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Rebel Against Rebellion
I have nothing to prove
No creeds, no doctrine to upkeep
We all have so much freedom when we close our eyes
And just think
Maybe you need to humble yourself enough
To lose
Rebel Against Rebellion
Because they're all just books
Your sword is looking pretty dull sir
Why are you so inclined to hurt?
Thought your prophet preached LOVE?
So repeat words
Choose what you choose
Choose wisely
Because soon the snake will stop his hissing
Constrict
And become your noose
Rebel Against Rebellion
I think I'll call your bluff
I bleed, I sin, I'll die
But I'm not feeling hot standing here
So tell me again why I should be afraid
Of my fleet mortal life?
Rebel Against Rebellion
Because a Sheppard leads a flock
But you never followed
Your a goat
Caught in your lies
Bureaucracy, Democracy
Man it's all a joke
A silly excuse
Rules, the sacrum of man's brain
Your doctrine is becoming lame
And your beliefs more insane
Coliseum
A game to play to make you so entertained
Please write another rule
Prove once again
The medium you choose is jewels
You fool
Rebel Against Rebellion
Why would I cut my brother short?
Because of appearance and all your silly rules
So many when uttered I choke
For all we know life itself a joke

Oh the irony
What began as unity
Became bowing down
To man's hierarchy
So I Rebel Against Rebellion
I'm a servant of no man
I know God has a plan
That over cries your silly fear
Unravels your vines
Your words
Agenda and
"Time"
Again my portfolio is at www.eugene-moon.weebly.com
vircapio gale Sep 2015
slowly  carefully
as i might an ancient diary
still full of young dreams
and even  perhaps
the salt of young love

it hurts
to carry adolescent obstacles
given my age
and all those hateful skeptics
it hurts how they gleefully profane

yet settled dust is yet dust
i sit willing to love
amid my dust
i sit in ever deeper vasts of love
in existential sacrum wag
kindled crown and fullness breath of all the scents of varied forms of love

lighthouse toes inspire seas ancestors swam
lyric feet to message myth of travels won
my calves and shins  knees and thighs
  crawling climbing walking running jumping kicking at the start
physiologies of courage ****** ahead
as future unmade moulds invite
caress the bodied length intent provides

singing fingers scale my world in chords of gliding love
tips of arcing sensate dawns
diverse as nightsky suns

my palms divine an ever giving gift
no futures could unveil--
the toucher's touching touched
aligning novel insights  wordless as the womb of time:
perhaps a symbol flare could squint
and grant a vision of horizon's end--
another pleasure game
a bonsai love to soften age
another twisting meditation's emptiness in form
as motion stillness spaces words
to perfect pitches  tempos   sound
though all of which will never meet
and never meeting meet
as one
A bone meets another bone
And you have a joint !
Joints are allright !
Cartilage !
Without them you couldn't possibly dance !
Imagine only your sacrum and your ilium
and no sacro-iliac joint
And no innominate bones
Imagine just a second a pelvis without coccyx
And your seven cervical
Your twelve thoracic
And your five lumbar vertebrae
Hanging loose !
How could you possibly swing your pelvis
From one side to the other
Without your pelvic floor ?
No more grand plié
No more passé développé à la seconde
No more attitude en avant on pointe
Farewell penché
Farewell attitude derrière !
See what I mean !
That's why I always say
I'd rather be with no bone
No skull no heart
Ï 'd rather be a hurricane
Wind has no skeleton
Wind needs no joint
Wind goes naked
No shoes, no underwear
And despite of all that
Wind is a ballet dancer, a danseur étoile
With no dimples in the back.
Wind can lie supine and stand upright
Feet parallel, legs stretched
Wind has no greater nor lesser trochanter
Wind has no right gluteus maximus muscle
No feet flexed, no ****** femoris muscle
Wind never gets pinched, stuck nor jammed
Wind is constant ricochet, yo-yo, meanders
Gulf Stream !
Wind is a catwalk model
Dancing its swinging walk
Derrick Jones Dec 2020
The spine
The antenna for the divine
A straight line
Define and refine the signals to and from the mind
Find the vibe that makes you come alive
Light the fire, the livewire, that you transmit ’til you expire

From root to crown
From up to down
This flow of energy
A life force
A coursing current
Sometimes a torrent
A constant stream that means so much
And it manifests through the sense of touch

Vibrations, reverberations
Localizing in our nervous congregations
Stemming from the spinal cord
These chakras strike a chord
Soul patches
Energy clusters that muster so much energy
And when in flow, they all shine with light
But when in doubt, tangled up
These tentacles of energy can glow too bright
When the flow’s not right
When the foe’s in sight
Fight or flight
In the world or in our mind
When we leave the flow behind
We weave a tangled thread
Which may focus in our head
Or our heart
In the root, the sacrum, the solar plexus
The throat, the crown, the third eye nexus
These energy centers out of whack when we aren’t centered
How do we get back from the twisted stream we’ve entered?

Remember
It is all sensation
Machinations in the mind cannot unwind
The neural fibers of our spine
A focal point for energy
A chakra
Resistance is a trap that keeps us coming back
Stuck in a whirlpool
That wants to flow free
But resistance blocks the stream
When there’s a disturbance in the force
Turmoil or avoidance that distorts
That chakra glows too bright
Instead of flow you start to fight
Your chest gets tight
Butterflies in the stomach
Something stuck in your throat
Remember
You can just float
You need no boat or moat or antidote
It’s all sensation, vibrations
Traveling up and down your spine
Manifesting in your mind
And in that flow there is a freedom
Sit up straight and breathe in deeper
Energy flowing freely
Resistance yields persistence
So give up the fight
Dissolve into light
Stop floundering in the whirlpool
You have found the portal
Let it **** you in
You’ll find an ocean deep within
Your mind will open
You can breathe the water
It was water all along
No longer drowning
You can just be
Resting in the deep
At peace with seven pieces of your body
Portals to the deep
Or whirlpools that will keep you stuck
You decide your own luck
Make them a locus of control
Let focus be your goal
Seven pieces finally whole
For more poetry and essays, follow my blog on Medium at https://medium.com/words-ideas-thoughts
Thanks for reading!
Chrystos Minot Apr 2015
Last night
On the roof
I felt the winds
Roaring with the trees
Who danced and swayed
With their cousins
I felt the roof joists vibrate
Up into my knees
My sternum
My soul
My sacrum
Winds
Like whales at play during a storm
Danced and played with their cousins
I felt humbled and so alive
My anemometer registered gusts of 43.5
A party favor to take home
Along with indelible memories
Of undulating trees
Feeling their majesty
Exalting my soul
And rejuvenating my spine
Helping me to feel whole
Helping me to feel whole.
mike dm Sep 2015
Many are asleep. Many are awake. Some lie betwixt, straddling the waking and dreaming worlds.

Yet all is one. And all will always be one.

The myriad of tendrils extending from the superorganism of Gaia throb as one single heartbeat. This is the ancient way. A tide of lifedeath, receding and reseeding. One recent manifestation of the infinite and her ever-fecund complex of awe and beauty are a small band of lunar vamps gone rogue, renouncing the Order of Crimson Red for Opal White, death's blood for life's milk. Gaia, mother to all living things, has tended  greatly to this particular green strand of hers; She wills it forth and it obediently flourishes in response, despite the race of humans and blood vamps and their respective patriarchal death cults of never ending consumption.

Something is afoot. Wheel of time grinds to a halt. The Atman is -now- nudging man and his greed. New epoch emerges. Third eyes wide shut begin to narrow open. Beauty will again retake it's rightful place over the usurper, truth, putting it under her foot. Transformation beckons Earth, parting lips sealed, opening her up, seeding her anew till sleeping snake at sacrum bottom uncoils and slides up, up to be lit, enlightened, ecstatic, rolling milky eyes to the back of the head.
Alin Oct 2016
When it comes to forgiveness
In truth there is not a single body
to be forgiven except for your own
Let go of that self with an inner smile
Let these subtle flocculation dissolve in the pipelines
By inner knowledge
and flow Down the back
drawing the borders of the levator scapulae
On Both sides of the neck
where both lines shall meet to run down
through the gutter of the cervical curve
A clearing and space created for it by compassion and
Skin Replaced by the regenerated cells of the mind purified
And that pseudo-self delivered from the sacrum to the ***** of mother earth
with a truthful farewell.
All my demons play tag in my mind
Chasing each other and fighting for dominance
They pick up each of my thoughts
Tossing them aside every which way
My lungs constrict
Pushing every inch of air away
Locking my throat
Keeping my words stuck
The only spark of hope for the calm
Thirty seconds of one’s time
Burying my tear filled eyes in her hair
Wrapping myself in her strong embrace
Letting myself sacrum to my demons
Feel their hot breath down my neck
Alongside the heat from her body
Their nails claw at me
Leaving trails of sticky hot blood
All the while her hands keep me together
Through this I hope
To gain strength that has left me
In thirty seconds
maggie s Oct 2011
I wrapped my hands up in your hair
to feel the pulse - your heat, your beat.
I reach again
feel naught but air:
the essence of a love,
retreat.

Often do I venture back,
roam into an abandoned past.
Dis-embalm these memories true,
packed on ice
yet damp with dew.

Cat treads heavy the surface of heart,
imprints
      indenting,
              g,         d
            n             e
           i                 s
         d                   c
        n                      e
       e                         n
     c                             d
   s                                i
a                                   n
                                       g,
scarring my thoughts, my rhythm,
my whole.
Shifting my sacrum,
sheathing my soul.

Doggedly I trail behind
with a twisted eraser
      just "try the eraser"
      you said with a smirk.
But still I reach and I reach and I reach
rapt in your attentions as a wave to a beach.

There is a grain of sand in my eye
that can't be washed away.
Salt, fresh, spring
they all caught her.
But I've tried every type of water.

Still you persist,
a rotting orange's mist.

I allowed you to come; I also let you leave.
I remember with crude clarity
what happened in between.

Go, my love you let.
Go, your love I let.
The only question now I have:
Why then can't I forget?
I think of thoughts and meanings
and how they mean nothing

Things are simple,
just to an extreme


The ground digs into my sacrum
and I can't get up

*Just a bunch of young folks
whistling about happiness
pin Mar 2015
I'm planning an Everest hike
You told me you like types, like your sister's barbie before she burnt the plastic, ******* melted lighter fluid candle light
You told me through your sinuses, you wanted to mutilate the plastic
Bisphenol A gets bored on scent
Now you want to smell raw meat letters
Thoracic vertebrae
Sacrum
Femur
Pieces of you, yourself and her
Pieces you can **** the harrow out, intake samples of soul
You were made to look like a human being
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
I give you the freedom
to interpret “We” in general
or as just Us
two

may your Intimacies show you
what will guide my pendants
of thought kindlings.
I leave it undisclosed  too.

We are evanescent, Juliet.
Yet complete in how shattered we are.
A fractal.
We can’t trace our fingers over tangible frames of the ways of Connections,
clogs of the paths
Love cracks
from what we believe we have already surpassed.
We know we have no capacity of learning with clear logic
how We work,
what Philia makes of Us
and what we make of it,
how the seeds of uncertain Passions
find their way through
and out of Us.

It is indeed a huge insecurity of ours:
trying to find, trace
(on a lone garden wall
made of bricks and creepers),
and keep in our fragile handling
what these feverishness coming
out of hand do with us.

But then we
stand behind the other
(optionally or not: of our self still),
in the same way
uncovered,
insecure
and trembling
if I make it right, or rather we make it right.

The hands of both parties come
in one click and then
though we accost errors
we make our perfectly imperfect
clingings with some glass in that wall
as we again and again come
and will come into
lessons,
which seem new
but stay one and the same

or saddened by the world ideas that will keep on putting us through questioning “Who am I?”
with our silences filled with answers
that we will keep on becoming
and accomplishing without ever taking sentient notice.

I take you as we are.
You take me as we are.
We stay strong in that pair
of trembling hands that
though they do not know
what is ahead of them
or already as Them
when it comes to Love
or any pure emotional arousal
we make of ideas, we accept it.

We won’t ever encompass it
but it encompasses us.
We welcome how much we don’t understand
our bodies or how all of that
and even more flows
and will flow,
we are it,
teary from resilience.

Errors - not
Broken - not
Nought these names made up for perceiving *** and bodies,
these measly words as enough as one isolation to a whole abandoned waiting room at now

I stay in full apprehension and readiness
of what I come to exist
as and what feeling becomes me,
I won’t chain myself to
the scheme we might draw
with chalk on that garden wall.

And be that too alongside please,
simply of.

I am, will be there,
standing,
unpassing,
going through all the same strangenesses
alike,
yet kissing each
and every one
on their ivory breathing ribs,
because they only seem
to be deformed
and at unease.

I will stay in Love.
I will stay outside of it.
Without naming it or putting it
to any formality

let all these questions be a waterfall on you and welcome each and every one of them.

We don’t have to understand them.
We just will be.
We will stay as questions and just let it be. We don’t have to be apart.
We don’t have to be bound for eternity
with pacts or our bodies entangled.

I simplistically. approach.
these hurt questions with a stupefying tenderness of giving
each and every one of them
a chance to.
A thin line of peach freeze.
Sentinels of senses themselves, my arousals of then.
Phronemophilia stays unswayed. I am still in the same bliss.
Let see where we as consciences will grow and shape to.

In the end
it is seen
that loving anyone or anything
was only the pathway to solely harbouring ourselves and Love itself.
It is unchanginly It.
Same verily sacrum in choice of

then

now

lest ever.
Coming to meet your mirror once you’ve considered yourself fully mended already leads you to reflect upon all the lessons you’ve taken in already and undermining the stability of your development. To rejuvenate or rehearse them again bare and undone.
Carol Staples Lewis made the same affiliations in his works and pondering when a senior devil meets his junior acquaintance, telling of his own experience, going again through their wisdom and what the younger one should reflect upon.
Yet now this is not about God, morality, sneakiness or any other machination.
This, is On Love. Gibran-like uptake to go through what That is beyond human relationships and models.
Dedicated to my mirror, here my trial of what I’ve come to learn myself in that matter to my own junior. Testing me.
Rebecca Gismondi Jan 2014
Lights are on,
off,
inside and out,
shattered and steel,
sturdy and delicate,
like you and me,
flowing past our eyes as we drive through a tunnel,
as we walk along Yonge and Dundas,
Christmas lights; your favourites,
green and red,
lights that make you want to go out of your way to see
lights that you would be late for work for
lights that shine on this time of us,
this new development,
the next step in this ladder which is built of solid wood
solid,
sturdy,
structured,
able to hold an enormous weight
it pushes down my spine into my sacrum,
it's like all of you is pressing on me,
into me,
and I want it,
not the weight of your body but the weight of your want for me,
need for me,
don't you feel that weight?
it sits on me and it says
"this is what you want,
don't run away,
too long you have tried to run"
but wait
here I am:
in your bed,
my legs tangled with yours,
my lips close to yours,
my heart racing,
and when you kissed me I said
"this is it.
this is right.
I am safe,
I am where I'm supposed to be.
With you."
From a vessel of mercury stained with Cinnabar, they brought next to Vas Auric, an ocher figure from the environment posed by the sarcophagus, to the detriment of the meats that resisted the Larnax or ash sarcophagus that came in other larnakes from Persia. The colors were specified in nature from a new terrarum upon the arrival of this prehistoric substance, in Neolithic pride, as it shone in the ceramic that they had been climbing from the hill of Patmos. Post-mortem, they were aedicules that were already established with pecuniary obols, to coin the solidity of the disputed and risky lands of the Camels; Gaugamela in the ambages of the bodies that must have remained standing, but with their staunch resistance they ended up colored by the ocher of cinnabar, and the rust of camels looking for traces of the mercury trickery that snatched them in the fleshless tombs, in thick and vivid sight of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who mostly accompanied him from their stagnant warehouses in Jaffa. In the northern Governorate of Zefian, the bodies from the Tel Gomel siege, in particular the Cinnabar embalming funeral company and mobile, came alongside Wonthelimar as pieces of Lord Hades' grave goods, mutilating the diaphragm with little light than in any eye that could observe, binding to HgS sulfur; Cinnabar that was already decanting from the last reduced specimen in the Hellenika Necropolis, Kímolos. Being ocher that glowed, and was complemented by the hyper chlorinated red blood cells with the Aldehyde, to micro-inseminate in mischief from the sketches of the Infant from Kalymnos Raeder, which appeared in some masonry sketches in harmonious earthy alchemy, removing the Larnax packages that they brought the ashes of Alexander the Great, and in others the anatomical of the others that were only simulated, since they could never reunite their symbolic bodies of osteology, which was diagnosed before all along with the Larnax of the Emperor that would be revived by the Vas Auric.

From the Hellenika necropolis in Kimolos, the spectrographies of the sarcofaghus of the fallen in Tel Gomel were indicated, there were five thousand Macedonians who were transmigrated from the Lepidoptera sarcophagus that was injected by the psyche that covered them from the fifth house of the Necropolis, or the “V” courtyard (fifth sarcophagus) of Hellenika, the favorite place of her Erichthonius or fetish serpent who was her consort of Athenea. Here the chemical elements of Prometheus crossing all the ages of time, and the age that oxygenated him in its chains in support of the Neolithic, were represented. Vernarth's Zefian computer brought sodium, magnesium and aluminum, Borker silicon, phosphorus and chlorine, Leiak Calcium, iron, and Potassium and finally Kaitelka throwing graphitic carbon through space. The chemical shadows of Hellenika's fifth courtyard varied them with ultra-trace of Labrys or double-edged axes swinging on the pendular in front of Prometheus as the savior of man, and the abstract demiurge of Hellenika's philosophy. The red blood cells with their links stained the ink of Aeschylus of ruddy color, and of an Oceanid orange hue like a glanders viaduct that turned iron towards the narthex or transmigration portico of Helleniká on the way to Patmos, to finally transport the mercurial bodies of the five thousand, totally covered with sulfur cinnabar in all its bone structure. The scapulae of some Hypapists had eagle claws that exported the sacrum of another in one claw, agglutinating into little crows that grappled with the jambs of cubes and humerus in the hemipelvis of the one who avoided it? But it lay split in two, almost pointing with its index a versicular of the Hebrew Vulgate. Some femurs of some Hoplites histrionized in the spectrogram and iris of Zefian who analyzed them, and who ventured the right ulna of a Macedonian to Tartarus, an undamaged Hetairoi as acrostic white bleeding from a distal epiphysis that was seen to be crowded with red blood cells, in order of Zefian and the grace of the serpent Eriction, for temporary sedimented colorations, and then to is taken to the zygomatic where a flabby Leonatus had embedded itself in the bronze, as a temporary fauna in the left, while Athenea relieved them after the post-exhumation.

Zefian with sodium, magnesium, and aluminum ritualized raising them in each of the morbid dances, but relieving the stains in each of the affected areas, with a pinch of Mashiach Cinnabar, for the post-mortem effect that was coming in the galloping efflorations of the Nótos de Borker, which bore a replica of a diadem of the skull in perforation of its forehead with the “V” mark, ibid, Athenea being a favorite and born from the forehead of Zeus. This rubric was made on most of the bodies that were sewn with the hides of raptors that protected them until it was time to exhume them with the basal chlorination of Cinnabar and Antiphon Benedictus.

The surface of the Helleniká solid was made up of lavish kinetics, and nuclei to react in hydrogen sulfide, in ionized particles of greater growth to the development of a mythical embryonic and updated, in Promethean neo-policies of the transcendental size of distemperance, which rose in carts of mass photons, by the Heracleian ultra theater trying to emancipate a concentric character in the tragic proscenium, and of an antagonistic whole as an actor of institutionalization of the surviving scenic works, flagellating images that are not of his intentions, nor by whom erected them or by whoever takes them to the ultra gothic scene, or of demigods who save man from his siege in contemporary total disappearance, subjugated to the enslavement of a utopia, and not of the seasonality of Gods made men, with policies, made in the cookbook measure of tasteless soups in invisible realms.

The formulas and equations were re-coined in the bones and columns that are erected by the dynamics of human demand, which revives him on pilot scales that wander unchanged from the Theater of the Epidaurus, and in the memory appendix that is subtracted from the West: Dyticá (Twilight of Leiak), a species of Prometheus of the Forests, but this time not stinging any sip of liquids with entomology, and Lepidoptera of Gethsemane in flocks that come to clean the scabs of the heroes, who are only capable of resisting such effusion of subtle prophylaxis, in this neo-Ambrosia Mercurial.
Prometheus in Vain
PJ Poesy Feb 2016
Joint where sacrum,
ilium meet, here
pull into fetal
position, discharge.

Polar magnetism
draws uncertainty.
Cuddle within
my release. Spoon
your mind around it.
Come out
of that place.

Sacred bindings,
ill adjustments, push
the noxious. Diffuse
inhibitory control.
Let that **** go.
Option noted.
jordan lockaby Dec 2018
a little prince sets forth under moonlight
to explore new and tender terrain
following moose tracks along
the ridge of her scapula
the valley of the sacrum
discovering knolls of tension
ancient landmarks of rejection
the emotional geology
the topography of her back
tamed in the moonlight
Onoma Jun 2018
l.
sacrum bone,
crematory pyramid--
shramming orange.
passion's seat jumped on--
the ground giving
way, the world
disrobed.
donned at the overlook...
a most humble service
gathers.

ll.
examining upside down
the base of a table--
while blindfolded with
a shroud.
whose two right legs
offer an incomplete
rocker.
radial urgency.
there shall be no succor,
the cup shall not
be passed.

lll.
the musculature of
survival, taking the
form of wilderness.
standing on, and in
place of an animal hide rug--
whose dead hair's rising
in response to a voiced
agony.
it is finished.
*Francis Bacon, Irish-British figurative painter, circa 1944.
Jordan Gee May 2022
Circles and Squares May 24 2022

what’s on the agenda for today?
the pre-summer soil is softening for the till
and time is fast ripening on the vine.
seventy-two silly angels are swimming sideways through the ethers
sowing sacred seeds of sacral energy
and so blooms celestial clusters of protons and neutrinos.
we’ll reap a golden crop of Elysium wheat -
come this Autumn’s Comanche harvest moon
because the fruit lives in the harvest
like a bee in the hive
like a house made of hexagons in the sky.
place the left hand over the heart
place the right down upon the belly
breathe deeply from the sacrum
everything is gonna be alright.
two hands of woman and man
feel the heart thumping
plasma and prana pumping
the sun and the moon orbit according to fated rhythms…
everything already is alright.
‘things are that which the word makes them in naming them’
cleaved from the tongue
your word is Law.
tilt your head back
blow prana vayu in the sky
watch the egress of the thunder clouds fleeting
and the bending and the bowing of the rain.
our eyes are two prisms
refractors of the Light
they vibrate together to make an octave
like a dial tone just behind your brow.
your heart is a silicon satellite
picking up on all the waves and boson particles
magnetizing
synthesizing
so many shades of green I almost ran out of canvas
feel the space open up wide inside your sinus
and wide horizons of your mind
the Spirit is gently rapping
tapping at your inner door-
the door of Brahma-
the Brahmarandhra-
unlock the latch and let your Self in.
take heed of the Sacred Feminine
her compassion is boundless in the bottomless night
and even unto the highest firmament
the crows are there cackling in a happy ******
hear the echo in their caw
the morning birds are pecking at the sun
giant sine waves from little bird lungs
thai elephants doff their tack and saddles
even also the claw bells and mahouts and all the bronze.
there is a deep well hidden behind our sternum
behind the high fencing of our hearts
Shiva dances there inside a lotus flower
and all we hear are the circles and the squares
what's on the agenda for today?
my voice is barking octaves
my eyes, they are two prisms
my body is a shrine.

by: Jordan Gee
its almost complete
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
i miss being a young man, in his late teens...
i don't know what happened to my 20s...
honestly: i really don't...
     i was out of the usual treadmill antics of
a boy's 20s...
    by the time i resolved all the difficulties that
can be associated with a psychotic breakdown:
women started telling their children:
mind this man walking past you...
man... man... i forgot being a boy...
        i was secluded in my boyhood of my early
and late 20s... i only came back to society: slowly...
cautiously... once i passed the mark of turning 30...
who said that they'd welcome the quick passing
on the tyranny of beauty? Plato...
   and who might add: the idiocy of youth?
    that bravado... that cockiness... self-assurance:
as false as they come? i guess i could be accredited with
uttering such words... there's this middle path
when life becomes bearable... after your 30s until
you hit 60... and then... those consolidation years...
  facing up to mortality...
                  not until then...
   but i miss the boy i was when i was 14 through to 21...
when women could and would mystify me...
when i wanted to pursue them...
           i was allocated the "tribe" of men:
women don't take a ****! women don't ****!
   don't be silly!
            they eat but they don't take a ****!
            don't be silly!
                     of the relationships i've had... ha ha!
"relationships": my grandparents (on my maternal side)
ended their relationship by sleeping in separate rooms
in separate beds...
   well... it was more of a fling: hell!
i had the chance to visit Russia for a month...
spend a month in St. Petersburg...
    visit the Russian version of Versailles...
         travel overnight to Moscow on the train
listening to Bob Dylan on the top bunk bed...
   managed to see Metallica...
      kiss the girl while everyone took out their
cigarette lighters when Fade to Black was being played...
i remember that song oh too well...
in my bedroom covered with posters of bands...
falling asleep to that song
   while dreaming of next day's commute with
the Ursuline girls... coming from... Hainault and beyond:
Debden... Loughton...
  
sure... she slapped me when she picked me up from
the airport... since that slap i punched
myself harsher... what was i going to do?
complain? she would have kicked me out of the house
and with as little of a knowledge of Russian as i had...
become a homeless person in St. Petersburg?
so i took the slap... i subsequently took it out on her
by ******* her for 7 hours one night...
i hope she felt a Spartan cohort of 300 having fun with
her... i hope i exhausted her...
i still remember that slap... i hope she remembers
those seven hours of bedroom antics...

i did behave in a "hypergamous" way... like a woman...
what are the chances of visiting Russia: these days?
i played nice...
                   i wouldn't mind returning to her to simply
slap her *** during *******...
but i was 21 and stupid back then...
i once heard a friend of my estranged uncle say:
slap her about at the beginning...
then she'll stay... i did that with my cats...
one of them was ******* in my bed...
i didn't know which one it was...
first time i saw **** in my bed i inquired
by slapping both of them...
the second time i caught the culprit! he was taking
a dump in my bed...
now? after slapping him...
       then washing him... then curling him into
a towel like a mummy and placing him in the sun?
we're the best of friends... he keeps slipping into
my bed from 10pm through to 1am...
i'd hate to do that with women...
     slapping a girl just to get some respect?
i don't need to: i don't want to do that...
i don't want to do what i did with my cats
to become translated to women...

              ergo? i miss the 14 through to 21 year old
boy's libido...
   i wish i could want that ******* Khedra more...
it has almost been 2 months since i last saw her...
i'm already due to get a haircut... and a shave at the Turk...
ergo? i need to trim my ***** hair elsewhere:
no, not the beard on my face...
   she stopped sending me selfies...
i stopped sending her pictures of flowers from my garden:
currently? the chives are in bloom...
pretty little purple flowers... reminiscent of
the Scottish thistle...
               it's not that i'm out of practice:
i just don't feel the need to feed the need for ***
anymore...
   i have lost the hunger for it...
     not that i'm impotent... but i just...
                 need it... sparingly: on a whim...
last time i was woken up from an asexual slumber...
god forgive me...
i was grooming my female cat... and she raised her
backside into my face...
i know! i know: *******...
ergo? i cycled like mad across the north eastern
part of London looking for a brothel...
i already knew where the brothel was...
but i cycled all the way to Tottenham Court High Road...
back to Stratford... £160 for an hour... pretty steep...
back to Goodmayes... £130 for an hour...

point being: when i was with this Russian girl...
oh man... sleeping in the same bed...
maybe that's why i never took relationships too seriously...
the sleeping arrangement...
it's already difficult sharing a bed with 10kg Maine ****
cat... imagine sharing it with a woman...
each and every, single, *******, night...
one side of me became: NUMB...
yeah... that B is a surd... it's silent: NUM' -
hello apostrophe...
                
because i couldn't possibly fall asleep not hugging her...
but by that "logic" half of me would
get cramps... and dead-meat numbing
effects...
   oh to hell with that!
why do all the rich people need so many bathrooms?!
you need at least three bedrooms!
one in which you sleep... one in which she sleeps...
and one in which you ****!

i miss being mystified by women, reading Stendhal...
that's not coming back...
too many practicalities came along...
me and a single mum?!
we're creatures of habit... before we are even
associated with politics or society...
man is a habitual creature....
by 30+? you have your habits...
and they are non-negotiable...
  
   personally? the most pristine distance to cycle
casually... i'd say... over the distance of a marathon...
so... 50+km... / 26+ miles... that's relaxing...
anything less is sort of boring...
that's why i forget the countryside from time to time...
and cycle into central London...
why?

a) i'm cycling in to... look at some girls...
   randomly... girls and architecture...
andy williams... music to watch the girls go by...
b) hmm...
           cliche, that point (a)...
    get ******* at traffic...
     being a traffic shepherd...
             elevated status of pedestrian...
   danger... leeching off buses and trucks...
leeching off ambulances... just the general
sense of commotion... people spotting...
bore and yawn and yawn and bore...
c) ah... spatial orientation...
if you start off at around Collier Row...
and cycle toward Barkingside...
and you take that B174 (Romford Rd.)
       route... you have that beautiful precursor
of a London skyline... and you start thinking:
well... i'll be there in about an hour and half an hour plus...

i found my favourite route "roundabout" today...
South London... i don't care what anyone says...
immediately: in the immediacy of cycling across
the bridge... London feels different in the south...
a little round around via London Bridge
and back up north again via Southwark Bridge...
and... whatever 20+ miles back home to do some
work in the garden...

****... no pretty girls along the way...
nothing that might stand out...

i know why i'm reluctant regarding visiting that brothel...
last time i wanted to perform oral ***
on a ******* she asked me to pay extra...
hell... if Khedra was willing to perform unprotected
***... because... the two of us...
are hygienic Nazis... i'm thinking...
slob... slob... the one time and place i can turn into
a slob... i want to pucker up my lips to those
other pair of lips...
but... i don't want to be paying extra...
i'm imagining... falling asleep on my stomach
and pushing my mouth into a pillow...

and hallucinating daffodils...
no... tulips! anything floral and the female genitals!
hmm... ha ha: yummy yuck!
maybe that's why i prefer to eat a rare beef steak...
lick, ****: but: if you're going to bite...
gently...

hell: if women can explore their sexuality...
can i, too, please?
i'll just word it... without having multiple partners...
but it's so much easier with prostitutes...
what dating apps?! never heard of them...
the money is on the table...
lucky for me i tried ******* for the first time
aged 35+ years old... and i was like:
i prefer coffee...

coffee an nicotine in the morning... first thing's first...
n'ah... nein nein... NO! i don't do powdered
crowds...
what m shift tomorrow? Wembley... play-offs...
whoever it playing i'm pretty sure i'll be looking for a
wife...
but i want my mojo back...
   i want to go back into that brothel and ****
like a 21 year old... i want to rekindle a hunger
for a female body...
          on the throne of thrones:
it really doesn't help... abstaining from all
that libido insomnia of over-exposure to *******...
sometimes... i tried a whole month dry...
it changed: **** all!
i need to be in the mood...
   i haven't been in the mood for about 2 months...

**** on me! cacas mihi on (take on me
variable wording ancients tongues etc.)
i fall back on something sinister...
Dante took Virgil as his guide...
    ******* from Horace! ******* from Horace!
he's mine!
i fall back on translating Latin texts...

Horace:

quid obserstis auribus fundis precces?
non saxa nudis surdiora navitis
Neptunus alto tundit hibernus salo.
inultus ut tu riseris Cotytia
volgata, sacrum liberi Cupidinis,
et Esquilini pontifex venefici
inpune ut urbem nomine inpleris meo?
  quid proderat ditasse Paelignas ****
verlociusve fata te votis manent:
          ingrata misero vita ducenda est in hoc,
novis ut usque suppetas laborisbus.
optat quietem Pelopis infidi pater
                egens benignae Tantalus semper dapis,
optat Prometheus obligatus aliti,
  optat supremo conlocare Sisyphus
in monte saxum; sed  vetant leges Iovis.
Voles modo altis desilire turribus,
                 modo ense pectus Norico recludere,
frustraque vincla gutturi nectes tuo
                    fastidiosa tristis aegrimonia.
vectabor umeris tunc ego inimicis eques
                meaeque terra cedet insolentiae.

an quae movere cerreas imagines,
ut ipse nosti curiosus, et polo
      deriepered lunam vocibus possim meis,
possim crematos excitare mortuous
desiderque temperare pocula,
      plorem artist in te nil agentis exitus?
    
you dare bring requests toward clogged ears?!
not so on the voice of naked sailors does the
deaf rock and not so during winter does Neptune
shakes his trident (three-tooth), like you with the word,
who so weighs himself by laughter serving up
Canidia's ******, slandering love, the holiness of
   Cupid.
               do you not call yourself the priest of
the Esquiline practices, you're not raving,
whatever the saliva will bring?
    haven't i overpaid the Paeligni(ne) witches?
do i no longer detect poisonous poisons?!
    even though the parks have extended your age,
you will feel death's pressure all the more.
Pelops' treacherous father Tantal(us),
emptied from the godly feasts, desires respite,
    Prometheus with an eagle by his liver lacquers,
without end, Sisyphus rolls the stone up the hill
endlessly - Jupiter doesn't allow a respite.
you're looking for an escape, jump from the highest
floors,
     with a Norico sword: a naked breast unravel
   (unravel a naked breast)
   or... tighten the rope, on the neck looped...
   chased by not-mind (misunderstanding),
with disgrace's stigma.
in the meantime: onto the back i'll jump on astride,
i'lll big back the earth - incredible joy.
wax(y) puppets will get up, into motion admired,
i will break off the moon from the sky,
    i will revenge satisfaction,
      i will, the dead and the burnt i will resurrect,
with desires' loving magic i will return tormenting,
these tears are for nothing -
      a phantom will enter the suicide.
are you still going to be able to
                               place resistance against art?    


of note:
- Cotytia - rendered Canidia in English
was the first witch of ancient Rome...
- Esquiline "practices?
   Rome was founded on the seven hills...
one of those hills was the Esquiline hill...
the other six are:
   Capitoline, Quirinal, Viminal, Caelian, and Aventine...
- the Paelignī? an Italic tribe - etymologically
associated with the words
    an cognate-mix of
       privignus (stepson) & paelex (concubine) -
most associated (wrongly) with the Sebine women...
mind you... step-parenthood was very prominent
in the upper eshelons of ancient Roman society...
- Pelops - a king of Pisa...
- Tantalus - father of Pelops...
- Noricum - a Celtic confederation of tribes
these days associated with the geographic region of
Austria and Slovenia

eh... language has changed so much...
how Latin didn't survive... i get it...
the modern tongue has many more prepositions...
a long time ago...
nouns / verbs could have inbuilt
conjunctions, prepositions... articles...
that changed with the atoms...
                oddly enough... certain languages haven't
changed that much... Kierkegaard mentions
this changelessness of God...
               English has changed beyond recognition...
******?! hasn't changed that much since
the 13th century...
how we managed to get Italian from Latin...
and... Spanish and French...
              well...
                      today i don't feel like being in awe...
the dirty poet Aug 2020
oh no
my sacrum has dissolved into the earth
and i can’t get up

— The End —