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Love Jul 2014
I'm done repressing my gayness
Because it's the "Christian" thing to do.
I will wear ******* rainbow ****** pasties
And march in a pride parade
If I please
And then go to church and praise Jesus
And God and the Holy Spirit
For making the way I am
And how I am
Because he made me perfect.
I am gay
I am Christian
I am proud to be both.
Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Reece Nov 2013
Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight  he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world
Jordan Frances Nov 2014
PTSD is not something you get over.
It is when soldiers get tired of hearing their own shots fire
Into a purple horizon of nothingness.
It is when assault victims are scared of becoming a statistic
And their brokenness is suffocating
It is when fear compels the mind to change
And it willingly obliges.
PTSD is when the darkness of human nature becomes evident
It is when it's stronghold is suddenly
More prominent than the beauty in the world
It's brash fingers create a vacuum
That ***** the sanity from your mind
Until you wake up in the middle of the night screaming
"Don't shoot me!"
"Don't **** her!"
You see him and now he is with your little sister
Taking her into his Jeep
While you stand there, watching
******* because you can do nothing about it.
This has not happened
And probably never will
But you are crippled by paralyzing bouts of anxiety and guilt and fear
From which your mind cannot console you
You can no longer hide the loss
That this event, this person, this illness
Has placed strategically within you.
It is when you will do anything to get these memories to stop playing on repeat
An endless loop maybe ended by alcohol
Check
Cutting
Check.
Promiscuity
Check
Anything that will eliminate cycle of not knowing
Of reliving
If only for a short time
Even pretending you believe in God
Because it makes it seem like there is a reason for this confusion
But then you begin to question why God would do this to his child
So you digress into darkness once again
Left feeling unsure.
PTSD is when you stop repressing memories
And they come back so forcefully that they knock you to the ground
Leaving you bruised and ******
Leaving you lost.
PTSD is different from other sicknesses
Because you do not feel sick
You feel there
Like you are in his bed again
And his room smells like mushrooms
That is actually a field of grenades
Waiting to explode throughout your small body
You remember the tone of his words
Slipping from his lips as though they are snakes
Strangling me, leaving breath unable to escape
This is not sick
As you feel no symptoms
But an altered state of consciousness
You do not even realize you are disconnecting as it happens
But this is Hell
This is war
You are broken
And the worst part about it
Is that you must understand your triggers
Your dissociations
Before you can get better.
Umi Apr 2018
A crimson day unfolds with sunshine,
Horrid, the creature of hatred creeps around and blocks the sun off gruesome dark rainclouds summon up from the east, counciling,
The mother of purity, caught in endless fury as her child was taken from her, before her very eyes, an eternal spring dream, shatters now,
By her own mistake, she invited prohibited emotions for this creature, The angel of hers she wanted to take under her wing and raise, was now gone, as if it was all an illusion which is lost due time, due evil,
A sea of flowers is blooming, a warmer season has arrived finally, but for her misfortune, her inside remains cold and distant to her grief,
Raging storms within her clouded her mind, she can't even think straigh but to believe, of what a bad mother she must have been to let this happen to her most precious treasure, ah demons of ones past,
Repressing her true feelings gave her headaches, but it was alright because the pain would surely fade, then she could be pure again,
But deep inside she knew that for this child she had given up a part of herself, so maybe things would be different, even if everything returns to its old shape, or rather if everything appeared that way,
Mother Purity would never be the same again, as her daughter faded,
After all, even she is only human.

~ Umi
this is my disease
here i am age 6 stealing candy from a shop on Broadway
here i am age 7 pulling a girl’s ******* down around her knees while she’s swinging upside down from jungle gym bars
here i am age 8 Jackie K shows me how to ******* to this day i’ve never looked back
that’s me age 9 creeping into my sister’s bedroom into her sleeping girlfriend’s adjoining bed concerning my sister she’s a great gal but i’ve never been physically attracted to her
this is my disease
here i am age 10 with 4 grammar school buddies shoplifting at Marshal Fields department store we got caught sent home and severely punished
here’s me age 11 erasing and altering test scores in my 6th grade teacher’s grade’s book while class is out to recess
here i am age 12 repressing my true voice and lying to my parents about everything
this is my disease
this is me age 13 being shipped off to boarding school
that’s me age 14 getting kicked out of boarding school then shipped off to another boarding school
there’s me age 15 with Kent stealing girl’s purses from Pink Panther lounge in Rogers Park
here i am age 16 stealing Mom’s sleeping pills trading to score my first heroine fix sick as a dog vomiting by the side of the road
this is my disease
this is me age 17 running away from home to Haight Ashbury CA waking up with ants crawling in my hair strung out on methadrine and acid in Berkley crash house
and there i am age 18 running from tear gas and police Billy clubs in Lincoln Park and rioting in Grant Park at the 1968 Democratic Convention
that’s me age 21 getting tricked by my parents into 3 month lockup at Institute Of Living Hartford CT
this is my disease
there i am age 23 practicing Transcendental Meditation and yoga with Cathleen at Hartford Art School
there’s me age 24 kissing with Cathleen in photo booth at the Century Theater in Chicago
there’s me age 25 working for my Dad while Cathleen is away with her family in Indonesia
there i am age 27 holding a teacher’s certificate from SAIC Mom’s idea i never wanted to discipline kids
that’s me age 30 wearing necktie working at CME and selling coke on the side
that’s me age 32 drunk slurring words telling Elizabeth and her Mom at expensive seafood restaurant i wasn’t fit to marry anyone
this is my disease
here i am age 32 stealing money drugs to support my urges
that’s me age 34 with my first puppy Taters
there’s me age 37 awarded Illinois Arts Council Grant spitting peeing splashing blood on charcoal drawings reading Marquis de Sade dismissing many girls
here i am age 41 exhibiting my first one-man show at Deson Sainders Gallery Chicago Dad dies 6 paintings sold
that’s me age 44 leaving Chicago after too many dropped ***** opportunities chances at love success no destination other than hope prayer of becoming a better person
there i am age 48 burying Taters deep in dirt in Wilmington NC
this is me age 49 working at a record store in Tucson AZ running in the mornings feeling so alone crying
this is me age 50 ******* about **** *** peeing hairy females questioning to myself do any of those fixations actually matter in a real relationship
this is my disease
there i am age 55 living without drugs for more than 10 years swimming every day awarded yoga certification
this is me age 61 without  the affections of a woman for 15 or more years wondering if i’ll ever find love
here i am age 62 returning to Chicago worried about Mom’s illness hoping praying begging for just one more possibility to prove myself
this is my disease
this accounting does not include surviving throat cancer Hepatitis C severe compound fractured wrist and 2 suicide attempts
this is my disease
Noah Jun 2015
breathe in the air for me because I can't
bright but dark and suffocating, the stars squeeze me,
watching as they dance through each other like

french tips tapping on a foggy windowpane
pale blue grey lips trembling as they tug up at the corner
the elegant stretched fingers of mannerism -
alien, beautiful, silver and glowing
and throwing away all that came before,
looking toward the future, already there,
waiting for me
waiting for us to catch up

breathe for me because I can't
neck stretched too far, too far back
eyes cast toward the darkness, lips open, screaming, quiet
as the planets swirl in the deafening distance
and I bury my nails in my sides and it burns like

acid rain hissing as it strikes the ground
a high ringing somewhere in the distance in this empty office
stage lights striking the tops of eyelashes in the right position -
comforting and familiar, warm
but the eyelashes tremble and it's all you can see,
the only light in a dark room that could be stretching on forever,
blinding light, burning and staying for hours after as you sit, waiting,
waiting for sight
waiting for sight to catch up



*(I still can't breathe)
Lavina Akari May 2017
i can only find the open palms of my demons in that red mist, the ones that once held my face in a much harsher way than you do now. your calloused hands feel like heaven instead of the hell that slept in the creases of their fingerprints. sometimes i fall too close and i see their blackened eyes that replay childhood traumas that i have spent years repressing with self-destructive behaviours and alcohol. your own remind me of the rivers i could drown myself in but i must remind myself that diving in will only give me peace, not death, though it feels like death whenever they're not in my sight. sometimes i think about hurting myself again but then i remember the claws of those monsters and how they can't compare to your nails tickling at my back in the late of the night where theirs would be cutting me open. i don't ever want to be in their grip again. never again. never.
Valerie Mar 2011
I feel a little confused
Like I have something to figure out
A little twisted up and chewed
My mind is racing on doubt.

I'm trying to put my thoughts
Into words in this writing
My hand it jots
The nails on my fingers I am biting.

It's hard to say how I feel
But I definitely know that I am feeling
Everything inside is real
I just have to find it by peeling.

My skin it itches from nerves
I look sallow and wrecked
I've stretched myself thin and over all the curves
I can no longer object.

I had to cry today
Because I drove myself up a wall
Repressing things I've wanted to say
Has somehow made the mountain I have, to climb, very tall.

It's not like my problems are anything important
But I guess they tend to wear me ragged
It's sometimes because I can be expectant
Of people and things that are jagged.

I have some things I still need to learn
But I'd rather be learning then at a stop
Like how not to expect and sometimes not to yearn
And when to skip, rather than to hop.

I try to keep my heart open wide
But that leaves it to be bruised
I have to let some things subside
And not let myself feel used.

I'll learn to be compassionate
But still protect myself
Though somehow I feel like I'm in debt
To all the dolls on the shelf.

I conclude this work of emotion
Still upside down and withered
At least I've crossed further, the ocean
But I have yet to meet the blizzard.
SSK<3  AKA: Valerie Garcia
Guy Braddock Mar 2014
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.

Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.

Another.

I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Part of an as yet unfinished novel. Chapter following X: "Innocent Hyacinth", also available for perusing
Kyle Kulseth Feb 2015
City limit space expands,
it's threaded through with veins--
grey-black dendritic strands
                                     span
                        across this moldy brain
of a city.
Our rotting nights spray hits around
           the places players play.
The impulses will whitewash all complaints
'til the glaring day.

I wanna spit-shine every storm drain,
stain the cracked sidewalks in white,
take this town to Sunday morning Mass,
though she was born for Friday nights.

We're gonna trickle past addresses
                                                   now,
Electroshock through habit streets
these crosswalks sneer with snide expression.
Mildewed thoughts we'll hardly think.
A conversation you're repressing
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow
Another weekend's blurred out
blank confession
melts off the tips of tongues,
          I can taste it now.

Circulation space expands,
we're threaded through with veins--
this bio-asphalt plan
                           spans
              all through this molded frame
of a body.
But rotten thoughts, like ships aground,
                   teach sailors how to pray
when impulses have buried all complaints
'neath the foaming spray.

I wanna shade out every bruise now,
paint the dumpsters all in gold.
Missoula, listen: You're a lady.
I don't give a **** what you've been told.

A moldy brain dreams slattern makeup
for a prizefight town each night
so let's take up every artist's brush,
paint shadows on these barroom eyes.

We're gonna flow right through these boule-
                                                          ­          vards.
Electroshock through habit streets.
These dim lit yards and spoiled thoughts
are hyphens placed between each week.
A conversation you're repressing,
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow.
Our city's made-up face is running
off the tips of winter and I taste it now.
In high school
we learn of logarithms, iambic meter
how to balance an equation between zinc oxide
and excess hydrogen gas–
only to find there was no reaction to begin with.

We’re told that colleges get to know you
through three letter acronyms—ACT, SAT, GPA…
and our name is somewhere in the application.
It’s repeated to us to the point of meaninglessness,
like a perpetually chanted word:
Grades, scores and testing, testing, testing.
The students they want know everything
that will be forgotten by their thirtieth birthday.

I anticipate the day
that our Geometry teacher is to write an essay
on the individual’s struggle
against a systematically inhumane society
in Orwell’s 1984
only to receive a “D” under the scrutinizing eye of
the honor’s English teacher

Or, perhaps, the day someone in charge
is faced with some insufferable fate
the textbooks call chemical stoichiometry,
thirty years after repressing memories
of having to memorize the periodic table

Socrates once said that the youth today
will be the demise of civilization.
We contradict our parents, are smug in the face of authority
and tyrannize our poor teachers—
a youth who will ultimately leave behind a world
too damaged for our children to inherit.
Funny he said this
roughly 2,000 years ago–
I think my dad said something like that last year.

But, until the day we grow up to pay taxes
and marry someone we despise,
we’re just stupid teenagers.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.
Joshua Haines Aug 2015
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.

Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.

The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.

Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.

The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.

The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.

The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.

The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.

The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?

Was it me?'

The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.

The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.

The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.

They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.

Because that's what tortured people do.
Ashland, Wisconsin
Jay Lewis Jan 2019
Repressing your feelings,

   Like I'm repressing mine.
  
      Pretending we're just friends,

         We dare not risk nor cross that line.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.
Love Jan 2014
"What happened to the bully,
to turn him that way?
What is he repressing inside,
ignoring,
blaming himself for,
and taking it out on others?
Whats going on inside that head of his?
Did something happen as a child?
Is something going on now?"

These are the things I think,
when they push me down the stairs,
into the lockers,
or trip me in the halls.
I'm selflessly thinking about them,
while they're torturing  me.

Why are they calling me ****?
Are they secretly gay themselves,
and too ashamed to come out,
and they're jealous of my bravery,
to walk down the hall hand in hand,
with the girl I love?
Is that whats going on?

Because not all that long ago,
I was in their shoes.
I was poking fun at the girl who didn't quite fit in,
or the boy with the fabulous hair.
I wanted so badly to just be myself,
and then hated myself because I couldn't,
and then in turn,
I hated them.

So when the bullies do these things,
I dont judge,
or hate them for it,
or seek justice,
or revenge for their actions.
I just feel bad for them,
because they're the person now,
who I used to be a few years ago.

My friends,
they dont understand why.
Why I do just go tell the teacher of whats going on,
or tell my parents.
I dont want to do that.
It would only cause more repression,
and more problems.

Instead,
after they knock me down,
I brush it off,
and reach out a hand,
as a friend,
not a foe.
I'm there for them,
no matter how much they resist.
I tolerate it,
because I understand.
Dont get me wrong, being bullied ***** and its pointless. But I understand whats impossible to understand, because I've been on both sides of it.
melina padron Nov 2014
we no longer achieve
intimacy by
peeling off our
skin like the band aid
that will sting as it is torn away.

intimacy is the art
of feeling like a monument torn apart,
hoping no one will tear you down
to create a better
you.

i have become depressed-
repressing all the love i have to give
if only i could shed my shadows
and remember we are only flesh.

i don’t remember
how to be intimate.
Shiloh Oct 2013
All the time we spend with ourselves
yet we never stop to spend any time
to wind
down
never get to know ourselves
expecting someone will come along
to do that for us
using other people
to learn who we are
leavings scars
where we should glow.

I should know
yet here I go
finding the next excuse
the next vice
the next moment
for validation
exaltation
when all we ever completely
have
is ourselves.

It's always about the crash
and the burn
we yearn for the pain
stand nothing to gain
but we learn to count down
until the next broken crumble
silently stumbling
leaving me guessing
about all the things I'm repressing
just trying to make it
second by second
watering down the mornings with my tears
and you wonder why I sleep during the day.

I have no place in my existence
for guilt over not doing
the same **** thing everyone else does
I am odd and I am proud
I have walked a long path
been through ****
but came out past it
that is all life is
moment to moment
but I give myself allowance
for **** ups
mistakes
relapses
it's bound to happen
but staying true
is all I can do
everything else will come to me in time.
Nicole Dec 2018
Dear Sam,

Your ex
Who happens to be my best friend
Opened up to me the other day
About how they used to resent me
Because of the way you treated them
When I entered into poly with you
Which is entirely understandable
Especially considering that you
Decided to tell them something big
While you guys were out with friends
You just couldn't wait to tell them
That you didn't think that you were poly
Because you thought you only loved me
Yet I never heard this from you
****, I never even saw it much
Whenever you complimented me
You balanced it with one about them
Which I thought was fine
Because they're a really good person
Little did I know that you were
Being so abusive to them all the time
While telling me how much you love them

I think what ****** me off the most
About all of this ****
Is that I felt that I was done with you
I stopped thinking about it all
Either I'd processed all I needed to
Or I was repressing all the damage
Because you caused a **** ton
But finding this out?
It makes me so ******* angry
Because you had them believing
That things were great between us
And made me believe the same about you two
While you emotionally abused and
Deeply manipulated both of us
On such a level that
Certain songs give me anxiety
And I get flashbacks of you
Of us
Sitting in your house in the dark
The only light coming from candles
Music playing over the speakers
An ambient setting that
Holds so much pain
From both positive and negative experiences

Yet those don't even feel like memories
They feel like something I saw in a movie
Because by the end of those long 6 months
You brought me so close to the ground
That I still taste dirt when I breathe

I hate that you're in my head again
Because I was fine before this
Before hearing even more
Or the torture you put them through
And how the pain you inflicted on me
The pain that causes dark anxiety
Upon seeing any Jeep vehicle
Paled in comparison
To the ways you abused and hurt them
How ******* dare you
They were nothing but loving and caring to you
I could've screamed with joy when they left you.

I hope it burns.
I hope you know you're abusive.
I hope you think of us often.
And I hope you get help
And never do this ever again.
JDH Jun 2017
Some introductory food for thought...

“What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty or democracy?”
    - Mahatma Ghandi

“Totalitarianism is not only hell, but all the dream of paradise-- the age-old dream of a world where everybody would live in harmony, united by a single common will and faith, without secrets from one another."
   - Milan Kundera

"Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it."
  - George Orwell


Technocracy as scientific Totalitarianism?
Technocracy is the institutionalised control over all aspects of society by scientific and technological means through a centralised autocratic bureaucracy, whose totalitarian control is secured by the exploitation of its means. Universal utilitarianism over the psychologies, sociology, technology, pharmacology, etc. Whose state authority relies solely on the implementation of systematic indoctrination and propaganda, and the methodical interception of political dissidence or heresy against the established ideological order (in whatever form it takes). Human beings, as the most exhaustively studied species on Earth, have no shortage of data, nor any famine of instances littered among history that create the foundation of a deterministic human proclivity to be influenced by covert forces, often even when staring us in the face.


The institutionalisation of Peace as a political concept?
Peace, among the broader consensus, means to many and ideal not only of great significance, but too, a matter of urgency in a world of almost instantaneous advancement in the technological means of warfare, with the capability of mass destruction or even global fallout ever possible at the push of a button. Peace, however, as a political concept (like all concepts) is multilateral in the diversity of its manifestation, and is one of vague understanding to those who might purport its value, or perhaps not to those who might reap its more nefarious facets. Institutionalised ideology (possibly even Peace as a concept) has a tendency to shift to the extreme spectrum of its implementation in order to compensate for, by physical and ideological assets, the inevitable opposition that will rise in its wake or during its implementation. This is why, despite the seemingly sympathetic characteristics of Marxist ideology, it requires, when in its institutionalised from, a means of repressing antithetical views or activity, for instance, within the Soviet system. Because of this proclivity, it is thus safe to assert that even Peace, when in an institutionalised state could adopt a form of despotic hard and soft power in the enforcement of its ideological tenets.


Peace as an ideological control system?
It is necessary to understand the extent to which the concept of peace can be applied and that to which it's linguistic value could be altered or even neologistically reinvented. Peace, as generally perceived, means a vague ideal of harmony between people, generally applied to warfare and violence and the unnecessary suffering it causes. However, it is surely necessary to contemplate the id of its concept, which could still, by technicality, represent peace. Here is a legalese style list of how it could be applied, utilised as an ideological system of control:

• Opposing dialectic or political discourse between two or more groups or individuals as a breach of peace, for it produces a state of non-neutrality and thus a state of conflict (of ideas).
• Opposition to the state by activism or an expression of opinion as a breach of peace, for it may incite a state of conflict, or a spread of opposition.
• Multi-partisan politics as a concept that produces conflict (of ideas) and thus would be a breach of peace, and therefor is necessary to maintain a single-party system.

These are some ways in which I have tried to apply the political concept of peace as could be utilised for an ideological system of control through the rule of law or other means. Peace is generally perceived as a concept existing on the macro, however, here having been applied to the micro, it becomes scrutinous and can target by technicality, basic liberties. Theoretically, peace can mean absolutist ideological neutrality.


- a short essay by JDH
Ayad Gharbawi Dec 2009
I HAVE A RENDEZVOUZ WITH DEATH



Ayad Gharbawi

To the many needing comfort, needing advice, needing passions sincere, to whom do they turn to?

To whom can they turn to?

The days unmask the increasing emptiness between all of us, and the need for revolt is always there. The urge to be solitary as a reflection of one’s disgust with the hollowness of human beings, is always an attraction for some.
The urge to speak one’s mind to all people, to shatter the idiotic niceties and protocol that separates all of us and represses our genuine needs and desires and ardent wishes in life, is always an attraction for some.

The need to transcend the humdrum of our lives daily is there, and yet we feel that somehow little can be truthfully done. That is such a prevalent feeling – that as an individual I can do very little to change my life, so one submits to apathy wearying.

The society of individuals increasingly down cast and alone while at the same time people may increase their social contacts – but, there are no positive results to be gained therefrom, for the ‘human’ is crumbling as a sovereign entity into frightened fragments, self-doubt and confusion.

Ask yourselves, what is the net emotional result of all your socialising? For when the certain hour arrives and you witness that accusatory feeling of ‘What have I done?’ your horrifying reply will be that you have done nothing to fulfil your needs and desires and passions.

The hour does ask you: ‘What do you feel at the end of it all?’ and your emotions search vainly for meaning and fulfilment, for in essence there never existed any meaning and fulfilment in your lives in the first place.

Your life style, your socialising has merely succeeded to varying degrees and extents in covering up your real needs and desires.
Thus, in essence, you are merely ignoring, avoiding and repressing your true feelings; the ‘successful’ day is when you do not feel the urge to express your needs; in other words you have successfully been able to distract yourself from your real self.
However, ones innate needs and desires return to haunt us because they are our essence existentially.

Repression of one’s needs and desires and hopes results in disastrous consequences of the self. We are not being true to our selves. We are masks, we are afraid of ourselves because if we were to face ourselves, then that would entail changing our lifestyles and our frame of mind.

The humans around you are not ‘real’.

They are not what they are pretending to be.

The humans around you are living in sorrow hidden by niceties and good manners and protocol and a million other worthless distraction. The humans around you are losing their humanity, their creativity, their needs and passions while they go about the routines of their various lives predictable.

Man is dying in himself, willingly wistfully to accept his/her resignation from life; echoes of Seeger’s poem, ‘Rendezvous’ can hardly be ignored:


‘But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town
When spring trips north again this year
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.’


           Ayad Gharbawi -
sofolo Aug 2022
I always wake during the strangest of hours. Time is supposed to be a foundation—something in which to measure and organize our existence. For me, it slips through the fingers of an outstretched hand and dissipates into vapor. There is no comfort in its passing, only a fleeting shadow of an old friend. I recently drove through the worst fog imaginable; every moment was a struggle to remain between the worn-out lines. I squinted even harder and my singular headlight tried its best to help illuminate a path. Its efforts were valiant, yet meager. This is how it is for me now. This is how the days flicker by; in fog, in a haze, no true distinction from one to the next. I squint. It is in vain.

3:00am. I abruptly sit up and my eyes dart around the room that has become mine for but a little while. My conscious mind is still unscrambling data—separating dream from reality from memory. It all comes into focus and my chest heaves as I remember that my children are 539 miles away. They are in their own temporary rooms. My fingers touch the place on my bed where my son recently lay and told me how much he loved me during our last night together before the Five Week Separation. I cognitively continue to process the situation while simultaneously repressing it into deeper and more distant caverns.

My feet touch the floor and I find something to eat. I watch a movie to distract myself, but only feel all the more hollow. I shake my body into movement. I dress myself and head outside. An introspective playlist accompanies me as I walk along the Rock River. I drink in the breaking morning light until I become intoxicated by the sheer beauty of every single moment: the couple walking quickly by; the glow from a nearby kitchen window; the fishy smell of river water. This is the town of my youth, and in a few short weeks, I am leaving it far behind—yet again.

I walk the familiar streets and enter a café that is filled with countless memories of old friends, love, and laughter. The tables are now bare and the chairs empty, but I can still see the ghosts of memories projected throughout the room. The owner asks me how I am doing and how many kids I have now. I respond in as few words as necessary without being crass. I pay for my latte and scone, then turn away and wonder if I will ever buy coffee here again as the door’s abrasive dinging announces my exit. I slip my headphones back on and turn the volume down on the world around me. Everything seems more cinematic when I am orchestrating the score. Cars rush by and my scarf flutters in the breeze as a violin crescendos and a banjo jangles.

I trek back to the place of transient residence. Enough self-reflection for today. It’s time for some productivity. Everything is so very different now. Strange and painful, yet beautiful and mysterious. I am still me. My children are still my children. I think of them as I breathe in the damp morning air and slowly look around one more time, trying to record every detail in my memory. Everything is calm. I exhale deeply. As the breath escapes from my mouth it leaves a vapor that dances upward and disappears in a second. In that moment, time seems tangible again.
Written 12/4/2012
Nicole Mar 2019
My legs and arms feel like they're stuck in mud
Trapped in a swamp of murky memories
A liquid so thick it hurts my lungs to fight the sinking
But theres no reflection here
So I won't let it swallow me
Most of the time I forget I'm fighting
The pain is so typical my body feels numb to it sometimes
But when I'm not rejecting my reality
Or repressing my circumstances
The all too familiar feeling
Anchors my body down so heavily
That even the idea
Of continuing to fill my lungs each moment
Is exhausting and debilitating.

The rare moments when I let myself feel things are excruciating
Anxiety claws through my chest
Like a rabid raccoon fighting for freedom
As terror bubbles through each of my muscles,
The only remainder of proof left
From the unspeakable and disgusting acts of others,
The memories I don't have anymore
The ones I choose to forget.

And yet they still keep trying so hard
To **** me into them
To make me remember them.
I didn't ask for this.
I didn't ask him to touch me.
I didn't ask her to hit me.
But I'm the one who's still stuck here
Fighting my past
Fighting myself
There's no reflection in this sludge of memories
Because I can't bring myself to look for one
I'm afraid that if I see myself in it
See what they did to me
See what I didn't do to stop it
I'll lose the last bit of sanity
That I am so desperately holding on to
Illusions come in many forms, many guises.
They often take shape, many forms many sizes.
A blank canvas or blank slate
our minds create
--children of our imagination.
Identities bulldozed by need
we rush to plant the seed
to quickly take its form,
tender and loving
or lustful and cunning
we miss the deception
see only reflection
and crassly miss the person
beneath its shackles.
The canvas a prison
is passive, not active
releases its captive
to our great surprise.
"I thought that you loved me"
"and how could you hurt me?"
with sorrowful tone
we cry "I'm alone."
The romance is ended
the love you defended
was never to be
you just could not see--
and somewhere we see them
departing in freedom
but often we miss the whole point.
True love's not possessing,
will not be repressing,
will not be demanding
nor will it be binding.
True love will empower
does not make one cower
it gives us the strength
to be happy and free.
And should you still ponder
the nature of wonder
be troubled no more
just open the door
let jealousy burn
And if they return
your joy will be great
for it is your fate
that they'll leave you no more.

J. Sandy
Jimmy King Dec 2013
The flickering fluorescent
Places accent on the life we could've shared:
Laughter creeping through every drunken little recess
Of the ****** apartment on West campus

As my sister sneaks off with her boyfriend,
Leaving me with the continued potential energy
Of everything I've known lately,
I can't help but allow the thought I've been
Repressing for half the year
To worm its way,
Like the first decomposers into a buried coffin,
Into my mind

Maybe you are really
Happy without me but as I sit here,
Forcing smiles and drinking beer, eating guacamole,
I miss you anyway.

Somebody turns off the lights, saying that
The flickering light hurts their eyes.
Somebody else screams at the dark, in jest
And I'm thinking that at least
The darkness is consistent.
CautiousRain May 2015
Hot, salty tears, muddled,
with the bitter, icy spray,
enveloped by the Atlantic,
desposed by pedigree.

Peoples, of all lifetimes,
swiftly, abducted from their blood,
with lament, embraces ripped apart,
sin left disguised, ousted love.

Lumber structures, like cages,
repressing their last breaths,
left few ongoing in the waves,
desposed by traitorous men.

Forceful souls, whose tongue called out,
reshaped their gruesome plight,
to overthrow the tides and toils, who,
ousted them at the site.

Desde África, a Cuba,
y entonces a América,
los abogados se lucharon,
y tomaron un caso de libertad.

Para un barco se llama Amistad,
todos los malhechos son,
la gente Mende querían justicia,
y tomaron parte por el mundo.
Lo siento en caso mí español no es perfecto...
Akira Aug 2015
I don't want to see you hurt yourself
Because of what someone else has done
All of them will get what they deserve
When the Lord's Judgement Day comes

Can't you see you're beautiful
Please don't let them think they've won
Please put down the knife
And let your days of cutting be done

You have a great guy who loves you
And I don't just mean the one above
I bet he treats you like a princess
And showers you with all of his love

So come on princess, don't cry
Please wipe away those tears
And stop repressing your feelings
Which have built up through the years

Hold your head high
And don't drop it down
Because no one will know you are a princess
With a falling crown
Luke Reed Aug 2010
These are the teaching of a peaceful warrior
Today, I saw three children burn, six buildings fall and nine families cry as twelve people died.
But **** it!
I’m western,
It’s all cool.
I’ve got drinkable water,
I’ve got central heating ,
I’ve got a National Health Service,
And an education from a proper school…
Regardless of the fact that I arsed about and played the fool.
I’ve got a sorted life.
And the most I have to worry about is an unloved wife,
Or monotonous conversations about other people’s strife.
But maybe I’m wrong?
Maybe I’m repressing the depressing parts of my day?
Maybe I should open up to the possibility that I am after all human and that it’s a part of our humanity not to like my next-door neighbour just 'cause he smiles funny?
But I guess that’s what we do.
We stigmatise, bastardise and anyone who doesn’t match up in our eyes.
So why don’t we stop?
Why can’t we feel safe from the cops?
Why can’t we trust the government to protect our jobs?
I think I know why…
‘Cause it’s a fake system,
Built on the belief that we’re all equal.
Well…
Some more than others.
And if you’re more well off then them,
Then **** your brothers!

So let’s start a revolution.
Let’s cut down pollution both environmentally and mentally,
Let’s free the oppressed and resolve this mess,
Let’s finally get off our chest the injustices of our generation and reform this nation based on equality, sustainability and chivalry.
Not bigotry, frivolity and humility.
And what of the military?
We make of them what you will,
But someone who volunteers to ****,
Is either messed in the head or run out of thrills.
But think of it this way,
A workforce of a hundred thousand strong,
Who may not be aware of what they’ve done,
Can transform this world both homeland and foreign.

Commit our military to sustainability.
If they want to serve their country then go build wind farms and H E Ps in plenty.
Still I know what your thinking,
None of this is realistic.
Especially now the economy’s sick.
And whomever we vote… We’re governed by ******!
So let’s turn over this government,
Let’s have a proper – civil – war.
But instead of roundheads and sabres,
We’ll strike and protest across cities and acres.
‘Cause the rich and powerful have no sway,
When the people who generate their wealth, get in their way.

But enough of my rants… what’s your say?
Copyright Luke Reed June 2009

www.soundcloud.com/beardblack/teachings
Eleanor Wright Jun 2013
Of course, you have never considered yourself to be edible! You are probably the most valid being in that tree; not a single one of those thousands feel it like you do.  And why do you feel pleased at them? Is it uncontrollable attraction or perhaps profound admiration?
You don’t understand how this vast community shields you, enabling you to pursue your purpose.
Eating, breeding and avoiding inevitabilities. Do you even belief in death?  Usually, it’s sudden in the moment when terror paralyzes you. And what does one feel at that moment; Fear, regret?  Rarely peace.
Perverted isn't it?  How grief will consume them when you do not return home. Will they search for you periodically? Before continuing to eat, breed and avoid being eaten; repressing their deep sadness forever. What can one do but slowly decay?
Morgan Barclay Sep 2013
Why- I’ve been thinking a lot lately
a surprising notion for someone as vapid as I am, I know
but the sentiment still remains
thought- it has been happening
and I’ve come to the grand conclusion
I make a horrible poet
no teenage angst, no head over heel love
a surprising lack of passion for a girl my age
sixteen is supposed to be my prime emotional state
so why do I feel so empty
Imagine your excitement- Easter Morning- 2006
basket brimming with gelatinous ooze and future cavities
when you see it there
cradled in between the silky green plastic strings
Mega Jumbo Chocolate Easter Bunny
your little heart beats faster, faster, faster
until you take a bite
and dread is the only thing that takes place
of that once so familiar savory sweetness
hollow- the bunny is hollow
It’s nothing more than a disappointment really
to look up at the stars and just see stars
to smell the crisp turning of autumn in the air
to watch the inch worm dance despite the distance
to wonder upon the cute boy across the room
and feel nothing
Maybe I’m thinking too much
Maybe I’m just repressing that deep down hatred of myself
that society seems so keen on me having
Maybe I don’t want to be a poet
Maybe I want to be a poem
Yes, I want to be a poem
dripping in catharsis
melting to the very point of emotional vulnerability
tearing away the mask you hide behind
yes, I want to be that metaphorical nonsense you call art
I want to be the words you bravely hide behind
to tell your story like no other medium can
I want to feel the daggers in my sides
and I want to fly to the moon
I want to be emotion
I want to be real
I want to be a poem
but that’s just a little too nonsensical, isn’t it?
dream big, stay small, hope’s how you grow them all
but hope isn’t happiness, is it?
hope isn’t real, is it?
hope is a vapid emotion
perfect for a girl like me
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
you box it silly, until you get to speak to it...
you box, box, box box it into pretty, you box it into
something resembling a francis bacon...
can you even imagine, feeling this much?
and then get to write about it all, by way of treating it
a mush? i'm sure that hardly
resembles the sitter, but that hardly
matters... look at that masterpiece of a
boxed face? looks blurry, i admit...
but that keeps it as art, and i find that to be...
most necessary... for i find the most recurrent
theme as: just ordinary;
everything just being as numerous
and countless, and reproducible as the
phenomenon of spring,
    that frail thing that needs to bloom
and later die... what a horrid escapade
to give it a metaphor akin to vivaldi...
sparrows... sparrows? seriously?!
   it's just that autumn, and its scents,
and its fruits... that auburn, that khaki:
if ever orff met vivaldi, he would call
autumn: the reviver!
spring is something that exists in th realm
of dr. seuss... i.e. mainly children...
or that great dumb joy of dogs...
   same ****, different cover.
- i listen to what could be best described
as neo-**** music (nietzsche did that,
introduced the hyphen at the beginning
of a paragraph, within the realm of the paragraph,
that seriously needs to be deploit within
poetry, with no paragraph, as a
whimsical call to changing the subject,
and retaining the object form, and repressing
psychiatric investment in, what they
later call a: "person". so i guess that's
- - - - - and me somehow closing the bracket
like i might keep to that romeo & juliet phrase
of palms and monks and kiss kiss moosh?
  ****...                         d'uh.               )
because i'm the one with testicles...
and how world war ii taught be something...
that i wasn't too keen to learn about in the first place...
maybe the celt in you feels i should
have shut-up and sailed on a titanic
failure...
        yeah, like that ship...
     or how ᚠ and ᚦ.... and how θ and φ
are almost identical,
revisionists with a care to revive the latin
grapheme of æ... should look toward anywhere
but here... like that grand mythical
marriage of Adam and Eve... that gave
us umlaut and macron?
how could life, if that alone, but merely dialogue
with someone become simple,
after a father wrote something akin to finnegans wake
to a daughter? it's my ex-girfriend,
she calls me up while i'm doing an industrial-sized roof
(tar, felt, slabs, *******)
and comes up with: i'm hearing voices! i'm hearing voices!
you're not going to read proust, that's for sure;
and historically speaking, that was a movement,
not something done solo...
literally a bunch of squaters that mattered
in the birth of the 20th century.
        - me neither give, nor have a bother;
we already presume to have had it sideways
with the colon and the |... whatever that represents.
          but aren't the ᚠ and ᚦ... θ and φ
identical concerns?
  you wait and watch something else encoded
having this tenacity to suddenly implode...
you'll be left wishing a moustache is
about all you could ever grow...
                   therion thermometer.. philo...
thinker, phlegm... what's with wh and why
isn't it... doing anything?
the combination of t h and p h is
too, well... bewildering to me...
thermometer, pharmacy...
ph, th... v / d -e point...
               i once called language something
that could well be mistaken to imply
approximation...  phantom, pantomine,
tantilising, infantile, in that... d d do duplex
done...
              we know the myth that philosophers
are doers and not thinkers,
we know the best ones are not exactly literate,
or if they are, they don't bother the sophism
of implosion... they just explode onto the world
and are like: hey man!
but can someone please explain to me why
ᚠθᚦφ exists? i must have just written F, four times...
and read about fifty slang terms on the internet
to say:
really?! y.h.w.h. is just a ghetto acronym written
on a brick wall? like the internet?
         ᚠθᚦφ is probably just the same,
the way people keep making an oath, or adding
the emphasis as if they spotted a comet...
      it's just fe fe, fe fe -
or ef ef, ef ef          depending which copernican
side of it you come from to congregate
in the land of the "setting sun".
                l e f t t o r i g h t
                  t f e l o t t h g i r

they meet somewhere, and sprechen lingua franco...
perhaps like Sicily, in the times of
that liberty magnet that was Fredrick II
from the Hahenschtaufen haus...
i have to do it... akin to       n
                                         w      e
                                              s... look at that...
what a beautiful acronym...
  it's not even a case of being ignorant...
  but it seems to be the general idea of a compass
these days...
                 and to think, to have the sheer
concern to make the effort to read...
which is the only reason why i resort to having
the same effort to write,
  or where two roads meet...
or what's called the fork... funny that...
three arms and a leg to stand on...
                                                     ᚠ
                                              ᚦ           θ
                                                     φ
i reduce modern vulgarity for not enough
fucky-fucky... some reduce it to the tourism
of Taiwan...
   and how Taiwan is perfectly adaptable for
a heretical christian revival, or the confused pronoun
case of almost parasitical invitation...
you hear it all the time in england,
english men going to taiwan and looking for
pretty clay, behemoths...
      right now i wish i was listening to the news
in poland... ****! at least it would be easier
******* from conservative catholic grannies
than this oddity, that really needs a second david bowie...
i can't do it... i see paying for the absurdity of ***
is fine... walking into a shop
    and buying chewing gum... a ******* would
buy more things than i ever could...
or care to want...
               a woman might go and buy perfume...
all i need is some water, and soap...
  just as rare as finding a keen reader of kraszewski,
or a tatarkiewicz... too many people read marx,
it's starting to eat me up...
         i'm starting to see a work by marx like
i might see a bench pressing corner in a gym...
                          or a crucifix; get all vampiric
and angry goo that constantly seems to recoil into
siesmic fits of violence, always minding
the lord of mosquitos... and never... Beelzebub...
bled on the cross, talked wine-to-blood
at the last supper, didn't he? so he's not
                                     the lord of mosquitos?
the wars we had because of it...
    thankfully... to inact progress...
               as all hell is blamed for doing:
or rather imroving... oh don't mind me, i'll have
to wait 2000 years for someone to recognise me,
as i did, j. c. nazareth, lord of mosquitos and
countless wars to finally freeze chickens
                      and ice-cream; cabbage? fresh!
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
the punchline sounds like this (according to English psychiatrists), you think i'm mentally ill, schizophrenic more or less, just because my mother is a housewife and my father is a roofer, and i somehow found interest in reading Kierkegård? better ask my grandfather and look at his library and why he bought me the full collection of philosophy books... oh wait... you can't since you're about to leave the European Union... better luck next time; before judging the cover of the book... good luck finding that needle (ego) in a haystack (man is born as many men, under many influences, but dies a singleton, atomic). mother... *******!

they treated me like i had some repressed
post-colonial desires or ambitions to
prance around in my colonial leather boots,
they treated it like global fascism,
i just learnt the ******* language, spoke it
like i spoke it, disguised the accents of my
parents, and still they persisted to treat me
like some red coat, repressing former
glory of the empire... guilty as charged,
frau doktor... if i came here aged 2 i'd struggle
with having a different complex, unable
to relate to my parents with their accents,
i can speak: english in disguise of slavic ethnicity,
i can speak english with slavic ethnicity,
i can speak polish without any regional accent,
i can speak polish like a peasant for jokes -
honestly, if Marx or Engels were alive today
they'd see England as yet another opportunity
to think of something that's ****** up,
and it is... the empowered feminism movement,
coupled with the expulsion of the Jews
and the arrival of Islam... it's a perfect breeding
cauldron for something truly staggering...
eh? you hear that? it's coming from afar...
like an echo rumbling in a stomach...
Mo    tsar             Mo tsar         Mo tsar... tee..........
**** me if another Mozart comes around the bend
(dot dot to prolong the echo, fading),
it wont happen given that, well, ha ha, a section
of Islam prohibits music... yep, under the Wahhabi
act we can't have any music... we can have, as an
alternative the music of blacksmiths hammering, drills,
horse farts, cat burps, and two cavemen figuring out
a camp-side with two flints struck against each other
with some hay... BURN THE SCORES!
BURN THE BOOKS! *the kombucha mushroom people,
sitting around all day, who can believe you?!
- i sit, in my desolate room, no lights?! no music?!

maybe you should just speak
the Adhan in spaghetti mumbles rather than
sing it then? eh? but listen,
i've learned the language not expecting to have to
deal with all that historical baggage that came with it,
but i was treated like some repressed post-colonial
*******... never mind... let it all burn.
Harmony Apr 2015
written April 14, 2015

"Hiding the pain is becoming harder and harder each day
Why did you have to go away?
Why didn't you want me to stay?
Your claim says 'it's not you it's me'
But if that was the case, things wouldn't be
like this
I can't stop thinking about the times we kissed
And the flirtation between you and I
I just can't cope with this anymore
I can't stop feeling this way inside
I am constantly repressing it
acting like it doesn't matter
But when two people collide, talk for five months every day and then stop
their hearts should shatter
Mine has, like glass thrown on the floor
I have so much love for you, I want to show you more
But you cut me off like a tag on clothing
A quick snip, and we're done - I don't need you anymore
What you didn't know, was I was there for you, to help guide you you and chersh you
And I can't believe you did this to me
All I did was try to be the best to you
Because I love you dearly
This separation is nearly
the breaking point
for me"
Ma Cherie Sep 2016
I see it, just beyond the horizon
*slipping, forcing its way through
the cracks... I hear it snap in two

in a wicked memory
to dream of you

something in my eyes
a seamless beacon of wanting"
so inviting and haunting
as I lay sleeping and dreaming
you seep in, penetrating flesh
into ink filled veins
piercing my mind
welcomed and unkind
you are coming to me again..

Through darkened tearfilled clouds
not going to go unnoticed
or easily forgotten
breaking my heart
in a flash of white lightning
snapping like a whip
cracking in the deep
waking me...
from wishing silent sleep

alone and trembling,
heightening my awareness
striking in anger
and jealousy
igniting dormant flames
heating up the air
and catching my breath
taking it so carelessly
in your reckless abandon
whispering of my despair
in the rush of fading tires
lonely moving & telling liars
engulfing me in the heated fires
ashing memories of you just yesterday

I hear the squealing brakes
looking past the road we didn't take
desperately seeking souls
you take another way
I am left blinded

A secret wishing heart
like a flickering candle the wind
a glowing secret sin
snuffed out too soon
gone just lingering a minute
relishing, savoring
the waifing scent of sweat
the everlasting glow
as it is choking out the air
from all we know
suffocating and unliberated
repressing feelings
I wait for death again

We try and stay within the dark
putting out even the smallest spark
awakening and awaiting the night
we are standing in the shadows
in the cold of the morning
and the calling of the crow
I see it is time for you to go
  I stand and stare at you in wonder

Turning my face and my other cheek
against the licking, dancing flames
and turn my eyes against the ticking, quickening passing hands of time
we tell them again, again
in impassioned rhymes
feeling the beat of the music
soothing and moving
we rail and wail against the power
as we pluck another flower
strumming my guitar
far away
I am  fighting to save us

I've kissed your lips a thousand times
relived this dream within my mind
and even when my eyes are blind
I see you when I close my eyes
a time off lonely sad goodbyes
I sigh in the bittersweetness

I see your hand caressing, caressing ...
me with your with eyes..
my frame, *******
and I, of you...
I too undo
I am obsessing

Remember in sweet September
your soft calloused hands
a lovely place for me to land
that yummy sound I hear you make
almost more than I could take
wishing me that you could
secretly wish you never would
I reach for your embrace

Take me with you when you go
your heated breath against my neck
whisper gently nibbling my ear
release me in a secret fear
to be without you here
so come a little closer my baby

"The heart watches as the brain burns"
playing on your radio
I feel it burning it down again
changing the seasons
and stations of our life
to cold for angels to fly
wishing you didn't  say goodbye
like a grateful waiting timeless stone
my heart's put upon a throne
so glad you made it safely  home
etched forever
in a flawless beautiful Bethel grey
with a memory inside of us each day
"when my eyes finally close in death"

I leave a loving
heart-shaped
granite, locket
framed by Rolling Green Mountains
immortalized like a Rock of Ages
forever awaiting...
...your return.

Cherie Nolan© 2016
Wrote this awhile ago... it is about Love, dreams...passion and Death so many complicated things in period of difficulty, so decided to release these words. Have some loved ones that work in the granite sheds here. Beautiful stones they make and known as the granite center of the world
Also like to say a  pause in a moment of  thanks to Dear Rosalie...so kind and gentle, hoping she's well and returns to our beautiful poetic world  here at HP. I'm at a loss for words at the moment. Just know my work is highly metaphorical.. not sure about the title any input appreciate it.
Peace- ❤ Vermont
Hands Jul 2010
Enlivened right with boughs of rage,
Through ****** thoughts and untouched page,
These eyes glare on with secret fire
Of anger, hindsight and dark desire.
I see how my cards often lie,
The same as poor and cast-off die;
A triple fit of numbers unbalanced
(They never quite
Fit in
To their slots.)
Perhaps I've gone a-raving mad,
Perhaps my mind's just gone a tad
Too in-depth into mundane things,
Making all the mole hills into kings.
Perhaps these worries are overdone,
In thin and fragile worry spun
To exotic, antiquated feelings
Of anger, envy, and revenge reeling.
Perhaps we spin these fates too hard
(They never meant
To hurt
My self image).
But still, I feel my mind a-flame
With hidden anger hard to tame
To society's cold, repressing style
Of crinkled eyes and facsimile smile.
Try to hold it back but fail;
It lands on them like a beached whale,
Stinking, rotting, putrefying,
Slowly, surely, swiftly dying.
This rage I had has bubbled down
Into nothing more than a thin frown,
For held back, harsh, with iron words
(Your secret dreams
Are just
Boiling curds.)
Shiloh Oct 2013
In my wildest and most vivid dreams
this was what I wanted
I craved and ached for the thought
that maybe one day
you might come back
realizing the obvious truth
of wanting me back
because despite all my imperfections
you are aware of the potential inside
and there is nobody capable
of being quite like me
it took me the longest time
to actually believe just that
but all on my own
all by myself
I did just that.

Clumsily staggering blindly
unconsciously for so much time
I came to.

In shock with part of me still angry
becoming fully aware of all I was repressing
instead of progressing
eventually the choice weighed me down
trying to accommodate the idea
of my dreams melting into reality
but feeling my enclosed emotions
with the chance of sharing secrets
and surprisingly harboring intense changes
within myself I saw the light
my whole life what I thought of as the classic fairytale
has turned into the best thing I never thought possible
I am my own prince charming
and as a result
I finally know it's too late.

You will always be perhaps the most important person in my life.
But I believe our time has passed.

Having been both there and done that
it's my time to move on.

I'm not the answer to your questions.
Stop asking.

Let us be
not as one
but as each other.

— The End —