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Hope Aug 2013
first, make sure you are very concerned with
unlearned or silenced or misread minorities. this establishes that you
are a rarity, a person of charity,
a champion and deity of the small and the voiceless.
you’ve made the right choices
swallowed the right poisons
so now you’re not pointless,
you’re with the top few
of the economic disparity.
do you aver verity?
not so much.
you just make the choicest noises.

second, it is very important that you stud your vernacular
with words like deictic, post-spaciality, and sub-simulacular.
when you, font of knowledge, squeeze out pearls like turds
in twelve-point, double spaced, times new roman rows,
lined up like crows or some other ***** birds,
be sure to write no sentence shorter than thirty words, and
see to it that two thirds of these words have more than ten letters
that even the nerds in their plaid-patterned sweaters have not once ever heard.

when you walk, A paper in hand, from your car to your apartment, past four vagrants, do not look at them.
do not look into the eyes of the man standing in the rain, barefoot, black, green, and yellow toenails oozing and crusting, nodding his head and shouting at no one, and do not wonder whether or not he’d be there had he been educated.

lexicon is not eloquence.

erudition is not wisdom.

intelligence is not a prerequisite for rights.

you have no rights.

take a dictionary and shove it up your *** and
while you’re at it, shove one up mine, too.
Marieta Maglas Mar 2013
I see my snowy steps disappearing  in the
snow. The coldness will swallow  them.
Wet winces on snow ,wetter than any wince.

I am more involved in  a  sharp  snowless stretch
than I was ever. I forgot that I'm existent .I try
to remember. A cloud is tossing its white to rain.

Nothing  never rains outside, everything rains
inside. Everything is tossing firstly before raining.
The trees always feel this. They are existent.

The trees  need to be existent. This freezing rain
is breaking the trees’ limbs.  Their branches are
encapsulated in glaze ice. I need my steps back.

I hear a song coming from the coffee house. There
is a coffee stain on my right shoe. I take a taxi to go
nowhere. This rain falls down over the snow blanket.

The snow is existent until it becomes  a bed for the
falling rain. I can be existent as long as I’m not cold.  
This rain  is not a tropical one ,and I cannot care less.

There is something moving toward. It's my body. There
is something having no beginning and no end. It's the
movement in losing time. Rain and snow need time

to prove their similar personality and their  different
appearance .Time is existent. I’m not existent in another
particular time. I can’t come into existence twice.
Let the frantic words of a caffeinated mind flow forth:
I shouldn’t write poetry when I drink coffee.
I shouldn’t drink four cups of coffee at 3am
With the intent to squeeze poetry out of my shaking fingers.
Seriously, I have to **** after every stanza.
How am I supposed to keep on track?
I can’t, I tell you,
So let’s just mark this up as postmodernist –
You know, the sort of art that is actually ****,
That shouldn’t be considered art,
Like that exhibition full of pictures of *******
(No, seriously, that exists);
That’s what this is.

The only effect I can hope to achieve is irony,
Or humor, possibly.
It’s about time I stop writing about love and life,
Like I’m trying too hard to be taken seriously.
Maybe that’s the way it is for a young writer,
Like I’m screaming in the street:
“Hey, pay attention to me!
I’ve experienced things and apply pseudo-elegant words to them,
Then call it poetry!”

You want to know the truth?
I don’t want to work a routine job.
I don’t like the way the world works,
And I’m scared of being still.
So here I am, writing and drawing and taking ******* pictures
With the faint hope that my creativity may,
Some day,
Be worth your time,
Ask valuable questions.
Spark valuable thoughts,
Give you an escape,
And pay the **** bills.
Delirium.
Claudia Darian Aug 2017
I am naïve skeptic
I am a bohemian capitalist
I am a sad corporatist
I am a misogynistic feminist
I am a misanthropic misandry
I am a traditional postmodernist
and a conservative liberal
I belong to someone, but mostly to myself
I am not yours, yet I am not mine either.
I am everything and I am nothing.

I am tender and cold,
I am sour and soft.
Darker than night,
Brighter than day.
Loving and spiteful
Caring and callous.

I am a poet concealed in prose
I am a writer covered in playwright
I am here, but I am also there.
I am an old novelty
and a new discovery.
I am a bit of van Gogh’s ear.
Mary Mar 2012
Tiny red pins slip under my skin
Angry and sullen and precocious and settled.
Don’t wake them, they have my blessing.
Like a postmodernist painting
You could analyze them to
death.
But don’t.
Just let them be
They mean more that way.
you hear it all the ****** time, esp in England, trying to live this Babylonian multiculturalism without polymaths in sight, this itchy term of justifying incremental infringements, islamophobia: as if terrorist attacks don't justify the phobia, as if i don't "suffer" the jokingly endearing arachnophobia... that i can't rationalise a fear, that is becoming more a stance from the position of tedium... oculus per oculus (eye for an eye): to reiterate with a (now) reinforced emphasis: why so Russophobic... why so serious? i don't understand the Russophobic vibes... the Russian are in a defensive mode... why wonder as to the reason for a why, the how has been blatantly obvious: to begin with.

Russian Russian not my friend,
***** ***** rusz Rusa...
róża - rose rose...
         rusz Rusa: move the rose...
if Nietzsche equated the Lachs
to the French of the Germanic world...

German neighbour
Rome's a neighbour...
more tanks in Poland than in
England, Germany, Italy,
France and Spain combined...

if the Polacks are the French
equivalent
the Russians must be English
the Ukrainians Germans
and the Balkan tribulations
the Italian polyglot monstrosity
Yugols collectively...

if...
such that when push comes to shove:
i wonder whether those
canons are aiming at Moscow
or whether... they might
suddenly turn toward Berlin...

so much for not feeling welcome
on the continent
bad neighbours...
siege of Vienna - before any
inclination of an Ottoman ***-lick
conquest...

or is that somehow juvenile
to have a historical disposition
rather than the modern
journalistic jargon:
since when did journalism
outweigh the importance of
reading history?

why do journalists think they can
somehow overpower historians:
Heidegger was obsessed with
historiology -
again: when you get ****** in
the mouth by a **** amphetamine
*****
while a drunk Russian comes
at you from behind...
never mind those УПА *******
in Ruthenia celebrating the ****
annexation of "my" land..

i'm asking a question: is a study of
history somehow juvenile:
holding onto this old qualms
and disputes?
while the rest of the populace
is lost to the altar of journalistic
malevolence and celeb-pleb culture?

not that i could ever:
but pan-Slavism 2.0? any takers?
out of necessity of asking a question:
as Heidegger (to reiterate)
would put it:
is something question-worthy?
is this question-worthy?

well if the blacks can do it...
celebrate it in London at a concert
by none other than...
Wizkid... if there can be a pan-Africanism
well... what am i entitled to:
as an Anglo-Slav?
the same shared history of the banality
of Anglo-Saxons who differentiate
their Roman history context
as having inherited what the Welsh
and the Picts were subjected to?

come to think of it: i too can play
identity politics -
and socialism worked...
as a one off special circumstance
for only an exclusive amount of time...
as a failsafe mechanism against
foreign investment
as a rebuilding economic model
that could be reiterated in Syria
as it was iterated in Poland
because: like **** did "we" get a whiff
of the Marshall Plan...
Switzerland and Sweden got a whiff
of it: yet... neutral(?)

but what if this is all a poker game?
as much as i had respect
for English society and still do...
certain influences from across the pond
are bothering me...
so un-European so uncivilised...
technically "we" could band together
but watching Islam do a stinker
in these:
what did Chamberlain say about
Czechoslovakia?
alluding to the profanity in Kendura:
#metoo
            
"quarrel in a far away country,
between people of whom we know nothing..."

right... wow! with the empire
that stretched toward India
   and the current immigration climate...
    seems "we": your European neighbours are just
that... far far away... we know nothing
of the same script we write in...
might as well:

durka durka Muhammad jihad
right, the, ****, back at you!
well sooner or later you'll be glorifying Blahlah
with your ******* up in the air
for the massive deity **** *******:

are "we" Christians?
i thought that the Polacks were Catholics
as a joke... like the Italians are
Catholics as a joke...
weren't "we" the last defenders of
paganism in Europe?
Christianity spread to this continent
like a pain like a sloth
it had to be brought over by the Hebs
themselves...
even now: 2000+ years later i'm
still not convinced - although i am
by the ingenious Heb reality...

durka durka bengali bud bud...
**** of the neck and twisting in *******
lightbulbs:
but ooh! Czechoslovakia: Rapunzel land!
i absolutely abhor this English
ignorance about the continent...
even grouping "us" as "eastern europe"...
for starters... "we" are CENTRAL
european... east is somehow a slur...
there's England France Germany blah blah
and that's distinctive:
but the rest of us are somehow
collectivised into the east...

         a Romanian is an Albanian etc
oh but don't mention the Greeks...
those ******* are Syrians...

so i ask: would there be a point of
invading a place already rife with its own
spastic liberalism?
or is this simply a taste of flexing
telling the other to shove that neoliberal
postmodernist
                        mantra up it's **** eclipse?

i might no like the Russians
but... push comes to shove...
                              better that than
a transgender hangover... so un-Hippocratic
so irresponsible!
neo-**** smiles at these chemical castrations:
all these western post-Victorian
social experiments...
and i'm not supposed to become
emotionally invested in any of this?
i'm not supposed to rely of emotions
from time to time?
       become a pacified buddhist *****?
become a lobotomised Christian?
not gravitate to my innate: unshakeable
ontological foundations -
                       my Darwinistic impulses?
i can't have my secular wants met
       because of some ninja bullies?!

i've inherited living through Joseph
and Adolph... maybe not personally:
and to think i would play it "sensible" now
is asking for moo but not the milk
from a cow.
Modern culture deconstructs itself,
jettisons the meta-narrative, finds
no truth but power, no power but
theory. There is only text, superceding
the author's intent. There is no absolute
author, only perspectival framings on a
malleable, transient text. There is only text.

There is no self, only the postmodern critic
deconstructing the world. There is no world,
only relativity in culture. There is no culture,
only postmodernist theories, open to
no truth, for truth is power. And power wills
only power -- a dynamite of meta-energy,
triggered to explode..

The individual remains lost in the cosmos
of theory and text. There is no individual,
only clashing wills-to-power. There is no
power, only theories and deconstruction.
Meaning is meaningless, a maze of repressed
attitudes toward a hostile world. There is no
world, only fragments of deconstruction,
fragments of authorial intent, fragments
of theory, of texts, of power and will.

There is no will, only interpretation.
There is no interpretation. Only power
and theories and text. Modern culture
deconstructs itself. The postmodern
critic sits satisfied, ready
to deconstruct himself.

— The End —