"scriptum" poems
so, with israel being re-established...
why do we, us,hit
europeans... even need to bother
establishing authority,
utilißing the new testament?
i quiete like the old testament
logic of:
oculus per oculus
(eye for an eye)...
because the saxon concept of
justice: i rather see...
the implosion of
blackstone's formulation...
the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10
ratio of...
a shawshank redemption...
there is... redemption...
since! there's no justice within
the post scriptum of
the hillsborough disaster...
watching people walk, the lunatic walk,
20 years later?
disorientated by the court
of justice?
re-dem-ption...
the whole aspect of: innocent until proven
guilty is horrid!
this... saxon vernacular of
that branch of philosophy that's
bogus...
namely... within origins
of the forbidden fruit...
i.e. and you know?!
really?!
no... but i'll **** to make
a standing pivot of a pawn
on a chess-board.
savvy?
who, among the europeans...
actually needs such artifacts
as new testament texts, credo,
orthodoxy, sign of the cross
greek exports?
the state of israel has
been re-established...
i don't want anything to do
with this judeo-grecian banality...
you can have you little affair over
n
e w
s...
don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm
watching... people tell a lie...
yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum...
am i, or are there any arizona
inbreds?
who, the hell, needs, the news testament,
within the confines of history,
dispossessing europe of it,
of an established jewish state?
one book among many...
hence the scent of a yawn...
when entering a library...
i'll do one gesture, and one gesture
alone... inclined to a replica...
ecce libra!
i wash my hands from
having any investment in it.
**** the greeks can have it...
they can keep it, cherish it,
but they better not spaghetti the old testament
with their... "ingenious" plot...
not when the nag hammadi library
emerged...
no... not now... not ever...
i detest this greek book of overt
symbolism...
their pristine alphabet,
their diacritical application,
with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf...
or blind... whichever it is...
sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch...
of inflated... soft... flesh?
i'll rip your heart out
and feed it to my neighbour's dog,
beside a bowl of water.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!*
a zookeeper,
a warden in a prison...
or some obscure,
accolade role
in an asylum...
i'm being pushed the role
of a chemistry teacher...
mind you... i know that the best
way to pet cats,
is to "ignore" them,
let them play their
solipsistic hide & seek game
with plain view of the target...
but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs...
horticulture isn't an option...
must be the sort of man
with a floral pattern
rather than a sky-scraper
in my underwear
to provide gender
exclusive role play...
whatever the hell the means...
but teaching children
chemistry?
d'ah ****
i want to be on the forefront...
a gorilla zookeeper,
a prison warden,
an accolade
for what's the upper tier
of nursing,
namely, inside an asylum...
but i won't ever get a chance
to prospect myself for such roles...
hence the poetry...
given that i'm a chronic drunk
in England, but a sober
sparrow in Poland...
come to think of it...
i'm ever only drunk,
when i start talking...
alone, drinking?
i can catch a judge
play-thing sober...
but those are my dream
jobs...
and in all three instances...
none, are advertised for
potential applicants...
like a safe pass into a business of
past, trans-generational funeral homes...
just like they said:
it's not what you know,
it's who you know -
unless of course there's a merger,
and you're thinking
about emperor Nero stabbing
himself in the neck...
within the confines of a self
acknowledgment, "question".
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
Every day in the afternoon, she writes a letter to the man she loves.
The ink and her tears flow together as she describes how much he meant to her.
She always uses the past in her letters, for she is unsure how she feels now. Can she still love with her heart and soul both dead and torn to shreds? It's hard to tell.
So she writes. About her days, her thoughts. There's happiness, sadness, love and so much pain in her words. She writes down all those emotions that don't make sense to her anymore.
A part of her wants to scream how much she admires him, how deeply she loves him, how his soul touched hers and how she feels so empty now that he's gone.
But she can't. So she writes, again and again, endlessly.
Maybe someday, a few years away from now, she will give him those letters. Maybe someday, the tornado between them will disappear. And maybe someday, she will learn to understand the words hidden in his silence.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 11:21 AM UTC
/ *are there any misnomers in the representation
of language, only, and only within the confines
of phonetics? sure... spelling is not exactly
arithmetics... but is it?*
/ trance
as the "misnomer"
of the prefix trans...
oh my god,
current english -
and the golden
age of chaos -
and that nashville twang
in an american blonde's
voice: like a banjo...
gott ist tot:
kommen die titan, la(s)chend.
/
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
How could your sweatpants retain your scent even though I washed them
Eight times.
P.S. I feel like I've lost you when I take them off.
I still feel your curls between my fingertips from that time I put you to sleep.
P.S. I knew you loved it but I acted surprised when you told me you did.
I told you I was sweating because I forgot to turn my AC on but it was because I felt the spaces between your fingers fill mine.
P.S. I was freezing.
Thank you for letting me rest my head on your shoulder all of those times I was exhausted.
P.S. I was always wide awake.
Thank you for lending me your t-shirt for gym class.
P.S. I had two extras in my locker.
You told me I looked beautiful when I came to school with no make-up on.
P.S. I haven't worn any since.
We fell asleep with our hands miles apart until I felt yours tapping mine
calling
"Hey, come back home."
P.S. Please let me come back home.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
no, i'd love to meet up with
a "simple' afternoon gall...
shy of a bladder...
but... you see...
i have prior engagements with
your disney god
that i need to bite in his
*** of attempting to
stall wrath and...
whatever the hell it meant
of jurisprudence
when it came to
discovering the law
of gravity...
pretty sure as ****
no concern for man's "laws"
bore that ******* child;
you invest in a life
worth a post-scriptum...
and brgain against
this wordly affair...
came...
the candle, ushered
into a tornado to the blown out,
and man:
an appeasing instrument:
against himself...
technicality of
language...
i'd love to settle
the feud on said grievances...
but then again...
most women are the "simpleton"
******
i'd settle for, to mind
at eternity;
oops.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
i love winter for the sole fact
i can invent living
in alaska or honningsvåg,
and never see the sun for four
months - it helps that in england
the skies are blissfully gray
at sunrise in this ideal season;
i'm adding to the cult of the moon,
a subplot of islam you might
call what i'm doing - no cult
of the sun, copper skin and
the cliché holiday in the bahamas,
no dream of all-you-can-eat buffets
at a holiday resort - tatar steak
for me and a chance conversation
over hákarl (kefir meat) watching
a volcano errupt in the night.
p.p.s. (pedantic post-scriptum):
the diacritic a in hákarl
is a sign of elevating the k, or at
least prolonging / exfoliating it,
stressing the two syllables -
well at least in my optic theory
of interpretation; or interpreted
to ensure the first syllable acts
like a definite article (the) in hebrew,
e.g. ha shem (the name) - not that
it does act like a definite article,
i'm sure in icelandic the definite article
is not spelled like the hebrew articulation,
but it's about the distinction in
the presented syllable compound
with the diacritic mark over a - also
inverted using a different notation
akin to compounded words,
id est ha-karl.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
"Everybody loves notes"
Its the way we convey
In written words
What can't be said
Through spoken tones
Or relay those feelings
Which can't be expressed
Through candor and verbatim
Alone
No,
Its more complex
To add a style
Rich with syntax
And double in meaning
So I can draw you in
Then repeat again
After every time you're reading
In this way
May you never forget
The moment in time
I'm after
Immortal is the scribe
That can contrive
A letter of the soul
Forever
P.S.
...
A Post Scriptum endeavor
Intending to highlight
This memory
Canonized together
...
(Everybody loves notes)
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
you know, like the bangles?!
manic monday?
wish it was sunday?
just another manic monday?!
boy george hats but no make-up?
and the singer?
would i trade my mother
for her?
well... yeah.
c'mon, brunette, hazelnut curls?!
and those ceramic ballerina eyes?!
i could, in all earnest break
a thousand lightbulbs for a better showcase
of beauty; or a take on room:
to furnish it, at an "angle"...
and if that's cheap,
then nothing else i might add
with make this form any richer, to add
a post-scriptum bias is worth it..
so she's kissing the 17th vellentino...
and that's prior to lunch...
and i'm like: crucifix eh?
do i really need to bother?
you know why china and islam
are bedfellows, right?
the reason why men are more important
is probably the reason why there are
a billion chinese examples...
god forgive your bout of depressive
fornication tactics...
i'm at a point of saying:
you're actually deserving islamic ****
evidently i was not "up to scratch" as
being worth a date....
**** you, forget you, good luck;
oh no "god's gift" to womankind... maybe just
as simple as a boiled egg?
good luck, **** off, try dating in rotherham.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
vide cor meum
amor mea deum:
non vide anima mea -
ignarus scriptum
tamen illuminato
inferior imum audero
video ortus.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
it's only ever sensible to point out
classism for the english...
given the hierarchy of... genesis: crown...
it's not like there
was ever an arrived at cromwellian
republicanism... ever!
there's a need to posit:
a shadow is an extension of the body...
best visible come noon...
the shadow is never
an invitation to replace the body...
beside there being a noon...
but i like the idea...
for all the superiority
of sensible ideas: that are never
a ******* light-bulb...
when england came across india:
it didn't conquer it...
it merely... reinvented itself...
and brought back a taste for curry
for the plebs...
sowwy... towing what's most
honestly twoo...
then again... without a(n) ego-crown...
h'american tabloid press
"republicanism"...
i don't know which is worse...
i still best flip
a coin that has lizzy's itchy
nose on the base of:
counter corruptions...
such that the popes have met
their: post-scriptum...
i promised myself this...
i'll commit myself...
to ol' susie lo'...
if... and only if and only when...
ol' lizzie has done the
sinker!
then! when i'll...
pay for ***** and giggles
with a tenner that 'as 'er
son's visage... detailing...
how best to arrive at ******
and i will sing! god save! our! king!
i must say: muttered best:
quiff of blonde... herr schtrap!
and kooning 'arlie!
yes... best come across the knee...
and tooth biting sand...
sort of... grit!
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 7:01 PM UTC
always end with a pre-scriptum, rather than a p.s., although, contrary to the actual meaning, you write a pre-scriptum last, yet place it first: you might call it a deviation from the original intention.
well spring on the third day is
very much english,
dull grey ***** of a weather,
but the sparrows still fly near
my window, sit on the guttering
for a while, brush of some odd
material in their beaks,
readied into building a nest...
then in hushed chirps fly away
and build one;
but i haven't seen a lot of swallows
(jaskółki) - although in memory
that has eyes to not spot them currently:
their nests are fascinating,
in the corner of buildings,
a spidery castle of phlegm,
like an third adenoid protruding
next to the uvula... no, not necessarily
removed... (yes, i still have mine)
anyway, you know what
they say about swallows:
if they fly high there's no chance
of rain... if they fly low rain will come;
and indeed, a synonym
of the adenoid is almond (migdał).
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
Key words:
life
the world
people
self and others
truth and falsehood
doubts
incomprehensibility
meaning or lack of
the motives of others
what's a friend or enemy?
self-reliance
courage
authority
freedom
choice
love and hate
home
career
money
power
influence
budget
tax
trust
deceit
success
set-back and failure
constancy and consistency
thinking
feeling
decision-making
planning
expecting
waiting
dreaming
health
satisfaction
happiness and sorrow
death
post scriptum----reader--please do your own list
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
oh, i'm coming, like a mongrel mongol.
what's the post scriptum of rhetoric?
um... 100°C (+1)?
yup...
the threshold of when
talk turns into action...
mind you: i really do fancy
a cupp'ah;
by the way, adding
milk to tea isn't an english
"thing",
the whole practice originated
in siberia...
so... yeah...
***** ******* queen
victoria silly;
have about ten on my count
of accommodating hands
with fingers;
apparently index + middle + ring
fingers = the kitkat of *********
or asking for an orange to come out.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
In what order, should I read my Nietzsche
How the **** should I try and reach ya
Try to communicate, accused of tryin to teach ya
Beyond good and evil, now I’m a preacher
Havin’ fun with Friedrich
Sic erat scriptum
Syphilitic reasoning
Dominus vobiscum
Philosophy, Biology doesn’t feature
After all, we’re all despicable creatures
Battery farmed, intent on goodness
All of us failing, except for Jesus
Exercising mind control and thought patrol
What were you trying to teach us?
The purpose is to procreate
No additional features.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
From the outside I am really a very silent person minding my own business but even in that silence, the 4 chambers of my mind work in synchronisation to detail the world outside. I am an observer. A silent, secretive and callous observer of every single detail which is around me.
She was the detail I missed deciphering. It was not that I didn't try but there was opacity in her thoughts. What ever be the verbiage, she remains an unsolved puzzle. She always will.
Her strange silhouettes are those which remain with me. I got a new pair of jeans and I observed that they smell differently.
In my old clothes, your fragrance exists. The new clothes surely lack them. I decided that it can not be the case that I live without a part of you in me. So I washed the old and new clothes together and now the 4 of us share your fragrance, you, myself, old and new clothes.
I have also not sold my bicycle which is cheap to the comparison of the one that I have now. It is only me who knows how expensive the old bicycle is. Why?
That is because on this same cycle I had invoked in you a love for cycling. On this same cycle you and I have gone for long rides at 9 PM to grab some beers and drink together. Happily living the illusion of deserving a beer after much exercise.
I have changed the tyres of the old bicycle because they had worn out and it made my past look ugly.
On my face towards the left side of cerebral cortex, there is a profusion ( a very very very very very faint I must add) of a nerve and it makes the first alphabet of your name.
I guess, I have some one watching my efforts in keeping you alive in life. The result is that now physical body knows that as well what my mind always knew. You are one for me, today and ever after.
There can be no one who can invoke such monomaniacal stubbornness in me.
Thank You.
Post Scriptum: I do not edit my poems usually. If there is a typing error, please ignore.
Jul 15, 2020
Jul 15, 2020 at 12:45 PM UTC
Ce n'est pas parce que mes mots
Tournent en rond dans ta bouche d'eaux
Et se déhanchent en te poudrant de cendre
Que ce sont de doux cadavres
À moins que par cadavres
Tu entendes chair exquise donnée aux vers
Corps parfumé embaumé et veillé.
Cette cendre est vestige de combustion
De petite mort partagée
Ci-git certes un arrière-goût rétroflexe
Qui se précipite dans ton arrière-bouche perplexe
Mais ce n'est pas celui des oraisons funèbres
Ni celui de l'amer adieu
C'est le goût du volcan repu qui s'apaise
Le goût de la lave qui reprend son etiage
Le goût des abysses qui ont vu le ciel
Le goût de la sauce grand veneur
Que j'ai lentement sécrétée en moi
Pour que tu la lapes
Dans la distance et l'allégresse
Sans honte sans tabou sans regrets
Jusqu'à ce que faim s'en suive
Encalminée en plein *** au noir.
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 1:37 AM UTC
post scriptum:
sowiecka chmara...
sowiecki: szmer szarości...
wolna ręka
na viß-à-viß
obojątnego ciała:
co podobnie wita...
" "
moze... moze i moze...
ale nie to: ...
inclusive of
apparently without
a cliff-hanger.
mordo-rył-śliną-w-git,
a potem:
o czoło w
błoto:
fú!
(double stress on
the exclaimation mark)...
- by zbawić
Dawida,
kim a nawet i kto,
w, na zero zastygł
w posąg:
ruchomym na skinienie
małpięj rękí...
kim to wita jego niby-nikim...
'eno moi...
a ja nadal:
w szereg!
pytam: daleko tam do
podłogi fiołkiem latać
poza gzyms?
dasz pióra?!
(orthography
is... a case of actually applying
diacritical marks...
don't worry england,
russia has only butter to mind
in...
back ь and forward я...
apparently)...
źle ci, człeku?!
to co ci w morde opętaną
do grzechu nad lud?!
no własnie: mi to samo!
co?
a co? a
gówno!
serce mi gnije, i serce mi:
pęka...
od jutra: nigdy od wczoraj!
to i czasem zapomne
tatuaż: precz...
a lepi świnski:
jeść, jeść, jeść;
co tam: grzemota?
niby rudy jid'y'ski,
a to tes, do kurwidołka gest...
niby on: ń'cem!
хорошо?
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC