viast lo lop....
               creases in my forlorn...
i want: besst attired summation:
this  ****** bulgarian...
this european that's only aa figment
of imagination:

indignations of scythe:
that nothing is borrowed:
that all is: at limbo gested...
                      to heave a scythe
and stone...
i pretend to swallow a breath...
i am aching at the knee
and ankle...
             i am formidably
   nuanced amsterdam...

                  i have to tell
that yawn and "story" for some
variation of catholicism to trickle down...
this forever impossible
and: my-overtly-inflated
char of wording...

                harvest the pea and
dollop of hypersensitivity toward
hue best ascribed to "foliage";
or a burgundy that's neither
purple or red
or wine... or the papacy
of Avignon.
BT Joy Oct 2019
‘And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?’
-E.M. Forster, A Room With A View

Nothing cracks the rigid heart up
more easily than a microchip
in the cucumber sandwiches
and a lick of dubstep can really ruin
a lawn party in a Merchant Ivory flick.  
My mother was sure Ratzinger
resigned the papacy because they were making him
update his Twitter feed too often.
Some of the saddest moments of Bonaparte’s life
came while reading
Pierre-Simon Laplace.
Time itself is an adjustment.
Do you know, for instance,
Katharine Hepburn, on the set of Suddenly, Last Summer,
refused to believe there was such a thing
as a homosexual?
Mankiewicz, born to Jewish immigrants,
must have learned diplomacy early on.
His line:
Belief isn’t necessary
if you can act like you believe.
This— here—
is the sharp edge of nostalgia.
The cowpuncher pining for a white Alabama.
How the man who broke his wife’s jaw longs
for his wife to come home.
It’s hard to pity them, I know.
But if compassion’s worth anything
we ought at least to try.
The light has upped a notch.
Their rigid hearts
repine like window-blinds.
These days of bicycles have made
no new truths
but they say that things are clearer now.
By what’s reflected up from water,
in the caverned underside of leaves,
we see Freddy Honeychurch and Mr. Emerson jumping
pale and bare-arsed into The Sacred Lake;  
the Reverend Mr. Beebe
circling their young,
wet bodies like a paunchy moon.
B.T. Joy is a British poet and short fiction writer living in Glasgow. He has also lived in London, Aberdeen and Heilongjiang, Northern China. His poetry and short fiction has appeared in magazines, journals, anthologies and podcasts worldwide including poetry in Yuan Yang, The Meadow, Toasted Cheese, Numinous: Spiritual Poetry, Presence, Paper Wasp, Bottle Rockets, Mu, Frogpond and The Newtowner, among many others. His debut collection of poetry, Teaching Neruda, was released in 2015 by Popcorn Press and his 2016 collection Body of Poetry is also available through Amazon. He can be reached through his website: http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet
O yeahh


Let the triple six darkness mark us likes signs
Of a dead carcass I'm a hawk of the night by flight
Giving demons breathing delight gun flash
Could make a devil dash I'll get the last laugh
Wear comedies tragedy mask lift the veil with the flask
I'm sipping on wisdom potent potential sitcoms
Living everyday in my head can't shake the spread
Fleas copping in pleas I could make Roman legacy
Bow before me like the pope and papacy take a blast at me
I'll still be rising like the black momba Kobe
Or Jordan can't stop scorin no points but anoint
Knowledge beyond the dogon I'm so long gone
Off the space age no time confined blind mastermind
Since I'm became a maven I'm misbehaving craving
The wickedness state of a raven still guarded my haven
Mental slaughterhouses rhymes douse in octane
Highest domain remains a thirty year bloodstains
Been a Kang since Tuts reign let the skills drain
All enemies under spelled divinity angel democracy
Last longer than a Zhou dynasty I had to be
Demonize by the evil eyes kiss the skies wise
By the birth of early birds chirping signs of highs
No joy ever since I was boy spiritual never been coy
I'm walking backwards forward gavage to savage
Havoc trains wrecks emotion no tracks beautiful carriage
Rocking pains baby flippin' scabies no itches glitches
Thrown in the ozone but nature to smart so ya owned
Paste it like Capcom marvel could even sparkle
The darkest abyss my fist move like the foggy mist
Every inch of the eyes stains looking for the sane
But I'm the in sane drug in ya veins hypo' anemia
Migraines given Coltranes ****** pain let the horn blow
Mind of a psychosis overdoses couldn't diagnosis
This ain't for the birds or the fish serving the cold dish
Russians couldnt picture this a black space black face
No gats sitting by the waist see the dragon spitting
Fire inside fire no flames but remains burning
Grains my words off the chain cut a sentence in half
Wicked Senate wear my Satan pendant beware
Ya in for a scare travel 9 dimensions
Just to battle future dominion made em my minions
Obliterate opinions sitting as the flawless preposition
No recommendations permanent stations creations
Virus flow from the cosmos exterminate portals
Vampire codex through mental *** no *******
Sticky situation hate is a flawed occupation
To the energy creating from love all of the above
It goes togetherlike sunshine and stormy weather
No smiles Indian dance romance my feet into
Mother nature pants she felt excited mad celebrated
Destroyed things before they was created x rated
Censorship can't debate it off the chart my darts
Spitting a faster than the speed of light Jupiter flight
Couldn't even burn me silver surfer sitting as a server
To the intellectual beings far from human being
Extraterrestrial sight seeing ancestors breeding
Knowledge from corrupted food no seasonings breath in
Through out the purple waves let the soul craves
Hunger decays makes my demon more enraged
66 legions ready to fight by the time they'll arrive
People will run in chaos as I smile wicked lives despite
Michael Marchese Nov 2018
It always includes
Ruling classes
And taxes
Sometimes the form differs
The law always passes
Agreed upon by
Select few who renew
Their extravagance through
The consent of the governed
To pay what is due
To the papacy pew
As indulgences, tithes
Coincide with the sins
That accrue
Piled high to the sky
Where the heavens would cry
To know God's blessed children
Live only to die
As they serve the false prophets
Who claim they can fly
And it seems they're content
As to never know why
Such a system relies
On the spreading of lies
Until lo and behold!
No surprise,
Out of time
Embraced with dark energy Jedi synergy
See what it does to the industry phonies
Cop three Maloney bunch of  bolgnia OG
Moved from a TG switched sceneries
Now I'm standing like the Haiti revolutionary
Scary could make a ghost flee the cemetery
Mase like Perry smoother than Barry i carry
Melanin dominant genes plot a killer theme
Provoke a poor man dream eyes to spleen
Feel what i mean? I'm clean to a kosher
Violence ultra respect my culture vultures
I throw on my enemies with dead energies
Or garlic shots a vampire leeched for desire
Competition in dire need laid my seed
Let the demons of seth breath in and out
I ain't wilding out this the slanging south
Where fools might catch a gun in they mouth

Wordsmith infinite see my hearts in it
To win it stick it like a wicked senate
Or a black pendant Satan's begotten son
Next to Big L never hold L's spark well
With gats til bodies swell can you smell
The flesh cookin' from the bullets hookin'
Kareem Abdul- Jabbar look afar pace the stars
sharpen once i pierced the sun and the moon
Legends of doom justice of the enemies
Cronies gun retains my legacy accuracy
John Madden playmaker microphone booms
Even shook up a volcano blooms kaboom
Hotter than hottest degree from a suns
Frequency who better to be lay down the black papacy
Its the return of the
King so others become a cling
To the magnitude of an o-ring sitting in pockets
Guess what ******* I'm clocking ya duckets


Seven billion to one times infinite equals me
To a maximum degree rhyme creeds
Feeds my soul out of control stroll
Down the valley of dark portals scrolls
Of me written back before jesus bc
Even romans gotta acknowledge me
Simply set the wars digest multiple scars
much gore im tryna set back the score
Pass even stevens more reasons
For ya to die as i seasoned ya breathin'
Cracked ya egg yoke smoke a joke loc
I ain't the one to play with ****** Lee Ray
Alias Chuckie come and hunt me
Keep dolls around me at least 20
Ready to serve fools loosing they nerve
Yo my guns feel a perve itching for a *******
Duece bucking watch chickens ducking
Plucking off the rest of ya feathers pleasures
Death taste it's like toxic paste
Internal bleeding with so many teethin'
Tryna conserve energy to uphold their idiocy
Never me i be chillin' smoking doobies trees
Gettin' windy once I inhaled the presence's heavenly
a demonic silence and calm preserves this place
i call home:
today i was recovering from working
at the AC/DC gig at Wembley: henchman man:
wager man... wagey...
such pivotal hierarchies in the high viz
community outside of the construction industry:
human chess
it would seem: is the end result
of this working dynamic...

                   i'd call it my dream period but it's
more or less my nostalgic impromptu
retrospection thinking of myself writing in my mid-20s
but i really can't see:
in the classical period music was innovative:
it inspired philosophers such as Nietzsche
but these days i can't say: much about music...
it became an art form relegated to the piles
of dung of Beelzebub's ****** archiving of important
matters:
a total messy ******* he is...

            coughed up whiskey into my nose
which was a sobering experience
like a Pakistani girl
telling out in full claustrophobic no personal
space antic of taking a lift
imploring me to stand in front of her
imploring me to smell my skin and my ***
and my love to block out
someone else's bad personal hygiene...
and then i said: well: like nicotine
like caffeine: a whiff of ammonia: a chemical salt
or acid
          someone's poor personal hygiene can
become a stimulant: especially if you add to that
the torrential rain:

but my dry period?
i was young and not boring enough:
so i'd pick up a book and take out a snippet
and work with that:
i suppose i could rehash that youthful distress
by picking up
Ulysses - i don't remember any of it:






                                                      / /

nothing: nothing comes to mind...
         so when music used to be innovative in the infancy
now hardly irrelevant
but AC/DC are not an innovative band
if say: Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin were...
or god forbid someone take up the Q of Pink "barber" Floyd
because that's not Nirvana relevant?

i guess music of the 20th century
might require someone listening to classical and reflecting:

weird antics for the closure of a day
and it's impeding reopening after a nap
circa 8pm through to 12am
in the day made perfect timing to
send off a Taylor Swift t-shirt:
medium... almost a large:
regardless: she wanted to have it scented with me
so i rubbed the early stink from lying
in bed first...
then walked around in it...
then took a shower:
didn't use deodorant (but squeezed some in
when i finished packing the package
to get the plastic smell out...
the air around the item)
i rubbed myself cleaner than mirror versus
the glass
in i guess: if i can remember:
was a honeycomb and macadamia nuts
soap...
          then i washed my hair with Argan oil
infusion...
and beard too: ah: maybe the shampoo was
the macadamia nuts infusion
and the soap was just the honeycomb infusion...

but no deodorant on the body:
just into the back...

friendship bands
and me playing with my mother's makeup drawer
while writing her a letter
some little nothing something perhaps sweet
and to think i'm suited to a Christian girl
and i'm supposedly this Catholic
which is supposedly a novelty in America
like J.F.K was a novel Catholic
in the land of Protests and hyper-inflated individualism
that's so fake it beggars-belief...

Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose
thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up
all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on
tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.


J. J. Ulysses page 217 reprinted Penguin classic 2000

as i said: innovative: music once was
no longer so and
it's a shame that those who wrote music are
more alive than some people
who are alive and haven't been gifted with
much: but as in that Dead Can Dance song
about great men:
Solomon, Caesar, Socrates... and there is a third:
how fortunate the man with none...
how fortunate that no one should remember

but even then what's that to life: expected...
if anything: a kind surprise to an otherwise unwarranted
***** of the hope...
some higher demand the everyday expectation
to the materialistic grit (spoken like a true
teenager)...
but just so: my riches are in books and in music
records:
at least one painting of my own:
a sitter in Grey
by Candlelight...
a sword from the forest i called my Cossack
SHASHKA...
              
           just a breaking of a night within night
to tip over the scales of time from day x
to day y
                      by nocturnal musings:
    having signed the Last Will of my parents
i am now the inheritor de facto
of this house and garden:
it's almost comical when
Joe stood before me at cordon 6
wearing a Quadrant Supervisor bib and
almost gesticulating at:
well: why haven't you been promoted?
well: who gives a ****
it's a wash-a-hand-hand-washing-hand
not nepotism but quasi-nepotism
of the family breakdown and making new friends
in the playground
so children are growing up my lord
but the elementary
and the pedagogy remains the same:
perhaps if with children you can pretend
to be an adult with responsibilities
when when in psychiatry you pretend to be a god
because that's not me saying:
Prometheus my Guide:
but at least you have to pretend to be a god
since god is so abstract
and that's what people required other people to
become: in just the verb and noun orientation
of this delicate ballet...
not by any stretch of imagining grandiosity
not in any way profound
there's the nearing of the bad grammar god
and his fetish is pronouns
and being a Dyslexic his favorite demonic ****
is at the pulpit of a pseudo-Protestant
i.e. Protestantism against itself:
dying off without a Catholic antagonist since that
path deviated and found root
in the life now enjoyed by the Spanish, French,
Italians, Pollacks...

                         i could mention the Irish but is there
a point of mentioning the Irish as Catholics
and not simply as the Irish:
the sublime masochists... which the Pollacks can't be
but what's horrible about us is
a Catholic Work Ethos that we don't share
with anyone: beside the Irish: in that span of rubric:

Spanish
French
Italians
Porto-Geese (easier, i'm not going to spell it correctly)...

ah... jeez: what a Chopin's nocturnes sort of
night:
it's blessedly raining outside and it feels like
the proper July:
did i forget to mention that there's a lesson
in geography to be had, right about now?

it bothered me: the English mentality
concerning Eastern Europe:
Poland is Central Europe with Germany
you ******* PLEB...
deafness and more deafness: no intellectual music
no conversation:
just innocent bystanders: collateral ditto virus...
geography bothered me in the lexicon:
is that common speech of man? hmm:
gonna get myself a Jane Austen tattoo...
not on my skin: but on the silk
bothered by the wind
itching inside my mind like no other caged ego
to thought or being:
just ego-nothing
beside what is already available
with i-think and i'm-not: i-am...

                           familialism: something
borrowed from Anti-Oedipus: i don't understand
the French intellect so well:
please can i gravitate towards German High Intellect
with some dabbing in Scandinavian:
everyday-ism?

   the French have a freakish morbid intellect
bent on destruction and painting with language:
i don't want to paint when i write...
i want to abstract: find solutions:
complications:
impasses...
              facts: i don't want to find bad grammar
and a chemistry lab
of boorish wordings overtly hyphenated into
compounds like di-hydroxy-carbonate blah blah...

who is the real psychotic?
i have no knowledge of a Spanish intellect...
Italian maybe with Machiavelli but
that's irrelevant:
Giuseppe Belli:     (o.k. **** me, shoot me
my youth was greatly invoked to age beyond
my peers because of Dante: *******
and yeah yeah ******* twice
because i had Horace and Ovid in my life)

inzomma, da la predica de jjeri,
ggira che tt'ariggira, in concrusione
venissimo a ccapi cche sso mmisteri...

      just look how Latin devolved...
to sign language and spitting
and eyes darting and foundations
like Rome and the Italians is an observational
view point of a mountain range
some weirdly anthropological
no people discovered or conquered
so aboriginal blah
i mean: just looking at the language
that's Italian: that used to be Latin:
it's a bit like looking at the Polynesians
originally from Taiwan:
perhaps they didn't gain height
rowing all that time no sight of horses
but they bulked up
and i can see something Oriental about
them with the exception of their tailoring
to a darker color of skin: complexion...

bad Latin to come:

in brevi, et ex sermon nos accepit
summa summarum,
                          idiom: say how it is... to:
            obtusis-lingua-acuere:
blunt tongue sharpening...
               videtur: mysterium est mysterium...

perhaps that's the non-authoritative
variation on Latin:
certainly not Italian: or what happened
when Germanic blood of the Lombard
achieved the fold to the Razor and Papacy:
the Pope a Drowning Man...

that lesson in geography:
well... whenever listening to a meteorological
dial-up
with a person in the luminary of a quasi-fire
that's the t.v. screen:
believe me in 100 years what will
the t.v. beside a fireplace
a radio and then what will internet access be

i'm listening to my favorite nocturne:
i've currently digested:
47 minutes:

nocturne in B♭minor op 9 no 1
     "         "   " minor op 9 no 2
and the list goes on and on
but i'm too lazy to type each song out...
but it would look pretty:
i gather there's that aesthetic concern
and if i wanted to spend years
on art
i'd become a grave sculptor...
not some celebrated Rodin bound
to the museum:
CENTAUR and the Urmahlullu...

in some there's this tease toward anticipating
Wagner's Das Reihngold: the entry
of the gods into Valhalla:

         like we all know the play on Les Mars

♯C
#****

       ah! subliminal! HELMHOLTZ! HELMHOLTZ!
just like
Les Marseillas... apparently a right wing
revival, non?
but instead a Fringe Red seeking majority?
i did say: Serenity Red:
not simply - but the left was becoming
constipated communicative-ly: all lively...

number: first: 1812:
ah yes: Tchaikovsky and the Polish Plumbers
Orchestra...
some Dostojnie: Igrzyska:
  
               geography!
England is part of Scandinavia!
England: Scotland:
Ireland:
this is not Western Europe!
this is Scandinavian Territory!
if Poland is Eastern Europe:
collectively...
blah Ukraine blah Czechia
blah Lithuania and not Russia
blah Romania
and blah some more maybe even Greek
and Turkish:
forget Serbia Croat

but England is Scandinavia:
it's not WESTERN EUROPE:
what is western Europe but an Atlantis
figment of the imagination
if Germany is Central Europe
and Poland too
have to look at the planet from sunrise
have to rotate the planet into
vertigo mode horizontal....
not some meteorological Chinese script
the westerners read weather
at X Greenwich
and Y equator: Kenya:
Z? the winds and casual tornadoes?

  England is Scandinavia
in temperament and feels:
                   it's not Western Europe:
there never was: beside
as the bad apple export to America...
Scandi to the north
while the also northern bunch
finding recliners and cheaper weather:
the Goths via the Spaniards
and the Berbers
toward Argentina...

               then again to a waltz:
still a nocturne waltz...

                       but that piece with
the reverbretating insinuation of the piano
working as a bass guitar...
not the waltz no 7 in c (sharp) minor
op 64,2

                absolved from the hierarchy of cultures:
that Germany transliterated
away from a superiority complex
of ethnocentrism of white via white versus:
such heightened exploration dynamic:
peace to mind: a piece of:
the langui: a **** in boots and a freakish:
i don't event want to remember
dreams...

         if no longer ethnocentric then cocktails
in Berlin with a hyper-inflation
of race mixing like
it couldn't be a sand story:
this new Dune
not a desert
but a "jungle" of Concrete:
this Nedu:
        planet of sand without wind
this concrete grey
this fudge packing:
this also glass and mirror and mannequin...
this planet we live on
i give a name:

           Nedu.
        formerly called Earth:
              Nē̆dû has spoken and spoke at its
crux of nadir: thus.

— The End —