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Mateuš Conrad May 2016
repetition, that's a good technique, a form of
reiteration, emphasis, as you like to
move in the river of synonymousness -
i mean, plenty to choose from -
well it's a better technique than rhyming,
it's like Kaiser Karl Lagerfeld said
about Coco Chanel's legacy after she died
in 1971: 'people tend to forget, that,
once upon a time, Chanel was old hat.
it was only Parisian doctors' wives who
still wore it. nobody wanted it - it was hopeless.'
(oh i can be couture no problem,
the other side of me that's into galleries -
even though that never brought me much
luck with the ladies, Beelzebub ******* on my
face and i started to squeeze out maggots
ensuring my face was forever crater riddled
moon - yes, excess white blood cells).
that's the same with poetry, it can't be
love me doo d'ah mushy mushy candy-floss
longing crap - mate, i'm a bus ****** and
this bus is coming but it's already 20 minutes late...
and it's ******* cats, dogs, frogs... Norwegian
acid rain, my anorak is peeling like a snake
shedding its skin and you're rewriting the early
Beatles unleashed on the American public:
shaved, hair trimmed into mushroom bops
all that Rene Magritte **** 'love, love me do!'
forget it, it's not going to happen, rhyming is the last
resort, i prefer the chance rhyme, it sometimes
happens, and it's too cute when it happens randomly
rather than with premeditation;
you can also throw out all the other premeditation
of techniques that poetry is known for...
what's the point? and back concerning rhyming,
you really want your poetry to be discussed by
schoolchildren and an english teacher in between
grammar lessons
                                  rhyming schemes and all?
that's how it goes:
         her name was Dazie          (a)
         she was never lazy             (a)
         i wrote her a sonnet           (b)
         reclining on a car bonnet  (b)
                                                               that's how they
do anatomy on poetry, the forensic team will
be with you shortly, the only reason i can think of
and know of as to why people are abhorred by
poetry (it's a natural repellent, spray it on weeds
             and insects, a natural insecticide,
****, spray it everywhere) is, because people on
the academic level have scrutinised it, analysed it
to the extent that it's not even there, it gets you thinking:
so who the hell was paying attention to the mammoth
novels of Tolstoy? oh right... no one!
the forensics, the post-mortem of poetry,
it has literally been mummified - the brain came out
as porridge ****** out through the nose.
are you familiar with Tenacious D's one note song?
that's what rhyming is to me, ever hear it?
it's the -ing twang
                            it's the -ing echo echo echo echo echo...
halfwit variations, you're hitting the same note,
great if you're penetrating a girl and she's giving
you an Opera of Vowels... otherwise it ends up
in a schoolroom, with an english teacher
and the rhyming scheme of a sonnet is?
                          ABAB CDCD EFEF GG
or?
                                                              abracadabra.
personally though Tenacious D's song kiełbasa,
etymology:
                    kieł       (canine, in polish)
   -basa (i'm guessing: the base of)             -
it's a sausage                                based on canines,
kieł (insert a           w    for the         ł.. tongue tied, eh?)
is a reference to a canine, a sharp tooth anyway,
and with -basa             i just intuitively thought of how
a hebrew would write it (i.e. hiding vowels)
and therefore juggled in an      e                  for -base.
they do, even though hebrew has Aleph (א) it hides
the vowels: S VRYTHNG RDS LK S - or i might
just be bullshitting you.
As I stand before the mountain of confidence called hope, I see a clear path up, not too steep, not too straight, but this path is embodied with rewards to the top.

At the top, there is a magnificent tree made of gold, silver leaves and Copper roots. Hope mountain held a perfect prize awaiting me, a Tree called Faith.
This sight to behold was everything I wanted, everything before me was so clear, but at the bottom where I was, there was a River.

This River was called Shame.
This river was filthy, the water was calm where I was, but looking downstream I could see the rapids of rage, the ripples of conditioning before the raging rapids were inviting.

The dreary stonewalling fortification on the banks allowed no light through, downstream was scary and looked impossible, why would I go that way? why even look?
I looked upstream and saw a blinding light, what could this be? I was so curious, so I waited, a true gentleman always waits.

Two days later the light took shape, as it came closer I could finally see, I could see a lifeboat with a caring nurturing beautiful woman.

As this beautiful woman came closer, I could see the river was being supplied by this woman, I could see she was the source.

The river of Shame was being fed by this woman, this filth in front of me was coming from her, but the beauty was something I've never seen, this beauty had me curious.

This beauty made me forget of the supply to the river.
  What I saw wasn't real all the sudden, what I believed was now real.
She came close enough for my heart to be heard, since she had no heart she was envious, she hated what others admired.

She wanted my wholesome heart, so she used her falsehood love bombing to create one, dreamingly admiring the mountain, we were planning different paths right then.
As I stared at the golden Tree of Faith glowing upon Hope mountain, I didn't notice the river was rising, as the numbing waters were rising it covered my feet, I didn't notice she also took a piece of my heart to claim as her own.

She used toxic gas and light to create a projection that this heart was hers to give back to me.

I didn't know any better so I accepted this ambient abused heart, this unfelt abuse gave me amnesia, this hidden poison of my cognitive dissonance gave her all of me.

Since she had nothing and that's what she craves, I had everything so she wanted to enslave.
I forget about the mountain with the tree even being there. I forgot I was here.

Her lifeboat was awkward, it was shaky,
it has imperfections, it has holes,
   her lifeboat is sinking,
     her heart is missing.
my knightly kind hearted empathy,
   my buffering and nurturing sympathy         pick this beautiful woman up
      I pick this gem up because of her idealization of me.
I can clean this insidious gem because she makes me believe, but through the veil I cannot see.
I throw her over my shoulder to carry all her weight, it's hard to move, hard to breathe, building a new boat was extremely hard, carrying her pain was extremely hard.

Everyone thought it was impossible to do it, my shear will power to commit ****** one foot in front of the other, I just didn't know that going downstream was impossible.

What about the mountain?

I couldn't remember from the amnesia, the dark night blinded my sight of the mountain, the drug in me was you and it consumed, i fell in love with misery and misery loves it's companies.

I stared the snake behind the veil in the eyes, standing tall on her pedastool made of spackle it breaks, I fall onto piercing confusion, I pull out shrapnel's of dissolution, I'm covered in her blood of invalidation.

I'm already floating in the boat with her, this wasn't my plan, this wasn't my reality.
I gaze upon this woman, sun shining behind her, no clouds in the sky.
floating downstream she tells me it's faster, that we'll end up behind the mountain higher.

I'm not worried now, I'm now contempt with shame.
I already forgot reality, I already forgot i'm going downstream, I forgot the searing pain, I forgot what I believe.

I'm relaxed, I'm tired, I'm still happy in love with this spellbound misery.

As we drift slowly through the stonewalls, no light shines through, I ask her for assurance, it's getting dark, I'm getting scared.

That's when the veil comes off, that's when the unnatural beauty grows quiet, that's when my voice screams silently within these stone walls.

This isn't her, this isn't real,
I know there's love I can feel, that was our bond, that was our deal, not to steal.

I fall over board and the water is cold, there's leaches, the debris is so random, the shameful water is moving faster, the all consuming cold confusion, random gaslighting and triangulations moving in around me faster.

I immediately can't bear it. My heart pulsates hard, my mind misfires my flight mode, i cannot intake the overbearingly unowned toxic Shame, her coldness activated my fawn mode, I froze, I start to doze.

luckily she had my leg, luckily she knew excessive admiration CPR, just as my body went limp in the agonizing River of Shame, she pulls me out. luckily she got me just in time, luckily she saved my life.

I awoke away from the stonewalls, it's sunny and safe again, we're together through impossible odds, we built this boat and she saved my life.

The abuse amnesia made me forget, the cognitive dissonance was real, I am not.

The mountain was now farther away, I was worried, I grew fearful, what I wanted looked farther away, that's when everything became gloomy, my goal was no longer there, but she didn't care, she knew where the river went, I believed her, I still do.

The ambient abuse made me anxious, the atmosphere was maddening of fear, it carried anxiety, I couldn't see it, but I was breathing it in.

Her eyes were so incapacitating, her heart disorienting, her soul captivating, she had a better plan, for us to press on and build another boat, to add another life, to believe in her, to not stare at the knife.

We build another boat, were out of the shame waters finally, she's helping me, were soon to be a real family, but the only thing real here was me.

Everything is better on the land, were dry, it's sunny, it's better to feel the nirvanic sand. It's here we bring our new seed, to be sprouted downstream.

I now believe in this new mountain downstream, I don't even remember the mountain I seen, were pressing on downstream past a levy, were now in the River of Grief, we're off to the end of make believe.

This river is really turbulent with rapids of devaluation, the splashes make me irrelevant, the dinigrating actions around make me small, I feel lost and confused, nothing makes sense anymore at all.

At the mouth of the River of Grief it opens up into a valley. She jumped onto a rock of vanity and pushed the tree of disloyalty upon the boat.

This throws me out head first, but luckily I have our seed safe and sound, luckily I learned how to drown.

I turn around falling and see her at the top staring down, she smirked and throws enormously heavy anvils of bereavement to make me fall harder, to keep me down longer.

Evil is real, but only if you believe, I crave the flattery of illusionary love, I still had amnesia, I love misery, the feeling reminds me I can feel, I love my slow death so I say I'll find you, I have the seed, I'll wait for you.

As I fall the thorns of numbing premeditation pierce, the pain is searing, as I fall i'm locked on her, my falsehood of love is still enduring, I don't feel the discard, I ignore the distaste.

I land in a field of hopium still protecting the seed, my amnesia is now worse, I can't remember her smirk, I can't remember the weighted anvils of bereavement, I can't remember the tree of disloyalty, I still can't remember the mountain.

My movement is heavy like concrete, my heart sits down at my feet, my mind is nowhere to be found, my spirit is fading on this ground.

I gather everyone from a nearby village to find her, it's impossible, they can't see her, she never existed, my amnesia was now delusional, the hopium mixed realities, nothing was real, there was nothing I could truly feel because everything was wrong, but I believe misery needs me and I yearned.

I say she's at the top, we have to throw her a rope,
they say it won't reach what isn't there,
I say we need a ladder to throw the rope, they say the ladder isn't safe that high.
  
I say everyone can hold the ladder while I climb perilously to the top, they say it will never work, but since they can see me, since they see a part of me is still real, everyone holds the ladder for me.
      
While I acend with my broken dignity, I acend with a fatigued heart, I acend to find what I believe, no matter how hard I try, I will be taking my destined decent.

The top of the ladder is shaky, I spent forever getting there, it's scary, the heights bring great fear over me, more than I've ever felt, but my knighthood makes me overcome anything.

I suppress, the seed is safe down below, I'm here to impress, I can see her now, only much less.

Her snake skin is peeling, the sun scorched blistering skin shows immense pain, witnessing this releases empathy, the caring knighthood in me naturally wanted to save her again.

So I wrap what's left of my discarded soul upon my broken fatigued heart and I use my trauma bonded mind as bait.

I throw her the rope,
she catches the rope,
I tell her to tie off the rope,
she ties a noose with the rope,
her neck is now wrapped with this rope.

If she falls I can't stop the tightening of the rope, if she falls I already know I'll jump for her and release from her neck this rope.

We jump together and I release the rope around her neck, I see the ground coming fast, but I love this snake, I'll die for this snake because I believe, false beauty inside is all I see.

I grab her and turn her away from the rushing ground, I fell once, I can take the fall again.

She is already hurt, immense pain, she will not feel no more pain, because I'm not hurting for I'm with misery again, I believe I can take all the pain for her, the hopium was numbing everything I consumed.

I awoke to a distressed angel, flawed personality, beautiful nightmare, mirroring the devil, but what I saw was a veil over the snake eyes, what I saw was what I believed before.

What I had wasn't real, who I am is no longer there, for I had ambience amnesia, nothing around me fit, nothing around me was grounded, nothing around me was divine.

The eyes that gazed upon me were captivating, spriling, time froze and only she was moving, the feeling was there, a drug within me, the drug was her and I longed for the misery, I yearned for the pain to remember what was real, I needed the intermittent reinforcement, I wanted my all bets in investment back and I risked a short sale.

We faded into the black, into a new boat, she made this boat, she had plugs in  holes of the boat I couldn't see, I believed it was perfect, I didn't know what awaited was a life long anguish.

I still didn't know what was downstream is impossible, I didn't know this new River of Anguish has piranhas of triangulation, I didn't know the rapids were of oppression, I didn't know the rocks causing these rapids she already put in place, I didn't know it was so black around me in this place, I didn't know my seed would become two, I didn't know I would have to choose.

I didn't know true love was in front of me in my hands and not behind the veil, I thought it was her, all the villagers knew, but as I drew closer to the snake the darkness only grew and the seeds too.

The feeling of my lingering mortality reverberates, she built me a coffin and chained it to my ankles, with this immense weight, I carry it with me just in case.

We floated very fast down this River of Anguish, everything seemed fine to all others including me, the darkened skies covered the evil, the cold waters made my body numb, the seeds were held up high to be be safe from the tormenting waters.

As I held them up high, I didn't realize she was still holding the schraded butcher knife in the water, I didn't believe she would hurt me, I didn't conceive the possibility that knife I didn't see was there all along for me.

The waters of Anguish smothered me, the triangulating piranhas slowly nibbled on my feet in the water, the rapids of oppression kept me gazing in the water, the rocks of malice in the water tried to tip me over, but my balance was true and the seeds were safe from harm, but I am not safe, I'm dying inside.

I don't know why, but after every agonizing stab from this knife when I'm not looking, it hurts, but the numbing knife only helped me when it was pulled out, it has holes in the knife so she could pull it out without me knowing.

I always turned around and cleaned the knife covered in my blood, I always gave it back to her, but every wipe upon this blade made it grow, and every wipe made the label on the handle more clear.

I find out in the end this knife is called narcissistic rage, the brand of this knife is called gaslighting and my blood is the supply.

I didn't know any of this until it was too late to save myself, my reality wasn't real, my dreams are gone, my nightmare is all consuming and existent, my seeds are still safe, but I am not.

When I start to notice the knife exists, I forgive her, the conditioning made the skies darker, I wipe the blood off and give it back, the knife is now a sword, it's name is discard.

The waters are uneven, the piranhas of triangulation feel like strangulation, my clothes are still soaking wet with anguish, my hair is slimy and covered in Shame, my feet are cold and numb from the grief.

I can't understand why I'm here,
  I can't understand why I'm actually meant to be here.
  
Every turbulence has thrown me down, she pushes me over head first, as I try to lean up to breathe she has her foot on my neck in the cold numbing river, but this river does not affect her, this river is warmer than her, the warmth from anguish pleased her, the piranhas followed her commands to bite, she smirked as the rocks she placed crushed against my head.

She waited until I went limp every time, but she knew idealization CPR, her deceit was without compassion, her rage was without sympathy, but I had severe ambience abuse amnesia, I still couldn't remember the mountain, I am now trauma bonded from the stabs she's counting.

I only saw her veil, her gaze convinced me I placed these rocks here, her gaze made me ignore the stonewalls around me, her pure hatred was covered in false intentions, her illusion was my isolation.

As everything was becoming clearly dangerous, as everything went pitch black, I look back and see the light from the mountain glowing, I see there is something wrong where I'm at, I see the seeds are not growing, I start to see the pain all around me.

Non the wiser, I keep coming back from drowning, I keep falling for misery, I keep wiping my blood off the blade, I keep isolated, but now I feel there is something painfully wrong, the reason abates me but I feel it, it hurts, it's camouflaged by deceit, it's all in my head, my coffin is soon to be my bed.

I look to the shores, there are other villagers worried, they are waving frantically, they're pointing at a waterfall ahead, this waterfall is called Doom, this fall would be death, the sound is raging, the mouth all consuming.

I see the stream to the side that the villagers are pointing to, I see the calm waters awaiting our safety, but the boat will not fit.

Only me and the seeds are real, everything else around me is illusional, the trauma delusional, the possible harm to the seeds was not refutable, my love for misery was unsuitable.

I could see my life was in danger, I could see the stream nearby screaming safety, I knew the seeds needed me, now I can't stop shaking.

Without her knowing what I was doing, I turned my back towards her facing the water, I knew she was going to stab me over and over again until I turned around, I now see the hypnotic eyes behind the veil. Not turning around only enraged her, the blood on the knife was condesating.

  The safety of the stream for my seeds was a new found glory in my exodus.
  
I paddled with my small hands this large weighted boat towards the stream, her knife was venomous, the water was echoless, the air imparted dreadfulness, all of this was dimensionless, all of this was not real, unless I let it be, now I can see, now I can finally flee.

As I came closer to the stream the waterfall grew stronger, the pain larger, the sound louder, I knew we were closer to the end, I knew I needed to jump off with my seeds, but I know the torment will end.

I melted my enduring pain inside with molten lava heartache to mold anew, I compartmentalize because I have to choose.

I had a vision that if I jump, the seeds will be safe, the climb to the mountain can still happen, I knew I was right about how I felt all along, I realized the veil couldn't cover the true self, I now believed In me.

I now know the water air and land were not what she made me believe, I knew I didn't choose this path, I knew I could survive, I know the seeds are going to be safe now. I know because I manifested instead of throwing in the towel.

Once close enough I finally looked at her and smiled I love you, jumping into the river I could feel the bitter cold agonizing tormenting river smash me with bereavement and disillusion by dissociation, I felt the coma of trauma surround, for I am now trauma bound.

I hold my seeds up high, I kept them safe because they don't feel the water, they're starting to sprout already, no more decay.

As I climb out of the frigid waters and still dripping wet, the drops are red, my feeling is coming back, my back is full of knives, I'm scared but I survived.
Knowing the worst is over I look back to her, she is consuming the river because she was the source, everything dark folds in on itself because the light cannot touch here, for this black hole is collapsing in on itself, I cover the seeds to shield them of this exorcist, they're safe here because my love is relentless.

The tormenting pain makes it hard to stand tall, still going through bereavement of a false reality where I lost it all, the answers we're all lost in the waterfall
"" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" "" ”"" "" "" "”" "" ""
Anthony Perry Jul 2018
There is something violent about how I see the skin on your body
Its so rich and smooth, almost decadent and unlike you

This observation turns into a premeditation when you touch my cheek
Its almost like i can feel the heat melting off your bones

As I laid you down and slipped a knife underneath your sternum
You whispered something hidden in painful tones like a sharp breath piercing the guttural moans

But I dont need to hear words to know the searing desire steaming from your guts as I replaced them with hot stones

The blood on your finger tips remind me of fresh water on leaves after a storm and your severed head looks like its been through famine, disease, and a damaged city plagued and war torn

Yet there is still beauty in the decayed decadence that is your mutilated corpse

The moonlight drowns in the canal of blood begging for remorse while the insects march and sing a song of things that can only get worse
©anthonyasylum
This is a poem about the need for closeness between two people
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
sitting there, fiddling with my beard,
trying to manage a pseudo-payot -
twirling it, and twirling it -
attempting to lose weight
with due process - of gaining
a pointy shrub of *****...
            i really had something to attest
for:
      ah!
             ****, lost the marbles...
      going to see a turkish
barber is about as obnoxious for
me as seeing a doctor...
     no one ever heard of going for
the feral look?
              in whatever agony,
i'd rather that sort of a death sentence,
than this, prolonged,
power ****** / grabbing delay
of:
      i seem to dream up  the following
scenario,
   given that the space we call
universe is primarily a medium
of time...
               and death row?
the execution bound to an electric
chair, isn't the actual execution...
the actual execution?
   it's the waiting "game"...
   by the time the shitshow is over...
sitting in the electric chair...
is a death's bargain of:
gambling on death's gambit...
  there is no pain in concentrated
posits of delayed "gratification"...
         Empedocles
    (who jumped into a burning
volcano)...
     Diogenes (who died by holding
his breath)...
there is nothing inhumane
about the rite of the execution...
it's the delayed artifact of it being
postponed that's degrading...
    mind you...
all the ****** victims,
at least experienced the pain
numbing adrenaline shock intermediate
effect...
     like hannibal lecter noted:
the shock, numbs the pain...
       but waiting
for an execution?
      up in arms for the death penalty -
but, not... cat teases mouse
waiting game...
          only last night i found myself
lying in bed...
humming out, groaning,
   an attempt at relief...
              pain is ultimate...
waiting is relative...
    here i'd side with Cain...
     execute... but please...
            don't make him wait;
waiting is the execution in itself...
if not more...
   this: reflection of what
the victim's life could have been...
taking the bible literally:
what, marked, and allowed to roam
free in a place like Siberia, or
the Canadian woodlands?
       keep it fresh, keep it simple,
give the perpetrator the same
adrenaline high...
some laws are non-debatable -
    on a high, squiggly clean, fast...
the death penalty makes sense...
but only if there is no
waiting game involved -
             the waiting is worse
than the actual execution...
                  say what you may about
the french revolution...
   but since the guillotine?
  the american electric chair...
  wasn't exactly any bias
for improvement...
          snap tactic!
   i hate, what these covert sadists
disguise as a course
of justice...
            this waiting game...
it's like Einstein's relativism never
took off...
           because a caged, waiting game
with a Cain, has no objectivity argument,
and there's no quality filter to
ascribe to this argument...
          by comparison -
   the Abel of the matter was shown
more justice, even if within the confines
of the irrational premeditation of
the abhorrent act...
                   don't people realize that,
being confined...
   subsequently providing the original
zenith of sentencing (i.e. execution) -
death, becomes a saint,
and found itself a friend and martyr?

       it is no longer an execution...
but a release -
and the person being executed -
has an inability to recant for the past crime...
he slobber and makes solipsistic
incantations...
                there is no closure...
with the evolutionary sadism of capital
punishment delay...
          
     why not make the killer and victim
lovers - in the case of Cain and Abel,
Siamese twins?
              
        waiting for the execution,
           is worse than the execution itself;
last time i heard,
in england, the pork was "herded",
piling onto each other, in claustrophobic
cages... suffocating each other...
        
     i sometimes dream of being a
maximilien robespierre -
dreaming of ghosts -
  and supervising the drop of the guillotine,
like i might think, about reconsidering
having a shave.
Frank Russell Aug 2014
I don't expect
my transgressions
to be forgiven.

I do intend
to blanket them
in a new mentality.


- fr
Lucy Power Jan 2013
Yin
I'll be the *****; it's expected.
No shocks or surprises.
She'll see it coming.
You can fade to nothing when harsh words cross paths.
I'm riled.
She knows it.
It's a little bit of all life new and past, but she'll get it.
It's not her fault but we'll say she had it coming.
Justify actions otherwise inexplicable.
Premeditated.
Premeditation.
Now anticipation.
Then justification.
Later.
Later nothing.
She had it coming.
She only had herself to blame.
She sees it coming.
If she doesn't, she should.
Now to wait.
Axes to tip.
Always in my favour.
I'm the *****.
To the *****.
I'll come out better.
Now delusional.
Not right, justified.
Not shocking.
Nothing.
It's nothing.
Delusions.
Pills.
Premeditation.
Silence.

I saw it coming.
Glenn McCrary Mar 2012
The hue of streets; cousins of chalkboards;
the distinct voice of transition; of forbidden love
sipped through straws of anticipation;
swallowing decadent tribulations
to nourish picturesque gardens
and English dreams; the line between
appreciation and alienation
Happens to be the blemish
of today's death; headline hopscotch
founding father of premeditation
Sound prints in the sand
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
unique: in that the great cancan o'
h'americana spandex english...
          is littered with acronyms...
             a minor observational point...

also... that there's a europe
as confined to scandinavia...
there's most certainly western europe...

a southern europe...
             although... clogging up the "detail"
with spain... reconquista
   and not the shame...
               a barricade of goths...
                            leftover in the bizarre
gesticulation of a history...
and at: a history...

                 that the italians
                                    cannot be the heritage
of ancient rome: given
the cappuccino is a "nuance"...
  otherwise the greeks are bankrupt...
their history worth of envy is
being exhausted...

                  there's a western europe...
there's a... southern europe...
               but of an eastern europe...
such a piquant vogue of vocab that has
to cherry-pick into existence
an estonia and the latvians...

               central, europe?
                      all that is germany...
beside the fact that prussian-germany...
and the prussians could be bundled
up with the other baltic states...

little o' czech republic...
      a minor ally poland...
                    some alleviated circumstance
of an oriental allure within
the confines of russia...

             it breaks my heart
to see england unfathomable...
               currently without a near
perfect engagement strategy...
      coming to the fore with a headache
of diamond-studded gills...
        that there are
bipartisan "rats" and the ship is
sinking...
    otherwise the provincial aspect
of weeding out...
detestable aspects of cosmopolitanism...

that London could be treated as:
London-London... rather than London-England...
because of the great yawn
of the heliocentric adventure of sci-fi fun...
i.e. what is the copernican west?
what is the copernican east?

       perhaps a return to some sort of
language formality...
to escape with a poetry is hardly
a reconstitution of the soul
to a modern letter: dear sir... yours faithfully...
or a very modern hello! kind regards!

europe as a claustrophobia...
             it's such a limiting delight of...
that there somehow was...
a premeditation...
    to **** with premeditation allows the status:
******...
but to **** by accident is a "mere":
homicide...

              such grave consequences...
the culprit and the tool: but also the thought
involved...

but is there something self-deprecating
about english humour?
a pride of borrowed history...
unlike the interlude of non-existence
bound to Poland...
        this... castrated figment of my old
imagination...
                rule britannia referring
to a period prior to the empire and a ref.
to an english-spanish exchange...

then again...
   how did the spanish: then not the spanish...
create... a post-racial south america...
the tinged copper and auburn
lure of the delight...
there must be "something" sobering
bout an anglo-saxon realism...

that there's a tinge of taming the viking
horde... there's no share
in "grief" should the west arrive
at being licked by a mongolian
extract of prose...

           but always the very
formidable tow of the culprit cog
and:  **** in machina...
              easier to posit a god-phantom
ex-, as that gravity in extension orbit
linear of Pluto...

              postcards from Saturn... anyone?
otherwise, this... simply...
the english have exhausted the concept
of world... of geocentrism...
            
but then the forever soap-opera demand
of the local affairs...
how heliocentrism abides by a breath...
side by side with geocentrism
of the soap opera...
              to have to heave
a concern for the stars and the moon cycles...
this finite basis of a rooting...

        that the forerunner of / for the h'american
presidential candidacy
looks simply bored.... or rather...
unexpecting... while the first lady
is so glued to reciting the autocue
like a evil...
wild-eyed and pure ergonomic...
  a jeffrey dahmer seems to
have a more sedated glee of the eyes...

the first lady is... poison of the soul...
her eyes are cobweb knitting fatamorgana...
bringing to the table of
the arrogance of multiculturalism...
it's hardly a heritage incorporated...
there's the breaking of bones
in how to move forward...
at least the food served by the indians
or the turks has made it
as a pop staple on the high street...
it's very common to want to learn
a disguise of... the incoming horde...
the reception party will be glad
at being fed...
                               chimichurri:
give me curry... a loose translation...
                  
what am i to offer these isles when...
what all these others...
arrivals make such...
  pronounced additions to a life worth living...
turkish barbers... indian takeaways...
such prominence...

a work ethos in the shadows...
a shadow for a body...
a reconciliation with the body-work
of father...
i am forever to test the hobby market...
these formidable words like:
pineapple... like mango...
       some variation of "foreign" inventions...
never the placid anglo- prefix
titillating the paranoia: non-bilingual schizoid...

a dozen europes and a historical agony
surrounding the base narrative "primordial":
of...  i dare say... byzantine-&-darwinistic...
that the byzantines reworked a more
fashionable period before... settling for the laurel
before the shock & awe of the ottoman conquest...
or that darwinism is as much
a lesson in history as it is a lesson in biology...
that... the latter... is...
such a stereotypical predominance
of expected behaviour...

that the former is a... overt over-simplification
of a desire for work, wheat and time...
or a designation of space...
it's not that darwin is not a dickens...
but at least... the world is still inaccurate
with a dickensian take on:
with this here england...
arriving at the 20th century...
cricket players being dubbed...
fancifully: the tourists...
shouldn't all english people have
that affix?

                      there's that...
as there's also...
                  the copernican revolution
has been made impossible by someone as far removed
as william burroughs...
who insist... the ancient egyptians knew
of the heliocentric demands...
that the geocentric model was backward
thinking... that the ancient greeks
were the only people to ever think:
and we have only moral plagiarism to mind...
and a plagiarism of eureka!
or that thinking can escape
the narrative and riddle the heights
with spontaneity...

    this prolonged... western european...
admiration for a people that are currently...
made into an economic scrutiny *******-riddling...
imagine my disconcerting: hier und jetzt!

the wooden stairs are creaking...
there's a strain most unfathomable...
like that associated with a cavern...
and a man's eye having to invest in making
a bridge a reality...
that history is a reflective tool...
nothing sinister or military in nature...
a beer could be considered warm ****...
a bucket-load of camel spit...
should i guise it as such?

           to heave a beginning...
somehow i can't find... a work-around
of a western europe...
spain is still catholic...
             ireland... well... whatever...
the same self-depreciating humour
is to be expected...
          anything serious...
forward moveable and come along
has to be littered with that...
fable of the protestant work ethic...

it's impossible to have a father
who's an underpaid technician in the field...
whereas... mongrel romanians
are elevated to the status of
manager...
           pitch-perfect: ethno-central...
on the continent where
there are: "some differences"...
   zu liben unter deutsche wie deutsch'...
well... to live among the english
is to have to forever retain an otherness...
a foreign attitude of...
down the line... the capacity to...
integrate with a cousin or two being
towed...
if you knew a thing or two about
immigrant poles...
they're not very... forthcoming...
they are so hard riddled on the integration
project...
there is no in-group preference
other people a priori stress...

so... fallacy and fake number 1...
       so much for reading a milan kundera
essay...
in the context: that newspapers are
to be read!
   it's impossible to concern oneself
with the concept of a newspaper as
aligned with: not being read...
force-fed turkey glut and baron fat...

         help the pope to sing!
                        it's not like...
there wasn't a shortening reaction
phase to re-orientate the dynamism of: future "lore"...
europe is such a little place...
made even oh so much more tiny...
provincial... solipsistic...
by these island-dwelling folk that
the english tourists care to concern themselves
as being...

that the english language
is thoroughly recognised as the lingua franca
of old...
to tease learning some arabic or mandarin
is a question of aesthetic...
old fool and bigger than the lost "little"
of a worship...
such gravity... concerning the names...
Angevin...
                Merovingian... Capulet...
           Stuart... Windsor...
    my own sorrow: this common name...
           well...
                        all crippling demands...
big or small...
                   hell... there are bigger onces...
there's no known house of David or or Solomon...
such a borrowed gesticulated at...
the shadow drawn...
                   i forfeit!
from the ant people that abide...
to the swollen eye sore of blindness i tow:
a recreational soviet pact of: me's stealing Siberia!
borys!
Carl Halling Aug 2015
I seldom indulge in letter writing
Because I consider it
To be a cold and illusory
Means of communication.
I will only send someone a letter
If I'm certain it's going to serve
A definite functional purpose,
Such as that which I'm
Scrupulously concocting at present
Indisputably does.
It's not that I incline
Towards excessive premeditation;
Its rather that I have to subject
My thoughts and emotions
To quasi-military discipline,
As pandemonium is the sole alternative.
I'm the compensatory man par excellence.
                                                              
Deliberation, in my case,
Is a means to an end,
But scarcely by any means,
An end in itself.
This letter possesses not one,
But two, designs.
On one hand, its aim is edification.
Besides that, I plan to include it
In the literary project upon which
I'm presently engaged,
With your permission of course.
Contrary to what you have suspected
In the past,
I never intend to trivialise intimacy
By distilling it into art.
On the contrary, I seek
To apotheosise the same.
                                                              
You see...I lack the necessary
Emotional vitality to do justice
To people and events
That are precious to me;
I am forced, therefore,
To at a later date call
On emotive reserves
Contained within my unconscious
In order to transform
The aforesaid into literary monuments.
You once said that my feelings
Had been interred under six feet
Of lifeless abstractions;
As true as this might be,
The abstractions in question
Come from without
Rather than within me:
                                                              
My youthful spontaneity
Many mistrustfully identified
With self-satisfied inconsiderateness
(A standard case of fallacious reasoning),
And I was consequently
The frequent victim
Of somewhat draconic cerebrations.
I tremble now
In the face of hyperconsciousness.
I've manufactured a mentality,
Riddled with deliberation,
Cankerous with irony;
Still, in its fragility,
Not to say, artificiality,
It can, with supreme facility,
Be wrenched aside to expose
The touch-paper tenderness within.
                                                              
With characteristic extremism,
I've taken ratiocination
To its very limits,
But I've acquainted myself with,
Nay, embraced my antagonist
Only in order to more effectively throttle him.
Being a survivor of the protracted passage
Through the morass of nihilism,
Found deep within
"the hell of my inner being,"
I am more than qualified to say this:
There is no way out
Of the prison of ceaseless sophistry.
There are many things I have left to say,
But I shall only have begun to exist in earnest
When these are far behind me,
In fact, so far as to be all but imperceptible.
                                                              
I long for the time
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction.
I never desired intellectuality; it was ****** upon me.
Everything I ever dreaded being, I've become
Everything I ever desired to be, I've become.
I'm the sum total of a lifetime's
Fears and fantasies,
Both wish-fulfillment
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I long for the time
When I shall have compensated to my satisfaction.
I never desired intellectuality; it was ****** upon me.  
I'm the sum total of a lifetime's
Fears and fantasies,
Both wish-fulfillment
And dread-consummation incarnate.
I'm the compensatory man par excellence.
"The Compensatory Man Par Excellence" possessed some kind of autobiographical novel written around 1987, and whose ultimate fate was, so I recall, to be destroyed with only a handful of scraps remaining, as its starting point.
Nat Lipstadt May 2017
~~
The Trial of His Worthiness 2017

for betterdays, explorer of my complaints to the heavens,
and Patty, who asks,
who writes like this...answers from an old man




~~~
the 2017 baptism yesterday, by calendar dictate,
to my park, nature's commune, the poet wills himself to be
forcibly removed from city, greeted in solemn robes of blue/green,
by the triumvirate of bay, animals and flora & trees interlocking,
who stand in judgement of the humans interloping off-islanders
summer internees

to the double entendre dock removed,
so the bay, the Chief Justice, now a bit hard of hearing,
from the thunder and lighting of cymbal and drum crackling of the winter waves clashing, can hear my deposition clearer

the chief prosecutor, the tallest tree, wraps her branches,
around my legs, my feet, my heart, my head, not to restrain,
but to listen to my internals to adjudge the electrocardiogram
veracity of my words, a natural lie detector machine

the animals requested and sequestered to jury service,
large and small, from forest, the beneath-the-deck rabbits,
all learned in the human language, after 5 centuries of
less than social *******

put to me queries only I could answer

why have you returned?

humanity wearing me so, come to nature that knows only natural laws where existence is primary, good and evil are undefined and premeditation of ****** for no purpose of one's own kind is rare

will you write of us as in years as past?

will write of the commingling taffy of your
salt waters and my salt tears,
taking of your oxygen gifts, returning my dioxides,
both of us sharing the munificence of a warm sun goddess,
will plant my irises and kiss your cherry blossom leaves,
will step aside, over the ant mounds, harming nothing living,
for rightful life is not accorded by precedence or size
or your chosen version of a holy book


will you play for us your human music?

contrapuntal canons, adagios of Barber, Adele & Dudamel,
"a song for you"by the master Charles, some by the
poet Cohen, and even of a Rocky Raccoon, and for our kids,
a tale of a Yellow Submarine and the Dr.'s Mississippi Mud,
dash of Joni's pure voice, Eva Cassidy's unreal, none better,
rock to Elvis, Beethoven, Mozart and the Zombies,
**** deer demand Pavarotti (who knew)

all but  a chocolate sauce for a sundae of your own air strings,
waves baying, rabbits madly dashing, and birds texting,
the bellows of trombone honking of the
s-hit and run Canadian geese,
multi colored seagull's violin-like protestation squeaks of
'feed me human,
my survival share of the catch'


the tree limbs released, to now stroke my skin, pat my head,
the ants perform an arabesque, the gossipy fish come to the surface as
his Honor, Justice Bay, pronounces my sentencing term:

come,
stay with us warmed and welcomed,
shaded in our attentive embrace human
and of us
be a witness deposed, testified,
of our true nature

go,
to your unattended, impatiently waiting, Adrionack throne, go,
(once of us, a living tree departed)
observe and record, without distortion and human bias,
as you have so oft in years past,
tho mere eye-blinks to us,
life and death and preservation can coexist in a harmony

perhaps your infant species may learn from nature & beasts,
that bounty well fair shared is what humans call
the worthiness of living
~~~~
5/28/17 11:09
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
We went to the Vatican Palace
The Persona Grata feeling
Royal but not so loyal
Why did they serve
"Pina Coladas"
((That Good Eats)) Alton Brown
Please join us
A plus money greens
Whoa!!! $$$ Alice tea-light dresses
and gowns

Why does this good earth
only have lettuce

Alice got malice only VIP Lettuce_**
Only for me very fancy Bell a-me
Feed the solivagant lonely lettuce
Roll out the mice

The safest place to be for Alice
Love more worry less
So high tea bad batch of lettuce
no man no God
Gets my land and treehouse
That Prima Donna's their names
Are not anything close to Alice
The children Baby Bella greens
Those vendettas of Vamps
Lady  and the *****'s Disney
tea-light
The ****** British teas fight
The Kings speech host
The headline (News Alice Nowhere)
To post
_
  Only Lettuce hear me!
The college sophomores I pad
so poshly followed
Alice felt like Giant Pea Pod with
her plants

He galavants he hit the jackpot ((Greenhouse))
Her spouse has the rabbit foot
the Jolly big dollhouse boot
shape Sicily
That stuffy girly cabbage
Hollywood Alice look a likes
The garage sale if only only
?
Came with two brains there
better than one
Doing the airplane the girl
Alice so highly Jaded spoon
She went to (Dallas) cute
teacup pups
They shredded important
papers instead
of shredding
her lettuce
The stewardess marked malice on
her dress the mess
She got arrested by the Police
The plain Jane looking, Alice,
The only Bow do the Grace
The Palace aurora borealis,
Her four-leaf clover Venus
(Green Planet Day)
Ahh I need your love girl
Guess you know its green
Eight days a week so mean
But she goes three days a week
for dialysis

Alice got laryngitis
The others team of brothers
Other Mothers and
lady Mary Alice
in her own wonderland

Premeditation green
between meditation
She saw something eat me
Aforethought
The picnic so vindictiveness
She saw the rabbit hole
Alice expression mark mole

New Alice face Holyland
she missed her crownland
Another trip to Rio De Janeiro  
Surrender to the (Scottish kilts)
Face close near a computer and
her crazy cat on her Lapland
She finally ate the salad 
 the green ticket Oliver tea bags pocket
Drop to you shop at ((Londons Harrods))
funds
Alice in the wonderland friends
The Gods Shamrock pudding silly
Aforethought if only_ this wonderland
Off with the Queens Brass head froze chilly
Malevolent  so malice
She came back with a flying
colors no more greens she wished
if only__
only
My Rainbow how it always seemed
This is a fantasy land very far from the real Alice in Wonderland it has a cute style I hope you enjoy this divine tea party of a treat
Senor Negativo Sep 2012
You,
Lone being
Of enduring kindness,
Your tiny hand touching me tenderly,
Even in the bleakest times.
Dragging me out of the darkness
Even as I continually crawled toward it.
The tortures inflicted,
both blindly and unintentionally
And with premeditation and surety
Should surely not have befallen one so gorgeous of spirit.
It seems now you have lost your faith in me,
As I have failed to fulfill a slew of promises.
But, you do not understand where I stand,
How my hands are shackled
Fettered to the spot,
When we dwelled together
Hell rained down until our hearts were parted.
I do not wish for the intensity of my vile
To drizzle and stain, and burn and brand you.
You are far too precious to me to allow the chance of that.
But, seeing you burn my page from your diary,
Finally and emphatically denouncing me,
I am torn down like a *****, ******.
I love you with devout intensity,
And watching you suffer at our separation
It equalled the potential pain of my tint tainting you.
So what am I to do now, kind one?
My smile only masks the agony so long.
Sweet one, whose kiss lasted longest,
Which sadly meant, there were fewer of them.
The clever saboteur will always sabotage us.
The angry cannoneer will always barrage us.
I don't want you to endure such things.
But NEVER stop believing I Love you!
Whatever you see occur,
Never forget this.
Moncef mzoughi Nov 2015
‪#‎Alexithymia‬
I'm not hellish i'm driven by a Mephistophelean relish
To reach an introspection to understand the inception
The ontological Manichaeism turned to be an existential absurdism .
And i'm drown in my own nihilism
Oh...what an owlish reality !!! i'm squeamish about this absurdity
I rely on self-revulsion to resist this daily delusion
...
What an exasperation !!! we live in the premeditation
This nature carries a lot of humiliation !!!
I'm sick of this fornication
Could the end of the road at least fetch a salvation ?
What a downhearted metamorphosis
I'm lost and i feel astonished
...
With conviction that this existence is only a deception
Oh...Oh...Oh....what a corruption !!!
This reality is based on a false deduction
That leads to a fatal destruction
Just where is the dysfunction ???
Is it in my creation ...
‪#‎Mzoughi_Moncef‬ Le 06/09/2013
Dee Thomas Jan 2011
The streets of the city held no peace this night
The alleys held the smell of execution
The lingering taste of gun powder filled the air
And a bullet’s mark which held no retribution

There is a somber atmosphere where
Death and life hold a cold thickend embrace
A twisted love affair of tainted blood
Held an angel fallen from silenced grace

I saw her little feet looking so blue and cold
From behind the trash just beyond the bin
What a frightening sound within this quiet night
From the state of shock my heart was in

She was only eight years old with many dreams
Living on what her drug filled mom provided
This ghetto, project housing filled with pain
A spiritual war contains heaven and hell collided

She had been missing for only a few short hours
Not that her mom would have known or seen
She was high on the feeling that pipe would give
Empty hunger bought a life she didn't mean

The man drug her to that alley ***** and killed her
Where the city goes to die but never sleeps
Now lays silent an innocent angel of lost humanity
That her deadly silence now and forever keeps

I will never forget her little feet so vacant and bare
I wanted to cover her, wondering if she was cold
I wondered if her mother knew that day
It was her daughter’s precious life she sold

I can’t fathom the mind of a person hurting a child
These memories I carry have no consolation
A man with a demon on his back together, working
In their grizzly thoughts of premeditation

I was only a passerby of the alley that chilled night
I never knew her name, I never saw her face
I only saw her wings upon the building
As she left this cold and heartless place
I was watching TV this morning and they found a young girl murdered in an alley in the city. it remeinded me of something I saw when I was 14. I know what evil that walks with madness and while I can never understand that kind of premeditation...I know what a man's heart can do when it is dark. Our babies are being discarded as trash and we can't stop it...I am so completely heart broken for her tragic death. I pray that her soul finds peace from this cruel and dark place as she lived only a short time.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
there are no women, to tell the men how to: womanise;
because the why is self-explanatory,
a self-styled purgatory...
why poeticise it, when you're given Dante?
   are there really women to suggest
anything more than 2 = 2 be as much as
2 = 2.2? perhaps i'm a maggot dangling
on a fishing-hook's worth of injustice...
myabe...
Freud could have Hamlet on the couch...
i'll take Macbeth estranged and standing...
or to heave! or to have! ore of the heaved have!
and have not! McCallister and Beth...
as said: epiphany and Eli bedded...
            truth of the least, unknowingly the most
trodden path... patchwork Adams,
pathwork Adams, searching stitchwork smirk
over the gloomy glen... aye; kaleigh stones
falling from the craig as one might say in
Tibet: avalanche.
                    stil... hurrah Mcbeth!
Muckbarrah Ali Happy New Years!
              proud son of frost and womanly despair!
Mcbeth son of Hillfrost and Carmickle!
                 of the forgotten shamrock heart!
svastika the shamrock and all tilt neck saying huh?!
Mcbeth my own; tear unto the land i wished
i had once owned... Mcbeth unto my own land,
and body lowned...
                 Mcbeth unto my land,
      and unto my tongue: no English said.
for was it no said, that Shakespeare was Scottish?
or at least a descending Dane?
              why then take unto exaggerating with a tear
if not so?
                  so to quote:
if it were done, when 't is done,

aye, i am but a master to a fate that does not
nod toward approval -
   for i am master to a fate of wavering,
of the nation bound, fledgling curled,
as nation proud and pride amast,
   so too the hades of nations expected omni:
            in a flicker of a candle, splinter apart
       nervousness, to take upon
a definitive shape... oft therein
St. Andrew's grotto the silencing of a barbarian
tongue's measure against the wording of a tide
                                          more to come...

could trammel up the consequence,
and catch with his surcease success;
       that but his blow
might be the be-all and the end-all here,
but here, upon this bank and shaol of time -
we'd jump the life to come - but in these
cases we, we still have judgement here;
that we but teach ****** instructions, which,
being taught, return to plague θ inventor:
this even-handed justice commends θ
     ingredients of our poison'd chalice
  to our own lips.


   within which earthbound, and Newtonian,
  assured an earthily circumference to reach unto
the closest clarity of zodiac as one might make
Galileo saintly in the forgiving canonical of the church's
decree... ode the over-wording of argument
that will never take place...
ode to the over-wording of argument that will never take
place... because such arguments will never be argued
within a framework of haggling...
such arguments are worded... but they will never descend
into the realm of haggling to reinstitute a
crass memorandum for a crown entombed on a copper
coin... let alone a golden artifice on the monarch's cranium;
                  Muhammad will know, being a merchant,
and if only Shakespeare wrote a play entitled:
the Merchant of Mecca...
              i'd deem Shylock a minstrel...
                               but my argument is no comparative measure
asserted or asserting...
        it's an antique, even though it was written
in the 21st century... i simply didn't wish for
people to merchandise it and dangle it on
their necks like crucifix jewellery; hence the vampiric
blah blah blah blah (punctuation optional);
   that's the sadness... people merchandised crucifixion
to simply dangle a suffering to no purposive ideal
   of avoiding it, or embracing it...
          it's almost like people don't avoid it,
and when being given it: deny that it was justifiable...
                 but people don't avoid it,
it's this premeditation hangman shadow:
guilty or not guilty: you're it!
             holy mother of plasticine ******* of
castratos! sing me an aria once more!
Ryan Jan 2015
alright, i give up
shoot me where i stand
you caught me red handed
trying to regain some familiarity
trying to steal back your attention
a fool's attempt at redemption
i have no motive, no secret plan
any premeditation would have
never let this ever happen
but here i am, staring at the ground
avoiding all eye contact, ashamed
filled with regret to ever see your face
to see you smiling at me, it drives me insane
i don't deserve this kindness from you
i want disgust and scorn
make me feel vile for all my actions
it would help me sleep at night
relief like a shotgun kiss goodnight
a culling lullaby to ease my mind
and the dreams, oh those ******* dreams
the haunting and subconscious wanting
where i can go anywhere in the world
and yet i drearily meander close to you
so forgive me for my crashing on your moon
i promise that i'll leave here soon
consider this my complete surrender
of a weary broken necked lover
in a letter post marked return to sender
this was left as a draft for specific reasons but now i'm sad and feel it needs to be published?
Anthony Perry Jul 2017
My poetry is open and bare on the examination table
While my brain falls into place in the exsanguination cradle
Pieces fit together like a monster from the old world fables
Set up to disassociate the Cains from the Ables

We're all meant to die
There's no harm in asking why
Self harm, drugs left in the arms, premeditation, self incrimination
It won't matter when we're stitched up in a Y

Theres hidden meanings in every line
A chance to put aside all the woes and keep feelings burning inside
When things are on the decline
I can write down facts and theories
Like self investigation as to why I'm feeling weary
No Overbearing intoxication here just a rough cut heart of ice melting due to overheating and slipping liquidation
blushing prince Sep 2018
my spine was assembled clumsily and with an erratic precision of a hand that knows the premeditation of everything
the swarm came in the shape of an air conditioner
it's the characterizations of overgrown lawns and memory foam on the side of the curb
like going to the laundromat instead of church on Sunday
I've said this before, repetition lives inside the brain that continues to step over it's own feet
foot slowly inching towards my mouth
i could kiss you with my ankle if you would
the air conditioner buzzes all night like i did that night that i couldn't find the entrance in a place that i wanted to leave
take me home in a Chinese take-out box
i'll sit in the back of your fridge until you forget
i'll grow my own colony, mold malformation on the creases where the warmth should be
Sweaty container and you throw me out before Monday's pickup trash along with the expired mustard and mayonnaise
oh the missed opportunity, the dedication i could have gone to have given you a stomach ache that leaves you at three in the morning dry heaving your memories
that electric buzz stays until it's unwelcome and still it persists
so the bees have started to congregate, digress and drink the synthetic honeysuckle it spits
they take off, wings of woolly yellow into a breath that i consume by lungfuls
i don't know where they're going but that's okay because they keep coming back
and it's the permanence of something so flighty that calms the hum
Elihu Barachel Aug 2015
Generation number four, of a FUSION bomb
was tested upon China, with premeditation and aplomb
-
Looks like it worked real good, how many more will they try out?
Maybe none at all, this will lead to WW3 without a doubt
-
The Chinese aren't dumb, like Americans are now
They'll  ally themselves with Russia, and fulfill a vengeance vow
-
The Vow that they'll fulfill, will be destroy the USA
TOTAL devastation, will begin without delay
-
It will only last one hour, how do I know this?
It's in the Book of Revelation, read it, end your bliss
-
Chapter number 18, "one hour" is written thrice
Read it and take heed, this is not just mere advice
wichitarick May 2016
How many squares on the checker board , one against one comes with an allowance
letting another progress so to see the weakness make a play but when will they pay
Color not as important as numbers ,actions still being based on reactions, secretly basking on their incompetence
Progression can be placid or briskly making its way to persevere, paving  a hidden path seen as the winning way

seeing just squares on a board rectangles have four sides ,then why not four players
Red and Black are known as blood and death, is an unknown hidden mire behind the supposedly simple game
Check and balances is often a tale of life, opposing sides as part of strife ,are we to be patrons or purveyors
Positive motions  moving forward often with hidden emotions ,outside actions can not interfere others can make a counterclaim

Passively we can make allow a process, shifting a game without showing shame, while the partner pays the penance
Premeditation using a  shadowy mindset is now an advantage, parceled out  as actions instead of knee **** reactions
Cresting high creating confusion can create new abilities rather than the perceived disabilities when making a play against tenants
Small disks now taking on a new role with different risks ,stacking for strength ,focusing while also shifting still hiding our passions

Piece to piece ,place to place, face to face, laid out on the table ready to begin realizing only one will be left to guard the stable
flip of a coin to decide the beginner, but many processes will be engaged ,passing on ,leaning back before we decide a true winner
Mid game break or mid life crisis ,the surrounding hushes or whispers happen making an unknown mark yet to have a true label
Payed with the subconscious and some sweat ,hopefully no act has made something possible so we're not seen a just a beginner R.C.
Just fun,from watching "to smart" honors kids playing checkers like it was LIFE or DEATH :) Rick
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
videos that begin: and later conclude with the flow
of: unscripted freedoms...
get on my nerves: get on my ******* and cranium
like an itch i just can't scratch...
freedom with too much impulse:
but not enough premeditation...
               so i turned off... they were a massive downer...
i returned to just... listening to music...
scribbling or rather: chicken scratching...
for all that thought allows when coupled
with writing...
   speaking will never grant...
  even if you couple it with war drums and
mantras of the millionth count of man...
sit under a make-shift canopy when it's
raining... the sound is electric for a while...
mesmerizing even...
like a little trickle of "orchestra"...
but then again: the sound of falling rain
is hardly Bach's polyphony...
but it also isn't the sound of a waterfall...
or the sound of the sea and its barrage of the shore
with its waves of stampeding horses...
nor is it... a tap trickling a rat-tat-tat on the sink
basin coupled with the humming
of the refrigerator murmur for the sake of ghostly
ambiance come the zenith of night:
when even burglars are asleep...
it's not a sound of slosh / slush of throwing a bucket's
worth of water from a height...
i too would like to imagine the sound
of a falling chandelier... not no...
perhaps throwing out... a bucket's load of crushed
ice on... glass... or a mirror... or a sheet of metal...
copper or iron? any difference?
i bet there's a difference on lead...
or aluminium...
but from under a makeshift canopy
to out in the open...
   a bewildering absence of "orchestra"...
just a teasing at silence...
                   no focus point for a collection of water...
evenly spread: like too little butter spread
over too much bread... you can still see the
Himalayan mountains inverted as holes
on a slice of ciabatta... couple that with a slice
of Swiss cheese and you're bound to see...
the lost lakes of the moon...
i suppose Mars was inhabitable once...
since... the earth wasn't...
and as the sun gradually cooled...
         the moon was a habitat once...
and once the sun cools even further...
Venus might be a welcome habitat...
           an argument to counter man's desire to explore
space... burning cow farts into a vacuum...
or dead dinosaur-burn to boot...
stand outside all space and time:
supposedly that's philosophy...
i suppose i'm not going to make scrambled eggs
with my brain while i'm at it...
i return to my heart of stone...
   i return to a fullness of being alone...
now that i managed to get both a haircut and
a beard trim in one afternoon
i see hungry girls eyeing me up while
i cycle... back lacerated by sweat...
     somehow it feels that during the summer:
people are supposed to fall in love...
**** at night in the forest or something...
a 35 year old man will spot a girl who just finished
her GCSEs or A-levels while all the other minors
are still dressed in school uniforms...
if this is what 35 year old men did when
we were the same age as these girls...
i suppose when we were their age: we weren't cruel
enough...
i'd love to see a colt get a stab at it to later
see the plunge into disappointment...
as ever: only the prostitutes seem the most beautiful
of women...
why is that? mandible... or... skin like leather:
well worn?
not some holy grail: mothering types where
you invest in "prodigy" or... "dynasty"...
assured that... your woman will not be touched...
fiddled by some better fiddler than you...
i suppose owning a pedigree dog is less hassle...
why not skip all that...
go straight for the obvious...
hassle with this... that... and the other...
- i was buying a gift for my father for father's day...
an obligation that shortened my savings
to visiting that godsend of a ******* of a *****
by £34.99... i got bored of buying him
whiskey for his birthday...
he has driving glasses... but nothing to walk in...
stop squinting!
in a magic moment of mania i tried about
a dozen pairs in the space of... 3 minutes...
not enough mirrors... if i had three mirrors two work
with would have put on those dozen pair of sunglasses
in circa a minute...
- at the unisex salon i was coerced into chatting
with my "hairdresser" Nicki...
we talked about her father... 75 now...
who owns over a dozen motorcycles...
he had this Harley phase...
he's going camping this weekend...
there are supposed to be lightning storms...
we never had a car...
on a bike with a buggy...
my mother died when she was 43...
he found a second lady... she too died...
i think that motorcycle saved him...
investments... one is over 100 years old...
probably comes to over £30,000 in worth...
       - is it me... or do... women... barely recognise
the worth of something?
or perhaps time is... beyond measure for them?
i had my eyes closed while i was sitting
before this grand mirror...
i don't want to see myself...
   it felt like "it" wasn't supposed to think...
pay attention to... what she was saying...
forget the Jezebel's ******* and fixate your
concentration on this... blonde bombshell
cutting your hair: and remember the one
car her father owned...
memory of the name of a thing...
oh sure... i have a memory of things...
my father owned a Makita drill...
my grandfather owned a KOPERNIKUS IX
set of protractors and ****
by E. O. Richter & Co.
he was also a philatelist...
           i inherited a grand collection...
   but he didn't indeed invest in macho:
obedience objects of bypassing self-generation
of momentum...
he didn't own a car... he preferred a bicycle...
a bus... i do too...
i guess i'm more of my grandfather than
i am my father... after all... my father wasn't
present when i was 4 through to 8...
the great brain-drain / labour-drain from the east
to the west after the collapse of soviet empire...
"coincidentally": the collapse of production
of goods in the west overall...
and metallurgy...
smart jobs now... or ***** jobs tending to...
children that will be... literate bound
to menial johns worth of jobs...
would have been better to keep them:
illiterate... quite frankly...
it's not quiete enough to just quit... right about: now...
quintessential... the goods coming in...
or the export of: Samsara Usury...
it's terrible that i forgot the name of
the car they drove...
kwa-yet... phonetically: still English...
oh the natives...
i could just cuddle them with pillow!

- so while Nicky finished off my hair
i began to take form...
to the Turk for the trimming of the beard...
i still think he ****** it up a little bit...
my chin and neckline isn't exactly
right angle: L inverted...
i need longer hairs at the tip of my chin
than longer hairs that protrude from my neck...
but he used a trimmer that had a whiff
of brothel i.e. jack daniels...
and he used a brush with some...
baby bottom powder...
   eh... if i don't like how the regrowth will
look... i'll... bask... in... a week's worth
of... returning to a joy of shaving...
god... i think i've had *** more times
than i've shaved my face in the past half-decade...

i have to write this in old deutsche:

writing is less intrusive than speech...
there's no premeditation in speaking...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's not an invitation to speak...

(in german, utilizing english grammar)

schreiben ist geringer aufdringlich als rede...
da ist nein vorsatz im reden...
shreiben ist ein gedanke(-)erweiterung (auf)
es ist nicht ein einladung zu spreche...

ol' Nicki is still in her 40s and single...
looking forward... no motorcycle leather clad owe i...
or pretend Zen buddhist either...
masculinity as... something eclectic...
those specimens of men that...
drag their offspring to football matches
and turn them into zealot supporters...
if i were bothered enough to be implored
to breed: i'd plough out a *******
Frankenstein: i already know i'm halfway...

what's that saying in casually dating when
you have multiple partners...
oh... right: it's...
es ist... kompliziert...
   i bicycle through central London
looking for two eye-sores... the tourists
are easy to spot... a pair of *** girls one flashing her
knickers while i pass...
the other taking a photography of an array of bricks...
but i'm also looking out for spotting thoese
gems those sugar-babies walking like
their usual selves... peacocking their sugar-daddy
assets...
married men with ****-**** on the side...
always in the centre of capital...
while also... on the side...
spotting... the very... past angry: melancholy women...
probably failed feminists...

well look at me: i stopped believing in love...
i started to be charged for intimacy...
at £2 per minute... at £120 per hour...
i dearly pretend to think that a session at
the barbers is "about the same" as...
a ******* from a nymphomaniac...

again: to reiterate english with German...
at the Ypres vicinity... the mass graves....

give me too much whiskey: i'll drink too much, whiskey
i'll blame my muse!
give me just enough: i'll go to bed early!

geben mich zu viel whisky: ich werden zu viel, whisky
ich werden tadel mein muse!
geben mich nur genug: ich werden zu gehen bett früh!

a newly arrived proverb from the Slavs:
if you come among the crows:
you better croak like them...

             wenn du kommen sie unter die krähen:
du beste krächzen wie (wei) sie (sei)...

yes... almost everyone is literate...
the priests and their monopoly of literacy have
disappeared..
but new monopolies have and new a literacy have
arrived...
come... sniff at me... if i ought to be a "beta"
sniffing glue off the heels of an alpha...
ich... bin... komplett!

         herr omega...          herr niemand-nix...
der letzte ratte...
                 pounding my heart to tease
a sponge...
   oh the air i breathe i will assure you...
my experience with prostitutes will never
be a Walt Whitman: ga-ga-gay...

'to a common *******' -
be composed - be at ease with me - i am walt whitman,
liberal and ***** as nature,
nor till the sun excludes you do i exclude you,
not till the waters refuse to glisten for you
and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse
to glisten and rustle for you...

well **** me... between listening to
KULT's - brooklyńska rada żydów...
and... john williams' - if i were a rich man?

i'd have a harem and a camel's weight worth
of hard-on pills...
while in my youth i'd... invest wisdom and humour
to see a boxing match between king Solomon
and Buddha!
oh these labyrinths of constraints of what someone
else has assured themselves with
"gravity"... just prior...

by the girth of the right of birth and all that's
required of me to come around by: merely timing...
perhaps it would have just been easier to
fudge-pack *** with all the custard lot of ****
to begin with...

Walt Whitman... that ****** on a string...
while here i am... chore bound to juice up...
one of those "fair maidens":
always those... insufferable holes in the ground...
these: the phallus is... obnoxious...
it rises into the air and stratifies shade...
the **** the floral bud...
the mantis... the black widow...
the venus fly-trap...
     no... all caressing creatures!
at least i can both ingest fine food with
my mouth... while also able to:
puke the lies people speak...
which mingle with already eaten food...

if solipsism is merely a concept...
then... what ever happened to that Greek
demigod deity?
Narcissism is a concept: there's also the demigod
deity... but... it seems like...
the old gods of the Greeks kept the existence
of this... prancing ******* rabbit-toothed pony
a ******* secret...
where are we now?
in a society of sociopaths and ghosts!

the advent of Solipssus...
              someone train some dragons or conjure
up some demons to get this
urban rent-boy off his ******* peddle-stool!
to hell with the wrath of Venus!
she has enough ****** on c.c.t.v. cameras making
enough "dough" for not loaf of bread as we speak!

i just... wanted to be assured...
the 'ebrew deity assured me...
                 look at the letters...
the sounds and forms that people are and become...
come much later... but not too late...
they'll still be your... contemporaries...
you'll see a shift...
H-H: rugby...
                     Y: the tongue of the serpent...
begins with W and begins with M...
W: cosine... M: sine...

                   i owe nothing to the Hebrews...
but truth be told... this **** show of scouting for ******
in the ruins of Dubai...
will bite back... i'll be dead then...
the current sparring contest between
the Ishraelis and the Iranians...
always favour the minority...
the ****'ites are... the minority...
    the Persians would never bow to some...
hot-rod & hearted bunch of camel jockeys
findning literacy... all of a sudden!
"all of a sudden"!

           came the great tide... alliances are being made...
the Israelis are already making bargains with
the Persians... once... this... Arabian... fairground
collapses... once the ethics of the western mind
impose... when slavery was abolished in 1833
"somewhere": in Arabia it was only until 1970...

Christianity emerged in year 0...
Islam in year 633... circa...
give 'em some time... too much sun: turban's being
fried at present from all that imported *****-work...
but... come circa 1412... paganism was still
defended in Europe by an alliance
of Polacks and Lithuanians versus
the Teutonic knights...
i guess because the crusade involving
Barbarossa failed... i hope... the great ginger
gherkin did manage to find his way to...
Yerusalem...

  just saying: hands in the air... jazz hands:
Pontius Pilate imposing!
give those h'Arabs some time...
they've been sitting on dinosaur juice all this time
it's not wonder they want to pay out
their... well-earned: investment in...
sand... camel jockey has to have his yacht pride...
his... miracle of Dubai... a city built on sand...
unlike the thick splodges of London clay...
i will die before any of this tumbleweed giggling
happens...
it will be revelled in like a crescendo like no
other...
when... those Syrians were not welcomed
by those Saudis...
because the Saudis would only accept...
in between: Romanian ******...

                  as they would still decapitate youths
for staging minor protests...
the Slavs didn't welcome what the western Lands
seemed to be missing...
i guess: inbreeding paramount?
not... those... ****-less ***-starved youths
as if it wasn't a polygamous cult of bypassing
shared ambitions of...
a plumber hooked up with a hairdresser...
and they had an irish catholic lot of children
together, while the state allowed some aid?

no?
      well... i am a glistening slab of marble
lodged in a ray of moonlight with a smile...
all is not my plan: but the harvest of what's to be
allowed to be... made: demised.
Her poems are
little slices
of ******.
They are
full of malice
and
premeditation.
Her weapons
can be found
in a Websters
or "Planned parenthood" center.
Softly and then
savagely she
slaughters you
with lullaby,
prose and
suction.
Dangerous
is she,
the killer
with words.
She stands
with abortion,
a homicidal
maniac with
no soul.
She doesn't
even spare
the unborn
from her
satanistic
poetry.
She's a
cold blooded
murderer
that hides
behind
irresponsibility
and lies.



written by me... ..
nivek Mar 2014
Jumping into this moment



without premeditation


I finally give out-
Brody Thompson Jul 2016
Out of all the things in this world to fear,
Most of us are afraid to love.
We feel like we've been set ablaze,
Never to raise from ash,
But we've only felt the burn.
It was your turn.
You were meant to be broken,
Only to prove how durable you are.
A smooth sea does not make the sailor.
So take every last one of those toxic thoughts
Put them all in a box and light a match
Because that is not what you are.
You are the culmination of everything before you,
And everything you endure,
Thus making you the vessel of love.
If the people who created you
No longer reside side by side,
Just remember that the entire universe
Went out of its way to send two souls
Through eventual agony
Just for the opportunity to bring you upon this Earth.
You never asked to be born,
You didn't request to live,
So why would you spend your entire being
Questioning why you're here.
Give yourself a purpose to this world.
They can only guide you, but you,
You are the only person you truly have to listen to.
There is everyone else in this world, and there is you.
You can take everything that you've heard,
The compliments, the ridicule,
The encouragement, the hindrance,
And then how it all effects how you live your life
Is how you choose to react to it.
Prove them all, right and wrong.

This is hardly poetry at all, I know
But I don't care if anyone feels this,
This is how I feel.
When this began, there was no premeditation
As to how the structure of this would go.
I merely pour myself out like a kettle
Onto this digital loose leaf for me.
As time goes on, I'll grow morose
For no apparent reason.
The subconscious haunts us.
The weight of the world,
The burden of childhood,
And the load of adulthood
Will wear your head down
Until your teeth become the remnants of sidewalk chalk,
And when that happens, play hopscotch.
There isn't much in this world to look to,
So you make **** sure that it is you.
You, you bodacious, beautiful being that you are.
Butch Decatoria Jun 2019
Idiocies, flagrantly rotten hearts, such stupid ****
Numb skull niceties of chumps, chimps pimping us
Serving subterfuge, lucidly playing dumb
In life's dark cauldron now overrun, brimming with
Premeditation and enemy minds, a convict's ***** on the side.
Inception & loss by way of the gun, itches to **** to get rich
Eager harbingers of calamity and pain—terrorists…
Never feels not ashamed, brainwashed school-shooting kids
Crude excuse for players haters games, cheat & takes (life)
Empty of wisdom, belly aching snakes eats tail & world alike.
Deovrat Sharma Jun 2018
●●●
all of
a sudden
without
premeditation
the heart took
a decision
to involve
with someone

◆◆◆

although he
in return
received
discountenance
he couldn't be jilt even
one can termed
it passion
of adoration to her

◆◆◆

someone
can say  devotion
for orison
although
she could neither
show never
depict any
kind of adhesion

●●●

© deovrat 19-06-2018
You dream fiercely, so that no one
will hold it against you.
You trust, although you know
that your heart will fall silent
at any moment.

A new decalogue is spreading
within you,
according to which you will write
a more beautiful introduction
to this anonymous autobiography.

One day,
your heart will remember you;
we will have the impression
that fear brings us love.

A star has settled on your eyelashes -
green like the first dream
about you, sold to God.
I don't remember the last time
I was so similar to you;
how close your tears, laughter, breath
or heartbeat were to me.

I knew that you were moving
within me, that you were dreaming
and shining,
even though I had renounced the world.

Somewhere at the bottom,
chaos lurks, too ruthless
to cheat freedom.
I fight, although both my hands
are bare.

I live, although life has abandoned
me many times.
The last kiss sparkles within me -
given with premeditation,
so that the sky would bloom,
the earth would awaken.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
and what grandeour is found in a mind
                         without a single ill?
            esp. when that ill can
alone translate itself
  as an artistic thrill?
                      what fun in fiction,
in the sober mind
     in a mind distancing itself
   from gives the greatest artistic
endeavour, with some ailment -
are not the olympians given
their due share of compliment?
    ah, yes, if francis bacon
painted sober, he really would have
painted...
   and had bach not drank,
he would have invented the polyphony
of two hands knocking on the same door...
ah, but what art is there in
a mind without an ill than can translate
into an artistic thrill?
       poetry and the "art" of being
sober...
                sure: you will get
english teachers' poetry -
   mindful of "techniques" -
ultra-conscious of rhyme, metaphor,
pun, you name it!
            that's not poetry,
         that's dissection -
and as about as much of a tartar steak
as what's clearly a well-done steak...
so much premeditation can
become very, very tedious...
               but then again
i have it easier,
                      i said to myself:
you can't really be an artists and raise
a family, without incurring
              accusations of neglect...
to either spouse, of a child...
  it really is hardly a crying-affair of a man
dying a solitary death...
            if you can laugh-out loud
in your own company, are you really
dying on your own?
                    i had a thought:
      my body, akin to thanatos -
my thought? hypnos -
        talk about a childish wish of always
wanting a twin brother....
          but i know that my body is death -
as i too know that my thought is
sleep - notably in the form of a day-dream...
come the two apart,
              come the two together...
well: i can't & never will become a repenting
alcoholic...
                   i once heard someone
say it's not fun...
                      only when you have
children...
                     god, what a ****** "poem"
it has become...
   all it needed was:
  what artistic thrill ever came from
        a healthy mind,
                             a mind with no
                                   minor or major  ill?
would a world record for
                    the fastest man be
ascribed to the para-olympic T51 - T54
range?
                so i ask again:
what grand artistic thrill,
         ever came from a mind without some
sort of ill?
   none... technique-minding english teachers'
aspirations:
                   as that famous saying goes,
those who can't, teach.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/i keep forgetting that, whenever i slip-tongue some deutsch... it's not because i had some germanophilia... after all, Northern english, Scot and Welsh in terms of dialect, and other grammatical "unicorns" is not unique to tue British Isles... although,  as islanders, a tinge of solipsism and a uniqueness-complex tends to hold sway... unless the ***** tourism in Mallorca... then of course: let the cattle in... no... the kuriousrushenzunge is more or less correlated to the dialect of Silesians, and Kashubians... but that's just one thought: i can't imagine a poet, who ever didn't want to mature into a chicken-scratching scribbler... well... there is the persistent novelty of making expressions terse... since, however great a book will be... there are volumenbindung moments in, "serious" literature, which appear, as a sort of writer's phobia is writer's-block... somehow a space needs to be filled, no minor details being omitted... volume-binding... and you know that Faust was german... but primarily a chemist... when a German writes a word, or compounds, the late saxon has to hyphenate the compound... too much of a headache to read words compounded so... but look at any chemical name... you'll still find the sleeping saxon,  in the anglosphere... e. g.? PCTFE: polychlorotrifluoroethylene... now... a dreaming saxon wrote that, given less technical words are congested like that in common german... less shrapnel,  and certainly no hyphenation exclusiveness... so much for studying chemistry, when the study of diacritic came as a natural consequence of returning to the humanities... syllable premeditation: remnants of German in English... are still lodged in chemistry.

to be honest, i had my hopes set too high...
the only reason i read H. Sienkiewicz's
Ogniem i Mieczem (with fire and sword)
was because of the goosebumps
i was injected with
     upon listening to a track from
the soundtrack - husaria ginie
(the hussars die) - by Krzesimir Dębksi...
the book read itself, while i was
spreading butter onto a
kaiserbrötchen...
             or perhaps that part of history
interested me more,
than what i was about to embark on...
also by H. Sienkiewicz,
   krzyżacy (knights of the teutonic
order)... i can't say that it's a boring book,
or a tedius book...
    albeit so far into volume one...
not that many teutonic knights...
but primarily the protagonist,
a hot-headed eighteen year old of minor
nobility... and... too much character building,
that gets wasted on the vigour
of youth, and no real Dostoyevskian
depth...
              but the occasion  calls for it,
plus i've been dying to see the wonder of
the teutonic order for some time...
odd, but it would appear,
that simple stubbornness,
and an inability to leave a book
partially unead can't be measured by...
a persistent, "neurotic" or
        "o.c.d." compulsions,
since, no one would know, except me...
and cheating the book
by watching the Aleksandr Ford
   adaptation... would be a minor bypass...
rarely has a book actually forced
me to go somewhere,
in relation to its content...
      St. Petersburg would have resonated
if i visited it during autumn...
   yet can you do...
      if a visit, to see the teutonic capital
at Marienburg is what i'll have to do,
to read the book without inviting
in the remotest a tedium,
    a reader's lethargy...
               then a trip to Marienburg
has to happen...
                       two birds with one stone...
remotely, as if through a dream,
     visiting Danzing as a szkrab
   (schkrab / kleinkind)...
                apparently you can't do
one without the other.

— The End —