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Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your ***, magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
judy smith Jul 2016
The 9.6 million followers who tune in to watch Miranda Kerr having her hair done on Instagram — for this is how models spend most of their time — were treated to a rather more interesting sight last Thursday: a black and white photograph of a whacking great diamond ring.

Across it was the caption “Marry me!” and a twee animation of the tech mogul Evan Spiegel on bended knee. Underneath Kerr had typed “I said yes!!!” and an explosion of heart emojis.

A spokesman for Spiegel, founder of the Snapchat mobile app, who is 26 to Kerr’s 33 and worth $US 2.1 billion to her $US 42.5 million , revealed “they are very happy”.

At first, the marriage seems an unlikely combination: a man so bright he founded Snapchat while still at Stanford University, becoming one of the world’s youngest self-made billionaires by 22, and a Victoria’s Secret model who was previously married to the Pirates of the Caribbean star Orlando Bloom (she allegedly had a fling with pop brat Justin Bieber, leading Bloom to punch Beebs in a posh Ibiza restaurant).

Perhaps the union indicates that there is more to Kerr than we thought. More likely, it reveals something about Spiegel — and the way the social status of “geeks” has changed.

Since Steve Jobs made computers cool and Millennials started living online, nerds are king. Even coding is **** enough for the model Karlie Kloss, singer will.i.am and actor Ashton Kutcher to learn it. Silicon Valley has become the new Hollywood, as moguls and social media barons take over from film stars and sportsmen not just on rich lists, but as alpha men.

Being a co-founder of a company is this decade’s equivalent to being a rock star or a chef. And, if their attractiveness to models and actresses proves anything, then being a Twag — tech wife or girlfriend — is a “thing”. Sources tell me Twags are also known as “founder-hounders” because they like to date the creators of start-up companies.

Actress Talulah Riley was an early adopter. She started dating the PayPal founder Elon Musk in 2008. Riley, then fresh from starring in the St Trinian’s film, met Musk in London’s Whisky Mist nightclub after he had delivered a lecture at the Royal Aeronautical Society. I interviewed her shortly afterwards and she told me they had spent the evening talking about “quantum physics”. A month later they were engaged. Their on-again-off-again marriage lasted six years before she filed for divorce again in March. Currently Musk, worth an estimated $US 12.7 billion and focused on Tesla cars, is said to be “spending a lot of time” with Johnny Depp’s estranged wife, Amber Heard.

Model Lily Cole dated the Twitter founder Jack Dorsey in 2013. Later she had a son with Kwame Ferreira, founder of the digital innovation agency Kwamecorp. Actress Emma Watson is going out with William Knight, an “adventurer” who has an incredibly boringly sounding job as a senior manager at Medallia, a software company. Allison Williams, Marnie in the HBO television show Girls, is married to Ricky Van Veen, co-founder of College Humor website.

Could it be that these women are onto something? Dating a bro certainly has its appeal. They are innovative: how else would they invent apps that deliver cheese toasties or match singles based on their haircuts? They are risk-takers who must be charismatic enough to inspire investors and attract crowd-funding. They may not be gym-fit, but they are mathletes who can do your tax bill. They are animal lovers: every start-up is dog friendly. And they are fun: who would not want to date somebody with a ball pool in their office?

There is a saying about dating in Silicon Valley: the odds are good but the goods are odd. Nerds are notorious for peculiar chat-up lines and normcore clothes. Still, if geeks can be awkward, that is part of their charm. Keira Knightley, complaining that Silicon Valley was all men in hoodies and Crocs, described how one gave her his card, saying she should get in touch if she wanted to see a spaceship.

One Vogue writer recalled a Silicon Valley man messaging her via a dating app, in which he noted: “In 50 per cent of your photos you’re holding an iPhone. It may interest you to find out that I invented the iPhone. More accurately I was an engineer on the original iPhone . . .”

Most promisingly, some guys are astoundingly rich. It is suggested Kerr’s engagement ring is a 2.5-carat diamond worth around dollars 55,000. She has already moved into Spiegel’s dollars 12m LA pad. Between his money and her Victoria’s Secrets bridesmaids, no wonder sources claim they are planning an “extravagant wedding”.

It might rival even the Napster founder Sean Parker’s $US10m performance-art bash. He married songwriter Alexandra Lenas in a canopy among Big Sur’s redwoods decorated to look like an enchanted forest. Some 350 guests wore Tolkienesque costumes created by The Lord of the Rings costume designer Ngila Dickson. They sat on white fur rugs and were given bunnies to pet. Presumably rabbit babysitters were on hand when the disco started.

If such fantasies inspire you to become a Twag, the great news is you do not have to be a supermodel to be in with a chance. Such is the dearth of single women in Silicon Valley that one dating site, Dating Ring, crowdfunded a plane to fly single women to Palo Alto from New York.

Be warned, though: guys are single because they are married to the job.

No wonder most meet their partners at college or work — the Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg met his wife, Priscilla Chan, at Harvard.

The Instagram co-founder Kevin Systrom met girlfriend Nicole Schuetz at Stanford. Melinda met Bill Gates when, in 1987, they sat next to each other at an Expo trade-fair dinner. “He was funnier than I expected him to be,” she said.

Kerr began dating Spiegel in 2014 after meeting him at a Louis Vuitton dinner in New York. You can bet he was networking. Shortly after Louis Vuitton showcased their cruise collection in a Snapchat story. Last season Snapchat went on to become the biggest new name at NY fashion week.

If you want to meet tech guys, you might catch them at Silicon Valley parties, which is how the Uber chief executive Travis Kalanick met his partner, Gabi Holzwarth, a violinist hired to play. Or they might be schmoozing clients downtown in a swanky Noe Valley club in San Francisco or a boring Union Square hotel in New York. In London you find them around Old Street, aka Silicon Roundabout, in bars, at hackathons, or start-up meet-ups. In the day they are coding at Google Campus or practising their pitching in a co-working space.

Some tech boys date the old-fashioned way: on Tinder. Airbnb founder Brian Chesky met his girlfriend of three years, Elissa Patel, through the app. When I interviewed Instagram co-founder Systrom he admitted that when he had been single he had signed up.

Dating agency Linx — presumably a play on operating system Linux — is dedicated to making Silicon Valley matches. Amy Andersen set it up in 2003 after moving to Palo Alto and being “flabbergasted” by the number of eligible men. She claims her clients are “extremely dynamic and successful individuals’’: tech founders, tech chief executives, financier founding partners of large institutions and “tons of entrepreneurs”.

Andersen says tech guys make “fabulous partners”. Romantic and chivalrous, they write love letters, plan dates, “even proposing on Snapchat!” If you want to marry a tech billionaire, she says, “you need to bring your A game.” Her clients look “for women who are equally, if not more, dynamic and interesting than he is!”

There are drawbacks to dating tech guys. Before Google buys your amore’s business, he will be living on *** Noodles waiting for the next round of funding — and workaholics are dull.

Kerr says Spiegel is “25, but he acts like he’s 50. He’s not out partying. He goes to work in Venice [Beach], he comes home. We don’t go out. We’d rather be at home and have dinner, go to bed early.” Which might suit Kerr, but is not my idea of a fun.

You had also better be prepared to share your life. When Priscilla Chan miscarried three times, Mark Zuckerberg wrote about it on Facebook, while Chesky used a romantic trip with his girlfriend to promote Airbnb - uploading a picture of her in bed, with a note saying “f* hotels”. Besides all of which is the notorious issue of Silicon Valley sexism.

It has a chief exec-bro culture that puts pick-up artist/comedian Dapper Laughs to shame. Ninety per cent of women working in the Valley say they have witnessed sexist behaviour, 60 per cent have experienced unwanted ****** advances at work, two thirds of them from their boss. Whitney Wolfe, a co-founder of Tinder, took Justin Mateen to court for ****** harassment. Her lawsuit against the company alleged that Mateen, her former partner, sent text messages calling her a “*****”.

Spiegel has tech bro form. He apologised after emails from his days at Stanford emerged: missives about stripper poles, getting black-out drunk, shooting lasers at “fat chicks”, and promising to “roll a blunt for whoever sees the most **** tonight (Sunday)”. After one fraternity Hawaiian luau party, he signed off emails “f*
bitchesgetleid”.

No wonder some women are not inspired to become Twags. Especially when you could be a tech billionaire yourself. Would you not rather be Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, than married to the boss?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
raïsa patel (cbc journalist),
lindsay shepherd and
some self-deprecating humour,
   from some random ******,
as requested...

there's only one
to go place to counter...
grzegorz brzęczyszykiewicz

https://tinyurl.com/jop9ofr (youtube
video, from the film:
   how i started the second world war,
cult classic)...

so here you have...
a clash of orthographies...
we'll leave english
out of it, since...
    it doesn't have an orthography...
you can't exactly call
       i over ι
                    or j over ȷ
         orthography...

it's good to know that i've come
across this video...
  lindsay, as always: looking
in full bloom...

   an article... over...        ï ?
       r'ah-e-s'ah?
  i can give you the phonetic
    transcript if you want...
zuname?
     patel...
       oh... from the geographic
region where H is a surd,
but is included in the spelling?
e.g.?
     ghee: clarified butter...
oh don't worry,
we'll get to the tongue-twisting
phonetic revision...

  it's not "that hard" after all,
some of the syllables exist in english
already...

grzegorz brzęczyszykiewicz

(cracks his fingers)
right:
    g'je-
  ****... the english sometimes
treat G like a surd...
    to get a (g)nome for
one's garden...
  or in cocker's two-bit:
   'arden... namely to ha-harden.

lucky me, being the dumb ******
in these parts...
i've moved beyond
being "offended" by
someone not pronounciating
something correctly...
  i just don't expect it...
      i just giggle...
   and think about what else
i can find, as being, unusual
in this, particular of all
the tongues in history.

   rz is a grapheme -
very much akin to the french:
   je suis!

     i'm not even going to bother
with
                          ę

nope, not going to bother...

cz is akin to the english grapheme
  ch-...
  where there's a Z
   you'd short-circuit and think
of H (except in the case of rz)...

   the same goes for
   sz, which is akin to sh-...

which brings us to the second
tier of orthography concerning
the grapheme     rz...
       ż...
                it's synonymous:
phonetically... but not in meaning...

rzecz: je-eh-ch: thing...
                 (th- is a grapheme,
  off: -eta, one of the greek eF so'unds)

see... we're having such
a fun time in english...
no clear orthography given
no diacritical markers...
a simple playground to
prance around...

    żubr: european bison...
the animal only exists in poland...
and, yeah...
poland is also famous
for the fact that...
the storks (bocian)
   chose poland for the summer...
god knows where
they migrate for the winter...

i could have written
out the full anatomy of the mouth...
notably the question of
   y: which is not why
where i'm from...
                                technically...
you would learn
the sound         ý...
i wrote acute, but it's more:
hollowed out...

   hell... if we're going to be pedantic
about just three graphemes,
i.e.
     raïsa...
     so... r'ah-e-s'ah
      and not:      rye-s'ah?
oh god, so much fun...
        with only a few diacritical
markers...
   i can play phonetic games
with... whenever starts
to be pedantic, over so little
that's in their possession.
Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
21–40 of 11462 Poems
«1234»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by  
Faith
BY MICHAEL *******br>When I cannot believe,
The brown herds still move across green fields
Into the tufty hills, and I was born . . .
Teusaquillo, 1989
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
Flowering sietecueros trees:
How easily we married ourselves
to the idea of that bruised light . . .
Bright Pittsburgh Morning
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
This must happen just after I die: At sunrise
I bend over my grandparents' empty house in Hazelwood
and pull it out of the soft cindered earth by the Mon River. . . .
Hanukkah
BY HILDA MORLEY
This season for us, the Jews—
a season of candles,
                                      one more . . .
Winter Solstice
BY HILDA MORLEY
A cold night crosses
our path
                  The world appears . . .
And I in My Bed Again
BY HILDA MORLEY
Last night
                     tossed in
my bed . . .
alternate names for black boys
BY DANEZ SMITH
1.   smoke above the burning bush
2.   archnemesis of summer night
3.   first son of soil . . .
Listen
Attenuate the Loss and Find
BY ANNE WALDMAN
name appears
everywhere and in dream
body armor removed . . .
From “Citizen”
BY CLAUDIA RANKINE
/ 

You are in the dark, in the car, watching the black-tarred street being swallowed by speed; he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there. . . .
Listen
History Will Decide
BY ANNE WALDMAN
All writing around the sides the persons a galaxy all writing resounds a hot history. All writing is in fact cut-ups history will decide games heated and heated economic behavior. To rise up scene all sounds of Tahrir and inside supply side threatened. A long delineation. Longer than I would . . .
ICC Kenya Trials: Witness
BY SHAILJA PATEL
was it so I could
never say
across a courtroom . . .
Mosaic
BY TIM SEIBLES
A carpet of light, the
ocean alive < half a moon
muting the stars. . . .
sideshow
BY DANEZ SMITH
Have I spent too much time worrying about the boys
killing each other to pray for the ones who do it
with their own hands? . . .
The Last Son of China
BY **** PING
.......................    hello hello hello    ...    Weiwei    ...    where have you been?    ...    I see you in dreams    ...    bleeding    ...    in the darkness of the . . .
The Skin of Sleep
BY MYRA SKLAREW
The skin of sleep
is thin. It will not hold.
Its contents stumble out. . . .
What Could Have Happened
BY SHAILJA PATEL
Wa
gal
la . . .
Everybody Has a Heartache: A Blues
BY JOY HARJO
In the United terminal in Chicago at five on a Friday afternoon
The sky is breaking with rain and wind and all the flights
Are delayed forever. We will never get to where we are going . . .
Good Friday
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
Jesus, I want my sins back.
My prattle, pride, and private prices — 
climbing, clinching, clocking —  . . .
ICE Agents Storm My Porch
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
The Indiscriminate Citizenry of Earth
are out to arrest my sense of being a misfit.
“Open up!” they bellow,
hands quiet before my door
that’s only wind and juniper needles, anyway.

You can’t do it, I squeak from inside.
You can’t make me feel at home here
in this time of siege for me . . .
Tablets
BY DUNYA MIKHAIL
1


She pressed her ear against the shell: . . .
«1234»
There Is Slavery in Mauritania
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

There are black slaves in Mauritania
Indentured Patel Slaves in India
Black Slaves in Mali
Black Slaves in Nigeria
Black Slaves in Niger
White Slaves in Russia
Muslim slaves in Senegal
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

Today, December 2013
There are black slaves in Mauritania
serving the white Berbers
Toiling from morning to late evening
working under desert sun like soulless beasts
with no single pay, with no human dignity
there are black slaves in Mauritania.

Let us all go slowly and slowly to fight
In the Islamic city of Nouakchott
To demolish evil monuments of slavery
With our entire human mighty let us fight
With our blood, sweat and soul
Fight slavery the human vice in Mauritania
Free them all black slaves to freedom
Black moor, black Africans, Afro-Mauritanians
From the shackles of slavery to white Berbers,
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

There are women in slavery in Nouakchott
Herding camels and goats, donkeys and mules
Black women ***** in the field alongside animals
Enslaved women ***** in the field as children look
Black women ***** in the field as goats and sheep watch
Black women of Mauritania are in deep tribulation
All their pregnancies a protégé of white ****
No child of love, wedlock or out of romance
There are black slaves in Mauritania

There are a million black slaves in Mauritania
Some know of their fate some know not
Their doom of chattel slavery
Where man is sold away like a wooden spoon
Away to a willing buyer a slave is sold
Away to a fellow slave master man is donated
As a wedding gift or a birthday token
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

When a white Berber king dies
The journey before him is long and arduous
The journey to heaven is long indeed
He can’t go alone he needs a hand
Two live slaves are buried along with him
The slave master the white Berber
To provide hand and service to the master off to heaven
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

In the city of Nouakchott Muslim enslave Moslem
Against the holy law of Mohammed,
As long as they are black Africans and moors
Islam is neither fortress nor succor for them
Against the racist urge for enslavement
White Berbers the rich of Nouakchott
Enslave Black Muslim and half Black Muslim
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

It is true god of Christians and Allah of Moslem
Owe apology to enslaved black humanity
God and Allah should apologize to Africanity
God said, Jews can **** a non Jewish slaves is no sin
Albeit, killing a Jewish slave is sin
Jews only to be slaves for seven years
That, slaves venerate your masters
That, non-Jewish slaves are in life slavery
Their sire slaves of the master
Jewish slaves give birth to children
Non-Jewish slaves give birth to slaves
Allah said, Muslim can enslave all non Muslims
O! Africa! There are black slaves in Mauritania.

Liberated slaves of Mauritania go back
In the sand dunes and dents of slavery
Teach your folks both master and slaves
The fruit of freedom from religious utopia
Tell the slaves to ignore the Quran and the Bible
For these are none other than handmaids of slavery
Stupid bliss, blind faith, O! Archaic pusillanimity
there is black slaves in Mauritania.

Let the slaves read and teach others to read
Fanon Omar the son of Algeria
Walter Rodney son of Guyana
Aime Cesaire son of the north
Ousmane of Senegal the wood of Islam
Amilcar Cabral the verdant cape
Malcolm X and Paul Freire, pedagogy of slavery
Marcus Garvey and The black souls of W Dubois
There are black slaves in Mauritania

For me and my house I stand for freedom
For me and my house I stand for human dignity
For me and my house I stand for diversity in humanity
For me and my house I will never enslave a fellow human being
For me and my house I better serve Marxism down to my infinity
Other than flirting with christo-islamic glorification of slavery
Slaves in Mauritania have tyranny of numbers over the Berbers
Stand up and fight the few slave drivers in Mauritania
There are black slaves in Mauritania.
MdAsadullah Dec 2014
Long ago, on my
unpatriotic ways,
with anger patriots
turned ablaze.
They ill-treated me
with words of abuse,
even classes on patriotism
was of no use.
One day patriotic
tonic I drank.
It made all the difference,
to be frank.
Now professor of patriotism
I've become.
To hear my lectures
many patriots come.
And before my patriotism inspires
enemies of North and West
and before my nationalism
they easily bear and digest
and before Chinese
people of the North
have understood my
patriotic lecture's worth
and before their Olympians
represent Nation of mine
and before we get medals
in abundance this time
and before Pakistanis
decide to turn traitors at once,
inspired by my patriotic views
and my eloquence
and before Indians use golden
words for me to describe
and before my name
in history they inscribe
and before people start
giving me much respect
and before my big and
large statues they *****
and before my replicas
and dolls are put on sale
and before I start competing with
likes of Gandhi and Patel
and before this poetry
becomes too patriotic to comprehend
with slogan 'Jai Hind ' this patriotic
poetry must come to an end.
This poem was written when few of my friends were questioning my patriotism.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.that moment, when you realiße... "it's not yet another garry glitter song"... because quiet frankly... you still haven't seen Joker... you're stuffing raw dough into biscuit shapes in a make-shift Tibet... as a raw-treat... and your body is tombstone stiff... but your eyes are on fire and your soul is dancing... synonym parade... because gary glitter can be excused in the same way that: rob halford... rob halford isn't gay... isn't gay the metalheads would otherwise say... but because the song can exist per se... since... a glaring gary is no... jimmy 'the kid-fiddling dj' savile... and he's... no ian watkins... because... if you asked me... rock & roll part II is a gary glitter song? och! ouch! pinch-punch 1st of April is upon us recoil... hell no! i still read marquis de sade... only because by my standards... he's quiet decent... all he ever did wrong was use the imagery of a crucifix as a ***** when asking a ******* to peform the sado-masochistic act of ******* before him... otherwise his phallus was lost in the niqab of the bastille... his uncle though? ah! that's another matter! although: much aggrieved but somehow agreed... you could still buy marquis de sade's novella ****** in London, once upon a time... perhaps you still can... but does that even matter? i am about to get a primer about the Iranian inherent hate for h'america anytime soon... about how h'americans manage to bundle the Persians into the rag-ah-muffin crowd of camel-jockeys and easily replaced arab donors... and those poor iraqis... doing their bit...  who is to forget the phrase: turbanator? i.e. not referring to sikhs... no one besides moi... welcome to l'inglese... the modern lingua franca... and i do feel so sorry so very so very much for the natives that were beither born in Bratford or the rustbelt fly-over states of h'america... if joe biden says: learn to code! guess what i was but wasn't told being ***** from a ******* that was poland come the drop of the iron curtain of the 1990s... coming to the 2020s... me conjuring up the Silicon Curtain?! really? adverse to learn to code... learn a new language! and globalißation will "win"... internationalism already works on a bilingual basis... there's the established language of commerce... which is english... i'm sorry... i'll be kind... "you" will have to move... if not cognitively... then otherwise... i learned yours... learn mine! that's the motto... this is where linguistic nativism comes in... not borrowed time from places like h'america... not some emblem worship... just ol' lil' england... i hope this doesn't reach a wide audience... i am having to consider learning romanian... du-te dracului! that's a starter...

i've found out that, the only way to truly enjoy
a glass of red wine is...
to have also rolled your own tobacco...
and since we're talking the highest quality rolling
tobacco: golden virginia...
after rolling it... you gentle bask it in a lighter's flame
from top to bottom... to warm it up...
so you don't have to finish it off as if *******
through a straw...

that's of course if you're drinking red wine on its own...
but there's a reason why i hanged around
with a few spaniards in the past...
why i went to paris and met this two catalonian
hot-takes... who i later visited in Barcelona...
drank kalimotxo for a while getting ready
to hit the party scene...
was given my first joint in my life...
and... hello lullaby...

next day we toured the sights...
we never made it to the gothic quarter...
or the el reval...
we went into one of those shops
in a shopping mall that sell everything...
that's when i discovered portishead's debut:
dummy all by myself...
and then onto camp nou...
to be honest... throughout all this time...
i felt like a glove...
no really... i felt my company was being...
tested as to whether it could be well worn
and: worn out at a much later date...
i was, what, 19 then?

what will leave me well versed in travel,
jumping continents?
i should really add prague along the line somewhere...
the days when i would solo for a weekend
and never bother with any if at all: precautions...
i can't imagine the sort of trips
my "highschool friends" took...
en masse... and always to a resort -
say, in greece...

the joker scenes are out...
the scene where he's dancing on the stairs...
sounds good... mhmm...
oh... this is gary glitter?
the art has absolutely nothing to do with the artist...
it's not like gary glitter can get away with it...
but... i'm pretty sure he can get away
whereas... ian watkins?
in that crushing defeat of musical genres...
when emo wasn't quiet a thing...
and nu-metal didn't die out...

i'm a cheap ***: all the people are raving /
were raving about a film...
and i'm waiting for the delayed spectacle...
only recently... avengers: end game?
what a major ******...
this "self-aware" introspection into movie
franchises that explore time-travel...
here's an alternative: study chemistry
and get a hippo's ***** ready on the wet
dip... i'm guessing this is a period of time
when: the genre of science fiction will
slowly die off...
i don't see how science fiction can sustain
itself...

- which is always beside the point...
moving on... english... this acquired tongue of
mine...
if only i were so adamant as a czesław miłosz:
had i a translator's worth of shadow,
and baggage running around after me...
like a sacred cow of the Raj...
how did i learn to mitigate?
i don't know... what i do know is...
drinking and habits of listening to music...

it starts off with: listening to some
music using english...
it sooner or later gravitates toward
something in german...
after i tire myself of german lyrics...
i'm heading toward scandinavia...
chances are: i will visit "mother russia"...
but i'll probably sink into
visiting byzantine chants...
once i figured out a way to move
from scandinavian paganism...
work my way past german folk
from the medieval period...
and finally arrive at: αγνη παρθενε...
obviously i will have to stop over
some quasi-folk germanic songs...
northern crusades:
teutonic songs... or the templar songs:

da pacem domine...
pristine times! the drunk carol singers
has sung their bit... there was no rest
for the wicked...
the carol: god rest ye merry, gentlemen
was sang...
reality of the everyday happened
no day shy away from the "celebration"...
i find more comfort in songs
of the templars...
perhaps the gregorians with their calender...
but most certainly the byzantine choir...

of ancient greece and what is known...
what can stand out from byzantine greece?
except from: byzantine bureaucracy?
counting knots in the fish-net stocking
on a centipede crawling out of a harem?

my musical diet: when i drink...
i can't listen to music when english is involved:
for too long a "passing" of: enjoying it...
i grow a beard and satan mount
a throne of wood and amber...
fiddling with it like a mad maestro that
has been given 100 violins and no...
woodwinds... and this is my "orchestra"...
a beard... crux of central europe:
with the zenith on the border of the river
Oder...

i do wonder what this scenario would look like;
if the girl gambled otherwise...
the pretty-****-pick sent by my offspring...
or my full-crop of hair...
and a beard... ***** envy can hardly be
a social events on the pedestrian stage...
but cranium envy?

the diet for a session begins...
it has to begin in english...
but who knows where i'm otherwise willing
to lend an ear to?
i can't be stuck with music i can understand
lyrically...
if i can't understand how to compose music...
well i did once know how to play
the ***-ar... and worked a nightclub
for a mandolin: just to serenade a Fiona
from a window a maggie may by:
rod-it stuart in edinburgh... once...

how romantic of anyone...
hell... this is still in english?
why aren't i pulling the strings of a czesław miłosz
and not retaining my nativspreschen?
why? i love to tickle german...
i love to tickle deutsche more than i care
for speaking english, or... rather...
writing in it...
but unlike a czesław miłosz... i didn't bring
a linguistic ghetto with me...
i don't have a ****** ghetto to go to...
perhaps... if i mingled with enough
of my "fellow", "countrymen"...
much easier said than done: if you're Irish...
and the only THing you have to worry
about is... diacritical nuance...
the THing, the Θing... is an english:
what the irish consider to be a surd affair...
T'h'ING... it's a t'ing... not ******* F even
if you looked at it with a bollocking of
a microscope, either!

- and this once high-school "fwend" once suggested...
'maybe you should go and find your own
fellow countrymen'...
who the **** do i look like? paddy?
an arab, an iranian, an italian...
or some *****-cheeky-cheese-brigade of sorts?!
my, "fellow" and "countrymen"...
on foreign soil? em... allegience to who?
i have severed my ties with Poland...
i keep my ties with Poland on the basis that:
my grandfather and grandmother are still
alive... when i visit them...
i don't expect them to be into this whole:
post-nationalism: internationalism non-nationalism
globalisation gimmick of: at least,
at least the modern lingua franca:
which is the l'inglese....
because... quiet frankly? i have a stash of:
mutterzunge bubbling beneath what's being written,
with some mongrel-german and mongrel-russia
auxilliary...

ah... the natives of the english tongue...
well... it's quiet expansive...
it can go beyond encompassing merely england...
it can go so far as to tread over scottish gaelic...
somewhat irish gaelic too...
only zee Velsh... seem to be... W: whistling free
in their linguistic stand-off...
who the hell even bothers to hear
about any scottish gaelic?
there's only gaelic gaelic: irish gaelic...
and there's welsh...
scotch gaelic? huh? apart from: a wee this
and a wee that?
*******... tartan and god's **** *******
of beer and the side-trash-dish of the savior
of whiskey in a gulp of ms. amber's **** juices
from a...
one of those distilleries...
that served up a whiskey tokaj whiskey...
i still remember the picture...
a girl i was dating took the picture...
in front of her a belarusian jew cosmo...
to her left... a russian looking into the glass
of whiskey with some philosiphical insight
begging to come out...
to her right... a dog ****** with his nose
in the matter...

figures... the ****** will sniff **** out...
the russian will: peer into the glass
for some "magical" insight...
philosophy or what not...

as if insuating: concerning the "little" people
of europe...
unlike the portugese, the spanish,
the italians or the greeks: acronym: PIGS...
but i least i'm no czesław miłosz:
i don't need to move to cam'cam'h'america
with a language in tow:
for some sort of lesson of: preserving roots
for a tree...
my version is apparently:
the bad integration strategy...
esp. on paper...
why would i still retain my tongue...
on paper... in this medium...
citizen ist citizen:
bürger ist bürger ist mir!

heaven behold i have to use alt sächsisch vaterzunge
to speak to the grünschnabel...
i fear for the natives of this tongue:
esp. since hiding behind the stipend of:
the empire upon which the sun never sets...
to have to hide behind a cultural import
from h'america...
or australia... is what gives rise to these
pseudo-communist grey areas of Bratford...
or Islam-came-ah-knocking in
Rotherham...

even i have to escape this...
this l'inglese... this new frontier of...
no frontier at all: except for the skull moon...
and baggage of frohlicht!

is priti patel a civic nationalist?
well i'd be ******* sterile if i didn't say:
a babe with class any loser in
my vicinity said: a banger...
if priti patel is not a civic nationalist...
then i'm not in england...
i'm nowhere...
******* banging bunny... anyways...
and the first time i managed to ******
a black girl for a quickie...
it took just the right amount of cocktails and...
enough coccyx banging into my pelvis that...
i... almost wished for a 12" ****
and the "proper *****"...
no... really... imagine a black girl mixed with...
a stick insect... and you just so happen
to have served her up...
a genuis concoction of cocktails...
the coccyx is bound to appear...
alligned to your poor-pelvis plum-sore...
one time or another:
no ***** envy in sight...

hence my "wish"... give me the 12" cod...
and enough plump *** as that will allow...
otherwise: no...
i would still like to imagine being
circumcised via the orthodox methods:
of a rabbi... not via some over-*******...

why am i writing about this with such fondness?
em... 21... nearing 34...
i can count... how many times i've had ***...
using only my fingers...
that's beside counting the prostitutes...
which... when you forget to trim your ***** hair
and you just end up kissing for an hour...
kissing prostitutes: what a noble affair...
bumble, trumble, tumble, twitter, bitter...
grinder... tinder... don't know:
i can't remember having owned a smartphone...
or a mobile...
that ambition died when:
i was left with calls 10 minutes from a meeting
for a pint... on a bus...

that's... 34 - 21... 13 years with sporadic
casual *** patterns...
oh and that thai bisexual girl... woman...
boy... i picked up from a park bench...
we listened to some jazz... drank some beers...
"weaped"... then had a cigarette in the garden
and ****** while i was kept in suspence...
honestly: i didn't know what i was getting myself
into... it was a thai surprise moment...
sports bra... and... until i reached into
the nadir of the zenith did i find out...
phew... no pronoun debauchery...

13 years and the sort of *** life that could
be celebrated by a *******
harriet turtles of the islands of galapagos...
while, around me, in the vicinity:
kama surtras left right and center!
why would i drift toward...
scandinavian pagan songs...
byzantine chants... crusader anthems?
i don't know: it's hard to punctuate
ridicule into that sentence... ridicule and irony...
self-depreciating humor...

- 'music was terrible in the 2010s'...
perhaps... except of a ****** band: LAO CHE...
i will still be punching myself over
my sentiments...
and "they" can come and speak english
like it's "theirs"...
but at the same time... not be "english" at
the same time...
perhaps it's the north h'american conundrum
of patriotism with the old continent
sentiment "for" nationalism...
perhaps if we all speak this one
magical language...
we can still find ourselves
with unboxing cues in a bazar in Tehran...

and they were Persians before
the Arab camel-jockeys came...
and that spirit of poetry died
and the old antagonism with the Greeks:
too died...
arab camel-jockeys with their... sole book...
and enough time...
enough time to see them sitting on
an iceberg of dinosaur crude fuel...
that truly was and is a miracle...
i still don't see why the Ottomans wouldn't
want to treat the camel-jockeys as they
should have to have prospered:
since no Lawrence would ever come from
ottoman Istambul...

but oh oh: tuba büyüküstün the god-smacker
and the slow death of martyrs' promised: harems...
even a slow-to-understand man
can find his solomon and his queen of sheba...
somehow, "somewhere"...

so much for drinking some wine...
and: it's not like speaking the truth, drunk,
managed to get anyone into trouble...
perhaps the "kind" alternative?
nietzsche on barbiturates?

i sometimes wish i could be alligned
to a female sort of companionship...
without the immediate awe-struck beauty parallel
with: what's actually beneath being
awe-struck... but no...
i will have to do my best with dogs,
cats, the odd fox... and pyramids and pyramids
of stacked ms. amber bottles...

wine and the gods' anemia... or haemophilia...
i never which one it is...
i almost wish i could sentence myself
to the banal grey-ish merger of:
the everyday with a woman...
but... alas... i still have a mother...
and i'm still unsure about the times
when she's lying or telling the truth...
but, given, she's my mother...
i allow her the benefit of the doubt...
having a mother is enough to:

going down the river of keeping a woman
company: in company that precludes
having *** with her...
bad grammar or just the unnecessary word:
precludes...

it's enough to be in a company of a woman
you can't have *** with...
and quiet another...
to be in a company... you can have *** with...
this "can" will probably never
arrive at the sober conclusion of:
you "might" or... that you even "will"...
i guess the antithesis of gambling came
when prostitution wasn't allowed...
a man sought alternatives...
50p bet and all the thrills....
that... yep... 110 quid an hour would never give...
gambling and *******...
the siamese child of desolation of
Moloch and his bride: Ursula (usury)...

what's that "motto"? when the fun stops: stop?
here's a way to figure it out:
see a ***** before you start gambling...
and when you gamble...
bet for a quarter... less than but equal to / no more
than a pound...
i've started to bet on football results:
a win... and the other team also scores...
i managed to find a bet accumulator...
that would leave me off...
over 200K richer... from having bet a pound...

like i once mentioned...
the 3Ps of today's clinical "advice"...
there's the priest... n'ah...
there's the psychiatrist (you'll want to see him
first, seeing a psychologist is pointless...
he has no prescriptive authority...
he's no big pharma loved-up yuppy sort of...
gwy)...
or there's the *******...
priest, psychiatrist... *******...
i did the priestly bit when i visited
a monestary in France, Taize...
i was young and the hormones weren't kicking in,
just yet, and i would have stayed...
but i wasn't rich enough to buy myself
a place at that, kind of, prestigious "university"...

psychologists and psychiatrists...
what the tongue can't lick or taste:
a tongue can't heal...
talk talk talk... but no: suma summarum:
no oeuvre momentum...

prostitutes and betting habbits it was...
settled...
this one maroccan colt with his one maxim:
there's no water in a desert...
ever see more water than that in a puddle
in a concrete jungle?
and that's hoping for: evian...
tapeworm free water... ever?!

so much for tinder...
and so much for... ahem... adverts: ok cupid...
claustrophobic dating advice with no
spares...
if you can't pick them up fresh
from a park bench of uncertainty waiting
for that, that thai surprise?
so much for being a h'american...
and a *** tourist... in Odessa...
of Kiev... or getting milked for the bogus
*****-****-thrill of it:
to genesis the whole model escapade of:
dosh stashed in a porky inch-by-inch
leather itch of: spend spend spend!
Priya Patel Jun 2015
A forgiving grey
Black and white together sway
until the next rain
A forgiving grey
Moody clouds come out and play
a forboding and colorless sky
Black and white together sway
A forgiving grey

© Priya Patel 6/1/2015
Priya Patel Mar 2016
Another day another hour  
lost in the hum drum  
of everyday life
I am a mother, a daughter,  
partner by your side
I never say it enough
never share what I feel
never tell you how much  I adore you,
I truly do
Your simple ways,
and the smile in your eyes  
You are the **** sporty realistic spice  
that I fall in love with day after day
There is so much I feel and not enough
words to convey how much
I truly adore you
I truly do
There is no glam or glitz
or fairytale blitz
but there is trust and love
and years of support;
an unspoken desire  
that I somehow distort
But I want you to know
after all these years
you still are the flame  to my fire...

© Priya Patel Feb 28, 2016
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2018
Priti Patel suggested that
the UK Government should
starve The Irish into submission
on the issue of the Backstop Brexit.

Imagine an Indian Tory woman
telling that to an Indian Irish P.M.

I wonder what would Ghandi think,
Bobby Sands, or Terence McSwiney?
Joel M Frye Feb 2016
Discovered a new
"poet", Diksha Patel, a
master plagiarist.
To any who read this:  please let your friends know.

To all my friends and followers:  Check Diksha's page on HP and see if s/he's plagiarized any of your work.  They stole my POTD from a couple months ago, and struck it from their site when I called them out on it yesterday.  Eliot has been notified.
Priya Patel Feb 2017
I wonder what he hides
behind those smiling lies
and the warm creeping blush
that shades his eyes

I wonder if he knows
that I can see

I wonder what he sees
when he looks at me
the flushed cheeks
and hesitant goodbyes
quivering lips
from wasted lies

I wonder what he sees*

© Priya Patel, 1/29/16

The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.
~ St. Jerome
Priya Patel May 2015
I am a blur of emotions;
the colored dots of freckles
that scatter freely in the air
and I am sometimes the knots
that get tangled in your hair,
desperately trying to come undone
I am the mystery in a love affair,
like the wild midnight mane
of a dancing horse
spinning round and round
before tumbling gently
to the soft of ground
I am the imagination of a canvas
ready to be painted me

© Priya Patel 5/26/15
Donall Dempsey Jan 2020
LIVING THE FAIRY TALE

make her
a doll's house from
McVities Gingerbread
Cake she absolutely adores
"Yum...yum!"

*

Her dolls line up on the kitchen table. Keeping their greedy eyes on the ingredients, The Golden Syrup gleams in a bowl like a jewel. For this session of cooking with Daddy( always good for a laugh)the lights have..**** them gone...out.

We prepare ourselves by candlelight.
I swear one of the dolls winks and licks her lips in the flickering. The big doll that can wet herself...wets herself.  
Little daughter is wearing a chief's traditional hat many sizes too big for her. She wears it like a crown. She looks like a mushroom come alive.

"Tonight..." I proclaim like the showman that I am to my assembled audience of girl and dolls. "Tonight I shall create before your very own eyes...my very own Jamaican Ginger Cake." I get dolls and girl to say the magic words "Yum Yum YUM!" and hey presto we're off.

Tilly tells the dolls in a loud whisper that "Daddy isn't as good at this as Mummy is!" My pride smarts. I'll show the little blighters I swear and swear to myself.

"Just get on with it!" the dolls scream silently.

Tilly already has a finger( not her own)in the Golden Syrup. She licks the guilty finger and fibs outlandishly "Dolly wanted to taste it!"
The black treacle remains untouched. The dolls don't like it. "Only in the cake!" Tilly confesses.

Soon spices and flour are sifted. Eggs beaten to within an inch of their lives...whisking about the bowl. "Let there be light!" I invoke the Gods and the lights come back. I am indeed favoured.

Tilly falls asleep in the kitchen's fug and warmth...curled about her sleeping cat. The cat is always asleep even when awoke.

The dolls never take their eyes off of me.

Now comes the time when the cake puffs up with pride and sits on its plate like a newly crowned monarch.  It's...it's...not bad for a Dad. But looks a bit the worse for wear..bits falling off here and there...a bit eaten...just a nibble and maybe another little nibble.

"But why Mr. Dempsey..." my Indian grocer demands with amazement "...do you want thirty..THIRTY McVities  Jamaican Ginger Cakes...for why...it's not the end of the world is it...or Brexit?"

"I'm building a house!" I whisper to him as if it is our little secret.

When she awakes..the cat as ever still asleep ...she yawns "Dolls gone..where dolls goned?"

The kitchen looks as immaculate as a conception...as if man has never touched it.

"Shhh...dolls is sleep!" I say sotto voce and adopting her lingo.
"In their own house!" I add for extra measure. Her eyes go wide.

And indeed dolls are lying down with eyes shut tight inside...their newly constructed Jamaica Gingerbread House. All except for the big doll who wet herself and who I have propped up on the loo. Although she is on the loo she finds now she can't go.

"Mmm!" Tilly  mmms. "Dolls have lovely house!" eating the door and half the roof off. Cake in her curls...cake up her nose and in an ear. She eats it with all of her head. "MMMM!" she mmmms again.

"We won't tell if you don't..." the winking doll whispers (like the co-conspirator that she is) waking up in a real life fairy tale "..if you don't tell!"

The next evening... the house eaten...I pop into Mr. Patel's. "Surely not more!" he almost flinches.

"No...just the one this time Mr. Patel...just the one!"
Priya Patel May 2015
It's whispering time
when backs are turned and words flow
Each smile is a show

I wonder with birds,
do they chirp incessantly
we smile foolishly

We think it's their song
Love notes in the midnight air
laughing unaware

We become their toy
A mocking ground for love birds
we hang on their words

This is how we are
Spring to summer smiles for show
In the end, it snows

© Priya Patel 5/29/2015
Priya Patel Sep 2015
Crippling

How crippling life may be
when gnarled thoughts
and broken dreams
leave you stunted
into silence

She was a dazzling bloom
a daffodil amongst thorns
until the wheels of life
trampled her
into the ground

Leaving me alone
with pictures and memories
and silent, pent up tears
trying so hard to accept
the absence of her smile

How crippling life may be
when everything you admired
is gone

© Priya Patel 9/16/2015
Priya Patel Jun 2015
Opportunity came by today
completely unaware
Neatly packaged in silver and gold
hope perhaps,  a prayer
Aching desires to do what's right
to do for me for a change -
a feeling so utterly strange

Truth be told,
I'm not yet 100% sold
and opportunity has visited
a lot as of late
Perhaps I should count my blessings
and patiently, silently wait
Perhaps opportunity
has finally found me
Let's see

Perhaps I am someone else's key...

© Priya Patel 6/4/2015
Priya Patel Mar 2016
A story of love

46 years ago and on this day
a story was ready to begin
A dashing hero
meets the love of his life
and weds a stunning heroine
Each day, a new page was born
with words and memories
into pictures to adorn
the hearts of two star crossed lovers
So very much different
but alike in their love
forever climbing
beyond and above
to ensure the rest of us
was taken care of
In that, they were so alike
In that, their love remains alive
He was her hero
and she his heroine
A story of true love
that will never end

The story of my mom and dad ...

ॐ Priya Patel
Donall Dempsey Jan 2023
LIVING THE FAIRY TALE

make her
a doll's house from
McVities Gingerbread


Cake she absolutely adores
"Yum...yum!"
living the fairytale

*

Her dolls line up on the kitchen table. Keeping their greedy eyes on the ingredients, The Golden Syrup gleams in a bowl like a jewel. For this session of cooking with Daddy( always good for a laugh)the lights have..**** them gone...out.

We prepare ourselves by candlelight.

I swear one of the dolls winks and licks her lips in the flickering. The big doll that can wet herself...wets herself.  

Little daughter is wearing a chief's traditional hat many sizes too big for her. She wears it like a crown. She looks like a mushroom come alive.

"Tonight..." I proclaim like the showman that I am to my assembled audience of girl and dolls. "Tonight I shall create before your very own eyes...my very own Jamaican Ginger Cake." I get dolls and girl to say the magic words "Yum Yum YUM!" and hey presto we're off.

Tilly tells the dolls in a loud whisper that "Daddy isn't as good at this as Mummy is!" My pride smarts. I'll show the little blighters I swear and swear to myself.

"Just get on with it!" the dolls scream silently.

Tilly already has a finger( not her own)in the Golden Syrup. She licks the guilty finger and fibs outlandishly "Dolly wanted to taste it!"
The black treacle remains untouched. The dolls don't like it. "Only in the cake!" Tilly confesses.

Soon spices and flour are sifted. Eggs beaten to within an inch of their lives...whisking about the bowl. "Let there be light!" I invoke the Gods and the lights come back. I am indeed favoured.

Tilly falls asleep in the kitchen's fug and warmth...curled about her sleeping cat. The cat is always asleep even when awoke.

The dolls never take their eyes off of me.

Now comes the time when the cake puffs up with pride and sits on its plate like a newly crowned monarch.  It's...it's...not bad for a Dad. But looks a bit the worse for wear..bits falling off here and there...a bit eaten...just a nibble and maybe another little nibble.

"But why Mr. Dempsey..." my Indian grocer demands with amazement "...do you want thirty..THIRTY McVities  Jamaican Ginger Cakes...for why...it's not the end of the world is it...or Brexit?"

"I'm building a house!" I whisper to him as if it is our little secret.

When she awakes..the cat as ever still asleep ...she yawns "Dolls gone..where dolls goned?"

The kitchen looks as immaculate as a conception...as if man has never touched it.

"Shhh...dolls is sleep!" I say sotto voce and adopting her lingo.
"In their own house!" I add for extra measure. Her eyes go wide.

And indeed dolls are lying down with eyes shut tight inside...their newly constructed Jamaica Gingerbread House. All except for the big doll who wet herself and who I have propped up on the loo. Although she is on the loo she finds now she can't go.

"Mmm!" Tilly  mmms. "Dolls have lovely house!" eating the door and half the roof off. Cake in her curls...cake up her nose and in an ear. She eats it with all of her head. "MMMM!" she mmmms again.

"We won't tell if you don't..." the winking doll whispers (like the co-conspirator that she is) waking up in a real life fairy tale "..if you don't tell!"

The next evening... the house eaten...I pop into Mr. Patel's. "Surely not more!" he almost flinches.

"No...just the one this time Mr. Patel...just the one!"
Ksjpari Aug 2017
A Family that will always save you bloat
Is none other than Patel’s says my throat.
Boasting? No, really. They are like a tote
Fill whatever from them, they won’t denote.
What a family, what a love, what an antidote.
Whenever you go to them, they are remote
To say “No” – a habit which they wrote
For them – gentle, docile and elegant coat.
All children – Deep, Arti, Nand, Dhir are raincoat.
With their parents and cousins ride a boat
Of success; all creative and ready to devote.
I never forget this family. This a way I emote.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
MoonDancingKitty Jan 2018
Why do you not want,
The rose that’s in front of you
Why do you have to
Go into someone else’s garden

To pick a different one
Because the one you have
Is not enough,
Because my Patel’s don’t excite you,
Anymore

You are creating my thorns
Sharp, long and ready
To defend my Patel’s
Because I’m not enough, never

In your garden, I’ll wait
Until you pick me
Until you destroy me

Again
Priya Patel Sep 2015
Sometimes I see her
as an apparition before me,
finger wagging
smiling that smile;
walking across the broken tile
in the kitchen we no longer use

Sometimes I can sense her
in the leaves outside
rustling with pride
at the funny ways
my kids make dad laugh;
and I miss her

Sometimes I hear her;
a whisper in my ear
reminding me to be softer,
to have patience, smile more
asking me to read her my poems
and to breathe a little space

And sometimes I can feel her
holding my hand
soft like wet sand,
warm and inviting
and I wish I could just
close my eyes and hold her

Sometimes ...

© Priya Patel 9/18/2015
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2020
Life of Pi
     Stormy sky
         Tzimtzum why?


                       Imagine I
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
there are ambitions, forbidden,
for words to cleave to,
to manage hives...

of the opiates that allow
prolonged loss of the dream,
a mother that persist
that listens to that band:
enigma...
but hasn't asked her son...

who are the: the dead can dance?

how weirdly we are
made central in this lesser crime
of the novel,
and somehow together bound...
i...
in that never asked for
a grammatical lesson...
how difficult you have made it,
to have to begin with...
like some pedagogy "expert"...
this your crime your new
"aushwitz"...

you have the basin, the lasp.
my infrequnted lapse
of attention...
the book club,
the antithesis of the better part of me,
when not watching
bricks become rigid for minding a construct
of a wall... subsequent topple...
such be letters that become words...
such be oriental syllables
that become words...
somehow, later...
neither... yet apart...

these have to be forbidden words...
since they are not prized...
beef or pork cutlets..

as i want to gaze upon the moon
with a drift of clouds...
and a stammering...
expectation of a tram...
to be my hour-long-awaited-to-be!

i want the pork-chops
with the *******!
i want the edible parts
and all things leftover cosmopolitan!
i want... i gorge...
for a Hagia Sophia and...
her first born: tuba büyüküstün...

winner or loser...
that all depends on what's concerned
with a win, or with a loss...
anything deemed a win:
but dissociated with a tuba büyüküstün?
is a loss... no dracula can salvage this
tabloid poo'em aside...

but i confess... to heace such beauty?
one must most certainly...
entertain...
auxiliary aids...
one can almost expect...
these expentation standards of beauty
to never incline themselves to borrow from
the Turks...
but dear god: they almost must!

the woman sun-kissing with her hair
is... almost a ****-meal-ready-mcdonald's worth
of ****... but this Istambul queen?
like i once said:
oh i'm sure the english girlies prefer
the pakistani men...
by the looks of it? it's true...
she can be petted to be...
groomed...
but a ****** ******* mother russia
will... not find 'em knocking on 'is door!
so? the pakistani leverage!
grooming gang prior to...
a would-be honest chance...
purge the labour!
honest labour!

no no... we can't have that...
and here's me thinking...
how the ****, will i find my own...
ethno-bride?!
i'm thinking about Ottoman harems!
as any legal-i.q. median man would!
torrent: '****... or a chant of re- re- re-!
there's the love of not being allowed...
and there's the love that allowed...
but otherwise taboo...
that: SPEZIAL talk concerning
the british and the h'americans...
one of them! i swear to god...
one of them is: naive spastic-mr-fantastic!

this is the part where you ask me...
so where's a william f. buckley jr.
when you need one?
that's also called... not speaking mandarin via
the DeLorean...
and no... no harlequin...
no ****-buddy-***-toy...
no neon quiz about the south korean
suicide rates being synonymous with
the lithuanian rates...

bauhaus: or: boor-cusp...
western notions of beauty...
everything mr. spastic-plastic-fantastic...
or else... buggering a niwab of a Q...

it's just a comparion...
once upon a time there were men that would
make taylor swift their beauty standard...
another bleached blonde *** note...
and if... harvey weinstein...
then alfred hitchcock... and those
hitchcock blondes...
"metoo": #joanfontaine,
#gracekelly, #novapilbeam, #ingrid,
#tippihedren, #madeleinecarroll, #carolelombard...

ease up on the blondes
for the gods' furthest fun-****
outside of heaven!
i don't see how... a tuba büyüküstün
could ever become a taylor swift... though...
a tuba büyüküstün is on par with a...
priti patel or a joanna mucha...

or i would be known as:
i'll pretty much **** anything that moves...
or... my standards are well below being on par
with a handicap...
they're just... realistic...
but even by the given citations...
this is me being expansive...

if you feel like you want to **** "something":
you're alaways awfully itchy...
you can't help it...
but there's no expansion on the narrative
for the prime impetus...
that's always lagging... or dragging behind
not having the capacity to fulfill the proper:
peacock...
it's a worse scenario to having to simply
0-base one off...

i'm a european man and i do not find
the european standards of transcendental beauty
to be bound to: a woman with blonde hair
and blue eyes and pale skin...
and speaking with a kentucky accents
of puritanical love...

for some "odd" reason...
she has turkic contort perfections of a...
physiognomy...
which makes me... her lesser...
caucasian...
that cocky-asian... or... whatever is left
available on the platter of...
i would... with my most awaited ease...
cut off my tongue...
as long as i would be...
given the guarantee...
to sip on oysters...
churn kingly prawns...
spit on well done beef...
and... slurp chicken *******...
done proper... with enough butter thyme
lodged in between the ******* and under the skin...

because? the next time a vegan comes into
my mental vicinity...
i will think...
the vegeterian gave birth to the vegan...
the casual meat eater...
surely he must have given birth
to the eucharistic literalist!
yes... the convert of the vegeterian to veganism...
is... thanks to the poetics of the eucharist...
the casual meat-eater...
the antithesis of the vegan:
the cannibal...

root fibre...
some muscle and the same worth
of fibre via the cartilege.

this world deserves an akin: you and i;
for every bad joke told...
there's an already worse moral lesson
to be... not told...
but most assuredly avoided...
which implies: to be learned...
the joke is merely the caveat...

and a caveat is not... a ******* canapé!
LIVING THE FAIRY TALE

make her
a doll's house
from McVities Gingerbread

Cake she
absolutely adores
"Yum...yum!"

having her
fairytale and
eating it

*

Her dolls line up on the kitchen table. Keeping their greedy eyes on the ingredients, The Golden Syrup gleams in a bowl like a jewel. For this session of cooking with Daddy( always good for a laugh)the lights have..**** them gone...out.

We prepare ourselves by candlelight.
I swear one of the dolls winks and licks her lips in the flickering. The big doll that can wet herself...wets herself.  
Little daughter is wearing a chief's traditional hat many sizes too big for her. She wears it like a crown. She looks like a mushroom come alive.

"Tonight..." I proclaim like the showman that I am to my assembled audience of girl and dolls. "Tonight I shall create before your very own eyes...my very own Jamaican Ginger Cake." I get dolls and girl to say the magic words "Yum Yum YUM!" and hey presto we're off.

Tilly tells the dolls in a loud whisper that "Daddy isn't as good at this as Mummy is!" My pride smarts. I'll show the little blighters I swear and swear to myself.

"Just get on with it!" the dolls scream silently.

Tilly already has a finger( not her own)in the Golden Syrup. She licks the guilty finger and fibs outlandishly "Dolly wanted to taste it!"
The black treacle remains untouched. The dolls don't like it. "Only in the cake!" Tilly confesses.

Soon spices and flour are sifted. Eggs beaten to within an inch of their lives...whisking about the bowl. "Let there be light!" I invoke the Gods and the lights come back. I am indeed favoured.

Tilly falls asleep in the kitchen's fug and warmth...curled about her sleeping cat. The cat is always asleep even when awoke.

The dolls never take their eyes off of me.

Now comes the time when the cake puffs up with pride and sits on its plate like a newly crowned monarch.  It's...it's...not bad for a Dad. But looks a bit the worse for wear..bits falling off here and there...a bit eaten...just a nibble and maybe another little nibble.

"But why Mr. Dempsey..." my Indian grocer demands with amazement "...do you want thirty..THIRTY McVities  Jamaican Ginger Cakes...for why...it's not the end of the world is it...or Brexit?"

"I'm building a house!" I whisper to him as if it is our little secret.

When she awakes..the cat as ever still asleep ...she yawns "Dolls gone..where dolls goned?"

The kitchen looks as immaculate as a conception...as if man has never touched it.

"Shhh...dolls is sleep!" I say sotto voce and adopting her lingo.
"In their own house!" I add for extra measure. Her eyes go wide.

And indeed dolls are lying down with eyes shut tight inside...their newly constructed Jamaica Gingerbread House. All except for the big doll who wet herself and who I have propped up on the loo. Although she is on the loo she finds now she can't go.

"Mmm!" Tilly  mmms. "Dolls have lovely house!" eating the door and half the roof off. Cake in her curls...cake up her nose and in an ear. She eats it with all of her head. "MMMM!" she mmmms again.

"We won't tell if you don't..." the winking doll whispers (like the co-conspirator that she is) waking up in a real life fairy tale "..if you don't tell!"

The next evening... the house eaten...I pop into Mr. Patel's. "Surely not more!" he almost flinches.

"No...just the one this time Mr. Patel...just the one!"
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2022
UK
.  If Priti Patel was a man
she would not have given
  the go ahead to extradite
Assange, it is toxic feminism.
Priya Patel Oct 2018
it's quiet,
but not as silent
as I would have imagined
after all my bricks fell down
I think, looking back over the years
even through the roughest waters
there were never any tears
just wave after wave of emotions
a swimmer fighting not to drown
but eventually,
all my bricks fell down
it's quiet
no laughter in sight
no will to fight
no longer toiling in a useless plight
just the tumbling of bricks
that fell down

© Priya Patel 10/12/18
Priya Patel Mar 2022
Well I snapped today
I lost my temper
and my God loving cool
perhaps even my sanity
and I feel like a fool
for hurting the one person
in this world that's needs me
I'm trying so hard
and I am failing miserably
I think this is what we call
a breakdown
I don't know if I can
turn this around
It's not easy letting someone down
especially someone who is your world
I did it though
and with just a few loud words
I let my frustration and despair
out of the box and into the air
and all reasoning went out the door
I was so angry,
I threw everything on the table
resoundingly to the floor
and stormed out of the house frustratingly
leaving him hurt, confused, and angry
I've never lost my cool like that before
Every hour of every day
I watch him grieve
and I don't know what to say
to make this pain go away
I just don't know what to say
All I want to do is help him

~ Priya Patel 🕉,  March 11, 22
Joseph Sinclair Jan 2022
Oh, Boris told such dreadful lies,
One just gazed wide-eyed at the skies,
Astounded at support from these
Parliamentary colleagues
Who rallied to their leader’s cause,
Secure in the male menopause.

Gove, Michael, who was quite gung-**
Wanted to believe him, though
In trying to maintain his credence
While avoiding intercedence
Got his knickers in a twist
Which hardly pleased a hedonist.
But may have done so, had not he
Been faced with obvious perfidy.
For once, towards the end of work
He realised that the stupid berk
Had joined a party out-of-doors,
Knowing there was nothing worse,
But given the alternative,
Was doggedly conservative.

While as for dear effete Rees Mogg
Whose mind was often in a fog,
Though evidently of good breeding,
Slept through parliament’s proceeding.
And in The Mogg Cast Jacob wrote
“Unquestionably” – and I quote:
“The PM is an honest man”.
What brave words from a loyal fan.

He seemed to share with Donald Trump
A failure to maintain the ****
Of his supporters who only lasted
So long as he felt they could be trusted.
Thus Priti Patel with whom, besotted
He must have been, for when she blotted
Her copy book, he kept her in
The Cabinet, despite a sin
That others, far beneath her station,
To leave had had no hesitation.

But once, towards the close of day
Hearing merry sounds of play,
Bojo took his health in hand
Ignoring rules from his command.
“No-one tells me what to do”
Quoth he, “I’m off to have a few.”
“Allow me, please, to beg your pardon
And join my colleagues in the garden.”

It was not long before a tide
Of censure came from every side.
From Kensington and Camden Town,
From Aberdeen and County Down.
The premier has been found out
As if there could be any doubt,
For, after all, his lying skills
Had long replenished the gristmills.

When young he suffered from glue ear
So, what he did not want to hear
In later life, he could ignore
And simply choose to underscore
His frequent absurd recklessness
On the misfortune of deafness.

At Oxford in the Bullingdon
His drunkenness was quite well-known.
His early exploits as a Yuppy;
Flirtation then with Darius Guppy.
As editor of the Sextator
With thanks, doubtless, to his Creator
More flirtations, some quite grave;
“Who, sir?  Me, sir?  I’m no knave”
But Petronella at his back
Could not avoid the sack by Black.
Earlier it was the Times;
Distortions were his major crimes.


And, finally, to Downing Street
Where the circle is now complete,
Surrounded by his faithful lackeys,
Standing up for the Iraqis,
Risking the enmity of *******
Whose Durham trip was unbecoming,
Though not condemned at all by Boris
As extinct as a brontosaurus.


His lies have not grown any sweeter
They’ve more in common with a foetor,
When embarrassment heads his way
He simply takes off for the day:
“Sorry for this Obfuscation
I have to go to King’s Cross station
To provide a possible disclaimer
For my absence from the Chamber.”
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2019
Britain is Borixed, there has been
a tsunami at 1 eau Drowning Street.

Bodies are being ejected from the
life raft, without their May, Vests.

Priti Patel is at the helm, brought the
Mogg along as coxswain.

Sewers are bursting, French Floaters
arriving via the channel tunnel.

Merde, **** EU **** crottes ca ca's,
Borix is going to happen, by Halloween.

Long Live The Been, **** the Scots NI's
& Welsh, England will still have a Queen.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2022
HALF SICK WITH SHADOWS

The Lady of Shallot
sat on my sofa and sobbed

begging me for
poetical asylum

despite Patel's crackdown
on poetry refugees.

I made her a nice
cup of Earl Grey tea

slice of lemon
no sugar.

I enquired of her
"But why me?"

"You have loved me
all your life

letting me live
inside your head

free to roam
around your mind

any old time
no questions asked.

I thought of you as
you thought of me.

We are of one mind now
...are we not?"

She explained her name was Elaine
and had been a time traveller and that

when her 'mirror' cracked
(as she called her machine)

Tennyson trapped her
in that poem of his

words to the left of her
words to the right of her

into the volume
of his verse

she found herself
all of a sudden.

God how she hated
dead Victorian poets.

And it was all a pack of lies
and Lance a Lot was a ****.

She had constantly turned down
his incessant facebook friend requests.

And as for facebook
that was just a big yuk.

Oh and she hated shallots
( and green onions )

although she thought
Booker T. and the MG's

groovy and such fun
to dance to.

"Tennyson was so morose
and such a class 1 bore."

But now she had broken free
and had come to me.

No more teens mad at  me
for having to learn me off by heart.

I fixed her 'mirror.
It was only cracked.

She could have escaped
at any time but I hadn't

the heart
to tell her that.

Fixed her up with a new
facebook page LoS777.

And in a twinkling she
had vanished into where ever?

"I'll leave a door open
always in my mind!"

I shouted to the shadows
and the nothingness.

The willows whitened.
The aspens quivered.
Priya Patel Apr 2023
We are oceans apart;
two poets with nothing in common
but the delicate words
dangling between us,
like dandelion seeds,
forever ready to take flight
You are dressed to rule the world
with shiny shoes and newly pressed suits
manipulating numbers
that no one dares to dispute
A man with so many passions
juggling your dreams
battling your demons
becoming a master
of all the moments in your destiny
And then there is me
Two feet in the water
tip-toing on slippery sands
fumbling over broken memories
that no one understands
but my digital pen and paper;
each of us reaching
for all the delicate words
that hang in between us
Two poets, oceans apart,
exploring the written journey
between us,
simply trying to write our own story

~ ©️ Priya Patel 4/22/23 🕉
Priya Patel Nov 2022
You there
me here
writing of our fears
shivering leaves
in winters wake
poetic medicines
for loves aches
we are the ink
that drips  
with loves pain
that is what we are
and here we are again
writing in the sky
where your words fly
like tiny hummingbirds
wings flapping
on my tiny screen
Do you see what I see
Emotions into poetry
Feelings flow like symmetry
Your words to me
For me to read
To read your poetry of me

~ ©️ Priya Patel, Nov 16, 22 🕉
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
and the next best bit of rhode island
'ebrew says while also dancing the
sinking-boat dance:
joe-joe-or-e'bootleg:
downer... **** 'em owners of:
da stream...
row row moscow f.c.?
united arab emirates...
washington d.c. valkyries pepe please go-go?!
come on! sink a boat, once twice
but thrice the proper...
as says it: i's is alright: says
poor charlie bronson...
az iz?! aye?!
yez aye or, az is nye!
az iz: that wilderness pocket
woo knife... az iz? eh?
proper plumber plonking az woz, eh?
the gayz woz all that came for
the woz the wortz of...
zee show 'n' tell and blitz me darlin'
oh lo' and hopes us:
up...
call 'em sweet soup tease 16...
a pederast's noit-mare...
or... 16: a casual mrs...
a john sweet magna carta 14...
or some ugly bit to minor the mind...

the defendant's plea? guilty: as R E...
charged... you plea a letter dear...
it has the sound of...
a ******* Symphony!
a beethoven's "5th"!
sounds... subliminal!
almost ****-khan and citizen Patel esque
pwetty: priti... god forgive me
the muse of Priya!
you miser?
i ask: you miser via...
d'you ******* mind being
excavated as: knot wit 'ere no shire near, 'ere?!

now i know why i shouldn't
have ever written poetry: "to begin" with...
i started with Bukowski...
forgive and forget somehow,
what?

i welcome: Broadmoor's...
"humble" beginnings...
i can almost see it...
as an antithesis of being "unemployed"...
imagine the good that could
benefit a "society"
being... the oscar winning role...
blah... or model...
for... the cantonese catatonic...
the sane "contra" the "insane"...
and how many "fakers" would...
give these... respectable...
law abiding... residents of society...
their humble pork-pie and crumble...
their insane... law-figurative...
misfit... says who?

what prison: if no current prison that abides
by the currency of the crown;
that's... leisure...
of the commonly held accounts of:
society - Thailand...
society - England...
transparency of whishy-washy...
and yet...
i am...           warden... scoop...
the scuttling fisher-bone and the lesser
i.q. of a sparrow that...
will always come around as...
the spider-jingles of weaving a web...
and...
and i don't like being
treated as an predictable...
by people less intelligent than me...

sorry.

it's like... a rash... an eczema...
the more stupid people i encounter...
the more chances of an eczema appearing
on my body... in dalmation patches...
hightens...
sorry...
that's when i comatose...
what, the, ****, is, there, to, talk, about?!

some weekend whoops and ****?
the usual weekend stipend of confiscated affairs?
lucky for me...
published outside of broadmoor...
lucky for me to still have a mother,
a father...
i almost don't know what would be of me...
had i not read any harry potter...
and... allowed myself to not be...
outside the general confines of an autobiography...
with a father and mother: "prescribed"
as dead...
what's that? girl interrupted?!
or a michael myers sing-along crescendo?

love be true in a single sentence...
i'd sooner **** a man
than hurt an animal....
i'd rather pet a cat... or a dog...
than father a child.
Priya Patel Mar 2022
The morning drizzled in
soft and slow
like the rising sun;
and so did my pain
Unexplained, unexpected
feelings perhaps,
that have been neglected;
a sudden sadness
lurking in the quiet
waiting for this day to come

You left me in March,
almost a year somehow
The days have passed miserably
and I am wondering now
if there was something
I could have done;
maybe I should have
paid more attention,
anything to keep you here with me
Today, I'm missing you
miserably

My tears are flowing
like waterfalls
and all my thoughts
are slammed into walls,
all with pictures of you
Your crazy haircuts
and your goofy smiles
the loudest music
I can hear from miles
as you are driving home to see me
Today, I'm missing that music miserably
Today little brother,
I'm missing you

~ Priya Patel 🕉,  03/09/21
Chris Slade Dec 2020
When you’ve swept
the last frozen pea from your freezer…
and you’ve made the last batch of tallow candles
from the beef dripping of your last big meal…
and the already flickering light dims
and finally goes out…
You’ll just be scavenging from dawn
till dusk for sustenance...
And there's not much more about!

You’ll hear stories - word of mouth
‘cos the telly doesn’t work anymore,
of someone seeing the last truck
rolling North out of Dover…
All the diesel’s run out that used to power
the ferries and the trucks.
That last lorry was waylaid by looters…
But it was only carrying toilet rolls anyway!

Boris Johnson’s twitching figure still hangs
from the newly erected gibbet at Tyburn.
There will be a queue…
The next to step up and face their maker
Gove, Patel, Hancock or Raab…
“No, no… after you” being herded…
by refreshed & re-enrolled Hell’s Angels…
like Ravens and Vultures after a plague…

Amazon will be down to just one staffer.
He’s waiting for today’s single order -
from a techie in the Hebrides.
One who has built himself a generator from fuse wire
and washed up plastic waste.
He’ll be after a PS5 that runs on his private solar energy…
He can use it for 10 minutes each day after sundown
order before sunset - be ready - in haste.

I won’t go on… but you get the picture.
And, yet…In spite of life being a
well choreographed ****-show,
living & breathing...
(slowly…because you’ll use up all the Oxygen)
well, it still remains popular!

Happy New Year folks!
Armageddon

— The End —