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Black and Blue Oct 2013
I remember the night you sang Objects in the Mirror to me on the phone. 



I never thought that it would feel this way.

You never taught me how to heal the pain.

I wish you caught me on a different day, when it was easier to be happy.

I kinda find it strange, how the times have changed.

*

I remember how we used to talk about love, like it was an institutionalized little child, drug down from what glory it used to hold; how it used to transcend time and knowledge and beauty and all other emotion.



Someone like you is so hard to find.

I remember that you thought I was put together perfectly. I still don’t understand how you ever reached that end of the spectrum, completely opposite my own view. I still don’t understand how everyone around me sees someone that I don’t see when I look in the mirror. I’m anti-altruistic and unintelligent and completely guilt ridden and not at all beautiful.


All I ask is don’t you worry, I won’t hurt you, don’t you worry.



I remembered how much stock I put in you. I remember how you promised you wouldn’t hurt me, because you had been put through the same wringer as I. I remember how you just unattached yourself one day, on the bias that it was my fault. You stranded me. Probably for another, prettier, girl. 



Listen to me I will set you free,

He ain’t gonna break your heart again.



And I could never figured out what that particular line meant in the scheme of things, but I realize now, as you’re trying to drift back into my life with the drive of a listless breeze, you were setting me up for the next heartbreak. 
After all, all my life really is, is a string of heartbreak.



Go through the worst to reach the ecstasy.

Wish we could go and be free, once baby you and me,

We could change the world forever, and never come back again.


 
I remember the feeling that bloomed in my heart when I realized someone like you cared about someone like me. That someone like you wanted to fix someone like me. Then I reached the conclusion that depression and mental illness isn’t attractive. That you were drawn to the prettier parts of me that resembled tarnished silver, in the hopes that you would have time to break in your silver polish in the spare time and privacy of your awful little home town.



You don’t havta cry. 

And mend a broken hearted girl if you can, I don’t expect you to be capable. 

You have the world right in your hands, your responsibility is unescapable.



I realized that boys don’t like sad girls, but you could see what I could be. I thought you wanted to help me and fix me, but eventually shouldering a burden that isn’t your own gets too heavy to carry. It gets heavier and heavier through the crying, sleepless nights that you would guide me through with your lantern, which became duller each time I needed saving.



Don’t even say you’re about to end it all,

Your life is precious ain’t no need to go and **** yourself. 


Then you left.

On my watch.

On my fault.

On something that wasn’t really my fault.



I promise that I’ll be a different man,

Give me the chance to go and live again.



But here you are with nonchalance and no apologies for the tears wasted on you. 

There may be another boy toying with my broken pieces, fitting me together because he can see the beauty you saw. 

But here you are pretending you still care and still find me beautiful.

There may be beauty in this other boy who helps me, who is just as broken as me, another boy who shares my pain in what I’ve never gotten.

But here you are rehashing memories of nights spent crying over a song.



You don’t have to cry.

Let’s leave it all in the rearview.



But here I am, telling you that broken girls give second chances.



Let’s leave it all in the rearview.

But here I am, telling you that I’m halfway mended.



Let’s leave it all in the rearview.



But here I am, telling you that for me, once you’ve left you cannot re-enter.



Leave it all in the rearview.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpUE9F7rp20

Objects in the Mirror by Mac Miller
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
.english colonialism used to be passive-aggressive, english post-colonialism is a strange dynamic of former colonial nations playing the endgame of colonialism with non-affiliated nations of the british empire (affiliated by trade anyway, although not based upon origins of the ruling elite's extending arm), there's a hot topic in england between the irish and the polish, the irish are provoking the polish into racism so someone else can look smug with a pakistani friend on the london tube.

you know the amount of pain i see writing my father's
invoices of manual labour with the irish *****
apparently running
the show protecting northern
irish outputs of poetry and cigarette smuggling -
keeping us migrants "in check"?
god the loathing,
i try to improvise each invoice
with an excess knowledge
of the english tongue to break through,
but my sole considering comforter
is still death,
**** this *******, i rather die
than see my father's eyes eye me
hurtful hopeful of seeing my "bright new life"
when i was nearly murdered by
an egyptian school-friend / childhood friend
and later told: boy you better pretend you're
mad... boy my ***, your father is just
an x-ray technician... go back
to the northern africa of your
pretending to be a semite and build
another pyramid... *******, **** all of this,
days of casual pretentious squeaky clean
non-offensive poetry are over...
gentlemen - let's broaden our minds... swear a little
take up oaths with truth...
we were born to down a pint of concrete before
ireland was born, rushing out of pubs
when the call was made: concrete has arrived!
run, run run run! break legs and whatnot,
because in an irish pub talking to a homeless
person in akimbo giving him a cigarette
is cause for argument with an irish girl
trying to get, familiar;
unlike the sword, a stick has two ends...
you can smack someone with it,
but then someone can rebel and grasp the same
stick and smack you with it, for a suckling
taste of a kiss in memory of reprimanding manners.

- and i do remember the good stuff coming
out of h'america...
    i once owned a copy of blue valentine
by tom waits on c.d.: scratched that record
from over-playing it...
found a vinyl copy in the shop today...
splashed out a staggering £20 on it...
lucky for me the mp3 record comes free...
     £20 is a lot?
       well... better that £20 which played
in the background as i finished off decorating
the kitchen...
   rage 2 deluxe edition for ps4 -
      £44.99... so sure... i splashed out...
          thank god i'm not a gamer...
with games it's like with movies...
   notably? vikings season 1...
     i thought i could watch it a second time...
couldn't...
   a bit of a hit and miss...
    with games and movies...
      when the narrative gets exhausted...
and you're still honing in on the narrative
whether a passive spectstor or the role player
in the game...
but investing in an album?
       background background...
and an almost infinite array of the comeos
against the record...
   one cameo decorating a kitchen
another cameo finishing the day off with
some cider on a windowsill...
   but once upon: that's what h'america was
about... united we stand,
divided we fall... blah blah...
           and it looks like that right now...
the cultural export zenith peaked and it isn't
coming back...
   not for a while at least...
now we only look at not the united
         but the balkanized states of europe...
the states pulling at each other:
where once there was a cohesive collective
      export of pure cancan h'americana...
tom waits' blue valentine...
                          now i'll am getting
"culturally" is a bunch of vlogger content...
export of problems,
existential qualms without support on
existential pillars from continental thought
of 20th century europe...
   19th century doesn't count:
   not even nietzsche does: but kierkegaard
doesn't.

what are those lyrics from that vomito *****
song enemy of the state?
we shall send you, in ever increasing number:
ships, planes, tanks, guns: that is your purpose
and, our pledge
... (1941 state of the union speech
sample)

most americans are not aware that soon
the primary export of our national economy
won't be cars, or food, or microwaves.
instead we'll be exporting death.
instead will be exporting death.


   perhaps, once upon a time...
now the export is quiet different,
   at its cultural zenith of exported values...
it would seem h'america choked on
a bitter pill... h'america no longer provides
the sort of culture worth exporting,
notably in cinema in music...
                               in literature...

the behemoth lost all of its juggernaut
momentum... and stumbled into rehashing old
ideas... it's not plagiarizm as such:
more a plagiarizm ex per se...

norman davies: god's playground -
   1795 to the present:

the Belweder is a palace in Warsaw...
(belvedere: a beautiful view)
constructed in 1660 -
  the White House in Washington D.C.
constructed in circa 1796...
by god, what a similarity!

   polish emigration to the u.s.a.:
in social terms their educational and communal
organizations are less effective than those of
the ukranians,
   in political terms their problems
command less notice than those of the blacks,
chicans or amerindians...
in the vicious world of the american ethnic jungle,
the 'stupid and ignorant Pole' is a standard
stereotype... once the noble lord...
reasons no doubt exist: like the irish and
the sicilians... the greatest influx came from
Galicia containing a large number of
the 'wretched refuse': people so oppressed
by poverty and near-starvation:
supressed linguistically, religiously...
the instinct of mere survival...
accepted the most degrading forms of employment...
exploitation: 'industrial *******'...
they were the gangers of the great american
railway age...
a canadian textbook can be cited
(j. s. wordsworth, strangers within our gates,
toronto 1972):
'it is hard to think of the people of this
nationality other than in that vague class of
undesirable citizens' -
   very much like to today:
   to think of canadians being a people
beloning to the making of mankind -
    without the canadian concept of mankind
being: peoplekind...
even woodrow wilson (then) prof. at prince-ton
deemed the Poles to be 'inferior'.

- but who was to ever to keep grudges...
grand torino - the movie, starring and directed
by clint eastie-boy-sparking-wood...
waldermar kowalski... dumb pollack...
why do poles no integrate within a community
bias as such?
                   the proverb:
if you want to succeed within a framework
of immigration: steer away from your
fellow countrymen...

                     almost all other cultures that
come, but the host's nitty-picky:
oh look at our asian labradors...
why can't you lick our ***** like they can?
etc. one example out of the many...
some people, i guess: prefer to be in
the background...
post-colonial powers need tokens...
akin to a sadiq khan:
papa was an immigrant bus-driver -
quick step up from daddy being a bus driver
to the position of mayor of london...
browny points!

the english are smug like this:
you hear even today -
WE WON'T BE SORRY FOR OUR
FATHER'S AND FOREFATHER'S SINS...
not for our colonial past...
they say that consciously -
but subconsciously they are scoring
brownie points...
        i can't say they're doing this
unconsciously: since if they were:
there would be a unanimous concensus
and no: "diversity is our strength"
agenda...

             besides... you can't exactly
conquer an island...
the norman conquest of 1066? it wasn't really
a conquest: for a conquest to actually take
place you'd require the native population
to be displaced / replaced by the invading
force - akin to the saxon invasion...
'don't touch, their, women...
we don't breed with these people...
what sort of people would you think
that would breed? weak people... half people'
(king Cerdic from the film king arthur 2004)...
proof being?
when the normans invaded and "conquered"...
they simply replaced the ruling saxon elite...
hence? the domesday book...
the ruling elites were being replaced
and the new ruling elites wanted to have
an account of who they were going to rule...
it was less a conquest and more:
a change of guard... since...
            the locals were first investigated
and subsequently left to their own devices...
there was no conquest:
               as such...
                but you can get on with your
day-to-day life on an island with natural
fortifications (the ******* sea)...
and produce your little whizz-kids down
the years...
   but imagine being squeezed by:
prussia... russia, the ottomans,
                  the mongols...
                             the swedes...
                and subsequently by the austro-hungarians...
matka królów (the mother of kings),
i.e.: Elisabeth von Habsburg...

   in conclusion... oh to hell with the whole
"incel" label... you have to pay for something
in the end... why not skip the *******'s worth
of pleasantries: the dating masquerade
and not get into the nitty-gritty with a *******
in one smooth stroke of a count worth an hour?
no hard-on shyness that way...
no ****-teasing...
whatever is an erectile dysfunction outside
of the brothel... doesn't seem to bother
whittle wichy while in a brothel...
so go figure...
                and relating to the stories of incels...
hmm... maybe it's the fickle women...
last time i checked...
i picked up a thai bisexual in a park,
a random stranger...
                took her home,
some beer, some jazz...
                  ****** her in the garden...
        i don't even think it's the case of
"i can't get laid" with these incels...
     english women: nuns on the outside...
latex gimp suited **** black boot licking
*** fiends in the bedroom...
   the madonna-***** complex...
the only aspect of Freud that resonates with me...

you know what, never mind...
      i'm just happy i collect vinyls...
free mp3 copy to boot...
and instead of spending 40+ quid on a game
that will become exhausted after one sitting /
completion (these are not arcade games,
nor are they the "free" new wave of games,
the ones where you play "superior"
opponents with a handicap -
since you didn't pay any in-game updates,
patience is a virtue,
   and someone people invest real money
into these games, but are still **** at them,
plus, these new wave games never really end...
i'll be dead and i won't be able to finish them,
added bonus? there's no NPC dimension
to them, added strategy: with a complete loss
of narrative / story-telling, genius!)
plus... how much does a vinyl player cost?
you can get one for under 70 quid...
sometimes vinyl bargains: under a tenner...
this one though, for 20 quid...
1 vinyl worth 20 quid once every two months?
oh yeah... i really splashed out on this one!

woman is a grand idea though...
    there is so much of woman i would be able
to love, if only the practicality of woman
wouldn't be associated...
alas: reality bites...
                       regrets...
                                  aged 33 and i feel as if...
i have managed a good enough sample
where both sexes can coexist within the confines
of me entertaining them:
as if they were to never meet and "preserve"
the "fate" of "humanity"...
      i'm pretty sure there are plenty of people
who have been bullied into this trap
associated with the otherwise "intelligent"
dodo mentality...
                          besides, i'm about to find out,
whether or not, they sell liter bottles of whiskey...
using my braille tally:

            ⠁ ⠃ ⠇ ⠧ ⠷ (⠿)
            1  2  3   4  5  (6)
             a  b  l   v  à  (é)

                        from what i drank yesterday
for that lullaby... i'm starting to supect that:
what they label as a liter... is actually more -

    if after ⠷⠻ ⠷⠻ (i.e. 50ml  20x) i'm not left
with an empty bottle... well then i'm not left
with an empty bottle.
Blue Sweater Sep 2014
Rehashing the rare
Out with the new,
In with the old.
She's always had a thing
For the things that exude
A quirkiness and a bucolic charm
The smell of old books
The black and the white
Good ol' Chaplin, James Dean
And the Sound of Music
The Beatles, a tape recorder
High-waisted pants
And the gramophone
And a rustic old bar
With a gruff bartender
Who's off his rocker
But he'll double up as your therapist
And for the boy with the dark brown eyes
Who looks across the bar at her.
And smiles.
It's all black and white again
Except this time,
It isn't her favourite Casablanca scene
But a white screen
And a thousand particles
Microcosmic
A milieu of
Unfathomable numbers float
Through the atmosphere
Connecting her to him.
And she doesn't want that.
She's always had a thing for the old,
But he makes her doubt that.
Sag Mar 2016
I don't want you to think of me when I'm gone if it hurts to reminisce.
File the details in the back of your mind and please don't pull them out in fear of forgetting them, for they will only feed the already heavy heart.
In a few weeks, or months, or whenever you're ready, really ready,  I'll have them here for you to read and recollect.

I always freaked out when you licked my face and nostrils and tried to kiss my armpits and toes, but secretly enjoyed the attention and slight aggravation because i knew one day all of it would end, so I tried not to overreact every time in case you decided to actually stop for good. I knew I'd miss it when it was gone.

I liked to shower with the lights off but you had to let me get in first.

I loved your shoulders and wrists and rubbing them softly through the night with my fingertips.

I tried to cuddle you every second i could but i think I put off so much body heat it was hard for you to sleep.

I watched all of the Kevin Gates and Logic interviews because i knew you wanted me to be interested in them because you were.

I wanted to take you to see the ocean and every sunset.

I didn't mind holding your hand and the steering while at the same time, although i wished sometimes i could nap in the passenger seat or be the one shoving fries into your mouth at midnight.

I drank every bottle of wine you bought for me and saw the conscious love in that simple gesture.

I wanted more than you could give, more than anyone could, more than i could give myself.

I wanted nothing more than to be able to love you and for you to love me back in the same way.

I was insecure and worried that I wouldnt ever live up to the first idea you had of me.

I love you. I don't want you to leave. But I will feel so pathetic if I fight for something I know you don't want anymore. I am trying to make this easy although it is killing me.

I wonder how long you've been waiting for an excuse to leave me..
I wonder if she is worth throwing it all away with me. I hope so. Genuinely.
I wonder if she is even the reason.
Maybe I was just too clingy, too needy, too crazy, too much to put up with.  
I hope that if she is the reason, there is longevity in your relationship.
It would hurt even worse if I let you go and you still were unhappy.

The thought of you not wanting me anymore breaks me.

Your kiss on my shoulder through my soft denim shattered me.
I ran away, like I always do, and I sliced my foot open and it still took everything in me not to turn around and run to you.
I even tried, I almost made it, but I turned around again.
I will not fight someone who won't fight back.
.
Bharti Singh Jul 2014
I wrote something that I did not mean
When I write that, I feel it’s unseen

In real, I make someone else’s thought mine
Publicize it and leave others to opine

These actually are one liner’s lifted from popular text
I dissemble and exude that I take my life at best

I am the ideal of all humans in my words
For similar situation in real, I am truly reverse

My online life is most beautiful on earth
Whereas offline, I am rehashing in vain to cover up dearth

My posts are full of inspiration and energy
If you meet me in real I am full of lethargy

Why dupe to be a connoisseur and be a commonplace
At least quote the source, give true author some space

Be eclectic and original in expression
Write such that it’s never been done

*Bharti
Most of the times, I feel posts on social media avowing inspirational inclination and concerns on burning issues of the society are impressive but factitious. Urges us to form gentle opinions about the people posting these. However, in reality, its all borrowed knowledge which in reality may be far beyond application when comes to it. I did that a few times and ruminate why????? What's the harm in being original? Write to express not impress. So all are happy in virtual world; so am I after posting this....hahahaha...:)
David Noonan Jan 2017
They all gather to the deadhouse
Like actors taking to a well trodden stage
Whether from London's' Kings Cross
Or the finery of NYC's Queens borough
Back to the fold all prodigal sons must return
To join with those that could never find a way
From this barren cold land and its insular bitter lies
All united now in a grief of one that has been lost  
All divided by a rivalry, a rumor, some generational feud
The priest commences his weary and over versed tone
As he summons his God, his Jesus and his Litany of Saints
Incense burns as a symbol of the prayer of the faithful rising
Yet rising no further than their hypocrisy descends

And where do you look when even Jesus lets you down
As you turn to wipe that burning tear from your face
One not born from holy water nor from their devils grace

Doors are opened and a captive audience awaits
A procession of mourners to take their turn to the stage
Heads bowed all and one, as hands are extended
In weak and feeble grips amid their mumbled exchanges
"Sorry for your loss" and "taken too soon"
None hesitate too long as they navigate this fallowed room
An occasional recognised face among a community of strangers
A moment of warmth emanating from this ritualistic parade
All gone too soon unlike those memories of years past
Of wanting to get out and get free, promising never to go back
Yet to the last of this line they swear that they remember you well
Whilst retiring to The Old Stand with promise of more stories to tell

Where the whiskey chasers flow like the Guinness on draught
Helping to swallow the lies on how good it is to be back
Rehashing of old platitudes but nothing really said

For no one shall ever speak ill of the dead
Kyle Kulseth Nov 2014
This wind keeps snapping at our feet
through shoes unravelling.
Gales are hungry.
          Night's abandoned,
               streets have emptied.
Still, we own them--just keep talking.
           Winter's wailing.
           **** the old days.
Clutching coats closed,
                         tread nostalgia
past these sidewalk intersections.
Claimed by rambling conversations,
               often
               we're only
               rehashing
our worst mistakes
                                  and
                 shivering
                our way be-
             -neath stoplights
lit by good memories.

          I've got this notion tonight
          that we'll find our way
                                                  back
         ­ into the warmth found behind
          our locked front doorways.
Ways we've found to always hide
our faces from the cold outside
          have been running dry all night.
So drink down the cold street light
          and we'll make a blur of those green-white street signs.

This cold's still clawing at your face
through scarf unraveling.
Chapped lips smiling.
          Nights like this have
               kept on piling.
Winter owns us. Just keep walking.
           Winter's crying,
           "**** the old days!"
Frostbit footsteps
           slip nostalgia
past these frowning checkpoint questions.
Retouch same old observations.
                Sometimes
                we're only
                 retracing
the same missteps
                                but
                    ­frigid
             friends like us
                are melting
into old habits

          I've got this notion tonight
          that we'll take this route
                                                     for
          one more familiar cold flight
          from here to daybreak.
Say, "let fly those bomb bay doors!"
We've bombed these frozen streets before,
                    and I've got a couple more
          so keep moving 'til we find our front doors.
Enzo Jan 2019
You were my happy pill,
A drug I would chug down with sugar and wine
Giving me medicine for my sins

You were the substance to my life
The substance that I abused
Getting me high so I dont feel the lows
Knocking me out into sleep every night

With you, I was a ******
Always happy and all jumpy
Getting funky and needy

But since you've been gone I'm relapsing
Rehashing the feelings of intoxication
Missing it, craving it, wanting it, needing it
Rehashing it:
Missing you, crazing you, wanting you  needing you
Get high
I have got so much still
to flush from my soul
Indignation self hatred
angels they stole
Lifes blood removal
stands beyond my control
The world moves on
what is my role

Rehashing the steps
that led up to the past
Confusion denial
all happened too fast
Rearranging my thoughts
to unborn contrast
The world moves on
i reign in last

Sweet faces and hearts
the love given all mine
Trusting angels in place
how the sun did shine
Trials and tribulations
may have smoothed out fine
The world moves on
proof my decline

Final induction
to family this day
They are theirs completely
to secret away
Distance traveled each mile
my hopes decay
The world moves on
bleeding will stay

My soul flushes dark
it remains in my heart
My angels are gone
due to my doubting part
Past mending or fixing
it's too late too start
The world moves on
forever apart
Rob Sandman Nov 2016
Theme/Chorus,many voices,(call and response)
is it the worst thing ever?/ITS THE WORST THING EVER,is it the worst thing ever?/ITS THE ****** WORST THING EVER!/
Sample Ice-T
"I stare at them blue lines,I think I'mma go blind"

I'm goin crazy cuckoo,finally losing it,
trapped in my gravel pit,rehashing my own ****,
my old ****-still holding me back,
may as well get a pipe and start puffin' up crack,
cos I've cracked,and frankly don't give a ****,
I'm so sick of bangin' my head off this mental block,
its the size of a freight train-Strength of the Hulk,
you really think I wanna ******' sit here and sulk?,
you leeches... keep preachin' deceit,
one more fake smile,OOPS there go teeth...
was that a piece of your jaw on the floor that I saw?
was that real or a dream, I can't tell any more?
each rhyme I write-so ******* tight,
like your first piece of ***-first nasty fight,
first make up ***- first broke up ex,
my mates just stare at me perplexed

when I bare the holes in my soul to all,
I dunno whether I'm gonna get cheers or catcalls,
but don't worry bout that I got plenty of boots,
and I'll kick your ****** ***** til they're bigger than grapefruits,
I'm a live grenade throwin serenades,
So ******* sick I gave cancer aids,
Sandman-sicker than cancer cells in the cerebellum,
Si vis pacem, para bellum ,cause I'm prepared for warfare
I don't advise goin there ,
you'll find limpet mines in your ***** hair,
I'll blow the scabs off the ***** on a filthy *****,
if I have to- I have to to scratch this itch
in the centre of my mind like a black hole Sun,
this mental block has got me all undone...
I swear if I don't finish a track I'll drop dead...
wait a minute...I just ******' well did!

so much for mental blocks Mhmm?
but seriously-y'all ladies and fellas-
is it the worst thing ever?/ ITS THE WORST THING EVER ,
is it the worst thing ever?/ ITS THE ****** WORST THING EVER! /

**"then the beat becomes me,sit in the dark and write a whole ******' LP"
Grrrrrr
straight fulla hate and smokin hot out the gate you *******!
"Si vis pacem, para bellum"-"If you want peace, prepare for war"
Pancham Banerjee Jan 2015
This place is full of ghosts
             pondering Tralfamadorian time
              bouncing red ***** down haunted steps
              rehashing old cliches
              praying Loud Prayers
              peering out of glasses
              walking Spanish across parted oceans
              and ghost-writing poems
              for other kindred spirits.
Mind boggling beauty and love,
You have made me your slave.

Bestowed every gift just by your presence,
Elated by every thought.
Love for you has become my only emotion,
Love and trust returned is now my only obsession.
Always and forever this will burn.

Forgetting the world and its worries,
Overcoming past sorrows with our shared joy.
Romeo could never have dreamt of anything better.
Ebullient is how we shall feel from this moment on
Vagaries come in dozens as you come to be by my side,
Eternally together our happiness shines.
Rehashing the subject is simply unavoidable.
Originally written October 2008
Dark n Beautiful Nov 2020
When a poem speak in confidence
That is how I am as I walk the street of Brooklyn

me, a poem of mystery, a bite senility though
in my sensate world:

I know ones pride, can over shadow them
Never ride ones pride.  Especially when the
price of victory is high but so are the rewards.

Did our former leader congratulate the new President?

Maybe I missed his speech,
pride is born in the heart
Ego is born in the mind
today is November 10th 2020:

My job can be so frustrating at times,
during these times of uncertainty

I have to push on daily,
to have a joyful moment,
at the work place
Give thank in all circumstances,
but I will never uttered those words
That is was God work:
it was because of my inner fears.
That led me to stay as long
as I did at the seafront:

The world feels lighter these days,
Satan power is lessening,
Death has lost its sting ( 1 Corinthians 15:55

For the first time in this country
A black female is the vice president of America
And what bring a smile on my face,
She attend the same college as my younger daughter
Howard University.. Thumps up !

When I was a teenager,
I went swimming late one night
In the cold water down the harbor Road,
A poem was created that night, little did I knew
Here I am rehashing those memories…..
A happy mood clouds our judgement
Words, words, images and the truth
Michael might not remember, but I remember,

The city lights and the whispering of the wind:
My shivering slender body was a poem inside and out:
When my poems speak in confidence,  I walk, the walk
In the street of Brooklyn..
jeffrey robin Jan 2014
Yeah
We talk a lot

We don't say **** but we talk a lot

••

----   What's there to talk about?    ----

(Yeah  !

You don't say nothin  either!)

*******!
(Yeah)

••

Wandering around
Ancient fiefs

Rehashing
Sacred feuds

Winning the wars
Of pettiness

Raised to insignificant heights


Hurling **** YOUs at eachother

Passing out upon the floor

••

------       LIFE       ------

••

There is something to talk about

It is

WHY ARE WE REALLY AFRAID TO SAY ANYTHING?'

our ******* masks disintegrating

As we live on the PIG FARM called Amerikkka

As we eat the **** called the Real World

••

Well
Have fun with your razor blades
YE worshippers of DEATH!

Or?

Or what?

Ah
*******!

•••
•••

Yeah

We talk a lot

We don't say **** but we talk a lot

And there is so much to talk about
Marsya Azzahra Nov 2016
5 AM Thoughts ://

If there's one thing that I learned from the past that I went through, he made me want to try to be a better person. Maybe it was for him, at first. But then I realized, no matter how long and how hard I try, I'll never be enough for that person. So all I need to do is just try to be a better person for myself, not for anyone's sake.

I remember how I used to stay up all night to cry and pin myself to my pillow for a few consecutive months. I still could hear all the words he said in the back of my head, rehashing arguments of how he could never understand how I felt about us.

I remember how I could drop everything just to be by his side. I remember how I could try to give him anything that I could possibly give in order to make him happy, even when the situations told me not to.

and that's what happens when you truly care about someone. You want to make them happy. You put their happiness' above yours, even when people told you it's freaking stupid to put one's happiness above yours.

But, again. You truly loved him. Even when he did not. Even when he yelled at you. Even when he called you names. All the manipulations make you think that you're happy with him, when the truth is you're being pathetic trying to scratch the ground off with your bare hands, trying to dig deep, trying so hard to make him happy. But as always, it takes two to tango. and if he can't dance with your jam, neither can you.

and one day, it hit you again
and you'll remember loving him,
all of the good ****
and all of the bad ****, too
But as soon as you realized that you were truly in love with him,
you forget how to heal

People have different ways to heal themselves. Sometimes it's a short period of time, sometimes it's a long period of time. Sometimes it involves the third party, a new one. and sometimes, some people don't need a new one in order to heal.

What about me? for what I have now, I still don't know how much time I need to heal myself from the scratches I got. It took me a year to realize, this is gonna take longer than I thought it would.

and I swear to God,
I promised myself ; "I'll heal, I'll heal"
but it's a lot more than just that

and I thought I have healed,
but then, I realized I haven't healed at all

because in my sleep,
I still see him in my dreams
over, and over,
again.

at last, I'm gonna quote Beyoncé here ;
"but you're just a boy,
and you don't understand how it feels to love a girl,
someday, you'll wish you were a better man

you don't listen to her, and you don't care how it hurts
until you lose the one you wanted, cause you've taken her for granted
and everything you have got destroyed"
Some random ***** that crossed my mind, October 24th, 2016
Filmore Townsend Sep 2015
rehashing, redacting words in breath-
less thought. back into, place of
belonging; back for, a time of concep-
tion. then, and always, exhaling tone
of muscles vibrating. spoken, reverbed
of this hollowed body. eye-to-eye, view-
ing a soul outside this vessel; speak
to the eyes to be heard ofa  soul. and
of last breath -- words spoke, never
meant heard of interred. of last breath,
to be out sole compansion of lamplight;
to sprade paper scraps where images of
life were found writ from mumbled
hand. words, those left withered th-
oughts scrapped when weened of
connectiong. eyelids flutter, lack comm-
itment of the soul wandering through
broken roof and heaveward on and
beyond an impossible sky gliterring.
out into some million mile expanse --
some insurmountable spanse not even
Katahdin might hope sought. simple
lamp light, casting shadows, in never
furnished room. they stroboscope with
the fluttering -- an attempt to disavow
final alone breath. a first kiss of sweetheart
named death, but not that from mouth of stereo-
typed sickle-carrier. death with lips full and unpainted;
lips not of harlot whose eyes were long ago shut away.
were long ago gone, beyond this spansed memory. death,
sweetheart of childhood, wavering in the dim light; death,
patient waiting found only from one love lost to the million
mile spanse. sweetheart, with face to ease and supplement of
spirit; out wandering awaiting spirit-loose companion in abidement
of union outside the restraint of physicality. her -- death -- finding
manifestation in shadows thrown through empty space.
cast of oil-soaked lamp's wick turned low; vespers of shadows
ever morphing. ever cooing. waiting to accompany part
and leave pense upon ever-veiled soul of him whom
sought an emanation's first and final kiss of unpainted lips.
orig: 030814
Daniel Mashburn Apr 2016
She said she's got way too much blood in her bloodstream.
She said she'd let a little out and she'd feel fine.
She said these razor blades are the closest thing to best friends.
And she's just rehashing all the same old lines.

She's not one to quit but now she's giving up.
I told her that I love her but it wasn't enough.
If nothing has changed, then why aren't things still the same?
If nobody was listening, then who the hell's to blame?

What the **** are we waiting for?

Her tattered skin is a testament to old friends.
And the hell they put her through before they left.
She said of all the things she loves, she loves those knives best.
She said it was a love she wouldn't ever second guess

You've been silent now for days on end.
And I just hope you're happy with all the hope I can give.
But I still think about you every single night.
And I wonder if I'll ever get this right.

I write too many sad songs.
I think too much about death.
And these feelings so familiar
And how she'd cut her ******* wrists.

Everything I've known has just disappointed me but I can't let these disasters keep on defining me.
Would a voice in heaven
sound beautiful
and inviting
or serious,
constant
and still
maybe sounds of a harp
possibly playing atop
pristine
waters
or Pavarotti singing
up in the mountains
or would it be a moan,
with intention
and focus
maybe just a recording
over loud and annoying  
speakers
with instructions
and a schedule
maybe if I am lucky
I would hear
My father’s voice
telling me how great it is
but sounding nostalgic
and homesick  
a plea for his soft leather chair
wearing his hounds tooth hat
smoking his hand crafted pipe
if death could speak
what issues would it bring up
rehashing troubled times
would this voice
guarantee pearly gates
willing
It beckons me,
conflicted with temptation
when your soul knows
that this is
a voice not
from any place
but from
the best place
where Jesus takes us
to reach
for something
knowing doubts exist
that you would rise
to be with us again

July, 2013  (RIP Dad) In memory of C. Dan Piccolomini
Life changing events like a death can be more difficult to share but easy to write about. Many late nights staying up thinking that you can truly believe in the memory.  It is so vivid that you have to let it be - but it is in the description and disbelief that is so real to me.  A matter of Will.
Sydney Jul 2021
I knew right away
when you stopped choosing me.

I knew because you started
only texting back one word replies,

I knew because none of you snap stories
from our trip included me,

I knew because you started untagging yourself
in my instagram pictures - that you told me to tag you in,

I knew because you lied about
other girls being down the shore,

I knew because you changed your Facebook
picture to you and a "friend",

I knew because in the photo
you were wearing a shirt that I bought you,

I knew because you said
she was just an old friend,

I knew because you changed my contact name in your phone
but wouldn't explain why,

I knew because you started rehashing previous drama
just to find an excuse,

I knew because you started
ignoring my calls,

I knew because you said you
just weren't ready for a relationship,

I knew because you said you
needed some space,

I knew because two days later your Facebook said
"In a Relationship" with the girl from your picture,

I knew then that you had never been choosing me.
You were placing me,
into the void of whatever your life was missing.
Merely a place holder
until you found what you really wanted.

I knew, right away
that you stopped wanting me, choosing me, and loving me
because you never wanted
to choose me
to love
at all.
t Dec 2014
Ink blotches, coffee stains
cramped fingers, chronic strain.

I can't control the need,
to constantly feed,
my hollowed soul.

With pretty words and stories,
rehashing former glories.

I can't- can't stop myself.

For I'm trapped in a prison of my own design: a prison of pens and paper.
CJ Sutherland Jan 2018
My child is grown
Married with children of her own
Life a twist of fate
Divorce, judgements ,learn to hate
Before God They came together
She left him, a battle, a storm unable to weather

They both moved on and found new love
Was it a gift from above
Turn about is fair play
He with the new life ,wife is happy today

She broken hearted dazed puzzled looked but did not blink
Tears falling ,she spoke quietly Karma at play ,I think
New love burns bright, then fades for all to see
The way things are ,not as they should be
She believes this is her punishment for wrongs of the past
Devil laughing in delight she must pay her dues at last

It’s hard to see your child broken hearted
Knowing there is nothing I can do when two have parted
A mother’s job is to listen not reply
In a broken heart many bombs lie

Hour spent rehashing the chain of events
The things said at each other exspence
I know in time this too will fade
If I could save her from the pain I would make the trade

So for now all I can do is be there for my child
cautiously watch what I say or Her words are not meek or mild
Why is it we take out our hurt on the ones we love
Wasnt that the first lesson we failed with God above

Hope faith and love
The most important of these
Is love
(Bible)
My daughter had a fight argument with her boyfriend of two years she is distraught calling me all day long I am happy to be there although I can’t do or say anything right
But mother’s never stop being a mother no matter the age  it’s just a little more difficult to  Council  an adult
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2021
i'm not someone who's all too willing to regurgitate
maxims...
it's quiet impossible to have to
vouch for so many observational (not objective,
really) truths...
   after all... the height of the maxim came
with (not Nietzsche) - came with
                       la Rochefoucauld...
                - chance and caprice rule the world
   - we are lazier in mind than (in) body...
to pick but a pair...
a western emphasis for all things
    a posteriori...
              to circumstance oneself in a stance:
akimbo...
or at least akin to Pontius Pilate having
nothing to do with the drilling in of mea culpa:
even for him... something about a lottery
of time and an inescapable round of chores...
that some things are certain is enough
to give a day one's privacy...
but everything else: so agitated and in the tier
of meaningful encounters...
always the "matter"...

unlike those ?? maxims -
which mostly dictate things with an a priori
tinge of "sentiment"...
a verb pure suppose: no prior encounter
like that one that i kept and figured:
keep the sponge of a brain suckling up to it:

the only way to aid the world
is to forget the world
and for the world to forget you -

                crazy for that chance: anon. as
being credited to me, though...
   there's another maxim, though,
i must ascribe it to Socrates because it's most
befitting...

some people live to eat...
others... eat to live...

that's a real conundrum for me...
well... why wouldn't it be?
     if i were to take into account something
archaic as the Pythagorean diet schematic...

god-like eating: vegetables,
                     spices, cereals, dry food...
although some distinctions
if eating meat pork > goat > offal >
mutton > beef...
spices are the extreme to beans
(although... a diet without fibre...
and "we" know that beans
are high in protein)
            dry food: well between
burnt offerings and something rotten...

i was surprised... given the status
of pork to the pagans...
then again: it's the most pristine creature
as it's wholly edible...
beside the oink and the hoofs...
and ol' porkies wouldn't survive in
a desert to begin with...
so i don't understand allah's "beef" with
this pristine creature...
child's play of talk...
      no mention of eating crab meat:
scavenger meat... yet most pristine...

yes... but it's a return from my little
hiatus in katakana, hiragana & hangul...
i'm tired of this custard brain splodge
of curating these symbols
of syllable encoding...

back to the atoms of Latin script...
that these letters are as they are...
mostly because
of the Greek eye...
imitation: the latin script doesn't
have names for its letters...
sing-along stipends (etc.)
no clearly defining A a a(lpha)
which denotes a name and a cipher
like a(lpha) male etc.

a "quicker" root: conserved time...
Hebrew, Phoenician, Greek, Latin...
chicken scratching later...
hopes to elevated to pelican... somewhat...

but still the maxim:
some people live to eat
while others eat to live...
it is a double-edged sword...
i can spot the obvious:
when and where people eat
to survive...
it's more important to eat...
than not to:
how this maxim deciphers fussy-eaters
among the Mandarin omnivores...
well...

but then there's also this attention
to detail surrounding:
some people live to eat:
so they will treat their food with
knowledge and tenderness...
that will make eating a pleasure...
who here might quest to make
the antonym of eating a pleasure...
a spell of diarrhoea, for example?
unless of course bombarded
with **** *** imagery:
one would have to quest to find pleasure
in easing out a loaf:
best in one piece...
  than have to imagine the same...
being reversed back into
one's "glory hole" with a pump action
of agitated vibrations...

and there i was thinking about
being in the possession
of a strap-on phallus made from
ice...
some people live to eat
whole others eat to live...

i thought it less to be in the category
of people who live to eat:
then i gave it some "thought"
and figured out...
the people that eat to live
are the ones that will not prepare
their own food...
oddly enough...

i too thought it was a sustenance
statement...
but given that ******* out
is hardly pleasurable...
chewing is hardly too...
digestion can put you to sleep...
preparation of food is most associated
with the sentiment: some live to eat...
it's not a statement of gluttony...

what's the best easy breakfast i could
think of, sparingly... today...
with revision?
when frying an egg
letting it fry just shy of completely
while dressing it with a slice
of chorizo and finishing it off
with a slice of cheese...
placing it on a toast...

   that i eat to live: well i'm not starving...
animals eat to live...
which is why they don't cook their food...
they eat it raw...
and some people have become
wild animal esque...
in the fast food joints...
lazily being... some people are fed...
to take care for what's to be eaten...
i love this maxim because
it's not so ****** obvious
as to why: some people live to eat...
that there's a concern for what is eaten...
you can't exactly expect yourself
to find substance in tree bark
and grass...

to eat to live is out of desperation...
to live to eat comes from
something more aesthetic than...
       previously thought...
not to the extent of treating food as some
Cezanne - humble origins more, please...
rustic - yes... that's another word for it!

i came across this thought as i came across
a memory of her...
it's a real shame... really...
i was so young then...
she was so young then...
i was 21 she was 19...
   a weird year where i suddenly had
attention of a few girls...
but this one in particular...
what sort of girl proposes to a guy
and choses an engagement ring...
the sort of girl that subsequently
gives it back...
because - well where's Edinburgh
and where's London...
but it's not like she would go down south
with me... she went all the way west
with a previous boyfriend...
from Novosibirsk to St. Petersburg...
then again prior bf had a daddy well
situated and i'm still equivalent
to being a carpenter's son...
  
     out of no less... when the heliocentric
revolution happened...
and geocentric us-and-us-alone
and wish the gods real...
the gynocentrism prevailed as did...
           hypergamy -
                       it's no shock it's nothing new
it's like there was no Copernican
adventure to begin with...
since... everything on earth stayed:
pretty much the same...
now there are only about 3 million
a posteriori walking abortions that
could have taken place
but since... the argument came from:
use... the ****** had to be...
used... and there was all the free time...
and everyone else was doing it...
but not these sons are placebo solipsists
and they have to sort of:
give back the existential tax
of having a life on loan...

            hello... world...
but god the *** was good...
   the most thrill from the memory was...
eating her out like i might
divulge - burrow my face in
greasy beef... i would like a comparison
with oysters or... eating flowers...
but that was the best part...
oral *** and a little ******* sgt. pepper
of the index middle and thumb
working with my thumb to grease
myself up before the whole hallelujah
of the genitals in symphony...

i've been to several brothels and
about a dozen ****** and...
well... well...
                 it's not the same when
one of you is faking payment
and the payment is not as clear
as literally for an hour...
she stayed in my flat rent free...
etc.

          my youth... and she...
oh... plus the chance conversation about
liking Milan Kundera's
the unbearable likeness of being...
although i doubt she read it...
she was most concerned with swans...
i remembered swans from the film adaptation
more than from the book...
then again: memory is a fickle creature...
even now as i'm enjoying
this little cameo project of existentialism
(i.e. memory) -
well... i don't exactly have a choice
in what i can and cannot remember...
beside the anti-dyslexic / numeral-savvy
2 + 2 and a + b + s + o + l + u + t + e...

when she broke up with me
she had this way of insinuating i'd miss
the *** with: when we had ***
and listened to music
the dandy warhols' good morning:
play it when you're missing the "****"...
sure as ****
when i think about eating chicken
meat off the bone...
esp. at the tenderness of the chicken
neck with all the intricacies
of suckling and "plucking"...
i do think about...
a fleshy fruit that i cannot nibble...
or eat...

well that was me zenith of ****** endeavours:
i must adored the heart
of the **** i was eating out
since her onomatopoeia of sorts
is still ringing in my ear:
along with her face in cubist contortions:
i still haven't found relief in
having been pleasured:
some variation of an agony of a martyr
having given pleasure:

not state-holding of a saint's repertoire...
but as i now look it...
a life of restraint:
beside the prostitutes and the brothels:
hell... even the Teutonic Knights
had a brothel in their citadel...
if only i were as willing as
to give my heart up...
to weave in
     a sacrament of giving her a pink
rose... no...
i didn't come across something
just as good:
and this "just as good" is too firmly
lodged in my memory-cinema
for me to blink away from it...
i count myself lucky...
how pristine it all was...

a good shaking of the bag
and out popped out a ****'s depth
enough of wriggling for me
to not appeal to some
*****-envy buckle... after that i grew
a beard and forgot to want to play
the fiddle...
but it was a must, something necessary...
me writing about it now, a decade later
might appear as a vanity project...
then again: i wasn't as busy...
she took off and became
"devoted" twice...
the 2nd time a failure the third i'm still
praying for the poor buck to not
buckle...
i mean: she can boast that she drove
one boy mad...
but what a strange man he came out
to be...
a half-baked loaf of bread: with
teeth for a crust...

summa summarum: it was worth it...
i was ruining my time
in bed, of late...
i came across a ref. to the Noyades...
which was of "concern" for me...
but i also came across an entry: GENUG

the last words spoken...
by certain people of "concern"...
kant (genug) - enough...
              agrippina (nero's mother) -
smite my womb...
thomas hobbes - a great leap in the dark;

if i were the latter i'd also like
to reiterate: into the dark...
unless it be the already sentencing of:
a dark of night...
i find nothing universal in the day
but at least by night
i would simply imply:
beside the darkening mechanisation
of life by toil of body
and the fickleness of mind...
ah... pedantry and chastisement
of self-
(yes... prefixing attachment ready)
for whatever requires
automation and scythe...
and rude workings of
   a digestive system...

besides... there's an easier demand
of argument to be met:
some people live to ****...
others **** to live...
i never liked the Anglophonic line
or argumentation from existentialism:
for the masses from within Darwinism
solves all little interludes...
how it's necessary to equate everything
with squared root of ape...

it can't be this whole narrative...
even the ancient pagan had knowledge
of: **** similis...
i'm still searching for this...
vanguard hope of **** sapiens...
i'm yet to find one...
esp. one with strict etymological
obligations that can distinguish
a word like Slav from Slave...
a Germ from..          -an...
mute from niemy... chwek... etc.

this narrative though: concerning genes:
genes are blind like atoms of sodium are
unless pushed out
from extremes of hereditary cul de sacs
of non-replica...
lineage of cancerous-growth-prone-examples...
etc.
but why oh why...
have this baggage of concerns...
these atomic-attachments:
this hiding of hearth...
it's not predicate of genius...
vain hope bound to horoscopic tension
to spit out a desirable temperament
of a man?

character is all Lego...
crafted from both an a priori and an a posteriori
and an a- priori and: summa posteriori
litany of shelved secrecies...
(a-? without)

each time i return to this little scrap:
this little memory of her...
i also return to myself...
what an idealistic ****-lord
of presence i was...
i was the sort of guy that could buy
a girl oysters for a single date...
well... given the "nature" of life...
the "narrative"...

i will relinquish my fascination with
the eastern arts...
the katakana, the hiragana, the hangul...
when someone teases me
wrong... as i show them...

the cedilla in C and the greek
sigma
  i.e. ç
         i.e. there are many sigmas...
there are... satires...
    there are... all opera is tragedy...
there are loan-words! even in english!
sights to see
  si(gh)t?... ******* surds...
   (g)nome... diaGnostic...
                  (k)night... night, nought...
GH & proud...
   it's almost my...
  meine besitzen zunge, das ich liebe
     so viel...

watch the zeppelins rain down blitzkrieg
in slow-motion while
the Danube rummages with
flow vs. tide... and Birmingham is
without tide... and everything else
is everything else with a spare
tire of metaphor...

- some people eat to live...
while other live to eat...
            i much prefer to cook my own food...
i take pride in owning an arsenal
of spices...
along with a black cardamom
that's the equivalent of a
Laphroaig glug...
  since mead: was yet to be
a drank mythological concern for truths...

oh this little vanity project that it
is... when i loved...
when i was in love...
  when i wasn't this beastly secured
in things that would either blush
or frown at things upkept
in the cosmopolitan lineage
of affairs...
  "conversation":
  that it was Paris and me and
these two Catelonian girls went
to the grave of "desperate Michael"...
well, no... who was it...
it wasn't Bill Murray...
the doors' frontman...

        such a revealing proximity
of: my given names i most associate
with...
   konrad von wallenrode...
konrad of masovia...
  mateusz: tax-collector...
       40 ******* months
itching before what remained
Giza... and that's before the dwarf
Napoleon shifted rules of rank...

it was a great ****...
i still love the idea we didn't become
so bored as to be bored
with orthodoxy that we might
have to delve into
****... *** toys...
or... i would love to have
donned a latex gimp... open mouth...
hell... all that gwory hole-ing a limited
status of halo...
i retracted my ambitions...
didn't... i?

i didn't find replacements...
physicality strict-dentures of: failure count?
i made my metaphysical investment?
didn't i...

two weeks without walking...
chant des templiers...
i "thought" myself more a Hospitalier(s)
son in bud...
salve regina...
two weeks without walking
i "decide" to write...
it's not enough:
memory
overcomes me...

the best **** i've had and it's not
something i want
to remember for a *******...
mind you i found alternatives...
donning my hair long enough
and a new found riddle in
a beard...
and a Turk that dealt in
Caucasian memorabilia..
of living extensions...
               you see...
a visit to the barber with overgrown
bush...
of hair and stubble...
became more frankly... pleasurable...
than... what was to be done
with...

         that statue by
            apollonius of athens...
i ****** off to Bronzino's
   venus, cupid, folly & time:
beside the cupping of the breast
the teasing tenderness of the ******
prone tongues...
all ***** on silent mode...
or at least only gesticulating
at marble statues in the process
of being erected:
without promise of a public
ordeal to overthrow (the publics)
Punic details of slou... slow...
slouch... and brittle... karma: wood...

toward an excruciation of justified
meaning: this arrangement of lettering:
how feeble and toothpick prone
this brittle groove & ground...
my harvest of dislodged ease...
sensibly: antithesis grammatical pseudo...
sssssssssssss
side-winding... slithering...
side-accost...
***-seer-Saracen...

          becau­se of some pope
with a name like Urban...
              a finicky genesis...
             from memory
a white serpent of light
   in a crest of illuminate azure
giving border upon the Firth of Forth...
when two creasing crows
staged themselves
on the pinnacle of the Old College,
Edinburgh...
the nights were aflame with
youth...
the nights were... gott-gegeben...

miraculous? no!
    just aided by a stealth variation
and with life...
this mediocre surmounted...

pointer: when is... "it", i.e.:
enough is enough vs.
enough is "it"?
  i'm hardly poignancy prone
to state the difference, proper...
i've levitated toward slouch
for a week or so...
i find not pleasure in writing:
not as much as i arrived at
finding it, once more:
in walking...
boyo... you should have seen
me gear up to a bicycle...

         god what time it was to be gladly
*******!
to be so Darwinistically excated
with purpose!
but also so blind... so unhappy!
no wonder i had to fathom
a retraction: this everyday
into day-by-day...
und grey-labour & tedium &
"good"...
        
but it wasn't a waisting
of a "crown"...
i didn't live up to the expectations of:
the greatest ***** that ever
"lived"...
i wouldn't have...
lived to spar with agony aunt
commentary...
i would be the least believed *******
child of variation of
a prosthetic progeny of "sowing":
all gladly encountered metaphors...
some as ugly as necessarily ugly to breed...
most high i.q. is bred out
and is left to individualistic chancing
of revision...

then again: there's no revision...
the one who i lost my virginity with...
i "tried" to get in touch with her...
5 loads in the basin later...
she's an insomniac of reproduction...
of course she was all defensive...
when i asked her why she was so sad:
five daughters: no son...
she put it down on exhausted from...
she didn't notice i was making
a henry VIII remark...

i can't and therefore will not wish it upon
myself:
merry me: marry me i too were
that father when je suis and hey zeus
asked upon the crucifix dangling:
father...
yes... perpetual bachelor, i...
entombed existentially: no escapee
planning: processed...
            
      alles ist gott: und nothing too...
  my words: before i die...
i'm sure i'll be drunk as a saber
with blood not spilt...
as heavily worked
as a currency of horse
currently on display in the fields
where i walk...
ditto grazing and ditto:
  grass-heaping chewing-heave
          anecdotal.

before the "prized ******* bull" &
entourage of fizzing waters started to throttle
any further mentioning of
libido limbo:
        that's the scarcity of my
****** ambitions...
   mind you: i'm glad i suckled on that
wet oyster pouch before
i was sent back to the "gulag"
of skeleton teasing an imitation hollow...
before the kama sutra provision
***** envy might have taken over...

very impossibly: it's a conundrum
of reiteration of sort
that's not worth more erosion
of memory since it doesn't rhyme...
i wouldn't have lived
enough of the already given
"this" if i haven't thought about "that"...

today i found some compensation
for years drilling ego into abstract
and smiling at nothing
and all things / manners of ape:
everclear's debute e.p.
        marylin manson's holywood...

i still want that king crimson debut
vinyl to adorn my loan space
of a room of a life...
because i have to hide all that jazzy *******
on the side...

stone temple pilots -
that album with the song: art school girlfriend...
anything more -esque to capture
the sentiments of pulp and that
other song: wickerman...
for d'ah bass...

   impossibly delightful to heave
a wounding of a lung with
a morning's daily brief of
harking up excess phlegm
stuck to the wall...
how there's a heart and i call it
a sparrow and how it flusters
and flutter with a difficulty
when i've presented it with
a caging like so...

             Baltic sushi: which involves...
primarily... soaked herring in
spirit vinegar...
with mustard seeds...
bay leaf... allspice... onions & garlic...
tender... fish meat...
curated by curing
by acid alone rather than heat...
evil in the beans: perhaps too much
"roughage" / fibre...
but a constipation of world renown
for 3 days solid...

because of the full-english-fry-up...
which makes you wonder
how it can be served thrice
in a day
if one's lazy about "details":
the same quote revised...
some people live to eat...
while other eat to live...

it's not a statement of gluttony...
it's... some people will eat anything...
while others will tend to curate
what they eat to make
expensive remarks on what's
allowed to expand and what has to...
inevitably... shrink into non alias
null alias nil alias shrugging feline...
bothersome quick-essential...
practice of dangling a kite...
toward (rather than against) the wind...

GLAYVA - a liquer...
          ****... a... liqueur - a L'CUR
   a lee cwuer...
         velsh?!
               simply *******...
          a li'kwer... ditto ditto this that
and anything in between...
i'm rehashing a fancy for sleeping
with a foreign body in the same
bed i leave open to satire: tomb...
begins with cat...
given all my whimsical demands
and idiosyncratic scrutiny+plural..
highten-ed
                what first was a believable
oyster gorge and...
floral patterns agitated:
pound upon pound of flesh...

no... impossible...
some people live to eat
while other eat to live:
statement of not so desperate times...
perhaps...
if necessary i might nibble on
some grasshoppers...
or any insects fried...
but the statement alludes
to... some people will eat anything...
it's not a statement of / for gluttonous
mishandling of...
some people live to eat:
nutritionists...
the statement is clearly abstract towing
so it expand with each reitertion
as any maxim given enough
mantra status...

said true: but prior to...
blindly-being-followed...
it can revise itself...

        rekindle: ashes and all manners of
said... truant...
         bigger no  bigger than
a hyphen interjection within
the confines of conjunction:
Big-Giza... troublesome 1st and omega
sentencing... echoes of melancholy
in a rush to satiate
forests turning into bureaucratic
pyre structures...

      these burning effigies of time
best wasted... off what was readily available:
scrutiny at best:
all that surfaced was to heave...
an amalgamation of prods, touching,
prodding... juxtaposing junctions...
hinterland of diacritical marker demands...
something "Ukrainian"...

something Moldova-esque... old haunts
older grievances...
newly arrived at carpets with
them being cleaned...
a grandfather most impressionable:
death so last random
that it could only have leverage
with(in) the cofines of
a stomach confined to:
squid ink squirt...

misunderstood lyrics...
slipknot's eyeless...
               i heard...
   you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...
you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...
you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...
you can't see California without
Marlon Brando's eyes...

i'm pretty sure that's not Tsar: i.e.
"it"... yeah... that one...
bothersome brother at the till
of a brothel... less chasing chequers
at the hyper-inflated curiosity of need
of a supermarket...
till... cashier... sooner me dead there
with a death prior...
how ignited in the case:
most futile...
not ignited by some plumber credentials
etc.
stash of leftovers...
basin of sudokus...
              crazing over scalp shaves
rite of bone...
"my" kindred... touch-tease a halving of
bone of Iowa...
riddle this scuttle of nuance...

this leftover cold sure: beef
i heaved for a closure for:
the innocent expanse for furthering of "love":
what was made edible..
what was kept indigestible...
this riddle of words...
              these words half kept
as w(h)iddle...
    beg....       big...      Giz'ah...
sigh of relief or give one's purpose...
vowel-catching... within the confines
of sighs... otherwise
the exclamation markings...
letter to the "bone"...
                   hardly anything of note
ex the Iberian peninsula...
a Hebrew would know...

       thank you gimp suited &
boot licking worth maggot spew....
i have outlived my purpose of riddle...
i'm hardly going to appease
the throng of "doubt"
when it comes to clinging to something
"bilateral":
queasy without dizzy...

what's that?
qu-easy
  vs. -izzy..
                        forget it...
letters like lumberjack praise of
pork,,
something to market: sizzle...
gimp suits and all things best kept
tinged with... bride... horror...
my bride.., not some angry african
who-man'ood...
   conservative little hooded
monsters prior to the Levant practice of
the snippet...
skin left so bare...
the eagerly waiting *****
of whitey...
angry baking half angry "noir"..
the women the challenge...

i pretend to dance before mirrors...
my elongation of the hand
looks more like a crab
than what i want it to depict:
i.e. a spider...
the 2oth century is a house
of haunting:
it's not a circa... esp. one might
wish to be born in...

that there was ever an "expectation"
and it allowed itself
a summary... with excuses...
if we are all...
pointing & turning...
the Polacks were not given... TS...
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
Note this my cohort,
debunk what junk crusts your eye
Dig up memory of that first trespass
Loyalty sworn to innocence why?
Note this disease given between my thighs
Come by seek now dolor of blistered
Note condemnation, impressive tongue-lashing
Note my enemies' constant rehashing
And how must I rehabilitate rapture?
Like lamb offered in sacrificed slashing

Yet given my pride, note my superb devotees
Partiality given as they come and go with winter's breeze

Note winter's cold and me on my knees
Between two thieves strung and nailed
Note glory of how love tried but failed
As lamb of sacrifice last breath exhaled
b e mccomb Jul 2016
We told citronella secrets
Under the summer stars
When the Christmas lights burned
Out of the airy tent
The tiki torch tradition
Was newly begun.

We told laughing love stories
As we walked the phantom dog
Down the silent, midnight road
Occasionally lit up by giggling headlights.

We drank soda from crinkling cans
Sipping down our suppositions
Rehashing the year and all
Our misconceptions by the
Light of the tropical
Tribal flames.

We told citronella secrets
And shared our autumnal fantasies.
Copyright 6/11/14 by B. E. McComb
120
To make my art work,
Remixing and rehashing,
To make my work art.
Groved Wall Mar 2018
Lying in bed,
can't get you oughta my head.

rehashing the things i said,
wondering how it was read.

feel bad
if I made you sad

Feeling glad
for the times We had

Wonder why
I made you cry

Firewood, flowers, food and fudge
haven't seen you since,
but from my mind you will not budge.

Closed purple tulips of royalty
for My Grace

She shows them open totally
reddens my face

The stars we say are aligning,
just something about the timing

You seem so close
but yet so far
I often wonder where you are.

Are you there,
do you care

Its hard to share,
do I dare

At the screen I stare
Its tough to bare
Another day in the Jungle
Tapan jena Aug 2017
Beyond the beautiful forever
Untouched by the slithering mores
She rises,

Leaving behind the temporal obstructs
She rallies past the towering walls
Unhinged like raw power
Full of resilience, she would move forward

Rehashing the past won’t change a thing
From the ashes of her past begin a new awakening
Fear cannot shut her down anymore
She embraced courage, dispelling the herd

Rising above the cloudy vow
Up above the land of chaos
Only way she could live; if she would grow
Now it’s the dark’s turn to be afraid
Anais Vionet Feb 2022
We’re in the common room, Lisa and I. It’s Friday afternoon, about 2 - It’s partly-sunny and 45°f. outside. We’ve claimed the two squares of temporary rectangular sunlight like the Spanish conquistadors of old once claimed everything.

I’m just drowsing, I had a test this morning, I got up at 3:30am to study for it and although I’m confident I did ok, I find myself rehashing it when I close my eyes. So I’m determinedly not closing my eyes - much. Lisa has a book open and she’s working on a chemistry problem set (called a pset) assigned as homework.

Looking out and up, there’s only one, lonely, cumulonimbus cloud in the sky. It's there, as if placed - a piece of art - the rest of the sky remaining defiantly blank. At first glance, it resembled a man, hanging by his neck, blowing in the wind under a giant mushroom gallows - but he soon detached and floated away like a tattered kite.

Lisa starts asking a question, without looking up from her book. “Ok, so when hydrogen acts as a metal instead of a nonmetal..”

“Please don’t make me think,” I whisper in a tired monotone, “I’m unprepared.”

“Ugh.” Lisa, grunted. She absorbed her disappointment quietly, without taking offense.

We’re like two disparate species coexisting in the same landscape: the chemistry-tested and the soon-to-be-tested - neither diminished the other but we’re separate.

Leong and Anna come in together, breaking off to their rooms to shed bookbags and coats but soon they’re filling the room with restless energy. “Has anyone heard from Sophy?” Leong asks.

Sophy failed a rapid test yesterday morning and was hewn from the population like a cancer on the student body - and swooped off to isolation housing. “Yeah, I took her some stuff this morning,” I report, “She seems ok.”

People are dropping to covid like flies. None of us are invincible, we roommates watch each other - as if any one of us could go full-on-zombie at any moment - not unlike I imagine dinner at the Trumps these days - everyone looking around, nonchalantly, wondering who’ll flip first - but here, if you cough, you’ll start a panic.
BLT word of the day challenge: Invincible means "incapable of being conquered, overcome, or subdued."
BLT word of the day challenge: nonchalant: "having an air of easy unconcern or indifference."
JDK Jan 2015
Good God kid!
Now I remember all of it:
I was just a do-gooder passing through.
Like some sort of ghost, like a wisp,
amazed that I had somehow found my way onto the guest list.
No wonder I got so drunk.
No wonder I was constantly throwing up.
I couldn't handle it -
being in the midst of such intelligence.
But I was hooked.
I knew this was where true inspiration lives.

But it scared me so I fled into self-sentenced exile.
You knew she wasn't the one, you knew all the while.
I struggled and bled. I thought of things we had said.
I tried to lead a proper life,
but I felt already dead.

So I returned,
but in the wake of a irrevocable mistake.
Much like I remembered, but it wasn't the same place.
A shadow loomed over. Everything was changed.
And though you were glad that I was back again,
it was clear that you were devastated by the death of a friend.
I couldn't relate.

Still, I tried. All those that knew him; how they cried.
There I was, with just a broken heart.
It felt like nothing compared.
I'd never loved anyone who had died.  

But time goes by, and supposedly, it heals all wounds.
We were having fun again, feeling alive before too soon.
Then everything changed when you were going to move.
Afraid of what I stood to lose,
I decided to move with you too.

We got ourselves into situations with which we could not cope.
Communicating got harder and we began to lose hope.
The gap between one life and another can seem so vast.
I moved back home again and our lives took separate paths.

Here I am rehashing the past,
without you.

So where are we now?
Has it all gone so south?
Seems like there's more complaints than profundities spilling out of our mouths.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it our fate all along?

No.

No way.

Fate was always something we defied.
But I worry about you sometimes.
I thought about you today.
Why didn't you take my call tonight?
Keeping in touch with the out-of-touch is hard, but what we had is untouchable.
Graff1980 Jul 2015
Shakespeare my dear friend
I can only devour you
In small servings
Till you become my pen
And make words sing
Like long lost children
Birthing new mirths
And rehashing old pains
Till I regain my balance
Releasing all that is pent up
And then storing it up again
- May 2014
it feels like i've run out of words
or motivation in general, i guess
i'd be perfectly fine with lying in bed for a week
rehashing the same emotions over and over and over
nothing is new, nothing is exciting
i don't want to do anything
i don't want to be alone
but i don't want to talk
all i want is to bury my head in a pillow
and not resurface for a bit
Francie Lynch Mar 2018
Eight of us sat at the table that night,
Rehashing the news,
Retelling the plots,
Familiar voices singing old songs;
Getting it right.

Between hors d'oeuvres and bottles,
One wife remarked,
She wished her husband
To be better read.
To us who knew her,
She said better bred.
A point best kept
Within her head,
Silent and unsaid.

He turned red,
The goodly man and dad,
A lad who could build
From ethereal prints in his head.

I could feel the company's dread.
He pushed his chair out,
Stood sturdy and stable,
Looked at the company
Sitting full round his table:

I can't read or write too good,
I'd be a Stooge in Hollywood,
Don't believe she said it in spite,
For forty years she's been my wife.
She knows I'll never change my ways,
She says things just to hear her voice
.

Then sat with his elbows back on the table.
VM Jan 2021
The stunning you see presently, isn't tomorrow
Particularly about the sentiments
Feeling regretful? Hang on briefly, don't feel excessively
Asking over and over—asking yourself inquiries, and again hanging tight for one another's answers
Clearly nobody replied
When will you keep on being this way?

One hour left.. what time is it?
Has your friends answered to your message? Try not to stress excessively
Need to taste the breeze? Simply go to the second floor overhang, remember to bring some espresso, you have been going to and fro twice
I'm starting to ask as many questions as you think
Am I your brain as well? I don't have the foggiest idea, how is it possible that anyone would know?

See, everything appears to be typical, right?
Try to incite your dread. How is it possible that it would be, you are extremely cheerful at this moment
Goodness, you can—indeed, on the grounds that you recall that you can handle this, correct?

You actually must be incited, as well
Try, listen the sound of the little chicks kidding
Isn't excessively irritating? Truly, simply increase the volume of your speakers
Not relaxed? Would you like to feel more relaxed?
Mention to me what you like other than praises to the leaves

Gracious, it's as yet the equivalent

Quiet down and don't get devoured by your own conscience,
Tomorrow you will forestall it with a similar way—can you?
Need a tissue? Only two minutes, you know, you promptly burst into tears
Oh, that thing, once more, would you say you are not happy with rehashing that scene?
There is no requirement for contributions to watch it

Other than
The lady you respect additionally gazes at the roof of her room each night
The man who consistently welcomes you is arriving at his fantasies—his darling who is usually close to him is dozing in her own room, expecting to meet him in a her sleep
The man with the sweet grin consistently asks you something very similar in light of the fact that you never attempt to ask him whatever else

All are contemplating themselves

Take it easy

There will be no more distress when you bite the dust from everything you could ever hope for
Two hands covered the ears from the boisterous hack of the elderly person
The clockwork thumps each night

As though all is well

As though all is well
Irate Watcher Dec 2017
the blue light on the black screen
tells me it's not worth it,
rehashing his ill-considered verbiage.
i'll slash his discourse dead
until i see a period.
it's unfortunate.
overzealous.
anti-buddhist.
even though I'm not buddhist,
i wear a buddha necklace.
people compliment it.
the coral and gold chain
is attractive.
i don't need to be buddhist to wear it.
Divya Kaushik Jun 2020
I look at your picture
A deep rooted memory
Rehashing your features
Feeling giddy with familiarity  

I observe your hair
A sounding valley
Clash of colors
With earthy balancing  

An enriching, warm smile
Makes drab walls radiate
For all the chips the walls keep
Absolute contrast your skin makes  

Smart and kind eyes
Movingly carved face
Look inviting for all
Needing contact or embrace  

Relaxed and composed
Fresh, appealing attire
Dainty like a sandy castle
Concealed strength to admire  

Physical cast aside
Perceptible by senses
Nimble, tenacious mind
Like wind mapping surfaces  

Compassion, consideration
As natural as breathing
Spring of kindness
Rarely impeded

Deep rooted loyalty
Veiled gentle protection
Ageless controlled fire
For those in the sanctum

Beneath the drawn armor
Lie spots of mischief
Hint of adulthood
Innocent, questioning beliefs

If all goes to ruin
You will still be loved
All that matters is
Existence of and for love.
Wrote it for my friend abroad on her birthday, and tried adding a little imagery to it.

— The End —