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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?


ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...


p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.


well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic


              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.
Maria Imran Mar 2015
a void
should not be called
just a void.
this way I am feeling
deserves certainly
another name.
something more sadder,
and deeper
quieter
and scarier.
because there is no pain
here
just... the lack of it
and the lack of everything else
and everything else
and else
and el
s
e.
Insanity
making love with no love
(kissed her with his freedom)

<•>

a new person in an overnight stay in a strange,
aptly named,
bed and breakfast

and

you do all the same things that just feel good, careless loving
that comes from practiced renewable remembering,
kiss her neck for hours, drink in her crescendoing cooing

rename her Appalachia, bemused, wondering why,
she gasp-asks, when your tongue traces her odyssey body
from her Georgia to her Maine, then no need to explain

it all feels familiarly strange, imbalanced, shaky, loving the thrill
of your first solo bike ride, an invisible hand letting go,
the wow of walking the line of new freedom and
old responsibility that you have walked on both coasts

carry on, love is coming to us all lyric, enacted-recalled,
loving yet another
long cool woman in a black dress with unquestioning

how to explain to her, how to yourself, loving with no loving,
and the best you can stammer is it is like writing a poem
with too many commas or none at all

she laughs you up with one mouth lingering,
then one amazing kiss on your heart
and nose,
grabs a piece of toast and gone girl,
then you are returned to alone, to the dreams that
may or may not have occurred and two hands overflowing with
too many commas
and none to keep
<•>


11-18–17 2:54am, somewhere
“kissed her with his freedom”
Cactus Tree by J. Mitchell
11/18/17 2:54am
Build in a very humble way
Its architecture redolent of Europe,
Plain and honest in structure,
The vestibule at the entrance
Replete with old hardbound books
Dust covering the jackets
In their agony of human oblivion,
Every section has shelves under lock
Only to be open on permitted access.

Located in the desert like an oases,
But the desert of readers not waters,
But like any other oasis, it is useful,
At most to the genuine users.

There are books and books all over,
Windows only open after adjustment,
You start at the door step with classics,
Indian, European, American and global classics,
I pumped into Leo Tolstoy at the first glance,
Finely juxtaposed; Anne Karenina after War and peace.

I opened war and peace and I chanced on Napoleon
Then thrill of intellect and bliss of art
Began flowing into my guts like a river
I kept on wandering why Leo Tolstoy
Never became a Christian sub religion,
To be added to the two testaments,
For it to begat the post-modern holy Bible.

My physical peregrination of the hand
Led me to a vase of rosy wine
Its intellectual whiff surpassing all,
The psalms of David and songs of songs
This was nothing but precious discovery;
A thousand Rubiyats of Omar Khayyam
The shoulder of wisdom and love of God
The hero of Sufism and demystifier of heaven,
When in fact I came unto his 69th Rubiyat;
I have heard people say
that those who love wine are ******.
That can't be true, that clearly is a lie.
For if lovers of wine and love are bound for hell,
heaven would be quite empty!

I chewed and chewed fortune out of Rubiyats,
I went through all the thousand Rubiyats,
Only hot Sun and desert sand storms of Lodwar
Are my witnesses among the myriads of bystanders
As life of a reader is similar to the life a writer,
They both derive energy from solitude’s power.

I moved on again to Alfred Jarren
The son of France, the father of mystery;
Pataphysics the science of fantasy
It has the realm beyond metaphysics,
His survey of pataphorical world
Has remained witchcraft
Beyond my simple soul’s grasp.

Paradox is one other worldwide wonder
As I look at an illiterate Turkana Man,
Guarding the library, club in his hand,
His ever week from stubborn hunger,
His sires never go to school, perhaps culture
I looked at him often in my pause for muse,
Why guard knowledge that you can’t use?

I again came upon the Quran
I read it voraciously over and again,
In expectation of great knowledge
Always making Muslims to be noisy,
I have found nothing great in the Quran,
Only regular subversions of Biblical grammar,
Let Muslims sober up to respect Jesus Christ,
His sermon on the Mountain is perfectly enough
as an impeachment to crazed pataphoricals
That Muslims often dare the world with.

I read the Bible again in repetition
Of what I had did ten years ago,
I read psalms, Job and Isaiah,
Gospels and epistles are more nice,
Chronicles and Habakkuk are so dull,
Lamentations are somber poems,
Revelations are esoteric lies,
Kings and Samuel full of chauvinism,
Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are mere clichés
My idea is; mankind can fear God
Minus Jewish intervention.

Now I chanced upon The synagogue of Satan,
A book written by one other crazy American,
His name is Andrew Hitchcock Crichton,
The book is long and spellbinding,
Having historical facts from early centuries,
Chronicling mysterious growth of Jewish empire,
Arranging facts one after another
Dismissing Bush’s anger against Arabs,
Over the bombing of the twin towers
When they are the Jews who Bombed America
As a decoy to induce American wrath,
Thus twin towers bombing was Jewish war ploy
To put Arabs into a rat’s corner.

I came across one funny book
Written by a Indian sage
Its title was Secrets of ***
From male perspective,
I don’t liked the book
For its prurient content,
But to my sad chagrin it was the most read
Its leaves were dog eared and use worn
I spied into the rumour about its tearing,
T it was a hot cake among nuns and priests
Presently living at Lodwar cathedral.

You could also wonder my dear brother
Why a Christian library has works of Marx?
This was my muse as I read Karl Marx,
I mean everything written by Karl Marx,
From Das Kapita to Germany Philosophy,
Selected works to Poverty of philosophy,
18th Brumaire to Integral calculus,
The Manifesto to the letters,
I read Karl Marx as if I was in Russia,
I wondered why Catholics are Liberal
They fear not those who contradict them.

The Holy Grail is visibly placed
In fact at right hand corner,
At the far end on your entrance
I chose to read it
Because of its voluminousity,
The book is about ****** life
Of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene,
This book shares out that;
One time Jesus was found hiding,
Kissing Mary Magdalene, the Grail
In the most affectionate manner ever.

The catholic Library at Lodwar is bad news
It swallowed me like waters of Indian Ocean,
It is located at place called Lokiriama,
It was established by Bishop Mahoni
One other man deserving my respect
He was humble and catholically wise,
Very intelligent and consciously bookish,
His mission was to make the Turkana people
A modern community, but he failed,
He was so disappointed to his hilt
He transferred to the Archdioceses of New-York
Where he began facing problems of the law
On allegations of him being a *******,
I curse the devil for such temptations.

I did meet Yan Martel in this dome of books
His famous book; Life of Mr. Pi
It was my eye opener?
It transformed me from a village bumpkin
To a modern reader of global literature,
I read this book amid my fear of Tigre
But I was thrilled, to my bone marrow
When the main character drunk the blood,
Warm salty blood of the sea turtle.

I got another book with folded pages,
At its mid was the red book marker
Baring the name of the respected priest,
The book was entitled; How to excel as
A ****-******, chapter one focused on gays
Chapter two  focused on lesbians,
But the rest of the book was all homosexuality,
In nothing else, but rosiest terms.

On such encounters I once again went back,
To re-read 89th Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam
It has the following quatrain to echo;
Looking for peace on earth? Foolishness.
Believing in eternal calm? Foolishness.
Once dead your sleep will be short. You may
be reborn as a clump of weeds that will be
trodden underfoot, or as a flower that
will wither in the sun's heat.

African writers were stuffed on one shelve
Labeled African books of English expressions,
But on my request to the project manager,
His name was Peter Kebo, he was Flamboyant
And physically indifferent to Turkana poverty,
We agreed with him to rename the shelves
As; African literature in English Language,
Nobel Laureates are in this section;
Soyinka, Lessing, Coatze and Gordimer
Not forgetting the Egyptian literary tiger
In the name of Mahfouz or Maguiz
I clearly don’t know,
Sembene Ousmane is also here
I read him again for the fourth time,
It’s when I found out the simple truth,
That God’s bits of wood, translates as;
The wretched of the earth,
I read Lessing’s Grass is singing,
She likes ***,
I read Gordimer’s July’s people,
She likes menstrual blood,
I read everything here
As published by James Currey
In his Africa writes back,
I also read the White African Nobelite
Joshua Maxwell Coetzee
He is a wizard of Narrative literature,
I read his life of Mr. K.
I found amusing plots and amusing themes,
I also read Ngugi’s Wizard of the Crow
It is nice; Ngugi is still fighting dictatorship,
Not physically but in a metaphysical manner.

I was again lucky enough
To chance on Caribbean literature,
Is when I read Vitian S Naipaul
The humourist Marxist of Marxists,
I read his Mr. Biswas’s house,
With avidness of an aphrodisiac cur,
His characters like taking a long time
In the toilets, Naipaul is good,
I again chanced on George Flamming
In the Castle of my skin
Caribbean literature stinks of slavery
And counter-slavery.

My landing to the shelve of Latin America,
Was a total blessing; Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Stood out like tor of literature among others,
I began with his Big Maria’s Funeral,
Then I moved on to Love in Times of Cholera,
And then You Can’t Write to the Colonel,
As I spiced my intellect with Melancholic *****,
Then finally I revisited his Stories from Africa
And the Hundred Years of Solitude,
The following morning when I came back,
I read in the newspaper that;
Gabriel Garcia Marquez is dead!
It was sad and poor of me, I mourned him
With long essays and somber poetry,
Then I fell in love with the literatures
of Spanish origin in language sense,
I read Octavio Paz and Pablo Neruda
From Octavio I enjoyed coda,
Between Coming and Going and so on,
Neruda thrilled me with his sense of Marx
Especially his poem; on burying the dog.

European classics section arrested me
I never easily moved out of there,
I chanced on ****** and annals of Goebbels,
Reading Russians like Tolstoy,Chenkov,
Gorky, Gogol and Shelynetsyn was lively,
Chewing Shakespeare from cover to cover
Not spearing Pushkin nor Homer,
Victor Hugo was a relish. Emile Zola
And Maugham, I too enjoyed…

Then my holiday in Lodwar was finally over,
But I am soon going back for my Xmas,
I will directly go back to the European section,
I also remember having come by;
The Satanic Verses of Salman Rushdie,
I will have to  re-read it with passion,
It is my prayer that this time comes
For I to resume my holy duty
In the Catholic Library at Lokiriama
In Lodwar Dioceses of Turkana County
In the Savannah desert in North West
Regions of my country Kenya.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
l'amours dont sui espris...

  me and the moon cower,
me and the moon peer into the night,
from behind the cloud
from behind a puzzling thought...
me and the moon cower:
before the altar of the night...

well... i would never **** a fly...
at least i'd try...
the kingdom of insects states:
by some "consensus"
that the females are bigger
than the males...
i've heard it's not so with
mosquitos...

i couldn't **** a fly...
but when Monday's garbage collection
happens and i'm left dragging
an empty bin
into the garden to clean it...
i find... maggots at the bottom
of the pit...
still wriggling in the leftover juices
of meat and others...

carelessly like jerking off:
i pour some bleach into the cauldron...
sodium hypochlorite...
then some water for the foam...
the maggots disappear...
i wish them well...
but not much good could ever come
from drinking a corrosive salt...
alkaline implies corrosive salt...
well... i drowned some maggots in
alkaline...
but i very much care to have
a clean bin...

i ******* crocodiles and tears and tadpoles
into a tissue while
on the throne of thrones and send
them to: nowhere...
just before i take the no. 1 & no. 2
(no. 3 to ease up)...
then baptise myself in the shower...

summer will soon be almost over...
autumn will come
the proper fruits will start to fall...
i'll be making my wine...
it will take me 3 weeks or circa...
maybe 4... the apples will fall...
the pears too...
winter... when insects sleep...
as much as i might appreciate the copper-neck
suntan... i'll be happier to find that
the insects are sleeping: along with
the bears...

i rarely **** a fly... a mosquito, though?
each and every time...
if i were a zombie and a fly *******
a maggot-load onto me... i'd beg to digger...
well...
    i did't feel like killing this large
specimen of mosquito... it wasn't going to
bite me...
never mind...
i didn't feel like merely killing it...
i caught it be one leg...

i have two spider twins either side
of the door to my garden...
one was sleeping...
the other was awake...
how did i know?
the sleeping one curled up its legs
into a bud...
it wasn't awake to play piano with
its cobweb...

        so i pinched this one mosquito
by the leg and watched it frenzied...
trying to escape... my hand led it to the altar...
how quick the spider! how quick
the spider made a mummy of the would:
juiced up mushy meat!
i didn't **** it...
i just fed a garden spider...
a catch it couldn't otherwise catch...

i felt indifferent... more indifferent about
vegans than vegans feel: "differentiated"
from debating the need for milk...
eggs... never mind the meat... cheese...
i don't understand veganism on these three pillars...
milk (cream)... eggs... cheese...
i couldn't be a vegan...

vegetarianism: i can understand...
but... no eggs?! no... milk / cream?!
no... cheese?!
        get out of 'ere!

       maggots swimming in sodium hypochlorite...
or rather... dying in it...
but the prettier sight than killing a bothersome mosquito
was feeding it to a spider...
it almost felt like...
   feeding a cat sushi turkey ******* on
the end of the knife...

this song has nothing to do with the experience:
chevalier, mult estes guariz...
none!
why do i abhor Darwinism...
it... doesn't tease my vanity...
it just kills off history!
from ape to "somehow": now...
that's it!
   **** similis: the ape was known to the ancients...
but the ancients did ancient "things"
and didn't allow themselves to be swallowed
up by a ******* comparison!
metaphor! they would have settled for
a metaphor... but not a comparison!
a synonymous-ness!

Darwinism is right: nature abhors vacuums...
nothing in nature is to be ever wasted...
everything has a purpose...
if... somehow... it doesn't have a purpose:
it will... it will evolve... it will adapt...
but... Darwinism as... the prime idea...
the one & only source of the genesis of
"idea"? only in the anglophone world...
no where else will you hear
Darwinism so celebrated...
Hermes asked... why did Galileo overshadow
the findings of Copernicus?!
why did even William Burroughs undermine
Copernicus by staging a "fact" that...
oh the ancient Egyptians knew!
the ancient Greeks knew too!
but... no mathematics...
then some pope-****-smear of a Galileo
was the one with the telescope
"probing": proving the heliocentric model
most adequate...

one spider whispered to another:
find any cobweb: piano concertos in the desert?
no... me neither...
let's just wait for some of these sand-*******...
camel-jockeys to catch up...
we'll show them... mummification:
hey presto!

- and they did... how quickly that spider
launched into the mosquito...
rapping it up like a... nothing to be
beside the futures of food-stuff...
it felt...
well... not ignoble... a pride in a sense
of hierarchy...
the spider easts the mosquito...
it's really levelled ground in the insect
dominion...
i allow maggots to swim in sodium
hypochlorite...
i catch a mosquito by its leg
and feed it to a spider...
the spider does the mummification
ritual... the world balances itself out...

it's a strange sensation: it's hardly a feeling...
one gets feelings on a graveyard...
count the bones...
wake up... re-wake...
the fickle faculty of memory:
so prone to amnesia...
i abhor dreams.... therefore i dream none...
less Freudian ******* shrapnel....
less & less...

i need a mirror to take a selfie...
i need... the apparition of 3D space...
you can't revise QWERTY!
you can't improve it!

i can type without looking down
at the keyboard: here's to imitating the Liszt...
the Chopin...

eh?!
i didn't cite:  E... did i?
i included the surd of breath...
EH?!

ask the ******* Hebrews why we have concern
to begin to laugh...:
it's trapped in their definite article:
HA! SANTA!

           i'm here for only one thing...
beside thrilling it alive in Thailand...
or... recovering fractures in Europe...
someone... maybe one... or two...
have... stolen my identity...
                  sorry...
             garlic pickled in some red wine
will always go under the radar...
electric six's album should never have:
gat bar! bay bar!

   it's the 1980s and sade...
smooth operator....
             best kept feeling...
feeding a mosquito to a spider
rather than simply killing it...
like... the inversed... imploded...
ploy of game...

who needs tiger blood?
bluff?
i need... a mosquito...
a spider... a spiderweb... like a piano...
i need an awake spider...
the red wine is not to be...
necessarily... mixed with garlic...
although last time i heard:
infusing ren wine with three or four
teeth of garlic (nuggets?)
is a slimming elixir...

father SLiM? *******... yacht...
bogus crew...
feeding a mosquito to a spider...
death soon arrives... "tomorrow".

- still need the geocentric model when
reading the map... hell:
i need the flat earth perspective when
reading a map... i don't really care much
for the equator, the Greenwich meridian
when getting from A to B...
funny how geographic "algebra" works...
from point A to point B:
a round earth doesn't really help...
perhaps if i were sailing but even then...
a straight line...

Darwinism didn't really undermine
man's final vanity... according to Freud...
nor did Freud undermine another vanity...
Freud & Jung created the divided schematic
of what once man:
i wouldn't say man was Leibniz's pristine
monad: something indivisible...
but it was close: to be divided by memory
fickle faculty:
how it dries up through the churn of
pedagogy... so much strain on learning
2 x 2 = 4... a, b, c, d, e... f, g, h...
fair enough: to later rearrange into words...
but i don't appreciate the classical alphabet...
the genius behind QWERTY...
i type without looking down at the keyboard...
it's almost like: imitation of reading braille...

maybe the alphabet should be less: a, b, c...
it's not like the vowels are at the beginning
while the consonants follow...
it just doesn't make sense:
rigid...
i wonder what would happen if children
were taught the QWERTY alphabet sequence...

or... just remember all the letters:
it doesn't matter in which order you remember them...
just remember that there are 26 letters in the English
alphabet...

- it's so pointless just killing  mosquito...
a fly... hardly...
but a mosquito... just at the right time
when it inserts its needle and become a syringe...
that's the sweetest of moment...
lord of the flies? who is the lord of mosquitos:
didn't ha-shem eat up all the lesser
gods of the Levant... but somehow avoided
gobbling up the lord of mosquitos?
i'm conjuring up a deity the Hebrew deity
didn't gobble up into his pantheon...

what name... what name?!
to challenge a name like... Beelzebub?
Be'el'zee'bub...
proper pronunciation with
the apostrophes: intra-verbum...
just so you know...
who: hoo! i'm getting hot from all the cider
and whiskey... god... i'm gagging for
some absinthe... the moon is ripe!
it's full...
     i need some slimming elixir...
some red wine infused with garlic...
to keep the vampires away...

what will i name you: lord of mosquitos...
KOMAR... mosquito in western Slavic...
Darwinism doesn't bug my vanity...
i.e. it doesn't bother me...
it bothers me that it's a history eraser...
nothing from yesterday here on in...
in the anglosphere...
the monkey: mammon key "happened":
an oops! ****! hey presto!
deluxe! no one grieves for Robespierre...
i might...
like i might for the wild imaginings of
the Marquis...
               if only... i prefer prostitutes to these...
"free"... masculine prototypes of... ahem... "women"...
once the woe... once the woo of man...
now?!
i prefer prostitutes...
no need for dating: plus... if they're Turkish...
they like a beard... a hairy chest... a hairy
stomach...

i'll push this dagger into that crux of:
et tu... so far so far as it can be harnessed
collectively that i'm... passionate about...
not angry... bitter... pickling my emotions...
there's a gherkin for a heart if anyone is
willing...

lord of mosquitos: raba'albaeud...
well, i could make that apostrophe disappear...
but i'd only replace it with a diacritical marker
above the A... to imply: "a.a."...
i.e. that there are two... Siamese vowels...
but it wouldn't help the pronunciation...
let's see...

raba'albaeud vs. rabālbaeud...
            eh?          ha ha... "no" difference!
so much for everyone being... "literate"...
they read like they might eat...
i've been told i eat in a way that...
invites other people to eat...
so much for others... dictating pleasures
unattainable...
i was a dinner once... with school friends...
i was the only one who asked for
rare beef... everyone else...
doubly butchered their wants...
they wanted them well done...
beef? well done?!
oh i'm a snob at that...
IT'S NOT MINCED BEEF!
YOU NEED... JUICE!

i kept my mouth shut and ate happy...
so much for friends...
i.e. "friends"... people you spend a lot of time together:
it works in a pedagogic environment...
school's great...
you are ***** into their presence...
you have to have... work-around tactics...
bullies... brutes... nerds... teenage mothers...

the full moon: while everything is attired in:
quicksilver...
the full moon: skin-head BISCUIT...
while everything is attired in quicksilver!

too many vowels... too many vowels...
raba'albaeud...
i "think" i'll rename him...
phonetically, though: ra'ba'alba'ood...
although there's an E & an U instead
of the omega...

Lithuanian: U'ODAS: ooh... not you...
i need bitter... twice bitter than an IPA
Czech absinthe...
i need to see straight... wonky too!
i need my tongue to be aflame!
i need teeth made from iron!

- history has become less linear than it used
to be... it has begot an ouroboros
of repeated... thanks to journalism:
history used to be linear...
time has reached a year 0...
but there's no revision taking place...
don't shoot the messenger!
i'm looking for the name of the lord
of mosquitos...

it's a hard name to conjure:
even though you have all the tongues in the world
available on the palette...
i need bitter... Czech absinthe...
i want to feel: hot... as rot...

Latvian: not Estonian... i.e.:
not sääsk (saaaask):               ODU...
主 / オモ (omo-odu)... that's clearly pushing it...
       オヅ
it would be so much simpler to just **** a mosquito
rather than... purposively...
feeding it to a spider...
i would "feel" much better killing it...
than having fed it to the spider...

Napoleon might have added:
sure... they're literate... but literacy only arrives
as useful when the literate are bilingual...
what use do i have for these people
distract by letters...
what use for the priestly class...
since... their safeguard is... "missing"?

sweet amber... whether beer: gods' juices...
or simply... mead...
from the work around of Hephaestus....
safeguard these names of the gods...
before they disappear...
before the Czech absinthe becomes too
bitter... still drinkable... but hardly enjoyed...

"too many vowels"... the "argument" follows
suite... i'm red... hot... chilly-esque...
chasing zeppelins... chasing diacritic markers...
covert: how you might say:
SPIERDALAJ: DALAI LAMA....
  ARES... his son...
                  Hephaestus....

             while i'm burning!

                         pronoun verb
custard: ich arbeit...
all the nouns the world might allow...

butterfass...
                   i'm itching to pass by:
butterfaß.... consonants ought to have...
better... phonetic encoding symbols...
like TH and PH have to encapsulate F...

who needs buTTer when one Tao might
have... MITE vs. miGHT?!
two consonants coupled...
not another night in Posen...
please... not another night in Posen...

chasing
i don't want to be English so much....
too many troubles...
too many fictions...
i want to be inherently "biased"...
too many frictions...
  too many fictions...
chasing  Zeppelin....
     ditto: base... the Warsaw "boat":
about to... sink.
Edna Sweetlove Mar 2015
This poem is dedicated to the memory of Admiral Albert "*****" Potter who displayed amazing bravery by wearing full drag through several major sea battles.  He was cashiered for insisting the Admiralty rename his ship HMS Butch instead of HMS Fearless. In fact the vessel was eventually renamed HMS Damp **** because it was full of ******.

A life on the ocean wave, **!
In the olden days of sail
When England's ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.

The Captain stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.

The bosun went to the main gunroom,
**** Deadeye at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For little midshipman Freddy.

"Strap him o'er that cannon, lads!"
Roared the hirsute fellow,
"Gag his mouth securely, lads,
In case he tries to bellow!"

The sailors did as he had bid -
Refused and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
After the bosun had finished.

The bosun went up the poor young lad
And soon was going strong;
Midshipman Fred looked rather pained -
The Bosun was THICK and LONG.

Then came the turn of the other men
And they set to with a will;
Little Fred could not say no
Until they'd had their fill.

What a life our sailors had then,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And cabin boys wore silk *******.

A life on the ocean wave, **!
With the rolling sea and the spray.
Sinking the Frogs and murdering Wogs
Kept England's sailors so gay.

OLÉ!  OLÉ!  OLÉ!  OLÉ!  OLÉ!  *
OLÉ!
Reshnia crimson Aug 2021
Dash now my hopes on foreign shores
Let the distant ocean stake her claim
She cannot do any further harm
Than silver devils who have done the same

Thoughts of the heart are unrelenting
Yet bared teeth have made
The tongue they bite awfully craven
They dare not utter what the heart may say
Mary Gay Kearns Jul 2018
I am nothing beyond the starry sky
Just an atom in the fiery furnice
Smaller than a telescope can hit at
I once was a girl who moved in air
Kissed a boy and jumped for joy.

My days are gone for others to steal
Maybe someone with a face like me
To begin a story they nearly knew
And burst upon universe in flames
A daughter for someone to rename.

Love Mary x
Gourab Banerjee Aug 2015
Say thanks
Whatsoever the reason
Or its beyond
Never hesitate
To utter the gratitude.
For the inherent emotions
The invisible mirror's ever there.
I swear it happens
Call it a magic
Or rename a miracle.
But never rely upon
Might be the vice versa........!!!-26.08.2015
Micheal Wolf Feb 2013
Monday
Why?
Can I rename you
You have lurked since Friday
Spoiling the fun
Friday!
Now there's a day
Not enough of them
Well bacon butty time
That will raise a smile
And my cholesterol
Sod my diet
Nigel Obiya Jan 2013
Today I want to write about thinking about what it is I want to write about
Letting these ideas converge in my mind and fight it out
May the best one win
Today I want to type the first thing that pops up in my head
Today I want to square dance with a Martian… and rename the colour purple ‘red’
Today I want to break so far away from the ordinary man’s norm
Today I want to do something absolutely, totally random
Today I want to take a break from being amazingly ****… to be superbly awesome
My mind is racing… full of excitement, like a ****** about to engage in a *******
Oh yes I said that!
Or typed it… whichever
Whatever idea I go with will definitely be the most rich… ever
But it’s tough to be at par... with poetry’s greats
When it is we that set the bar
Today I go for broke
Today I thought… I wrote… and my words spoke.
How many times can a circle run around a square?
IMPOSSIBLE! Circles can't run around squares... they're too busy learning how to train dinosaurs how to write... in the circus...
onlylovepoetry Aug 2017
~for Pradip~

these words,
a blessing bestowed
upon me, by you,
about us

say kiss me write love me
for all the contextual hints that lie
within and between them ~
"gloriously adhesive"

a monument to our five years
of living together,
the friction of our grip upon each other,
under one roof, in a land of
no matter
what the language,
what the alphabet,
we are the prime,
a living example,
of the human~poem,


our glorious adhesion!




<•>
from only love poetry,
I rename you here,
only love Pradip

8/25/17
6:40PM
Pradip Chattopadhyay ›
whisper me a title (you, the acquired taste):

Acquired taste,
for a habit sweetly indulgent,
gloriously adhesive.

0
Àŧùl Jul 2013
Everybody knows of Istanbul in Turkey,
This poem will only lay some light on it,
Through the history & mankind's irony.

Istanbul was settled as a Greek colonial city,
'Twas named Byzantium after a Greek king,
And the Old Greek king's name was Byzas.

The Romans under Constantine won over it,
Now it was their turn to rename the city,
After the emperor as Constantinople.

The great Turks captured it in 1453 AD lastly,
The fabulous fortress was renamed yet again,
The present name Istanbul descended in 1923.
What an admirable city!
Be it the Greek Byzantium,
The Roman Constantinople,
The Turkish capital Istanbul;
The city stands witness to rising & diminishing powers and also to humanity's greatest complex - the insecurity complex!
Everyone wants to leave behind some mark to be remembered, be it a city's name!
*******
A narrative historical poem for a change.
My HP Poem #387
©Atul Kaushal
with all these Black Sheep
    from the bottom end
    of the top 1 percent
in the new government
spewing lies without shame
we will have to rename
the White House
Apropos recent developments
Kalei Bumatai May 2013
Sometimes I wish I saw life through rose colored glasses
Maybe then it’d be easier to deal with all the masses
Life is hard and that’s exactly how it should be
don’t take it for granted or you’ll be left in the dust, right next to me

I wish I didn’t see the bad, I wish I saw only good
there’d be no such thing as tears
No such things as fears
No “Miss Understood”

If I only saw the good in people, places and things,
I’d enjoy even the tragedy that life always brings

I wouldn’t have to think about all the past that someone else has
Or the road they have traveled
I’d welcome them with a smile instead of a metal-woven wall hoping to be unraveled

I wouldn’t have to worry about what you say, if it’s true
I’d only have to look you in the eye with ease and say I believe you
I wouldn’t have to hike up my skirt to wade through your old memories
I wouldn’t have to compress mine down to fit inside my own personality
Luck wouldn’t be rare and happiness would be stapled to your birth certificate
But that’s not how it is, no matter how you choose to see it

You choose to turn away from the reality of life
Turn your face away from the dark and attach it to the light
I wish I was as lucky as you
To look up to the sky and to always see bright blue
But me, I see the rain, I see the clouds
I see the monsters that you try to block out

I see little girls and their dolls with chopped off heads
I see little boys who are afraid to fall asleep in their own beds
I see loving souls that are forced to be ashamed of themselves
and I see thoughts and ideas left on dusty shelves
Sadness behind eyes that I can’t even begin to explain
Those on the streets just begging for change
Whether it be gold coins or the human race
We’re all begging just the same
Mothers who’s arms just couldn’t hold tight enough
Fathers who’s hands just couldn’t work hard enough
Big brothers and big sisters who tried to set an example
Little sisters and little brothers who were nothing but a handful
The more you don’t see, the more I do
I wouldn’t look away even if you wanted me to
The trembling lips retracting their own words
The ears that are longing to hear the unheard

I could see what I want and not think what I don’t
The steed would be parked right outside my front door
The prince or princess would come in smiling
and I would be there at exactly the right place and exactly the right time

There would be only one for each of us and we wouldn’t have to make any choices
The correct door would be marked and we’d hear no misleading voices
The days would always be sunny and night, always calm
There’d be no more shots in the dark and no more lost on the run

Families wouldn’t fight, there would have never been a war
the streets wouldn’t be filled with whoever doesn’t have more
The rent would be paid, our plates would be full
there would be no need to work yourself to the bone

We wouldn’t have to lock our doors at night
and strangers on the road would never be carrying a knife
The only way to get a cut was asking for a piece of pie
and the only reason to cry was getting sand in your eye

I wish the worst thing I had to do was go to bed early
I wish I could just smile and pretend there’s no reason to worry

There’d be no jealousy
There’d be no hate
There’d be no reason to discriminate
Everyone would get what they deserve
Without hearing, “Boy, you’ve got some nerve”

Fairy tales would be labeled as “news” and crime wouldn’t exist
Firsts would be labeled as lasts and you’d marry your first kiss
There’d be no reason to relate to anyone you don’t know
And there wouldn’t be songs about sinking to a new low
If everyone wore rose colored glasses, the city would always look beautiful
And no matter who was sitting next to you, you’d probably say that they’re wonderful
No one would be down to earth, because they’d all be sitting in the clouds
We’d have no deep thinkers because no one would even know how
The past would be a brightly painted picture
with a brush made out of new beginnings and hope
The colors would be described as “great!”
And everyone would be looking through the exact same scope
No one’s past is painted that way, with only bright white light
Some pasts are drawn in pencil and tucked away from others’ sight
Some will be seen by prying eyes whether welcomed or not
Some aren’t even sketched and will never be given another thought
Your past is a part of you, don’t let anyone try to take that away
No matter if you wish they would, like I do, some days
Sometimes it hurts, even if it’s not you who made mistakes
But remember, that’s the beauty in it, the calm after the quake
Those rose colored lenses are laced with expectations and fairy tales
They let you see the good in people, even if it’s not there
The hard part isn’t wearing them, it’s taking them off that’s the challenge
Just know that it’s a risk, either way, if you have them.

Sometimes I think I have the power to switch them on and off
and I’m getting a little worn down from always feeling so lost
So those glasses I set on the table, I’ll pick them up again
Because I don’t want to see any more
You go grab your pair, and we’ll rename what they call “folklore”.
Randy Johnson Aug 2019
I'm one of the owners of a trucking company that's called STD.
Nobody will hire us, even when we offered to work for free.
The STD stands for Simpson, Taylor and Drees.
But people think it stands for sexually transmitted disease.
My partners suggested that we rename our company to DTS or TDS.
But I'm Simpson and I founded the company, so I refused to say yes.
You don't see any of our trucks on the road because people are afraid of us.
They think we have Aids or ****** and it causes a lot of anger and disgust.
We don't have an STD, so please hire us, I'm so desperate that I'm willing to crawl.
If you don't hire us, I'll personally come to your house and kick you in the *****.
Kristo Frost Apr 2013
-
-
-**
hello

-

my name is unannounced

but i come hearing a sweet beat for you

and it flows like

-

Jell-O

-

specifically the green kind

but that’s too far off topic to matter

to us so

-

mellow

-

by sitting in an armchair

imagining the world to come

though it looks so

-

shallow

-

you'll be pleasantly surprised

to find the glass can never be too full

-

even though we settle too soon

-

love it for three weeks

and then rename it

to forget how

-

hollow

-

it really is inside

but the puppy’s made of painted glass

-

of life i’ve wondered

what we want

while it certainly is challenging

there must be more than what it seems

-

lets examine

our lives when we were kids

we find bruises scrapes and cuts

and your goldfish Tim

he likes to swim in circles cause the world's too big

but he only swims clockwise cause he’s missing a fin

-

now he

-

speeds up

-

grows legs

-

takes form

-

and he

-

gets lost

-

plays God

-

gets born

-

but he loses sight of clarity

and succumbs to the apathy

of time in all its brevity

at every opportunity to

-

return

-

to the Jell-O whose convictions seem far less firm

as they softly fall on flowers wearing    f r e s h   s n o w

-

goodbye

-

i’ll be missing you for years to come

on lets go fishing we might catch us something *******’

about

why don’t we just pretend everything is fine

-

why don’t

we just take a number

get in line

-

why don’t

we search for truth inside our blackest lies

-

how else

to lend true purpose to these fading lives
Daniello Mar 2012
I ask—I know,

but did I? pull you close only
only
to keep from flying away?

I once knew I cupped your head,
like water, to my lips.

I think I know now, hauntingly,
I might have wrenched your face to mine
like a ravenous and terrified animal
and kept on your lips but to seal my mouth,
a stormy vacuum,
that ****** ceaselessly the breath of too much
                  in the attempt to inhale one.

****** dry, it became nothing.

Still, it could not be helped.
Meaning would be given to the thoughtless
and its name—passion—would be answered,
its sweet breath ****** on.
But I
I never breathed anything.
And yet there was more sustaining my life.
What sweet did I taste? Its breath or
the more?

You would rename it—silly—to yourself.
You did not know you whispered it to me always.
I only heard it when our cover would
slit briefly open—painfully, and inevitably.
Your breath in these thin moments was bitter, bitter
to you too.
So we covered the slits and sealed the gape,
told ourselves we knew
all the clothes were off, together, for a reason.
Convinced ourselves we were really touching what was untouchable,
for a reason.

But, if since the very beginning
your mouth was to move that way,
was to say those words—and if your eyes were always
going to look like autumn trees and unsay them—
was it for one or wasn’t it?
Is there something at all to smile about
just passing through our geometry?

I ask this to myself—of course. But,
but
today’s sun blades the sky too much like yesterday’s!
So your eyes return! They return to reach! to pull me out to free fields
as they used to.
Your sundress still sparks an Aztec flame
as the colorless crowd ashes.
To me your scene is still an answer
and your breath can still warm truth
as sweet as tragedy on my skin.

The lining of homes around me
glints light red
and I stare at its light, after you,
your cutting rays,

because your thought of ending
now kisses mine
and so—still—I can answer

whether, as I am now— you were always
only a memory.
Amari Marauder Apr 2014
I am an insomniac by association.
I associate with sleepless nights and mindsets that are too wobbly and shaky to be anything less than a tornado.
I want to rename my veins after hurricanes.
This one's Sandy because it washed away the girl I loved in New Jersey.
Because the ocean is never as salty as my cheeks after I kiss her through the miles.
Because I am not a boy, because my mother thinks I wear black because I used to slit my wrists.
Because of my tattoos that whisper of their memories while I lay in bed counting the stars I can't see.
So I start counting the stars I see in my head.
So I started taking drugs that made me see them instead.
I am an insomniac because I want to sleep but only when I remember the reasons why I can't.
Freds not dead Mar 2011
If you had a more pretty name I would use it
You’d find it splattered all over in my blood your name in blood
You are fleshy like balloons like *** dolls they find in yellow celebrity cars
But I did do did do did do  love you
I don’t care that your head is filled with green pool water
I don’t care that any of Donne’s poetry doesn’t speak of you
I mean any of it. The weird sisters, the witches have done me in.
I want to boil your chick-flicks, your cheap religion, your bad vampire stories
And take the needle to the jugular, filled from the cauldron
If I fed you some of you to you you would say
“I think I’m going to be sick”
I would want to unroll my finger and point it at your face
And scream with my inside-voice
“Ah-HAH!” That’s meaningful. With the casket
you are deep and beautifully empty
We need more of you, I will clone you and rename you a thousand and one times
I want to crawl through the wet streets like you
Unconcerned and perfectly meaningless
Perfectly meaningless
*******, I am becoming, fitting to you and
I am crazy and
I want you to get this
So bad I feel bad, the lady-killer, the ****** unsexed puppeteer’s got nothing on you sugar; you are a plastic pie,
a blackberry one
Your name is always in pink bubble letters in my shrinking head
After I used the needle I will hide it in your bed
And when you bring shining boys from the night
And you don’t put on soothing **** music
It will ***** one of you
I hope you deflate and melt like a witch and scream and scare yourself
But all the magic will already be boring in my veins
And meanwhile I’ll be morphing in a back seat car
And under long trees shaking like unsettled cement in the yellow yellow low low street lights
Becoming that neon sign you want me to be but
You never told me what to be
**** this hurt, I’m getting cut with your miraculous hair, it feels like aluminum cans are slicing me in slow motion
I am a spiral like an orange peel
One time I saw one glued and it looked real but there was no fruit inside.
When I reached inside of you, not bleeding, you moaned and stiffened
I pulled out what you couldn’t reach with your fingers
If I told that story in all its details people would be grossed out
They would puke up each other’s hearts, be embarrassed of course and shove it back down
Some people just can’t hold their hearts
I felt like a doctor who cross-dresses as a ****** lover at night. What ****** man is that?
I come out breaking through the windshield without my monarch *****-wings
I come out with my head full of demonology and Cosmopolitan ***-tricks, babyblue thoughts
And knowledge about hunting
I am ten feet tall, my jaw gets squared
I don’t eat ***** and I sleep well at night.
I don’t trouble your patterns, my hair and eyes are bible-black
And we wake up to fair-weather
When you let me, I wear your skin and inside I have near death experiences
You come three times a night and
we own a color T.V.
b e mccomb Aug 2016
i can watch the
clock on your
dashboard
turning
backwards
the hands going
the wrong direction
it's rare to find a
analogue timepiece
in a car nowadays
even rarer to find one
that goes in retrograde.

and all i can think
about is that i'm not
happy but i'm more
settled inside

isn't it sad
to be living only
in hopes of your
expiration date?

yes
yes it is.

i'm missing last winter
just a little
how safe it felt to be
your shotgun rider
with that perfect and slightly
annoying thirty minute mashup

fifteen minutes there
fifteen minutes back
anxious to leave
anxious to get home
to get into another van
one that wasn't stifled

i was your
shotgun rider
for monday afternoons
and drives to craft fairs
the ball and our own
educational funeral.

(can we petition
to rename
graduations to
educational funerals?)


i miss the old days
when mondays were happy
not anxious
or empty

thinking back on it
we spent too much time
in the back corner booth
of the doughnut shop chain
up on the east hill outside of town
and the coffee wasn't even good

i wish we had just gone to the
grocery store and
got some of that perfect
creamline milk you never shake.

i don't remember
the day i looked
on the label of the
jug and read the date

and it very clearly
was stamped with an
expiration of next
september

but when i tasted it
it had all gone sour
and i wondered how
painful it could be
to throw milk
out early

so i'm leaving it
in the fridge
until autumn
rolls around

just thinking
about how sad
it is to be living
with the hope of dying

but don't people do
the exact same thing?
Copyright 7/1/16 by B. E. McComb
Mollie Grant Mar 2016
The duvet is disheveled—
hanging onto the mattress,
half draping the ebony stained
floor. Admiral Blue walls are illuminated
by two brass pendant lights
that have sprouted from the ceiling
and are growing off of
the bitter ends of
the anchor rode.

My attention is pulled down
by the locket
weighing from my neck
as the silver braid bites
with chill and I stay on the bed
and focus on that brightwork
laying on my chest and
I keep trying to ignore
the far corner of the room
by the vanity because
I keep trying to ignore
your blubber-skinned suitcase
painted in barnacles, sitting on the floor,
mouth wide open, like it is just there waiting
to swallow you whole and
spit you back out at the next harbor—
I swear, I think it is trying
to rename you Jonah.

Tonight, like every other night before
that you have stepped from my deck
to throw yourself into the sea,
I will find myself,
after the moon has risen,
after the tide has shifted,
and after the town has fallen asleep,
wandering aimlessly down the hand paved
roads that weave along the port to sit
with *your life, your love, and your lady.
Barton D Smock Mar 2014
to be somewhere without a book on my person.  hard word this, hard word that, for the never arriving marble of grief.  to rename fish from the lobby window of a submerged hotel.  to let the water from my mother’s body but not before telling her god lives in me as long as my son is outside.  to have nothing but the mewing compositions of rooftop strays to keep me from becoming the devil your pen pal was fed to.  to die well.  die punctuated.  by imagery the drowning cull from years on land spent openly preparing the eaten, subliminal beast.
thatdreadedpoet Aug 2013
i’m 19 years old
and i’ve never written a love poem that didn’t taste like loneliness or regret
i was born with a sad mouth
the kind that holds nothing but tempesteous storms of gray
the kind that curses god, doesn’t believe in fate, and kisses lips more crooked than my own
you see
it took me 21 days to squeeze the ink for this poem out of my pen for you
because i’ve never written a love poem for someone
and because i can’t put you into words
but i’m going to try

1. you are the run on sentence that leaves me nothing but breathless
when you speak, i see colors i never even knew existed
i would lift my head to you if you said my name even with a broken neck
i couldn’t sleep the first week we met
because i knew the empty space in my bed was meant to be filled with the curve of your back
and that your smile was the only sunrise i’d be able to wake up to
i spend all my spare time collecting the different ways you’ve called me beautiful to wear as a golden chain around my neck, close to the pulse in my throat, and thump in my heart
as a reminder of how you’ve made me feel alive again

2. when we first kissed
i couldn’t even find the right words to string together to describe how i discovered home on your lips
i love you speechless and i am terrified for just that reason
and i don’t know if i will ever be able to forklift the reasons why out of my chest
but here’s a start
you want to know why i’m scared? i’m scared because for me
love was always a lot like throwing yourself off the edge of a building
and i had a nasty habit of falling for ghosts who couldn’t catch me
but your hands,
your hands weren’t callused, they were soft
they gave me amensia of all the times i shattered against the pavement
the first time i held them they gave me so much reckless abandon that i knew
if i took my heart and catapulted it to atlanta, new york, london, or cuba
you’d be able to catch it blindly
so please just outstretch your arms and do it

3. i know i said earlier that i didn’t believe in fate
but that was before i started writing this
and because you exist
i believe in fate now
because someone, somewhere
made you carefully, painfully, slowly, and deliberately just for me
because there is no other explanation
for the way my bones ticked like the angry hands of a clock,
counting down the seconds until you found me
i believe in fate now because
the moment we met
the possibility of you and i even breathing the same air
and the number of hellos and goodbyes we will exchange
must have been thought about for centuries
when we were nothing but dust

4. if i could take a minute
somehow place all the galaxies into the palms of my hand and rename every star, every constellation after each moment we’ve had and the little things no one notices about you
like how when you blush, you say “oh gawsh” and it reminds me of a bad western movie and my childhood innocence all wrapped up in one
or how you hate being interrupted
how you have a scar on your abdomen from that surgery you had when you were little
or how you wear bruises and bloodied knuckles from all the times you’ve hated yourself
i would do it
i would make this universe into a story only the two of us could understand
a story that says,
i love you…
for as long as you want me to (k.w)
News! News! in its surrealistic gear,
Charles Darwin of England has resurrected,
He is here in Africa, roaming the deserts
In the savannah belts of Turkana Land,
Looking for African skulls for a second living.

He is in the company of Richard Leakey,
Talking among themselves with air of comradeship,
Behaving wiseacre over the Africans there,
Looking from place to place to rename
The current African humans,

He has already named people of Kenya
And all the people in the subhara of Africa
With a new paradoxical evolutionary tag,
They are now homotribaliticus Africanus,
A tag reflecting African tribalism in politics,
He has met the Chinese and renamed them too,
They are now ****-pecunias asianicus
Or the money making Asians,

Darwin has freshly renamed Americans
This time round not as caucasoids,
But as homocapitalisticus putinis stupidous,
His shrewdness did not go with erstwhile death,
He also has s pecial evolutionary tag for Africans
Zinjipoliticus idioticus, or the fools who die politically.
Joss Caisequilla Feb 2013
Not even writing could pull this heart together again

This emptyness won´t allow me to see past this clouds of fear, of anger

Faith in hope is all lost, not belonging, there’s only rust.

Tired, vanishing within these walls hides the growing question of solitude

Rename, reappear, reset, another heart and it shall bring no regrets

I can feel it in my bones, this rusting heart that simply no longer grows

It’s stuck, poisoned in memories of what could have been, what he had seen

Fear to feel that for one fight, he faced his fragile fabric of fantasies fading from himself.

Madness muttering mostly merciful and painful memoirs of that month he met the perfect other for his match.

Trying to feel the true touch of her toxic naked body trying to tempt him, talking to him through the tameless tales in her skin.

Though not even writing could pull this heart together again.
I got so much **** that I want to get done today.
My bodies so worn down that I cant come out and play.
My hips move so fast that I should be a stick shift, churning and turning every which way and I cant slow down.
Consequences of the rain.
Its raining so hard that i cant seem to see, but thats alright ***' then no one else can see me weep.
i scream so loud so crystal clear.
I tell my fears to sit down and grab a beer.
Chill for a second and make way for love.
***' I need to cut these strings attached to your hands above.
You make me go this way, near way, that way, here.
****** me all around and tear my cares out...
and rename them fear...
So every time I reach for em they'll burn and make me hurt.
Then I'll shoot em down and make another frown...
They're discomforted, disgusted at my lame disposition...
Of not shinning like a lion staring towards the sun...
In stead Im just ammunition without my gun...
Apart from all apart from the other halves that makes me a king...
The thing that sets me off and remove the problem...
I'm that dollar bill in the back pocket of my robber...
I'm bothered...
No way to get out...
I should be racing the wind and tearing wild in my dreams flesh...
Swallowing hard while others grunt....
Waiting for me to finish so they can eat away the scraps...
everything that is left over...even the crap...
Watch them eat it up and turn their smirk real sour...
and watch them fools devour the tired representations that aren't so true...
Instead I'm there bent over eating scraps for food,
I got so much beauty, intelligence, and truth..
I am the the god or goddess of our youth...
I will be king and shall rise again..
The dark night rises ready to tear out the flesh...
Prepare ye men and I will take them away...
Its time for the brave in me to come out and play.
Thoughts of a Lion.
still as cold chair,
the sound and the unsound.
the clearing
wanes.

i think of nameless streets
and pry their memories.
when a steady hand reaches
for air, it is an effort to rename things
  their shabby selves. their yearnings
  crumble underneath awnings of a new,
  wounded moon.

   the   light   through
the    room, and the   shadows it pours.
  its working, a quiet punctuation
in  mere sentences   our own  silence,
  shattering at flight's first   thought.
 gravitations   may   be  heavy.
the   height   verily   not   its measure.


transitions   piled  like  old records;
  trailing the monsoon on  our backs,
 the persistence of daylight  and   coffee,
    plodding  in  heat, its vertical crawl -
   this metastatic fall.

i dream of old structures. dreaming
is the product of stasis. a consequence
of movement.

    dreams can only be too real. there is word
 that it thrives where it is assailed.
     an act of the body, conversing the limit.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Your brain knows the 7 alarms will soon ring
But body wants every sleepy second reserved,
So I kiss your hair, de curled at my request,
And you compromise by head resting
On my abdomen, which makes me chuckle/write,
For my body parts I thus rename,
You rest you head currently
Uponyourman,
Unaware that I am penning this
Gift to our oneheart


6:53 am
3rd poem of the day. 3 per hour. X 24 hrs. X 365 days =

A shortage of words...
mrmonst3r Feb 2017
Oh **** your heart!
It didn't care at all.
You left me in
The gutter
But couldn't stand to watch
                                          me fall.
The words we shared
Were meaningless.
All truths
Are null and void.
I guess it didn't matter,
You weren't the one being destroyed.
So run!
And call it mercy
If it helps you sleep at night —
You can rename an atrocity
But it'll never make it right.
timing
the time’s arch nemesis
they’ll wrestle intention to the ground
a point on a circle always comes back round
i want to rename love
a word that has a
tick
tock
click to it
a gentle slap at the beginning and the end of it
once upon a flash of skin
lightning rose up from below the waist, within
and the quick
boom
bang
spite of it
we both know where this will lead
a clock tower’s shadow ahead of you and me
the face is round, honesty will plead
and the point will be reached again
at the dot
spark
round
embark of it
They should rename Common Sense
Endangered Sense
Since it's becoming more endangered by the hour
Knowledge is power
Trying to retain more by the hour
Before your brain goes ineptly sour
N e v a Feb 2015
As the sun sets, with it's fading glow; I cannot stop but think, Is this all there is to the life of a man; Or is it the dark that is truly the beginning. A dim flickering light Blinks it's last goodbye Not going out with a flash But instead slowly fading away Just like my passion For everything.

I once enjoyed And endless dark Covering my only love The art has disappeared And my heart has gone No passion flows No interest grows A sickening depression Takes away the passion Fading like a light.

I fear That it is gone forever not even writing could pull this heart together again This emptiness won´t allow me to see past this clouds of fear, of anger Faith in hope is all lost, not belonging, there’s only rust.

Tired, vanishing within these walls hides the growing question of solitude Rename, reappear, reset, another heart and it shall bring no regrets I can feel it in my bones, this rusting heart that simply no longer grows It’s stuck, poisoned in memories of what could have been, what he had seen Fear to feel that for one fight, he faced his fragile fabric of fantasies fading from himself.

Madness muttering mostly merciful and painful memoirs of that month he met the perfect other for his match. Trying to feel the true touch of her toxic naked body trying to tempt him, talking to him through the timeless tales in her skin. Though not even writing could pull this heart together again.

— The End —