Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
howard brace Jan 2013
Despite repeatedly shaking her pincer... much as a sprightly pensioner might brandish a furled umbrella at a grappling contestant, currently being boo'd at in the red corner... the baby crab stamped her foot in annoyance as she glowered at every passing wave that rolled along the shoreline.  In absolving herself of any guilt she may have felt over her prolonged excursion, she had become, even further marooned by a failure to catch a succession of tides back home, an oversight she later confessed, to observe local tide-tables in 'Old More's Almanac...' on sale in all discerning book shops and selected High Street newsagents, priced 10/6d... for unless fluent in the Russian vernacular, it was just about as articulate to the little crab as a map of the Moscow Metro during a blackout, only to have the Rouble finally drop with a throat gagging 'Gaaargh...' clunk, that you were currently standing on the down-line platform, when you should've been stood on the up... as the last train lurched unsteadily out of the station whistling a jubilant entente cordiale... 'wish me luck as you wave me dasvidaniya'.

     Still stamping her foot, only now in strict rotation with the other seven, the baby crustacean peered out from beneath the shade of the large pebble, rearing its bulk out of the rockpool like a lollypop-lady's 'STOP'!!! sign, her beady eyes twitching independently, first this way, then the other, cut withering swathes through every cardinal point of the compass that didn't duck quite fast enough, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the rock-pool in which she found herself tapping her foot in today, would be no less aquatic as any other rockpool that she may find herself still tapping a foot in tomorrow and that the best course of action was simply to stay-put and take the matter up with the local town council, then petition for additional fare-stages to be implemented... and with the cost of shoe leather at current prices... well, with eight legs to consider it would make savings that weren't to be sneezed at.  

     It wasn't everyday of the week that a young and upwardly mobile baby crustacean had occasion to move both up-market and down the beach, all in the same mouthful... and into what could only be regarded as a desirable, detached beachfront property, a rock-pool of distinction with all available mod-cons.  She felt relieved that apart from the occasional day-tripper, who invariably dropped litter wherever they went, that a baby crab of distinction such as herself, was certain to be accepted socially and hob-*** with a new and discerning circle of acquaintances... you only had to take that nice lady earlier in the week, they both seemed to have so much in common... then she would roll up her sleeves and really show the neighbourhood what knitting was all about...  

     With as much enthusiasm as that of a three year old screaming for an ice-cream in the middle of an heat-wave, Red marched up the beach and as far from his wife's waspish tongue as a lame excuse would carry him, heading back towards the growing crush of holidaymaking fathers who were only there presumably, for the sake of their own children, laying siege to the mobile vendor... only this time, having already stood in the same queue ten minutes earlier, now had a sufficiency of funds to purchase that which he'd unsuccessfully queued for the first time.

      After an unspecified time which by his wife's reckoning was grounds for divorce... Red, now laden down with the iced confectionary picked his way through the same throng of fathers who moments earlier had been happily chatting in the queue together, were now enjoying the same berating as the one Red was looking forward to as he made his way back towards the rock pool, juggling more ice-cream than two manly hands could intelligently control... while in a bid for freedom, the rapidly thawing confectionary were hatching plans of their own, ones quite independent from those intended as they embarked upon their meandering exodus, known only to iced creamy desserts on hot sunny days... and into the unknown, roaming across Red's hands and trusting their fate to a far higher authority.

     "Did I mention that I was on a diet" snapped his significant other, as she sat licking pistachios from the melting cornet... "don't you ever listen," secretly smiling to herself... "and you did remember to bring Sockeye's water this morning.. didn't you..!" she continued "someone with half as much sense would've stood it in the rockpool to keep cool, I'm sure the little crab wouldn't have objected..!"   At the mention of his name, Sockeye with ears far too free-lance to ever consider gainful employment of their own, needed no further persuasion and charged straight through the rock-pool to his mistress's side, walloping the thermos flask for a tail whopping six... bringing his personal batting average so far this holiday to a self congratulatory forty not out... and found the baby crab spluttering flat on her back and having second thoughts on any immediate savings in shoe leather were she to stay. 

     Generous to a fault, Sockeye now thought to shower everyone's ice cream with liberal helpings of the seashore as several parasitic irritations had Sockeye hard at work serving eviction notices on some of the more exotic zoology that only a patent Bob Martin's would dare to muscle up to... the local wildlife, by the look on his face were having the time of their lives bivouacked behind his left ear, throwing wild parties and disturbing the peace.  Cross-eyed, it was only while launching a double pronged assault on the latest settlement of interlopers that Sockeye finally succumbed to his injuries and surrendered to a neighbouring sandcastle... it really didn't do to mention a certain name too loudly at times like these, especially when you just happened to be on the receiving end.

     For some strange reason he was undoubtedly in the dog house... they'd shouted at him, which made him sad, all except his little master who had pushed him away... which left him bereft.  Sockeye sat down on dads beach-towel and had a long, thoughtful scratch... where had all the fuss gone? he searched for appreciation their faces... his tail gave one disheartened thump before it stopped... and all those little pieces of ice-cream dipped wafer, which up until now had always appeared as if by magic.  

     Catching sight of one such treat, undoubtedly forgotten by the rock pool, a marauding seagull pulled out of a rolling dive and swooped, at the same instant as two gaping jaws launched themselves skywards... canine jowls quivering bravely in the light sea airs... and not too dissimilar to a heat seeking missile, rose gracefully from the ground to meet it... 'well intercepted..!' as both ears applauded in mid-air... no aerial freeloader was about to skip town with Sockeye's ice cream wafer without paying... leaving one solitary wing flapping its willingness to pay up.

     At least it kept her husband in useful employment Tina decided... and mercifully out from under her feet, as she brushed a fragment of affectionate pistachio from her bikini top... she'd have to  make sure he went for the ices in future... and without the means to pay for them... a mischievous smile turned the corners of her mouth as she leant towards the beach-bag and invested herself with several more juicy grapes... that everyone who fell within her sphere of influence had been warned well away from... under threat of dire consequence... and it would take a brave man indeed, or a very foolish one... she gave her husband who was sitting well within arms reach a caustic glance... and Tina's particular variety of justice had a very long arm indeed.

                                                        ­           ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1297
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares

They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
ALTHOUGH I shelter from the rain
Under a broken tree,
My chair was nearest to the fire
In every company
That talked of love or politics,
Ere Time transfigured me.
Though lads are making pikes again
For some conspiracy,
And crazy rascals rage their fill
At human tyranny,
My contemplations are of Time
That has transfigured me.
There's not a woman turns her face
Upon a broken tree,
And yet the beauties that I loved
Are in my memory;
I spit into the face of Time
That has transfigured me.
I am getting sick of people teasing me
I hate getting a phone call when I am out from ratbag people
Could be young could be old
Or even middle aged
They say on my answering machine you have warrant for an arrest for tax fraud
And I don't pay tax
I don't earn money
I am just a pensioner who believes in doing the right thing
I want the people who are responsible for that
To stop because I am not doing anything wrong
I know it is all Just a ****** scam because the police would come around to your house
I ain't stupid
But I wish this nonsense would stop
Scam scam ****** scam
That is all it is
But I can tell you now
I am not frauding the tax
I am just a poor pensioner
Who is trying to write poems and do art
I am not doing anything wrong
If I rang the number back I would be a victim of scam
And I don't want to be a victim
Of scam dudes
I get voices in my head saying to me hang on you ain't like us
You have to cope with us forever
I understand what is voices
I am not stupid or dumb
I hear my voices trying to bring back my old ******* the pants body when I haven't done that for ages
It is hard to be a family person
When people are trying to tease you but I can assure you I am
A cool family person
Please stop in any stretch of the imagination trying to pretend you are authority
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
pierdolony tasiemiec, ten mój angielski.

it's a strange affair, asking for gender neutral pronouns -
last time i checked, a pict taught me english,
and he, not once, suggested
that the category of pronouns
was a gender case,
or a gender neutral ground
             for that matter...
thank **** i am using this as
an acquired tongue,
otherwise i would be confused
as to what this whole affair "means":
i.e. it means *nothing
.
do these natives even realise that
they already have gender neutral
nouns?!
        oh yeah, if you check out
some of the other european languages
you'll realise that there are pro
gender nouns for objects that
do not have the mechanisation of
a ****, or a piston?!
     throw three ***** into the air
and hope that they catch them
and start juggling.
            english doesn't have
a masculine & a feminine ascription
of "******" differentiation of objects -
the english language has the already
gender neutral articles:
   the point, a point -
   a sun, the sun -
           it doesn't treat the sun as female,
nor does it treat the moon as male...
but other language do that...
       but gender neutrality of pronouns
is a bit like... don't know:
    talking sign-language swahili to
a chinese person?
and then this talk about *** lives
and household chores...
  who the **** said that cooking
is a feminine enterprise?
who let the women into the kitchen
in the first place?
  talk to an organic chemist -
he'll tell you:
i relax making culinary experiments.
once upon a time perhaps it was
a case that men hunted and women
cooked...
     so all the michelin star restaurants
are run by women?
   cooking is a feminine "enterprise"?
man, have you lost your *******?!
who said that women can cook?
oh right, that's a tier up from the insult
that women belong in the kitchen,
oops...
            the last meal i had was a pasta
bake, with the pasta not done al dente,
and after baking: mush...
   any pensioner would be happy
to slurp that carbohydrate mush up,
through a straw any time...
  bad *** = divorce? try overcooked pasta,
or undercooked potatoes.
      that **** gets me steaming
puffing screaming obliterating any if any
there was an internal monologue...
  why is cooking deemed a feminine
            "chore"?
                    why can't cooking suddenly
emerge as both art and chemistry?
but it is just that...
                 who said that women belong
in the kitchen?
            i didn't say that...
   nor did hell making a broth of sins...
   and suddenly, what? the idea is infantile?
go with the flow, no point breaking
a sweat by imitating a ****** building a dam
to clog up the popular view of:
   well, given my dreams, i'm sure as ****
scared of dying, and waking into one
of these dreams...
     where in the woken-into-dream i'm
not the protagonist, but merely a cameo;
my fear of death is not that of amen obliteration,
but the idea of waking up in a dream,
and as i already said: with but a cameo role.
once again: who let these women into
the kitchen, and why is cooking stereotypically
a feminine affair?
                 doesn't anyone relax and loves
to see the transformation of food
like a chemist might with chemicals?
              again, once more:
   you can get your gender neutral pronouns,
but once you allow pro gender nouns...
    i.e. a chair is a man, a table is a man
(masculine) -
         a candle is a woman, a mirror is a woman
(feminine) -
oh, wait, right, english doesn't have
this grammatical dimension of things being
categorised by gender...
      it only has the microscope the (i.e.
direct article) and the telescope a (indirect
article)...
     point being, this isn't even my fight...
i'm quiet literally a bystander,
the english language is inorganic to me,
it has been acquired,
   it's not organic enough to make a former
slave into the slapping slur rapper of exponential
slang source...
          i don't know how this mutilated
elephant man of a tongue is going to survive
this "epiphany"... " " (yes, that implies
sarcasm, as perfected by the english themselves)...
      i almost feel sorry for this to have
arisen, someone must have taught you
cheap native anglo...
   now i get the english gender neutral noun -
but a gender neutral pronoun?
  you'll have to start speaking french,
or polish, to get a gender neutral pronoun,
given that in these languages:
nouns are pro gender.
                                            sorry;
you simply can't turn your spreschen into
hieroglyphs overnight and expect me to understand
you, with, what the current year suggests,
leaves me without a rosetta stone
to decipher the jargon that's transcendental slang;
maybe if i spotted some gender neutral
pronoun graffiti on the streets,
then, maybe;
nonetheless, once more:
   this is not my fight, this language is not
an organic extension of me,
   it's an inorganic implosion -
to me this language is a parasite,
        and i am its host -
bo inaczej nie powiedział bym swego
pierwszego słowa: tak,
   jeno inaczej - jak już powiedziałem przez
swego, krasomówczym, pasożyta.

and if my ethnicity is vermin,
   guess what... this language but is a parasite
in me; the day i die, is the day
              i finally rid myself of it.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.you don't get it... it's... too... late... whatever argument you have concerning the bill of rights for the internet, or whatever... "public utility" involves... internet banking and internet commerce has your argument by the *****... and it's stretching it... about to play a mad-south violin tune on excess skin; ****, love the arguments... but e-commerce and e-banking if like... whatever the purpose of the internet was... it... was... ha ha! about saving the amount of paper used in offices around white-collar workers... eventually... because, what else?!

at this points, i'm thinking -
why divide and conquer?

just put some salt on the wounds
and watch the fiasco...

why? well... hmm...
i don't like the sterile environment
of the internet...

once upon a time,
like it's some Disney cartoon prologue
from the 1930s...

i can't watch Joe Rogan on
youtube anymore...

         whatever alternative video
recommendations i get when
watching a video...
        it's a ******* brick wall...
it's the same **** i watched before...

the algorithm isn't being inquisitive
of me...
        i like the idea of an A.I.
being inquisitive of me,
when with each video,
there was something, potentially new,
humming its presence
in the background...

       i liked that... the A.I. would
just... propose some, other, more
far-fetched alternative...
      and this environment was
existent, alive, and well,
say...

            one and a half years ago?
give or take the "concept"
of circa....

     but now? i turn on the internet,
and it's like... the ******* BBC...
do i ******* look like a *******
pensioner?! or am i some add-on to
the song forever young...
clown prince clapping with one hand
or doing the jazz hands:
all grin and no subtlety of humor?

the internet existed from...
say... ****... when did i frequent Microsoft
chat rooms...
say...
                     i was in year 9, 10, or 11...
i left high-school in the year 2004...
years 12 and 13...
        let's just say...
the year that limp bizkit's
album choc. starfish and the hot dog
flavored water
album was released...
with the song hold on...
an atmospheric riff...
subtle, gentle...
like black sabbath's solitude "riff"...
a gentle play on never engaging
in *******-like
solos for the guitars...

so?
    the internet in its original casing lasted
for... a gross value of...
    16 years? maybe 17 years...
no more...
  the internet is dead...

it used to be fun...
       oh **** me, 2 years ago?
it was the cherry on top of relating to blank
spaces... but now?
the ****'s sterile...
infertile, and to boot: impotent...

point in question:
i'll have t rethink finding watching brick walls
entertaining once more...
imagining... ****...
you sure one of them didn't make
a corner-stone Jesus quote,
slyly moved...
   and then painted a Piet Mondrian?
you sure?!

yeah, thanks a lot...
for making internet t.v.,
*******... wankers... gob shy-ters! *******!
cubicles of norms no one is
ever going to fulfill... like some ****
eugenics poster children of
what a perfect family looks like...
wankers!

the internet is dead,
and what used to be a great jukebox that's
youtube... oh... forget it...
that's dead too...

i liked the days when the A.I. was
A.I., and restricted from
a ******* Terminator-futurism-phobia...
and look what the wankers
brought with them... cages...
restrictions... they didn't even consort
with the actual hardware providers...
the ones who actually provide
internet access...
the one time the middle men were
of relevance...

no...    these people ****** the A.I....
with what i already stated:
   Terminator-futurism-phobia...
what a waste of potential...
the internet: as the internet lasted for
roughly 16 years...
and then died the death of being glued
to a t.v. set...
          so... why bother carrying your
smartphone everywhere?
it's like carrying a t.v. everywhere!
it's like... the 1980s, reinvented...
boomboxes in miniature form...
    see what this has become?
   it's beyond a circus or a freak-show...
it's an atomic bomb: imploding...

i'll still write ******* into this blank space...
but... the bet is settled on:
i'll drink more, heavily...
and turn out the advocate of
being... a disciple of the Cynic school;
the end.
That feeling of being trapped in his own home
unable to go far.
Alone and now afraid to pick up the telephone
why do so many ring?
I can't afford it he tried to mention
relying on his pension.

Yet the persistent aggressive and rude men
continued to phone him up.
Now in his seventies what could he do
nobody seemed to care.
Struggling to look after himself nowadays
on the elderly the villain preys!

So here he sat few visitors entered his home
almost forgotten by most.
Yet the calls continued to hound and pursue
they didn't listen to his words.
He had no money yet they continued to ring
treated as just a thing!

Yesterday he didn't answer the telephone
depressed he'd gone to the spiritual zone!

The Foureyed Poet.
The pensioner could not understand why he was always being telephoned to invest! He had no money yet it still rang! The Foureyed Poet.
st64 Jan 2014
(oh, if you don't like lengthy-reads, do not read any further.. thank you)





how I long to hear you
I am silent now
just like you



1.
from the curtain rail, hang paper-butterflies in gentlest-breeze
you made for us in vacation-time
we loved living and being with you
      so quiet and so serene
never loud, nor ever shouting
you gave us the love we often had to steal at home


2.
dear lady, when our parents couldn't cope
they dumped us at your door
you took us in for days on end
and how we flourished in your care

momma in her perfumed get-up.. always out and about
I couldn't stand her smell
she hardly took the time of day.. to get to know her own
they quarreled all the time
one time, we saw her pull in ugly-anger, a knife on him
      and he punched her hard in the face
      we-took-it-in.. the three of us
      they saw us standing there, looking on
I tried to shield the younger ones' eyes
but the lesson sank in.. thickly


3.
so, off to you.. we got bundled, like hastily-wrapped parcels
and you took us in
and we gleaned the worth of stability

you spoke to us in quiet-tone:
right, now we will read.. alright, my dears?
    we responded with three silent nods
    eyes up at you.. like open-flowers
    our smiles inside slowly blossomed
as a powerful-routine came to life

sit us down near koi-pond in the yard
     after milk and choc-chip cookies
     green dappled shade-cloth overhead and potted plants
she opened up a book - Gift from the Sea.. and she read
     we listened with rapt-souls, open and accepting
     drinking in the delight of her well-intoned voice
she tempered that sickly-void with deep-respect and lasting-admiration

how we filled the hours with your special-technique of patience
        we discover life.. along with title and the author
        one buck to read the first sentence of a new book
        two for first paragraph
        five for first page
we earned a keep to last a jolly ol' lifetime
looked forward to the end of every weekend
when we'd spend the week with you
off to school, you saw our tiny-feet and welcomed in the afternoon
      warm greetings with firm hand, discipline fell in place
      but when chores are done and homework, too
that's the time we'd settle quietly into the routine you set so well

cushions at the koi-pond and each one gets a turn
granny-dear, granny-doer.. you took the time
you read to us and we read to you
and then, we read to one another.. while you did your tasks
        we learnt of the classics and many obscure artists, too
        writers' names became familiar; we discussed at length
        and from your fine library, came three very well-fed beings
who each had a jar filled with love-pennies and mind-notes

tranquil-nap in dimmed-room in the afternoon
eyes sunlight piercing through in stippling-slants on polished wooden-floor
we fell into peace

thinking expanded beyond the lore of words
you'd engage the width of our seeker-imagination with so much
         drawing fine-lines into the unknown
         and paper-mâché and Rorschach-ink
         and let us see how earthworms could be useful
         and transplanting our seedlings from disposable egg-cups
by my teens, my special botany-project grew: orange saplings
how the time, it flew.. weeks and months.. years..


4.
then, one day, our momma said.. no more time at granny
          we questioned and we queried, but to poor avail
          evasive-looks met our searching eyes
and vague answers, even poppa with the *****-glaze didn't talk
we failed to swallow their awkward-energy

the three of us could take no more: affection interfered
      and I took two buses and snuck out to her place
I crept in silent, found her resting
but her eyes were covered up
      her face had blue blotches and cheeks were puffy
sharp-inhale!
      I shrank perforce and cried inside.. and softly touched her hand
she woke up, startled and turned away
     but she knew it was me; she'd learnt my smell so long ago
bowing my head, I gently wiped her brow with unscented-towelette
and I saw her shoulders shaking
she quietly accepted my comfort


5.
the routine continued, thankfully
after we got wind of what really happened
how you were mugged in the subway on your way to work
you've lost the use of one eye and you now slump on one leg
this fall in health did nothing to dampen your ardour
       we read for you when you could no longer see at all
       and when your pensioner-status made you penniless
       you rewarded us with hugs pressed into the psyche
       our night-time pitter-patter slipping to you from nightmares
       and you stitched our broken-pieces and sealed our cracked-assurance
never finer devotion bred from hands so kind


6.
you let us read and it sparked the mind
the penny kept on rolling with great success
long after you left
    my brother now lectures in languages
    and guest-speaks at many places of higher-learning
    and my sister became a lawyer
I became a drop-out early on, but I never sold my dream
I struggled with their help.. yes, I know.. I was always slower
and melted-crayons still do yield.. colour in the twilight of cool-eve

yes, and I bought a farm not long ago
and I tend my own keep
granny, you'd be proud of us
three silent nods to an angel in disguise


now, I stand here.. quiet in my beautiful-orchard of oranges
              stare at the leopard-changing shadows on the tiles
and long to read for you
so, I open up a dream lying next to my koi-pond, an auburn-tail flicks handsomely
and it all spills forth in reams..




can you hear me now?
in silent-vow, I unveil the finest of my heart-words
to you..




S T, 2 January 2013
man, what a day.. what-a-day!


sub-entry: thank you

.. for reading!

;)
Bogle Jan 2014
Old like a pensioner,
I'm reminded,
every waking hour,
of how I'm being left behind.

I'm sat there,
staring into space,
waiting for the world to change,
and love to accelerate leaving me stuck.

Stuck in the past,
where people are how they are,
where they haven't changed into freaks,
intent on destroying what makes them beautiful.

They are just fresh and pure,
and wise enough,
enough to not take risks,
risks that aren't worth taking.

But SNAP,
an adrenaline rush,
back to reality,
what has happened?

They bitterly remind me,
that I'm to ill to be in control,
they have planned to move on,
without a second thought.

I am sat there,
a hopeless mess,
while they leave to get a job,
proving there ability in independents and change.

It doesn't take a genius,
to realise I'm ill,
the anxiety of loss and change,
leaves me edgy and so low.

I'm dying,
I hope someone,
can **** my troubles,
before they **** me.
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall—
Foot suspended in its fall—
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.

Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should - by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance—
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
Laura Goss Oct 2016
I love your sensitivity
nurture it, it's a treasure
like a superhuman power
said noone to anybody ever

You're upset oh no- I must fix this-
you're broken, please don't cry
these tears make me uncomfortable
supress them, make them dry

A perfectly natural display
of normal human behaviour
is seen by some as weak
too feminine, a problem, a failure

Stop being so ****** sensitive
they're just animals, killed for us
now eat up all your diner
and stop making such a fuss

Don't question, object or argue
just nod, agree and grin
there's no place for emotional outbursts
in the society we're in

It seems sometimes today
with all this mad confusion
in a world of talking robots
we've forgotten that we're human

Yes I want to notice a smartly-dressed
pensioner alone by a train,
to image how it feels
feel his wisdom, feel his pain

because to feel a pull of emotion
glancing at a passing strangers eyes
is neither a weakness nor a hinderance
but a blessing in disguise

               ~
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
you excluded me... and i’m not even mussolini! ah, imagine... i’d bring black into vogue and politicise size 0 in fashion on a political level... imagine... ****** would do a strip can-can dance playing the flute on his moustache; ha! (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-DWUNa_Nys)*

like this one english tea lady royal i asked when she said:
boys... really *******.
i asked her... can you philophise as in synonym
psychiatry with neurology
within the grit of being entitled with the title dame
or a unicorn?
ah... no... enter applause!
who’d want to **** a pensioner if a pensioner herself?
ooh oh cherry picking paved a way for cucumber
goosebumps... left the right-wing intellectual, gay,
completely imbarassed...
ah **** happens... spelling mistakes... terrorist plots...
you know... cheap education, the iraq war... worth a handshake
if you ask me... if you really ask me... egypt has no
place in islam... it has a place in christianity
and judaism... egypt of my mother in ambitious
realisation of the ambition of reading a book...
and the mother of his act...
then the confusion comes: you were born from a
pigeon egg! you born from crocodile egg!
now we can begin... pooh wait! tee-ger was just about done
on the bongo nullifying the battered bounce.
K Balachandran May 2013
Flower beds in every nook
was Bangalore's delight
for long long years,
even before the time
Winston Churchill lived there
as a young British soldier.
Salubrious climate turned it then
in to a pensioner's paradise,
full of quiet tree lined streets.

The one time cool "Garden city"
one finds now with a new itch,
in its mad rush to get hitched
with the so called" flat world"
every which way possible,
it kills the symphony of colors,
both willingly and otherwise;
trees fall, monstrous flyovers rise,
technological behemoths,
which fast become dinosaurs
as economic down turn hits hard,
stand daunting us, adding green house gases
now, its all kitsch and concrete **** everywhere.
there are good souls in this world
shrouded in weathered skin
dry and cracked
with scowls hung upon their face
balancing on the scars of their brow
just as there are bad souls in this world
hiding under plush skin
their faces adorned with kind eyes and
cherry red lips made for kissing
or spitting with rage

picture a gorgeous brunette
with fair skin, bold eyebrows
and her hair in a subtle
yet nineteen-thirties style updo
wearing a red chiffon summer dress
the sun beats down on her
as she glistens with light perspiration
espresso in-hand cigarette in the other
her pale soft skin no match for
the thirty degree heat outside
of this café she nonchalantly finds herself
she is the epitome of carefree beauty

she kicked her lovers dog outside this morning
exiling him to a six hour long toilet break
after she "forgot" she had let him out
before leaving to go shopping
whilst her feller finished his shift
because the dog is old and smelly
and gets almost as much attention as her
she even saw his pensioner neighbour
struggling to take the bins out
as she walked to her car
and laughed rather than help
because she always
thought Mary was a no good Jew
she even called her Mrs. Goldstein
"Have a nice day Mrs. Goldstein."
but Mary's surname is Cohen

picture this beautiful girl a siren
leading good men astray
she can get any man she wants
and plucks only the finest
most succulent
I mean successful
and well put together men
from gardens of bachelors
maturing in the hardships of city life
she has plenty choice but she's fickle
you see, her man has to be almost perfect
for it to be as enjoyable as possible
to watch his life unravel and unfold
into everything he wanted it not to be

achievable only through toxic beauty
her joy is venom soaked insides
of lovers caught in a sultry web
of lies, ambition and ***
she loves a scandal
or a text sent to the wrong person
and she has everything to hide
but does nothing to do so
she gets by just fine
being beautiful and sickening  
and sickeningly beautiful
you know the sort
she is a bad, bad girl
Ben Jones Feb 2014
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor

He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge

When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot

They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled ******* the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs

They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast

Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum

But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler

He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles

He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam

He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
It was as common as grey slacks on a pensioner
Though smelled much, much better,
The shampoo she used, that is.
Used in abundance my numerous others,
But
None did justice as she.
Tempting chocolate tendrils skirting down
Colliding with shoulder and nape of her milky, silky neck.
I have kissed her there,
Nuzzled,
Suckled and slept.
Blanketed by her scented threads of security.
A sort of role reversal.
The supposing weak protect the strong as they sleep
And dream of where they are.
first published on my website Penlateral in wordpress
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
and i'm watching this couple, this: bromance...
  and i'm wondering when the time
comes that the other tells
the former: you can't talk
physics wearing a cowboy hat,
wasn't the 20th century the time
they lost habitual need to cover their heads?
monks shaving, the kippah...
indians and the Martian act of scalping,
my donning a beard and fiddling
with it like payots / sidelocks...
can this... cowboy talk seriously to me
about what is and what isn't a stance
on pragmatism?
      let's just say, that being attired
with so many scientific facts, moon lading
and all that, i'd be most perfectly sound
in stating such facts, such attire,
without looking, rather ridiculous...
   it's nice that someone can go to the moon,
and in having this susbjecitivty enclosed in them,
and how that won't translate into something
i might share... how i will never experience
someone else's subjectivity, and how that is
the sole basis for having objective opinions...
but you have to admit that donning a cowboy
hat is more ridiculous than putting on a sock
or a shoe...
                       and then talking
looking like that genius gremlin...
    men age, they enforce being boring,
they're too nostalgic, they love to re- re-
  a care for st. pete... hey! pedro! what do women do?
they're just become weird...
   like that wasn't the case to begin with...
love is... whether expressed by a pensioner
or a teen... a bit... mmm... whatever.
          it just gives me the idea of being
a host of gnats when people have to dress themselves
with these "serious" facts... and then they later
talk donning cowboy hats and boots...
  who's the serious monkey to be given
a radio show? who the serious bobo?
          even i know, given the phonos,
that dżin is an orthographic transgression...
        dzin would suffice...
yes, you've been to the moon, that's nice...
this is where you deviate from telling other
people to keep it to themselves...
              i'd prefer to hear more about the brothers
Grimm sound asleep, than hear of american astronauts...
but yeah, thanks for the invite,
      so few people care or want to be astronauts,
the emeritus americans and the emeritus russias
ego-tripping is so, so, so so boring...
       and i'm sorta in the custard of it taking place...
ethnicity and abstract identities of succumbing to
nationhood... cut it open... dżin... it's also called
the fake graphemes of sh and sz and dz ch and cz...
those are graphemes...
            there's a reason you don't **** around
invoking too much distinction in the realm of grapheme...
they really could have just said: dzin....
or jinn... or aladin drinking gin.
    sure, they call them aesthetic bits and bobs,
when in fact they are nor aesthetic in a + way,
they're chiral, hardly natural,
gin             jinn              joke                              egg...
   gaug                                    chase,
      glee jeer... game, jam, gammon,
     jammy... gaming... the near proximity!
they're so close!
           - i sniff... (snout noises)... an existence of a graphame...
     if one was to listen to humans talking,
one could clearly see they are bound to cheat...
they have too many symbols for the sounds they make...
and for the deviations in making sounds
they ******* chiral twins of the same sound...
and then sometimes deviate from it...
ensuring that Latin graphemes, those linguistic siamese
rule the river of diacritical mark,
suffocating them, until the river becomes an
artificial lake...
            when diacritical marks was given to
the "deuteronomy", (e) missed in the original...
sometimes spelling mistakes can reveal much more
than the words themselves...
          the 2nd e... for the te-,
t-ah, tao...
                 i can feel winter ending,
i can feel the loss of limbo, fatigue,
               or what comes as spring, namely insomnia,
increased productivity,
but such that diacritical marks were the heavenly
based descents to mark distinct syllables,
  like hailed original use of pucntuation marks,
but more within every word, than among words
in sentences...
   i could just as well call for a genocide of linguists...
i just don't see why they need to
complicate the matters with some wacky
anti-copernican alphabet
akin to writing hope, (consciousness),
[hohp] (american, spaghetti, nasal
akin to echo: oompf! ergo subconscious:
insinuation, panicky, puppets and the empire),
/həʊp/ (british, origin, ergo unconscious) -
why do we need this linguistic alphabet?
you can reach a perfect argument
using the same language, with one
that has adopted the use of diacritical marks
akin to punctuation marks...
and have the only avaliable canvas that
english is... there really should be a russian
counterpart of me dealing with how the greeks
are so paranoid in over-using diacritical marks,
like me, but speaking russian and looking at greek
and nodding, insinuating the word
on a broken record: aha, aha, aha.
it would be nice to talk about people,
but then i graduated from the optometric school
of having to look at migrating electrons in
organic chemistry... i think i'm relaxed these days...
so outside the failed translation gimmick
of chemistry, mainly german, mainly
hyphen orientated CH3-CH2-OH (alcohol, numbers in
subscript) - ****... looking at that "fingerprint",
why is my vision of the world so pink?
you try to teach the anglo-saxons that they're saxons
again, and not orientated around building an empire,
imagine teaching them the proper way to be
saxon, that, some words, like german,
desire, complexpunctuationstandards.
there you go, a real life example, let's see you cut that
word open and extract a heart,
  and a lecture on having a heart,
    let's wait for Frankenstein's monster to groan
into the vacuum, and the no actual vacuum,
but merely the night.
- yes, a hyphen at a beginning of a sentence plateau
almost means a stance to take to paragraph;
even though it shouldn't exist, as a p.s.,
***** into existence by, nothing more than a bias
to endorse whims, cravats, Monet,
and tantrum fits of little girls that dreamed
of being princesses... but instead became ******;
yes, those working parts of you
                           that are quiet, edible.
to write, and see, rather than write, and hear;
that sentence will not actually require
the existential ambiguity of the zoo,
of the enclosure of "     "...
                    i look at existentialists as i might look
at zoologists... prison guards...
      pontius pilates.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i can't say much about today, well, i probably will,
made a burger and did house chores with Steptoe,
and i know what you're thinking -
the common trend in western society, you actually
like familial interactions, you're not into
7 year itches, you're not inclined to conjure up
Norman Bates all of a sudden - you're content,
quiet respectably normal - and to be frank,
the following as happened to me: the psychoanalytic
technique of regression, i.e. planting false memories
when being psychoanalysed - page 25 of Friday
July the 8th 2016 the times newspaper - headline:
THERAPIST FACES CLAIM OF "BRAINWASHING"
GIRLS - she implanted in them a Freddy Krueger -
a reverse Friday the 13th scenario -
one psychiatrist tried it on me - he hushed the words:
'oh... he was abused as a child' - but the pronoun
usage was already wrong, or simply odd -
this sort of musing aloud got to me worked up,
i said nothing, i continued with an interview, i had a few,
don't you worry, they passed me around like hot charcoal,
they couldn't put a box on me, (bragging? on this subject,
just the reality of what happened) - they employed about
five psychiatrists and two students to decipher me,
i was holding the joker card every time -
they couldn't understand that a real physical ailment
could be translated into metaphysical ailments -
if you mean metaphysics turned into a lysergic acid-like
experience then i might as well have talked to the police -
five of them, none bothered to use the funding the
national health service gets to book an m.r.i. scan,
they prescribe psychiatric drugs assuming your brain
is a sponge that soaked up a chemical soup -
i'm talking natural sedatives, alcohol, not synthetic sedatives:
anti-psychotics. the structure of the family breaks down
in the west, but it's fine, we have legal partnerships
and gay marriage - i guess the latter is the only positive,
but like any married couple, the nagging will invariably
enter the scene, and given that heterosexual marriages break
down, i'm hardly going to bet on homosexual marriages
being the maiden voyage of Titanic without the iceberg.
so 5 of them, beaten to the core, but only this recent story
made me think of the inherent sadism in psychiatry,
regression "therapy" whereby i did for a moment play out
the trick and thought about what sort of abuse i might
have suffered as a child... oh, that time i taught myself
how to ******* aged 8? well, that's self-abuse -
and a pretty good one i might add, few people will *******
and feel ******* but not the end product, or maybe
just me - so Ms. A (as is noted in Poland when a criminal
is identified) did this regression tactic to break up families,
she might have failed hers, and strategically invoked the failures
into other people - we already know that psychiatrists are
very sick people, we just don't know how sadistic they can be
by being subtle in their methods... after all... thought
equated to the senses is 5 times more fragile, and more
sensual if you think about it - all the senses bundled up into
one function, and we don't necessarily know what that
function is taking away a Cartesian moment of realisation,
your daily chores, your professional web of utilities,
after all, what is thinking? fail-safety-mechanism in philosophy?
ask a question - the alternative of a ¶, a new paragraph.
so when a society shuns public intellectualism, philosophers
poets... who do you think will enter in their place in terms
of political dynamics? yep, the men in white coats with pills...
pills pills pills... nothing more, and bogus theories half
expanded and half shunned by a zoological treatment of
human beings - i know there are exceptions, a man last year
stabbed a pensioner 30 times over a minor traffic-accident,
he was labelled a paranoid schizophrenic... oddly enough
i too was labelled that... a 5 minute diagnostic session,
man comes in, i say - a woman across the street is walking
around naked, and so are her daughters... i'm getting this
****** fuelled fantasy working on me, can you tell her to
invest in curtains? i don't mind the naked bit,
but imagining doing a mother and two daughters is a bit
too much for my pigeon brain.
the stimuli ingested by the senses are nothing compared
to what stimuli thinking ingests -
it's less the sun the moon a summer breeze,
and more McDonald, Gucci: pseudo-capitalism with
your generic schizoid symptom - insinuations.
oh believe me, faking this condition out of personal-interest
was necessary - to fake it, to take an interest in it
to see what the other side was doing about it left me
with an inexhaustible source of resources: experience.
i think i'll end the intro and tell you something else.

two books on my lap, Jung's *answer to Job

and the long hard road out of hell - a semi-autobiographic
by Marilyn Manson and neil strauß -
so before you think i write about religious matters
like some cuckoo evangelist having a library of
only one book and a lot to talk about, i don't -
but we live in times where everyone imitated someone,
that someone is already obvious -
funny though, the Greeks invented the concept
of Antichrist... without knowing that the concept
of anti-matter would pop up about 2000 years later -
a coincidence you say? not given the Atomists
Leucippus and Democritus - the theory of anti-matter,
but in a religious person?! travesty you scream!
john of πατμoς - he had the anticipation of anti-matter
like the Atomists cited (obviously there were some
in the east - the Jain Genies - modern day scenes
from Tokyo and Beijing - wouldn't eat a ladybird
or sniff up an airborne microbe) - but hell, if Johnny
~anticipated anti-matter, but really didn't, why
was the anti person invoked? it took all the dereliction
of religion to provide the basis for anti-matter,
and that's no surprise, it makes it easier to think of
another world, no scientist would come up with it,
because only a religious person would somehow conjure
up a mechanism whereby what was once matter turned
into anti-matter, or a version of Christ that reads,
writes, and doesn't give sermons... well, why not?
let's go crrrrazy. yet the main point of this entry is, well,
the profanity Christianity took to when learning about
the tetragrammaton, there's much beauty in it, and yet
for Christianity a crucifix is somehow an improvement...
benedictio fontis (blessing of the fountain), the sign
of the cross is made - Catholics make it on themselves:
forehead, left right, stab at the heart and then
romeo:
if i profane with my unworthiest hand
this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
to smooth that rough toush with a tender kiss.
juliet:
good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much
                                                  (you **** a lot),
which mannerly devotion shows is this;
for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm in holy palmers' kiss;
Orthodox Greek and Russian: forehead, right left,
stab at the heart - hey, why not put a few together,
you know, those gesticulations -
(index, thumb and ******* - the "holy trinity"
in Braille) forehead, left right right left (****,
where's a traffic warden when you need one),
and then hand clenched into a fist... smack... a mea culpa
straight away - honestly, god to a Polish Catholic mass...
go to one... you'll end hearing a Satanic murmur
roaming through the crowd, esp. as the creed of faith
being said... shivers down the spine.
but that's what's written in Jung - from the eloquence
of yhwh to † - in effect a bit more than Christian sign language,
more like the acronym n.e.w.s. - north east west south -
and when he said kneel, he replied don't tempt me,
and when he said kneel and all the kingdoms will be yours,
someone ordered chicken chow mein in defiance
to the moment, and China remained with Confucius,
predictably confused when the one-child state policy came
into effect - ever wonder why they play that pebble
game at the Hajj? you think they're throwing a pebble
at a raw Rodin block of stone before the chisel was aimed
thinking they'll throw a pebble and get two pebbles back?
Edna Sweetlove Nov 2014
Scunthorpe is justly famous for its ugliness
And the rampant lasciviousness of its inhabitants;
With what horror I recall encountering a gent there,
A seriously senior slapper, widely acclaimed as
The least inhibited pensioner in northern Lincolnshire.

In my gilded youth I'd wandered into the bar
Of some grotty hostelry and got propositioned by this old ****;
On the pretext of offering to gift me fifty quid
He dragged me upstairs and ravished me totally,  
Showing his elderly anatomy 's most private parts
In prurient abandon. Afterwards, I wondered how long
Before the myriad love bites on my buttocks would fade?
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
the people look like flowers at last, and i guess
what matters most is how well you walk through the fire*
worth the palette, and the eyes - it's the beef tongue honesty
as cited in the poem of the same name -
never mind the 1930s poem -
i too wish i could have written the 1980s
(Poland) - but the communist years
are marred and budding in China while
people bemoan the two years under Martial
Law - and queues, endless queues for
provisions, and stamps for rationed food,
and shops filled with empty shelves or
white vinegar (a childhood friend's mother
was rumoured to have committed suicide
by drinking white vinegar) -
in all honesty i guess before the borders opened
and products started pouring in we could
have claimed a happy childhood,
but for us back then it was the call of the wild -
and the fact that we were together as kids,
even though the steel plant was being undermined
for profit and people were either forced to
leave to somewhere else in the country or
abroad - a thriving beehive of a town reduced to
what became know as the pensioner town -
supermarkets sprouted like churches, the city
centre once a trading hot spot was now the bank
square - nothing but banks; growing up i used to
travel for summer holidays - a fit child i became
hooked on the coca cola dream - between 16 and 17
i lost 30 kilograms on my bike back home, doing
50 kilometres a day - once the fat kid at the back
of the class, now the pomegranate munching hippy -
but that didn't matter: aged 21... god... jealousy
is so horrible, it transcends the healthy competitive
streak of sports and capitalism - now, each waking
hour i wait for the evening so i can numb the pain
riddling my brain - it's like being perpetually nibbled
on my an electric chair - and i can't do anything about
the sizzling of blood on this organic sponge -
headphones sometimes provide an equilibrium
and i jack-in and the pain is reduced - but try talking
to someone when you can't hear them - god, jealousy
is so horrible - i remember times when i'd go with
the guy to Reagent's Park mosque and sit there on
the minimalist floor and just absorb this grand
poly-chromatic social experiment - born into a monochromatic
culture i was fond of the diversity - but times have
changed for the worse, and i'm proof of it -
as i already mentioned the other great schism (not
in religion but) in medicine - what insanity overcomes
them treating physical damage with metaphysical
promises of a chemical imbalance? they treat the brain
as some ******* chicken soup - thankfully i was well
aware of everything - but that's beside the point,
why i survived i attribute to what happened to Sisyphus -
i'm not going to be as bombastic as the original version
depicts Sisyphus, son of Atlas (both of them the boulder
men) - well, i don't see Sisyphus as an absurd hero
like Camus - i very much see him akin to Loki (the trickster),
but it's not about that - for me Sisyphus had a near-death
experience, and was condemned by the gods to
that boulder of his and the ***** and the rolling back
and forth as punishment for that Sisyphus had no insight
from his near-death experience - he didn't become a poet,
and he certainly didn't become a philosopher -
nor a ***, rebellious in the sense that what Sisyphus
did do is return to business as usual - he had no insight
into death, he didn't befriend it, he didn't akin to
Marcel Proust or Tristan Tzara gain "a new way of seeing";
not many people have near-death experiences in all
honesty - and from the myth as stated, few can return
with insight - most come back with cliches, the unimaginative
white light at the end of the tunnel -
Sisyphus was condemned to the boulder for his lack
of inspiration - then again, any madman talking about
the next world with promises is doing a handstand while
attempting to outperform someone running the hundred
metres - circus Olympics - what's keeping me motivated
is what others would call the Cartesian extension -
my brain can't craft a fluid cognitive narrative with ease
as it once was able to do - these are snippets of what reminds
me of the ease that the brain once hosted -
which contradictory if Descartes was about -
a thinking thing is un-extended - if that were true
he wouldn't have out-poured his thinking onto a blank
page - matter extends but does not think - unless of course
you get into a debate about god (i don't see the point
ascribing atheism all the perks - i'm also referring to an
impersonal entity, not a personal entity that might require
praying five times a day for personal gains and repressed
grievances - you know, god of the airy fairy and the casual
phrasing of the word that is usually censored by
Jews - g- -d - which i find as absurd as western censorship
of oath words). so coming back to this Descartes point,
it's true that physical corruption (damage) would qualify
me as a non-thinking entity, pure matter, and therefore
purely extending onto this digital pixel white -
but the counter argument is... there's a distinction between
thought and narrative - and given the casual standard
of philosophy is more akin to narration than abstraction
of either 2 + 2       in mathematics, or μ + ω
in phonetic encoding or whether ω could be encoded
to a more aesthetically pleasing macron-omicron (ō) -
because if we're going to follow Descartes prescription
(they are like doctors, those philosophers, or that's
how i treat them, every key idea they regurgitate out
from their predecessors - a priori - and is new
and challenging i treat it like i'd treat a prescription from
a doctor - Heidegger, for example, prescribed me
the equivalent of sleeping pills for my insomnia) we
don't have to necessarily accept it as the gold standard,
holy, a sword in a stone - but i'm not going to fall
for the rigidity of their vocabulary, the part where using
imagery would refer to a monkey pushing cubes
through a canvas of squares to the other side of something -
or that great table tennis match of philosophical
narration - how did something, nothing, everything,
anything
are categorised as pronouns akin to
i, you, me, he etc. - i don't like their concentration on
either nothing or the basic self - that always bothered me -
but i guess it adds to the fluidity of language -
now i'm lost in my own labyrinth - and there's
the Minotaur on my heels breathing pungent hot-snot
from his snout - which can only mean one thing -
a trap to get into fixations and the stability of words
as one-dimensional, non-deviating from a unitary meaning,
rigidity of the non-existence of synonyms -
basically burning the Thesaurus Rex - which also means
no oil for cooking or butter for bread, or anti-ageing
creams - if ever anyone wanted one-dimensional
words, rigid language, a stability of some sort,
safe ~chemistry experiments read from a primer and
never new, black is black, white is white -
well... but i guess there's a preference for such an
approach to language, rather than the antonym of
such use of it, with negations in politics, in jurisprudence,
lies and corruptions, nuances, games and injured
hearts;
            Sisyphus ibin Atlas was punished because after
a near-death experience he didn't come back with
any insight - he just returned to his day job, and didn't
gamble on something beautiful - however
scrambled eggs it looked like.
Wasteful Words Nov 2012
I remember when
I first read Bukowski
I thought he was a
joke

his poems weren’t even
poems
they were just a bunch
of lines
and sentences
strung about like flimsy
washing telling
mundane stories
about insipid things

who was he to venerate Cummings

(as if he had any of Edward’s
profundity)

and who was he to write
poems about poets not
writing poems

or his simple lines propping
up grossly defective and out of
date words

like jeroboams

or how he’d drink
(four-fifths a gallon of wine)
then write more derivative
lines

who was he to live so long
and write so much

drivel
and
claptrap

to other poets’ literary
athleticism
our darling Chuck was a
pedestrian

he was born a pensioner
but never received a
pension

his poems flow
like a river
to
no
where

and after reading them
the first time
I withdrew
my poetic concern

but then I read them again
and then
again

and I
realised

I was in his poem’s
stories

and that foolish girl I knew
that dense and brainless
denizen of triteville
was the heroine of
his ‘splashing’

and his love for classical
his love for wine
and even his love
for Edward
matched even mine

but most of all
and here
my rhetoric ends

the moment I sighed oh yes
when I read his poem
yes
you guessed it
‘oh, yes’

if not for his whimsical
words
or his misaligned wit
love him for his
grasp of regret
and the sheer sentiment
he can emit
Julie Grenness Sep 2019
A pensioner's long walk today,
Yes, the mailman's been, no yah!
What  bills did arrive this way?
Postman, postman, stay away,
I am putting up a sign,
"BAN THE BILLS!' about frigging time!
If all bill payers went on strike,
Bills would go down, not upwards hike,
Yes, it's that dreaded long walk again,
Should I throw the bills down the drain?
A gutter too far, or in the bin?
Bringing us bills is the postman's great sin,
Can't afford that, can't afford that,
"I'll shoot you, postman, now don't come back!"
Is shooting postmen a capital offence?
"BAN THE  BILLS!" on everyone's fence!
Sort of not funny, feedback welcome.
R Forrest Feb 2014
(Jenny's Granny's house. Ayr.)

Where seasonal root veg soup
Warmly journeyed our throats
Granny Jean, skin translucent as glass,
Sheer, showing tendril veins beneath
Crinkled cliff-edge lips at Jenny's budding womanhood
She knew hers lay as barren
As insignificant as the pale Mojave borderlands.

Brazen-cheeked dolls and pastel bears
Audienced my transition from slip to sundress
Back in the lucid haze of the pensioner's kitchen
Where dust particles hived like antique film grain
Sat Jenny; painted lips like crisp apple skin
Freckled cheeks hollowing atop
Her milkshake's flimsy plastic straw

Raspy, bubbly ***** filled
The kitchen; appliances groped
By the pious smite of the sun
The kind of light they say never to walk towards
Then, a weathered cough and the stiff moan of a rocking chair
Just to jest fate
Was none of our business yet; I was taken by the hand

We pass many exhibits
On the austere lilac fridge:
"Mr. & Mrs Richard D. Barclay, wed on 11th of Oct 1961"
And crayoned from her own hand, aged 10; "Me and Granny B"
A waxy glyph on lemon sugar-paper not always in memoriam
But among the moth-wing wallpaper lilies
For now

Dust dunes like mattress ghosts
Collect in mushroom clouds above Jenny's sudden weight
While I feed myself to the mirror
My frock, flesh, hair all seep
Into the totalitarian whiteness of our room
And I am happy if this is my course through life
I know I'm no one

I try on, as I shake goodbye,
Jean's hands; fire-crafted leather baseball gloves
They do not fit just yet but
When my hands no longer sheen in the virtuous sun
When I feel citrus hand soap grate into each wrinkled chasm
I promise you, gran, I will remember
Even the Mojave desert will see rainfall.
Damian Murphy Jul 2015
Was it me, or what made me think
That we were only supposed to be having a quick drink?
We were just popping in for a pint or two
But it seems it got out of hand, as these things do

If I had known things were going to go so far
There is absolutely no way I would have brought the car
But despite all my efforts to get on my way
There was always someone who begged me to stay

After that pint, I think the sixth one
I really began to join in the fun
really relaxing, somehow forgetting to worry
Sure weren’t they right? What was my hurry?

After a while; I really do not have a clue
I simply cannot remember what I did not do
I vaguely remember going out for some grub
And from the stamp on my hand I know I went to a club

But how did this auld one get into my bed?
What are these flowers doing round my head?
Where is God’s name did I get this garden gnome?
In fact how in the hell did I ever get home?

She seemed so annoyed I could not remember her name
storming off saying that all men were just the same
saying I was a different man than I was the night before
Check yourself in the mirror love, on your way out the door

Last night I had guessed she was about thirty three
But this morning she looked more like a pensioner to me
She was smaller and stouter, seemed to have lost half her hair
And so much paler Lord, how did I even think of going there?

Then she did her make up, hair extensions and false tan
False nails and eyelashes, the difference! Oh man!
I was astounded by the difference a corset and super bra makes
with her high heels on she was a foot taller for God sakes

She came down looking half her age, really quite the ride
seeing her made up like that at least restored some of my pride
But it did not change the fact she was old enough to be my mother
I must learn to be more discerning, one way or another !

Well thank God she eventually got on her way
the lads will **** me about this forever and a day
what I need is a cure, to chill out and relax
But unfortunately I am haunted by numerous flashbacks

I can remember feeling absolutely wonderful
thinking there was not a woman I could not pull
being convinced I was God’s gift to womankind
a sure sign I was completely out of my mind

I know I tried to chat up every woman in the place
Used my best pick up lines, though many laughed in my face
If they had a pulse it seems they were fair game
I tried young beauts and old boots, yes, I had no shame

I can see myself dancing, getting down to the beats
remarkable as I know I am blessed with two left feet
I can remember singing, were we at a Karaoke?
It is all coming back now, with horrifying clarity

I know I was refused entry to a number of places
My friends dragging me off bouncers when I got in their faces
their efforts rewarded by becoming targets for my rage
yet they still helped when I was violently sick at one stage

Oh God yes I was almost arrested at one time
I did not know peeing in public was an actual crime
I know I laughed at the copper, gave him some abuse
But when I saw the handcuffs my apologies were profuse

I can remember my friends becoming ever more frustrated
As I became louder and louder, increasingly opinionated
And yes the fire brigade were here, that was not a dream
I tried to cook when I got home, a “Full Irish” it would seem!

I have receipts for double vodkas with red bull
And Jagermeisters as well, things must have got dull
I spent a small fortune, my generosity obviously abounding
now my stomach is heaving, my head absolutely pounding

Have I any friends left? I must ring and see
And my car was towed, that is going to cost me
Oh dear God I feel sick, I am in so much pain
I know I say it every week but; I’m never drinking again!
Audrey Howitt Feb 2012
Pensioner,
pass your sweeter heart
to the fore
so that I may see its glimmer
among the darker streets of sin
glinting dangerously within.

Stretch out your hand to meet the sun,
and follow its promise
to the hale hallowed halls
hewn within the heart’s
innermost rooms.

For you shine
despite the darkened alley of fear
upon which you make your bed.
Let me touch your face
so that for a moment
I may shine with the sun.
copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2012
Joe Cole Dec 2015
50 children will die in Africa in the next 10 minutes
From drinking ***** water
In Sudan a thousand children will die today from starvation
Your £3 pounds can feed a child for a week
Supply facilities to give a child clean water
Of course their government officials need no such thing
Give £19 pounds this Christmas to help feed a homeless drug addict
Oh and of course to make sure the directors of the charity
Get their 50 grand a year salary
Well I'm an old age pensioner
So please all you begging charities
Instead of asking me for money
Please give me a £1000 so I can have a better Christmas
Victor Fuhrman Apr 2020
Old Anchor

An old anchor rests on a peaceful bay dock
Sixty years he has been aweigh
His iron is rusted from crown to his stock
As he dreams of his shining day

When his metal was young and his arms were strong
And his flukes and palms were grand
He steadied his ship and her souls the day long
As she docked in many a land

He knew many a rode and by cathead was stowed
As his ship traversed ocean and sea
And when mighty gales blowed, he held tight to his load
Making sure she would never break free

But with journeys and age and the turn of the page
Every story must come to an end
And this anchor, though sage, earned his pensioner’s wage
And now dreams on this dock, my friend

© Victor Fuhrman
This was inspired by an old anchor I saw on dock in Baltimore 4 years ago. It reminded me that I was approaching a stage in my life where retirement had to be considered.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
250 squats is more than 250 steps... as i said before, with god dead the dietician is deemed respectable as topic of every conversation.

raffaello baldini
                      dante alighieri
umberto fiori                          franco buffoni
                          milo de angelis,
                                    none sing
a *ciao bella
! not one;
                          bleaching is the process
of cultural invigoration residing with only
one ***** donation; oh hell, raise one
up yourself - i can't be bothered,
i just ate a pâté & meat with fat sandwich,
am i to hit the treadmill? i don't think so...
but i know you are;
i was never going to be a Japanese tourist,
i.e. a pensioner.

otherwise in England: mind the personal space,
mind the personal space... don't touch me! don't touch me!
mind the personal space... you're not the narrator,
don't enter my personal space! don't touch me!
Jane Austen neurosis... mind the personal space...
don't dare touch me!
fine... fine fine fine, the rolling hills of Yorkshire
and ******* was inspiration for
Herr Roach Hair in Ashtray -
the countryside girls became such a bore
when they entered urban environments,
all the adventures prior became one hour engagements
in terms of *******... the adventures
of homily... make a nag nag nag blah remark...
a n'ah n'ah n'ah nagging gesture...
queen's wave... whatever that means,
Elisabeth the Second
became disgruntled at having
the clock and bridge named after her
but no Shakespeare to parallel her reign,
only the dumbing down to mind, hookah hooray!
Charlie's waiting to tie the knots for his Lawrence
escapades into Arabia.
I can't wait to take retirement from my job
the day in day out grind makes me sob
after forty odd years of laboring real hard
I'll be a proud carrier of  pensioner's card

to put the feet up and relax will be so grand
no longer will I be at a job's constant demand
twill be a fantastic celebratory day
the day I give all my labor's away
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
choc bulimic in Edinburgh; the Welsh index and ******* tactic,
that way a dozen models were ******* out to mind an economy.

the next cards you'll pull from the packet
are all jokers - i.e. wild-cards -
western society begot laziness
that begot psychiatry that begot
war on terror - that somehow begot
war on terror, that didn't begot
philosophy, but it did begot crosswords -
as a Frau will testify, aged 91,
prompted-by-excuse-by-her-age:
doing the pensioner's bit: a Koepcke (1928 - 1977)
(i bet you wish it was K'oh eh pck'e'; ya?!
oder Andreas Köpke? nicht wie?),
VANDAL GRAND-GRANNY COMPLETES
A CROSSWORD - a thousand chandeliers
with a a hundred grand pianos crashed with Newton's
apple that day - the day was advertised state memorandum -
Hanzel and Gretyl came along for the sweets parade
expecting salutes in Swedish - contra beetroot -
some said agitations from the blues, some said
agitations from the beets - or so rooted -
agriculturally purple blooded, minor urban dwellers
sniffed out the cabbage-heads -
major urban dwellers sniffed their own **** out -
beginning with St. Petersburg and Cairo -
contra former violence? *sprechen zungefeinde,
zumal falschsprechen
.
brandon nagley May 2015
Hyphenate thy walking ground, your thy hunger of slumbered town's, you fenced in doer!!! You rider of wild waves, homogenous to honeycomb's taste of thine hydrogen of implorations!!! Impotent words turn potent to imply further instruction,

Farther corruption comes,
Easier the raindrops flow!
Idle all your masteries to thine miseries,
Your sorceries likely unknown!!

I'm impoverish beyond belief,
Beyond thy receipts of studded diamond jewelry I have found!!!
Manifest questor,
You fancy and plain dresser's,
Arr thou lucratively winning?
Or art thou just beginning to lounge into modernized gain?
Marauders bones turn to sauder,
As Mardi gras is now the countries front page...

Marvel martyr's so penitent to past and present sin!!!

Pensioner's live in penthouse,
While ourn world copes to its end.....
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
is it me or does Led Zeppelin's all my love of the burnout feel akin to The Doors' hello, i love you feel similar bigger than Spirit's taurus, i think it does, the sparkle-clad-show lost. after being born in the 20th century i feel no nostalgia, nor regret, why is nostalgia the bridal maid of history? if threes are a Poseidon's tridents - history, nostalgia, memory then correspondingly: how it is, what if, how it was - respectively. i'm also prone to the nuance of Jamaica in D'yer Mak'er... or Lenny Kravitz's my love (the twang, not the message - necessarily tiresomely true, not Kula Shaker's govinda) - but this is still early 21st century, we're well ahead of ourselves, Miloshevich (a.k.a. Geert Wilders) vs. Blaire at the Nürnberger Prozesse - bachelors and barristers and lawyers have this thing about defending democracy and the spread of justice wearing Mickey Mouse's gloves spreading colour, and to boot: as if **** didn't affect them...

hunter (a) - see a silver-back politician scurrying past like a rat?
hunter (b) - was it scurrying with a ten-tonne white elephant?
hunter (a) - might have been, very much would be.
hunter (b) - what was his name? i have a fail on face recognition.
hunter (a) - we nicknamed him Hannibal.
hunter (b) - yeah, he was here, went grey-haired
                     like a hare on steroids the minute we mentioned
                     the Arabs weren't sponsoring any foreign
                     investment in the internal combustion engine
                     as having no future via the investment sector
                     of conscience via the law-courts having lost.
hunter (a) - that's him!
hunter (b) - a mile ahead, a Kali icon with the skulls
                     of twenty Saddam Husseins around its neck!
hunter (a) - if i were a pensioner i'd shout bingo right now...
                     ah, **** it... BINGO!
hunter (b) - you're very much welcome.

there exists no democratic essence in history, history isn't democratic because it's theocratic in the examples of who's remembered, if democracy would reign over the practice of historical investigation, no one would be remembered, it would be democratically just to forget the stupendous and the un- of so stated consideration, history is investigated by theocratic resolve - no one actually voted to remember Saladin or Genghis Khan, democracy played no part in these figures being remembered - why hasn't democracy involved scientific scrutiny in its argument to persist? by scientific i don't mean chemistry, biology etc., segregated from the humanist studies, by scientific i mean omni-, the all embracing - after all, history invokes a memory of absolute anti-democratic examples of ruling, given present concepts of democracy none of these figures should be remembered if democracy is to experience a pinch of **** ideology of being a pure idea without deviation into ideology that might hijack it - but it's just that - the purity of the idea, always persistent, coupled with the mongrel tactics of it being exercised.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
a woman might bemoan her spring-like beauty,
to a fleeting a measure,
but a man will bemoan likewise, for
it ever being there
for no reason other than to age and corrupt
readying the infantile imbecile for suicide;
thus a woman is encouraged to use her
beauty in what only men her age dream of -
which is why so many commit to its finality
in greater number -
the open society and her enemies /
the closed society and her allies
-
for it is true, a woman's beauty is a man's
morals -both recede exponentially
while the jungle is erased -
yet neither were to be exploited using
an object neither worth a hammer or a nail...
a man is prone to morals while a woman to beauty -
once they age, man is prone to aesthetics
via sculpture, while woman is prone to jurisprudence
via the debate - loose women....
one turns beauty into more beauty...
the other turns complication into more complication...
whatever i say will not make me commit
to the virtue of animals... nor will the crucifix ordeal
make me believe... i'm Chinese on the matter...
as promised: kneel!
"god" said: i won't.
China replied: chow mein you too!
and that's where i come in.
it's not surprise that women abuse their beauty
without morality,
and that men expect morality so early on with only
pensioner Popes to keep morale when they age.
something foetal must be dealing the cards -
i can't speak for the unfair tactic as playground for
**** with easy women and moral men...
circumcising the "excess" skin is another thing when
circumcising vocabulary - thank you feminism -
i got the part when young girls preferred older men,
but short-breathing me shut with what words
i use... *****! no, wait, let's not insult
prostitutes... DONKEY *****!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
i don't get inspired... i get prompts,
e.g.?

one in particular...
her name? sam leith -
the saturday the times weekend
magazine (july 29th 2017) -
the usual load of *******
from the ***
of west london...

sam? why not samuel but
samantha?
  what sort of man cites his
father as the guiding beacon?
me? you?
s(he) - ah, transgender perfect,
armed with a rifle, and a bra
stuffed with scrambled eggs -
she he he she, she she he she,
it dot, tag, you're it! he she
she she he she, she she he, he she,
she she, he he, shish kebab,
samuel beckett's watt:
bonkers, boing boing boing,
apache heli-copter! trampoline!

slap in the face seriousness...
she-******
quotes her father citing
ecclesiastes (oof fra fra in essex,
high-brow y'ah tellin' moi?!
   neece... nice? n'eh ce pa?
tortoise mangetout peckam, n'es pas?)...
dog ****.

         to, every, thing, there, is, a, season,
     and, a, time, to, every, purpose, under,
the, heaven.

and then ******-he goes on to add:

        post-60... never pass an alleyway
for a wee... (not little, down south it's
called the glaswegian pish-soother),
     *******? no, thank you,
   i do mine almost daily while taking a ****...
for some reason an eager **** always
provides the ***** with some mexican
"artist"... milk that cow boy! milk it!
         boy milk it!
                         ah sweet maritza...
hombre in ex hombre... y'allah...
                                                     im'she!
(camel talk, spit and gnarl at toon poond
uh'xtra!)...
                      point no. 3: farts are boring,
unless in a tight space,
where all solipsism disappears...
   there is a proof for solispsism,
but it doesn't come from either head or mouth...
psst... comes from the ***...
    the argument for solipsism comes from
the ***... evidently the theory stands on the proof
that: everyone enjoys their own stink...
  and i believe that's a universally accepted
logic... you can smell your own ****,
but dare not to gag at someone else's,
     there, solipsism, proved via farting.

no man cites his father unless he be a semite.

so this bothered me... she-******-it-he-it-she-ooh
the following (age-limit requirement in brackets):
- not knowing how to cook (30)
- long hair for men (20)
- wheelie pavement transport (35)
- having one-night stands (26)
- posting selfies on instagram (35)
- long hair for women (50)
- jeremy "che" corbyn t-shirts (30)
- going clubbing (37)
- saying you're a d.j. (30)
- tattoos (age limit: never!)                  huh?
    - not being able to drive (20)
- baseball caps (36)
- going to festivals (50)
- wearing shorts (40)
- cleavage (40)
- showing other people your
poetry
(16)....
   that's what got me, **** the rest...
what are you?
   spank-the-monkey-tiger-mommy?!
you the whip the ****** latex c.e.o.?!
the **** is this ******* rambling?!
    oh look... what's next...
an article!
   let's see:
           post-cougar, pre-pensioner -
it's a.... "tricky" stage by a 57 year old...
sure, i'd **** a granny... if i were african
working in a care home...
  as the headlines read only two days ago...
no... it's one thing philosophy attacking poetry,
but it's another when journalists do it...
no you ****-****-faced-*******....
you're not going to get away like the so easily...
******* leeches of conversation...
       barren wastelands of introspection!
i know my patron... at least this ****
german appreciated the craft...
   you? you?! you're a pathetic waste of time
trying to replenish a taste for
ancient greece... and all that pederastic education.

poets? masters of listening to
silence,
   within hearing sound

                (vacuus in vox, papilio in turba columba).
Joe Wilson Dec 2014
I didn’t realise. I was a fool
Just another government tool
Beavering away, working hard
Until I got the pensioner’s card.

And now my ancient bones all ache
I’ll need NHS for my health’s sake
But a third of contracts in sickness’ fray
Like my local hospital, they were given away.

People’s views all treated with disdain
The Health Service reeling from such internal pain
While the wealthy go private, it’s simple for them
The ire of voters won’t be so easy to stem.



©Joe Wilson – The Family Silver Sale or The Stafford Hospital Lament… 2014
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
and he comes over in the afternoon, his wife is pregnant,
   she also had an abortion with the love
of her life... and he says i am diseased...
as i once said to a pensioner
in a park: cut words open and feel
less than a sucker's punch,
dis- (negation) of -ease... yes,
i'm bound to being denied a cradling of ease,
your quick syllable punctures are no wit to be
celebrated...
         i thought i gave back enough that was
necessary... but this madman of a neighbour complains
that i sometimes laugh in the night:
   because i am bound to tomorrow with aeons
toward the future, and aeons toward
  Darwinistic falsification of history...
          because where is the octopus ontology ****
up to the wall of intestines like a tapeworm,
as what point, exactly?
                  i sorta forgive that grievance,
even though i'm sitting in the living room,
and he picks up a package that's been left in my house...
           because the high-street has suddenly
evaporated... the rich are making the middletons
claustrophobic too... i could never buy the music
or the books i read these days when skimming the annals
of what's worthy of being bought, with the money i earn.
   it submerged, not even an anarchist bookshop
takes my fancy... but this **** of a neighbour comes
by and suggests i could ****** my mother,
              the same neighbour who ushers in politics of
gardens... a branch fell onto his side of the fence,
                   he throws it over to my side and crushes
the daffodils without much thought...
there are homeless people out there,
    and he complains that i syringed too much life into
my one chance to be here, to have the audacity to
laugh like a fox, to sometimes hum, and to sometimes
sing aloud...
      and he complains that it cost him too much money
from moving from the rear bedroom and into the front
bedroom... oh kiddly pauper, how poor you must be,
to have never had the capacity to laugh on your own.
   i listen to these Balkan guys angry at Sweden,
  i know the language like a Belgian and still that's not
enough... if national pride really bound to
a religiosity of fish & chips on a Friday, and skinhead
chanting at a football match at a London derby?
       should i say: sign me up!?
           all he had to do is move room...
he didn't have to sleep rough...
                what a swarm of ants in the *** that must be...
          because one man managed to laugh...
as it always does: concentrates on women...
           i must come from Mongolia to be honest,
how i find English women unappealing in terms of
companionship... the ridicule comes when a people
are unearthed and side with Israel...
                as the landowning class for a region bound
to Prussia and the Austro-Hungarian chattering maiden:
  Jan Sobieski (now a pop *****) and the siege of
Vienna...
                  we have so much prejudiced history tattooed
into our psyche, lukewarm 100 year old stuff...
   and out-of-the-blue, we're expected to bleach all of it,
somehow accept a dialogue that's merchant talk
     and a community clarification...
    the same neighbour has the same audacity to claim
i have a medical problem, and that his labouring wife
is the most-endearing hope for company...
  i just sat there on the sofa while he blah-blahed
his way into receiving the package...
             i could have emerged from my slumber and
faced slander to knuckle with piercing eyes...
   but i preferred sleeping for 2 hours on the sofa
while words turned into daggers...
it's just that part of me that suggests...
   for my knowledge of the English language,
  i have no need to debase myself with crude Englishness,
to invest in post-colonial ambition to right-away-the-elder-wrongs...
you know the first time you wear a cotton jumper
and you just itch? it's like that...
               i own language, language has no right to own me,
i tell language what to do, language doesn't tell me who
to identify with or as such identifiable with the thus said...
     plus... if someone agitated me over an intellectual
problem i might have emerged hearing slander against me,
but as they say: **** stinks, don't touch it.
    i once made brother of en Egyptian childhood friend,
every day since he chose olive skin solidarity
i've been heard citing a very pointless mea culpa,
              for i too could have been wiser
in not forming childhood friendships - and being a hermit
for 9 years and counting: i don't ever think
to engage in intimacy, other than with Puerto Rican
prostitutes in Amsterdam, or Bulgarian madames in
London... i don't know why they said they were
Romanians... the one word gave them away:
the cyrillic: pizdets! пиздетс!
                    if he even remotely insinuated a topic
concerning van gogh (v. gou) -
                such is the traffic of life passing through my
days...                    this the fascination
              how greeks gave names to their encoded
sounds... and how it took a plastician to recode
       what came as
         п (p'eh)- -и (ī)- -з (z'eh)- -д (d'eh)- -е (eh)- -т (t'eh)- -с (esse)...
  how fascinating that you cut off so much stabilisation
of the alphabet and no wooing vocabulary
  before you do away with stabilising letters that are
associated with clear indicative formulation from
alphabet into word...
                       which goes beyond Heraclitus' лoгoс
and certainly beyond my фoнoс...
                as suggested: back into the aлbion ζ
      beginning if not simple begging norman sicily's α...
                              alphabet - zetayod...
and mirrors - of those worth a seven year signature
to yet be mended... and those pristine,
      with focus on the doubly mortal, within
a tsunami of time's paraphrased democracy, wherein
autocratic: from Helen of Troy to Kimberley of the Liban...
     how then rise from such belittling circumstances,
and enforce the law of abstract?
                    to come toward the лoгoс
   as with due to spot the фoнoс, and as such
auto-instructive diacritical marking of iota should
Lιban be a Ly-ban....           enter the dragon, Bruce?
                     yep... we have established the лoгoс,
and chained by synonymous banking affairs for
peacocking tongue waggling, i insist upon a return
      into how the Greeks left no musicology to
how they named the symbol ι with iota, or ω with
omega... but the Romans left a musicology
that yahweh embraced, and said of a: ah... and said of
m: em, and said of t: tee... and said of p: ***...
because they didn't come up with names for letters,
which is why scientific constants are written
                                                   in γρεχκι (grechkι).
if knowing the native tongue is not enough...
        i cannot contemplate the natives teaching my
their ****** practices any more than my eagerness to
engage in them... their presumptuous agitation of
trying to "educate" almost everyone...
     it's true a Mongolian arrow pierced the throat
of the trumpeter in the tower of the Mariacki Church,
           it's just they treat their women
            as i wish i could have... the Dutch know love
by spitting on eastern European women...
(because they just had a conversation about their
interests in a pub with another man two seats down)...
   and in our age of propaganda: i have not a single
opinion that isn't bound to be but ash scattered in the wind...
            i just find it strange to be in "need" of being educated...
given most of these "men" have never had the guts
to visit prostitutes because the girls are playing puritan poker
at home: and Jezebel at an **** in Malaga...
         i can't deal with this en masse schizoid conditioning:
as if lying or having a Dorian Gray fantasy could
ever get me off with a hard-on when a girl says:
can you imagine what my daddy would say if he knew
i swallowed you jizzom? well, now that i know what
you're imagining i'm starting to think i need a shrink...
                  for ****'s sake! why do prostitutes seem
the most sane women out there? saviours!
               i could have done better things with my hands...
like moulded a statue, or something,
               dating culture killed it for me...
  and the whole: women are there to be chased like
cheetahs crying their eyes out at speeds of 100 kilometres
per hour...                  it was in my best interests
to learn a knowledge of the language...
  that was my utmost necessary courtesy of being
   part of this society... local customs though?
                  you know what a smarkatka is?
    you really didn't expect for me to blend up to the point
of supporting Millwall and knowing football songs
religiously, did you?   it's when you use the language
and still get ridiculed...           the locals have been
given it on a platter...                i get a "poem"
they get the ease of buying vegetables in a supermarket...
          brownnosing yourself in Kentucky
                                     will not help either...
Calcium Steeps       of Dover could be equated to that
Hawaiian Pearl in terms of what hand will wash the hand
that puts a thumb in the **** and the index and middle
into the ******.
Poetic T Sep 2017
I thought the world would go out with chaos
and zombies, at least the walking dead,
it would be like wow.

But alas it wasn't meant to be,
it went out with silence. Well near enough.
The day before I was being my usual accidental
self, I looked right, the way the traffic was coming!

Yes I didn't look left, who knew some pensioner
wouldn't look at the road in forgotten pools
that shimmered sight on there eyes.

Look listen, look again my mother used to say..
Now as I traverse the air, I feel myself broken.
But in a flight almost unending, till I land, limply.

I thought the world would go out with chaos
and zombies, at least the walking dead would
be like wow...

But we take many steps, we walk so many in life,
then we die. but some imagine there life as continual
that they'll have footprints that will last.

As I lie here feeding the pavement my life,
every step is a chosen one. We must not waste them,
for it takes only one step to become static.

I see people rushing over to my fastening breath,
how would have thought that out of the millions
of steps I had taken this would be my last.

— The End —