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Robbie carter wanted to drive hid Australian car from Australia to the USA so he can watch a Broadway but there was no way he could do that and every time
He suggested it to his mates they just laughed at him but Robbie came up with a good idea, you see he will raise funds to build a tunnel under the ocean linking Australia with the USA and also to keep him relaxed he would build a few towns under the ocean As well
You see Robbie wanted this so bad, but both countries governments didn't like the idea
Because the distance was too far and the water will cave in to the tunnel but then both countries changed government and suddenly Robbies dream became a reality, you see the will open the tunnel from the Aussie end at Brisbane and then open the other end at Florida and they will build 45,000 towns under the water
With motels and restaurants and houses and truck stops
As well as an underwater version of Ayers Rock  And to makes sure it was good to go
Robbie helped designing this under ocean adventure from Brisbane to Florida with towns
Which were just like the towns on earth and they intended on building a Broadway stage where they will play all the latest musicals they were playing in New York and this could make the journey a pleasurable one for each patron who starts the trip and in about the first 4 months they had 60% of the new world completed and Robbie was asked to inspect the area and this meant checking the area and then imagining how the world would function under the ocean and what he noticed they   Built a shopping street on the first street with a fun park on the first turn and then a Broadway musical theatre a few blocks down and Robbie took one look and said this is fantastic and then went further on and saw a very big under ocean shopping mall and Robbie was impressed in how
Each area of the under water towns is going to look and then Robbie went back to Brisbane and in about 5 more months
The entire under ocean tunnel and towns were completed but they couldn't open the tunnel at either end unroll Robbie and the safety inspector have checked it out and originally it was made so you could drive from Australia to America but they had coaches and trains and yeah this was looking great
And the under ocean Ayers Rock looked fantastic and the Broadway musical theatre looked great as well and the roads were as dry as a bone
Despite being under the ocean
And the fun park and each shopping mall were really looking great as well  and Robbie was very impressed with how his town under the ocean really looked and it has a few town parks where the kids can play and mind you it can make you wanna leave your life above ground and make you wanna live here and Robbie left getting ready for the big grand opening where the first car is going to drive right from Brisbane to Florida stopping at every truck stop and restaurant and take away along the way and Robbie will ride the first motor bike under the ocean from Brisbane to Florida and this was going to take 7 months to complete and then the under ocean world will officially be opened and Robbie pulled his bike over at the broad way theatre to catch a show and then rode his motorbike up and down the Main Street of each town and also rode his motor bike up Ayers Rock and down the other side and it wasn't as big as the rock in the centre of Australia but still was a great climb and rode into the fun park
And the zoo and took a photo of the monkeys and the rabbits
And then rode off to the motor bike through the truck stops and parks and rode through each city and then arrived in
Florida and as he entered the crowd cheered for Robbie as he reentered the top of the earth
And then all the people started driving under the ocean to start
A new life beneath the earth's surface and there will be cost that each driver in Brisbane and Florida has to pay so the under ocean village can be safe from poachers and bad people
You see you have to have a reason as simple as you are driving to the USA will cost $700 and visiting the under ocean town will cost $650 just so the village can be safe from predators you the $650 will give you a red ticket so you have the right to every shop and motel in the village and the $700 will give you a red and white ticket giving you the access to visit the shops and truck stops and letting you out the other end, and there is a $1000 fee for cars with caravans to visit every part of the village and allowed out to both ends of the countries Australia and the USA and Robbie carter was very impressed on how this village is going and Robbie made a once a year thing to go down to the village to catch a show on Broadway and then had a meal in a classy under ocean restaurant and yeah this was a success
It's cold outside,
rain falling down the sky,
foggy view, blurry sight,
I tremble with every step taken.

Not dream nor reality,
my consciousness fades,
words dance around their letters,
my beliefs collapsed.

Shapeshifting,
a brighter world sprouts,
limitless possibilities,
junctions merging their paths.

Efforts rewarded
with the sand of time,
barricades undone
time rewinds.

Splashs of water running down my face,
worlds drifting apart,
existence reentered,
my walk proceeds.
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
Boastful cat
Saturn rain
Night is dull
Dull blades still slay
City craves rustic sway
And these white houses
Are the grave
(Thunder brings a night of lust
Christmas lights are empty trust)
Should've been a raindog time
But the clouds had fate for eyes
Someone shot a feverish arrow
And laughed as I went blind

Pink room
Red womb
Blackened heart
***** spoon


Opened my eyes -- The mirror fooled and did tricks on me -- Pelicans and temporary ghosts -- Like a pleasant phantom come to visit -- Until it reared its ugly head and showed its face -- It took all my grace -- Swan lake -- Sky high -- Pace and word -- Makes clear as it distorts -- No war and peace -- Foes and cohorts -- Just everything you've adored and everything they'll abhor -- And nothing more -- Should have put thoughts on paper -- Couldn't hold a pen -- Three days of geometric chaos -- And a lifetime of no symmetry -- Should have never reentered the cave -- Shadows on the walls -- Filled with tattooed luck -- Now I'm Cecilia in a bathtub -- Waiting for the inevitable -- With demons on my shoulders -- Incubi atop me -- Genies above me -- Elves behind me -- Dirt below me -- And cult claws on my walls -- Stuck in symbol-land with constant mock cymbals -- TV laugh-track plays every step I take -- Sterile and over-sensitive -- Can't ever get numb -- Screaming babies and French sirens -- Eureka's ball court -- Xibalba's darkhouse -- Doomed to rot -- Would've aced the other tests -- Eating glass -- Metnal mental -- Raggedy Ann -- .Extravagant *** -- Yellow wallpaper on every face -- Painted blue for sacrifice -- Puppet overnight -- Trying to gut truth -- But so far the mystagogues have webbed tongues -- And the angels all have angles --
-Her Shadow Poem-
  -  -  -

I am nowhere to be seen,
In this cluttered mess of Mary Jean.
Clothes and hair lie on the floor,
Blood stains line a path to the door.
My bloodied body perfectly still,
Underneath the window sill.
Now that I have set the scene,
Listen to the ****** by Mary Jean.

Dark one night in the cold winter’s chilling,
Outside the store where I’d been living,
Cold as cold as cold can get,
No warmth was found in this woman I met.

Her hands were warm, and her words spoke right,
“Do you need a place tonight?”
My heart collapsed as I agreed,
To stay a night with Mary Jean.

She let me in and took my coat,
Gave me some old things that she wrote.
Made me tea and sang a song,
Just before it all went wrong.

I read a poem,
I read a song.
I read of dark and twisted *****.
I read of ******, of slaughtered scenes,
I read of simple nasty things;

I read of these with no expression present,
I read from these but they were pleasant.
I read of these and thought of Poe,
Thought of King and other folk.
“What a wicked fantasy!” my mouth had finally released.

She looked at me with stone cold ice,
Colder than the air outside,
Eyes that could freeze a wailing volcano,
Eyes that could still a grown man’s soul.




Doors had closed with no one near,
Her smile grew from ear to ear.
Running to the door I screamed!-
“Please just let this be a dream!”
As I drew near to the door,
The knife thrown to me, I heard it soar.
Ducked but this was my mistake,
She was aiming for my leg.
It hit me in between my blades,
Above my lungs, but my breath still fades.

Still alive! I’m still alive! I didn’t see the what danger lied.
A candle lit above me now,
She stood above me, one raised brow.

I felt her drag me to the pane,
Where I saw her raven slayn.
I noticed then that there were stains,
Red and black, some carpet plain.
She reentered with a black glass bowl,
Candles, feathers, and paper scrolls.
She spoke the words of the devil’s book,
As she did the cabin shook.

She then bent down and, I halfway gone,
Spoke the words of a beautiful song.
“The stars may shine and the moon is out for you to see,
But the sun never shouts in jealousy.
You admire the sun as much as the stars,
The sun is what gives you who you are.
You bid by night and travel by day,
You play your cards and slip away.
Moon man sees and he does seek,
For what is found should not be meek.
Your pride is weak and trust is high,
That is why I sing tonight.”

The song settled in and the song was mine,
To me she had given me my own life.
She took mine in to make her song.
I’d been singing all along…
c rogan Jun 2020
It was nearing the end of the rainy season. Steady downpours muted all other sounds of the village, the time when everyone slept soundly through the night. The rain had not stopped for weeks, until today. Khadisa woke up before sunrise again, to the smell of cool fresh air, no humid chaleur. She remembered the dream, a girl standing behind a waterfall. She said she could hear her voice, but not make out the words. And the water turned into doves, their flapping wings like beating drums. She started dancing to their music, and blood trickled down her arms and legs in the moonlight.
She uncocooned herself from the medley of blankets, warm tangled sheets still playing hushed reruns of her dreams like seashells reciting ocean lullabies long after the tide. She untucked the mosquito net from under her mattress and silently pulled on her sandals and coat as to not wake her roommate. Mariama was still asleep. Khadisa looked over her shoulder to see her friend nestled into the warm pool of the missing body under covers from where she laid, burrowing unconsciously into her ghost. The amber light of the hallway spilled into the dark room like cream rendering black coffee lucid as the sunrise still hours away. She preferred nights like these, when her husband was away.

“Come back and sleep?” inquired a small voice from a pillowy soft, dream-like haze.
“I’ll be back. En bimbi, Mariama.”

Mariama’s birthmark was just visible from under the covers on her petite frame, an angel on her shoulder flying towards the heavens, to her curly bronze sun-kissed hair and constellation freckles. A memento mori of Icarus before the fall. She was not her blood, but she treated Mariama as a sister, a missing half of herself that had been long forgotten.

XXXXX

I wake as if underwater, neon light and sound blurry like I’m underneath a murky lake. My head throbs. Long tendrils of seaweed bodies sway in foggy currents of flashing, turning, strident beams of light. I’m ascending, body buoyant without weight, as I try to move my numb limbs. What did I take? I look at my hands, the smears of fluorescent orange paint and powder. I just wanted to be free, to fly. Feel the wind, soaring down the mountain path on the back of Mariama’s moto. I stretch my arms out, close my eyes and become the air itself: drifting, unattached.
XXXXX

Guided by light of the full moon and Venus rising, Khadi eased the door shut behind her into the latch with a gentle gratifying “click”. I’m never in the same or different places, but I am good company regardless. I depart as air, a constellation rising. She paused and listened to the morning. Epiphanic night colors divulged to her the secrets of sleep-singing crickets, dream-dancing of cassava leaves, crystal-painting of morning grass. She recited the symphonic canticle with her footfalls on the uneven gravel path to the well, the delicate sway of cotton as she walked in the occasional whistling paths of mosquitos. Soaked in tepid moonlight overflowing from the frame of the mountain Chien Qui Fume, she turned off the path into a grove of trees towards the river, and felt like she was disappearing back into the dark.

xxxxx

“another nuit blanche, huh… or should I say matin? The two must be the same at this point for you now. Just a perpetual, non-stop existence.” Mariam added skeptically, eying Khadi over a steaming cup of ginger tea. The wood from the fire crackled, as if in agreement.

“At least you have hot water for breakfast. Anyway, I am used to waking before sunup to prepare food for the family before the hospital shift.” Khadisah added, “I’ll be fine, habibti. No worries.”

“I know your dreams are getting bad again. Hunde kala e saa’i mun. Everything in its own time. Take care of yourself first, for once.”

She struck a match without reply, lit the candles, and poured herself a second cup of tea. Mango flowers unfolded outside the kitchen window, drinking in the early morning warmth with dusty yellow hands opening to heaven. She held the matchstick and watched the flame approach her fingers, remembering the countless needles she has sterilized to perform surgeries even the male doctors were too uneasy to attempt.

“So, what grand prophecies did I miss in the stars this morning?” Mariama put on her glasses and slid them up over the bridge of her nose with her index finger.

“The usual 3am omens, no bad spirits.”

Mari hummed a little hymn to herself and half-smiled as her green eyes flicked downward to her open book and wordlessly melted away any tension as if she were the effortless break of dawn dissipating a mere cloud of morning fog.

Xxxxx

A songbird starts singing a clear soaring cadence. And I am falling back below inundated shallows. I feel her soft blonde hair on my face, her colors warm and sunny. My name over and over and over. She’s shaking me, but I can’t speak. Her voice is perfect, it is all I hear anymore. Mariama with ivory skin, pastel hair. A ghost? No, a child. No more muted ringing in my ears. I melt into her as everything goes black.
My father was kind, unlike most from where we’re from. The kind do not live long enough. Walking in tall grass before a storm, the wind would whip at us in riotous orchestral gusts; I spread my wings and let the weight of air lift me away into the music. I closed my eyes, face upturned to the swelling rainclouds with pregnant bellies. “My Khadisah’s a little bird! Keep spreading your wings, and you’ll fly across the sea to America one day,” he said in French, the language for educated men.
xxxxx

Prep is the hardest stage for projects. Mariama starts in the cold shop, mapping out the light and colors, the size and shape she’ll be sculpting with. When it comes to the glory holes, something else takes over. She was a fote, of mixed blood. From a family who supported her education, her liberty. She thought of Khadisah’s upbringing, pushed the thought from her head as she focused on the heat of the furnace, the twist on the yoke, and the heavy grounding of the pipe. The sound of the port outside the open studio window grounded her, Conakry’s canoes readying their nets, bobbing in the sunrise stained glassy waters. Khadisah is sea glass, she thought. She heals others as she cannot heal herself, a polished stone ever-changing, and strong to the core. Shaped by something bigger, without choice. Although, the fact that there is no true place for us is shattering. But we’ve learned to live with jagged edges, smoothed them in buckets of the rains we’ve carried for miles on miles. Words can be shrapnel, written of the body, in perpetual ancient gestures. Looking down at the glass on her worktable, thin frames of women curved in dance like limbs of a tree in a whirlwind. ****** hieroglyphics speak of the writhing societal inconsistencies, the murky waters from which we fill our cups. The scars in their hearts built by the privileged, defiling bodies and souls without consent.

They are the ones who do the slaughtering.

xxxxx

“I have always loved mythology,” remarked Mari after perusing a chapter or two of her novel. It was a miracle alone that she knew how to read. “Shame that we lost so many of our stories, women.” Khadi had lost track of time, meditating on her morning rituals. She glanced at the positioning of the rising sun on the burning horizon through gaps of light through red kaleidoscopic trees.
“Next time bring me with you,” Mariama suggested, tapping her temple and pointing to me. “To your walking dreams, I mean. Wherever the night spirits guide you when all other men are sleeping, and the world is entirely ours for the taking.”

Khadisah’s gaze fixed fiercely on her friend’s once more, and the whole room erupted with the veracity of fracturing, interconnected, rampant red color. I try to keep my visions to myself, thinking about what used to become of them.

Glass is an extension; it exists in a constant state of change when molten. People change every second, in a constant half-light of who they are and who they will become. Like the lake between dreaming and reality, or a painting in constant interpretation. A word without formal translation, a feeling. Making stained glass, revelations of shape-cut fragments are painted with glass powder and fired in Mariama’s homemade kiln, fusing mirages of paint to the surface. Soldering joints with lead for stability, there is something meditative of puzzling together their memories. When glassblowing, she breathes life into her art, a revitalized self of otherwise secluded rights. Unveiling colored lenses of filtered light, she distills her life, betrays time. Creating is second to nothing, as concrete as petrified lightning in sand, and the fern-shaped kisses of lightning flowers on skin of raging energy.

xxxxx

It was dead winter, dead night. No shoes, no coat. I stopped answering Mariama’s calls. Too many glass cuts and bruises, empty nights. Walking up the snow-covered sidewalk to the chapel, Khadisah felt like she was buried in the new seamless blankets of fallen snow, fallen angels. Sometimes she forgot who she was. Because she cannot save everyone. A wandering ghost, an oracle without omens. Streetlight glowed through polychromatic windows, complex renderings of tall white figures preaching of salvation. Vivid crowns of gold, marbled robes, and flecked wings outstretching and draped by flickering light on the walls. It all reflected on her skin, histories of stories in light. Candles softened the hallway with the smell of incense and old books. Khadisah sighed and exited, reentered the snowy dreamscape outside, and looked up at the universe. The absence of light was beautiful, empty, and full at the same time. The window from a miniscule existence, what oddly calms and keeps us up at night. It was quiet, no wind, no moon. She laid down, a kite without a string. She started making snow angles and let herself cry about them. All of them. The pain when her husband visited, her daughter’s inevitable path like hers. The imprint of her body congealed to glass by the time the sun rose again, and she spoke colors to the stars. The seasons changed; the stars realigned. And more snow fell into her ghost.

“so, who’s gonna take you home, huh?”

I wake underneath Japanese maple, red leaves outlined in dark umber flaming against the clear blue sky. After a deep breath and regaining my surroundings, I evaluate where I am. The underdeveloped path from the reservation meanders back to site. I don’t remember what time or day it is, but I stand and jump across a trickling iron-red stream, I land on the other side a bit older, a bit wiser. Outlined in sweet grass and sage, I gather the herbs. Mint, sumac, elderberry, and yarrow. Sunlight guides me, and I thank the earth. Wah-doh, I say to the four Winds. Peace.
The mint leaves burn, and their ashes float towards heaven.
-----

Like tuning into the radio station from deep in the forest, she heard fuzzy, fragmented sounds. She felt light against her closed eyelids, but only saw a shoreline. She knew it was a dream. The trees aren’t right – the leaves were replaced by flowers, lending their neon petals to the dense sunset air. Standing in tall sweet grass, but there’s no gravity. She looked up, and saw the Japanese maple, the embers of leaves. And saw a reflection laying in the sun looking down—or up?—at herself. She wanted to fight the setting sun, become pristine like them. But she couldn’t hold her breath under the waters for too long. Spilling from the vase of an inviolate soul, sewing the stars like her scars. When the day is burned, we vanish in moonlight.

_

Working in the hospital, the color red. Panic attacks disassociate Khadisah from reality. She can still see, but can’t move, and only watches the violence as she crumbles under the skin. There were more angel marks, more places, less friendly. Stitches from infancy to womanhood, pedophilic ****** rights. A mother at 13, she cried for days and... feels the words rush back like water flooding all around her, rising around her body. This isn’t flying, this is drowning. So this is permanence, imprisonment from identity. A body collaged up and down, cut and fragmented on city and rural streets like vines salvaging mutilated walls and shattered windows. Being so stuck she was free. She saw a lost childhood in Mariama’s glass, and she was light as a feather in her father’s arms again.

The men say the seizures are from the Diable, but it was worse than that.

Even glaciers sculpt land and cut mountains over time with oceans of frozen glass. But earth was flooding once again.

And there was no blood on her hands.
lost and found Jun 2017
You kissed me
and I felt air exiting my body.
I was a chimney,
and you're the fire that caused the fumes.

I kissed you
and air reentered,
but it was different,
it wasn't mine.

Your lips touched mine,
and suddenly I was a deflated balloon
with all its air,
gone.

My lips touched yours,
and instantly I was inflated
with a different air,
with yours.

You kissed me,
and took the breath from my soul.

I kissed you,
and told you that I didn't want it back

because yours
makes me feel more -
whole. //

*written on April 07, 2017
The first time I realized my feelings for you,
I tried to imagine what we would be like.
I would always hit the obstacle
Built to protect me from more rejection,
Contain the feelings of loneliness
My way to cope, sustained life
You found the secret entrance
And touched my heart
You have invited my imagination
To blend with yours
A true since of happiness
Puppy like excitement has reentered my thoughts
I am grateful to be on this adventure
Mauri Pollard Dec 2014
I kept a picture of you
above my bed for a long time.
I don't know why I left it there
for so long after you had left-
maybe it was out of hope that you would come back,
or out of the blind faith that you had never really left.
But it stayed and gathered dust and waited.
Waited for a day it thought would come,
the day when you reentered and found joy in its presence.
This picture saw me water
my bedspread every night for months,
hoping that would bring back old flowers that had died in the winter's cold.
This picture saw me hold a fragile piece of
lined paper in my hands
as if the words would revive some dead corpse buried deep
in the hard dirt.
This picture saw me look out my window and
gaze across the dead sea,
wishing to see floating pieces that could be put back together.
But when flowers die there's no coming back.
And corpses always stay cold.
And the dead sea has that name for a reason,
its pieces shrivel up.
So this picture,
it saw it all-
the cold months, the dreadful months, the months of repair and repentance, the months of sunshine and hope-
and for a while it held onto pathetic moments that seemed optimistic.
But pictures are amoral and hold no bias.
It was not fooled by faux-kindness and false hope,
unlike I,
and begged to be taken down.
Every time I walked into my dungeon it moped and wailed, but I was deaf.
Until one day, you ripped off my ears and forced me to hear.
So I took out the picture
and dropped it in the fire,
the death it had been begging for.
Pitch Hiker Jan 2018
As I ran toward the dark
It was nothing but a void
As I entered I could see
Like I was granted with night vision
Objects took form
I saw there were no monsters
It wasn’t so scary
As my time drew to an end  
I reentered the light
And saw everyone was wearing mask
Scary mask
With words across the forehead
Like
Selfish
Greedy
Arrogent
And more
I hurried home to find my family
To see what became of their faces
The house looked normal
Though the air felt heavy
I entered into my house of 12 years
Instantly wanting to retreat
First entering my room
Finding my brothers
Flat on their backs on the floor
Sleeping
Trying to remove the mask to look at them
I couldn’t pull them off
The evil smiles mocked me
As if I were hoping to see the person I thought I knew
The way I knew them
They were not who they appeared
Their faces masked what really lie inside
I looked to my mirror
What I saw was who I really was
This side of me that now cover my face
Is who I really am
The word across my forehead
Stabbed my heart and forced against all of my morals
This word read....
Overcritical
Jessica Schwartz Dec 2020
Silence is like an old house.
The longer it goes untouched,
The more the damage spreads.
The home was left last loved and filled with warmth.
Laughter rang through the doorways,
And the sturdy floorboards held us high.
Much how I left you, with love and warmth and laughter.
And when I said goodbye I thought that light would last forever.
But just as the home grew weary in absence,
Such did you and I.
With no maintenance, the structure weakened as the days went by.
And speaking again after so long,
Felt as if I'd reentered that home.
I placed a foot on the hardwood
And expected it to not have changed.
But the plank was soft beneath me now,
And it no longer felt safe.
I was shocked at this idea,
That doing nothing
Could dismantle everything.
But in all those things I never said,
The darkness was able to
Crawl into your head,
Because it was more comfortable
Than the longing.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i tend to visit poland once a year,
although i used to spend
every summer over there in my teens,
that's how i left school aged
16, a chubby doughnut,
and reentered it to study for my
a-levels a beefed up slim -
the only way to loße weight,
apparently is not in the gym
(too much excess skin) -
  cycling!
       or? swimming!
          anyway...
but as i've aged, whenever i go
into hiatus seeing my grandparents,
who do not have internet access,
and stay off whiskey for up to
a month, and absorb all the scents
of winter of -0°C - last year it went down
to -30°C in the night,
    and -18°C in the day: magical -
felt like smoking a cigarette with
every breath, and that eerie crispness
in the air, biting, stabbing needles -
and an even eerier scent of burning
wood - leaves - cinnamon...
by the way: bad idea wearing jeans
in sub-zero temperature -
             the cold pinches the fabric:
you're better off with softer materials.
anyway...
  as time went by, i realised something,
westerners look at their countries
as if about to chop off a gangrened limb,
they see no mirror, themselves:
   faces savaged by an abyss, drained,
non-existent, hardly even in the buffer
of the grime of the everyday commuter
grey, merging into a collective
         amnesia of: hardly a stand-out
punk with leather, studs, and a fluorescently
pink mohawk.
               these days i find the country, sure,
it's there, it's more advanced than it was,
people are getting richer,
  but you still have stray dogs running
in the streets, and wild cats in the cemeteries,
don't ask me how these cats managed
to un-domesticate themselves and
turn into these feral bonsai tiger,
  they live in tombs,
   waiting for the next funeral i expect;
point being:
every time i go back and visit the old-timers,
my grandfather always buys me cigarettes,
and usually picks out a book from his
private library in order to give me a challenge -
he has all these books and has barely read
a tenth of them... last year he gave me
god's wrath by kraszewski -
   a wide majority found him bland -
   but i managed to digest it, not bad,
given that the backdrop of god's wrath
translates into the with fire and with sword
by sienkiewicz - i.e. the cossack uprising,
seen the film, didn't read the book,
  but i read the "antithesis" of the whole
affair... so that's that.
   again, beside the point,
  the point i want to make is that,
whenever i go back for my healthy hiatus:
i'm not looking for a country...
i'm looking for both child,
  and teenager.
              i can't either of them!
        every single time i'm looking for
the child, the teenager and the man i am now,
but the man i am now is a detached
body, with what seems like missing
  organs, mainly the brain, and the heart.
i can't find either heart, or brain in this land...
merely having the tongue that
can belong in this land is not enough...
  it doesn't matter if the tongue is
still there, with no heart, with no brain,
i might as well be a foreigner who merely
acquired the native language and perfected it...
  which is odd...
              to say the least,
esp. upon hearing stories about what is
the day-to-day in the pat three days,
  the 60,000+ strong marches through warsaw,
the resurgence of nationalism...
i feel some allegiance, in absentia,
although to the tongue, rather than the land,
simply because: i'm not there!
              my heart and mind have
become detached to the point that they
remain in england, with the internet connection
access;
  and mainly my work:
   i want to introduce orthography into
the english language, as already stated:
  loße (lose) differs from loose - primarily
because there is a stiffening of the S in losing
that becomes gaining a Z -
            the germans use it, originally,
to cut back on the english preference of
  little, better, mummified,
                          bladder,
                                  pepper,
                daddy, i.e.? the double consonant,
the rudolf heß - rather than hess -
   well, the english could actually make
sense of the german grapheme (es und zed)
   by playing the latin interchange game...
you don't loose, you loo'zzz...
                 i wonder if i can puncture
english and introduce orthography into it...
diacritical markings...
   after all, orthography is already in place
in english: text spreschen:
e.g. c u l8er the crudest example i could think
of...
                          only the best of men
are the products of their time,
   and none are even revolutionary -
                       most, are merely reactionary.
the whole joke in this affair that
these were written from: essex.
             imagine the irony when
that's revealed to an englishman -
given that essex is the ****-joke in every
stereotype...
                        a bit like that similarity
to: whatever good ever came out of nazareth?
applies to essex, essex is nazareth
of the north.
Kurt Philip Behm Jan 2022
That pit in my soul…
a space left unfilled
The harder I struggle,
the deeper it drills

Its emptiness constant,
dominion unsure
A puppet on tethers,
with vacuum secured

One choice left unspoken,
whose die never cast
To reach through the darkness,
the blindness unmasked

A backfill is starting,
my cavern relines
The light has reentered
—new future defined

(The New Room: January, 2022)
Empire Jul 2019
I sat in bed
Hadn't taken meds
Hadn't gotten under covers
Hadn't plugged in phone

Then I noticed I was opening the drawer
Fingers snatched up something silver
Cap torn off

As if it wasn't me
My hand started testing it
Without thought
Without plan
Just a little dance around my fingers

Took off the outer layer easily
A bit too easily
So the possessed hand moved lower
To the tantalizingly soft, thin flesh
To the terribly poetic wrist

Avoided the large blue vein
I'm not stupid
So the blade moved around a bit
Testing angles, pressures

But the tip had found its mark
Gentle pressure and a tweak
Slowly so I could feel the skin break

Not enough
Barely made contact
Again! Same spot!
Continue digging

then i saw it
between broken flesh
a tiny, delicate stream
it filled in the gap
squeezed a bit
to see if it would offer more
but no....

mY miNd wEnt wilD!!!

aS iT reEntereD cOnsciOUsnesS

adrEnalinE RusHinG

w  h      a        t        d  i     d          y      o  u          d     o  .     .    .          ?

Throw the wretched blade in the drawer!
Close it so **** fast

Okay... okay.... get up
It's over there... put the cream on it
Hopefully won't get infected

Ah  a     h   a                m      I         N      d         i  SSSSSssss    

WWWW         IIIIIIIII               LLLLLLL              DDDDDDD

you cleaned it. it's gone. can't see it even.
it's fine. you're fine. take your meds. get under cover.
plug in phone. you'll be fine. it's fine. IT'S FINE.



wait. what's that?



it stings.

— The End —