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onaldayrawfo Apr 2015
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Princess Dawn Jan 2013
Taking a sip from his mug.
Sugar, the vanilla and the cream
romancing.
I asked forgiveness,
this animated disposition,
a weak voice to comfort,
he never forgets the white chocolate,
the looking back.

Everything went still,
the conversation,
hot metal, pull the plug.
The tender puffiness,
the greatest,
the best seats.

It was time to
the timer of the oven
slowly
overcooked.
Dream of him, a phone call,
ashes.
His heart beating
wanting to be alone.
Dadaist Poem
Jim Kleinhenz Mar 2010
Our language can be seen as an ancient
City—pace Wittgenstein—who  
Surely meant a baptized city, for
The names come only with the blessing…

And even though he boards in Muzot, finds
A seat with a window so he can watch
The rain, a pad and pen and swollen eyes—
His naming is no longer for the living,
He knows that. Squatting, old, narrow-gauge trains:
He studies his reflection in the dark tunnels
In the glass: There is swelling, that
Awful puffiness, rust in the throat…
Mimetic passion, not rocket science.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
    I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
    To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
    To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                In such an ecstasy!
    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
        To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thus Keats, who, he reminds himself, wrote:
the rude
Wasting of old Time -with a billowy main,
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
Yet still it rains; the rails, become archaic
Through the Goddard Pass,
His final way of seeing mountain peaks .
In 1926 as the snow melts…
He stops.
The correspondence…

Tsvetayeva has written:  
Your name is poetry! Exclaims:
Your name is poetry! But she always
Exclaims—
May I hail you like this!
Your baptism was the prologue to
The whole of you!

It even smells of death in this train. Dead mice
Under the seats. Why would Marina think
Of baptism here, his baptism?
Herr
Rilke, may I help you?
For baptism
Read death, read mort, but not for ‘mortal’, for
A mort is only played if some music
Is needed at the blessing. Mort:
A horn will sound announcing death,
A horn to announce a new beginning,
Of a life’s deep death in deep
Snow…wolves abound…and not a perfect trip
Through the Alps…

Marina Leukemia on his
Baptism into the ancient city:
Herr Rilke your very name
Is a poem. You are a phenomenon
Of nature. The poet who comes after you
Is you.

My dear, Rainer; my soul, my Maria,
My blood coagulates and sinks
Into the snow. I take to my heart:
One poet only lives, and now and then
Who bore him, and who bears him now, will meet.


And never meet. (There is one only) in
A lightning field, canaries in a cage—
How could we meet?
The world betrays us,
I know, for a field of fire, for poetry
Is correspondence from a great distance
Made only greater by our love.
Great honor, great poet,
(signed) Not for reading. Marina.

(July, 2009)
© Jim Kleinhenz
anastasiad Jan 2017
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axr Oct 2014
Creams to reduce eye puffiness
Give it a few hours, she'll be a mess.
She does her make up with dexterity
Her tears will smudge them soon.
But she's gotta maintain her popularity
She puts that neon pink lipstick on
Gives the customer want they want
She is beautiful without being ******
They say her name is of that if a flower
I observe her closely
She takes out a cigarette and places on her lips
The same one in which I always wanted to kiss
Her face I can never forget
Pretty girl is gonna die soon if she smokes too many cigarettes

I follow her in the alley
She notices me and laughs half-heartedly
I shuffle past the drunken men
I want to know her
We have never met.
She runs away from me and laughs
"Go home, handsome!  You'll get lost in this boulevard."
She offers me a cigarette
"Doesn't taste that bad, helps me forget"
Pretty girl is gonna die soon if she smokes too many cigarettes.

"Hey, hey, hey it's going to be just one shot."
I give her a smug smile.
"Tonight, you will be my boss."
I feel the drugs permeating my system
She ends up crying
She wants someone to listen.
Goes on rambling about her problems
and an ex called Wilson.
Influenced by drugs
I tell her to do the wrong thing.
"If you think drugs are the solution,  you should do it!"
Traces of her eyeliner on her lower eye lashes.
"That *****'s outfit hardly matches!"
She gives me one last hug
and places a cigarette on her lips.
I master the courage to give her a little kiss.
Her alcohol breath isn't the best.
Pretty girl is going to die soon if she smokes too many cigarettes.

Her lipstick on the outer edges of her mouth.
Her laughter a little bit too loud
All the curves in the right places
Her love of alcohol and cigarettes
Drunk in our own promises
Letting the drugs take over what ever is left
She just woke up
and lighted a cigarette to her lips
Sound of sirens that dips
It's been 12 hours since we've met.
Her face I can never forget.
Pretty girl is gonna die soon if she smokes too many cigarettes
Kids, don't do drugs.
Dark Smile Jun 2017
words have never been enough
to convey what's on my mind
i'll never tell you
what you should pay attention to is the pauses
between my fleeting
i'm okays and thank you for askings
if you listened closely
you may have heard
my cries
there is much said in the unspoken
if you looked closely you'd see the red ring around the area just below my elbow
i'd fallen asleep at my desk again
thinking
sobbing- that's something you'd have noticed if you saw the puffiness of my eyes
then you'd know i cried this morning too
you'd know that my smile
was a mere facade
and if you'd understood that
and if you listened close to my heart's thump
then you would have noticed the hum of suicidal thoughts running through my veins
coursing through my very being
feeding into every cell
ringing in my ears
like a mantra
like a death march
Graff1980 Aug 2016
Journal

I sleep in in pools of sweat, awakened regularly by nightmares. Body clenched tighter than a rusted vise. Still, the nightmares are more pleasant than my waking hours.

Journal

It is late in the afternoon and I finally have a second to jot down yesterday’s nightmare, sleeping and waking. The dream began with a strong feel of reality to it. I was lying in the trench half asleep; my body folded awkwardly in the dry dirt corner that I had cleared for myself. My journal pages were scattered all about. Many discolored, some with dirt, some with blood, and others simply with the wear of time. The ink on each sheet was blurred to the point that I could not make out any of the words.
The only disconcerting thing was the quiet. I could not recall this much quiet ever, at least not for many months. There were no explosions or tinging of bullets bouncing off our make shift metal trench tops. I heard no one making lewd jokes or screaming out their night terrors. My voice had been stolen as well but I had no clue as to how or why.
I looked around and found no one, not even Billy or Captain Owens. At first there was a sense of panic, but I finally relaxed. I was alone. There were no machine guns or artillery firing, no one screaming orders. I could sit here and read my books in the sweetest solitude anyone has ever known. I gathered the unbound journal pages around me, and put them in their proper place and order. Then, I pulled out and old copy of Grimm’s fairytales.
Without warning I felt hot hands pulling on my, shirt. Hard fingers crawled struggling across my back and chest trying to pull me down. The harder I struggled the more their grip tightened, pulling me down faster and faster. My body was slowly being swallowed by the earth. The dirt consumed me inch by inch, stealing every breath I had and replacing it with clots of mud. I could feel worms trying to burrow their way into my skin. I coughed and sputtered in horror.
Despite my terror, I thrashed against the earthy hands. My eyes were clouded dark brown. I could feel fingers clawing at my face. Then there was a sharp slap stinging my cheek. I clenched my fist to punch the earth. Even so, I was still unable to see anything or breathe. I raged against whatever it was.
Then I heard Billy shouting, “Get up you idiot, it’s a gas attack.”
I scratched at my face struggling to find the air, until I finally realized what was going on. My face was covered by a gas mask, and Billy was yelling at me.  I fixed the mask properly to face and took stock of the scene. Everyone in the trench was either struggling to get their gas masks on or helping other soldiers, who were stumbling around blinded by the green gas cloud, attaching theirs. One man was even putting a large strangely shaped mask on a horse. Panicking, several of my compatriots rushed over the top and were mowed down by enemy planes. Amidst the chaos I stood stupidly, still not helping at all just coughing and wheezing. I turned to look back at my spot and in the foggy haze I saw dark brown dirt arms receding back into the ground.
A part of me wished those hands had strangled me; a part of me still does.

Journal

Dreaming darkly, I dared to climb some jagged precipice. My hands were dusty with gravel and moist with sweat making, each grip harder than the last. Barely a foot below my feet the sharp stones began to crack and shift. A section of the mountain started to move rolling into the shape of a clenched fist. The sound of stone scraping stone stung my ears. The fist pounded upon the side of the cliff shaking loose rocky bits, then larger bit of rock as well. Grey and black speckled stones pelted my head dangerously fast. Foolishly forgetting my current task, I raised my hands to protect myself. With no secure footing on the rock my weight pulled me backwards and I fell straight into the sharp stone hand. The monstrous hand shook me side to side.
Then I heard a moaning. At first I thought it was me, certain that in some concussed manner I was making noises without meaning to; however, I was not. Even though, I was hanging upside down by one leg, I could still see the face of the cliff very clearly and very literally.
One rock eye opened, up then the other, blinking rapidly as if they had not been opened for a thousand years. The irises were grey and jagged like cracked stones, but the pupils seem to be like a mirror. Inside I could see two reflections, one overlaying the other. The first was a young man, clean cut and shaven with warm hazel eyes and a smile. The other was an older man. His face was much leaner. The hazel eyes were bloodshot with bags so deep under them that you would swear he had been punched in the nose. His hair was now worn recklessly, and thin **** covered his face.
Staring fiercely at me but with a tinge of pain the mountain cried “my arrrrr ou hirtming meee?”
Without thinking I laughed. The indignation was obvious. The mountain’s eyes glared at me. Then another stony hand exploded from the rocky formation. Clenched in a fist the new limb violently pounded its own face, clearing a clutter of loose rock and dirt away until an orifice could be seen. Then it repeated “why are you hurting me?”
Before I could stop myself, I laughed again. Infuriated, the mountainous creature shoved my left foot in its newly formed mouth and bit down hard. I screamed in agony. Then I woke up. My entire body was pulsing with pain and my lower left pant leg was wet again. I tried to pull the fabric from my skin but stopped when an intense pain shot up my leg. I was bleeding again. Where the hell was the medic?
I was no expert but, I was pretty sure my leg was not supposed to smell like rotten eggs. I tried to stand but stumbled. Angrily I pushed off against the side of the hole and managing to rise again, only to wobble and fall face first in to cold wet dirt. Chewing on a bit of blood and mud I shuffled around in the dirt for a while trying to get up. I spit out the dirt but was too afraid to call out for help. Suddenly, I remembered why. I was the only one left.
      Last night we all went over the top. Captain Owens held the barbed wire back as we rushed over the rough incline. Bits of brown earth exploded around us as we pushed forward. Most of my mates moved faster than me. Billy was blasted and fell four or more yards from my feet. I pivoted around his bullet riddled corpse. Screams of rage and terror sounded in the darkness. I think, I managed a couple more yards before a bullet cut clean through my calf.  Even with a bullet in my leg, I managed to make it a little further until I slipped on some blood slicken grass. I tried to brace myself but fell face forward into a lump of warm sticky something.
When I realized I could not stand up, I began to drag myself backwards. The enemy’s bullets sounded a strange earthly percussion around me. Inch by slow agonizing inch across the cold, ******, muddy earth I managed to drag myself back down into our dank hole. I found my corner and decided to wait for help. I am uncertain if someone will come to help me.

Journal

This morning as the sun was slowly rising, I managed to pull myself up just enough to see the barren landscape. The grass is gone, the trees are gone. The earth is a massive wound, scattered with bullets and ****** bodies. Thankfully, the gas attacks had robbed me of my sense of smell, or the stench would have killed me. I think, I was slipping in and out of consciousness.
     As I was trying to pull myself out of the hole, I saw a red wolf running through the dead earth. A sharp spasm of pain set my whole body a spark, and I cried out. The wolf turned his head scowling and growling at me. Even though it was many yards away I could see it eyes. The irises glowed forest green, piercing me with an almost accusatory stare, as if to say this is all your fault.
We sat in a holding pattern for several minutes before it realized that I was no threat. Then it slowly sauntered over to the nearest corpse. After a few carefully placed sniffs the wolf began chewing on the face of the corpse. Even though, I should not have been able to, I could hear the crunching of the bones and the squishing sound of flesh being gnawed off the dead man’s face.
I closed my eyes for a second, and everything changed. There was no wolf, the chewed up body was nowhere to be found. In the distance I heard the sound of several wolves howling and running towards the ****** battlefield. I lost my grip and slid backwards onto a thin line of barbed wire that ripped my shirt and tore strips of flesh from my back. I would have screamed but all I could muster was a soft whimper and a moan before I passed out again.

Journal

I don’t know why I bother. It hurts so much. My lips are chapped, my skin is fevered fire, and the blood I have lost. I should be dead. I would have shot myself, but apparently in that mad dash I lost my bayonet and pistol.
Last night, or was it this morning, whatever that last time I passed out was, I dreamed I was sitting in an open field. The earth was quiet growing and glowing with lush green foliage. The clouds were cotton ball cumulus forming a white, light blue, and grey chimera. There was a shimmering pond of pure blue water. Not clear but blue water. Inside the water I could see a distorted rippling version of the sky.
Within the watery reflection a black dragon danced in and out of the cloud. Its scales rippled silver, grey, black, and green as the beast twisted and turned with more grace than a world class contortionist. Its sinuous body straightened as it burst through another batch of clouds, dispersing their massive puffiness into tiny little puffs of white, grey, and light blue smoke.
I turned my head from the pond to see if I could spot the monster in the sky, but it was not there. My gaze found its way back to the pool were the beautiful beast was getting closer and closer, but when I looked back up it was nowhere to be found.
Again my vision returned the blue body of water. Ripples began to rapidly form on the surface and collide with a loud and thunderous crash. The dragon was closer in the reflection but still nowhere to be seen in the air.
      I could feel its breath at my back and see its teeth in the reflection. Its long snout curled in a viscous grin.  The mouth dripped steaming acid drool burning my skin. Two rows of teeth filled the top and the bottom of its mouth.  The outer rows were jagged and yellow, while the interior rows were dark brown and flat.
By the time I realized that I should, run it was too late. I felt the fierce face of the famished dragon envelope my torso and chomp down. My body convulsed with burning agony. I screamed, as I felt the furious beast chewing and swallowing me. I awoke to the sharp stench of sweat, ****, *****, and ****. My pants were stuck to my body, and I could not stop shivering. I manage to find another pair of pants. Painfully I struggled to remove the contaminated britches. Switching out the ****** and ****** pair for a slightly cleaner pair, I sat mute.

Journal

The sky is dull grey with no clouds. It’s just another dreary day, so if this is anyone other than myself. Then let me say hello or goodbye. It’s all the same in the end. We come and go in such a rapid succession that it seems almost pointless. I do not know the exact whys and how’s. I am starting to think there is no rhyme and reason. These dreams waking and sleeping are no worse than the horrors of reality.
It could be real or not, I am uncertain. As I write this, I feel I may die soon. Which means that it is up to you to figure out what all this means. Because, I am tired of struggling, searching, and hurting. I am tired of the bullet, bombs, and bayonets. I am tired of seeing my friends bravely face down a gruesome death. I am tired of the darkening of my soul. My spirit is too heavy with the horror of it all, but most of all I am just plain tired.
Robin Carretti Dec 2016
Historic Hightstown wrapped porch
in New Jersey,
Open the book page speaks lifeless
Her uniqueness tea shirt stand tall,
but she's sitting says
Aging for me for him Hello age
Don't wrinkle my page I am

Ageless Fly Robin Fly

She didn’t care about her lines
and wrinkles, she was up in the sky
she was always
the performer, mid-life laugh, the poet
Love's the water, drinking Moet
ice cream her  love NY serendipity

Life is the way to should be
If your short of time make your time
be savvy cool
Be a good sport the "City"
No lines here it, not a pity
Hello Poetry
Never waiting on lines, you could
write your poems
with many lines, she was thankful,
happy for her
Aging wisdom
Hello Age roars out
the whole kingdom

Moving on the straight line of dignity.
The woman angelic- turning flight
smiling and partying all night
Aging it’s her time but her
turning point don't point the finger
It's not polite
I don't care about numbers
How the time went my own movie
doing Robin stunt's

Quaint walk through the Town
of Cranbury egg hunt
The rose blossoms, hair of the sun-berry
aged perfection tree.
Going shopping Freehold Mall
Laughing designed for me
NJ feeling free like a Robin bird. I am the singer
Saying hello age, I'm just getting better.
Walking on sunshine, not golden years
or reacting to someone's words like a
I am tough no tears, not the farm girl
of cattle, I will be ******* up to Skittles
   But he moved me closer to
the Monmouth State Park NJ
So slender rising more love admiring such
ripeness strawberry fields Beatlemania

  The "D" speaks delicious. love vitamin "E"
Exotic, or erotically divine younger
gorgeously slim Queen of Forst Hills
was once me
Homes, distressed, like the woman
aging people
engaging "Hello" please God
Or Hell dirt creepy cemetery
I will take my pick
Beautiful foliage opened up a memory.
Recreation, Scrapbook, Facebook collage
old the modern
thinking new pictures stay true.

Ripe apple computer age modern
technology blue 
Earthly Mom,  holding plants, seeing,
laugh lines.

Mirror on the fall, Mommy
not so dearest. My Mom was the best
She's Laughing and glowing she will be
gleaming over me Judy Garland singing
No worry fees
No senior citizen age with coupons
Queen killer bee's Groupons
Enjoying my life to the fullest
Flower *** inpatient’s love runs-out
screaming
impatient

  Hanging over her deck sun
bring's luck, sipping more stars
No dreams just my Starbucks
But something else starts hanging out?
*****

Feeling the body spiritual change,
Laugh line’s imperfect but hold’s proud.
So drenched like a mid-cycle love of ray.

"Those Hormones"
kick in
Like laughing became the sin
like the time just pray
So deeply in
body sweat's cold flashes.

Thinking how nice, when you
had fullest lashes.
Walking in the crowd.
People don't look @ you the
way they used too.
Time is on the recession.
Pretty picture window anticipation.

Hello, the world it's time to bloom**
Robin needs  more  spacious divine room
So attached like a love with such intense
Virtue and lots of patience, love seeds of
miracle maturely Turner-Classic your
wine became
"Copeland" Laughing gas wine.

Getting cards of modern art,
Modern Robin writer
and singer and so much
farther from  Modern Millie.
Hello, let's have a heart.
Tumble back, Genie eye,
the glimpse.
The top of the moon bottled into his wine
I love to dine just laugh things off
Changing leaves falling or
friends running,
and jumping

She’s the Robin  on her Pogo stick,
Robotically on  my computer click,
click but is it clicking.
My brain feels like its shrinking.

Play video games its all in the betting
and smooth talk of tricking popular cool
with flames my joystick.

Maybe I will turn into a witch broomstick.
I should try Google click...The book
**** & Jane & spot.
What do we really C turn -out 2-B in
this old age?
Warrior with heirloom sword
Is this what I could
afford swordfish.

Forest Gump say's "What you're going to get in the box"
old  dying chocolate but Trump's get's specially made
chocolate
Maybe at my age, I need to find
the hot construction
worker bring your *** tool
Just go with the flow
Walking up the step's, with your cane, sweet candy
Laughing by the New Jersey shore swift sandy.
Feeling French, Moulin Rouge.

You looked in the mirror putting more rouge on.
Looking older wickedly grunge you see whole's
in your sponge

The picture frame, eye's of magnifying glass large
Wishing you were younger, the ghost of the
holiday past made everything worthwhile to last
Eyes line's and the bag's your nose like a snout,
screaming let me out! I look much better than that
LOL

No designer bag's 4 U I want 2 B young again.
The bags crow feet it's coming  on your eye's
using tea bag's Kleenex puffiness but you
are the godliness
Net Flix

What happens is this your life in
your NJ town?
Drinking over fifty "Grey Shades" my Earl tea.
Saying my sunglasses looking ****
Mama Mia! seeing him in my text
What next?

Magic Mike dancer throwing my cane
So its Christmas tree jiggling heart plea.
Oh my dancing like  Cleopatra's eye's
purple but I am
feeling blue ned Prince the purple rain
falling 4 Autumn leaves I am sagging.
Who care's no-one on this earth has a clue.
this is no time for "B" bragging.
The older we get the smarter we are who cares about the number we love internet on Tumblr go for the things that make you feel good
Annie Jun 2018

Your morning face is so pretty
That puffiness in your eyes
That little naive smile

And when you look at me
You make it seem so gentle
So wild but tender

It's not just obsession
It's not love
It's a taste –from heaven above

This is one love song
And I can write a million more for you
Because you're here to hear my truth

Champagne, pretty ugly laughter
I put on my dress you've never seen
Love how you're always too keen

You let me cry
I pour all my emotions in your hand
You sieve them –so easy —just like sand
Terry Collett Dec 2014
Yours was the bed
at the far end
of the ward.

Seems darker now;
the end of it all.

I walk that path
to your bed
in my dreams;
wanting to reach
you again;
wanting to be able
to hold you tight
night after night.

Dreams betray,
they never fulfil;
never bring up
what they promise.

I see you there
puffed up and breathless;
hear your words
fight through
a tightness of lungs
already closing down
(although
we didn't know).

I felt along your arm
and touched,
sensing the puffiness
of skin,
the tired look
in eyes,
the fight for words.

I asked you questions,
sought for an answer
as a father does,
looking for the purpose
of a hurting son.

I argued with the nurse,
pointed out
your fading state,
your puffed up
skin and frame,
how you could
hardly hold
the mug in hands,
barely talk
through hard to
catch breath.

Unknown
to us then:
the start of death.
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.
Delilah Arende Oct 2014
Most people can't see
within the walls of one girl
They could easily find
the mask of dust and gloss
and the smile they believed
was real
They could easily find the
sticker of happiness
plastered across her eyes
like a bandage to the world
And the reduced puffiness around her eyes
the coal like a dark seal from tear streaks
and pain

But not me

I could see the hurt that lay beyond the lies
the everlasting broken mirror behind her face
The tremble in her lip when someone castes a glance at her,
marveling her fake beauty

I could see the way she pushed the plate of food across the table,
acting though she already had much, when she had none
Her eyes changed from a swirl of blue and green, to a dark setting
of brown and black

But I remember the way it use to be before
A twinkling laughter or joy
not given or strained
A spark in her mind that glowed through
the wondering colors of her eyes
And the perfect smile she use to wear
The one not so blistering white and forced
But the one with a meaning, with a purpose for show

Before all this plastic and smudge
All the tortures of today, she was truth.
Now, all are left are lies and a hollow case of herself

And could we really blame her?
frankie Dec 2017
wake up
drag yourself out of bed, despite its resistance and pull on your dead weight body
aimlessly wander, become aware of how difficult it is to drag around a full 100 pounds of bones and flesh when all you're so physically tired for no reason
force yourself to get dressed, don't bother to make yourself look presentable, you'll hate the outcome anyway
stare at the hideous reflection of the human embodiment of death staring back at you, looking straight into your stone cold blue eyes that scream out "death" from their lack of shine and purple puffiness

"is this what it's like to feel sad?
should i drink that extra cup of coffee? it won't do anything besides increase my anxiety, i drink it for warmth but i believe i have turned as cold as a statue "

go on with your day, get home, sleep, and repeat the cycle again tomorrow
wichitarick Apr 2019
DRIFTING ON CLOUDS OF THE DAY

Drifting on the clouds of the day far from unknown views, peering through a blemished lens

Warming up slowly with potential wavering ,pressures building while my mind is still left unreeling

Winds pushing or pulling lost in the breeze puts my soul at ease while it's softness is helping to cleanse

Mellow to my eyes flowing through the skies ,listless feelings lifted as the mind accepts more feeling

Protected by their puffiness soothing the edge of our roughness,the vastness makes us realize our insignificance

Abstract views leave unknown news ,while we are left gazing seeking some meaning

Thoughts of the day often get in the way of letting our mind out to play ,thinking to fast may leave us in a trance

Watching an evil wind blow across the way,remain distant or maybe stay to send our lives careening

Looking outward past obstacles wanting new vision, seeking answers from an unknown distance

Again lost watching some billowy  beautiful blue bounty,  grabbing a hold of that thick air blindly

Lost in a horizon preparing for twilight , sunset colors blending,waiting to find what new mission will be revealed with the dimness. R.C.
Letting my eyes and mind drift in the sky for a while brought some new thoughts. My best, thanks for reading your thoughts are helpful. Rick
Praggya Joshi May 2018
Take me
Trace constellations upon my skin
But do not pull your hand away
When your fingers brush against the dark uneven skin of my scars
Try to ask the story behind them
Do not tell me about different ways to make them fade
They are a testimony of my strength rather than my frailty
And I don't mind their presence
Even if they aren't pleasing to look at
Kiss my fingers slowly
But don't squint at the sight of my chipped nail polish
And don't drop my hand
When you notice that my nails are bitten to the core
And the skin around it is colored with dried blood
I know it doesn't look pretty at all
And im trying hard to stop it
But my mind seems to have a mind of its own that overpowers me most of the times
Do not tell me that Im in dire need of a manicure
Ask me about the things that trouble me so
And assure me
It'll get better
No need to worry at all
Dive deep into my eyes
Note how my pupils expand and contract
I know there is too much puffiness and darkness around it
But try to ignore it and try to read the message written for you upon it
Do not tell me that I need to sleep more or stop drinking so much caffeine at a time
Trust me
I sleep more than usual
Just not at the usual time
Just hold me and let me burrow my head in your chest
Ensure me again and again
That you're with me always
You won't stop loving me at all
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
if i wrote this earlier in the day i could remember all three
dreams i had in one night,
a sort of sketch of William Burroughs' take
of My Education -
                                        having stopped drinking hard
spirits, whether that's absinthe, ***** or whiskey
and turning to a soothing diet of cider - 1 to 3 bottle
to aid me sleep... mingling that with being my own
pharmacist (well, at least getting a chemistry degree
has finally become useful), i.e.:
alcohol + phnergan + naproxen + paracetamolum =
not drinking so heavily for too long,
it means waking up in the night,
going down to the kitchen to nibble on something
and then going back to sleep and dreams...
the first dream i don't remember so vividly...
but the other two dreams?

2.
i was filming a gang-**** of a woman...
i remember picking out a guy with a fire-red afro -
by the contorts of the shadow...
oh... she must have been ****** by about
10 of them... each taking his turn...
somewhere in the shadows of a street...
intervention, by moi? 10 of them and only 1 of
me... even Bruce Lee would tell you:
terrible odds... that's why all the security personnel
at stadiums don't know any martial arts:
or have any training: the tactic is to gang-up
on a single individual, swarm them with numbers
usually a 3:1 ratio...
after the gang **** is over i cringe at the idea
that she might have actually liked it...
            she starts screaming these words i see vividly
like a Belshazzar at the feast forewarning
the fall of Babylon...
                              my dream architecture is
wonky... the scene suddenly shifts with me walking
with the girl, trying to persuade her to the authorities...
she's unwilling... ergo my cringe and almost
austere look of wonder at the double-standard...
***** but not *****... reluctant blonde... another
actress... but i tell i have the evidence...
                     white knight? getting a limp **** *******?
what?! Freud... i'm new to this dream thing...
i'm just realising that dreams relax my consciousness...
my consciousness is no longer strained by having
to utilise my memory beyond mere arithmetic
and spelling and regurgitation of recipes or
scientific facts... dreams are new to me after a heavy
drinking hiatus... i'm treating the meanings of dreams
as dreams-per-se... i don't actually worry about the content
just the fact that they simply exist is enough...
i finally persuade her... even though i don't know why
she's snuggling under my arm...
     we end up in a building resembling a school...
in one room there's this authority woman figure with
something resembling a polygraph machine -
the page in front of her is like an inverted slit of a niqab...
and text appears in the slit and soon disappears...
and the "actress" in question had to read the text while
i present the woman of authority with the video evidence
of the gang-****... hmm -
   my taste in ******* has always been rather vanilla...
even today i found myself preparing for a visit to
the brothel... Saturday? i'll be tired... i'll finish at 10:30pm...
by the time i get there it will be almost 12am...
no, i don't care what the madam said about my
underperformance... i know exactly why i didn't perform...
it's not what she said about the 30min thing...
she's the madam, 1. that intimidating,
2. she sent my two favorite girls, Khadra and Mona
away... to never work in the brothel ever again...
Mona became pregnant... with whom?
   3. she's in her 50s and she's plump i mean: beached-whale
plump which is not a girl in her 20s that's plump
but less a beached-whale and more a female sea-lion...
cows... yeah... i tried looking up the body-build of the madam...
well no wonder why she complained that
i couldn't get a ******* with her... i just diverted
her attention to pretend to be tired from work...
if i can't ******* in private to that sort of body type...
no... without pornographic make-up... rude amateur
photography: reality snaps... no ******* wonder!

mommy don't know daddy's getting hot at the body-shop,
doing something unholy -

i hope does lyrics don't imply "body-shop" to imply
a tattoo parlour, i'm pretty sure that's not what's implied...
but my god... the importance of dreams:
to hell with interpretation of the... noumenon -
dreams could be considered a phenomenon
if we all shared at least one dream, of the same content,
but dreams are a noumenon -
sure, the phenomenon that we dream...
but are there like to like interpretations based on
seeing a red hat in a dream, or a boat?
flimsy... what about seeing printed words in
dreams?
                    i don't have the luxury of interpreting
dreams: i'm basking in the luxury of actually having
dreams... since i quit drinking heavily i wake
up rejuvenated... my memory is no longer strained
i no longer grasp the razor that was once driftwood
in the sea of memory trying to keep myself
intact... now i'm rebuilding my consciousness
with dreams... their meaning is meaningless given
that i have have a better use for them...
i stopped waking up forcefully trying to remember
a "decalogue" of formidable memories...
i think i can let them pass... remember them at some
later date... for the sort of remembering
that someone like my grandfather suffering from
dementia employed... i.e. employing a Memory Cinema:
i guess dementia sufferers probably don't dream:
mix into that cocktail insomnia and the finishing
line of mortality... that's when memory needs to be
deployed... not in one's youth...
but i wanted to understand his suffering that
i succumbed to mimicking it, by drinking heavily
and robbing myself of dreams... now that dreams
have been resurrected... ah... i can relax...

2. this dream was even better...
i was placed into a mental asylum...
who was my room partner? do people in mental asylums
get room-mates?!
well... my room-mate was someone resembling
a Jeffrey Dahmer... from time to time he would
break into these mirror-shattering fits
mirror-shattering epilepsy... walking angry...
sometimes frozen in time sometimes breaking out
of that labyrinth of staggering visual effects...
i guess i was looking at myself... what was poignant
was the distinct glasses...
before i was put into this mental asylum i was
met on an edge of a hill by an orderly in pearly white
(if he only had wings i'd suppose i arrived in heaven)
who said something...
then there was this great escape... me and "Dahmer"...
the orderly came against us with a pit-bull
that was wearing a metal-mask... a bit like Alex Dumas'
man in the iron man...
    the scene shifted to me wrestling with the dog
in yellow mud... wrangling the metal-mask off the dog's
head... i could almost feel the dog's teeth...
but i didn't.... i saw the dog's teeth but what was
hurting me were the metal-mask's claps / jaws...
wrestling peering into the dog's snout...
i managed to rid the dog of the metal-caste...
the orderly ran away... nowhere to be seen...
the scene shifted to the pit-bull turned into a puppy
(almost a puppy)... lying on my torso while we lay
in a hammock or a car with a reclined seat...
pretty pit-bull eyes looking at me endearingly
as if telling me: thank you for getting the nozzle off my head...
the orderly came back and said...
non-verbatim:
   'some people take a sparring partner to get this
level of introspection,
so few manage it on their own like you have done'...

historically i wonder about about all those poets
from the 1960s and their experimenting with
psychedelic drugs... hmmm...
and i wonder about myself: drink to the point of
arriving at the abyss - and then being resurrected
from it, by one's own devices -
i.e. drinking none of the unholy spirits -
personally: i'd rather drink in a vein of gradation,
if i can write something like this after only
two bottles of cider... why would i need
to drink half a litre of whiskey and wait
for my psyche to snap into writing?
if i can write this much after drinking so little
only thanks for the added dimension of dreaming
that has been so sorely missing in my life...
dreaming that upon waking relaxes my consciousness
as i no longer need to strain my faculty of memory:
this is me returning to the flow of water in time
rather than standing elbow-to-elbow like
a stone in space:
why would i need to take any psychedelic drugs
to elevate with whatever crude tools i already have?
i wanted to stop dreaming to find out why
my dementia riddle grandfather utilized memory
to create a Memory Cinema - dementia and insomnia...
of course he could still string two sentences together
and would spend his mornings reading the newspaper
from beginning to end and solved the crossword
puzzle... that was all there...
but... the way he employed memory...
it was sort of like me "forgetting" to dream...

well... granddad has been dead for almost 2 years now...
i think i can drop the project of understanding
dementia...
no wonder i felt so good having a 2h cycling session
today in the heavenly winds...
i was asked by my local surgery's nurse to drop
by and pick up a blood test form and clock up
my blood pressure... an average of
123 / 82 heart-beat at 93...
i know... it's not the best...
but i managed to drop from a systolic 143
to a systolic 123...
                      and this is after a 2h cycling session...
while i also managed to drop my diastolic from
over 90... 93... to 83... after 2h of cycling...
i imagine if i didn't cycle it wouldn't be considered
elevated... not bad... and i only stopped heavy drinking
since... 30th December... had a whiskey relapse on the 31st...
but it's the 4th of Jan now... so... well...
at 36 years old: i was still sort of expecting a quick
recovery... given my intention were in the right place:
i strained my body because i needed to strain my mind...
to understand... mortality...
i don't think the recovery would have been that quick
if i were simply drinking heavily, sniffing ******* on
the side by being a ******* octagon-type
Wall St. Bankers... would i now? my heart was in the right
place...

the added aesthetic bonus? my body might look great
from all the exercise, but yet my face retained some
puffiness from the excess drinking:
apparently it happens when drinking spirits...
your body attempts to retain as much water as possible,
no wonder i was rarely hangover...
my body built-up a defense mechanism against
being dehydrated, it would store liquid
in undesirable places... notably in the face...
puff-cheeks... oh ****... my face is.... SLIMMING...
i have cheek-bones! it's almost looking natural!
it almost suits more than ever having a full beard...
project no. 2... i'll trim the moustache myself...
while trimming the other expendable body-hairs...
retaining a proper turf from beard through
the chest and the rest of the torso toward
the ***** Eden region...

ah! but dream 1. wasn't really a dream...
it was a thought-dream...
i was conjuring up... a metaphor in my mind...
a cherry tree...
what comes before a cherry on a cherry-tree?
a cherry blossom...
what could a "God" give unto Adam...
or rather... if antimatter exists...
what could an Anti-Satan give unto Eve?
before a fruit is a fruit...
a fruit is a flower...

and this only exist in the ****** language... what?!
the following formulation in the rubric: qua -
as being... i.e.

kamień kamieniem
woda wodą
kot kotem
pies psem
litera literą
    ogień ogniem
czas czasem
              gitara gitarą
czerń czernią
smok smokiem
prawda prawdą
    wiatr wiatrem        all... all in all:
                                (~)QUA...
    dog (as) being a dog

if the serpent supposed ******* confusion gave
the woman the fruit: he gave her the womb first...
no wonder! it is time the serpent gave unto her
the fruit, the supposed ******* confusion
her ****** back: for her to... bear barren fruit...
in full blossom outside the realm of "patriarchy"...
****-mafia of the serpent...
aren't we ssssssssssssseing it right now?
finally! women can entertain the flower...
but not the fruit...
they can have their fruit tickled and teased and
glued to as many bothersome little bees...
lick tease lick tease thump and pump...
voodoo! voodoo!
oh... but first the ornament on the altar of man:
woman being given the fruit: the womb...
only now... barren womb...
now comes a sidewinder giving her the flower...
her ****...
the fruit is now rotting in the barren pool of history...
now! the exfoliating flower...
ah... but unlike fruits... that can be turned into
jams, baked... flowers last only ever so long...

if one is allowed to borrow from the Metaphors
of Moses...
if this supposed fruit, forbidden was given in...
paradise... seems strange...
not even the correct adjective - strangely:
ah... but the fruit was given in paradise in order
for man to replicate reproduction
of all the other animals... imagine paradise with
pregnancy, reproduction,
no wonder Satan no. 1 gave a fruit rather than
the flower of the fruit that was to become:
perhaps he saw wrecking ball Adam
inexperienced in tickling flowers enticed poor
Eve: by Oedipus man will get a chance to please
you... but for that to happen:
you will need to open up the fruits of your labour
and reproduce, while he will stomach nothingness
and a bright genius in his mind
to combat the elements: water with ships
with the aid of the wind inventing sails...
he will bring down fire to ease the warmth...
i can't imagine... perhaps Satan didn't want to
pluck the flower of the forbidden fruit tree
and give the fruit to Adam...
that would have been... a mightily short story...
if Satan gave the flower of the forbidden
tree to Adam... but no... he waited until the flower
turned into fruit and gave the fruit to Eve!

as i have learned, dearest, "father"... once you eat
the forbidden cherry blossom
and not the cherry...
    perhaps it's no Eden... perhaps it's just a brothel
in your palace of arrogance of Pandemonium...
perhaps... but... i just don't care if she ate the fruit:
that she's fertile...
i've eaten the forbidden cherry blossom:
i don't need to eat the forbidden cherry...
maybe that's why the Madam banished Mona back
to Romania: what if... me teasing her ****** without
a ******... just teasing... before her putting it on...
and ******* into the rubber...
she... decided to self-inseminate herself with my *****
and ******* back to Romania?
what if God is the Madam in this story and she
was banished from the "Eden" of the brothel?!

mommy don't know that daddy's getting hot at the body-shop
doing something unholy...
ssssssseems befitting... i'll call this the year of the flies...
why would my house suddenly entertain
these... dozen if if not more... fleshy black...
dearest, "father"... is there rebellion in the ranks?
why would Beelzebub send his emissaries come
the new year?!

seems no reason, none: whatsoever,
cider is a bit like champagne: more fruity and most certainly
most sweet...
i know that this writing is but a sketch and something
more prolific could morph out of it...
something as succinct as the last book
of the old Testament: the contradictory concept
of reincarnation of the prophet Elijah as promised
by Malachi... monotheism is still teasing with
the polytheism is so despises...
no wonder that both the polytheism of India
and the atheism (conventional human wisdom
of intellects sparring) of China feels so...
sssssso undisturbed... no wonder the concept
of the civilisation-state rather than
the western take on the ethno-state...
why is it that the western world is so polygamous
in its ethnicity... the crumbling civilisation:
Oedipus gave his plucked-out eyes to Samson...
and Samson is shaking the cradle with baby-Holocaust
in it...
sure... they were Jews: given that the state of Israel
was established... but by law... they were Polish nationals...
easily forgotten... given...
the close "alliance" of resurrection of either of the people's
states...
           unlike like in England were
the last invasion happened with the Normans in 1066...
plenty of time to invent cricket, football,
afternoon tea... pastime literature...
lazing about and Victorian moral standards...
of: doth black so well without an Arabic veil!

enough! 12am has come and my bedtime has
arrived... i don't need to torture myself through and
thoroughly into the night!
the night is for sleeping... and right now?
agitate some beehive of dreamsssssss!

— The End —