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howard brace Aug 2013
"A leisurely breakfast" their mother would admonish, "aids digestion and builds strong bones..." so what with the imposed inactivity every morning, boredom broken only by Sockeye the family Spaniel, whose want of table manners coincided very conveniently with mealtimes... as he paced restlessly under the table, slobbering indiscriminately in his daily scramble to devour every dangling morsel before supply and demand shut up shop for the night and went home, far tastier... he gobbled down the latest offering of egg white, than the remnants of his own dietary allowance, they just had to get the timing right that was all, or risk loosing a finger, or gaining one depending upon who was doing the dangling, or who was doing the gobbling... he gave an indignant sneeze, not so much a hint but more of a... 'what's with the pepper malarky...'  So that it was only with a good deal of snappy hand coordination, lengthy digestion and sturdy bone building that Rocky was finally able to extricate himself from the table and make the most of what little time remained until lunchtime, meagre time indeed for the Rocky's of this world to hang around with their dogs, leaving their little sisters to help mums do, whatever it was that girls usually did when they should have scooted out of the kitchen faster, when it would have been all so much simpler just to grab a handful of biscuits instead...  Meanwhile, laying in wait in the room above, flat out upon the bedroom counterpane, having recently had their insides stuffed to bursting with a full English breakfast's worth of beach and holiday apparal... and that was just the luggage.    

     The contents of which, up until a week last washday had been snoozing fitfully behind 'Do Not Disturb' signs, cautiously peeping out from the gloomier, more remote recesses of the bedroom dresser, or carefully concealed in cupboards and closets... and being in every other respect by no means readily accessible to public scrutiny of any kind... had been left to their own devices some twelve months earlier with a clear understanding to skip bath nights from that moment on and henceforth immerse themselves in the heady, camphorated pungency of mothball, vowing once and for all never to darken portmanteau lids again... but now, after many hours of arduous laundering and de-fumigation... were now being squeezed and unceremoniously shoe-horned into what had recently become nothing short of an overcrowded sanctuary for the dispossessed.  
              
     Meanwhile, all the luggage asked from life other than be detained under section four of the Mental Health Act, 1983 and be found cosy padded accommodation elsewhere... was to have their interiors vacated, their tranquility reinstated... and with a questionable wink from a dodgy Customs official, have their travel permits invalidated... irrevocably, for despite throwing a double six for a spot of well earned convalescence back on top of the wardrobe some twelve months ago, basking in the shade of a warm Summer Sun, striking up the occasional conversation with the floral decor, third bloom from the left currently answering to the name of Petunia, the still over extended luggage, seemingly with little hope of R & R this side of the letter Q, faced the perennial disquiet of vacational therapy, of being knelt on, sat and bounced upon and be specifically manhandled in ways that matching sets of co-ordinated luggage should not...
                                        
     Tina could be heard quite distinctly in the next street concerning her husbands lack of competence, whilst Red it appeared had become just as outspoken as his wife in that particular direction... as the local self appointed busybody, who lived well within earshot of the address in question would bear witness to as she put feverish pen to paper, writing to what had become a regular... and some would say hot bed of intrigue in the local tabloid concerning how vociferous the once tranquil neighbourhood had become of recent and how certain undesirable elements within the community were to be heard carrying on alarmingly at all hours, day and night... and as she diligently weighed her civic duty against simple household economics as to whether to send this latest block busting eye opener by first or second class post, their parents could now be heard broadcasting, if anything to a wider listening audience than the previous newsflash, some of the more sensational episodes of the previous twenty-four hours as to who was pulling whose suitcase zipper now... although in which direction it should be pulled, they both agreed, wasn't for public disclosure at that time... vowing to draw blood well before the day was out, as three lacerated fingers would later testify and that it was only because of the children that they were going at all... but God willing, they would be setting off very shortly with rosy smiles on their faces for the sole benefit of the neighbours, even if it killed them. 

     Spurred to fever pitch  by this latest 'stop-the-press' newsflash, the same public spirited busybody now threw herself wholeheartedly into further award winning journalism and for the second time that morning took to pen and paper, only now directed to the gossip column in the local Parish Gazette, followed by grievous lamentations of impending bloodshed to the incumbent Chief Constable as to how they'd all be murdered in their beds ere long before nightfall.

     By devouring his water bowl, thereby dispensing with the need for it to be washed and by its abrupt and mysterious absence, disposing of all further incriminating evidence as to where the abundant supply of liquid, now surging copiously across the kitchen floor had sprung from... the flash-flood was hastily making its own getaway beneath the kitchen units, leaving Sockeye to his own devices to carry the can on his own, ankle deep in what up until earlier that morning had been sloshing around quite contentedly in Eccup reservoir.

      Having inadvertently released the handbrake in a boyish gesture of bravado, thereby placing himself in sole charge of a runaway vehicle, Sockeye it appeared was not the only member of the Salmon family to have dropped himself right in it that day as Rocky, having unwittingly placed the following ten years pocket money well out of reach and back into the pockets of his parents dwindling resources, had to a far greater extent nominated himself for the same Earth moving experience as the one his mum would shortly be giving Sockeye...

      Having just been granted licence to do whatsoever it pleased, the vehicle began its leisurely rearwards perambulation down the long garden driveway and by way of small thanks for its new found independence took Rocky along for the ride where due to a certain lack of stature on Rocky's part, at no point had he ever been in the slightest position to influence the Holiday threatening train of events which now engulfed him, never thinking to reapply the handbrake... that would be too easy, he perched on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel and stretched out his sturdy little legs in an heroic, but futile attempt to reach the pedals as the family car, which up until any second now had been his fathers pride and joy, pitched backwards at what seemed to Rocky, breakneck speed and directly into a very severe and unforgiving brick wall.

     Almost missing this latest round of entertainment above that of her parents most recent exchange, River accompanied by Sockeye scampered outdoors and slap into what could only be described as the most fun she'd had all year as an unsuspecting "what was that noise" muscled its way through the open bedroom window and fell flat on its face in the garden below and which, if that morning to date was anything to go by, then the neighbourhood would soon be tuning in to the latest Salmon family's 'hot-off-the-press' breaking news bulletin.

     Opening her mouth River hesitated as she fine-tuned the speech centres of her young and delicate synapse into full vocal alignment, then adjusting shutter speed from f8 to automatic she closed her mouth... then opened it once again and informed her brother that if the tip of dads size 9 was an Olympic gold, then Rocky would be sure to take first in the 110 metre hurdling event with 'team GB...' and could she have his autograph... with those words of solid encouragement rattling around his ears like the last biscuit in an otherwise empty tin box, River went skipping back into the house to announce the latest newsflash of her parents next financial happening... which she felt certain would prompt further rounds of thought provoking front page journalism.

     A steady two hours drive away, over on the east coast, the inhabitants of a sleepy fishing community were gainfully employed, pretty much as any other, going about their daily business, one such denizen... a baby crustacean, currently marooned by the tide had taken up temporary accommodation in a beachfront rock-pool property of certain distinction, was as yet unaware of a completely different and obscure set of circumstances that would shortly be rearing his slobbering jowls and bring all four paws, the size of dinner plates, crashing down upon the unsuspecting seashore fauna... was determined while she waited to catch the next high tide home, that until such time that the right wave rolled along, would potter about in the little rock-pool, perhaps indulge herself in a leisurely bathe... and catch up on a spot of therapeutic knitting.

     So, placing the days events since breakfast into perspective...  [i]  the vehicle indemnity provider, henceforth to be named 'the party of the first part', who currently weren't cognisant of an impending claim to date, would shortly be laying eggs attempting to squirm out of all liability, due to  [ii]  the automobile, driven by a minor, fortunately for Salmon senior on private land and henceforth, the aforementioned to be called 'the third party, to the party of the second part...' which urgently needed rigorous cosmetic attention to the rear tail light cluster and surrounding bodywork so as to maintain a favourable resale mark-up price.  [iii]  Having been dragged kicking and screaming from the top of the wardrobe, the luggage had rapidly developed cold feet and cried sudden illness in the family, but were being taken to the Wake anyway.  [iv]  Wrapped around the hot water cylinder since the previous Summer, the various sundry items of holiday apparel stood united, resolute as a Union Picket line not be seen dead looking as though they'd never so much as seen the bottom of a flat-iron.  [v]  Both Red and his wife, Tina, despite wearing the same anaemic smile as the one show to the neighbours as they departed, travelling counter clockwise along the crescent so as not to unduly advertise their recent misadventure with the garage wall, were only going for the sake of the children, whilst  [vi]  River and her errant brother didn't want to go anyway dismayed at leaving the television set behind, were already missing their favourite programs, which only really left  [vii]  'mans-best-friend' who, when he wasn't actually hanging over the front seat giving dad big sloppy licks as though... 'are we nearly there yet' or perhaps... 'I need to stop and spend a penny... or you'll all know about it if you don't,' was more than content to be taking up the majority of the rear seating arrangements and with a delinquent wag of his tail, was deliriously happy to be wherever his family were.**

                                                        ­                             ...   ...   ...

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                                 ­  1862
Caroline Grace Jul 2017
Concealed depression is
Buying water proof mascara
So you won't have to reapply makeup
after each daily breakdown.

Concealed depression is
Laughing at everything
so they won't question
why your eyes always water.

Concealed depression is
staying up until 4 a.m
because it's the only time
you can ignore the world
and no one will notice.

...Or concealed depression is
taking three melatonins
in hopes you'll sleep deep
enough to keep the terrors at bay.

Concealed depression is
Staying consistently busy
So your mind will be too exhausted
at the end of the day to fight you.

Concealed depression is
the impatient selfish monster
that burns bridges as you cross them.

Concealed depression is
feeding yourself lies like
"I'm fine" or "I won't cry".

Concealed depression is
the uphill battle that you don't get to win once;
it's a mountain you're forced to climb every single day.

Concealed depression is
silently screaming, hoping someone
will have super sonic hearing,
swoop in like a bat,
and carry you under their wings.

Concealed depression is
never hugging too tightly
or meeting a gaze too intensely
in case your guts may slip
out before you can catch them.

So when they accuse you of changing,
when they accuse you of rage and indifference,
of violence and apathy,
when they ask why you never called,
when they ask why you never told them,
all you can say is that concealed depression
is like an overbooked hotel and there's only room for one.
All you can say is that you were afraid
Your darkness would drown them too
and then there would be no one left to save you.
Ady Feb 2015
I took a blade home and tried it on
my skin as you would to a nice new
shade of lipstick.
It suited my skin and was long lasting.
I'm addicted; so much that I reapply it
every day.
Finally I've found, the perfect shade to
compliment my skin tone.
Erika Skye Jun 2013
That feeling that you get when you drop the last bit of your ice cream cone.
When you think you lost your phone and it's in your back pocket.
When you simply can't find your glasses, which are on your head.
When you trip over a painted line.
When your bookmark falls out of your book.
When you think there's an extra step at the top of the stairs.
When you think there's an extra step at the bottom of the stairs.
When you conveniently keep hitting a newly formed bruise.
When you can't find a matching sock.
When you accidentally press send before you're ready.
When you break a hair tie.
When you step in a deceivingly large puddle.
When you get a paper cut.
When you scratch a CD/DVD.
When you sing along to a song you hate.
When someone steps on the back of your shoe.
When someone's tag is sticking out.
When someone's a loud chewer or chews with their mouth open.
When your hair blows around and gets stuck in your gum or chap stuff on your lips.
When you stain your clothes.
When you lose an earring.
When you run out of cream for your coffee.
When you get to E in your gas tank.
When you step in gum.
When you sit on hot leather seats.
When you sit on wicker furniture with shorts on.
When you get shampoo in your eye.
When the soap is so small it crumbles to pieces.
When no one refills the toilet paper.
When someone sticks the milk or juice back in the fridge with half a sip left.
When you can't for the life of you think of the name of something.
When you forget how to spell simple words.
When you have to walk barefoot on hot pavement.
When you get an awkward sun tan.
When you forget to reapply.
When you get fingerprints on your glasses.
When someone spoils a movie or TV show.
When your favorite character dies (love you Sirius).
When you have an itch with a cast on.
When you can't open a combination lock.
When you hear a mosquito in your ear.
When you drop your change everywhere.
When you smudge your nails right after painting them.
When the Bruins lose.
When the end of your jeans fray.
When you get hat head.
When you get shocked by inanimate objects or people.
When you (re)realize there will never be a new Harry Potter book.
When you have something stuck in your teeth.
When you can't fall asleep at night.
When you can't turn your mind off.
When your phone decides to shut itself off.
When you have a cord that just isn't long enough.
*When time after time I have to remind myself that you aren't who I thought you were.
b for short Jul 2016
I’d imagine my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****— car accidents, nights of overindulgence at the bar, trespassing to “not-so-skinny” skinny dip in gorges tucked away deeply between mountains. I’d imagine she’s shaken her head at me more times than she’s offered me a high five. I’d imagine I make her use less-than-flowery four letter language when I speak, loudly, without thinking first. I’d imagine she cringes when I forget to reapply sunscreen and fall asleep on the beach for three hours. I’d imagine she often questions why she got stuck with a soul that just can’t seem to settle and fit into a set groove.

I’d imagine she’s annoyed by the fact that I’m not a wholly religious person. I ask too many questions to let well enough alone. I’d imagine that she nearly has a heart attack when she taps into my thoughts when we pass a hoard of sweaty, young and rugged road construction workers on the highway. I’d imagine she’s over the moon that she’s not my mother, and that she definitely throws out some extra Hail Marys when I wake up thirty minutes late for work and somehow think I still have time to stop and get an iced chai latte.

I’d imagine that my guardian angel has put up with a lot of ****, but nothing quite so challenging as the loss of a soul I loved more than any other on this planet. I’d imagine she’d rather see me with a no-good, devilish smirk on my lips than these unpredictable streams of tears down my cheeks. I’d imagine she’d hush the thousands of questions circulating inside my head that just can’t be answered. I’d also imagine that she’d agree—the inside of my brain sounds a lot like some frat boy got really drunk, made some awful beats, and proclaimed himself the master of Fruity Loops. I’d imagine she, too, would like it to cease immediately, because it’s never, ever going to sound like something that makes sense.

I’d imagine that she’s mapped out all of the cracks this has left in my heart, navigated them, and is ready and waiting with the super glue and duct tape to make me feel whole again. I’d imagine that my pain is as much her charge as my happiness, and that she tries to deflect and channel it into better things whenever she’s able.

I’d imagine my guardian angel has now gained a great friend who can share in her grief of protecting me. Someone who also has shaken his head at me countless times for a lot of the same aforementioned antics, someone who was a little too tall to offer me high-fives but offered me the low ones with a side of a hug instead. Someone who always told me to calm down before I spoke—who told me to stop overthinking things until they didn’t make sense. Someone who always reminded me to reapply my sunscreen—who always ultimately tried to deflect my pain too.

I’d imagine my guardian angels expect me to continue to keep them on their toes. I'd imagine I don’t plan to disappoint either of them in the slightest.

*Rest easy. I'll be seeing you.
© Bitsy Sanders, July 2016
basil Oct 2021
i make these lists in my head
of my ideal partner
and i know that it's not fair or healthy
but i do it anyway

they have to wear jewelry and have their ears pierced
it would be good if they had a sense of anarchy
love of reading is a must, and they'd better read my suggestions
i want someone with a pretty voice
to read me poetry and sing duets with me in the car
speaking of, i'd like them to have a car
because i believe in the inherent romance of the passenger seat
i would steal the aux cord and blast the playlist that they made me

i want to love someone who loves things
who loves to love things
almost as much as i do

they have to love art, and it would be a plus if they made some
because i can't draw for sh*t, but i can look at paintings until i die
i want to go to art museums with them and symphonies and plays
we can sit in the cheapest seats and throw pennies instead of roses

god, i want someone with strong hands
that can hold me and i will just know that they want to
i want to love someone with dyed hair
so i can sit with them between my legs as i reapply the color
and have stains on my fingers for weeks
i want a poet, because i want to be immortalized
in raw phrases in a moleskin journal

but i just haven't met this person yet
i don't know if i ever will
****, not me trying to manifest my soulmate <//3

10.04.2021
JL Feb 2012
I was down on one knee
Sliding that ring on your finger
That I bought after working
In Texas for a year

Now I'm down on two knees praying
I'll forget all
The lies you told
And the ones my mind found out

Looking fir an answer in the bottle
A grin like death
And breath that kills the trees
I put you out
Like a fire on the stove
Faster than greased lightning
I remembered your hands fooling
With the zipper on my jeans

I took two trips across town to the ***** house
Were liquor smiles put my heart at ease
And the only thing now that really matters
Is the way to bed and how much it'll be

At least I know that shes a two-timer
Its written out on practiced smiles
And lipstick
You reapply when I get dressed and leave
Laura Sep 2018
You stand behind me
Holding my waist
As I swipe green glitter
Over my lids
You kiss my neck
When I
Blot my blush pink lips
You run your hands
Through my hair
As I try to brush
Knots and tangles out
I bat your hands away
While giggling a bit
You always try to bug me
But I don't mind at all
I like the attention
You don't want
To mess up my makeup
But you still kiss me
I can always reapply
I snort
Because blush pink
Isn't your color
And wipe it off your lips
With my thumbs
You look into my eyes
Tell me how pretty I am
And I can feel my cheeks
Turn red and warm
I swoon a little
Thank goodness
You're holding me tight
Because I just fell
In love
A little bit more
oni Oct 2016
bye
thank you for showing me
that high heels are useless
unless you strut -
so ill reapply my lipstick,
kiss the mirror instead of you,
and move on.
CP Aug 2016
I joke I make a great punch,
but if you knew me you'd have a hunch
something is very wrong,
when I am very gone.

I begin sinking in my chair
my emotions are very bare
I feel my heartbeat.

This liquid courage is a cheat
the after taste is not very sweet,
I drank a glass, or two
it's all gone a bit askew.

This liquid courage is a cheat
I still don't feel complete
I drank a glass, or two
maybe I don't have a clue.

I just wanted to talk without thinking
I didn't want to feel like I was sinking
everyone else in the room seems fine
maybe I should just grow a spine
but it's not even nine and my blood is half wine.

I think I'm drowning,
why is everyone around me frowning?

This liquid courage is a cheat
I just wanted to feel upbeat
maybe if I reapply my lipstick- wait, I'm going to be sick

This liquid courage is a cheat
it leaves you downbeat,
you need to find your own two feet

Get up the chair, brush your hair
and then everyone there will become aware.
Don't worry about what to wear,
because they'll all stare.

Be bare and share, you don't need this much liquid courage
but one small glass I won't discourage.
Redshift May 2013
little red,
you are here
to make it better
for everyone.
that is your purpose.
you are to make things
better
for your family
for other people
to make things
just a little easier
and if you are good
and kind
and nice
and fake
with a smile
cast
in plaster
maybe someday
someone will make it better for you
in return.
this is a cheerful fact,
little red.
why aren't you
smiling?
hasn't the
chalky water
and paper
dried
yet?
hmm...we might have to
reapply
tables they turn sometimes
always so predictable - retreat to the bathroom

and brush your teeth, reapply the deodorant

for another round. slink back through the door -

cracked enough to let the moans slip out and echo

into the unfurnished house. attempt - and fail

to arouse me with a probing tongue, and whisper

the same compliments that no longer impress.

pause. ******. resume.

lay me on my back or push me up against

the curtained window, it makes no difference to me anymore,

I’ll just close my eyes and pretend, making more noise

in pain than in pleasure. and when I tell you to

come, it’s a plea more for my sake than yours.
Dina Aug 2014
Look at how I've controlled your little mind
I find humor in when you think that without me you won’t please yours or any other eye
I can manipulate you into believing that in my absence that word pretty you will never define
Chanel, L’Oreal, Maybelline
what else of me have you  prioritized
of what I offer, you own a collection so wide
from your dresser
to your pocket
or in that bag you carry by your side
contouring so you can attain that distinct jaw line
or black winged liner to change the shape of your eye
why haven't you realized?
that you're gradually making me a necessity in your lives
though
of this you have no clue
due to your false judgment which has convinced you to assume
that your flaws should be hidden because they don’t make you, you
The richness of the colors I offer
will keep you satisfied
The cherry red on your lips that feels every breath
you take in
one smudge and you’re ready to reapply
why
do you act as if nature has done some sort of crime?
Let face it if there’s anyone who should be fined
it is I
for deluding you to ignore the innocence of your face
whose beauty you've chose not to embrace
and have resorted to me as your only escape
leaving  with what’s beneath to suffocate
making you confident
like fulfilling some need
only for a period of time
I succeed
so on me don’t be too dependent
for I’m just a temporary lie
step outside
keeping in mind
that true beauty radiates from what’s inside
don't take to heart on what they criticize
do not get used to me
because dear
I do not define
Michelle Aug 2015
I've written 64 poems about you.
Let this be the last.
I plead and I beg you,
Become a thing of my past.

If you love me
Then leave me
Like you left me before,
When you left me for dead on our ***-tainted floor.

Get out, get out of my brain and my head,
Out from under my skin and the sheets of my bed.

I'm not asking for our memories to be all erased,
Just asking to ease the pain of lovesick and daze.
I'm asking for my thoughts to be clear of this haze,
And to find love easier than in the paths of this maze.

Is it too much to ask to come down from your high?
To remove the imprint of handprint from my hideous thigh?
To fall down from something which once made me fly?
This rhyme scheme's a mess and I can only guess why.
It symbolises the chaotic and desperate tears that I cry.
And I cry off my makeup only to reapply
Mascara tears that give me another black eye.
And I cry and I cry till my eyes are run dry.
Want to know something else I hate about I?
I said this is the last but I know that's a lie.
I promise I'm going to stop writing repetitive poems about love and relationships soon...
Anna Skinner Mar 2017
i’m wearing malbec lipstick at 330 in the afternoon, my own personal hue that stains lips and teeth, drips down my chin so a tongue flicks out to savor the drop. it leaves a maroon trace like i’ve been ******* blood.
when i swill the wine, it captivates me. like i'm swishing around my own blood, praying enough of it sloshes out to **** me.
i’m headed to catholic church in an hour, maybe i’ll light a candle for myself.
god knows i ******* need it.
i’m at that delicate lining, the in-between stage of the five stages of grief. the soft spot at the base of my skull. self-destruct button that’s so tempting, nestled between anger and depression. skip bargaining. take a trip around the sun.
i've lost my hair tie and i want it back.
i've lost my heart and i want it back. ******* give it back.
reapply mauve lipstick the flavor of malbec. go to church. rinse the good off when you get home.
i still feel him inside of me. taking everything. claiming it as his own, two hundred and fifty-eight hours later. like he’s stained me and now i'm tainted and unapproachable. undesirable.
piece of plastic wrap that used to keep his heart fresh, now i'm trash.
now i’m his.
katie Jan 2014
Killing me.
that's what you're doing.
making parallels.
using parallels.

take those parallels.
scrunch them up.
wrap them up in your fist
call them your own
keep them warm in your hand
in your safety
drive them secretly insane.
your innocence.
my mind.

take your squiggled straight lines.
reapply them.
that's what you're really doing to me.
(killing becomes "kissing" when you "scrunch" the l shapes (the parallels))
Harmony Sapphire Mar 2016
"Sometimes your worst self is your best self
The moonlight divides the shadows.
The essence of a black rose.
Butterflies flutter by through the air.
Unaware they are there without a care.
I grab thee adorable like a snuggle bear.
Not to get a job in this city is unfair.
At the interview discrimination to my face they dare.
I do not run, I am not scared.
I reapply consecutively, insanity flares.
I am invisible, I am not there.
Nobody notices or even stares.

He calls me his baby.
He treats me like I'm a lady.
His intentions are never shady.

My eyes watch his aura.
His essence glows like a tiara.
His eyes sparkle like stars.
He drives a truck not a car.

Our attraction is mutual.
So sacred & constitutional.

Our desire is not yet full.
Our passion rages like a bull.
Our time together is never dull.

His lips touch mine.
That night for the first time.
© Harmony Sapphire.All rights reserved.
CP Aug 2016
I joke I make a great punch,
but if you knew me you'd have a hunch
something is very wrong,
when I am very gone.

I begin sinking in my chair
my emotions are very bare
I feel my heartbeat.

This liquid courage is a cheat
the after taste is not very sweet,
I drank a glass, or two
it's all gone a bit askew.

This liquid courage is a cheat
I still don't feel complete
I drank a glass, or two
maybe I don't have a clue.

I just wanted to talk without thinking
I didn't want to feel like I was sinking
everyone else in the room seems fine
maybe I should just grow a spine
but it's not even nine and my blood is half wine.

I think I'm drowning,
why is everyone around me frowning?

This liquid courage is a cheat
I just wanted to feel upbeat
maybe if I reapply my lipstick- wait, I'm going to be sick

This liquid courage is a cheat
it leaves you downbeat,
you need to find your own two feet

Get up the chair, brush your hair
and then everyone there will become aware.
Don't worry about what to wear,
because they'll all stare.

Be bare and share, you don't need this much liquid courage
but one small glass I won't discourage.
natalie Feb 2017
it’s like
having a nightmare
you can see someone you care for you love they’re in danger
you open your mouth to yell warn them but
you can only squeak croak they can’t hear can’t hear can't hear
and your vocal chords vibrate with desperation and your throat is empty
you try to run move them push them wake them up
but your legs are stuck can barely twitch
you can feel the kinetic energy rippling in your muscles
but your legs they just won’t move won’t move won't move—

and then you see really finally see
it’s not just someone it’s you it’s YOU
but you didn’t know didn’t recognize couldn’t remember
who fed you thirty pounds what bird has been
pecking red sores into your chin who painted
purple blooms under your eyes and drained your red
your life turned your skin grey like a corpse
who sits on your shoulders they slump in defeat
it’s you it’s a stranger
it’s not right not right not right—

it’s like
you wake up and the nightmare has ended
but you still can’t recognize so you make a mask
foundation give your skin human pallor
concealer covers the pimples you gouge covers the purple petals
blush makes cheekbones full and warm not sallow
black and color gives your eyes a smile the one they lost they forget
you’re proud of your work it is humanoid it is a lie
you have to be careful watch closely
reapply frequently fill the cracks erase them
you carry your face in a bag like some great treasure
they won’t know you’re just a marionette
little wires in your joints smoke and mirror empty hollow
they’ll never know never know never know—

it’s like
trying to answer that question how are you
you want to say I’m not okay I’m sad angry numb riddled with anxiety
can’t sleep can't enjoy can’t help myself can’t even cry
you want to tell them but your voice has been stolen
it runs backwards upside down nonsensical
your tongue is thick tied into knots it lies so easily
I’m fine can’t complain
because
really you can’t
because
what about drought famine starvation
what about disease plague death
just ignore that I’m sad give me sympathy
it’s my fault my fault my fault—

it’s like
you’ve been horcruxed in two
one part is small weak quiet it wants to change to change
quit smoking
eat vegetables
run faster
get a dog
do better
be better
see things
go places
be alive ******
but the other part is loud loud loud strong and loud
it tells you stop thinking you’ll be happier
stop thinking
lay in bed for three days straight
stop thinking
drink ten cups of coffee before noon
stop thinking
chain smoke through a convenience store
stop thinking
ignore those messages
stop thinking
close that book
stop thinking
put down that pen
stop thinking
stop thinking
stop thinking
stop thinking
you’ll be happier stop thinking
just freeze right here **** that puny part of you
smash it to bits bury it deep dark
pour concrete over top then build a skyscraper there
one with pretty lights it’ll point at the sky
you'll be distracted you won’t hear it
won’t remember won’t remember won't remember—

it’s like
you’re a brain with a disobedient body you want to listen think feel be
you’re poisoned frozen stuck limbs wither muscles atrophy heart freezes
you're just numb empty nothing nothing nothing—
you’re billy pilgrim
but no alien zookeeper
you’re lady lazarus
but no phoenix courage
you’re just that foot
you do not do you do not do
you just sit in that old black shoe

and if you open your mouth they’ll know they’ll all know they'll know
you’ll speak it into existence
so you sew it shut lose the scissors forget
if you never say it it never has to be real
so you just pretend you just ignore ignore ignore
you're not empty hollow numb you're not nothing
you’re just fine, thanks, and how are you
they love your lie devour it are sated by it
you are sated too
Kyle Kulseth Dec 2015
There's a crack in the swollen sky today
We're caught
          standing, stuck, underneath it.
Looking bad for the good guys down the home stretch
'cuz that ******* looks to be leaking.

Sad news from front offices
Sales figures are down again.
So bummed to slash your benefits
but what's best for you is none of their business.

With newsprint leaving light ink stains
on tabletops
          and tips of the fingers,
they'll just dust crumbs from sweater vests
and sling their quarters into cold parking meters.

****! Here comes an avalanche!
Stay still. Just snow. We won't flinch.
Pretend that we can stand the stench
of the bodies on another warm Christmas.

Sad news from the offices
Pension plans are expensive
Have to reap your benefits
You should prob'ly look for work on the weekends.

Hope they like their breve drinks
Hope they won't stain fresh-bleached teeth
When the North Pole melts, the stores will sink
and the roofs of malls will stand in for beaches.

There's a crack in your lean wallet today,
It aches,
          it's nothing money can't fix.
Maybe try and reapply after New Year's Day,
'cuz for now the sky is still ******* leaking.
JDK Nov 2013
In the whirlwinding downpour I can see what it's for
Some semblance of a peace of mind disguised as wanting more
And filtered through your anecdotes I see the picture clearly
A moment as profound as this I'll never hold so dearly

Sincerely this time, I really must go
I'm combating with the ghosts of things that I can never know

Give me your hand, a hug, please just something
Because this ain't enough; I'm dissolving into nothing
I need one more chance, two more lives, three more times
So that I may reapply it to the format of my mind
Streaming . . .
Elizabeth L Jan 2015
When the boys say they "won't go as big as.." you,
When you look more like a teacher than a student,
When you see the other girls' expressions at you in the school bathroom mirror while they reapply their eyeliner,
When you sweat feverishly around those fragile powder-fresh beauties,
When you accidentally knock their things off their desks because your thighs can't fit and you were nervous to get up and walk in front of them anyways,
When they take selfies with you and your face is a mass of red, your eyes lost in your glasses, and you a blob,
When the boys you care for or even love profess their devotion to girls who are so much more beautiful than you could ever be,
When that baggy t-shirt look doesn't look chic because you have only high-neck boy shirts and are too top heavy;

Don't try to explain that your money goes to groceries so you can't afford team membership dues much less a new blouse.
Don't explain that your nice shoes need a retouch of hotglue so you really only had your snowboots.
Don't tell them that you didn't put on makeup because your mom was in the er, because even though she was, you didn't bother because you knew no amount of makeup could make them see you as an equal.
Don't you dare show them your scars.

Know that they do not laugh at you because you are not significant enough to be the topic of their conversation.
If someone says privately that they want you they will not acknowledge you in public.
If a cute person online shows interest, trust your instincts because those kind of people do not look at your kind of people.
Know that when you meet someone you might like, knowing how others see you, it's your choice if you want to hope that this one will see you any differently.
chrissy who May 2016
Running through the yard
With a jar
Trying to capture the flickering
Incandescent
Floating
***** of light.

Laying in a bed
With my sister
And might-as-well-be-my-sister friend
Trying to be quiet
Silent
Hushed.
Because “Daddy’s home”
In our game of house.

Racing to the ocean
To see who could get the farthest
Before falling.
Jumping waves
That we named
“Bigfoot.”

Bolting around
In my pink boots
With my red 'fro.
Fast
As.
Lightning.

Three stockings on Christmas
One with toys and candy
The second with practical and traditional.
The third
Fruit
Nuts
Chocolate.

Catching caterpillars
Under the jungle gym
Building
Jarred
Kingdoms.

Learning to eat swiftly.
Because with a family this big
You have
To act
Fast.

Wearing a shirt in the sun
To avoid that sunburn
That always turns my Irish skin
Red
As
A lobster.

Building bears
Every November
Broadway
On the
Beach.

Sledding down a hill
Forcing your dad to ride with you
Because it’s steep
And you’re afraid
Of crashing and
Getting
Hurt.

Birthdays at the cabin
Everyone was always invited
Willingly or not.
Cookout
Water fights
Slip and slides.

Sitting in a tree
With my best friend
Surrounded by pink
Fluffy
Petals
Waiting for sisters’ soccer practice to end.

Running over to their house
Uninvited
Always welcomed anyway.
Monopoly
Trivial pursuit (Disney version of course)
Blanket forts
And popcorn.

Jumping into the pile
Of freshly raked colours.
The fall always cushioned.
***
Always
Protected.

Even my friends' parents
Know to command me
To
Reapply
Sunblock.

Hurrying to Mimi’s every weekend
Warmth of love
Stomach always full
To bursting
With hot
Delicious
Food.

Waiting till the last second to turn off the TV
Before leaving the house
Lest you miss the ending
Of a new episode
Of Rugrats
Hey, Arnold
Or Catdog.

Holidays at home
Surrounded by the people
You love
Care for
Nurture
Accept.

Running to mother
Crying when she pours the stinging liquid
On scraped
Palms
Knees
Elbows.

Staring at the sea
Trying desperately to see
The other side.
Feeling full
Content
Complete.

Hoping he finally got the hint
Knowing he did.
Hearing
He chose
Her
Instead.

Running outside
To play in the warm soap-less shower
Bare feet
Wet hair
Wet clothes.
Wishing the gods
Would never stop
Bowling.

Walking to a field
With your best friend
Finding the exact center
So you can sit
And talk
With
Or without
Words.

Searching for hours
Through green, green fields
To find the lost
Sign
Of luck
Of hope
Lost
Amid thousand of imposters.

Struggling to understand
Why she suddenly
Doesn’t want
To talk
Anymore.

Snowball fights
And a whole snow family
Followed by
Hot chocolate
Hot cider
And movies.

Anticipating leaving Nana’s
Because that’s when we each got our ration
Of coated
Branded
Chocolate
That we always took for granted.

Grappling with the notion
Of that solution
Helping
Rather than
Hurting.

Tangled up in feelings
Of abandonment
Hope
Disappointment
Love
Pain
Certainty
Doubt
Loss.
A­cceptance.

Competing for the top spot
In everything I do
With no one
But
Myself.

Basking in the summer’s warmth
Both from the sun and from your friends
Always
Avoiding
Sunburn.

Worrying about everything
From whether or not
I’ll fall off my bike
To what
The future
Holds.

Sitting by the community pool
Arguing
Every day.
With your
Best
Friend
Forever.


Holding on to my stubbornness
For dear life
Because it’s
What’s gotten
Me through.

Laying on a bench
Listening to the waves
Staring at the stars
Feeling as small
As a human
In a universe.

This is where I came from
Now I wonder
Where am I going?
Samantha Sep 2014
There's comfort in bleeding ink.
There's home in an empty page.

Every word is a heart beat
Punctuated by the steady pump of truth.
I feel the knot in my stomach
Come undone by the poem's end.
The conclusion.
The final thought.

Sometimes the words
Don't taste right in my mouth.
Words like "ethereal" and "champagne"
Sometimes taste like burnt toast.
Sometimes they shrivel up my taste buds.
Words like "juxtaposition" and "moist"
Sometimes taste like sweet, sweet strawberries.
Though I am uncertain,
I still place them on my waiting tongue.

The curve of a stanza
Always reminded me of
The curve of a lover's back.
A soft bend.
Purposeful and precise.
This is the only love I have ever known.

Sometimes I can't differentiate
Between ***** and closure.
Both sneak up on me
When I finally put the pencil down.

When things become too much
For my broken wings to handle,
I am reminded
There is an "I" in "suicide".
When things become too much
I gargle saltwater
To replenish my eyes.
I reapply the mascara.
I take an aspirin.
And I find comfort in bleeding ink.
Molly Jun 2015
I've got lines, I know them off,
I sniff them off my student card.
I twist them in my mind,
add a smile, I'm an artist.
I'm a smart girl. An actress.
I cry in rooms with the doors shut,
reapply my mascara and rejoin the party.

No would notice I'd been or gone.
No one would notice if I wasn't around.
I liven up a room,
and they like me to be there,
yet I'm never missed.

Tell me did you mean any of it?
The dreams of getting old,
did they mean anything at all?
Did you look into my eyes
and tell me you could see a future with me,
knowing all the time,
you were going to have a baby?

Imagine, a kiddie,
all little and childlike and calling you daddy.

Why did you cut me off?
Couldn't you just
explain it to me?

Who was I for a while there? Happy?
That couldn't have been me.

I'm just a fridge door,
magnetic, a face full of memories.
I'll reflect your life back to you,
I'm all smooth and shiny.

I'm great at a party. I'm blonde,
and I'm fun,
I'm numb
and all empty.
Just pass me a drink, love,
just let me forget me.
I'm in the ******* crew—
let me never see twenty.
Veronika Dec 2023
You’re like a version of my favourite person
Warped with colours of the boring mainstream
You drink your oat milk vanilla latte
And punish me with exhaustive details of your youth
My lips curl into a smile on purpose
Only because it will your eyes glow

You reapply some sort of makeup
Only to pretend the bill isn’t due
I gladly oblige with my battered wallet
It’s been four years - you don’t need to be awkward

But that was then
Emotions ripe
Our weary eyes saw warning signs
Each in their own corner
Predicting each others crime  

When light hits the pane
Are you thinking of my name
When you’re dancing in a crowd
Do you wish I was around
When the high hits hard
Do you miss what we had

Would you turn back time
Only to end up here
Just to do it again
clxrion Jul 2019
The jogger stops a while to catch his breath,
a sweaty grimace painted on his face.
Perhaps in half-light it appears a grin
to others - actually he feels like death.
With averageness as his only sin,
he thinks, how apt to go in such a place.

Her memory is blank beyond this place.
She draws a rasping, thin and ragged breath,
inhaling scents of forced carnal sin.
The caked make-up is falling off her face
but all her thoughts these nights have been of death;
a cigarette will reapply her grin.

The old man looks around and gives a grin
at all his children gathered in his place.
For months he has been waiting for his death,
his lungs to finally run out of breath.
The ghost of life still lingers on his face,
a long, benign existence free of sin.

Bejewelled silky hands still slick with sin
support, neck-like, a head which wears a grin
that looks like it's been stolen off the face
of mannequins and plastered into place.
Her role in hastening his final breath
still haunts her. So it shall unto her death.

This industry is headed towards death.
They think intelligence is just a sin
and try to cut him off at every breath.
He finally allows himself a grin.
With this he'll put them in their proper place
and wipe that smug expression from their face.

The kiss of malnutrition on her face,
a souvenir from those merengues with death,
lies testament to horrors in this place.
Though poverty may be a fatal sin,
she bears the burden with a toothless grin
and croons her lullaby under her breath.

Behold my face! They all know I am Death.
But truth is, there is sin in any place;
I'll grin the same before I stop your breath.
All are equal in death.
Black Sunflower Lily
Looking kind of funny
Pretty ugly really
Especially when it's sunny

Golden hours never dull
A sight to behold because you can't be held
Captured souls you can tell
Will water your roots in hell

As a matter of fact
The fact of the matter is just
That

Pink Balloon
Don't think too soon
Or drink to swoon
Burn to consume
Moon rocks with no stop
Bare bedrock
Mocks
    Your
      Thought
         And    
            Hope
In a chance to confuse
What the earth does not supply
What it's worth to reapply
My self to you

Sweet Sunflower Lily
You look better in the night
Best to see your light
At midnight, the sun

Raging in the mirror
Crying, For. No. Sage

Could hear her

O'Blacked

These ****** flowers
Petals kissed by death
Scars licking her stem
A twist in her pistil  
She doesn't dodge this missile
Petal tips touch lips in unkind embrace
Walking lines so fine like lace
Misguide your grace in stones
Work and chisel to bone
Ripping skins you've outgrown

Unfamiliar with in where I stead
Something's
Non peculiar when things are dead
Surroundings
Rot revealing our date to lie ahead
Blooming so red

Maggots
PINК ВАLLУУN
SiouxF Aug 2020
Where have I come from?
Where am I headed?
What am I doing here?
Does it feed my soul’s desire?
Who am I?
Am I who I want to be?
Am I who I’m destined to be?

Into the woods
Seeking solace and R&R,
Away from civilisation,
And the dreaded mobile phone.
Off grid, switched off and outnumbered by trees,
Explore who I am, what I’m doing, where I’m heading.
At 50
Time to take stock,
Reappraise and reapply,
And fulfil my soul’s path.

How do you do that?
When you don’t know what it is
When you don’t know who you are
When you’ve never truly been you.
Always wanting desperately to fit in,
but never seeming able.
Afraid of being judged,
yet judging too.
Never taking action
for consequential fear.
Drifting through life,
Disassociated,
Disconnected,
Discombobulated,
No surprise.
Disengaged,
Discontented,
Disenchanted.

5 nights in the woods
Just me and my tent.
Walking all day,
Staring in the fire all night.
Sitting in peace and quiet amongst coppice, hornbeam and oak
Seeking answers
With none forthcoming.
Other than taking time out.
And dreaming of
Living the #vanlife
Going where the mood takes me.
No rush, no worries, no cares,
Just me and my camper van
Freedom and
Flexibility.

Travelling on the road,
Meeting kindness of strangers,
Comfy dress down
No airs and graces,
Deep conversations,
Connection,
Move on.
Being the nomadic free spirit,
that’s me.

But is it an escape?
A way to stay disconnected?
A way to not face up to feelings
Of anger and shame?
Or will it be the making of me?
The discovery of me?
The adventurer in me?
Now I’m _starting_ to ask questions, to look inwards, and delve into myself, my purpose, my why, while spending 5 days off grid in the woods, just after my 50th birthday (end July 2020). Querying, seeking, asking questions - all the necessary tools required of the great explorer.
lowkeymorns Nov 2018
Got a troubled life and a troubled mind.
All my troubles have been delt then multiplied.
Growing from it become so redundant.
Getting older all I've learned is troubles reapply.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2023
oh: before the ******* get a chance to fire me,
resign me, whatever you want to call it,
i will go "out of my way" and do the ***** task myself:

you can't exactly couple being promoted in
one venue and upkeep what used to be a juggling
act with an security agency to cover your
back by being picky-choosy (i swear an E is missing
in that word) sey not say not siy...
so a Dear Fulham Team letter is necessary to:
excuse myself from further engaging in shifts...

ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
i still can't stomach the truthful irony of those words...
if only the **** employed the Hebs
in concentration camps to make ammunition
instead of telling them to lift bags
of sand from X and moving them to Y
and then from Y back to X for this macabre
circus-prison of sadism without *** being deployed...
*** as in: the act of ***...

weird sushi... weird sushi "thinking"...
but a welcome return to ice age barbarism...
how this return to "default" taught some of us:
conscious of the unconscious...
only recently, fervently, on Kauai...
i learned, intimately,
that the reason i don't conjure pictures / movies
in my dreams is, because:
i startle the sleeper next to me
applying myself to propping up like
an exorcism manifest woodoo (V for ****
you French ***** by the Velsh
                  longbowmen: adieu! my slingshot works
just fine... merdechiens: mèreconnards!

hey hey! orthographic police...
mère but not mèrde...
         hey! Napoleon! fix this...
    no? o.k. i'll fix it...
            it's not (after all) merdé... i known that in French
you utilise diacritical accents to cut off
using distinct, direct, phoneticism of: the use of letters...
because the ****** tongue is the only
Arya equivalent of any spoken European: tongue...
by pride or detail alone...

by the command of the druid skies of England
with white and clot
and with rain also akin to milk
this milk of misery and some geographic whereabouts
like Olson's Gloucester (Glow-Mr)
of New England or Maine...
poets of worth become periodical:
autobiographical in detail: because i should
notice their influence on me...

           just like i can make a summary of my engagement
with Edie Edith and compare that
to the laments of Kierkegaard in Either / Or
about the necessity of a married life...
because touch is a language in and of itself
and only yesterday we spoke for nearly 2h about...
intellectual stuff...
           "stuff"...
                  bouts of depression in Oregon...
something new to me...
i admired Picasso's pink and blue but never thought
she had experienced such pitchy domineering men...

pitchy? no... ah... an F in      pithy...
that's an F in piTHy...       (by aid no e, yet y: yeti!)
               fret over feta in thought and beta:
but no...
post-modernism is still alive and very much decent
of me to keep it so...
i.e. alive...

           to rise to the grandiosity of names listed in the song
by the Dead Can Dance (fortunate the man with none):
Solomon, sagacious, to him complexities seemed plain,
he cursed the hour of his birth, vanus, vanus, alles hohl...
Caesar, courageous,
Socrates, honest, the man who never lied...
            they weren't so grateful... instead the rulers
fixed him a trial...

English should be written with more apostrophes
can can be known...
for example, Tottenham...
which does not utilise all the letters in the script
written... but is like haven't for have not O
omitting a letter or a syllable altogether...
Tot"ñ"'am...
                Tot'ym'um'am
Tot'nudge­-nudge'am...

                            Fulham is easier:
  Ful'am...       the genius approach of the English tongue
is the apostrophe: which is a letter eater...
because in writing it is written as: FULL-HAM
but is uttered-ushered as Ful'am...
                oh how ***** Wonka of me to have this second
tongue as a plaything as a "gimp" as this
pedophilic fetish fantasy...
    my Pontius Pilate is currently obsessed with
Islamic cleanliness before a prayer:

i too: am washing my hands clean...
before i make no prayer...
just give a deity a thought... thought...

i can obsess about the English: ing-leash for almost forever...
given two eyes two arms two ears...
moving forward everyone in the future should know
a minimum of two tongues...
that's the precursor for the advent of national /
geographic capitulation... to the soft machine
of capitalism... the hard machines are there
regardless of whether it's the soft machine
of capitalism or communism...
computer computer on my desk...
who's the smartest idiot of the rest?
but in the future two tongues for every man...
at least to levitate from any potential symptoms
of schizophrenia...
   how do you think i "cured" myself from auditory
hallucinations?
if i heard splinter-ego vanities in English...
i started to confuse / conflate the symptoms by
reaching out to my mutterzunge....

by now America should be a bilingual nation,
speaking both fluent English and Spanish...
just like England should be a bilingual nation
speaking English and German...
i already know that Poland is sort of a Switzerland
of the Slavic world...
and i will not speak ***** Cyrillic Russian...
because to me: when i hear it...
Russian is a half-formed Polish...
it ******* sounds barbaric... even the phonetic encoding
is half-baked... M and A stand out like sore thumbs
aesthetically ugliest of all...

oh my toy my little Shakespeare psychoanalysis:
i did tell her... not all psychopaths turn out
to be geniuses at killing, serially...
i too lament the primo disguise of psychopaths:
faking competence...
they fake being competent in work...
ask one for profiteroles you might end up
with an East End steak and ale pie...
but that's me being hyperbolic...

               such is the joy of utilising a tongue without
having any geographical or historical lineage
attached to it... even my accent can't be equipped
with a regional bias: so i speak a generic,
"educated" (more self than school),
cosmopolitan English of... Lóndûn...
not on a Loan, Don...
              Qix...                Kich... Kichote
kichać? to sneeze... Pan Kicham...
  
                                           Sir Sneeze-a-lot...

because there's a fury in my genius that
decided to **** of both the guardian angel and demon
and spare god a bias with regards to what's
good or what's bad
given that this third party of creatures
are akin to angels and demons, yet stricter in
revealing their presence having sought out
a potential in man...

and with the ego going into the compartment of: exists
does not exist...
and with thought going into the compartment of:
essential or not essential...
because every ego is essential:
it's only a question whether it exists or doesn't...
but forever does: given that as fluidity
it can morph from reality to myth...
from journalism to history to poetry to allegory / myth...
to dream... to the archetypes...
of course the ego can replenish itself with
"reincarnations"... but an Achilles in a carwash?!
no...
that's what the Hindus got so wong... Rrrr... i call it a trill R
journalists in England call it a... a... *******:
rhasp? no...                        whatever the Bristol crew yar ar
m'ah pirate...

i do believe in reincarnation...
isolated case of 'cogito'...
         oh sure as **** 'cogito': prompt - limbless verb
to do: thought... think...
      cogitatio...
                         ratio of cogs... that's essentially
"reincarnated"... which is god...
        the universal quest of Q / ?

      who is a distinct figure to I or the existentialist
isolation of I via "I"...
because Q is like a shadow of I
                       who is the ego in the collective unconscious
of Jungian ******-analytical philosophy /
    psychological sophistry...
the Q is the I in the collective unconscious...

I have a Q... i am (not i'm ayemmm) I A'H MMM
a Q in the collective unconscious,
just like everyone else...
i can do I in third person but
obviously doing Q in third person is more natural
and less intrusive should the trans-gang
of confused genitals
come to the fore of the meta-gang of...
                             is bad *** such a massive issue
that it has to turn political...
i always tried to have *** good enough not to later
script it as a fantasy of having *** with vampires...

thinking is recycled... reincarnated...
we all arrive at its plateau...
and let's face it... we daydream and therefore thinking
can be recycled...
as the primo tool of exacting a definition of
being aware, conscious...
it's the most ridiculous "tool"...
thinking is like a sponge without soap...
it just moves dirt from one place on the body to another...
the sword of Damocles if you were:
but a parody of that sword...

to deviate from giving quench (of thirst)
driven by existential "demands": that current man,
the modern, hyperbolic contemporary,
the journalist with an opinion column in
the editorial section of a newspaper is,
"somehow"(?) the arbiter of truthfulness
and all that is sacred to the otherwise wordly-politico
jargon ball-crushing gimmick
and the licking scrutiny of H-Bomb Contraceptive-Pill
synonimity...
hmm...

       the Hindus "maybe" forgot the cyclic nature
of thought and the linear nature of the ego...
no one is going to be "reborn" or "replaced"...
the constituent ontology of this little thing
called life: res es vivo...
not theologia in vitro... but theologia in vivo...
well... with the "polytheism" of the many schisms
of Christianity: each a "god" unto his own...
because how else to explain

NARRATIO FALSUS
of christianity: what chimera was born on the torture
chamber of Golgotha that can't:
be: no: longer: romanticised!
what was once a primer for original sin
that became the primer for original innocence...
this macabre inversion of toothpicks
and how bones can and will itch
should one have the wrong sort of protein
lodged in-between...
"christ" ushered in the concept of original innocence...

where?! where is his guilt made justifiable
by all the hoard of jurisprudence standards
kept...
to... yield 2000 years of history based off of
a fictive friction is... frankly? besides me...
and i'm not referring to this Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
anti-Rome conspiracy as a joke
in the slightest...

so few might consider themselves Gnostics...
but i'm done with these Christmassy blues
like winter is somehow a depressing...
it has occured countless times...
it reminds me of when
the snow fell and the nights were blue
and the snow like ivory
fell and sank into a melt(ing)...

       by then i will want Reyla to know from
Edie that i baked her a birthday cake
and that she shouldn't have worried about
her peers not attending her birthday party:
because they did and the pool party was in full swing
and the strawberries were juicy and
i was not a ******* after all (because pedohplia
is a male-exclusive gimmick
for branching out to seek less
translatable munchkin-fetishes?)

what with Reyla's father being, ****-tod-dead...
you'd think i might want to champion
a borrowed ambition from ancient Rome
regarding the surrogacy of offspring...
my genes are unimportant...
but if i can allow a truce with
the ROTA EX COGITATIO...
the wheel of thought... not... no... not the wheel
of fortune... thinking is cyclic...
that's why we encounter the same questions
universally...

yes, some of us are overpowered by the geniuses
to compromise with Promethean advances
for the better of all of us...
but the rest is daydreams
lazy-thinking and a recurrency of dreams...
thinking is a soft-machine...

the circle out of thinking... rota ex cogitatio...
i for i alike...
             to my left and right a deposit of her:
for her liking... by call of swan:
a song of death...
              by wake i imply death and eyes that close:
this dirge... a barge and a chuckle from
Charon... that broken oar...
a bit like a fiddle-stick in a teacup that's
also a river should sugar be dissolved in it...

because it is love that makes me feel magnificent,
invonlunerable: invulnerable...
because it is love that gives me organs for a body
otherwise without (them)...
because it is love and moreover a lover's longing
that gives me double the love and
what oh love will i ever do with this
irrational-ability but dig my trenches and hark
and puff and shatter mirrors and clause
illusions into the mix and keep this:
dearest affection dearest hope dearest dark of
shadow mingle truth
            cauldron of ingredients with pulled out
teeth to mix with frog burps...

ah... now for that letter... i'd rather resign than be fired...
it's painfully obvious:
regardless of what my earnings might be...
if i can be appreciated as competent in one place
but not another:
i'm no sufler statistician for a theatre with:
no production...

the letter:

Dear Fulham Team,

It comes with a deep seeded regret that I have to compromise with these words to compose a Resignation Letter: as to my future as a Fulham F.C. employee.

Since the end of Lockdown circa 2021 Fulham F.C. has provided me with ample opportunities to hone in on my hidden strengths in interacting with the public via working for Executive Events Security - as you might be aware, for whatever reason, the agency decided to terminate the contract - yet with the implosive power of nostalgia I felt inclined to reapply for a job with the club directly.

To somehow reiterate my original stance, it brings me great regret having to write this Letter of Resignation - I have recently been given the opportunity to fill a Supervisory position at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. I have checked future dates for the season and noticed a "coincidental" clash of shifts for F.F.C., Tottenham Hotspur F.C. (and West Ham United - I am still employed at the agency that provides services for this venue).

The only available shifts I could make myself opportune would be with a West Ham F.C. clash, yet given my recent promotion at Tottenham Hotspur F.C. and the 80% demand of attendance given my position - I would not be able to juggle allegiance to two clubs as I might have done through an agency without a self-inflicted parody of interests.

To make my argument more solid, Tottenham Hotspur F.C. will allow me to exert more responsibility and also offer me more shift-times than I'm currently able to receive at F.F.C., given the venue is partaken to events outside the realm of a football season.

I simply couldn't allow myself to leave this matter unresolved, hoping that somehow I could do a patchwork of the choicest of availabilities, relegating F.F.C. as second choice whenever clashing with Tottenham.

Yet, I must stress the importance that F.F.C. played toward building my awareness to the importance of this profession, through my 2 year experience of starting this profession, I can, without any hesitation (and therefore doubt) confirm that, being a fan of the sport that's football, therefore being ultimately neutral when it comes to the sordid affair of team-tribalism, on numerous occasions, at other venues and indeed at Craven Cottage, I have earnestly expressed the following sentiment:

I'm not a fan of any football team as such, technically I should be a West Ham or a Dagenham & Redbridge fan - from a geographical standpoint of adhering to the geo-politics of 'nearest therefore dearest'... but I will always remain a fan of Fulham fans... because they are the fans that imbue a need for reciprocating a base human decency, unmet on any other football venue.

I hope I have made my notice as amicable as possible - in my mind it would be unfair to remain on the payroll wishfully thinking that my absenteeism was NOT because of a conflict of interests due to work elsewhere, therefore I'd rather hand in my resignation due to this, than have someone from the team "call me out" on the matter.

As ever and with a deep-seeded regret, I hope I have become across as transparent and in that: doubly regretful, for having bothered you with giving me employability, yet having to resign.

Kind Regards

Mateusz Elert

— The End —