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Katie Stam Mar 2014
Go to an art museum
Pretend you understand
Nod along with what others are saying
Because otherwise you'll look bland
Though the colors on canvas means nothing to you
Everyone else seems to get it
Your legs grow sore from standing around
You decide to rest for a bit
Oh ****, that bench was actually art!
What a mistake you've made
The staff tensely continue to glare
You wonder how much they get paid
Naked women adorn the walls
And prepubescents giggle
That one creepy painting is definitely staring at you
Uncomfortably, away you wriggle
Though the art museum is a cultured place to go
By the end you're always miserable
At least next time you'll know not to buy 15 dollar coffee
And remember that flash photography is unforgivable
Nick M May 2014
we all hate loneliness
but we choose to ignore
we all say we're sad
and that life is a bore

oh time to explore
only to capture it on camera
and then we leave that whole area
to post it online

i mean we're inside,
most of the time
sitting behind devices
writing words that rhyme

we're happy with crime,
until it takes a live,
but you'd be contributing
if she was still alive

so tell me now
how does it work
we dont know intelligence
but we know how to twerk

prepubescents saying **** now
when we used to say ****,
i wish it would change, now
if only words worked
im guilty
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
psychologists only have children,
procreate...
       in order to have an
upper-hand in us. childless,
left akin to fathoming cats...
          but you know what you can't
say when taking care of children?
you can't smoke...
    oodly enough tobacco
       is an ease-mechanisation
for the domesticated animal,
esp. feline to fall asleep...
                           i, have,
an, inability, to, care, for,
human, infirmary....
                                   animals?!
first posit.
                 no questions asked.
and in this world with all its grandeour...
and the football score...
    there were never any
grammatical plays of pronouns
involved...
                           there was always
a merger ploy, or rather:
                a plight,
                   akin to experiencing
petting cats....
                          dogs need a leash...
cats?
        who knows where a cat
wanders off to, without the cat it"self"?

i don't know, and...
        i don't want to know...
      it's like watching a cat
experiencing a receding heatbeat
in deep-sleep...

   the jaw drop disappears...
the tail stops flitching...
the open eye (yes, not eyes)
is less Gandalf...
                  with  a peregrin took,
"enterprise"...

           how well does the individualist
globalist (fiddled past the
double -ist -ist?)
                    take to relearning
german?
  ja! gir-man!
                       not s'oh fein,
ver vey?!
                                vs. vacany
on the ready?
    vell... ja...
                   ** best bitten zee doost?!
              apparently, üß!
                                          (that's a T
without a rhyming couplet... mr. bean
sorry, sorry...
   you know how hard it
is to compromise on an apology...
within, or without an ethnic
sentiment... that could be
                            comprehended?!

you can't exactly say sorry,
when it's so exaggerate-made-uniform
in the english format of use-with-and-
especially-without-applicability)...

   who are the glorified neo-anglos?
no, i'm petting a cat...
   the last woman in my life
"involved"
               is but a shadow...
i'm testing the use of tobacco
                          on... even breathing...

blow one puff into the room...
heartbeat drops,
jaw drops...
  eyes slightly open...
        
i known that the only reason
behind psychologists' vehemence
is in having children...
  and they have it, own it...
       they'd be echo chambers without
the end-result of procreation...

no wonder, with child and wife
in tow...

              i'm a metaphor of schrödinger....
given schrödinger is a cat
that's strapped to the "metaphor"
of Ísland (e's'land... ice, no ice:
**** schtill ein land...
                                            iz-land)...

******* saxons...
migrant saxons...
        contamitated the assortment
of speaking pristine germanic, nordic...
  mongrel: every day any ****
bollocking public prepubescents...

but there is no i in: if "i" were the raj
of hindustan...
                       don't know...
sick 'em with a narration borrowed from
the biography of buddha?!
apparently that conjures
twice the expected dog...
     ever wonder why the geer-mans
bred the finest specimens?!
    
  romans apparently had war hogs...

   so...

         why didn't people extract
a bull, for a cavalry charge...
     to topple horse-riding empires
akin to the mongols...
        before setting foot on the moon
and crippling the brothers grimm,
for even marking a-brick-for-a-wall
mark, in history?

     bewilderment...
  how horses overtook bulls
                               in a cavalry charge...
            it's only yesterday,
and it's only today,
   and it's just about tomorrow...
and it's...
              a complete detachment...
with what is,
was,
                      and could be...

           because that "be": never... is...
within the confines of
              wishful "thinking"...

               elsewhere reduced to
cogs, machinery and...
    
                   something resembling rust.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2020
THE COAL OF IRON UPON THE ICE( for Anne B)

Nuns  shepherd
their flock

of prepubescents
(high on hormones)

that deadly cocktail
of adolescence

into  a school
production of the Shakespearean

play
they are

studying.

Now, Coriolanus
ain’t

ROMEO AND JULIET  or
HAMLET even

but somehow
it holds

their riveted
attention.

The nuns look pleased
with themselves &

their girls

not realising
their young ladies

are struck
dumb

not by the blankness
of the verse but

that they are seeing
so

many
men

in such short
skirts

strong iron-cast legs
that run

all the way up to their
bums.

“Yum! ”
gloat the girls

"Yum yum
...YUM!"

*

Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun.

CORIOLANUS  ACT 1 SCENE I  LINE 167 - 170
THE COAL OF IRON UPON THE ICE( for Ann B)

Nuns  shepherd
their flock

of prepubescents
(high on hormones)

that deadly cocktail
of adolescence

into  a school
production of the Shakespearean

play
they are

studying.

Now, Coriolanus
ain’t

ROMEO AND JULIET  or
HAMLET even

but somehow
it holds

their riveted
attention.

The nuns look pleased
with themselves &

their girls

not realising
their young ladies

are struck
dumb

not by the blankness
of the verse but

that they are seeing
so

many
men

in such short
skirts

strong iron-cast legs
that run

all the way up to their
bums.

“Yum! ”
gloat the girls

"Yum yum
...YUM!"

*

Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun.

CORIOLANUS  ACT 1 SCENE I  LINE 167 - 170

— The End —