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singingghosts Aug 2016
I've been in and out of therapy and partial hospitalization programs for about 20 years. you'd think by now I would be better or at least discover a new flavor of ice cream I enjoy but nope, I only like green mint.

there's a lot that's wrong with what I've been dealing with so I'm going to short list it:

start therapy
see new psychiatrist
psychiatrist prescribes me meds before my first therapy session even begins
I hate my psychiatrist
I hate my therapist
therapy does nothing
talking does nothing
I start fantasizing about murdering animals
it scares the ******* **** out of me
I tell my psychiatrist
she said it's the meds
she prescribes me something else
the fantasies stop
my therapist thinks I have daddy issues
my therapist won't stop talking about my father
it's annoying
I hate her
I ask to see a new therapist in the same facility
she asks why
she asks about my fetishes
she takes off her flats and crosses her legs
I'm not sure if she does it intentionally
I feel weird
I see a new therapist
I love my new therapist the first visit
my psychiatrist is replaced
my new therapist only sees me once
I tell her everything she needs to know
I feel amazing
I feel like this is good
she was a temp
I am lost in the system
I have no therapist for 4 months and no one sees to care
my new psychiatrist seems great
she likes plants
she's funny
I feel good about this
she cancels an appointment
I try to make a new one
no one calls me back for a month
I get a new appointment
she cancels
I get a new appointment
she doesn't show up
I'm calling and calling and leaving voicemails
no one calls me back
I still have refills until July 28th
I call everyday the last week of July to make an appointment because I need her authorization for my refills now
I call my pharmacy to ask for help because I'm running out of meds and no one is helping me
every time I go off my meds it's very bad for everyone and I start doing drugs
I don't wanna be off my meds anymore
my pharmacy calls her the day of my refill
she denies the refill
I can't even get a few pills until I get a new appointment because she's denied it and they can't do anything if she denies it
I call my general Doctor
she prescribes me for two weeks
I leave a crazy voicemail on my psych's machine
she never calls me back
I can't get a new appointment
I called all day everywhere
no one is taking new patients
I don't know what to do

did you get all that?

my issue with this situation isn't even really about me directly. it ***** for me but if I end up off my medication I know I can always buy it online illegally or just do dissociatives to keep me from being violent or hurt myself or anything remotely alarming.

my issue with this is I know a woman who sees my ex-psychiatrist. she is not well. she goes into these catatonic episodes and can't do anything. she hides out for months. she's in an abusive relationship. she doesn't eat. she can't talk sometimes. she needs someone to do more for her than just have her show up. she needs people to be actively involving themselves. she needs intense help and I know her appointments were canceled as well.

I can't stand the thought of how many people are in this field who are not doing their job. how unprofessional to literally cancel my refills the day I need a refill because I need to "make an appointment" like ***** I haven't been trying?

what kind of ****** up spiteful **** is that?

that's not right. I don't even know HOW to deal with this. I feel like what she did is illegal or at least negligent. but also that this is something that must happen all the time because these people know they are treating people who are unwell and maybe don't know how to help themselves.

I don't know. I wanted to share this in hopes someone has dealt with something similar and knows the next step or if there's something I can do to have my psychiatrist dealt with. do I call the facility? do I talk to someone about it? who? she knows I don't know the first thing about how to do this and I know I'm not the only one.
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace
His costly canvas with each flattered face,
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush,
Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush?
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale,
A Maid of Honour to a Mermaid’s tail?
Or low Dubost—as once the world has seen—
Degrade God’s creatures in his graphic spleen?
Not all that forced politeness, which defends
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends.
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems
The book which, sillier than a sick man’s dreams,
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete,
Poetic Nightmares, without head or feet.

  Poets and painters, as all artists know,
May shoot a little with a lengthened bow;
We claim this mutual mercy for our task,
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask;
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams—
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs.

  A laboured, long Exordium, sometimes tends
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends;
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down,
As Pertness passes with a legal gown:
Thus many a Bard describes in pompous strain
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain:
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls,
King’s Coll-Cam’s stream-stained windows, and old walls:
Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames.

  You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine—
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign;
You plan a vase—it dwindles to a ***;
Then glide down Grub-street—fasting and forgot:
Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review,
Whose wit is never troublesome till—true.

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire,
Let it at least be simple and entire.

  The greater portion of the rhyming tribe
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe)
Are led astray by some peculiar lure.
I labour to be brief—become obscure;
One falls while following Elegance too fast;
Another soars, inflated with Bombast;
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly,
He spins his subject to Satiety;
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves!

  Unless your care’s exact, your judgment nice,
The flight from Folly leads but into Vice;
None are complete, all wanting in some part,
Like certain tailors, limited in art.
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man
But coats must claim another artisan.
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same
As Vulcan’s feet to bear Apollo’s frame;
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose
Black eyes, black ringlets, but—a bottle nose!

  Dear Authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length;
Nor lift your load, before you’re quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.
But lucid Order, and Wit’s siren voice,
Await the Poet, skilful in his choice;
With native Eloquence he soars along,
Grace in his thoughts, and Music in his song.

  Let Judgment teach him wisely to combine
With future parts the now omitted line:
This shall the Author choose, or that reject,
Precise in style, and cautious to select;
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who furnishes a wanting word.
Then fear not, if ’tis needful, to produce
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use,
(As Pitt has furnished us a word or two,
Which Lexicographers declined to do;)
So you indeed, with care,—(but be content
To take this license rarely)—may invent.
New words find credit in these latter days,
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase;
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse
To Dryden’s or to Pope’s maturer Muse.
If you can add a little, say why not,
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott?
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs,
Enriched our Island’s ill-united tongues;
’Tis then—and shall be—lawful to present
Reform in writing, as in Parliament.

  As forests shed their foliage by degrees,
So fade expressions which in season please;
And we and ours, alas! are due to Fate,
And works and words but dwindle to a date.
Though as a Monarch nods, and Commerce calls,
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals;
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drained, sustain
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain,
And rising ports along the busy shore
Protect the vessel from old Ocean’s roar,
All, all, must perish; but, surviving last,
The love of Letters half preserves the past.
True, some decay, yet not a few revive;
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive,
As Custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway
Our life and language must alike obey.

  The immortal wars which Gods and Angels wage,
Are they not shown in Milton’s sacred page?
His strain will teach what numbers best belong
To themes celestial told in Epic song.

  The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint
The Lover’s anguish, or the Friend’s complaint.
But which deserves the Laurel—Rhyme or Blank?
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank?
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit.

  Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen.
You doubt—see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick’s Dean.
Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side.
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden’s days,
No sing-song Hero rants in modern plays;
Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes
For jest and ‘pun’ in very middling prose.
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse,
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse.
But so Thalia pleases to appear,
Poor ******! ****** some twenty times a year!

Whate’er the scene, let this advice have weight:—
Adapt your language to your Hero’s state.
At times Melpomene forgets to groan,
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone;
Nor unregarded will the act pass by
Where angry Townly “lifts his voice on high.”
Again, our Shakespeare limits verse to Kings,
When common prose will serve for common things;
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire,—
To “hollaing Hotspur” and his sceptred sire.

  ’Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art,
To polish poems; they must touch the heart:
Where’er the scene be laid, whate’er the song,
Still let it bear the hearer’s soul along;
Command your audience or to smile or weep,
Whiche’er may please you—anything but sleep.
The Poet claims our tears; but, by his leave,
Before I shed them, let me see ‘him’ grieve.

  If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear,
Lulled by his languor, I could sleep or sneer.
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face,
And men look angry in the proper place.
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly,
And Sentiment prescribes a pensive eye;
For Nature formed at first the inward man,
And actors copy Nature—when they can.
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound,
Raised to the Stars, or levelled with the ground;
And for Expression’s aid, ’tis said, or sung,
She gave our mind’s interpreter—the tongue,
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense
(At least in theatres) with common sense;
O’erwhelm with sound the Boxes, Gallery, Pit,
And raise a laugh with anything—but Wit.

  To skilful writers it will much import,
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or Court;
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear,
To draw a Lying Valet, or a Lear,
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school,
A wandering Peregrine, or plain John Bull;
All persons please when Nature’s voice prevails,
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales.

  Or follow common fame, or forge a plot;
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not!
One precept serves to regulate the scene:
Make it appear as if it might have been.

  If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw,
Present him raving, and above all law:
If female furies in your scheme are planned,
Macbeth’s fierce dame is ready to your hand;
For tears and treachery, for good and evil,
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil!
But if a new design you dare essay,
And freely wander from the beaten way,
True to your characters, till all be past,
Preserve consistency from first to last.

  Tis hard to venture where our betters fail,
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale;
And yet, perchance,’tis wiser to prefer
A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err;
Yet copy not too closely, but record,
More justly, thought for thought than word for word;
Nor trace your Prototype through narrow ways,
But only follow where he merits praise.

  For you, young Bard! whom luckless fate may lead
To tremble on the nod of all who read,
Ere your first score of cantos Time unrolls,
Beware—for God’s sake, don’t begin like Bowles!
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”—
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?—
He sinks to Southey’s level in a trice,
Whose Epic Mountains never fail in mice!
Not so of yore awoke your mighty Sire
The tempered warblings of his master-lyre;
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute,
“Of Man’s first disobedience and the fruit”
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along,
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song.”
Still to the “midst of things” he hastens on,
As if we witnessed all already done;
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene;
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight,
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness—light;
And truth and fiction with such art compounds,
We know not where to fix their several bounds.

  If you would please the Public, deign to hear
What soothes the many-headed monster’s ear:
If your heart triumph when the hands of all
Applaud in thunder at the curtain’s fall,
Deserve those plaudits—study Nature’s page,
And sketch the striking traits of every age;
While varying Man and varying years unfold
Life’s little tale, so oft, so vainly told;
Observe his simple childhood’s dawning days,
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays:
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans,
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens!

  Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan
O’er Virgil’s devilish verses and his own;
Prayers are too tedious, Lectures too abstruse,
He flies from Tavell’s frown to “Fordham’s Mews;”
(Unlucky Tavell! doomed to daily cares
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,)
Fines, Tutors, tasks, Conventions threat in vain,
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket Plain.
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash,
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash;
Constant to nought—save hazard and a *****,
Yet cursing both—for both have made him sore:
Unread (unless since books beguile disease,
The P——x becomes his passage to Degrees);
Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his terms away,
And unexpelled, perhaps, retires M.A.;
Master of Arts! as hells and clubs proclaim,
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name!

  Launched into life, extinct his early fire,
He apes the selfish prudence of his Sire;
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank,
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank;
Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir;
Sends him to Harrow—for himself was there.
Mute, though he votes, unless when called to cheer,
His son’s so sharp—he’ll see the dog a Peer!

  Manhood declines—Age palsies every limb;
He quits the scene—or else the scene quits him;
Scrapes wealth, o’er each departing penny grieves,
And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves;
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets,
O’er hoards diminished by young Hopeful’s debts;
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy,
Complete in all life’s lessons—but to die;
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please,
Commending every time, save times like these;
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot,
Expires unwept—is buried—Let him rot!

  But from the Drama let me not digress,
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less.
Though Woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirred,
When what is done is rather seen than heard,
Yet many deeds preserved in History’s page
Are better told than acted on the stage;
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye,
And Horror thus subsides to Sympathy,
True Briton all beside, I here am French—
Bloodshed ’tis surely better to retrench:
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow
In tragic scenes disgusts though but in show;
We hate the carnage while we see the trick,
And find small sympathy in being sick.
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth
Appals an audience with a Monarch’s death;
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear
Young Arthur’s eyes, can ours or Nature bear?
A haltered heroine Johnson sought to slay—
We saved Irene, but half ****** the play,
And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times
Stint Metamorphoses to Pantomimes;
And Lewis’ self, with all his sprites, would quake
To change Earl Osmond’s ***** to a snake!
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief,
We loathe the action which exceeds belief:
And yet, God knows! what may not authors do,
Whose Postscripts prate of dyeing “heroines blue”?

  Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can,
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man,
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape.
Of all the monstrous things I’d fain forbid,
I loathe an Opera worse than Dennis did;
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong,
Rage, love, and aught but moralise—in song.
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends,
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends!
Napoleon’s edicts no embargo lay
On ******—spies—singers—wisely shipped away.
Our giant Capital, whose squares are spread
Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their bread,
In all iniquity is grown so nice,
It scorns amusements which are not of price.
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear,
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore,
His anguish doubling by his own “encore;”
Squeezed in “Fop’s Alley,” jostled by the beaux,
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes;
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease,
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release:
Why this, and more, he suffers—can ye guess?—
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress!

  So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools;
Give us but fiddlers, and they’re sure of fools!
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk,
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?)
In Christmas revels, simple country folks
Were pleased with morrice-mumm’ry and coarse jokes.
Improving years, with things no longer known,
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan,
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low,
’Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place,
Oaths, boxing, begging—all, save rout and race.

  Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime,
In ever-laughing Foote’s fantastic time:
Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best,
And turned some very serious things to jest.
Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the Gown—Priests—Lawyers—Volunteers:
“Alas, poor Yorick!” now for ever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.

  We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens,
When “Crononhotonthologos must die,”
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty.

  Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit,
And smile at folly, if we can’t at wit;
Yes, Friend! for thee I’ll quit my cynic cell,
And bear Swift’s motto, “Vive la bagatelle!”
Which charmed our days in each ægean clime,
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past,
Soothe thy Life’s scenes, nor leave thee in the last;
But find in thine—like pagan Plato’s bed,
Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead.

  Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes,
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies;
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance;
Decorum left her for an Opera dance!
Yet Chesterfield, whose polished pen inveighs
‘Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays;
Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains,
And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains.
Repeal that act! again let Humour roam
Wild o’er the stage—we’ve time for tears at home;
Let Archer plant the horns on Sullen’s brows,
And Estifania gull her “Copper” spouse;
The moral’s scant—but that may be excused,
Men go not to be lectured, but amused.
He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill
Must wear a head in want of Willis’ skill;
Aye, but Macheath’s examp
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, ******-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.
Nigel Finn Aug 2018
Is not equivalent to a broken leg.
Who came up with that analogy?
Someone who hasn't experienced either
Seems the only probability.

It's far more akin to a giant spasm,
Contorting your leg against your will,
And stopping it seems highly unatural,
And each doctor prescribes different pills.

Nobody has fluctuating broken legs,
Or fractured limbs that cause them to count
The precise number of steps they take,
And despair if it's the wrong amount,

Or healing bones that turn reality
Into hallucinatory nightmares,
Or make you stay awake all week,
And start berating chairs.

But the worst of that analogy
(It drives me quite insane!),
Is that broken legs are quick to heal,
And cause a lot less pain.
Another rough one- will I ever finish it? Who knows!
i dreamed a rattlesnake was loose in the closet i heard it rattling i was afraid to open the door

a man suffering a toothache goes to see his dentist the dentist administers laughing gas when the man comes to his numb tongue swooshes around his mouth he asks how long was i under the dentist answers hours i needed to pull them all out

he imagines when he grows old there will be a pencil grown into one hand and a paintbrush grown into the other they will look like extra fingers grown out from the palms extensions of his personal evolution little children will be horrified when they see mommy mommy look at that man’s hands!

what if we are each presented with a complete picture of a puzzle from the very start then as our lives proceed the pieces begin showing up out of context sometimes recognizable other times a mystery some people are smarter more intuitive than others and are able to piece together the bigger picture some people never figure it out

i wasn’t thinking i didn’t know to think nobody taught me to think maybe my teachers tried but i didn’t get it i wasn’t thinking i was running reacting doing whatever i needed to survive when you’re trying to survive you move fast by instinct you don’t think you just act

many children are relieved when their parents die then they no longer need to explain prove themselves live up to their parent’s expectations yet all children need parents to approve foster mentor teach love

she was missing especially when her children needed her most she was busy lunching with girlfriends dinner dates beauty shop manicure masseuse appointments shopping seamstress fittings constant telephone gossiping criticizing she was too busy to notice she was missing more than anything she wanted to party show off her beauty to be the adored one the hostess with the mostest

i dreamed i was condemned to die by guillotine the executioner wore black and wielded an axe just in case the device failed in the dream the guillotine sliced shallow then the executioner went to work but he kept chopping unsuccessfully severing my head this went on for a long time

1954 Max Schwartzpilgrim sits at table in coffee shop on 5th floor of Maller’s Building elevated train loudly passes as he glances out window it is typical gloomy gray Chicago day he worries how he will find the money to pay off all his mounting debts he is over his head in debit thinks about taking out a hefty life insurance policy then cleverly killing himself but he cherishes his lovely wife Jenny his young children and social life sitting across table Ernie Cohen cracks crass joke Max laughs politely yet is in no mood to encourage his fingers work nervously mutely drumming on Formica table then stubbing out cigarette in glass ashtray lighting another with gold Dunhill lighter bitter tastes of coffee and cigarettes turns his stomach sour he raises his hand calling over Millie the waitress he flirtatiously smiles orders bowl of matzo ball soup with extra matzo ball Ernie says you can’t have enough big ***** for this world Max thinks about his son Odysseus

when Odysseus is very young Dad occasionally brings him to Schwartzpilgrim’s Jewelers Store on Saturday mornings Dad shows off his firstborn son like a prize possession lifting Odysseus in the air Dad takes him to golf range golf is not an interest for Odysseus Dad pushes him to learn proper swing Odysseus fumbles golf club and ***** he loves going anyway because he appreciates spending time with Dad once Dad and Odysseus take shower together Dad is so life-size muscular hairy Odysseus is so little Dad reaches touches Odysseus’s ******* feeling lone ******* Dad says we’ll correct that make it right Odysseus does not understand what Dad is talking about at finish Dad turns up cold water and shields Odysseus with his body he watches Dad dressing in mornings Dad is persnickety to last details of French cuff links silk handkerchief in breast pocket even Dad’s fingernails toenails are manicured buffed shiny clear

Odysseus’s left ******* does not descend into his ******* the adults in extended family routinely want to inspect the abnormality Mom shows them sometimes Dad grows agitated and leaves room it is embarrassing for Odysseus Daddy Lou’s brother Uncle Maury wants to check it out too often like he thinks he is a doctor Uncle Maury is an optometrist the pediatrician theorizes the tangled ******* is possibly the result of a hormone fertility drug Mom took to get pregnant the doctor injects Odysseus with a hormone shot then prescribes several medications to induce the ****** to drop nothing works eventually an inguinal hernia is diagnosed around the age of 9 Odysseus is operated on for a hernia and the ******* surgically moved down into his ******* the doctor says ******* is dead warning of propensity to cancer later in life his left ball is smaller than his right but it is more sensitive and needy he does not understand what the doctor means by “dead” Odysseus fears he will be made fun of he is self-conscious in locker room he does not comprehend for the rest of his life he will carry a diminutive *****

spokin alloud by readar in caulkknee axescent ello we’re Biggie an Smally tha 2 testicles whoooh liv in tha ******* of this felloh Odys Biggie is the soyze of a elthy chicken aegg and Smally is the size of a modest Bing cheery

one breast ****** points northeast the other smaller breast ****** points southwest she is frightened to reveal them to any man frightened to be exposed in woman’s locker room she is the most beautiful girl/woman he will ever know

Bayli Moutray is French/Irish 5’8” lean elongated with bowed legs knobby knees runner’s calves slim hips boy’s shoulders sleepy blue eyes light brown hair a barely discernable freckled birthmark on back of neck and small unequal ******* with puffy ******* pointing in different directions Laura an ex-girlfriend of Odysseus’s describes Bayli’s appearance as “a gangly bird screeching to be fed” Laura can be mean Odysseus thinks Bayli is the coolest girl in the world he is genuinely in love with her they have been sleeping together for nearly a year it is March 11 1974 Bayli’s birthday she turns 22 today Bayli is away with her family in Southeast Asia Odysseus understands what a great opportunity this is for her to learn about another culture he knows Bayli plans to meet up again with him in late summer or autumn in Chicago Dad wants Odysseus to follow in his footsteps and become a successful jewelry salesman he offers Odysseus a well-paying job driving leased Camaro across the Midwest servicing Dad’s established costume jewelry accounts Odysseus reasons it is a chance to squirrel away some cash until Bayli returns it is lonely on the road and awkward adjustment to be back in Chicago Odysseus made other plans after graduating from Hartford Art School he is going to be an important painter after numerous months and many Midwestern cities he begins to feel depressed he questions how Bayli can stay away for so long when he needs her so bad the Moutray’s send Mom and Dad a gift of elegant pewter candleholders made in Indonesia Mom accustomed to silver and gold excludes pewter to be put on display she instructs Teresa to place the candleholders away in a cabinet Mom also neglects to write a thank you note which is quite out of character for Mom Bayli’s father is a Navy Captain in the Pacific he is summoned to Norfolk Naval Station in Virginia the Moutray’s flight has a stopover in Chicago Bayli writes her parents want to meet Odysseus and his family Odysseus asks Dad to arrange his traveling itinerary around the Moutray’s visit Dad schedules Odysseus to service the Detroit and Michigan territory against Odysseus’s pleas Odysseus is living with his sister Penelope on Briar Street it is the only address Bayli’s parents know Odysseus has no way to reach them when the Moutray’s arrive at the door Penelope does not know what to tell them Mom and Dad are not interested in meeting Bayli’s parents it is not the first sign of dissatisfaction or disinterest Mom and Dad convey regarding Bayli Odysseus does not understand why his parents do not like her is it because Bayli is not Jewish is that the sole reason Mom and Dad do not approve of her Odysseus believes he needs his parent’s support he knows he is not like them and will likely never adopt their standards yet he values their consent they are his parents and he honors Mom and Dad let’s take a step back for a moment to get a different perspective a more serious matter is Odysseus’s financial dependency on his parents does a commitment to Bayli threaten the sheltered world his parent’s provide him is it merely money binding him to them why else is he so powerless to his parent’s control outwardly he appears a wild child yet inwardly he is somewhat timid is he cowardly is he unsure of Bayli’s strength and sustainability is that why he let’s Bayli go whatever the reason Dad’s and Mom’s pressure and influence are strong enough to sway his judgment he goes along with their authority losing Bayli is the greatest mistake of Odysseus’s life

he dreams Bayli and he are at a Bob Dylan concert they are hidden in the back of the theater in a dark hall they can hear the band playing Dylan’s voice singing and the echoes of the mesmerized audience Odysseus is ******* Bayli’s body against a wall she is quietly moaning his hand is inside her jeans feeling her wetness rubbing fingers between her legs after the show they hang around an empty lot filled with broken bottles loose bricks they run into Dylan all 3 are laughing and dancing down the sidewalk Dylan is incredibly playful and engaging he says he needs to run an errand not wanting to leave his company Odysseus and Bayli follow along they arrive at an old hospital building it is dark and dingy inside there is a large room filled with medical beds and water tanks housing unspeakably disfigured people swarming intravenous tubes attach the patients to oxygen equipment feed bags and monitoring machines Dylan moves between each victim like a compassionate ambassador Odysseus is freaking out the infirmary is too horrible to imagine he shields his eyes wanders away losing Bayli searching running frantically for a way out he wakes shivering and sweating the pillow is wet sheets twisted he gets up from the bed stares out window into the dark night he wonders where he lost Bayli

these winds of change let them come sailor home from sea hunter home from hill he who can create the worst terror is the greatest warrior
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
talking exhaust writing, talking leaves no impetus to write,
talking is like staring into a closet or a boiler room,
there are fumes of missed chances, or of shadowy skeletons
asking for a revision of the social etiquette no made:
what is the quasi-dialectics modern society prescribes
nudging in a lie with a lie followed by another lie?
whatever the defining term, it only prescribes a loss of furthering
discussion, empowering this etiquette with solipsism;
or there this overly psychologised parent thesis,
this morbidity of the lost beauty of language, fixated
on guarantees of never being undermined - it stinks of
excluding all other uses of language, or it simply tries to
incorporate them under the banner that history, poetry, philosophy,
physics can be psychologised into one affordable use of language,
which is why when i write psychological words i am greatly pained,

a bit like probing someone’s subconscious for a quick
memory stimulant: in a shop two friends
passed the isles,
the music shop was blasting creedence clearwater revival...
with the song cotton fields being used
as the adequate prop for the experiment...
when i was a little bitty baby
my mama would rock me in the cradle,
in them old cotton fields back home;
it was down in louisiana
just about a mile from texarkana,
in them old cotton fields back home -*
buzzing, looking for dvds of gone girl and some science fiction
the music in the background wasn’t discussed...
but the revival of the vinyls in a corner was admired...
34 quid for the beatles’ white album... *******...
and cornershops’ brimful of asha lazy instrument at 70£...
then some tea and café awkward flirtation...
then to the pub!
two pints down the gob and the quizzical stutter gone...
the sort that means you thought for very long
and didn’t speak to someone for a long time...
nerves of caffeine and nicotine with the boogie wagon...
so yeah... prodding memory in the subconscious
as short-term, meaning long-term in the waking hour defines
the personality among other faculties of the membered brain,
whether that’s liver, kidney or lung... the brain troops
them into the body on the northern korean march sport of the army...
some say the chinese will come with a pigeon or a crane strut...
no geese in pseudo-hindu affiliations of order...
memory and the third party from sleep to wake?
how many dreams could you actually remember with the alarm clock ringing?
about none...
i wake without the alarm clock... and when waking i have a strange
dream in the 5 minutes of the snooze button imaginarily pressed...
the general anaesthetic isn’t death... because under general anaesthetic
you don’t actually dream... it’s chemical not even remotely natural.
so that part where i exclaimed: to the pub!
some landscapist on the wall with full biography lamenting
the curses of the french revolution and how the aristocracy suffered
with the new aristocracy of the newly rich... the merchants
the shoelace tiers... the cobblers and the chieftains of the cooking ***,
‘yeah, chicken hearts in onion sauce have the consistency of squid rings,’
and so... in the olden thou art a battered beetroot cheek...
this landscapist wrote four clauses about ol’ *** village known today
as gidea park... he swore that he noticed chalky graffiti
of vituperativeness... he said: no chore of violence was revealed,
since the graffiti was sworn as an oath to dig into the coal mines of melancholic bile
and simply vandalise the new aristocrats’ possessions
with words of cursing chiseled in by chalk, of the newly rich
who never passed their gains through blood but rather through molten iron or sporty leather - but you know what they say:
the merchant of mecca dies... the blood heirs become assassinated
and the four caliphs (the rashidun) emerge.
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition - they dare to mishandle language
and by mishandling it dare to usurp prosaic grammar structures,
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition, singing the alphabet:
a b c d e f g... h i j... k... el em en l o p... q r s... t u v... w x blah blah z (
with a quasi incy wincy spider timing).
that's what i mean! i hate psychologism and psychological
words in general, they literally domineer people,
it's like the jungian theory of the collective unconscious...
it's like we're supposed to remember the archetypes...
but the unconscious has no memory-content...
given the fact that the unconscious is pure imagination...
since we dream... i don't know how we remember dreams...
but it's hardly in our sleep but upon waking...
a thin red line though... 'tshh... mayday mayday...
boeing 747 flight no. 209zt is going to crash...
black box on the ready, over and out... tshh,'
unless the memory function in the unconscious is to
remember the image sequence that are dreams
upon waking... thin red line though...
oh no... how did i get tangled in this psychology *******
once again?!
unwind! i walked home in the cool autumn
wearing just a shirt...
down a very english road of haunted houses of satiated
materialism... the colour patterns of flowers
still not stampeded by winter in blush violet and indigo...
amorous chequers of flamingos and oranges...
and the sunset with a 10 - 1 bet against it...
with the moon just behind the corner of the sky
looming hazes of cloudy cider sky of the northern dark.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- COSTA ***** HELL
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2012
A Father for a Nation

A lot of knots now show in our discord but in our great beginning the great living God went into the
****** pristine forest and plucked out one of uncommon character and dignity from this choicest

Material a people would be brought forth that would be the admiration of the world so George
Washington with the common materials of only a quill and parchment set in motion a new course

That abridged history and chartered a course for this unique land a trek was begun across a vast frontier
Many obstacles and difficulties lay ahead the king and tyrant’s angry words would blast you into action

They would come sweeping across the Potomac whipping and lashing until men of devotion and devout
Faith could no longer ignore their substance or their intent a struggle began its clamor would reach and

Deafen the English crown that tried in vain to squelch freedom’s infant cry in places like Yorktown White
Plains and Long Island musket ***** would run up the tally the individual cost in human souls for a

Required season agony were paid their demanded sum into the chasm of ugly death marched the
Gentle souls of our fore fathers paying a price so that we could be free not free to do as we please

But to carry on this proud heritage that was given to us by their great sacrifice oh mortal soul on self
I did not bestow to another one day I will be careful to behold his face trace it well make sure it shows

Peace for with him you are to dwell I have not been a man of war it was the responsibility of others to
Defend my rights on the field of battle they knew unspeakable horrors walked the thin line between

Sanity and madness sacred honor held them from going over the edge to them in everything I owe them
Profound thanks we use to say the pledge of allegiance George but now lip service is even too much

Our national monuments were made of marble the idea was to build them from an enduring material
We go and gawk and gush and say how marvelous all the while our actions have eroded these precious

Symbols of freedom the true picture is marble that is in a state of decay pock marked chipped bits and
Pieces piled at the foot of what was once a great edifice for freedom the statutes of bronze who

Symbolize our national heroes take on the guise of doddering foolish old men that don’t know where
They are or what they are doing this our reality not theirs in each generation it falls to individuals to

Arise To the occasion and meet the need that reality prescribes I believe the God who gave us George
Washington will lift up a leader with the power to pull us from the quagmire that we find ourselves in

It will only be by His mercy in every other time He has never failed all is needed is humility and prayer
As the portrait shows George kneeling in the snow in his generals uniform he knew where his victory

Would come from as well as Abe who said we don’t count on our bristling battlements but on the
Righteous God who loves freedom and is the true source of it endurance we in true humility say thank

You Heavenly Father and thank you father of our indebted and grateful nation with grateful hearts
Thanks and happy birthday to you remembering you gives us a connection to the past and to each other
That is Profound

This is being posted late in the day as a tribute for the father of our country but it isn’t late this was
Written in ninety six I picked up a car and a old royal typewriter here in Illinois on the way back home I

Held up in a Motel in Flagstaff Arizona for two days watched hours of the history channel and wrote this
And other Pieces those old royal type writers were what the soldiers hiding behind enemy lines used to
Send their Communiqués back to the front I’m very proud of it I try to do honor by it when I write
Joseph Childress Sep 2010
I don’t ****
With the farm life
At these pharmacies
Affecting brains
Like the mad cow disease
These pills
CVS deal
Like the new
Dope man

Dopamine can be
As mean
As the M and M’s
The doctor prescribes
Dropping dreams
For a little bit
Of “rest at ease”
While the rest
Of these fiends
To themselves
And me

The mean green
Killing machine
Can extract
The euphoria
You make yourself
By resting eyes
On your family

Your fam would be
Much happier
If you were
For yourself
More water is
I don’t need
No help
Championship ****
I don’t need
No belt

Pants sag
Like the bags
In grandma eye’s
As she tries
To pry dope needles
Out a dead man's hands
Handing himself
To the Devil’s food
We put on
A pedestal
Meanwhile stools
At the bar
Spin like the
Of a man with little time
Right in the eyes
Of his children
He makes
A short trip
After one more sip

I guess
It boils down
To the bear essentials
Bear the bruises
With the heart
God gave you

Don't let them fool you
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Emerald’s Trance

Oh Irish eyes you follow me all through the emerald isle you stop time it runs backward and
Forwards the rush heady the roots of Irish lore entangle me fully I see the loving vesture worn in pride its
Charm is magnified there is much of the Leprechaun and blarney stone just the correct amount to
Solidify a national identity and then to complete everything in magic top it all off with a red headed lass
With the greenest eyes the heart skips and dances all about when you are as full as you think you can
Take then she speaks does not the mystical burst forth openly ancient days flood the valleys sweeping
You into the power that alone is Ireland come with me suspend reality search for the *** of gold you will
Find riches that even surpass gold a place a people where the well springs of charm and laughter echo
Down roads and streets in every village and city every once and a while you need a place you can empty
Your heart and ready your being for thrills without fear I know it has been a land of conflict but in spite
Of it justice takes it all in stride makes it as a whole a tribute to diversity that is tinged with divinity a coloring
That prescribes a peace that finds loyalist pockets but leads on to the far borders where understanding
Shakes itself and gives way to reason as the bowman takes all factors into consideration distance
Wind age bows power weight of arrow and most important experience in hitting the bull’s eye seldom
Is victory and success derived in any other way than by turmoil and hard fighting who can lose when
Your held in the gaze of the greenest green dreams are hard to be defeated she gives nobility to the
cause the fight has purity at the head all will easily fall romantic treasure will fill your lives with greater riches
Than many pots of gold
The sleeping teeth therapist episode 3

For the last two weeks, Ros was having arguments with Brian Worrell, who was a coca cola addict and he had loads of cavities with some teeth rotting away, and despite her boss considering the pill will work for Brian, Ros says that the teeth are pretty bad, his mum and dad, who he lived with were prepared to pay as much as they want to fix his teeth, but if Brian doesn't give up or cut down on Coke, there is not much that Ros can do, anyway she was starting to wonder what can she do, and then Brains came to her, and said he has the resources to fix every one of his teeth and keep doing so whether he gives up coke or not.
Ros wondered exactly how he can, baring in mind she still doesn't know how he does it, she just prescribes the pill, and she can't understand that, nor will her patients, and Brains said send Brian to me, I can fix his teeth and keep fixing them, and Ros said, mate, you haven't even seen them yet, you don't know if it will cure him, and Brains said, well,yeah, but when I was alive, I drank too much coke, maybe that is what killed me, I dunno, and it was me drinking Coke, was the reason that I had to be the skies official dentist, please send him to me.
So the next day, Ros went into work and her first patient was Brian, and she discussed the pill option with him, and Brian was saying he heard this on the TV, and yes, he will be willing to give this a try, it will be cool, he thought, and he took the pill home and when his parents first knew about this pill, they went over to Ros's surgery very angrily saying how can a pill do this and she argued with reception for 15 minutes before Ros came out to try and explain to Brian's mother, and of course she knew nothing about how this works and Ros figured that it sounded to unrealistic to tell the truth, and ended up saying, just trust me on this, it's his only option, his teeth are too rotten to save, and there are a lot chemicals in this pill, to work for your son, Brian, I am sorry, but Brian's teeth, really got really bad.
Brian's mother left the dentist very angrily, not really at Ros, cause it's not her fault that her son drinks too much coca cola, she really wants her son to try harder to look after his teeth more, because she believed in being healthy, the natural way, and it's hard to see a son who needs a stupid pill to completely clean his teeth.
When she got home she went into Brian's room and Brian was fast asleep, which was unusual, because he never sleeps during the day, but what happened was Brian took one tablet and at this moment Brains was operating on his teeth in the sky, this was hard to do, because when Ros explained it, she made it sound better than it actually was, and Brains had to ask Brian to take another pill, luckily the pill was by his bed, so his mum doesn't see him popping pills, and when he did that, Brains operated a bit more, and this was hard for him, but after 3 more pills later, Brains managed to fix Brian's mouth, but said these pills will make you drowsy, so don't rush out of bed to check them, you could fall, and we don't want your mum thinking your a drug addict, and Brian, if you don't want me to repeat this procedure, stop drinking Coca cola, because the amount of pills you had tonight, could **** you if you have them too many, I really made this pill just for people to have dental care, without the big bill, so I know that no ones perfect, but you shouldn't drink too much Coke.
Later that day, Brian woke up and had a look at his teeth, and by jingle by jangle by ******, his mouth was completely healed and when Brian showed his mum, she was a bit worried when he said he had to take 5 pills, but she liked the result, and then said to Brian, please give up Coke, and you might go back to Ros, and be healthy as you look after yourself,
Ros and Brains, started to enjoy their partnership, and Brains told Ros to make sure she explains the dangers of what drinking coke does to teeth, and Ros said it will be her pleasure as soon as she hung up on a very happy mother of Brian, yes another person's teeth was repaired by the sleeping teeth therapist.
K Balachandran Oct 2016
She is a true blue living legend
displaying  many colors of love
there is no doubt about it,if only
you know where to look at.
But wait,in the way she expresses it
everything  would get reversed!
if one concludes she is demure,
think twice before deciding.
She did invent a new tongue
entirely of monosyllables!
write it in high  hieroglyphics
none could ever aspire to decipher.
Don't forget to take this fact in to account
in bed, she is a whirlwind
unlike  most Indian brides,
who wear shyness as an armour
tradition prescribes for brides.
Paul Rousseau Jun 2012
Trying not to look into the pupils of the sun
A smoke screen and *****
Pursuing soft unspoken ones
Halfway to here is there
Do I spin or do the clouds?
Perception prescribes the anecdote
Do I laugh or does the clown?
Wreckless Aug 2013
A doctor once told me
That all medicine is poison.
And all poison medicine.
The only thing we change
The only difference
Is the dose.

And I feared I've poisoned you my love
For two years now I've poisoned you.
I am poison

So I lessen the dose.
Each day, because I love you.
Maybe like so many men in white coats
I'll stumble upon the perfect dose of me
That will stop the pain that my poison has caused.
My anger and jealousy
My ignorance and shame
And thoughtless mind.
Can you take me twice a day?
Maybe that's too much.
Once a day? and I'll call you in the morning?

And I've feared most that the dose of me for you
That magic amount that will turn me from poison to medicine
Is zero.
And so less and less I've given you
And still I see your eyes fading.

But how can you inject your love so directly into my veins
And still be my medicine. How is your love the one thing
That in such high doses still
Cures my ills, heals my broken mind and heart.

Your love is pure medicine.
Your love.

I've been doing it all wrong.
Starving the fever Instead of feeding the cold
You're not gone, nor am I.
I'll never go, I'll be by your side
If only you'll still let me
I'll kiss every bruised inch of your body
Until your beautiful skin glows again
Sleep, rest, heal with me
I won't let you go until your heart is filled

Love is never poison
It's a fool who prescribes too small a dose to cure.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
my 2nd first kiss was in a romford nightclub dancing
the **** out of tool's stinkfist... don't really know where
the trauma came from, maybe from my real 1st
kiss being aged 4... what was that club's name
though?! rm1? no, it wasn't rm1, is was near rm1... it
had a tutankhamun logo... rm1? i was a club, really...
i was living in gants hill beehive lane and we used to go
there to drink beer, underage as usual... well:
it only me and samuel, and after the club we'd walk down
bus route 86 and sing backstreet boys
song... like ******* our rockers we were...
        less spectacular than stories from first world war trenches:
i can't memory is the best cinema i ever went into...
  they call me mad because they're living out ****** lives...
can help you there: see a psychiatrist? hmm?
i saw 2 or three and i was wondering:
when will you acknowledge that the 2nd
world war isn't a mental illness,
or speaking to relatives that have experienced
it? when will you just: ******* with
  history being a mental disorder?
      like the ****** additions of west germany?
that's "fake" too?
         i mean: who the **** invented
these people? are they needed? are they even
          burroughs bukowski and brautigan
would say: don't trust them, they're cuckoo
equivalent of planting their eggs (egos) into
pigeon nests and you being responsible for raising
up even bigger ****-ups than they are...
and if they say that they haven't read anything by
    de sade... i wouldn't trust them...
  not all of doctors adhere to the hippocratic motto...
erm... harold shipman?
to be honest though, i am a supporter of
euthanasia... some also care to call it a case for
    ex mort ut amor...
                         some people don't understand love,
i'm just bewildered by life...
          maybe that's why i love leading
toward the standard of: allowing people to live
their lives out?
but indeed it was, my 2nd 1st kiss,
in a shady club... and i remember
the shamanic dance in accordance to tool's
stinkfist... i say my 2nd 1st kiss...
   it was with my acquired tongue,
and i walked home bemused... or rather shell-shocked
as if i were experiencing artillery in belgium...
her mother was there also...
          and then the memory gap convened to
tell me: you remember yopur neighbours living
above your grandparents, and how the man
****** his sister... or something along the lines?
ah, the labours of love...
  whatever that kind love is(,) that prescribes such
a loathing to continue life per se;
                      had there ever been a superiority
complex about to be expressed... it wouldn't be this...
  the part where they mentioned this "objective"
biodiversity was the time to check, whether
there was a superiority complex...
               i feel no less, or more discussing darwinism,
but as it is directed toward populist exploitation
akin to a religious dogma...
     i'm thinking... back off... seriously: back off...
don't touch that ****...
                                              it has basically become too pop
to argue the points... the last time atheists convered
en masse communism appeared...
                  even though from what i heard, under communism,
there was a complete spectrum of sports,
it wasn't just football... football... football...
                         you have an olympic interest in sports...
real "biodiversity"... which is what ****** me off about
the darwinistic argument in england...
                  how about an equal representation of sports?
no? not going to happen?
                so why would i need that argument
in my head?        the time-scale if off the radar...
   oh look... a palindrome...
                      i really don't know why or how i should
conceptualise both the big bang, dinosaurs,
the meteor that killed the dinosaurs and the ****
sapiens with origin in monkey via the extinction
of the neanderthal...  
          or what we called wiping out the entire history
leading up to this point...
                   i'm going to stick to this corner where
i remember my grandfather (who's still alive)
and leave you to the break-up of the nucleus known
as family...
                 or whathever it's called these days
                       in the **** i.v.f. **** relationship;
well, even prostitution had to evolve, i guess;
**** me... you can ask for a service that lasts an hour
and you pay the minimum of 110 quid... so what's 9 months
worth? it's a pretty name though, isn't it? surrogate mothers, eh?
kenny Apr 2013
Before my bloodstream's polluted with manufactured motivation..
Attention called to minute details
by the list making apparatus
Leaving out open-minded ideals
Cleaned up in linear format

On a soapbox now
Defining my own propaganda
Without trying to sell everyone something
The things that keep us pacified 
The things that the doctor prescribes 
To keep the sheep in line
The condensed herd
Share a lost mind 
Conform follows dysfunction
Following the leader off the cliff of innocence
After we found ourselves thinking about the end again. 
The illusion of security.

A veil of hazed fog lifts to reveal the ugliness we hide 
The aftermath of nights spent beating out hearts into the foreground as Mr. Hyde

Behind a plagiarized euphoric state
This smiles meant to fake
At least until I get what I want...
Then I'm tripping over clothes en route to escape
The anti-walk of shame.
Alayna Stinson Aug 2013
My mom says I can talk to her
But when I do, she says, "That *****, what's for dinner?"
My dad says he understands,
But he says what I feel is inhumane
My therapist gets paid to listen to me rant
But she just prescribes me pills
No one can afford.
Maybe if I had a best friend,
They would watch my cry,
And they would nod
And really understand.
Maybe if I had a dog,
They would never interrupt me,
And they would lick me tear-stained face.
But I am a lone wolf
And I don't like animals
So I talk to myself.
And when the day is close to over
And I just can't bite my lip
I slip into the shower and hug myself.
My lips swell with the emotion I try to hold in.
I can't tell if it's salt water and pure running down my cheeks
But my chest feels like there is a hurricane
Breaking everything it touches.
And my eyes burn but I can't rinse out any more shampoo.
Finally, I can't hold it back,
And with my hands in my hair,
My lips betray me
And a hiccup sort of sound echoes throughout the steamy bathroom.
Then my heart races
And my vision blurs
And my stomach fills with butterflies
And my brain goes into over-drive.
Emotions cave into me,
Draw me into the volcano
But I cannot stop it from erupting.
This is my first poem, and I don't think it is very professional. I believe deeply in constructive criticism, so don't be afraid to tell me what you didn't you like. I won't give up; there is always room to improve!
1487 Sep 2012
all I do is write and erase
nothing sounds as good as nothing tastes,
except these cigarettes that lay on my tongue
to calm my mind from words I can't replace.

it's like trying to explain how empty feels
as the one who's aware prescribes another pill,
the numbing sting of obliviousness
lets no rhyme exist for what's not real.

 and I yearn with forward hope so much,
that when dawn turns from day and from day into dusk,
I find myself on bended knee
begging forgiveness in Who we trust.

still yet it seems that I am bound
in a lifetime drenched, and dried, and drowned
'cause left turns and cross traffic,
have been all I've ever found.
tyler ling Mar 2012
Horse heads tucked away
beneath your sheets
pigs root in the grass and the goats gently bleat.
All is quiet on the farm tucked in the valley
and in the small shack you built on the edge of the property,
with its round door you painstakingly framed,
it it beautiful
Barefoot in overalls your day is encompassed with sweet earth
and ever ripening carrots
it remains is beautiful
Armed with an 8 track recorder, a guitar, banjo and mandolin
you slowly construct the simple yet elegant notes
that speak volumes and leave those who listen
wondering where this noise came from.
You explain to them the unawares of the answer
you try to explain the movement
the feeling
the science behind the notes
they do not understand.
Precious few do
But thats okay
For the few that do it resonates to their core
makes them wonder
the hours spent and lost.
The timelessness,
the harmonics,
the ever lengthening prose that is engrained within the
Like that of a fine wood
much goes into the tight construction
and to make something truly astounding
it takes special care

So you work for a year or two in attempt to skull your way through the still waters
of the soul
to find the long forgotten island where the compositive chest full of you buried creativity lays
One may hope that this place truly exists
that somewhere deep inside there is the key to opening the box of your dreams
To understand there way there one must not look within
but outward
towards sky
The bounty the world prescribes will overflow the chest you find
To sit
to think
an introverted mess
a blotched paper with ink
James Rainsford Nov 2010
The intensely loved and cherished child,
Can suffer late.
Waiting innocently through,
The too few summers
Spent in total love.

Above him still, the parents’ strength
Prescribes the length
His loving years shall run,
Before time’s taint reveals his ancient face
Beneath the slowly peeling paint
Of pictures placed
To keep the knowing day at bay,
And stay completion of the plan
To mould the clay, in such a way
He grows a sold, and silent man.

Unless time slays his shining sun.
To extinguish all sensation
In one swift and savage stroke,
Before a doubt is spoken,
Or, disaffection’s woken
From his learning touch.

He perhaps, expects too much.
Such is the faith of infants
Safe within their fragile skin,
So thinly wrought in thoughtful art,
That the heart’s wild wishes can depart,
But disenchantment can’t see in.

© James Rainsford 2010
Copyright. No reproduction in any medium without permission.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i'll be honest, i lost the second volume  of Kant's critique
in the house, i lost the rhythm of reading the first volume,
but then i found the second volume
like a breadcrumb, where i left off:
the thesis v. antithesis section,
                 antimonia of pure reasoning
(the fourth conflict between
                   transcendental ideas)
cf. the only dualism allowed is a bilingualism,
no mono-lingual dualism is verifiable,
it's too abstract and therefore non-practical /
non-practisible - missing adjective
            i.e. without having an allowance
    to be practised, indeed almost every single
word cannot transverse all grammatical classification,
a zebra cannot be a noun, a verb, an adjective,
an adverb etc., hence what i tried to experiment
with was whether a mono-linguistic system
could practice dualism purely, no, it couldn't,
mono-linguistic systems abstracted dualism
without a useful process within them,
the whole good and evil, chaos and order dichotomy,
such dichotomy that never approached a dialectics,
hence mono-linguistic systems could not convene
dualism, because they were mono-linguistic and
not bilingual...
in reference to translating
                                            the fourth conflict between
                   transcendental ideas,
i.e. czwarty konflikt miedzy ideami transcendentalnymi,
English stress of articles / vectors, meaning
a point be made, or the point can be made,
one is wishy-washy wave of the hand (dispersion),
the other is definite, microscopic, vector
from co-ordinates (0, 0) leading to (23, 12) of the (x, y)
graph; i went among the Celts and learned to write
drunk and be happy;
                                      ironic though as to why
Darwinism gained such popularity given the English
use of indefinite and definite articles: a-      -the    
end up with some sort of ism.
there's a warning about the fourth antimony, and there's
also this poem, indeed i was bemused by the antimony
i'm not surprised that he didn't understand the narrative too,
narrating philosophically is a hard craft,
you can't really engage with dialectics, cartwheels sure,
ouroboros (snake eating itself) sure,
it's hard to reach the Pre-Socratics, but almost every
philosopher after Socrates is doing just that...
to internalise dialectics (i'd rather criticise the lack
of diacritical marks in English), and that's why
philosophy compared to standard literature of fiction
and novel can be termed pure, narration.
it is pure narration, the practice of -
hence off character study, hence hardly memorable,
but an antidote to what the present system of education
prescribes the young: dates (1066 a.d., 1945, 1914),
or Pythagoras... qwen the queen was born (on purpose, and
why? exactly, q / queue, why / i, etc.)... it's like they're
taking a test on becoming Britain's residential candidates
with questionnaires that no one talks about in pubs
over pints. i mean the warning against the fourth antimony
in the antithesis ends up stating poetically:
both proposals were sound. depending on how one
peeled the vantage point, from which want came to
observe the lunar motion.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
it’s not that i hate film literary film adaptations, but only one adaptation made me want to read the book: stendhal’s the scarlet and the black (starring ewan mcgregor and rachel weisz).*

i don’t in a respective romanic auditorium
with toga donning senators
walking to egyptian flutes from the cleopatra’s entourage
gleaming old fames as to prove the pyramids
and sphinxes were above in the hierarchy of awe
to the iodine and hod on papyrus,
to give these localities the respectable aura of re-,
i take to hammock’s kenotic and burial’s untrue:
the former feeds the northern feel of autumnal london
suburbia and the latter the southern quarter,
but never mind that, it’s already minded and eerie.
i watched the screenplay adaptation of empire of the sun today,
i have to say, i was jerking up the thought
of salty rain rather than acid rain on the environmental
perfusion surprise - so i ****** a jamaican fake on the hopscotch bonnet
mascaraed on the eyes, or the romantic tears of cutting an opinion,
but honesty... honesty! three scenes made me push my
manhood away from the stench of molten iron of the army:
the was the protagonist sang the song of the kamikaze
just after they downed a shot of koji and started singing
just after doing the flap-your-hands-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care
salutations of encouraged nihilism.
it’s the editing part of the film, how the boy’s voice overpowers
everything else and becomes “monotone” against all other sounds,
the dignity of the boy’s enviousness and admiration
for the kamikaze... even in captivity! by god, what a scene!
the other scene that haunted me to near tear
was when the prisoners entered the cemetery of hoarded
valuables by the japanese upon invasion of shanghai
and taking from notables the jewellery chandeliers and cars
(pianos too): after seeing the prisoners familial in captivity
exchanging cabbage heads for cigarettes
proving what the world would be like without the existence of money...
i thought of the familial “humbling” of the people in captivity,
and the sheer haunt of the same prisoners returning
to a world they so dearly lost - in that each to his own
piano and mercedes benz, that neo-tribalism of earn earn spend
frivolity and self-interest that democracy prescribes
allocating us each a tomb of fancies (and sometimes the odd *****).
but the most striking thing became apparent - in these
japanese prisoner of war camps... the prisoners didn’t wear uniforms...
i can understand if those in power adorn uniforms,
but the oddity of the prisoners not having uniforms is quite
positively giggly sinister... given the fact that the other sinisterness
is when there’s a prison camp and those in power
wear uniforms and those imprisoned are also tailored for.
i see a major libra of power in all this,
for if the prisoners are not tailored for denoting their collectivisation
as in status of prisoners... then there’s a certain freedom in all of it,
like on the grander scale, in society, where the politicians,
the overseers only wear suits and the communities differentiate
themselves with hawaiian floral tattoos on t-shirts and tourist slogan ones too:
it’s almost as if the ultimate leniency of power was being exercised
not having to wear prisoner uniforms in the japanese pow camps,
unlike the pinstripe ones of auschwitz - as some collectivisation
of guilt within ideological framework rather than the opposite:
wrong place at the wrong time.
the last tear i got? well the music on the credits reel pulverised
by the images of a son re-recognising his mother by touchy touchy.
conclusively? better on your mother’s *** and able to cook too
than on the cooking *** of a wife and with two left hands preferring
the hot topic of takeaway or restaurants - hunter gatherer died -
me belly full of berry - how is it that **** sapiens is also called
**** perderus awhile the tortoises saturated achilles with peace and thought
and no chance of martian glory telling him of zeno’s paradox?
a doctor is man who treats you when your ill does all your body checks then prescribes a pill.
come back in week he says while i do test and in the meantime just go home and rest.
then when you go back  hoping nothings wrong.its ok your healthy very fit and strong.
Martin Narrod Jan 2014
If you pretend, you'll never know the right way this ends.
It's the passion of my pen that prescribes this medical zen.
In my den, I walk on water, I speak in colors, it's the message that I send- I received,
Do you really need to know where it comes from?

There's this spiritual axiom, that I've been askin' him, entranced by this romance,
All these butterflies and pretty clouds I've never had the chance to give.
In my passive peculiar I'm a user of catastrophe, exacerbate the simple happenings
That disaster brings. When I lived in California it was women, it was water, it wasn't the waves,
The way her hair flirted and twirled, and whipped around when the sun every-day would
Come out.

It wasn't that I didn't have the drive, the will to survive, I even had the doll-dollars, my rent was paid, I flew around in private airplanes, and every single day I got laid. Even her father was like, "He's a cool cat, you better make 'em put a ring on that." But she ******, ain't got a clue-
if I was me then now, then I'd now what I was supposed to do.

I was supposed to ride... clear the air and see the skies. Be bliss-bound, virile, like White Snake, Just make her mine. But I was...insincere, adolescent, and hiding behind a barrier. I didn't have the Strength to carry her. It was paramount, but I wasn't 100% percent clear.

Now I'd say, well, since, it's been 1,244 days. While I sit and listen to grave-wave, having a great day.
I'm in love again, and the music says,"There's a lot of cool in them, and he never had a doubt."
Kay even said, I shouldn't trouble on the past, the present is so much better then even the future, she said, "It's in you" and I guess the Truth is, I imagine you, beautiful, intriguing, like a different forever, that even I once was 20, too.

For Kristine

By Martin Narrod
Hollow Bones Mar 2014
There are some things that science cannot explain
some things cannot be wrapped around the cerebrum
and as it unfolds
we see the earth is 13.8 billion years old.
Thrace down my 100,000 miles of blood before you tell me who I am or what I'm made of.
And although we can see
that Mercury is 799 degrees,
that doesn't help with all the physicistry.
My doctor asks me to stick out my tongue.
I ask if he can see all the pain choked in my throat,
he laughs as if I'm telling a joke,
I'm not.

And although we can produce a light
a million times brighter than the sun
we have problems saying words like please and thank you and love.

I tell my psychiatrist about the sadness that shakes all 206 of my bones
as my cerebellum pulses with ten billion neurons and flashbacks and blood cells and "Post Traumatic Symptom Disorder," because everything has to have a name in science.

So the doctor prescribes Zoloft, and Prozac, and Ability, and Paxil to numb the passion,
But she contradicts with the words,
"Life isn't supposed to make you feel good or bad,
for it is just supposed to make you feel."

Because when my hand is on my chest I feel something there,
A force pumping 100,000 miles of blood across my limbs
filled with broken iambic pentameters, and stars of lust, with music, and sleeping pills, and roses of wonder-
for there are just some things within me that science cannot explain.

And although it can explain my heart bleeding,
It can't define the meaning,
or prescribe what we are needing,
here were assigned ******* seating,
and the teacher explains my uneasy breathing,
but in my head i can't stop the screaming,
and the sciences seems to be fleeting
as they can't explain us meeting,
our minds and eyes so gleaming,
its just the feeling,
when even science can't tell if you're drowning or dreaming,
because these brain cells are fleeting
as there are just some things
cannot explain.
inspired by a variety of other phrases
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
in the age of super fast optic coptic broadband connectivity,
writing had to leave the lives of respectable corset donning girls
who’d lounge all day with balzac and long tennyson stanzas,
who’d read for relaxation...
sorry to break it to you huckleberry finn...
but reading these days is all about distraction...
distraction distraction distractions...
plenty of them in the “real” world too... it’s called the goldfish
salute... slàinte mhath... dheagh shlàinte...
next time you hear an advertisement don’t think of promotion
(that’s done through the ol’ word o’ mouth)...
think more on the lines: ailing company... ailments in general...
a public relations stunt... for those grandiose profit margins;
true that... when a man is sick, has a cold a fever,
he is prescribed paracetamol... when it's a company...
the economic model prescribes the medicine known as advertisement.
Elizabeth Grace Apr 2013
The bathtub orders me to sit and prune,
Remembering the ocean breaking my balance.

The sand cutting into me like broken glass.
The faucet frantically stitching me back together with every drop.

It’s no use though, for your hands reconstruct the pain of it.
Legs kiss the side of the tub; the skin stretches, regaining shape.

But underneath, the bones won’t heal.
My sternum remembers the pressure of your fist.

The skull may be strong,
But it’s melting from the acid in my brain.

Eyes inject the poison, seeping endlessly through the spaces between ribs.
The mirror prescribes my grotesque antidote.

Lipstick mends for a time, but it eventually flakes on my teeth,
A credit card slices into my medication,
Molding it into a perfect white line.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i always wondered what
je ne sais pas might sound like in german...
   ah, **** it, let's put
this prosthetic limb together,
you never know, a siamese twin
might just pop out to steal the show...
ich      (je ne sais.... ah.. ha ha ha!
i was thinking of je ne sais qua...
ok ok... je ne sais quoi, quo-oh-e...
    e. e. cummings, come ere!
fiddle this violin to a fine tuning
that a deaf man might 'ear)...
and when language does indeed
as diabolical as this, you really should
stop using Poles as antibiotics to
German then Islamic fascism...
or kidding yourself that it's really
just a pardonable dream you're having...
so the prosthetic limb is coming...
  no point schmoozing me with
anything else... oh please please:
just dance the one legged tango a while
longer, i'm working on it... honest...
  look here... je, ich
   ne, nein, nein-stimme... no steam:
bog **** choo choo!
     meaner: neinschtimme -
   kinder dicht... why would i say kid-tight?
well... ballerinas begin their careers
at an early age... maybe that's why...
   otherwise? dunno...
let's feed this alcoholic cold-sweat -
finding the tutti-frutti hyper-delusion,
trying to say much more than the sound
of knocking on a door can ever provide...
that's one way to go about it, for sure...
and every part of me wants to be a serious
novelist, and be sober, and chop wood,
but then every other part of me
wants the poetry, and the drinking,
    and the scarcity of the adventure...
  to feel, having only slaughtered one pig,
that i was able to feed a billion ching chongs
in Beijing...
           china... ching chong...
a focus on the prefix ch, and the suffix cha cha cha?
no? different joke, on a different continent...
   i swear there was this guy from Bethlehem
who also made the same conclusion...
     can't remember his name...
you know, like: two fish three loafs of bread,
you can satiate a coliseum...
   ah! delirium! that's what alcoholics experience
sometimes... i love delirium...
      it just shows you, that if you're really
serious, you can experience many more facets of
    hidden gems... and if you're really
hot-headed, have enough crassness about
to write about it...
    delirium... when other drugs have the after-effects
of paranoia, alcohol prescribes you delirium...
   in polish slang also called a delirka...
   but i'm not drinking purple denaturat /
ethynol substitute to chanel no. cinq...
    or should i say: çank?  yep, that ship sank
once it gave a smoochie to an ice-berg...
                                 hail Titanic! ave Titanus!
but i really was trying to find
je ne sais quoi (qua... ******* French,
excessive spelling and a gob that later
says much more throng... and that nasal
cavity needs fixing, seriously -
  but they write so beautifully,
and later slobber it with their local...
or should i say: locál! or perhaps: locállé?!
depends how you make do
with a syllable dissection) -
so how would it go? the je ne sais quoi in
   ich tun nicht was kennt...
              well... there are worse things than
mutilating a language...
      you could do worse, like mutilate a body...
   like in that film...
   with colonel sisi... the last king of scotland...
ah, what's his name? that guy
reminding me to never travel to uganda?
    yeah, had a wife, she cheated on him,
so he cut off her legs and arms, and sewed them
back onto her torso so she really ended up
with a confused pair of cranium hemispheres...
    and i'm the mad one...
just because i drink and have a vocabulary
equivalent of diarrhoea...
       but, so it goes...
   i'll never say the correct way of saying
je ne sais quoi in Swabian... because je ne sais quoi
is a complete package... like faux pas is
a complete package, like carpe diem is a complete
package... like coup d'état is a complete
package... like déjà vu is a complete package...
    there's absolutely no way to unravel it
or furthermore: translate it...
      a German once complimented my language
on the cushion-like effect of the word
  kurva...  *****... he loved the trilled -r-
and the waterfall of -va / wa wa... va to english speakers;
and so he did, relieve himself of stress
saying the word... and with such malice as
to no hurt anyone... and what's happening in
english? social-cool, prescriptive dyslexia...
        one step away from really, i mean
really being o.k. with watching **** and all
forms of perversity, and not o.k. with seeing
the correct spelling of the word ****...
      yes... mm... so ******* agonising seeing
a correct spelling...
                                   i better gouge my eyes
out having seen that....
or that case of ultra-proximity...
     kręt                        vs.      skręt...
kręt (a pathological liar, on a building site in
England usually called a Romanian) -
skręt? a rollie... a cigarette, you know the type,
you buy the tobacco, you buy the papers,
you buy the filter... and you actually roll
a cigarette... a variation of the word skew,
i'm sure... kręt does actually mean a meddler...
a swinddler...  and if you having been exposed
to the reality of a construction site in england...
you should see the ******* that's written
in the toilets...
     i really shouldn't have gone to university,
i wasted my degree in chemistry to merely drink...
**** good wine though, home made juice...
   hyper! hyper! hyper-ventilating on the silence
that's gathering around me...
  and if you ever spotted a lightning bolt
and never heard a thunder... you're bound
to be as itchy as me -
and by the way: the karma term for a German
in Poland is: schwab - or szwab...
              of shvab... it's getting dizzy... pfoo...
bilinguals can't be proud polymaths...
         i'm seeing alternative spelling in different
linguistic geo-political zones.
MicMag Sep 2018
Got those early week blues
So please won't you grace
Me with something funny
To put a smile on my face

A feel-good story
Or a friendly life tip
Your best one-liner
Or a clever quip

I just want to laugh
I just want to grin
And against despondency
I just want a win

A cheerful heart is good medicine
Just what the Doctor prescribes
So let's help each other out
With some positive vibes
chuckae Jan 2017
home is where the heart resides.
tears are what the brain prescribes,
as a heart that breaks forms a lake,
and the body is out of control.
death is the ultimate goal.
everyone is always the centre of their own world.
triggered teens with wristarts and no skin—
thirteen year olds girls calling boys honey—
lonely ladies with cats that don't speak—
old corrupt men who think life is money—
everyone is always at the centre of their own world,
that's where you are born,  
and that's where you shall die,
in a journey to the end of the earth,
you're getting nowhere.
Sometimes I confuse myself trying to collect the complications of my overthought hours.
Rachael Judd Feb 2016
I need your love
Like I need the pills
My doctor prescribes me
I need all your kisses
Like I need the air in my lungs
I need your body
Like I need the heart in my chest
I need your mind
Like I need the feel of writing
To let my thoughts escape
I need your voice
Like I need the stars in the sky
And the sun and then moon
I need your eyes
Like I need you.
Melissa Sherwood Jul 2015
Why do we always hold what hurts us the closest?
As if the pain it prescribes us will give us our purpose?
In truth what we love is a deceiving venomous serpent.
Is pain an addiction or are we all caught in the current ?
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
True equality is what is wished for
But what if you really opened that door
What would be on the other side?
I’m not sure we’d enjoy the ride

Individuality dies with equality
There are no choices you see
If everyone has to have the same things
No one gets to win the brass ring

No more people like you and people like me
If the same is all we ever get to be
The same model car and the same clothes
The same old food in the same homes

The same haircut and the same color
Or we are all clean shaved so much the duller
The same education for everybody
You’re paid the same as anybody

Sports would all end in a tie
If there still played at all… sigh
No more winners, No more losers
No choices so no choosers

There are no differing opinions you see
When you’re a victim of true equality
No reason to strive
There is no ladder to climb

No reward for hard work
Are you feeling the irk?
No matter what, you cannot get ahead
It’s almost as if you are full of lead

But that just it, no ahead to get
When everyone gets what everyone gets
The Thought police are out in full force
No one is married or there is no divorce

No kids at all or everyone has 2
There is no longer me and no longer you
When equal society is the important thing
Everyone gets to feel every sting

Orwellian yes
But truth none the less
The only people different are the ones in charge
While everyone suffers they live it large

They get to decide how much you’re alive
And they can tell you 2+2=5
So how does this strike you?
Will that work for you too?

I’m not a fan
Of this little plan
Because not everyone is the same
No matter what people will claim

We don’t think the same thoughts
We don’t call the same shots
Not even twins are exactly the same
And if we all were, what a boring game

Just a bunch of clones, going nowhere
Just dull and drab, no bling and no flair.
Yet that is what current society prescribes
Even though were all from different tribes

If we ever achieve true equality
Remember sometimes wishes end badly

— The End —