one person said: "peace is nothing but illusion
all I want is retribution"
[from "Pure Power" by Zardonic]
that's something I can identify with, which is why
I decided to write this heap of lines
————————————————————————————————
on a shooting range in a boondock la[ɛ]nd
with gloves pU̲t on; sta[ɛ]nd
in front of an autocratic ruler chained
by his hands to two moola safes'
[greed]
handles looking way
like an old-fangled car directing wheel
[steering wheel]
have this die-hard fool restrained
so that he, more or less, is still
I'm not a scho[ɑ]lar who can wave
around a degree in the medics field
but it's obvi this high-hat dO̲U̲chebag's plagued
with megalomania in a neglected condition
but there's a dreadfully effectual treatment
and he'll get it like villains
quite a gruesome fate
is looming upon this power-befuddled ****
like darkened clouds that, beyo[ɑ]nd a doubt, are soon to rain
["dark end"]
like waveriders, he's go[ʌ]nna serve
["surf"]
as a punchbag for I'm in quite a mood to raze
gonna wI̲nd up as nada short
of a ****** loon today
like Battinson, clepe me Vengeance
but I'm more something like the Zorro-looking caped
anti-autocratic vigila[ɛ]nte
from the Norsefire-ruled UK
[V from "V For Vendetta"]
meets someone whose work field's tormenting
like victimizers who pertain
to LE in one tsar-sized off-putting state
[law enforcement]
you know, the one that's go[ɑ]t a putrid trait
of always posing as a side you shouldn't blame (it's all the West!)
(now, let's go back to the foul autocrat)
like a jerky boss that you disdain
I give this no[ɑ]b a cool g'day
by douching him from a bo[ɑ]ttle full of straight-
-fro[ʌ]m-a-cooler H2O; just a fE̲w secs break
for him, & once it's U̲p, I ****** this base
being fro[ʌ]m a stE̲wpot great
with **[ɑ]t-a## noodles aimed
into this hU̲mbug's stupid face
[the "hang noodles on the ears" expression]
pepper it with some ground 7-po[ɑ]t to boost the taste
feel how I, like a husband who betrayed
his devoted, yet testy, wife, get rudely gazed
at, racked, beda[ɛ]mned (by who?)
by food-lacking men from Africla[ɛ]nd
[Africa]
ask him: "is the provided food okay?"
zero gratitU̲de displayed
all that comes from this sno[ɑ]t's bazoo's complaint
but nO̲[ɑ]t that I'm surprised
a typical pro[ɑ]sperous gobshite
the tack priorly applied
I do the same with a bucket full of maroonish paint
[autocrats have blood on their hands, hence "maroonish paint"]
like that music producer famed for dull future bass
I put on his viscous head a **** bucket
[Marshmello]
whereafter pick a wedge up & drum it
[golf wedge]
and, like a heap, I barely get started
[worn-out car]
like an unprepped passenger on an insane car ride
with no seat restraints applied
he's about to have a way hard time
I'm a cosmetic surgeon that operates part-time
fix his blamed jawline in just twain sharp swipes
with a steel bat, then yield some keen slaps
that meet his kneecaps until the knees snap
like the Baba Yaga hitman detached
from his peaceful life by someone ge[ɪ]tting him mad
[John Wick]
get his nails removed
which is pretty much the same that you do
when you repaper a room
[wall nails]
having perforated his fingertips
I ge[ɪ]t 'em plastered
a few minutes later, I rip them things
off 'kin/sim. to wax strips
he gets his phA̲[eɪ]lanxes smitten with
a freaking ratchet
[rathet wrench]
pro[ɑ]b'ly, he regrets
that his bo[ɑ]dy's still not dead
pick U̲p a pistol, set
a drum-like clip in, get
it cocked, then shoot lead around his silhouette
till the clip has zero ammunition left
seems like this once co[ɑ]cky piece of dreck
has gotten his khaki chinos wet
but if I've go[ɑ]t him in a sweat
like a summer jo[ɑ]gger being dressed
in venthole-deficient threads
for this brash dude, there's bad news
like me when I write some sick bloodshed
sadly for him, I've not finished yet (uh-uh)
like a runner that's go[ɑ]t some distance left
to complete, & it's not as dark as things can get
'cause, like the heroine o[ʌ]f M. Streep in "Death
Becomes Her" after falling fro[ʌ]m that string of steps
I've got a somewhat twisted head
[Madeline Ashton; the staircase fall scene]
so consider this as an insult-to-inju[—]ry sesh
grab a brace of scissors
for garden mainte[—]nance; Richard
Trager comes into play; begin ta
amputate his fingers; operate at leisure
disarticulate 'em I̲nto twenty eight **** pieces
cauterizing the remains with illuminated cI̲gars
fling into his piggish face some tissues
and some pain relievers
tell this nazissistic patient "hE̲A̲l up"
["****" in the sense of being "severely intolerant or dictatorial"]
let him relax for eighteen minutes
over the spa[ɛ]n of whI̲ch I put on play "La Chica
Rockabilly" & some other ro[ɑ]ckabilly
jams to make the whole vibe a mite less grisly
like an NA brown bear that is gravely injured
["mightless grizzly"; North American]
(as, in fact, this tragic-fated bleeder)
whereafter spray him with a
["wither"]
can of gas & make his dicta—
—torial a## go ablaze akin ta
a straw-fabricated figure
during gala days at the late of winter
[Maslenitsa effigy]
telling this piece of trash "in case you wI̲[ɪ]nd up
in somewhat of Hades, give a
warm shalom to the infamous ******"
consider this autocratic ****
a sugar daddy's skirt
'cause he's gotten what he was asking for
————————————————————————————————
oh, & one thing more to say: the
nullified, like ruler's presiding terms, dictator
was known among some as "toilet sprayer"
like a scuttered urinator

Someone moves like a python striking prey,
someone screams at the top of their voice moving away,
and suddenly it's as though I'm back to you and me,
and I relive all the things you'd do to me.

Someone brushes me by; touching my skin,
and a friend kisses me on the cheek with a friendly grin -
but I flinch violently; scared of what might happen, evergrowing eerier
because you used to leave not kisses but bruises laced on my exterior.

Someone is drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey
not caring about his actions which really are rather risky.
And I'm reminded of you and the way you used to drink
and how you'd blame It for the way you'd throw my head against a wall with a clink.

Someone spills wine onto the floor without a care,
but all I can do is panic and stare,
because had that been me when I was with you,
I'd have been your punchbag every waking moment - you know it's true.

for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.

Isn't it time,
to stand up for what's right.
Do the right thing.
and for once defend myself?
Am I just going to sit here,
listening to the screaming,
the swearing, the nonsense
coming from the other room?
A closed door, I sit here,
a pillow on my face, crying for
a different life.

I lost myself,
How could I do it again,
No one will ever love her like I do,
But the fear in her eyes…
I am sick,
But when I say I’m sorry and she forgives me.
Maybe it’s alright.
It’s just when I’m drunk,
I’ll stop this time.

Could I forgive him once more?
Am I able to call a drunk my soulmate?
My heart breaks everytime I undress myself.
A scar here, a bruise there, a love... gone?
Can't he see his drinking is
tearing us apart, and above all,
abusing my heart in all ways.
I'm scared.
Scared to look into his eyes.
Frightened to argue with him.
What should I do?

I see her pain,
That’s what makes me drink,
It’s what makes me angry,
I cause this me,
There is no one else to blame,
Except when I’m woozy,
Then it’s her,
It’s the woman’s fault were poor,
That I’m forced to spend all my money on alcohol,
Why she’s bruised? Better than she deserves.
I just… hope I don’t go too far.

If only my current regret,
was something different, to be able to confront.
A regret of him, or a regret of his drinking.
How can I make this relationship work?
When talking leads to screaming,
pouring leads to punching, and
an 'I'm sorry' means nothing at all.
I forgive him, for maybe a change of heart.
Maybe if he sees my wounded soul,
he'll change.
It'll be a dream come true.

When no ones there,
And I’m all alone.
I cry myself to sleep,
In my pathetic little existence,
I am king,
But at who’s expense,
The tax payer is me.
Even if she’s got the money.

Do I make him happy?
He's miserable everyday.
I do everything for him, I even allow myself
to be his very own punchbag.
At what cost?
For his beloved love, that's all I want.
But, if he's not going to provide,
I just have to stand up for myself.
Put in a good word, maybe then,
he'll treat me better.

I can hear her thoughts now.
She’s plotting against me.
The she devil, she’s always against me!
I can’t stand her presence,
It’s foul to the cell,
But I cant be without her either.
When I see her tears,
Even though I know it’s a façade,
I think angel and love and desire above.
Still a conspiracy is a conspiracy,
And its time for me, to do what I do.

No, my mind is going crazy for him.
I must stop, must stop him now.
I'm allowing him to spit on me.
Such shame brought to my name.
I must be crazy, to think that he will change.
He hasn't all this time, and never will.
It's said and done.
This must be a past.
My heart and body needs healing.
But I mustn't see him, I have to leave.
For his eyes drags me to his spell.
I can't take this much longer.

And then it was a dark and dreary day,
When I was fired once again,
Being a drunkard they said,
Well F them.
I came home shaggy, tired and distraught,
These bills just weren’t going to get done.
Life was over anywhere.
But, there was that good old reliable beer,
And I had one, and then more.
When she came home from her mothers,
The house was dark and quiet.
She never knew what hit her,
Thought you wouldn’t have know by her screams and tears.
The blood was the worst,
It got everywhere.

you are the calm of the torrential rain
good from far, get drenched out there
you are the stars in the sky
twinkling from afar, unattainable reality
you are the blue of the horizon
ocean meeting the sky in a straight line
you are the green of the mountain range
jagged here and there with gigantic rocks
you are the blazing hot sun
upfront, upclose, not safe for me to be bare
you are the mellow yellow moon
melting my heart, putting my guard down
you are in my dreams and waking thoughts
making me weep of joy, also of sorrow
you are ...
so much more ...
you are my proverbial shoulder, my punchbag

My own brother came down
he used me as his emotional punchbag
he told me I am useless and a hippy
it hurt me very much and was broken and sad

Who needs enemies with my own blood like him
my heart is broken
my mind is full of doubt
all because of him

For over two years when he was ill
I cared for him with his TB and pills
and my reward when he got better
is this.. a ****** kick in the head

I will try to forgive him
but I will never forget
that he did hurt me so much
that I wished I was dead


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Your lover is useful
He is the chef only free for you
He is the plumber wouldn't charge you anything
He is the handy IT guy whenever you have problems with computers

Your lover is thoughtful
He would pick you up when you
have to work late, and even
put a mug of warm milk at your bed side
He would prepare everything you need when you're on period, even be your punchbag
He would not judge you when you've done something so wrong that you even regret it
He would even praise you for being regretful

Your lover is beautiful
He has the body that could rival David
He has the face that puts Adonis to shame
He has the disposition so graceful that Cumberbatch be disgraced

Your lover is so good
that you cross the sea to be with him

Your lover is impeccable
(Yet) Your lover does not speak your language

I'm still falling
from when I hit the wall
My lifeless body
had forbid me to crawl
Still quite the punchbag
but not quite the son
Taught the lesson
to know when to run

revitalizing ontology,
    on the basis of ***,
          rather than reinvigorating
ontology,
with a post scriptum
that's ***?
              bad idea...
whatever the propaganda
is, left, right, or center -
i'm in the dodo project camp...
i'm not exactly hot-headed
for the passing of the genes
argument...
         i like the role
of a cameo status...
   i'm not here for
the patriarchal status...
            of furthered, in ditto,
example...
           no one said that i have to...
so?
     i won't;
   plenty of useful idiots waiting
their turn;
i'm almost ecstatic...
waiting my turn, for an elaboration
of the ******...
            CHOICE...
   and...
           really?
  i've encountered more prostitutes
who took more responsibility
over becoming impregnated,
than your, "free", women...
              don't start ******* on the foot
that makes the first thread of
walking the pavement
it secured in what it later calls
civilization...
             seriously?!
          a woman can turn a man
into an orphanage donor with a flick
of the index and thumb rickety click click
punchbag?
   - and trans-nationalistic?
          WHAT?!
           i've lost the origins of the plot...
and you don't have one anymore...
       keep it among
the homosexual community of
surrogate mm... -hood...
              mama papa swan...
  i want to commit suicide...
   for one reason alone...
      i can't be bothered living in a world,
in the medium of
homosexually raised children,
and advanced a.i.,
                 sorry...
   too much grammar lessons...
and, last time i checked...
i was taught the english language,
without even focusing on the grammar...
   nope...
              teach a your ******* french bulldog
to usher in a maine **** meow...
    prison? i don't mind...
i guess i might radicalize someone
once inside... it's not a problem!
         but succumbing to this *******
revision of grammar?!
          my first dobermann?
axel?!
                i wish i had him handy right now...
and in most instances:
i can be nice...
but when i ask for coordinates?
******* attitude...
hiding, hiding...
      scuttling like rats
before a pompous fox march...
ah... whatever...
         i already offered a chance
to meet and talk over a beer...
      but... apparently...
  i'm relegating myself to talking
to quasi-autistic sham-exploiters.