.among the everyday banality of language, the following is a skim-reading of a week's worth of constrained usage, without a chance for a soliloquy: even the following extract isn't a soliloquy... but, what could be so concerning when... people read harlequins novellas... old women... for me this diatribe against oneself comes in the manner of: last come, last served, and served? not even the crumbs of a worth of debate on the matter... stiffened fingers, and a satiated delicacy of a novel... point being: you can't speak more than you can think: or think more than you can say... in the same way: the more you read, the less chance you will write... with this instance: the Libra is certainly over-weighing me, having ingested a 3 vol. part 2 of Sienkiewicz's trilogy: Potop.

- a month spent away from the internet narrative,
and... it's almost like...
the world gets bigger,
in the smallest of places...
and small... on this... canvas...
a month detached from this medium and...
i don't even know how to
reintegrate myself into it...
i wasn't ever a big comment section
fan...
               so... looking at the blank
is probably the best thing i ever did...

people riling at the new Gillette advert...
well...
                 yeah...
but have you seen the "new" Gillette
advert?
  see, i was watching
Australian Open on eurosport
channel,
    and a Gillette advert came on...
so i thought:
  this must be the advert
           "everyone" on the internet
is riling against...
  in the manner of a
            "conscientious consumer"...
wait a minute...

        dissonance...
the two adverts didn't match-up...
the advert people were riling against
wasn't the advert i saw
while watching yesterday's
Australian Open matches...

   the advert i saw...
the only odd bit was a shot
of a man
               shaving his legs
on the edge of a bathtub...

  what advert is the riling crew on
about?

so it's not the advert of a man
shaving his legs?
                             that's not the one?
        
****! that's not even the same
advert!
   but it's still being aired...
            this "new" advert that i saw...

i don't even know what the new
advert is...
    maybe on eurosport
i did see the new advert...

god... a man shaving his legs
on the edge of a bathtub...
ouch...
  where did that stripper
scene where a man shaves
his chest go?

come stomach region:
i'm ******!

so what i saw only yesterday,
wasn't the new advert?
so i was watching an old
advert?
    
whatever...
      i think i was watching
the thighs of Serena Williams
and thinking:

can a horse, buckle?
****... trick question:
what came first,
the chicken, or the egg?
how about: both, at the same time?

try fitting ***** envy in that...
the subject of objectification,
never objectification per se...
there was never a problem
of being objectified: per se...
but being: subject to an object...

a month spent reading
a novel,
and upon reingaging in
the grand internet narrative
i come across a video
akin to: boogie talks -
the quartering and dating...
what?!
  it's a simple curiosity...

like: today i relearned what
feels normal for me...
a winter's night...
a cold beer...
alleys, scarce street lighting,
a cigarette...
and: a vanilla ice opening
movie scene utopia...
i.e. no one around...

i seriously can't engage in
the narrative...
so i decided to buy cheap
*** and assume that
this would only reiterate an
argument: if i had any
to begin with...

such curiosities...
but in the streets at night...
you pass a cat,
he's eyeing your legs...
you eye his gaze...
and then an impromptu of:
stopping...

in his head: we were just
passing...
but a freezing moment
of my legs, and...

              he scuttles a meter
or two, before i too continue
to walk...

what once was the royalty of
paper,
and a paperback chart...
now...
     a pixel tabloid: gargantuan
glutton - which doesn't even
hide behind an anonymity...
fine print: sure... if it included
my Braille idea...
other than that?

   relegating all as tabloid,
yawn...
   playing the ostrich....
                 or being ostracized?

current fascination?
a Sveedish export: black lake...
like some of joke...
so many variations of HI...
   beside that?
is it horror?
   unless the thing that
scares Swedes the most
                is creaking doors...
i'm actually afraid in
reverse...
   what the **** is this place:
a pseudo-prison,
a penal colony?

          what is scary is
the everyday Swedish nature
of dealing with crime...

T- Take all his rules and directives on board
H-Heed them well or he'll put you to the sword
E-Edicts he announces mustn't be ignored

S-Stay within the definition of his pit
I-Indent it into your mind's memory fit
T-Test not his patience nor his fab wit
E-Enter good work that will be a great  hit

M-Mad as hell he'll become when he sees a bad post
O-Ousted you'll be if he doesn't like what you boast
N-Niggling him will obtain a certain kind of verbal roast
I-Irking his upright position means you'll be put on toast
T-Travel within the hallowed guidelines he prefers the most
O-Opposing him means debarment at a far flung coast
R-Riling him over his rule's will disappear you as a ghost

The Fool

The grass bows in respect as he passes,
A fool so very unruly,
Spits vengeful passion,
Sets the bowing grass on fire,
Destroying nature with his smile,
Raucous,
Lashing feelings,
Eyelashes flutter in mortified shame,
Curling of their own accord,
In harmony of discord!
Disputed by speech in truth!

Love songs live ,
Castigated fool,
This lyricist,
Chastised for lack of care,
Beaten down,
Darkened magic mind,
Riling by inspiring,
Cauldron bubbles,
Images evaporate,

Eternal gossamer magic,
This fool's a clever fool!
He is such unruly fool,
Will never admit it,
Uncool fool,
Will stand in attendance,
To whims and things,
Main retorts in nonchalance!
Founded in chalice,
Full,
This fool,
Well,
He's no village idiot!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

falling is all i can do

simple words are being said

the plain, brittle truth

forget about the plain girl he thinks

or so he acts

riling up in my throat is the metallic taste of blood

i can taste daisies, roses, and all sorts of blossoms

he is only slightly aware

sighing causes the petals to float out

and i hide my ink markings in shame

does he call me out?

or even think my name?

Third floor psych ward window lookout,
second from the right on the east side.
Best seat available, padded, from 1934.
Backrest Swingline-stapled to the faux-
Maple leg support 2 x 4s. Beige bedspread,
white walls blend into the door threshold
that people are honeymoon'd
through kicking the aids, clawing at their eyes.

But Téa sat there watching the overcast
shadows sweep the sky heavily
like the watercolor paintings on the group
room plastic table where ******-off
preteens paint Dad beating them,
or Sis dying in a car crash.

Téa just sat there while the stagnant Valley
tumbled dry low outside, tuning out
a black patient behind her riling-up
another fight with a plastic-hinged
particleboard door.

Swinging.

It's horrible how these things keep happening accidentally.

One moment you feel that the darkness has gone away
And that there's no need to fight anymore,
But in the next second you're curled up on the floor of your
Cupboard with the door locked shut, sharing air
With the monsters hiding there,
All just trying to find some small sense of serenity.

One moment you're laughing with a coworker at the brash
Reaction of your manager and then
In the next second you're in the break room, calling up
Your old friend whom you lost in the darkness,
Begging them to cut the wire from around your throat
Make it stop hurting (your lungs are burning).

One moment you're demanding the earth, the ocean
To give you an out or some kind of answer
To why these things keep happening, why you're suffering
With this stinging boxing ring where you're in both
Corners, riling your other self up
Only to be tapped out after your first step towards the light.

The dragon in me
Controls my thoughts and deeds;
At times propelling me forward,
Other times holding me back.

The dragon in me
Is whispering softly,
Building my confidence,
Riling my doubt.

The dragon in me
Does no fire breathe;
He really doesn't breathe at all.
He's merely my ego,
And I the knight
Trying not to be burned.

Heaps of her across the deserted plains, oily fingers reaching up and over the horizon until all of the numbers fill her pockets, her father worried, and her muses covered with goat-head's thorn. Where does she start to fuse her needs with the weapons in their suburban corolla of lilacs and wanton redolence? It's the opacity in her finger nibs and the dozens of names she felt closing over her legs sideways, until she awakens in the night to take the blood dripping cotton tissues off of her face, off of her bed-side dresser table. She can't even paw forward or undress her wetness in haiku. Everyone she knows doesn't know her. Everything she's seen, doesn't seem to be there for her anymore. That's the trade they told her to barter for, the golden seals and vitamin needs she's gobbling up by the palmful every morning by seven.

Seven for the circus or the mimes, seven for the cloves hanging from the door and seven for the queries that strike back her abcesses and cost her seven by the quart and seven for the plastics. Seven dancing backwards towards a rook or a *****, seven inside her chest playing guitar with David Bowie, seven at the doggerel, and seven for the stitch and the obtuse- only a creature of seven might go for her, in a spot of doves, crank, and soda it is poison, seven is her ***** line, her sexuality, her sinfulness, and her latitude over and over again. Seven makes her want for tomorrow, seven takes tomorrow and throws itself up against the wall, pledging a game in the summer, seven to a trip of caramel and dukes, seven for the prince and the painting of the two of them, seven for the winter, and for the shadows that stretch curiosity past the breath of a summons', seven for the day and seven for the evening, seven scratches her ears and pulls out her hair, seven is the ring and the blue phantom buried somewhere far, far away, green is what's left, but seven knows which way the rain comes and who is going to follow it through.

There is a numbness that radiates on the fringe, a tickly discomfort not even a narrator could let out or down to a name on the mountains near the **** plateau that conquers her nuance, and shakes the both of them to core of the fight. This is not a flag that costs us in coins or in dollars. This is the worry chiseling our shapes and our buttery hips, a stacked set of crazy in a photograph off the leash of only a few. And it calls them to the night when it's only three of us left, until every cord is untied, until every verb is set in its caste, or ringing out to the tremolos of rapture, and the musicianship of pepper-jacked sneezes in the ambers and umbers that although startling, we've all learned to convert our averages in order to swing under the storm, and baby each of us with an elixir of myriad captures, images, and violent abuse.

While the words can yield, and the festivities can hoard each of the simple new experiences against travels of women, and pictures from Mussorgsky riling up soft drinks and evocations towards the center where all of us sometimes will let ourselves, let loose. Something horrendous and cold plugging into the sugars, something quiet, nearly a friend of reminders, crustaceans and ocean making this top-down beach of faces for all to shake and roll with or set forward a cacophony of abuse. Until in a breath she calls for the infinite intuition sheltering her and our window from the pain of misuse.

That is the photograph where we have been looking to live, here is the memory we spent our minds trying desperately to relive in the shade and in the snafu, against the bark and the piano keys treating our rise. Within our skin and our pupils, our silver bookends and/or the mammals we don't use names for but for whom we've been introduced to.

The sweetness of first love

Pulls and tugs at your heart

Emotions riling and snarling in your ear

Promises

Eventually

The sweet flavor is replaced with a bitter

Foul

Thing also called

First love

Because it never lasts

I know you have kids to feed,
But I must say what I need,
I am no thief,
I did not steal from you,
And our boss already finished the deal,
I owned what I worked for,
You don't get to carry the sins of the father,
unto the son. Because it suits you.

You curse the dealership for approving deals,
That make you lose money in peels,
But you want my losers,
You have to ask everyone for yours,
I earn mine, and never have to ask anyone.

Please stop accosting me.
Do not tell me, that my father thinks I am Greedy,
Do not tell me that I don't know anything,
That what comes around goes around,
Do not call me, The kinkiest ******* you know,
And say you wont do buisness with me,
Any more,
And then keep coming to me,
And lecturing me,
And riling me up,
And stressing me,
And making my heart burst up,

Leave me alone.
Fight someone else,
To get what you think is yours,
While I'll sleep soundly,
Maybe tomorrow,
Knowing I did what was right.

I feel like the stars and the sky
Have eyes
And that they look upon us and see
Straight through to the core
Of every tiny life
Realizing that for every bit of good
There is an army of bad.
Maybe that's why the sky cries sometimes
Fills every crack with tears until there's nothing left
And maybe that's why she gets angry
Furiously scrubs away the roughness
Until all she can see is her reflection.
Perhaps the stars are the reason
Riling up the poor sky
Showing her tiny crimes and tiny lies
Whispered in tiny ears
The stars shedding little lights
On a seemingly hopeless situation.
Perhaps she can't help but vent her frustration
Because the stars are right sometimes.
Then who comforts her, I wonder,
Who gives her strength to show the sun
When the hours of night are waning
And the day still hasn't begun?
Is it the sun, the moon, a god, the wind
Or love as the case may be?
Or does she comfort herself
When she feels that she's in need?

the silence, has already been written upon stone,
just like my first girlfriend,
with a mix tape i made her, when
the times of the suitor's guess was made:
just like that,
when a boy could make a her
a taste of music she might listen to,
stumbling to work,
upon an apocalyptic sight of
oxford st. at 5a.m., listening to
king crimson's song epitaph -
torn and in toils years later -
the sinking maggot throng of expectancies
and jealous riling -
    culminating the jealous curse:
**** the golden horde of expectations
of future swedes!
               i sleep better alone,
with a cat it's once annoying,
with a woman, the numbing of
a side of my body, and that ****,
hurts...
           i was trying to be welcoming
by instructing the lesser known
20th century invitations,
but, it would seems,
i was less the more welcome seen...
so thus the big bang becomes
the grandiose implosion of
thought-orientation that begins with
a (0, 0) pointer -
the denial of both the existence of
god, or the existence of,
     and humming are we:
to craft the perfected personality typo;
but i remember the girl,
with my mix-tape and her job,
and the apocalyptic empty street
of oxford st....
don't mind me, i started listening
to king crimson aged 10 or 11...
   so i don't know where the jerking-off
prince came from,
that birmingham shitehole of
"diacritical" effort...
my blood isn't circulating proper:
it's boiling and has horseradish added
to the tongue, and it's riddling,
riddling, ready to make the pounce
of stashing an idiot's head in
its ******* sack!
i remember sharing a bed with a woman,
as much as i remember the numbed
either right or left side of my entire body...
i hated it! just like i hated
these cosmopolitan magazine questionnaires
that even the russian teen girls are
lucky to insist on taking part in...
sleeping with a maine **** cat
is hard enough, but sleeping with a woman,
and that numb side of your body,
can we be critical in the victorian sense
of having separate beds?
   i like less cuddling,
you have teddy ten-shoe cushion,
and allow me my other half
of the body to prevent me spooning
my body against yours,
while pretending to fall asleep...
  **** the niqab *******,
can i please, just have my own bed?!
oh yeah, i really care if you turn
it into a ninja affair...
    watch me smoke a shisha,
and eat some baklava or some falafel...
i'll become the 8th wonder of
the world in bed,
and beside the bed, you'll be tourists
beside the eiffel tower watching me
smoke a shisha, eat some baklava
and then some falafel...
or some other way round...
i didn't mind the relationship,
her being a gamer, me being a bookworm,
i didn't even mind
*** on her period, given the ******...
but sleeping together?
that was, ****** well-guessed annoying,
every single night,
cuddling into a tortilla (me)
and the filling (her) -
and the whole of my body feeding
a sensation of: numb...
         now i drink:
   so i have the perfect mosquito
deterrent...
              i'm almost sorry making this sort
of comparison, given that i remember
making high fidelity cliches of
mix tapes... alternatively in c.d. format...
i can just picture it though:
   king crimson's epitaph at 5a.m. on
oxford st., with no one there,
apart from the girl, and her pair of earphones...
i sometimes do wish it could have been,
how she tested me on her
paternal compass while sitting me
into a theme park ride with her...
now i loose the plot:
   i think she said her grandmother was
her mother, and her mother was her
sister, and her sister was her...
i can't keep up, even after 11 years...
it's like finding a canary in a coalmine -
i'm as aob clued in, as any idiot
past my experience...
      oh i made the "bride" years later,
arms slit, apparently eager on suicide,
and then this random guy turns to me
and say: oh, she's a great ****...
looks like there's a: lucky me after all...
i pity the poor ******* that married her...
that time i visited her she turned
into a pixie, which i loved,
i.e. a girl with short hair... pixies,
you know, those girls that can really
take to making short hair work...
   i might actually have a son,
but i don't know...
         it's a big might have queue the ? is on,
it's hardly a slap in the face ! expression either...
  and yes, the poem i never written,
but keeps repeating itself, over & over again:
to replace the ego, take to narcissus:
  ? walks into a bathroom and stares into
a mirror, and all ? sees is either !
or !? -
       just the right amount of description
worth of a chinese fortune cookie;
by now it really doesn't matter,
  whether or not i was allowed a chance,
or whether i had a chance,
    or whether i had the gamble: but no chance...
time does indeed heal all wounds:
   it allows the prime wound healing
object to materialise:
   all wounds heal, once the grave is
crafted and left intact;
all scorn and begging left intact,
   is obliged to be sacrificed,
upon the healing stone of a dead man's
grove of epitaph's worth of letters,
encouraged into stone, rather than
flimsy paper -
                   that the undesecrated grave
is by far the only epitaph,
   and that the desecrated grave
being the loss of:
                  a combative "last" farewell...
hell be memory -
               heaven: an amnesia.

post scriptum:

         infernum sum memoriam -
   paradiso: oblivio est.

From a ripple to the roar,
Of desires and desperations,
Hopes and aspirations.
With songs unsung, memories unseen,
Moves undanced, sights unblinked.
They riddle through a riling heart,
Languishing the clod of infinte memories,
Leaving behind a trail in oxblood,
On lanes of the suffering they imprint,
Never-failing pillars,
A Niagara of ambition,
Struggling and chasing,
The ring road of passion.

In this passage of arms,
The wants and these cries,
Shall put up a fight,
The first of its kind.
Moving every mountain,
Warming stiff snow,
Freezing the unforgiving fire,
Chocking the unmoving souls.
With a focus down unshaking roads,
They shall create a nexus,
With the nimbus, the whole universe,
To provoke the storms,
The thunder and the tides,
To hold their arms, to stay on their side,
In this endless unfailing ride.

With the mantra of victory,
And horse-like sight,
They come marching to lead you,
Down this one one life.
But in this march of time,
Through the years that crawl by,
Every road that you take,
Clinging onto dreams you've always dreamt,
Shall engulf a mist--
Some cocainic smoke,
That sting your eyes as they behold,
Your graceless retreat,
From closing doors.
Those million desires,
From burning heartaches,
Shall freeze and founder,
Fall and break.

Only leaves of paper,
Made by a dry-eyed stranger,
Doping human wants--
Most passionate minds.
Rendering them coarse and dud,
Cloudy and undone.
These leaves, they decide it all.
Your breaths, your wants,
The heartbeats, your wish grants---
The forest,
The ones who have most,
Shall foreshadow,
They can foretell,
The end of the roads they choose to take.
And those who have fragments,
A passive flow,
They know not where this journey,
Will allow them to go.
And yet they fight!
They give up their all!
But alas!
In this clientele of cliche,
Will breathe a cradle--
Will live the neverness of the niche,
That bears, where blooms,
From a dying ripple, to the fading roar,
Of desires and desperations,
Hopes and aspirations.
That will not live,
Oh! They die so slow...
As the pillars fall,
The Niagara runs cold.

I got so many friends
Who’d be willing to stand
In an endless line
Just to find a sign
For the end of times

Bathroom reading
The left behind
******* propaganda

Pants wetting
While forgetting logic

Riling themselves up
With biblical justice
From a petulant deity

And that is just
An inkling of what
Is gnawing at me

Programed people
Getting brainwashed to believe
Far out fairly tales

Those poorly conceived
Spiritual explanations
For what we can see
Things that can be explained
If you studied diligently

I got a problem with
Guilt for built in sin
From a god who made men
An all-powerful being who condemns
My family and friends
For what comes naturally
For desires deep and genetic

When preacher teach things that are pathetic
Flood stories and tales of whales
With men living in them
Burning witches and the apostic
Because of some drunk prophet
Who is vile and caustic
Some slick wicked trickster
Who convince you to demean
Our sisters
Said all sin is their fault
And birth is the punishment
That the fruits of evolution
Are seeds of deceit

And this is just a sample
Of why religion is bothering me

with all the fire bursting within?
will it make sense?
will anyone listen?

with all the rockets,
fading,
with all the roar and wild and the wind
roaring here, in my roaring heart,
in the boat in this storm of a mind,
rocked,
this rocket ship,
will it fade?
Where will it go?

I am fire
I am burning,
not in passion but in thoughts
riling and riding my mind like a bull,
like a the storm that made the disciples run amok
here and there, screaming, at the edge of losing their lives

and Jesus is sleeping.
hasn't taught me how,
or I haven't learned yet.

That's probably it.

The art of resting
in the midst of the thunder,
lying in bed as the sky cracks and breaks into pieces

the art of slumber, of peace, of contentedness and gratefulness
is an art I need.

Such a dreary mood upon me now
- I wish to be free
From memory,
Hopelessness,
This surging, riling, anxiety
Swirling heart and stomach,
Free from all that I know:
Running away would not suffice,
I wish to be reborn.

I escaped for a moment through another's life,
more suffering than mine, more confused, more lost -
Yet the soft light of hope pervaded
And potential shone, an open door.

Why, when I have so much, does this suffering descend?
No, not descend,
It comes from within.
This waking life in all its glory
Withholds explanation

Focus on the breath, lost one,
"The movement of air,
Into bodies, out of bodies, through lives,...
The great exchange"
Feel the swell and dissolve
The tingling that dances, the pain, the heaviness,
Let it all fall away
Let dreams clear that which lingers now
Worries dissolve into symbols and stories
Slip through the curtain to Morpheus's realm:
This heaviness may yet disappear in the light of a new sun.

What a miracle spins off the eyes,
Of a master capturer of colours!
For his harlot is the dancing lights-
Of a happy day's golden hours.
What with these attributing sounds-
Of a furiously futile attempt at beauty?
For what a line of poetry gets to stir-
Is foolish beside the language of images.
Words are arch enemies of colours,
Shining vibrantly on a lazy afternoon-
And of the beauty that lies in the sight-
Of the night sky with a cloudless moon.
No poem can ever stake a claim-
Of ever making hearts skip a beat
Or goosebumps riling on the necks,
As portraits of women with rosy cheeks.
If the poet sees what the sun cannot
And the best words need inspiration,
Let this be a reminder to all your faculties
That a picture is worth a thousand words.

and I will love you until the end.
I'm sorry I say such stupid things; I'm so used to riling
people up. and I hate doing that to you.
I guess I've always wanted to affect someone, and the only
way I could do that is by being such a *****. no more, baby,
I can only do you right for ever doing me so ******* good.
I've always been so paranoid that people will hurt
me, and I hate being the one to be left in the dust.
I've always tried, since the beginning, to be the one
who never put her heart in, in the first place,
so I'd never get hurt again, never be the one to
cry over someone else again. I've felt so pathetic
being the one to cry, but in the end, I've learned that
being the one to cry is actually the better end - I would be
the one, in the end, who felt anything at all in the first place,
and through the ******* sadness of it all, I've somehow
convinced myself that hurting, cringing, ******* dying
little by little was the worst thing on earth. "it was never worth
the tears, my god, I wish I had never put my entire self
on the line like this. how will I ever find myself again?"
but his love,
his love,
his love... just saved me, and I feel so mediocre, so
stupid saying something so typical, so average, I wish I could write
so much better, articulate the way my muscles freeze up
when you look at me, without a word, you've got me wrapped
around your finger. how can i
describe the warmth you've torn open in my
chest, from the pits of my belly, you, baby, had
reminded me,
that it feels so ******* good to feel again, no matter what it
is. I've numbed myself for so long, like sitting on my foot,
cross-legged, arms crossed, waiting pathetically
on someone
to tell me to get up, losing all
stupid feeling in my toes, in my ankles
in my calves, and in my legs,
I was just losing interest in ever knowing what it was like
to stand proudly again, like we are meant to do.
but he appeared out of no where,
pulled me up on my feet, yanked me
by the wrist and his fingers found their place between mine,
and somehow he had me standing on my feet again,
static shock through my toes, I felt him on my palms,
silly electric fizz in my calves, I've never felt this
***** smile on my face before.

how can I ever repay you?

On posting a most unflattering note
Was decided to scotch the pompous tote
He felt like tearing a she writer down
By plating some of his unneeded *****
Which had been greeted as nothing to skite
Were a constructive message put on page
She wouldn't of seen the flaming bonfire's rage
Why bring his conceited vantage to town
There then was a ceasing of his preaching
Riling her in an extent far reaching
Without thinking such stinging words he chose
On her indigestion they didn't sit well
All managed to be an affront's hell
Lodging deep within her insulted nose

and they might have added that i didn't integrate more, more what what from bangers and mash? unless i be named Muhammad Kathmandu Sr., id suddenly that i didn't scoop up the murk of the "integral duty" of hibernating among the Irish Catholics in Seven Kings like some protestant wild-boy (for lack of a better phrase)... and gained what? i've learnt about the "natives" as much as Machiavelli could learn about hermits, in that there isn't an argument for xenophobia, but simiphilia, if there's that... asked if there ever was a famous Pole I'd hear Copernicus was a German and that Galileo proved him first... in a remote exaggeration: happy are those to have not know the declining-zenith of the Roman world; or as some would say: Kiev was founded by the ugliest in sculpture yet the most bountiful in crass humour satyrs of: willed by the winds, or delving in complimentary compliments of farts. sometimes the exaggerated vocabulary, yet in proximity of London, what's to say I live among the English? sooner with a Scot or by Ire phlegm mark I say, than tryst a dance on the grovelling bulldog shnoot... I have you known english is stricken with too few loan-words, it's too antiquated seeking Trojan trajectory in the slow death of Rome,  already Athens revived in Moscow Cyrillic... too few loan-words akin to Poles borrowing from Ukrainian and German, too much urban slang, not enough concern for nigh:  vicinusphobia (for one but Philip there be 10 times as many Phoebe)... i know not my neighbours, and for that, i am the least bothersome kin: in that, i am not akin.*

a month spent in Poland
and i'm rife with contempt
awaiting a return to
the anglosphere,
   a month spent in
a self-imposed detox from
alcohol and Internet
coverage and i'm riling
at no other than myself,
but then the twins
Atlas and the concept
twin solipsism start to
nibble at my concerns
which are: the resources
in my power,
  grandparents become
like children,
  only today my grandmother
asked: what will i  do?
spend a month with
pentioners and you
can't feign a crying
child, no impeding hope,
albeit a closure,
   nor can you feed
them **** and keep
them in the dark like
mushrooms before
the great mystery of
consciousness
   becomes a spiderweb
a priori a spider...
cool creationist kids read
Kant...
    and the wheel is
reinvented:
  what came first
  the chicken / spider or
the egg / spiderweb -
  there, is, no,
   absolute, linear, answer,
no (a) to (b) in a model
that begins with a question,
and ends with a question,
which is no wonder why
questions are inexhaustible,
while answers are only
as good as digression
is allowed to reign,
   +/- a yawn barometer...
a ******* month
spent in this land tickling
a romance regarding
Ukraine...
          a month...
yet back west I head,
very much unlike a Jack Keruac...
demographic change,
"tectonic" shifts,
   between slang vocabulary
and vogue vocabulary
I'd say:
   I conquered the tongue
to speak as my own
  and as a tongue
  neither mine nor mine
to own and keep
I made it clear:
  (subsequently)
all else was: MADE IN CHINA.
1997 was a good
year to come to England,
after the union's expansion
Eastern Europe became
little Asia...
import, slackers of
   Brighton ought to know,
the pier burnt down,
while all the firemen
were giggling via Y
M C A... and you won't get
gags cheaper than that...
even i felt a chilling
aura from the mass
migration of "fellow" men...
nearing the end
  of a broken detox
it really doesn't matter,
I go back to the anglophone
prole of a demographic
crisis,  which I like to call:
planned extinction...
or what the Aztecs might
have thought:
we as stupid as Egyptian deed?
they see now gallows
but only a sacrilege of
Golgotha,
    they think we do away
with a maiden,
   as if they didn't parade
a ******* ****** strapped
to their pyramid abstract
of hierarchy!
    ***** ******* rule
the world, or at least
soil it with their replicas:
cousins ******* cousins,
    eugenic myopia,
  nonetheless
the grander 'ard-on.
    again:
     cool creationists read
Kant once, then shut up:
    a priori? res mimic.
an ontological cul de sac.
  a posteriori? **** sapiens.
  an ontological res per se.

Her body's curves
excite my passion
riling up my heat

At one with the
slithering coils and
serpentine dreams

Inspiration found in her treasure
sensations send me higher

Flowing thoughts delve deep
into a well of lust
never to see bottom
every emotion belongs to her

one man covets power
will go to extremes
in so doing-lose their very selves

Staring at your reflection
Pointing out your imperfections
Not smiling but riling yourself up
The thoughts inside your head
Should be good but instead...
There's a blade. It made things hard.
Now you're glancing at those imperfections
Instead of dancing with your reflection.
Your beauty is your “duty”
But you cut because you were called at mutt.
At a sound in the kitchen, you raise it up.
Did I mention?
You were never alone.
He called you amazing but instead, you were raising
The blade that made it through.
Who could of guessed, you?
With a shout and a holler
There's no doubt... You couldn't get out.
You are His, A beautiful creation,
Made from His mind eye.
No more torment, that’s dormant.

Nicki Minaj just woke up
And has the woke train clearly enraged
When all she said was use your head
And any decision you make to pray

Stepping out of bounds, riling up the crowd
Talk about crowd control
Everything  is fine as long as you walk the line
Sending out the dogs the minute you don't

If you disagree with the powers that be
The enemy you quickly become
So stay in your box along with your thoughts
The better you're kept with less oxygen

Go back to your rap and we'll call it a wrap
When you learn to accept what we say to do
Although we are bias when it comes to science
The science that says what we want it to

So be a good Nicki and stay looking pretty
Don't be so silly using your brain
Just put on your makeup and don't really wake up
Or utter a word about this again

The mind is a beast
we are all tasked with
taming

But how? When mine
ducks every lasso, throws
me from the saddle, kicks
dirt in my mouth

Is an ocean of riling blood
beneath the throbbing
bruise of sky

Colliding thunderheads
thicker than smoke threatening
a slaughter of rain

And I:
shipwrecked in its mess

A splintered mast and torn
sail swallowed by a wall of
water black as my most
poisoned thoughts

Sinking like a pearl to the
shifting, tectonic floor of
my own body

Drawing breath through
a mouthful of sand, my pruning
hands bound by the mangled
leather of a pair of reins

Yet reins cannot tame the sea.

– mrg

Silence is a strange noise
Trees applaud my solitude, boisterously ruining the moment
Or maybe it's the distant insects and frogs that break the silence
I can't seem to find them, constantly at the very edge of my
      perception
There's a plop to my right on the bank
(or maybe it was a sploosh... too noisy to tell)
but other than that the river is keeping its mouth shut
That same cool breeze riling up the wood whispers in my ear:
nature's static; she says everything and nothing

I wonder long and hard about their thoughts,
their hopes and aspirations and fears
and whatever else may occupy the silent minds of my companions
are their thoughts as loud as mine?
Does that little voice ever ******* shut up?

There's nothing anybody can say
That causes me to view you bad
There's no point in riling me up
Will only make me at you be mad

Her body's curves,
excite my passion,
riling up my heat.

At one with the,
slithering coils and,
serpentine dreams,

Inspiration found in her treasure,
sensations send me higher.

Flowing thoughts delve deep,
into a well of lust,
never to see the bottom,
every emotion belongs to her.

At least you are already checked
by your ignorance and damaged personality
Never to be no more than a simpleton in revolt
riling against imagined elitist frothing your inadequacies
at every twist and turn of your cattle herded lives in nanny state

So you're tall - wow, bravo for free state milk
So you're not black - wow, bravo for happenstance
So you have friends - wow, bravo for belonging in a gang
( too weak to be strong and positive and say I ain't gonna be a bully )
So you have lover - here today gone tomorrow, you just use eachother

See what you are, nothing but sheep
fed, herded and bedded and held in groupthink
your minds erased and fed poison turned into haters
if you matter, they won't use you as mere pawns to man the lines
they will train you to walk with kings and reach high to make high

Feels like I’m on the brink,
Every time I open up my pie hole.
Will I live to see another cinco de mayo?
Hold up gotta let that **** sink.
Before it numbs out cause of the wine-o.
That liquid courage, that helps me nab some fine **’s.
I’m fine though, I swear I don’t need no shrink!
Knowing **** well I’ll end up either in jail, rehab or like Amy Winehouse.
And I know it’s a miracle I lived this long, cause trust me bud I had my doubts.
Gotta **** around to find out.
Reality sure ain’t no Mickey Mouse clubhouse.
(Insert mickey voice and gun fire)
Ain’t sleep a wink in a minute.
Got One eye open playing paw patrol.
Looking out for the monsters ink cause I ain’t complicit.
I’m Just a paranoid guy spacing out to rock and roll.
Eating bats and other **** deemed explicit.
As if the Prince of darkness has taken over my soul.
Riling up the media to distract the dimwits.
From the Illuminati, if you know you know.
But as they say one gotta be careful if one spills it.
Cause you’ll Get suicided like Epstein in a hot minute!

Courtesy narcissistic trumpeting
fungi moldering democratic underpinnings
donning spore ergot
lump n prowl lot terror re: hot,
hence yours truly compelled to jot
reasonable rhyme analogously describing
how land of the free home
of the brave strangled
courtesy Gordian knot
tying even Steven score
with diabolical phenomena
characterizing Salem's Lot.

The tattered glory of America,
now heats up to fahrenheit 451 degrees
analogous to kindling tinder
once again with agitation poised
to strike on brink
arty choked Jerusalem
legislation incites humiliation,
which goads desecration
fête accompli *****
in armor of Democratic

rubric, constituting capitalistic
ethic, generic iconoclastic,
and jingoistic logic,
nor budging an inch when man
dating trans sect
shoe ell masses swallow his drink
what huff huck –
this belligerent, dominant and
fervent hellraiser doth bungle in the jungle
decreeing tacit Marshall law

fast as twittering shutterfly eyewink
as his cosmic crotch grab doth
put Venus under his sway
with his Mercury re: hill temperament
pitches orbit of planet Earth
tubby comb out of balance
infected by hiz anti Jew pit
er damnations, excoriations, fulminations
huzzah sing how **** derriere
didst Saturn simultaneously

crushing crucible as an Uranus
indiscriminately plopping
approximately two hundred
and fifty pounds off flesh
doubling down humming
his favorite Neptune,
dost affect Pluto hoc crass sea
repeating self coined motto
I yam almighty, therefore no fink
simply commandeering reins of control,

a one man military intelligence groupthink
hut triad and true dyed in the wool
rip pugged ant guise zing rogue
rejoicing tuff fool, governing and hoodwink
king die hard fans of dictatorial,
linkedin and monarchist ink
cube bus thriving
wielding indomitable aggression
practiced in the Art of the Deal
Surviving at the Top,

The Art of the Comeback,
and The America We Deserve
incorporating an unanticipated jink
iron fist rule reigning down vis a vis
pro pens heave lee and prop hen city
flashing hiz seal of approval,
which scribbled signature
doth not smooth survey monkey
serve hazmat puzzling kink
boot his frenzy to bulldoze

catastrophic, formulaic, and illogic
spells these fruitful plain
in short *******rendered barren
United States of America
land of milk and honey
twill become wasteland
hell in a hand basket
with nary trace of able link
kin, the sixteenth president,
(whose rugged pioneering frontier existence)

found him steady and strong,
plus soft hearted as pelt o’ mink
the epitome if  elected forty seventh
commander in mischief
a twenty first century Drake
yule ha – albeit tink
con **** – barely describes
this oafish piranha making waves,
(whereby Hurricane Katrina
seems like child’s play),

where even a toddler,
could out rule,
out smart, and out think
maniac pampered
by donned patriarch Fred,
who fawned, doted
and bow wowed
over polarized magnate trick son,
whose rapacious,
reprehensible and riling actions

generated when United States
First Lady Melania Trump
wear a $39 jacket emblazoned with
"I really don't care, do you?"
during a trip to a migrant
child detention centre
published June 21st, 2018
didst give (in my humble opinion),
an affirmative clear cut, eye raising wink
to exploitation and fraternization
with kneading greed,

which four years of horror and terror
wrought chaos in the white house,

When congressman and senators forewent
all manner of civility, fidelity and integrity wii
hull ding broadswords, derringers
and firearms as all hell broke loose as testimony
to dire prognostication foretold
more than saber rattling and Gatling guns que
kind from lambastes, fisticuffs
and brickbats ratcheted
up as agents provocateurs nee
said obedience to semper fidelis

credo, coda and **** knee
stance when dire straits called for restraint
against excess versus raising cane old hickory
i.e. Andrew Jackson latched onto
when opposing with energy
plus verve espoused by fellow delegates,
and his hologram ghost ******
from battle scars outside and/or inside
the halls of government where blows bashed
dovetailed elected legislators to officiate

as angry birds viz brouhaha clashed
Federalist against their nemesis
of twenty first century
during the term of Donald Trump,
who throve on cutthroat frenzied
internecine lawlessness dashed
to and fro, hither and yon
any hopelessness for
civilians to escape bloodshed
spilled from without

vaunted halls of justice,
the approach of doomsday
writ large as anarchy and mayhem flashed
with uproarious coup d’etat,
when Democrats outliers gnashed
teeth, and nonestablishmentarian outlaws
pistol whipped and hashed
tagged traitors who roared America
went bankrupt at sold
at fire sale price slashed

when Donald Trump ran country
into the ground evidenced
by Molotov Cocktails residue
in concert with the sulfuric odor
of hand grenades trashed
like some sorority or fraternity house
left the sanctified righteous West Wing
with powder puffs canisters
of pepper spray, whereby
most docile, humble,

and liberal took page
from playbook of Pandora,
and landed an aimless swing
at root cause of melee
by hurling objet d’art
at pompous trump ping
septuagenarian, whose platoons of goons
rent asunder peoples against their king,
the donnybrook heathen, whose remarks
against libertarian rubric

made America great
wantonly soup peer egg go whist tickly
reviving prejudices declared dead
from yesteryear and his attempt to bring
back the glory days, when WhistleBlowers
getting water boarded and aching
deigning to implement dictatorship
virulent strain Jane's Addiction
of the Proletariat as capital idée fix
weaving together, the salient strengths

viz founding fathers credo gave licks
to King George, and now in an ironic
twist and shout of fate through eclectic mix
basket of deplorables further shamed
by being routed by New York Knicks
sewed jaws, heads of state, and dignitaries
with limping bodies spent like derricks
oil used up and no place to go except
to keep Alice in Chains and
Alice Cooper Company with toys in the attics.

Meanwhile the complex edifice
housing innocent Little Red Riding hood
standing in for realm of Pilgrim's Progress
witnessed statuesque Lady Liberty
firmly grappling torch of freedom,
when sequel to forty fifth commander in chief
whereby talking head strongly prophecy
how he blatantly snatches emblematic symbol,  
and essential fabric and rubric
stitched together over the course

since Declaration of Independence
arrogated courtesy founding
fathers and mothers, (albeit unsung)
huge bear paws figuratively swiping
sacred inviolable enshrined covenants
stripping away said constitutional perquisites
establishing totalitarian hegemony
casting dark shadows
along the edge of night,
wherein outer limits of the twilight zone
harken stranger than fiction dystopian wasteland.

Welcome back DONALD TRUMP –
holding hostage goose
that laid the golden egg.

Axe the old don
a trump peter n piper
of incredulous hellish crud - be gone
with the ha airbrushed pompous ****
so the kiss my a** in Macy's window
paraded jackal hound doth run
after public outcry yelps
for his hide and proletarian discord won!

No matter Donald Duck Trump
i$ - a pompous ***
makes war with his big brass
knuckles and bucket of crass
maligns vis a vis character assassination
with Kristallnacht broken glass
inciting banal deathly
hallowed expletives toward lass
seen – especially as viewed
on archives from Fox Television
then news anchor woman Megyn Kelly
bracing herself against ogre personality
to bear the brunt of brutish mass
of vitriolic n vile insults
from incriminating verbal pass  
so…NO VOTE from me
from such a snooty, petty, haughty
arrogant simian with sass!

I van nah try to describe
while sitting on me ****
how he oh bomb in lee rages
with gnashing teeth while back a slump
blasting democratic nomination as a sham –
from special interest bro and sis turn pump
he, the epitome
of crass bloviation, a malignant lump,
whose rants sans
presidential outcome a sham bull

with his millions beds this,
that and another woman to ******* jump
disseminating gene pool –
birthing more quackers
and additionally doth ****
the mass media as some foolhardy charade
and caricature of a frazzled grump
this arboreal clothed ape
erecting taj mahal ******* symbols
where players dump

and gamble away hard earn cash
for his hello kitty,
as if that cachet to grind and bump
lambasting with maniacal leering pout
while hair *** red bulls
atop his bulbous aerosol sprayed
heady measly shaped muppet
diseased cranial hologram
of a cretaceous,
facetious and insidious measly mump.