Look far at th' showering rain!
Dull and gray it is with old pain,
and how nature now shrieks in vain-
until no more cloud but remains.

How t'is misty day shalt insist;
and too tempest'ous to desist.
But how thy lithe feet shalt still dance!-
And doth entrance everyone's glance.

Antonina, Antonina
Sweet and graceful ballerina
Spin and spin again like a swan;
in circles t'at'll never be done

Antonina, Antonina
Who shalt but know thy darkest fear?
With t'ose movements t'at seem so dear
but no-one sees thee by eyes clear.

Th' night I saw thee walk by home
Passed thou th' yard and hollow tombs
A golden trophy's in thy hand
Whereth suddenly in sprang some men.

What merciless, heartless creatures!
Thy ****** body t'ey ruptured!
And escaped 'em when all was done
Wept thou amongst t'ose leaves alone.

Amidst trees and grim foliage
I smelt th' foulness of plain rage;
Forward dashed I into th' screen!
Blood on thy thighs, bruised wasth thy skin!

I stood still at t'is pure menace;
thou spread t'ere like a brutal mess!
Screamed and wailed in a hasty blaze;
upon thy gazeth onto my face.

I shuddered with blasts of fury!
As I thought of t'eir cruelty!
T'ose ungrateful sons of evil
T'eir souls'd be ****** in great peril.

I walked thy little body home-
and kept thy by the fireside warm.
How in my arms thy'rt once conscious
With t'ose eyes big and curious.

Thou looked at me, thou questioned me
I just nodded and smiled gently
How I wanted to run in shame
Afraid thou might then knoweth my name

And how thou crashed to sleep once more
As soon as we opened the door
How I kissed thy warm and bruised forehead;
and thy drying tears didst I shed

Antonina, Antonina
Never did thou know my daydreams
How t'at tragic night they came true
In t'is cru'l world thou'rt th' victim
When th' stars sleep in a light hue

Antonina, Antonina
T'is passion shalt never be real
As thou'd never know how I feel
Thy childhood and thy faithful friend
With loveth you wisheth from 'ot'er man.

But how in thy smile now thou weepeth!
After such a mis'ry so deep!
How he's gone to tie his wedlock
When th' sun but strikes twelve o'clock.

How he left thee after t'at night!
And ran away with grief and fright.
Th' youngeth maiden he wasth to wed,
but in her woes then he just fled!

Antonina, Antonina
Unanswer't as my prayer is
I shalt but free thee from all t'is;
when thou conquereth thy memories.

Let me be thy chin and shoulder;
let me bringst thee'th truest wonder.
I who loveth thee just thou art now;
and relieveth thee from thy sorrow.

But a spectator as I am,
can I just watch thy pristine fame!
From th' stage art thou now to smile,
as people sound 'plause for a while.

And in thy sorrow wilt thou weep
Until blushing dawn slowly creeps.
No-one comforts thee in thy sleep;
no-one frees thee from thy hardship!

But unworthy as here I am
Like a flower without its stem
Can I wish you joy, my lady!
And only joyeth I prayeth for thee.

Pure still thou art, Antonina!
Thy stateliness shalt never die;
not even if th' world could lie
Thou'rt as lovely as th' rainbow
T'at I'll long to see tomorrow.

Blest be thy days, Antonina!
Thou'rt still my queen but here and now
As th' snow melts and sun hangs low
As winter breaks and summer comes
'Tis still thee I want in my arms.

Do you know how many scars i have?
So many that it would take an eternity to count
But still this stupid heart fakes a smile
To save from the world's sympathetic sounds

Do you know how i got so many scars?
It was not a lethal accident
But a ruthless trap called love
Funny it is, as still this heart loves the giver

People assume that my happiness is real
To be authentic enough to plause
Aware they are not of the fact
That bloodshot these eyes are
Each night helping this poor heart
To shed some weight just for a while

~Manu M.

take-away pizza, that's all it took to consider this observation; take-away pizza... take-away food-stuffs are so, *******, depressing, and so m.g.t.o.w.-ish... of the the joys of preparing your own food; it's almost like reviving the "idea" of a house-wife... imagine it though, saving the culinary orthodoxy of such said "attachés"; i cherish the well-valued time of cooking one's own meal, than breaking the backs of bangladeshi migrants in soft-sock factories... no! *******! i'll eat my own, once i've cooked it, myself! keep these lazy western europeam t.v. junkies, out of my agenda! *****, keep the migrants keep ******* on your take-away pizza... come on... watch me clap... clap... clap clap... clap clap clap... as if before a high jump!*

this isn't real, as you might expect,
such is the bond, existent,
between my mother and my father,
it's near-mythical,
   all she has to undergo is a hernia
operation,
  i'm a veteran in the procedure,
i was operated on several times,
first was my own hernia:
  thank you chernobyll -
now i really feel like being part
of the x-men...
   but it ******* stings...
      my father isn't a big talker,
after all, he was abasoned by his
       mother, and father, and wai
raised by hir paternal grandparents,
so the heartbreak is already there,
i have to deal with, every time i ask...
and i've met my paternal grandfather
once or twice,
   he called me his "buddy",
  and i replied with woe and agony:
i'm not your friend...
           as he was walking,
what i might expect to be my half-cousins...
****** didn't even have the tenacity
to call me his grandson,
   and he died, as we all do...
   and they wrote on epitaph:
a great worker...
          i walked past his grave,
peering at it,
   they didn't even bother to make
his name into an imprint, nor his
day & death date...
    not worthy the chisel,
written in ink...
  that's how you write the koran
on the tablets of the ten commandments...
the 11th amendment?
                  what about usury?!
i thought the ancient hebryes were
against magic, were against what usury
has become...
              fellas! we've been wrong
all along! we've found the philosophers stone!
it's there for the taking!
  look! usury! it manages to stealth tax people
into a skeletal grave...
      usury! usury! usury!
         but **** me,
looking at my father watering the flowers,
and my mother in hospital with
a minor operation concerning a hernia:
i had mine...
   thank you chernobyll...
  and what emerges?
    i'm a ******* when it comes to women,
i can't deny that,
   that's why i entertain prostitutes from
time to time,
   toughens the heart...
                but if this is what
m.g.t.o.w. movements comes down to?
      i won't say pathetic concerning my father,
but, ****!
       it looks pretty **** salt-on-the-wounds
type of material...
            do i look pathetic
acquiring so much sentiment for
   cats, or dogs?
       unlikely... i look liberated by comparison...
but that's the dice throw to think
about...
       men like my father,
who took to bringing an accomplice
that's my mother... well...
   when you invest so much into a woman...
that leaves you begging to try
to write a book, but never being able to...
        why bother?
  what sort of man would want to write
books, while at the same time write
the book that's woman?
   some fanciful idiot who can't sing
or memorise recitations?
                           memory, ah, spledid!
the function that gives man the gravity
of consciousness, and subsequent
articulation of arguments worth the pro-life
brigade...
    and, ah... memory, the function that
erodes, and keeps eroding,
  all other mental functions of worth...
bravo!            bravo!    applause! 'plause!
i've just looked at a m.g.t.o.w. simulation,
and... well... it's far from pretty...
             having a hernia operation
is minor, i already told you:
   i had one when i was a baby...
        when it comes to the details,
   i'm a mean *******...
               i survived two attempts of ******...
i can tune into the energies of fear,
and by fear, turn to bombast,
  and via bombast, attain a script, such as this.
i don't know what to recommend...
    if you spend enough time with women,
and without the women in question,
it's not that you look pathetic,
        but so tragic, that you break every
bone in the body of the person observing,
while at the same time, asking a doberman
pup to gouge your eyes out...
      how ferocious the man without a woman
looks...
       which signifies the opposite in a woman
without a man: how pathetic she looks;
man abides in solitude upon the diet
of feral forces,
                       he's so ******* scared,
that in his anti-phobia: complete-curriculum,
becomes, un-approachable.
believe me, i put my mother
into a coffin, before i extracted an answer
that she was simply in a hospital bed;
hernia? hernia?!
    i had more bother with wisdom teeth...
thank god i kept my third tonsil.

~25cl and a "next"
   day's worth of an afternoon,
while watching the next
concubine of a single mother's
household, play fiddle
to the garden,
    and there are no violins
and no crescendo,
and the day incubates
several winds at once,
           and you're like:
n'ah...
              i shouldn't,
but i should,
but then again i shouldn't,
and: light-hours never do it for me,
how daylight is least
complimentary to drinking
habits...
      is it really all about the rhyme?
rubric "tautology",
   pedagogy skew,
    only the ******* have
a desired inclination?
       well... we know what
'all the little hitlers write at night'
gets you,
a notable mention
in a harold norse autobiography,
mush akin to w. h. auden...
sure, the feeling is mutual,
it's not longer a "circumstance"
of being circumcised,
it's a scenario of playing
the cameo castrato role
in some dim figment of "reimagining"
the status quo of a
pro golfer's harem...
i can do saturdays...
but come sunday?
    everything is just, plain weird...
gearing up toward a monday
and the tide of "subtle"
gradations of a work ethic...

https://magma poetry.com /
     20th-century-  poets/

i know so little, having read this,
that i'm almost unabashed by
the fact, per se...

             so scuttling through
a list of failings,
  crude tongue,
   lack of ethical standards,
a whole plethora of shortcomings,
but it's only about
a worth of an afternoon,
   ~25cl  of leftover whiskey,
and rolling tobacco...

       a microcosm of creeping
existential crises...
    and all that worn down flack
of a democratic tuxedo,
to any event,
but one in particular:
a funeral of some sort....

         to better, or for no worse avail...
and so little,
and so late,
            and all the eager tender
hearts make available...
    some sort of c.c.t.v. counter,
some ghost,
          some clarification,
and then some stupid plause,
some norman and normie
sunday zenith of a football match
spectated before the new altar
of t.v.,
               and, as ever,
a dampened sense of
          disinhibition,
              heightened scrutiny
from the slaughterhouse brigade...
even the bulls don't
give off a whiff of a dumb
animal compensation for their
worth of a blank canvas blank
back stare...

         little world, little promise...
little of much, and also the little
of the little...
                      how many compromises
had to be met in metaphysics?
       as many as away from
the translation of: abstract...

               a life, in death:
                       always the persiting
circumstance of a waiting line...
           or if not outright melancholy,
then a blatant nostalgia...
        
   and now, to find ease,
    an arm-chair,
    a snooze corner,
             even a shadow,
to play with...
                  
     seems i don't exactly have
to be a sailor and fear
myself towed by some slouch
   to the depths,
          that i might drown...
i'm already a voice
in a democracy,
          and i'm drowning,
                        as we "speak":

to "think" of having firm
standing in this cauldron,
  of roots: when one is constantly
up-rooted...
                         is a fool's errand;

and sometimes,
to chance those...
    who are in the theatre of opinion,
with opinions,
that never, never really begin
to chance dialectic...
   a mind of scrutiny,
but are forever,
            base,
playground...
                     and the comforts
of a night with safety
psychadelic experiences
of a dream;
  never the void,
never the insomnia
or the dreamless "repose".