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judy smith Feb 2017
In 1983, the Fashion Design Council burst on to the Melbourne scene like a Liverpool kiss to the mainstream fashion industry. Inspired by punk's DIY aesthetic and armed with an audaciously grandiose title, an earnest manifesto and a grant from the Victorian government, FDC founders Robert Buckingham, Kate Durham and Robert Pearce were determined to showcase the burgeoning Melbourne design scene in all its outrageous glory.

"People resented hearing about Karl Lagerfeld," says Durham. "Our movement was against the mainstream and the way Australians and magazines like Vogue treated Australian designers."

Over its 10-year lifespan, the FDC launched such emerging designers as Jenny Bannister, Christopher Graf and Martin Grant. But what was perhaps most exciting was the FDC's ecumenical approach. Architects, filmmakers, artists and musicians all partied together at runway shows held in nightclubs.

"It was an inventive time when people came together and made people notice fashion," says Durham.

Among the creative congregation, Durham remembers artist Rosslynd Piggott, who constructed dresses of strange boats with children in them and filmmaker Philip Brophy, who used "naff" Butterick dress patterns. Elsewhere, an engineer made a pop-riveted ball dress out of sheet metal. The crossover between music, art, graphic design and film extended to architects such as Biltmoderne (an early incarnation of celebrated architects Wood Marsh) who designed the FDC's favourite runway and watering hole, Inflation nightclub.

"Clothing was confronting," says Durham. "It was brash and tribe-oriented. It was quite good if you weren't good-looking. People liked the idea that this or that clothing style was going to win you friends."

Today, however, even Karl Lagerfeld has a punk collection. To complicate matters, "fast fashion" appropriates the avant-garde at impossibly low prices. The digital era too has caused the fashion world to splinter and bifurcate. What's a young contemporary designer to do?

"The physical collective is no longer that important," says Robyn Healy, co-curator of the exhibition High Risk Dressing/Critical Fashion, which uses the FDC as a lens to view the current fashion landscape. "These are designers who are highly networked through social media who put their work up on websites."

Fashion designers still use music, film and architecture, but in different ways. Where FDC members might document its runway shows with video, studios such as Pageant use video as the runway show and post them online. Social media is perhaps the big disrupter. Where FDC designers might collaborate with architects, today it's webdesigners.

"Space has changed," says Healy. "Web designers might be the equivalent of the architect today. It's a different use of space."

As grandiose as the FDC, yet perhaps even more ambitious in scope, is contemporary designer Matthew Linde's online store *** gallery, Centre for Style. Like the FDC, it offers space for "artists who aren't at all designers per-se, but they're dealing with a borrowed language from fashion", Linde told i-D magazine.

"It's an extraordinary juggernaut across the world with a huge amount of Instagram followers," says co-curator Fleur Watson. "[Linde] has created a brand that uses social media in an interesting avant-garde way."

Yet unlike their often untrained FDC counterparts, these designers are perhaps the first generation of PhD designers, notes Watson. "Robert Pearce had a belief in culture changing the world. That's what these new designers are reflecting on in their research, their position in the fashion world and how do they change the way fashion works?"

While it's also true that new technologies offer exciting possibilities in embedded fabrics and experimentation with 3D printing, fast fashion has created certain expectations.

As Cassandra Wheat of the Chorus fashion label laments: "It's just hard for people to understand the complexity and the value that goes into production without being really exposed to it. They think they should have a T-shirt for cheaper than their sandwich."

During the course of the exhibition Chorus will produce its monthly collection from one of the newly designed spaces within the gallery. The exhibition's curators have commissioned three contemporary architects who, like its '80s counterparts, work across the arts, to interpret FDC-inspired spaces. Matthew Bird's Inflation-influenced bar acts as a meeting place for the exhibition's forums and discussions on the contemporary state of fashion. Sibling architects abstracts the retail space, while Wowowa's office design resembles a fishbowl. For Watson, the exposed shopfront/office has as much front as Myer's. Its architecture suggests the type of brazen confidence every generation of fashion design needs. Says Watson: "Fake it till you make it."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2017
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
England win 4 - nil against Ukraine and
i just can't find happiness...
i want to behind this bread and circus
distraction: it's not the current stadiums
are anything close to the ancient roman
coliseum, either: it's not like
i'm watch 22 eager ballerinas kicking
the guillotine head of Robespierre about...
either...
language bugs me: i write it and avoid
speaking it...
expatriates of England: unite behind your team...
i've been an immigrant from
the age of 8... funny how language
works...
the English have no notion of a diaspora...
their immigrant status: among their own
countrymen is elevated to the word:
expatriate: "us" folk flood a host country...
we: "invade" it...
we are never deemed to be:
repatriating... changing allegiance...
i can naturalize: citizen mr. smith over 'ere...
but... when it comes to...
"patriotism" or... the nationhood and cheering
a ******* football team?
i try more than i ever had...
but i'm not buying the *******...
there's club football...
   i just can't stress how important it would
be for me to witness the final:
i'm betting on Italy vs. England...
and in that final Italy will win:
i support, "support" from an undermining
perspective...
on topic: if i go back to the country of my birth:
i didn't take root...
since the death of my grandfather:
sure... i still have some family there...
but... i'm not attached to them:
it would require a d.n.a. test to get at
proof: whether or not i should be
there is another question...

if only this... if only that...
cob-weaving safety-net riddle shadow-man...
what was it? a lack of ambition...
lack of designation...
most assuredly resigned from time to time:
waking up once i suckle on
a bottle of wine...
the clouds start to make sense:
i see faces conjured up
and i no longer feel a need to
peacock my ambitions...
that i am the subject of
a demonic voyeuristic experiment:
call it whatever phenomenon
you might want to... pareidolia
is a newly acquired word in my coffer of vocab.

a historical status quo is being
extended:
not with my death but with my death
i can see all that's going to bypass
the concentration of subjectivity and
becomes diluted in an objective amass...

i'm not important:
but being jealous simply makes me
double up on being reflective and at the same
time melancholically tinged:
idle blue... bleeding green...

****** if i do: ****** if i don't:
south american nations can have their post-racial
picnic...
i **** a black girl in England:
what am i?
what am i if she boasts of a harem?

but i'm not some olive skinned
inferno of Pakistan
dealing with calling a supermarket cashier
the word-lot of: love, darling...
when i hear it: as she endears me...
she can call me: dearly... lovely...
love... pet and darling...
am i undermining the English language?
am i spreading Marxism?

i want to be a fan of the English
football team:
it's hard for me to translate assimilate into...
entertaining something this primitive...
perhaps i should isolate my fandom
to elevated: individualistic sports...
tennis players...
i can't attach a shared ethnicity to
Iga Świątek...
i'm not Slovenian but...
hearing these two Tour de France commentators
slobber and gag when watching
the 8th bit with Tadej Pogačar
climbing up a 10% to 14% incremental up...
on a *****...

i'm starting to love individualistic sports
than ever...
however much i'd love to support
the football team of England:
i'm not English...
immigrants are expected to integrate:
assimilate into their host nation...
but... somehow... odd...
the English expatriates living in Italy will...
not...
choice of language: i'm sure...

rules for thou: rules for aye...
isn't it how it always works?
English refer to the people who left these isles
as... expatriates...
or if there's enough of them:
and the enough of them start-up a new
ethic identity and become:
Australians... New Zealanders...
Canadians... H'Americans...
        
       it's not mind-bending antics on my part:
i didn't chose the wording:
it was already available...
i can respect the English laws...
i can grow accustomed to the peoples'
idiosyncrasies...
drink their... Siberian milk tea:
although i've resolved myself to drink green...
eating baked beans on toast:
to hell with avocado...
but i can't be fed into an emotional complex
that might allow me to support
the national football team:

the inherently ****** in my remembers...
just, "oddly enough": remembers...
the broken fingers of Jan Tomaszewski...
'Brian Clough's throwaway remark
and his saves for Poland against England
in October 1973' - the clown...
England being denied a place in the 1974
World Cup...

it's stupid it's beautiful it's football...
it's not tennis it's not the Olympics
it's not the ******* Tour de France...
amore! amore!
i'm betting on Italy... such style...
they look nothing like a Teutonic heavy cavalry
charge of the English with their
meticulous passing...
such spark with their no. 10
Napoleon: Lorenzo Insigne...

i'll learn your tongue: i'll do whatever
might be required:
to blend in better and not pretend...
but i can't support your football team...
individual sportsmen...
sure... saying that:
i feel robbed from the euphoria
of a shared experience!

- there are no English immigrants living in Italy:
there are only expatriates...
it's not even funny how wording goes:
i'm not offended: hardly...
i prefer the h'American racial "slur" to
what otherwise pits me up against:
the North & South and St. Paul...
****** being the one word in ******
that's not to be confused with Polish...
but English immigrants in Italy are not
migrants... immigrants... disfranchised people
who said: you deal with that kneeling
******* before a phantom...
pander "them"...
because the English have no concept of
the diaspora!
in ******-land there's this concept of:
Polonia... those who are emigrated...
like hell i'm going back...
but i can't think of myself as an expatriate
since... isn't it ****** obvious?
the native of the English tongue thinks
of his extended family living in Italy...
France... as an expatriate...
he's not going to dub them: an immigrant...
the quality of life is too high to...
oh... these people didn't immigrate
for economic reasons...
or like they might have been...
persecuted Kashubians / Kosovans...

Italy just felt better... the weather... the architecture...
derogatory implying: what?
like the Polacks think of their fellow countrymen
"elsewhere" belonging to this greater family:
Polonia -
the English treat their own as...
hardly an immigrant in Australia...
or H'America... no diaspora to be found...
it's truly a conundrum of wording:
what do you call a Spaniard in South America?
a late Lebanese inquisitor...
my jokes are dry... dry dry: ******* dry...
a pale Persian when i double down
on what could come off as possibly: worst...

i don't suppose you might feel like me:
dear reader...
if only i was surrounded by
pretty things that people might admire
as social status exfoliations:
read books...
not books stacked upon a shelf:
a banknote from the Russian Empire
with the effigy of Tsar Nicholas II
on it... Soviet Empire post-stamps
inherited from my grandfather:
the philatelist...

my mind's in it... the tongue too...
but my heart it grieving...
although not as much as...
what's missing in both the head, the tongue...
the outward appearance of the
the shy jihadi...

pandering missionaries for equal
representation based on anti-racism: nuanced-racism:
this inability to differentiate a Croat
from a German...
we'll just suppose the English immigrants
will be known by a different name...
not expatriates...
like the cricketers... tourists...
oh yeah... expatriates is too bold a statement
when they achieve as little
as drinking an espresso the Italian way...

i can't support the English football team...
however much i want...
and i want to...
ha ha... odd me dumb ******:
every time Germany played England
i supported Germany: ol' Wend that i was...
it's football!
once more... better concentrate on
individualistic sports...
no good ever came from chanting
syllables:

although in the England vs. Ukraine game...
Ukraine in English is formed from only
two syllable: U-KRAINE...
(CRANE)...
in ****** and akin to the natives it consists of:
OOH-KRA-Í-N'AH

U-KRA-I-NA!
       i'm watching football but also listening
to the crowd...
i become lost when it comes
to the Cossack Uprising...
sure... Bohdan Khmelnytsky
                      wasn't Oliver Cromwell...
              wasn't he, though?

a frank zappa album title: sheikh yerbouti...
translates as... twerking /
shake your-*****... no?

this is all we have become... decently progressed
nations being reduced to the thrills
of... a football match?
again: these are not 22 ballerinas
kicking about a guillotined head of
Robespierre... are they?
i could understand that...
the no thrills no support chanting:
sensible: Olympic sports it is...
individualistic: i want to better myself types...
no... ******* Normandy landing...
no historical insinuation:
no historical weaving the current bogus
events with past splendour and spectacle
and all that wave of world war I
p.t.s.d.

currently?
no better football commentator than...
Ally McCoist....
McCoist cane compete with Jonathan Pearce:
any sunny Sunday...
i swear to god of the guillotined
head of Robespierre...
the man played football but also have
more talk behind the ball than he ever had
a kick behind it...
perhaps because he also has a sing-along
trill behind the R...

the **** this Scot conjures up:
something akin to: boy'oh: leg up...
i can't just... conjure up the verbatim...
good enough: time to seek
a kipper.

Italy vs. England in the final...
Italy will win:
i want to be dead-end: wrong.
judy smith Sep 2016
WHEN Kylie Minogue began the process of tracking down 25 years of costumes and memorabilia for an exhibition on her (literally) glittering stage career, she had one crucial call to make.

“There were a few items the parentals were minding,” laughs Minogue. “I, too, do the same thing as everyone else: ‘Mum, Dad, can you just hold onto a few things for me?’ It’s just lucky they weren’t turfed out from under their watchful eye.”

Kylie On Stage is the singer’s latest collaboration with her beloved hometown’s Arts Centre Melbourne. She’s previously donated a swarm of outfits to the venue, going all the way back to the overalls she wore as tomboy mechanic Charlene on Neighbours.

This new — and free — exhibition rounds up outfits starting from her first-ever live performances on 1989’s Disco in Dream tour. Still aged just 21 and dismissed by some as a soap star who fluked a singing career, Minogue found herself playing to 38,000 fans in Tokyo, where her early hits “I Should Be So Lucky”, “The Loco-motion”, “Got To Be Certain” and “Hand On Your Heart” had made her a superstar.

“From memory, I was overexcited and didn’t really know what I was doing. I just ran back and forth across the stage,” says Minogue of her debut tour.

Disco in Dream also premiered what would become a Kylie fashion staple: hotpants. “Those ones were more like micro shorts, not quite hotpants, but they started it,” she admits. “There were also quite a few bicycle pants being worn around that time, too, I’m afraid.”

That first tour stands out for one other reason: Minogue officially started dating INXS’s Michael Hutchence at some point during the Asian leg.

“I had met Michael previously in Australia, but he was living in Hong Kong [at the time] and I met him again there. The tour went on to Japan and he definitely came to visit me in Japan.”

Fast-forward from Minogue’s very first tour to her most recent, 2015’s Kiss Me Once, and the singer performed a cover of INXS’s “Need You Tonight”. She remembers first hearing the song as a teenager. “I don’t think I really knew what **** was back then,” notes Minogue. “But that’s a **** song.”

Before the Kiss Me Once tour kicked off, the Minogue/Hutchence romance had been documented in the hit TV mini-series Never Tear Us Apart: The Untold Story Of INXS. Minogue said then it felt like Michael was her “archangel” during the tour — “I feel like he’s with me.”

Her “Need You Tonight” costume was also deliberately chosen to reflect what Minogue used to wear when she was dating the rockstar. “It was a black PVC trench coat and hat,” she says. “I loved that. It just made so much sense for the connection to Michael. I literally used to wear that exact same kind of thing, except it was leather, not PVC.”

By 1990, Minogue’s confidence had grown, something she’s partially attributed to Hutchence’s influence. Before her first Australian solo tour, she performed a secret club show billed as The Singing Budgies — reclaiming the derisive nickname the media had bestowed on her. It would be the first time her success silenced those who saw her as an easy target. Next year marks her 30th anniversary in pop; longevity that hasn’t happened by accident.

Minogue’s career accelerated so quickly that by 1991 she was on her fourth album in as many years and outgrowing her producers, Stock Aitken Waterman, who wanted to freeze-frame her in a safe, clean-cut image.

On 1991’s Let’s Get To It tour of the UK, Minogue welcomed onboard her first major fashion designer — John Galliano. He dressed her in fishnets, G-strings and corsets; the British press said she was trying too hard and imitating Madonna at her most sexed-up.

“Of course those comparisons were made, and rightly so. Madonna was a big influence on me,” says Minogue. “She helped create the template of what a pop show is, or what we came to know it as, by dividing it up into segments. And if you’re going to have any costume changes, that’s inevitable.

“I was finding my way. I don’t think we got it right in some ways, but if I look back over my career, sometimes it’s the mistakes that make all the difference. They allow you to really look at where you’re going. I’m fond of all those things now. There was a time when I wasn’t.

“Now I look back at the pictures of the fishnets and G-strings I was wearing ... Maybe the audience members absolutely loved it, maybe they were going through the journey with me of growing up and discovering yourself and your sexuality and where you fit in the world.”

As the ’90s progressed, Minogue started experimenting with the outer limits of being a pop star, working with everyone from uber-cool dance producers to indie rocker Nick Cave.

Her 1998 Intimate And Live tour cemented her place as the one thing nobody had ever predicted: a regular, global touring act. Released the year prior, her Impossible Princess album had garnered a credibility she’d never before enjoyed. But more credibility equalled fewer record sales.

The tour was cautiously placed in theatres, rather than arenas. Yet word-of-mouth led to more dates being added — she wound up playing seven nights in both Melbourne and Sydney, and tacking on a UK leg. All received rave reviews.

The production was low-key and DIY: Minogue and longtime friend and stylist William Baker were hands-on backstage bedazzling the costumes themselves. The tour’s camp, Vegas-style showgirl — complete with corset and headdress — soon became a signature Kylie look, but it was also one they stumbled across.

“I remember the exact moment: the male dancers had pink, fringed chaps and wings — we’d really gone for it. I was singing [ABBA’s] “Dancing Queen”. I did a little prance across the stage and the audience went wild. I thought, ‘What is happening?’ That definitely started something.”

Then came the “Spinning Around” hotpants. Minogue couldn’t wear the same gold pair from the music video during her 2001 On A Night Like This tour — they were too fragile — but another pair offered solid back-up.

“That was peak hotpant period,” says Minogue. “Hotpants for days.”

After the robotic-themed Fever 2002 tour (featuring a “Kyborg” look by Dolce & Gabbana), 2005’s Showgirl tour was Minogue’s long-overdue greatest hits celebration.

Following a massive UK and European run, her planned Australian victory lap was derailed by her breast-cancer diagnosis that May. Remarkably, by November 2006, Minogue was back onstage in Sydney for the rebooted Showgirl: The Homecoming tour.

“I look at that now and I’m honestly taken aback,” she admits. “It was so fast — months and months of those 18 months were in treatment.”

Minogue now reveals her health issues meant she had to adjust some of the Showgirl outfits: “I was concerned about the weight of the corset and being able to support it. I was quite insecure about my body, which had changed. For a few years after that I really felt like I wasn’t in my own body — with the medication I was on, there was this other layer.

“We had to make a number of adjustments,” she adds. “I had different shoes to feel more sturdy ... It was pretty soon to be back onstage. But I think it was good for me.”

The singer’s gruelling performances involved dancing and singing in corsets, as well as ultra-high heels and headdresses that weighed several kilos.

“A proper corset, like the Showgirl tour one, is like a shoe,” she explains. “It’s very stiff when you first put it on. By the end of the tour it was way more comfortable. The fact it made it quite hard to breathe didn’t seem to bother anyone except for me. But it was absolutely worth it. I felt grand in it.

“It took a while to learn how to walk in the blue Showgirl dress,” she continues. “I had cuts on my arms from the stars that were sticking out on pieces of wire. You’re so limited in what you can do. You can’t bend your head to find your way down the stairs.

“Whether it was the Showgirl costume or the hotpants, or the big silver dress from the Aphrodite tour [in 2011] that was just ginormous, they all present their own challenges of how you’re going to move and how you’re going to do the choreography. There are times the costume can do that [figuring out] for me; other times I really have to wrestle with it to do what I need to do.

“But you’re not meant to know about that,” she adds, “that’s an internal struggle.”

Minogue has spent much of 2016 happily off the radar, enjoying the company of fiancé Joshua Sasse, 28. She gets “gooey” talking about her future husband, whom she met last year when she was cast opposite him in the TV musical-comedy series Galavant. He proposed to Minogue last Christmas.

Just like the “secret Greek wedding” that was rumoured but never happened, reports of summer nuptials in Melbourne are also off the mark.

“I hate to let everyone down, but no,” she says. “People’s enthusiasm is lovely, we appreciate that, but there are no wedding plans as yet. I’m just enjoying feeling girly and being engaged.”

Minogue will be in Queensland next month filming the movie Flammable Children. The comedy, set in 1975, features her former Neighbours co-star Guy Pearce and is written and directed by Stephan Elliott (The Adventures Of Priscilla: Queen Of The Desert ).

“It’s Aussie-tastic,” laughs Minogue. And she is also planning a sneaky visit to check out her own exhibition when she’s back in Melbourne.

“I’ll probably try to move things around the exhibition,” she says. “And they’ll probably tell me off: ‘Who’s that child playing with the costumes?’”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016
"Are you a paranoid schizophrenic?"

"No."
"Certainly."
"Who's asking?"
Sara L Russell Apr 2013
inspired by the performances of Maxine Pearce & Nico Mirallegro in BBC1's The Village,
this is from the point of view of a mother to a son who has to go to war*

01.20am, 30/4/13

Wherever life may send you
However far away
May light beings befriend you
Angels, to light your way

Four angels for protection
To guard the path ahead
Three more for introspection
To drive out fear and dread

May archangels placate you
And sanctify your dreams
May love illuminate you
However dark life seems.

Wingbeating high above you
To guide you on your way
The angels and I love you
A little more each day.
Dylan Whisman Nov 2015
A scholar to change the human view
to make sense of twas, thou and than.
either shouting in the street through a mask
or preaching through the screen to those still ignorant.

Maybe a congressman to strike at the heart,
to burst from within scattered in gore and gold.
or just one more journalist,
one more stab at the sour core.

the flag bearer will fall time and time again
Brown,
Snowden,
Hammond.

they are not martyrs, they are victors,
the idea will never die with you
carry your flag through the hail of arrogance and evil,
through the fog of the ignorance and hate,
till you pearce the blackened heart,
and the last thing they'll see is your rosy cheeks.
We are legion.
We do not forgive.
We do not forget.
Expect us.
Priya Patel Mar 2015
Like a butterfly,
my heart flies away
to a place afar
where only emotions exist;
a place where love has kissed
The fragrance of its feelings
is sweet like the nectar of dew
on blades of grass new
just after Springs' first rain;
a taste that lingers
time and again
You sing me a love song
with the poetry you write
and your eyes pearce my heart
with the words you say
Even the birds can't help but sway
Like a butterfly,
my heart does fly away
to a place afar
with the words of our love song

~ Priya 3/20/15
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
At ‘civil’-war with mankind.


Life has been a lesson that I still haven’t learned.
Love still burns
And the way into my heart is not through strawberries and ice cream,
Or any material thing.
You have to have a soul that truly lights up,
Every time you are with me.
So much so, that it can be seen,
Because my smile will be a beamer of light for everybody to see.


My Princess your Prince would like to build you a little mansion,
For the two of us to live.
Maybe raise us some kids,
And if my dreams they never come true
And our family never begins,
Just know my heart will still sing.
A downpour of sounds will be seen flowing out of me.


My hope surfs on a stream of metaphysics and impossible dreams.
It is dancing on metaphor bliss,
Created with my last wish
And now my canary sings,
Like a bird that has been released!


If this love of ours continues,
We will become headline news.
The good news story at the end of the television;
A wave goodbye,
A blinding vision,
To those ‘in love’ who have to pretend,
Because our love will change the world,
By just sitting in a bed…
Me and my girlfriend.

All I need in this world of sin,
Is me and my girlfriend.


To all those in need, we will send peace, love and empathy.
We will have to build a spaceship, just to spread the love.
An army of Shakespeare’s monkeys will write us infinite books,
About human (be) kind…and love.
We will donate them to charity;
Just sharing the love.
Maybe do some good.
When we find a lost soul in damnation,
We will be God’s hand to Adam.  
Raise a kid; choose creation.
Lift their spirits up,
Simply by giving them love.


I think it’s time for a renaissance.
Build a palace of wonder;
Give it to the homeless and younger
And let them bring their pets and family with them, ok!
Communal gatherings will be the order of things.  There is a way.
We will create a society where everybody is free from slavery
And everybody is safe.
If imagination is just a figment and they say there is no way,
Then we will have to make amendments to their thoughts,
And our own thoughts will show them this can be done.
We could build a little hope.  The books are there to be taught.


The world doesn’t have to go to war to make a few bad men some cash.
We could live in utopia,
If only…
If only we gave it a chance…


And so I leave you with this quote I have heard my entire life,
From a man called Donald Mills Pearce.
(He is the one who chose to write.
Thank you Donn Pearce for ‘that song’ throughout all these years…)


“What we’ve got here is,
Failure to communicate.
Some men you just can’t reach,
So you get what we had here last week
Which is the way he wants it…
Well…
He gets it…”


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Poetic T Jun 2019
Every tear I shall collect,
     But not one shall taint
                    The earth.

For I will mould every shard
         In vengeance

of emotion.

And when enough pain
           is forged cold.


The blade frozen in segments
            Of woeful  agony,

Then I shall pearce you deeply,
     So you feel the coldness

Of every tear descending down
      Tarnished cheeks.

   And know that pain saved,



Has a price worse that what
              Was dealt before.

Because tears have a price,
       Are you doing to pay...
Lefa Mzondi May 2017
They say actions speak louder than words, if so,
Why do they pearce though the skin like a sharp knife all the way to my heart?
Why isn't there any effective medication to help me heal, to help me forget.
I may resolt to alcohol or get high now and then to drown my pain,
but we know what's high gotta come down,
And as I get lower and the alcohol departs my body, so does the pain return
I remember having a bad accident when I was 8 years old, very big painful scar on my face.
Pain was both physical and emotional
But looking at me now, I forgot I ever had one
It healed
**** this hurts like hell,
Pardon for I don't really know what Hell looks like, or how Hell feels,
But if there was ever a way to describe hell, it surely would be the way I feel now

For now, I'm letting go,
Pain can't hold me hostage no more
You got no hold on me no more
I'm setting myself free..
Priya Patel Apr 2023
I slept peacefully,
dreaming I was with you
closing the distance between
the clouds white
and the sky blue
floating on fluffy clouds of dreams
I awoke suddenly,
sinking deep into the blurry seams
suddenly, so very lost without you
and once again, widening the gap
between what I wanted us to be,
and what I always knew was true

~ ©️ Priya, 4/19

"Bitter truth of reality. When you hold something closely, you lose it nearly".

~ Pearce Crizyel
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
TAKE ONE: not enough time to relax and for the buzz to wear off, i.e. not reflective enough, jumbled mess of feelings, spaghetti tangles - also not enough alcohol for me to relax into writing something with genuine feelings...

i don't know why i'm sitting up and trying to force this
onto a piece of paper...
i'm literally: knackered... i'll be unimaginative...
force of habit i guess... nothing more:
     i'm not expecting to write something spectacular...
not since leaving the house at 10am...
getting to Wembley for 12pm... being one of the first
people from the company, not even the managers
were there... a shift that started at 12:45pm and ended
at 1am...

buzzing

i got home at 4am... which i reckon isn't that bad,
walking to Wembley Park Station... ****...
and the underground worker i asked before the shift
promised me that: oh no, the Jubilee line is not
affected by the night-tube drivers...
only the Central and Victoria lines are affected...
that's the information i read up on the TfL website
anyway... ****... oh well... walked to Wembley
Central and everything just clicked...
the N18 bus was almost packed... sitting in traffic...
generous driver opened the back doors and about
5 of us jumped in... went to the upper deck...
took off my coat... took my tie off...
      unclipped about three buttons from my neck
down... and the buttons on my sleeves...
rolled them up...
               what just happened... did it?
       tired, buzzing, tired, buzzing... if only i could
get a beer...

put some music on...
    my life is currently epitomised by...
                FooR x Majestic x Dread MC - Fresh
but obviously i wasn't listen to that...
Piano and String Quartets from Schubert's The Trout...
for the love of night buses in London...
and esp. after an event like that: you can feel the vibrations
of everything going back to normal...
   i can sort of imagine a Halloween party this
year... with someone dressed up as the year 2020...
with a face-mask... a face shield, pandemic white overalls,
yellow plastic gloves...
  yeah... that would really make up for a great
Halloween suit...

ended me being the only supervisor in charge of about
20 stewards... there were these two others
but one was busy with his 16 while the one i was
supposed to work with ****** off somewhere
and never came back... i was originally only supposed
to be allocated 6 stewards...

man-down... let's do this...
   surprisingly very little trouble...
                 vaping... drunkenness: obviously...
it's not a football match: you could actually drink in view
of the "pitch"...
            but i was like: wow...
    94 thousand people in this hole in the ground that
rose up and dragged walls around it...
and right in the middle.... this tiny... tiny...
    stage... a boxing ring...
                 at first it was sort of unimpressive...
the crowd was scarce... the day was still here...
the artificial lights looked like someone was
shining light into mirrors...
                 light was barely coming out of them...
Tyson's cousin was one of the pre-fight fights...
me running around tending to all the stewards
under my supervision, tending to their needs...
and obviously... one *******...
but when i say *******... well... it's complicated...
even his mother said that he has underlying
mental health issues... and a drinking problem...

///////////////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\

TAKE TWO

i'm finally sitting down and willing to write something
that might feel equivalent to squeezing a lemon,
something genuine... like: i might cut myself...
and then squeeze a lemon... pour some salt on the cut
that came about by accident while cutting vegetables...
i want this night to sink in...
i missed last night... i only got home at 4am...
mind you: that's a good record... if you're leaving Wembley
at 1am... Wembley Central...
getting the N18 bus to Oxford Circus... then the N25
bus to somewhere like Manor Park...
switching to N86... getting to Romford... then walking
back home... in your hand... some memorabilia
(programme) from the Fury vs. Whyte boxing match...
you still don't know what just happened...
some people paid a lot of money to see this match-up....
but you? you were there... for free...
and getting paid on top of that... first take...
i tried my hardest to capture everything...
impossible... not after 4am... i mused for a bit
until 6am... saw the sun coming: i'm out...
this rabbit's heart is pumping too much...
its legs are swollen from all the running around...
i got up at about 2-30 in the afternoon...
   looked around... what the **** just happened?
where was i for the past two days?
i know i left home at 10am yesterday...
   i came back home at 4am today... so that's pretty
much two days gone...
   where was i? where...
                  somewhere... somewhere...
            let me tell you... in a stadium that's supposed
to be fit for a football match...
seeing 94 thousand people crammed in...
with nothing to look at but this little stage...
a boxing ring in this hole in the ground that rose up...
it's so... different... i have no better word for it...

so i calmly sat down... watched a little of the West
Ham vs. Chelsea match...
got bored... went out to buy three ciders... drank one...
then started making dinner...
Silesian gnocchi - the trick being...
you cook potatoes... let them cool...
        you squeeze them into a "mash"...
cut them into four portions...
                      take a quarter out...
add a quarter of potato flour... one egg-yolk...
mix it... first with knife and spoon...
then with your hands... if you went all in with your
hands you'd get too much goo stuck to your fingers...
then you add the removed quarter of potatoes into
the mix...
         once properly kneaded... you pinch little
doughnuts from the dough...
                         you pinch... roll them in your hands
and then squish them by inserting your index finger
into them being in the cusp of your hand...
then... you boil them in water... two minutes once
they rise to the top... then... you get some cold water
into a bowl... and take them out... put them into
that cold water so they firm up...
   and slightly stop cooking... but to firm them up...
and then you serve these with a nice onion sauce
and some pork belly and some... pickles... coleslaw...
i knew that i needed to do something today...
return to reality...
   i knew i needed to watch: this is going to be painful...
brilliant show... dark comedy at its finest...
i knew i needed to take out the garbage...
yesterday was yesterday...
                it's another world... another stage...
it's not a world for poets...
                 there was a point where the poet was needed...
i already mentioned the incident...
a mental health crisis...
   a muddle of conversation... the guy was with his
mum... she bought the tickets...
but he was being a complete *** about it...
well... he went off... left him... because he asked
her to buy him some spirits... but they don't sell
strong alcohol in any stadium... just beer...
he became ******* about that... he was already drinking
the night before till late...
too exited to see the fight...
          what a ******* muddle... drunk... abusive to
my stewards... each time i had to step in and try
to not... call in the intervention team... the SIA ******
that would come in and handle him physically:
twist his arm and be all wide-eyed with fear-adrenaline...
i'm not ******* radioing in for those ******...
we can talk this over... no need for violence...
no need for an ejection... let's play ping pong...
i tell him: listen... you paid to be here...
i'm being paid: to be here... see the difference?
it's not fair that i get to see this for free: and get paid
for it... while you're just willing to forgo seeing this fight...
your mum bought the ******* tickets...
stay... look! the lights are on! there are 94 thousand people
packed into this stadium! stay...
i took him to the side... he cried... ashamed...
rightly so... panic attacks... cry all you want...
but you're still going to sit this one out...
here... if the crowd is too big... sit on the seats reserved
for the disabled people...
more space... you'll be surrounded by stewards...
twice he tried to leave... once i had to ask my manager
to speak to his mum when he became a sort of a missing
person... found him... sat him down...
he watched the fight... personally? i too was overwhelmed...
but i was working... so i could let that show...

it's almost funny... me writing this... it's like the fight
didn't even happen... well... it sort of did...
but for me... it felt like... playing with toy figurines
of superheroes... or some G.I. Joe...
sure... but i was switching at watching two ants
fight in the distance and the screens above them
that enlarged them...

and to think: this was no my role... my official title
was media escort... i helped about three new media
personnel to get the proper credentials:
but the rest were usual... the other supervisor ******
off somewhere so i had to fill his role... take care
of the VIPs and the people who paid extra money...
faces that became blurry... didn't recognise any of them...
fame is a cruel bride...
i was more concerned with the wellbeing of
the stewards i inherited... from only supposedly 6
i had... about 20... kneeling to each of their whims...
some were just too neurotic: too confrontational...
i had to step in to explain to the public:
he's a nervous creature... spare me the trouble...
just... go along... it'll make my life easier...
just stop making the argument that smoking
your portable-shisha is not smoking a normal
cigarette... listen... i've become a contained
animal when it comes to smoking since 1pm...
and i have to wait until 1am to have a drag...
if i have to do it: you can too...

oh i did manage to watch the entire Fury vs. Whyte
match... by then everyone was watching it...
so i could cool off...
some cute black girl VIP asked me if i could call
in a blocked toilet in the VIP section...
i have the stewards a heads-up when approached
by a Frank Bruno lackey (think... Mr Pickwick
and Sam Weller... but this wasn't a Sam Weller you'd
want around... nothing humourus about this
Sam Weller... just a star-struck busy body)...
oh he has a body-guard... he's going ring-side...
he needs extra protection...
i passed the message on... hey... i was only assigned
the role of being a media escort...
why the **** am i doing all these other roles?
and... **** me... this is only my second shift
at Wembley... the first shift was a joke...
i was on level 5 in the glass room... telling people whatever
the **** i was telling them... now... in the thick of it...
i'm stressed one minute... relaxing the next...
i'm coordinating stewards left right and centre...
i hate the idea that just because i had a radio
and an ear-piece i'm the ******* island of peace
that Noah found after the flood...
            i already know what that Manchester ******
of a "supervisor" is doing... betting online on the sly...
i clench my teeth... grinding my teeth: everyone's alright?

by now i'm already doing what i usually do at
a football match... i yawn... i'm thinking of returning
to my garden, to my bed and finding some peace...
because... that's the usual standard...
10% of people do all the work of... let's cut the pie up
fairly... 50% of the work...
which would make them: sentence prone to get
their bearings in doing... oh no no... not menial:
manual labour... that's the whole **** joke...
doing... menial... manual.... pointlessness...
i'm thinking: did the Nazis read the myth of Sisyphus?!
- and it's not like we're a cohort of bricklayers...
we're ensuring people don't become over-excited...
we keep them in check...
pick up a brick... throw it... great...
but then try to not argue with a human being...
try to appease them...
tell them: listen... mate...
i too love freedom... believe me... freedom...
so i watched...

  these supposedly high tier women... well...
that's a great dress... that's great ***...
but... ahem... i can't seem to be able to distinguish them
from prostitutes...
personally? i think i've had better looking women
in my bed at £120 an hour
than... £3000 an event at a dinner table...
sorry... i think i'm sparring with some of these days...
i'm looking out of curiosity... some of the stuff they
float is... so... unimpressive...
   maybe that's why i look like it like...
David Attenborough looking at...
oh wow! i just thought of it...
imagine... a pre-history... where...
           that meteor: what proof?
        killed... not massive lizards... but... massive insects!
i get money... you get a lot of fluke on that...
i have a kaleidoscope of pyramids and stars of David
in my mind...
i was not, supposed... to this work...
it just became automatically assigned to me...
because... only a day prior... went to the Turkish
barber... went for a haircut... looked pretty SS...
just needed the suit...
   once i got bored of the high-payers sitting around
too long after the match i sort of started interpreting
a funny march... i'd walk around the glass wall
with a: slide up... move leg forward... stomp...
repeat... repeat...
  
   oh man... but once the VIP "celebrities" were pushing
the lines...
the manager didn't call me to intervene:
but i intervened...
familiar faces... honestly? i didn't recognise most
of them... i can count my fingers... i have two hands...
i can count how many toes i have too, believe me...

i did see Frank Bruno when he was returning from
ring-side... he looked like such a shell of a man...
he actually brushed against me...
almost paranoid... half the man...
       i guess that's what happens in this sort of business...
someone always takes you over...
he wouldn't have received a 94 thousand crowd
for one of his fights... but maybe he sorted spotted
a kindred soul...
i just thought: Frankie ol' boy... maybe you should
switch from what sort of sport you watch?
you were a boxer... why not decide on...
Olympic judo? that's still fighting...
but the rules are tighter... it's more of a play-around-rough
up... you're not in harm's way from a concussion...

and... let's face it... the Fury KO of Whyte?
that wasn't a proper undercut...
he skimmed his chin... he: skimmed it...
it wasn't an outright Mortal Kombat undercut...
he didn't punch him: he kissed him...
and... Tyson has no body of a boxer... aesthetically...
he's fat at the hips... he has love-handles...
and... i guess that's what happens when
you reach a certain height... 6ft9... i've seen men taller
than me... most of them get a hunch... their shoulders
are not proportionate to the rest of their body...
they're much smaller...
personally? i don't think Fury has an aesthetic physique...
maybe that's useful... it must be useful...
like i never understood men that strive
to have the size of their arms to be almost proportionate
to the size of the legs...
makes no sense... to have the same volume
of arm to leg...
you know: you just want some aesthetic bulk
around your collar-bone...
  that drips down a layering of details...
Fury is a love-bun... around the waist...

                       once upon a time: said a David to a Goliath...
oh man... the VIP section was a treat...
i walk in... start talking to the catering staff...
help them with removing the bottles...
and there's this... i hardly can say this about most
men i meet... this pretty copper-neck curly:
i don't ******* know what he is...
half-Somali half-Kurdish... it's London...
it's Danzig... but we get on...
busy? not so busy? who have you seen?
he says: i don't know most of them...
me too... i couldn't tell you who's famous and who
isn't...
   i spotted this itchy look...
"famous" women...
   herr primofizier doesn't recongise her...
slim clad... eh... 10th of a buttocks exposed...
i'm still ******* running on blank...
Love Island type of celebrity... sorry... what?
i'm not even talking to the VIPs... i'm talking to the catering
staff... they seem less: oh... you see me...
ergo... i see you...
                so he pulls out a bottle of Budweiser...
i tell i wish... just give me a cold bottle of Sprite...
back up... back up...
   i've seen too much of that face on t.v.
Dermot O'Leary leaving via the press entrance / exit...
my stewards ****** up... he was supposed
to be leaving via the "VIP" entrance / exit...
he really did surprise me... i spontaneously say hello...
hello back...
             ****... i didn't bring my t.v. along...
weird... seeing people of superficial fame
in real time... i mean: Kant's famous.. but he's also
dead... it's like a hall of mirrors...
when you see someone on t.v. but when you
see them in real life you're like: so... where's the t.v.,
mate?! because it was different with Frank Bruno...
he was a boxer... he did something beside
present a t.v. show...
                 tiers of fame...
who else was on the list... best those...
THOTS of love island?!
         me... i thank the guy part of the catering staff...
who gave me a cold bottle of Sprite...
Paddy McGuinness...
         i have to actually type these words into a search
engine... regarding who i saw...
indian comedian funny eye...  Romesh Ranganathan...
and? he was walking past me with...
QI cast... search engine... Alan Davis... Davies...
   anyone else?
        Stuart Pearce! but... that was another occasion...
he walked so casually past me at some other
football match...
        no... wait... there was one... ****... there wasn't...

it's new territory for me...
trying to ensure a bunch of stewards are tended to...
and... seeing people... fame... ha ha...
more like a social club... given... there's...
what... 9 billion in this world?
i'm thinking... double-down... take to some art...
wait... with luck... once you'll die...
ah... then it'll kick in... but by then...
you'll already be dead... so... it really won't matter
to you...
                  hmm... now that i have seen
famous... "famous" men... men that should really
walk with either t.v. segments of their incursion
on the pop psyche or... tags like: hello, my name is:
Zee / Zed... and i'm famous beause:
penicillin and ****...
TAGS... i am yet to see a famous: a F'AH-MOUSSE:
i.e. woman...
          the famous men... just as disorientated
like the rest of us... rich men?
sort of in-group scared... well... buoyancy...
it's so much different to what i've already experienced...
supervisor of stewards... do it properly...
crowd management can take on army-like-rigour...
famous people don't keep each other in check...
well... they do... when they get into trouble...
but they do this: keeping-each-other-in-check
when it's too late...
             i once went to a Big Brother... whatever the ****
it was... with this high-school friend of mine...
Tina... signing... opening... whatever the **** it was...
and while in the crowd...
placards... reading APPLAUD... blah blah...
with... "celebrities"...
and now i'm mingling with "celebrities"
and... all i'm thinking about is...
talking to the catering staff... for a free bottle of Sprite...
because: that's human! because there's a God
and no Pharaoh!

- and i know i attended this high pretege event...
i know that... where hierarchies of men
tickle thumb... tickle thumb...
i'm still of surprised why i haven't been allocated
a place in an asylum...
well... the fight was one... but i was trying to
keep this panic attack riddled beef-cake of a boy
from:
funny... that... there's this one lineage of madmen
that cry... have panic attacks...
while their mothers remain stern... priceless:
while there's the lineage of "us" that have
the capacity to make our mothers cry...
because we cook, we are custodians of
the household... we tend to our gardens...

               and we also tend to people...
                      supposed upper tiers of people...
levelling ground...
            like i said... if there was anyone famous
in this crowd... i spotted about... 3 or 4 faces...
the rest... skim reading... tabloid journalism...
i much prefer talk to the cogs and the generalisation
of machinery... it was a success that
some of the stewards that under me replied with:
i want to work with you again...
because you listen to my concerns
and you implement a change in making
my concerns abate...

                 now i'm relaxed...
the 3h trip via N18, N25 and via N86...
relaxed me... as did Schubert... the Trout...
             tonight's the night i drink to excess and
think... well.... "think" about people...
i'd rather think about masks... masquerades...
and Madame... Tuss... Tusseouds...
   Tussauds... too many ******* vowels!

this grand event happened... seriously?!
American Pie...
what if you were to sing...
Nights in White Satin?!
           or Combichrist: Sent to Destroy?!
Tyler Apr 2021
My folks cut off my roots.
I almost never knew that
I’m just four generations removed
From fighting with Pearce.
Six from being born into genocide.
“Ar scath a cheile a mhairean na daoine.”
I was placed on dead men’s shoulders.
Great men, terrifying men.
But they’re not here, where are they?
That’s a weird question, here.
I don’t pray enough.
Hardly ever touch a rosary.
Most others don’t even consider the act.
But that’s all there is for the last of us.
If there are any.
Unless we’ve all outlived
The last American Irishman.
Bob B May 14
Have you ever heard of the clipper LOCH ARD?
Its story reminds us to be on our guard.
In 1878--oh, such grief!--
She shipwreck occurred when the ship hit a reef.

It happened just off the Australian coast--
Where shipwrecks caused many to give up the ghost--
Because of some miscalculations and fog
And not 'cause the captain was drinking his grog.

The crew had tried hard but could not get a grip
On any way that they could save the great ship.
Only two people--does this strike a chord?--
Survived of the 54 people on board.

A lucky crew member--Tom Pearce was his name--
Made sure survival became his chief aim.
A small upturned boat was for him within reach.
He hung on till he found himself on the beach.

Eva Carmichael was lucky as well.
She hung on to objects afloat in that hell.
When the young woman was pulled from the tide,
She learned that her folks and her siblings had died.

Tom had helped rescue her; he'd heard her cries.
He saw that she struggled and feared her demise.
The two nineteen-year-olds were both tired and sore.
They drank from some bottles that drifted ashore.

Tom searched for other survivors in vain.
He hoped that he had enough strength to sustain
His efforts to scale the sheer cliffs, which he did.
It could have been deadly in case he had slid.

After their rescue and it became known
How the survivors' two lives had been thrown
Together in such a way, people thought they--
Eva and Tom--would get married one day.

Could THIS be a love story starting to bud,
Or would their relationship end with a thud?
They shared a link that was special, of course;
But love is not something that people can force.

Both of them married but not with each other.
In Ireland years later she married another.
Tom and his wife had two sons who would be
On ships--sad but true--when they both died at sea.

As lovely as bodies of water appear,
Oceans and seas can be something to fear.
Eva and Tom were both lucky and brave.
The ocean came close to becoming their grave.

-by Bob B (5-14-24)
"it's such an unfair advantage working in security, joke of a job, or rather: there are too many people in this industry: mostly women, who 'think' they can appease a restless drunk, man, who they have no coordinates for in terms of the stressors of nihilism: if religion was still alive: but god is alive while religion is dead... if these women knew that simply popping out a golden doughnut of a bambino: we have it harsh not that it matters but we don't have the luxury of fashion and make-up... say that to someone obsessed with latex, the Marvel comic universe... Rod Stewart's train-set... and then this ****** antics... yachts galore... but a woman? pops out a baby and hey presto! cul de sac of existentialism sort of become a tempus per se: agreed... there's no locus ad hoc: no space for this... so the child is a discomfort a 'discomfort'... but i'm not such a bad drunkard... i don't get jealous, i just tease my wuvva bovva when she tells me that she has courtesans in her vicinity of that juicy *** of a peach... but take religion away from man and replace that with the Coliseum: replace the Church with the Coliseum and then spike his ingestion of: moderation of wine: excess that with beer... don't give him a purpose: disorientate him with sport: doubly so! make him twice the unappreciative leech on what sport is: blind-side him with football fanaticism: so that he can't appreciate athletics and mathematics: the two mothers looking for a third: perfect thirst for melancholy and knowledge: namely philosophy: perhaps it's only a struggle in this tongue, this English: zunge... this lack of thirst for language bagging some Stanley 'satan' Shakespearean itch: that night when lying in bed and i felt a creepy-crawli rummaging into my skin to get at my nymph-nodes... now i feel my skin itching... and only yesterday... the chances of cycling and catching a ******* insect in my eye... eye not yet watery but still blistered... maybe this freak-ah-zoyd reclining should stop just watching people video games: at least she might not be prone to doing **** like: selling bathtub water for the desperate or maybe i'm also one of them: i'm pretty sure that if i spread enough words into the stream of connectivity i'd get away with prying open the gimmick: bagged me a Puerto Rican ****... a Puerto Rican **** and i don't feel inclined to explore sexuality most extreme in ****... i like the vanilla tasting her swallow... but then again i have my three-switch flick of the index prompt regarding one finger in her mouth and another in her ****: but boys being boys it wasn't enough that i was envied for courting a Russian girl: now i challenged the spectrum and went the other way all the way to H'america..."

it's sports commentary:
i listen in on all those former footballers turned
sport pundits and
jeez: ****** as General:
not the competent Erwin Rommel...
there's the genius and there's the artistic
turned dictator: flop...
sports commentary concerning football
is... ******* boring:
maybe that's why the fans are so vocal...
but if you just listen to the commentary
surrounding the Tour de France:
well: it's linear: the race:
unlike F1... very much unlike Formula Uno:
one...
ah! that's what i forgot!
to scribble in some katakana!
since N is so special a vowel in Yap:

オンエ   (not one: oh-née:
        i.e. not one or won)
the plural of feminine: those women...
different in the masculine
realm replacing one letter:

      オンイ... oh-knee...
no... wait... that's exactly the same: even with
the surd inclusion to morph meaning
of the same sound...
oh-n'eh: yes yes... oh-
  no... wait... that's right!
what was i thinking?!

        probably something about becoming blind
in one eye: which one? the ! or the ? eye?
and ears likewise: deaf like
that's a monstrous punctuation adventure
a colon in one ear
a semi-colon out the other...

in the plural then: AXIS... summon the *******
i've worked with enough drunkards
that i understand an unfair advantage
when i see one:
i summoned up bulking and bulging
i put on an extra kilogram or so
so i look more obnoxiously formidable like
i'm waiting for the action doing
response but all i see it people
wasting my time
i want to be traumatized like most people
become when doing this job
but all i get it politeness and maybe
i'm just a big smooch:
the way she described other males
trying to chirp her up all lavender and honey
i didn't get disorientated
i just told her: it's coming up to 4am
and i'm still thinking about tomorrow's
weather and the heatwave receding
and your daughter is eating dry pasta
and that's almost like me clinging
to exercising my bite and gnash
on my own teeth and other instruments
of torture until bone bites bone
and a new geology is born from the chips
and my grinning chipped teeth:

onesies i think "they" call them...
don't know: bad grammar is a disgrace when
so made into fetish for bad politics
like chess are people or people
are chess and this is a nightmare circus
but fair enough:
if that eases the strain on god's antics
in the omni-verse of -potency etc
then i too think Yo needs...

it looks so terrible for anyone who's either
schizophrenic or bilingual,
this whole notion of: "gender neutral pronouns":
perhaps it's an English-thing:
with its already in situ:
gender neutral nouns...
which makes no sense to summon
the idea, the whisper: but wow! so vocal:
"gender neutral pronouns":
the ******* nouns are gender neutral!
learn! another! *******! zunge!
in other languages there's no confusion:
nouns are gender exclusive!
there's some inkling into this reality with
calling the Moon a boy and the Sun a girl:
or in the ancient script calling
Latin Moon girl and Latin Sun boy...
but come on: Britain: the Afghanistan of
the ancient world: before the Saxons conquered
this respite for conquest:
these Irish, Welsh and Scots...
don't bother me when i'm still residing in Essex...
before the Germanic influence:
the devolved people pushed into a now
impeding homogeneity of Pseudo-Babylon...
with all the rest of the people of the world
making their claim to
bad weather and even worse diet!
well **** me! might as well sell them ****
and make them feel like twice the overlords
and conquerors with their breeding patterns
and state-dependence:
me? i'm ******* off to Hawaii... leave you to it...
i'm beyond one ounce of giving a toss:
i found myself a girl i can escape pornographic
daydreaming:
on a hunch: well yeah:
the day i brought her present to the brothel:
a ****-ring...
the 20 year didn't know what i was doing
but neither did she know what was what is
a ******* before the advent of the monotheistic
mutilation by the Arab-Hebrews...
oh yeah, yeah: i'd get circumcised (if i could,
but i can't but if i could: but i can't
since i have a caduceaus of veins around my skin
on my **** so: bleeding gums murphy)...
circumcision should only be permitted
as a prenup agreement...
only then: not right off the bat hey ** let's go!
if i get married then yeah:
guillotine my *******...
but beyond that you ******* barbaric sods: ha ha...

it's still bad grammar...
gender, neutral, pronouns...
as in: "neutrality" of enveloping the singular with
the plural so that he is disguised as they
and she a them: wow! applause! stupendous
******* applause!
i'm having to listen to the DYSLEXIC goblins!
the fury and the agony of: supposing
the priestly-caste became limp-**** energy
and people became over-ambitious in their
first: thirst: ambition for scribble scribble scribble:
but then the scribble scribble scribble
comes back and you begin to wonder:
all that... for this?!

it's not even bothersome what sport you watch:
but football these days has the most
terrible of commentaries...
you switch off listening to it
and appreciate the game:
with the exception of, say: John Motson...
Jonathan Pearce... yeah...
but beside that: ex-footballers...
one exception...
two...
            Ian Wright is not a commentator:
he's a pundit...
as is Roy Keane....
             Alan Shearer... Ally McCoist...
legend...
                  Martin Keown: measured, reserved...
sober(?)...
             Tour de France commentary is
different: you're not supposed to be watching
the race, well: you are: you're not...
regardless:
i don't see a bunch of women raising arms
at length to salute and say:
we also want to be the brides and girdles
of the Tour! give us some!

equal pay: but i really want women to play
5 sets in tennis!
i want to get my money's worth!
if women are to be paid equal as men
in a sport:
they should at least play to a 3 set winner in
the grand slams... surely... no?
why are they getting paid to play a maximum
of 3 sets while men have to grind out
a 5 setter?
doesn't seem fair:
but we're only talking about a pedantic minority
of hard-core feminist-nazis to begin with
so i'm not really bothered about outcomes
of my spontaneous verbiage...

                  but if you don't attract a massive
crowd to watch your matches...
with the exception of the national team
then i really don't understand
how all these women think they can be
****-boys and not look ugly
while we know all the ****-boys
are Peter Pans and that's really not something
you aspire to
since you know they're only ******* the gullible
ones and that's an intellectual sub-par
of what's talked about outside the bedroom:

i didn't ask whether you can cook and clean...
then there you go with:
but i'll earn as much as you and get a maid...
seriously?!
so all for me but none for you
so there's no grand feminist solidarity
you'd rather have another woman do your chores
while you compete for my... responsibilities
and strains:
i didn't say: can you cook and clean:
i do that myself... i was just asking:
would you mind cooking and cleaning: with me:
but there you go all defensive:
but i'm not doing either:
regardless:
regardless of what?
butchering a poor animal twice by
overcooking the beef till it's dry and ugh and
i need blood and ju and goo:

no wonder then that i had to resort
to looking for a woman outside of England:
if not in Russia then in America...
well: Polynesia... South America:
not America-as-Culture as such...
somewhere "spicy": somewhere fidgety...
fiddly... jeez this itch...
i really do think i have a parasite crawling
under my skin: sometimes it pops like an itch
in my ear sometimes
on my nose...

it's still a case of bad grammar:
gender, *******, neutral, ******* pronouns...
it's bad... so so bad...
someone ought to cut off the dyslexic delusion
of prowess: give them some sweets:
a sugar rush and a motorcycle to speed
on and crash into a jargon busting dumpster
of a truck: re-orientate them with
clever tricks like:
only two experiences can compensate getting
a ******* as good as...
     getting a haircut in all that ******* Ottoman
experience and...
seeing a dentist: but that's not ethnicity related
like going to a Turkish barber:
any dentist will do:
shoving his latex GIMP
           hands into your mouth while you're gagging
and saying: i might just about to cry
from all that inverted ***: my-tho-logy?
    structure: that's mý-tho-logy:
when writing the schematic: it's truly there:
it's not my: aye: eye...
     it's a mýthology: hence no ý in -logy:
since that's: logically: -ee... e e... e... e... e... e...

i knew you were trouble: Taylor does DUB STEP...
Taylor does DUB STEP... drops the BASS...
softcore dub step:
i remember there was that musical movement
once circa 2007...
then died the quickest death imaginable...

that sporting events have replaced:
well what's the problem with religion is the carousel
of repeating familiarity
and perhaps people just want drama
drama that can be contained and if religion was no
escapism:
but it was escapism for people, formerly:
then religion can't satiate the problems of modern man
god is alive and well
in the mental asylum
while religion is dead or at least morphing:
personally i find i couldn't find any satisfaction
with religion
even as much as the Muslims want to make
their intricate prayer antics enticing with remnants
of mysticism
i couldn't possible lubricate my mouth
on the mantras that leave the Urdu speaking
confusion a half-baked Arabic...
  
                          since... maybe there's a living through
language: LINGUA PER SE
re-orientating itself:
something out of my power...
              maybe language is: primarily an etymology
instead of history
perhaps there's a secret layer of language
that balances out all the newly discovered
graffiti...
                            and i'm just here for the thrill
of: peacock: how can i best attire myself
in the right sort of feathers of words...
                                     which might make her O and A
and Ooh: in the whirlwind of the YHWH
with the two hatches as vowel catchers in sighs
and instigators of laughs: balancing act of Ah in Ha... ha.

p.s. so in the end, my "unfaithfulness":
non-committal...
i thought: can i be as or at least so: psychopathic
and escape the sanctity of ****** exclusiveness?
turns out no...
the ****-ring confused the young *******
as did the *******...
in the end i ended up paying her £120 for an hour
whereby i massaged her
and she cuddled to me like a daughter
and that's when i decided that:
all the lessons of the brothel have been learned...
there's no need for me to go back...
i think it was always a language barrier for me...
i think that language is: but especially is:
if you find your type:
voluptuous... volume: voluptuous...
              if you can find your type and become:
TYPO... strange parallels:
an honest monetary exchange: once, only once
since March... and... absolutely... nothing...
to engage a psychology with:
too many ******* swans in my head
and matrimony...

                          a ******-pathology:
or rather a pathology of *** post the ****** revolution
in that:
it takes great strain and mental gymnastics
to go ahead with frivolous and anti-stereotypical
"awakening" casualness of ***
in the realm of the psychopath:
maybe that's why i did overcome that aspect
of ***
and did manage multiple ****** partners
and did manage to persuade some to perform
unprotected *** and that's a big thing
since in the brothel the onion and peel of
skin of extra financing the experience
but then a return to a comfort of the lived
rather than dying through experience
and how naturally there'a a lock on who you
experience either KINK or VANILLA with
and even in the realm of VANILLA
the KINK comes out: out of its own unconscious
rota of: can't hide forever...
and that's better than all the false sense of
the rewarding self: instead it's a self-punishment
with that promise of causal *** that's:
so... ******* monstrous i don't know why
**** ideology died
while this 1960s ****** revolution still lingers
like a bad taste absinthe and Marxism:
but **** ideology is dead
while there's the real human question
of sincerity when it comes to such topics
as Euthanasia and being unable to care / afford
demented relatives...
this liberal-anti-liberal monstrosity is just:
icky...
                                         and this is coming from
a place of "love": like:
why were only the Slavic people inclined to
test out Marxism to the fullest extent
(while door-mouse Chinese faked it until they
made it...)
        but at least there were a people who tested
the theory thoroughly and there's knowledge
of: Marxism would work well in current Syria:
like it did in Poland:
as a way of: Marxism in place under special
circumstances of: invaded by and distraught by:
at least 2 foreign powers...
and a special time period like half a century...
great undercurrent of cultural growth:
no foreign investment: F.D.R's isolationism like
that of Japan: a fail-safe mechanism...
nothing capitalistic: permanent...

                  but **** me that was the last time
i paid for an hour whereby i ended up
massaging a *******: gremlin ergonomics of
pseudo-economic achievements of earning: spending.

— The End —