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Johnny Zhivago Aug 2013
Spanish influenza
walking pneumonia
icepick headache
common cold
whooping cough
Diabetes
anorexia
getting old

flat foot
bad back
heel spur
heart attack
spasticus
autisticus
tongue tied
amb(i)dextrous

my weakness
is my forte
my sickness is  my skill
my illness
is my realness
it makes my life a thrill


Trying to fight this
bronchitis
gangrene
runny nose
frostbite
tooth decay
hat hair
broken bones

bed bound
shell-shocked
flea ridden
sinusitis
cholera
dropsy
eliphantitis
out-all-nightis

wom­b fever
winter fever
black water fever
remitting fever
ship fever
jail fever
camp fever
or schizophrenia

scarlet fever
tuberculosis
American plague
rock n roll
Wheezing
Paralysed
Got gas
In both holes

rabies
scabies
rickets
and SARS
man flu
bird flu
swine flew
from Mars

multiple sclerosis
tennis elbow-sis
stomach ulcers
and leukaemia
night blindness
hypothermia
lung cancer
sickle-cell anaemia

French pox
Lockjaw
Polio
Gout
Nostalgia
Dropsy
Knocked right
Out

Stuttering
Bellyacher
Anti-social
Leprosy
Sleep walker
Sleep talker
Absent minded
OCD

Tourettes, ****
Pyromania
tonsillitis
Conjunctivitis
Food poisoned!
Warted over
My Psoriasis
(Will I survive this?)

Measles
Malaria
Meningitis
Migraine
Scrum-pox
Worm fit
Water on
the brain

apparitions
seeing things
rattly chest
bad breath
la duzi
tormentation
inflammation
black death

measles
malaria
migrane
mumps
leprosy
lice and
leg bone
lumps

kleptomania
bubonic plague
black *****
feeling ****
bone shave
falling sickness
wanna stop
just cant quit

Huntington's and
Parkingson's and
Hare-lipped
Hay fever
Typhoid fever
Glandular fever
Night fever
And Hysteria

intellectual
dyslexia
dysfunctional
family
cancer crab
stillborn twin
bad blood
epilepsy

Parking spot
disabilities
all the wounds in
all the militaries
pity thee with
lost agility
lost babes or
infertility

ear infection
starvation
Hepatitis
E to A
smallpox
chicken pox
cow pox
what a day

tuberculosis
stuttering
panic stricken
star struck
scurvy
shingles
headless chicken
bad luck


paranoid
in the void
premature
*******
stomach ulcers
feeble pulses
chronicled
*******

autistic
gallstones
double-jointe­d
wrists and knees
consumption
bad digestion
quinsy palsy
ticks and fleas

amnesia
typhus
amnesia
heart failure
radiation
cholera
amnesia
bad behaviour

Hypochondriac?
By gosh, no!
Poorly are ye?
‘Fraid so.


nostalgia
        suffer me
wanderlust
suffer me
insomnia
suffer me
loneliness
let me be



god
complex
mother
complex
father
complex
ego
complex

­

its complicated
im superior
its complicated
im inferior
its complicated
im a short man
got ingrown hairs
got a bad tan



im suffering
ocd
im suffering
obesity
im suffering
jealousy
xenophobia
and nosebleeds



stokholm
syndrome
toxic shock
syndrome
got it down
syndrome
irritable bowel
syndrome

yellow nail
syndrome
stevens-johnson
syndrome
restless leg
syndrome
shoulder-hand
syndrome

lambert-eaton
syndrome
mi­ddle-lobe
syndrome
mobius
syndrome
pickwickian
syndrome

post rubella
syndrome
riley day
syndrome
straight back
syndrome
ulysess
syndrome



alcoholics
we are prone
drug addicts
we are prone
mind benders
we are prone
fortune spenders
we are prone



My illness, my illness
My illness is my realness

*Pick it up
Tide it over
Fight it off or
Cave in

Save it
Suffer it
Pass it on
When its Raining

bleed him
restrain him
shave his
head

he went from being
quite well
to being quite
dead.
unfinished but did you bother to the end?
The match started with control going from one team to the other kicks being made and players jumping on the ball hoping to score the first try
And then it happened the first penalty going to Queensland and kept it for a while but couldn't make it over the line
NSW took the ball and not much later got a penalty oh yeah hoping they will break through, they charged and charged right to the line and the maroons stole the ball ready to bring it to the other side forcing NSW into defence
And the mistake happened The blues got the ball and kicked it way way back the maroons grabbed the ball and kept them it in the defence and kicked it up forced the error and gained another penalty to them
The maroons were running up ready to break the defence and kicked it through and the blues brought the ball to the attack
Still no score still no score
But both teams are putting up a fight and then the maroons got the ball and with great offence
Dived over for the maroons first try and the crowd roared ever so loudly and smith converts it to make the maroons have a 6-0 lead and the XXXX is looking ever so sweet
But they have to get back to the game and the blues sent the kick to them and ran down to the tryline, only to have the try dissallowed and for the maroons it was still 6-0 but the blues had possession of the ball and they kicked it up and possession went back to Queensland and they ran a bit and kicked it up and the blues grabbed the ball, then they kicked it and straight back to Queensland it goes and they kept it with them for a while
A scrum came with the blues winning it and ran a while then kicked right down the Maroons throat and after a bit they kicked it, the 6-0.lead was looking good after the ball went loose for NSW and Queensland did a kick and chase with the blues looking to grab the ball
They did but not for long and after a few passes the maroons were running and passing and then dived in to score the maroons 2nd try, to make the score 10-0 to Queensland
And smith yet again adds the extra's and suddenly the maroons were looking very good and yes, the score changed to 12-0
After both teams getting a hand on the ball? It was the blues who gained possession but they lost it and this was making NSW very angry, I wonder what
The people in the clubs in NSW are thinking after the maroons good, then the battle between the both teams as the tackling gave the blues a penalty but after a lengthily run the maroons got a penalty and took
The ball over to the NSW defensive area and then they kicked it and it went into touch
And the blues got the ball and lost it down the field and the maroons ran down and put the ball down but it was a forward pass and then the blues ran with the ball right to the other side but Queensland yet again looking too good and then sent out a high bomb deep in the nsw end and the blues ran it down but was tackled and yes the maroons go into the half time break with a 12-0 lead
And I wonder what will happen in the 2nd half
And now the two teams are entering the field and the crowd is totally cheering and the maroons are kicking off and it went straight down the blues throats and went straight into the maroons defence line and they kicked it up and now the maroons have the ball but made a small error forcing the blues to steal it from them and after a few runs the blues lost it and the maroons grabbed the ball
And ran staring toward the line but lost the ball right in front of the blues defence line and the blues started to run it down by passing it a few times and then made a woeful kick to put the maroons back into attack and then after a comedy of errors the blues kept the ball and continued to run toward their line and then the blues kicked it down and Dugan scored the blues first try to make the score 12-4 to the maroons and Maloney added the extras to make the score 12-6 and they started to cuddle each other
And then the kick off going straight down the throats of the blues and ran the ball way past some of the defenders untill the maroons got the ball and lost the ball right in front of their own line and the blues are doing a great job keeping the ball with them and passes were being made and the blues were looking strong untill they lost the ball and the maroons got the ball back but after a few tackles gained a penalty and kicked it into touch and then ran it down to their defence line but the great blues defence line
Forced the ball into touch and then the blues won the scrum and ran it down passing and passing and kicked it down the maroons throats and now Queensland have the ball
And after a few tackles the maroons booted it high but nsw
Grabbed the ball and after a few more tackles the blues kicked it high and Queensland grabbed the ball and then moments later the maroons ran down to the try line and planted a try and the umpire went upstairs but it was still a try and that makes Queensland lead to 16-6 with a kick to come and things are looking great for the maroons by geez by jingle by crickey as mike Gibson is speaking to me from the grave
The kick was waved away and after a few plays the blues find themselves with the ball and they became close to the try line and the maroons got the ball of them and ran down the field and kicked it and the blues picked up the ball but the maroons bundled him into touch and forced the blues to do a kick straight down the maroons throats and after a few runs and passes the maroons scored a great try to make the maroons lead even more dangerous for the blues at 20-6
And smith converts it to make the score 22-6 and suddenly the maroons were looking dangerous as the song goes
Hold on tight
I know it is a little bit dangerous
I got what it takes to make ends meet
And yes, the maroons have definately got what it takes and after a few tackles the maroons knocked the ball on and the blues find themselves with the ball abs ran it down and took it right to the maroons but then they handed it over to Queensland and then they made some posession but a silly mistake forced NSW to take the ball but it was intercepted but it was forced into the scrum and the blues Regained the ball and then made some silly mistakes to give the ball back to Queensland and after a few passes the maroons kicked the ball into touch but things are looking bad for the blues as they gained the ball back,
Will they score here and after a few passes they knock the ball on and gave the ball back to Queensland and the maroons won the scrum and started to attack the NSW line and every member of Queensland in the crowd are jumping up and cheering after getting a penalty from a blues error but it was no good but who cares because the score was 22-6 and then they got the ball back and ran down the clock and at full time
Queensland won the game against the hapless blues by 22-6 and yes I reckon there will be a XXXX in the bar tonight but if you go for the blues beware because tonight wasn't your night
And now we draw the final curtain
And the blues lose once more
Yes, the maroons are the victors congrats congratulations yeah
Congratulations and celebrations
You see the maroons are the victory team again
What went wrong with the blues losing 22 points to ****** 6
The maroons are the champions my friend
They kept on fighting to the end
Maroons are the champions
Maroons are the champions
Maroons are the champions
Of the state of origin for 2017
Bye for now and well done to the maroons
Yenson Aug 2018
Its a scam, its a scam, see the Crimson Gang deftly scamming them
They by sleight have befuddled gullible masses Moral Compass
Made them see wrong as right twisting their brains from the stem
With deceitful guile they shepherded them all to the fools' campus

Slander and fake News galore fed to vacant hungry masses scrum
Knowledge is power the reprobates declares, do not let it pass
We're the majority the bullies screams, knowing they're just scums
Worthless charlatans who rob successes and **** without cutlass

They take a foregone conclusion and coat it with fool's gold crumb
A victim with no intention of going after an uninterested lass
Dumb masses fed fake news fooled into harassing actions dumb
A non-event becomes a show of the controlling might of our class

Crimson gangs interpret a non-events from his deluded sad drum
Creates a warped sick drama round a hapless victim for laughs
Gives street theater actions to masses, these will oppose and numb
Whilst poor victim subjected to 'voiding' madness wonders past

The Crimson leaders laugh so much like pirates drinking ***
Look how we manipulate the masses, they are so simple and crass
With our devious twisting propaganda they eat out of our ***
We simply use them to nail and crucify our victim to the cross
Gang stalking is simply a form of community mobbing and organised stalking combined. Just like you have workplace mobbing, and online mobbing, which are both fully recognised as legitimate, this is the community form.
Gang stalking is organised harassment at it's best. It the targeting of an individual for revenge, jealousy, sport, or to keep them quiet, etc.

It's organised, widespread, and growing. Some describe this form of harassment as, "A psychological attack that can completely destroy a persons life, while leaving little or no evidence to incriminate the perpetrators."
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
i still can't believe that i spent almost two
hour's worth of coverage of
rugby league's world cup final...
the **** was i watching?!
          i spent a few hours prior
the game between rugby union's
match-off between wales and
south africa...
           **** me, what a cliff-hanger,
after Leicester City won the premiership
and south africa were beaten
by japan, i starting thinking:
   ***** boys gonna to be beat like
spreading butter on warm toast...
              but then i noticed how
there were no ***-bellied hulks in
           the rugby league teams...
    clones vs. clones...
               and the scrum when compared
to 8 bulls?
         i started thinking about what
i was seeing in the rugby league and immediately
got a *******...
      had to **** it off...
                 rugby league is like this
hybrid of rugby and american football...
makes no sense to me, whatsoever...
             why can you only make one
pass in american football while
all the other players are sparring pretending
to run?
         i get baseball only because
the vocab to understand cricket is too ****
difficult to allow a bat, a ball and a wicket
to be anything but complicated...
                and when compared to
a rugby union scoreline of 24 - 22,
6 - nil...
         you can score 7 goals in football...
         sorry to **** on the whole parade,
but rugby league is a mongrel of
rugby mixed with american football...
where's the line out for the throw in?
       and why is it always 3 versus 1
and then a tap on the shoulder
                   with the ref telling them to
get off so another can engage in a 3 versus 1
tackle?
              rugby union i get,
the well informed ref is a *******
  python of knowledge...
              football's ballerinas i get too,
footballers were always prone to drama
once they earned too much...
       rugby league? makes as much sense
to as american football...
                        throwing marbles makes
more sense... as does tic-tac-toe...
                     children are the game makers...
what idiot thought up the:
one throw, touch down!
                          what's that bit in the middle,
skirmishing pretending to box?
         i literally wasted 2 hours of
my time watching a world cup final
where a proper rugby scrum looks
like premature *******...
                            *******, practice
premature with a hard shaft of pure bone...
once you hit the oyster flesh of
a woman's genitals,
  pulling back your *******,
she'll start thinking less of a quickie
and more of a sunday morning...
                        god,
there's nothing as gorgeous as a foulness of
language in exchange for a clear
thought of: objectifying woman
by the ******-sack of a cow...
                       hey...
can you imagine the pervert finding a wife
in the mother of his child
by asking to also drink her milk?
       my... what an idea...
                     trans-eroticism...
      the subtle fetish that gets no kink
or whip or latex...
                              did i say that i watched
two hours of rugby league and thought
it was *******?
                      i must have,
i just remembered watching the scrums...
     and people do this professionally...
i wouldn't play this sport for leisure or hobby...
        as i never deemed a need
to appreciated boxing...
                           boxing,
metal head headbanging -
               i always preferred that sort
of "boxing" -
                             for some reason
i always preferred a game of squash
    to a game of tennis -
                    was it the whole "thinking outside
the box" aspect of the game?
            some sports are within the constraints
of confines...
                         and then there are sports
within the confines of constraints...
    like not hitting below the belt...
       well, you know -
           Beavis said - h'eh h'eh, i am cornholio!
while ****-Head just told a bad *** joke and
ugh ugh perversely sighed.
Joseph Sinclair Feb 2015
I was a pimply-faced youngster,
fresh from the soot and grime
of London’s East End.
Removed unexpectedly
from the bomb and blast and buzz-bomb
of wartime London
and deposited precipitately
in the midst of South Wales
in the heart of rugby-playing country.
And I a soccer-playing kid from grubby back streets.
What could I know of scrums and back-passes and blindsides?

But I did my best, while ashamed to admit to my ignorance.
We put our heads together.
I thought it was a team consultation.
(They told me later it was a scrum.)
Someone shouted “heel”.
I thought he was being abusive
and the ball was so elusive,
and I turned too sharply,
and the upper part of my boot
detached itself from the lower.
(Our budget didn’t run to decent boots!)
And the team coach came over to me and said
“Didn’t you hear me say ‘heel’?”
And I, on the top of my form, replied:
“What shall it profit a man to win the whole game, but lose his sole?”
A sudden recollection of an incident - slightly embellished - that occurred some 70 years ago, when I was evacuated from the last-ditch German effort with flying bombs and rockets - but unsuccessfully - to destroy London's morale.  I was hastily evacuated to the rugby-playing town of Llanelli where I had to swap soccer for rugby and could never master the art of passing backwards instead of heading directly for goal.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2014
To my dear son, Boaz in distant Idaho,

Saturday nite, the whole of New Zealand waited in apprehension for the All Blacks rugy team to play the resurgent Wallabys @ Fortress Eden Park.

The previous week at Suncorp Stadium in Sydney, in driving rain, the All Blacks muddled through a painfull draw with the Wallabys, 12 points each with no tries.
The Wallabys had fancied their chances and had wanted an emphatic win on home soil.
Both teams took that score as a loss and the gauntlet was thrown for the second match…..

A brilliant evening, clear and fine , 50,000 people crushed in to Eden Park and you could feel the apprehension, the rest of the country sat in front of their TV willing the team on.
The Haka was given a brutal rendition, you could feel the determination, the passion emanating….the Ozzies glared their defiance back…it was all on!

10 minutes into a titanic struggle with the score three all Captain Ritchie McCaw had a brain fade and was yellow carded off for ten minutes by the French referee.
The crowd roared…then murmured their worry  like you’ve never heard before.

The Ozzies mustered a huge scrum which the All Blacks countered with one man down…. The counter ****** pushed the Australian scrum back 15 ft.
Every man in New Zealand was on his feet roaring, you could feel the spirit of nationalism soaring….the moment was a watershed.
The All Blacks counterattacked showing a brilliance in attack and defence we have not seen for years… and from that moment on the game was won.

Final score 51:20 The Bledisloe Cup was ours.

As the match finished the TV camera panned across the solidly black clad crowd…. I have never, ever in my life, seen so many, simultaneous, sets of white teeth grinning!

The trip home to Australia would have been… a very subdued affair.

Thought I should share this marvellous moment with you Boaz.

Luv Dad.
Where Shelter Aug 2023
<>

”To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light

Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,  
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.”


~from vienna bombardieri’s poem, “Kinetics Of Summer~
(with her kind permission)

<>

First verse pinpoints accurate, this,
my spot!
by oak and sea,
my precise longitude and latitude, where my summertime
eyes open to receive the gift of morning’s light, observing
the conjunction of land, hard by the sea, the land-ed avian gentry
and sea~sailor birds interacting, sharing the uprising currents,
for sport and observation, travel and pleasured sailing,
these “Masters of the Sky can fly for hours (or days), while barely flapping,” and this verse stuns, and
my shock,

at these, her words
my breathing is gasped and grasped
by oak and sea, for so it be,
this is where
my morning’s operatic scrum, ballet and dance hall hullabaloo,
my diurnal natural choreography is performed,
while slow sipping my very heated first coffee

it was here
that I learned to love more easily,
for the kinetics of summers trio of sun, sky, and moderate breezes,
lulled the turbulence of my disheartened lives into an easier
order, the world~surround, a living, breathing exercise that
warmed the spirit, cooled the soul, and spoke without uttering
a single word,
here dear person, is the where and the when,
the comfort of the natural-blanket
that enwraps, covers, cherishes the atmosphere entire,
containing the healing elixirs and protective ointments,
that remove the
plaque of life’s accumulated injuries, slights and scar tissue

simply put,
here I breath freely,
here I see with clarity
here the infusions of
living in nature, prolongs,
restore, remind, enliven
and enhances,
the intermixture of
body and soul

here in actual deed,
the kiss of summer bliss
upon
my tiring cell’s walls,
are resurrected even unto the nuclei,
by the warm breath of sun life and sun light,
and the breezes of salty sweet caramel air
and under their loving, combined-dominion
am I
resurrected and will yet sense,
one more Jubilee again
as I lay dreaming
by the oak and the sea…
great appreciation to Vienna B. for the beautiful poem she wrote,
and thanks for the inspiration!
Always be dreaming!
W.S.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
no matter what pronoun use is in place, there won’t be time
to decipher it as personal or impersonal, subjective or objective,
singular or plural... to write a book of philosophy pulsating
existentialism:
i miss the rugby world cup, i miss it,
the gay referee too,
i miss the hugging and blood mushroom sprouting
from the cartilage of smeared sneeze and sniff to a hark
of semolina saliva in the up-shoot...
i miss it in the scrum... away from
the balancing mary antoinette and ballerinas,
modern lawful facade: he anchored me! gone sail the titanic!
he anchored me! foul! see? precisely! a guillotine on the ready
for those insured legs of footballers...
i miss the rugby... i fancied playing it once in school...
we had p.e. (jerseys) on the reverse with a yellow stripe
going across all maroon... football was favoured...
even though i got the ball and walked 1/4 of the field in that sloth
of being fat... why do people always have such negative memories of youth,
esp. in school?! i don’t know... all i know...
when i walked for a bottle of brown whiskers tonight,
the streets of essex were filled with that fabled smog of 19th century london,
it wasn’t guy fawkes' night but the night bling bling was out...
the firework smog settled into the streets and i started gesticulating
‘trouble breathing! trouble breathing!’ using sign language...
i couldn't translate gasping into an onomatopoeia,
let alone sign-language... mime mime mime!
3 words: film... beginning with seismic shifts... severn!
it’s an american holiday for god’s sake
(the slavs are sombre remembering the day
with virgo mort of mexico... you’re out partying
******* and ******* on graves)... have some decency to be
remotely commonwealth in attitude... like australia!
i wished they won, 2nd half, 21 to 3 i thought they were whitewash flushed...
then they bounced back to 21 - 17... then the drop goal from carter...
ah it was a knockout...
never mind the mary antoinettes and ballerinas of football...
i said it once... i’ll say it again: ref! oink ref! police officer!
you missed a spot, this tile will not have anyone slipping!
it’s how you get a working man’s sport audience impassioned...
no middle-class sensibility in a sport...
make him give a wrong decision many a times...
and you’ll get the pub rumble...
not time-out... no: let’s see it on the BIG screen...
get the referee on the side of the masses and get them impassioned
through his bad decision / multitasking... i was imagining
a big mac / watching nickers being slingshot onto the pitch...
get the referee behind the crowd and orientate them
with william wallace at stirling crying - war war woad! tadpole ooh! tattoo! blue 28! blue... grr!
in rugby you’ll just get as much passion as a workable middle-class
english marriage... oops **** daisy loot the loo (with stressor r missing trill missing h):
bloom!
and your uncle was nicknamed ***** harry?
was he ginger and donned a beard?
must be royalty.
ah man, i miss the connectivity of rugby,
where everyone's making a sandwich... with football
you just get the replica of english sociological etiquette...
saying hello 5 metres apart...
so no french chequers kissing on the cheek
to feed intimacy? problem sorted...
let me just get my umbrella... seeing the teardrops
of feminism shower me under a roof salivating from the chandelier.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
sample size excavation:

urbanity forsake the village-metality
of the undisclosed biological
credo...
                     urbanity became
a pawn & pauper in a "clues",
which replaced facts...
                         i am more mushroom
than reptile or genital mutilation
grammar asking...

              finally! cricket has come home!
well... in between watching
roland garros,
and the ICC?
             even i can agree...
of all the h'american sports?
  baseball... sure...
ice hockey... sure...
     basketball... sure...
   h'american football?
esp. when watching rugby?
  i don't get it...
         scuffling in the middle...
pass back... one throw forward...
a decent runner...
         ball hits the deck...
"regroup"...
      reinforced rugby-esque scrum
drama...
    play-stop-play-stop...
ad. revenue interlude...
   start-stop-start-stop...
             doesn't it get boring, ever?!

i had to turn to cricket!
oh i'm enjoying the cricket...
it's like chess + braille + bridge
dynamic of tactic... sure...
it's not baseball...
       it's cricket!

   international test matches...
50 overs...
         50 x 6 = 300 throws of the ball...
1 over = 6 throws...
no other sport was so much
beautiful jargon,
so much stat.,

             and so many idiosyncratic
terms...
what do they call english
cricketers? tourists...
west indies (the carribean team?)
the windies...
          
          349-8 (349 runs...
         8 wickets)...
              
                   imagine a sport...
where it lasts so long that it errodes
your attention span like
a Tolstoy novel...
      come morning,
it finishes in the early hours of
the evening...

                cricket... quintessential
Dickensian replacement narrative...
and i've never seen more
laid back referees (umpires)...
what's a 4 to a 6
in terms of body language?

you have tactic akin to bowlers
throwing spin-accents...
so there's a minimum of a 1-2 1-2
runs... rather than 4 or 6 worth
of smackers...

            cricket isn't the worst
of games... by far h'american football...
that's the worst game, ever...
then, golf...
             **** me... table tennis
beats those two games,
even without all the glamour...
but itching chinese pretending
to be fast paced insect-esque
reaction time automatons...

                 i mean two female sport
events make complete sense...
tennis and gymnastics...

i don't even know why i enjoy cricket...
after all,
i am not exactly english "born and bred"...
bred from the age of 8...
hybrid mongrel...
i would still like to appreciate
the sports celebrated by the land
of my birth...
        żużel (speedway) and
(szczyptarze... almost a googlewhack...
2 results)...
                 hand-ball... and volley-ball...
greek wrestling...
      archery...
             sport is so under-represented
these days...
        only the major sports...
and at times, the monopoly associated
with their funding, their subsequent
traction of spectator numbers...
  it's so boring!
             it becomes too tribal!
totteham hotspur f.c.: born and bred!
there are so many other sports...
that do not entertain tribal ergonomics!
most of the olympic sports, for starters!

  today i was watching pakistan take
on england in the ICC world cup...
             ****- beauties all round...
      and then... for some "weird" reason...
the shadow of Rotherham...
     the cube didn't fit into the square
hole a gorilla was supposed
to push the prism through...
            
       there are just so many underrated
sports! it's not even worth criticising
sports per se...
         it's the sports that appeal to
the masses, that elevate the sport beyond
the sport per se, and craft trivial and
tribal affiliations that bothers me!

           i still think h'american football
is the dumbest sport available...
considering it as, rugby: devolved.
there's as much sense of passing the ball
backwards, imitating a charging wave
against a coastline of defence...
as there will ever be any sense found...
in scuffling in the middle
like some pretend boxing match...
allowing only one pass backwards...
and one runner maneuvering past the pointless
scuffle in the middle...
pass back, one throw, one catch...
                       run Forest! run!

o.k. even i found cricket a bit *******...
asparagus... ****... asperger syndrome
with its overt analysis...
   but even cricket looks better
than that ******* irish pub brawl
take on boxing that h'american football
represents...

bloated egos in armour...
           sorry, even ping pong looks
more appealing...
the ******* sumo diet worthwhile
to compete with...
        it's the cricket world cup...
and the time it takes to play out
100 overs?
    maybe chance upon a 6 run...
   8 wickets...
                      elsewhere
handball is pop, as is volleyball...
ski-jumping...
          
        sport per se isn't the problem...
it becomes a problem when
sport becomes tribal,
and the initial per se pleasure
of the spectacle of a sport is drained...
when people have to take sides...
when the sport per se cannot
be appreciated...
            hence the "concept" of the sport,
the logic of behind the sport is lost,
lost in the fact that it is lost to
it being monetized...

              when sport, resembles....
the kind of live performance,
akin to Heilung - Alfadhirhaiti...
while i am left, bound to the greater desires,
of moving to Greenland...
or the Faroe Islands...
        because even the English summers...
are starting to resemble
Indian summers more and more...
**** being your atypical English
sun-worshipper who "miraculously"
moved outside of London...

                         not, far, enough!
give me Greenland, give me the Faroe Islands,
give me Alaska!
    i can't stand this surge in
the creeping Summer heat about
to grind England to a halt!
                   however long it will take,
i wish to plan my escape to these lands...
i don't want a year's worth more,
in this little saudi land of the north,
with pubescent saudi ******* racers
bragging their diesel lamborghini *******
down Knightsbridge!
For at least a week now,
shrivelled leaf-like globes
of heliotrope and platinum,
umbilical cords
caught on the top
of a lamppost's ***** finger,
jostling, huddled together
in the breeze
like players in a scrum.

I go past on the top deck,
see those wrinkled baubles
skirmish, wish to leave
and drift in mist
before rasping
with a whimper,
an out-of-breath splat
of colour caught
in some tree.
Written: March 2013.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time regarding a group of balloons caught around the top of a lamppost in a nearby town. Later uploaded as a Facebook status.
Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley

Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis

Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling *******

I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** ******* was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping

And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano

*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling *******

I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold ******* of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
This is the very first SNOGGO adventure, written by SNOGGO himself in the 1st Person (well, by Edna Sweetlove really)

    Cruising through space, looking out of the space porthole, seeing the planets passing by, jesus ******* christ we were so excited, all those ******* planets, what a ******* staggering sight.

    Sharon, our Captain (at three foot six and twenty-one and a half stone
an imposing looking woman), bellowed out her order: 'Prepare to descend, you mothers!'

    So most of us stopped ******* and we started preparations for the descent onto the surface of the treacherous unknown planet ****** (aka Big ****** on account of there having been a mix up in naming newly discovered planets and so the universe had ended up with three planets all called ******) - as I was saying, the planet ****** on which no ******* human ever, ever, ever trod on before. Wow, this was ******* exciting.

    The zonometer showed we were only 3,000 feet above the surface of the unknown planet....2,900, 2,800, 2,700, 2,600, 2,500, 2,400......

    You got the ******* picture?

    BLAM!!  We landed. The ******* zonometer was inaccurate, but that's what happens when you buy cheap Asian imports at a ******* discount.

    Captain Sharon went through the full three-hour post-landing, pre-disembarcation procedure whilst I was *******.  I did an enormous one, very smelly and utterly horrible.  She was waiting at the door when I finished and she was clearly very constipated.

    It was time to disembark onto the unknown surface of the unknown planet ******.  The stratodoor opened and we were overwhelmed by the stench which hit our ******* nostrils toute suite: purest ****. What kind of people were the Bolloxonians who couldn't even organise a decent sewage system?

    I was chosen (on account of my club foot) to be among the first to descend onto ******'s surface.  It was cool and I limped heroically onto the planet's surface.

    We explored a bit, being careful not to step on the huge piles of used condoms everywhere.  The terrain was hideous and eldritch, a bit like my Aunt Edna's bedroom after she's been entertaining the local retards for a ******* ****-in.

    We saw this thing.  My mind could not immediately recognise it for its utter, brain-blowing horror.  I cannot tell you what it was, the words fail me, my intellect goes into shut-down mode.  O holy **** it was ghastly.  All right, I'll tell you what it was.  It was a THREE HUNDRED FOOT ****, all covered in oozing pus and vibrating bleeding worms and so on and **** like that.

    The crew of the our spaceship were enraptured and I was nearly killed in the scrum to get stuck in to this mighty beauty.  We had travelled three light years, crossed fifty galaxies, battled twelve-inch penised space midgets for the right to feast on this great ****.

    What can I say?  How can I describe the mighty cry that rose up from the assembled crew as they started to gobble the giant space poo lump....?

    'YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM!' they shrieked orgasmically, ******* themselves in well-earned contentment. I think we must agree that it was delicious and well worth the journey.

THE END
* for the benefit of my transatlantic fans, a stone equals 14 pounds; thus 21 1/2 stone = 301 pounds, an amusing weight for someone only 3'6" high in her best Laboutins.
I confess I’m addicted to my phone
My observations tell me I’m not alone
For when you venture out it’s plain to see
The majority of us are glued to our screens

Whether on the tube or pushing a pram
We all have devices in our hands
Surfing the net or social networking
Everyone obsessed with being plugged in

It’s getting so bad even in company
We’re not fully there as we view our screens
And now there are warnings from TFL
Not to fall down escalators as a result of this swell

In checking our messages, writing posts
Face to face interaction up in smoke
We’d rather be alone in the cyber world
Than engaging in reality with other boys and girls

It is an epidemic that’s spreading extremely fast
Thus it seems that human contact
could become a thing of the past
No need to leave the house anymore
When everything can be ordered and delivered to your door

A society of zombies isolated could we become
If we don’t down devices and venture out into the scrum
And mingle with other beings physically there
Where we can look them in the eye
and maintain that stare

Connecting on a basic level without the aid of WiFi
And concentrating on each other
instead of being distracted by
Notifications and little beeps
Incoming communication that never sleeps

And keeps you up all night as your brain just can’t switch off
From all the incessant stimuli we’re inundated with
Time to give it a rest, take a break just for a while
Look up from your laptops and perhaps give someone a smile

Watch where you are going, don’t get yourself run over
Be present in the moment and you hopefully won’t fall over
Have a coffee with someone instead of instant messaging
Regard the world around you taking note of everything

Don’t zone out and go into a solitary trance
Assemble your tribe, spin some tunes, have a little dance
Limit your time on the World Wide Web
Grab yourself a hottie and get jiggy with them instead

I’m talking to myself
As well as anyone else
Your family and chums are precious
And deserve nothing less

Than your undivided attention
For one day there’ll come a time
When perhaps they’re no longer around
And you regret being online.
John F McCullagh May 2012
Dancing Queen
of youthful nights,
of crystal globes
and stobing lights.
To say that you
are gone seems wrong,
for we still have your
voice in song.

For one night only,
with no repeat,
I'd join the scrum
of dancing feet.
In tune, in time
with your talented drummer
My Queen ,you gave us
endless Summer.
Seems like only yesterday I was gyrating awkwardly beneath the flashing disco ball at Cheries....
Pay attention everyone said Lilliput
I have an important announcement
We're going to have a wonderful picnic
For our family on Thursday , poppits only
The groans were heard all over the palace
Are we riding there , asked Horsey Anne
No we jolly well are not
And you scrum half Zara , are not either
We're motorcading it , without staff
Another really loud royal moan
We are each taking everything we need
And that includes you ex pork of York
'OOHH NNOO' she gurgly grunted
Less of that , and NO toe suckers allowed
Nor arrive in a kiddies helicopter either
And you Wills missus more clothing
You make my  blue blood run cold
Next Thursday then , you picnickers

What have you brought asked Lilliput
Silver knives and forks hoarsed Anne
Paper plates grunted Flossy Fergie
Plastic cups , whimpered Wills missus
Lav paper for tissues, gidded up Zara
Big tablecloth bellowed Camilla
Have none of you brought food said Lilliput
'NO' they all mardily whinnied
None of us even thought about it

And you mumsy H.R.H. what have you brought

'NOBODY questions me , you pipsqueaks
LET'S ALL GO HOME NOW !
Third Eye Candy May 2014
in the half light
of the whole day; dozing
where the marsh plods clottly
but the pond scums slowly.
you can spare no moral
when your tall tale's
growing.
but you sift slop oddly
through the rot god's
nothing.

II

Fugue ahead. Caution.

III

On thin air, thick tongues and brick lungs scrum
for balloons and ruinous truth, teething batter and gum-shoes
attuned to less violence, but inviolate, if only for the fist
in the violets. the pugilist in the plums. Or maybe -
the cancerous rhinoceros
in the plasticity
of a knows job
goblin.

you tell me.  

no problem.
It isn't always the cream
that rises to the top,
sometimes it's the scrum.

Some times it's the slop
that makes the piggies come.

Get your sorry *** out of here,
bye now, so long.

Is Fear when you don't have Love?
And in the end, it's not about
how you do it,
any more than how you don't.

Which hand's got what,
get your sorry *** out of here.
Bye now, so long.

Fear? What's left to be afraid of,
What haven't I done been ****** over by?

God have mercy on me,
give me some of your sweet mercy,
have some mercy on me.

Lord you know it ain't right.
If this is foreplay, gimme more play... (69).
I can't wait to see what happens next!


© 2000

All Rights Reserved
an oldie but a goodie
Robert McKinlay May 2010
There is an originating plum
with tasty flesh, that teeth can't bare to hide,
all are cut in sections,
neatly assembled
ready for the scrum.

Set out on ingestion,
each thought kicked around,
they go in formation,
massive bodies closely bound.

There will be no agreement,
on bitter sweet,
there will only be the score,
we lost, we won,
we loved
the fight!

Tasty is the plum,
as it passed around...

http://www.robross.ca
(c) Robert W.G. Ross 2010
Tony Luxton Sep 2016
Robin's flashing safety
coat's in flight, defying cats.
The pigeon squadron's wheeling,
awaiting a blackbird 'All Clear'.

Then they all come, perfect landings,
on grass and path and seed feeder,
a thieving, weaving, twittering scrum,
saleroom scurrying, juggling, grumbling.

Starlings gardening,
earthworms squirming,
magpies spooking,
pretence pets.
Life's a Beach Mar 2013
How many tears will I cry for you
Before I can forget?
How many times will I die because
you're not ready set?
I'm waiting on the touch line,
for you to sub me in,
take me off the bench I cry
"I'm ready to begin"
"Yes" you say and
my joy inside leaps and
fills me with its pain.
I run to you, heart pounding, head
reeling,
I've done it. I think
this is it. I'm ready for this game
I'm ready for the joy and tears
prepared to take the pain so
long as I can have you
in any meagre way.
I join the scrum and you are there.
You catch the ball every time, I
feel you at the side of me, we work
as a team.
And it's upon your arm that I learn to lean;
for it is you who catches the ball
and fields it every time.
You pass to me, protect me and I
trust
that I am fine.
I am safe,
I am with you.
I wish that this could finish there
that I'll stay on that field, for, I
swear,I felt
that's the happiest I could ever be.
But then you caught the ball
you ran,
not towards the finish line, nor the
place where I waited,
Still waiting for that ball.
You ran.
Now I'm out of the stadium, off of
the pitch, the ball has been torn out of my
grip,
not by force but by
trust alone.
I'd convinced myself I was your own.
You ran.
I waited-
You ran.
Jonathan Witte Sep 2016
I

*******, the blues
were running, the scrum
of seagulls a white cloud
of chaos above the waves.
The water churned and chopped,
teeming with small fish
devoured by bigger fish
ravished by the sharp-toothed bluefish—
all of them darting frenzied toward shore.

And my father screaming
for someone to, quick,
grab the fishing poles
for God’s sake.

My little sister
in her yellow
bathing suit
would not wait
for the poles.
She yanked fish after fish
from the boiling surf
with her small hands,
screaming in delight and victory.
She ran up and down
the beach, between
colorful umbrellas,
pausing only to toss
another writhing body
onto hot sand:
a wild child flinging
silver-scaled sacrifices
to stoic, multicolored gods.

We ate smoked bluefish for weeks.

II

Remember sitting in our first apartment
watching the snow beyond the windows,
listening to records and drinking seven-dollar
bottles of Malbec from juice glasses on the futon,
the narrow hallway strung with Christmas lights
illuminating thrift store paint-by-numbers?
Billie Holiday was singing “Lady Sings the Blues,”
her voice like a lady’s shoe, worn-in, refined.

I remember pondering the present
I would give you a few days later
in Ashtabula on Christmas Eve,
neatly wrapped and hidden under
the bungalow’s sagging eaves
(more vinyl, a Coltrane/Hartman reissue).
The snow would be falling in Ohio too;
your grandparent’s house filled with the smell
of Scottish shortbread and the sound of daytime TV.
When your grandfather died a few years later,
we listened to Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again”
at the service—your grandmother crying in black.

But what I remember most about that night
was later in bed, the snow subsiding,
the radiators clanking with warmth,
the Christmas lights casting colors on the wall,
your finger tracing songs across my back:
the stylus gliding to center, making me spin.

III

300 milligrams of Wellbutrin,
orange pills arranged in my palm
like hallucinatory ellipses, swallowed
to see where the last sentence will lead.
A bleak prescription: pain has a syntax;
grief, a simple grammar.
A land of blue shadows. An ocean of glass.

But that was years ago now, thank God.
I wrote poetry like crazy then,
on a word processor with a screen
the size of a paperback novel.

I smoked. Skipped class. Slept 17 hours at a time.
I scoured the dictionary for recondite words,
turning sesquipedalian over and over
in my mind, each syllable a sedative.
Like Rilke’s panther, I paced in cramped circles
around a paralyzed center, my winter boots
tracking mud along the brightly lit corridor
that led to the psychologist’s office.

One night I crashed
at my aunt and uncle’s
place in the foothills
and woke up alone with
a sense that the room, the house, maybe
the whole **** world was shuddering,
coming unmoored.
I retrieved my uncle’s .357 magnum
and tiptoed from room to room brandishing
an unloaded firearm in my boxer shorts.
The only sound, diffuse in the darkness,
was the gurgle of the fish tank filter.
I cocked the hammer, watching lionfish
swim in vibrant, agitated circles.
Next morning, I read the newspaper
and chuckled, having never felt
an earthquake before.

With a shock, I think back
to the Thanksgiving break
when I flew home from college
for the first time: the vertiginous
sensation of floating thousands of feet
above the Wasatch range, the mountains’
blue shadows and blinding snow
disorienting, my heart an unspun
compass incapable of pointing true.
The plane’s engines roared in ascent.

Decades later, I’ve landed:
married, with three children,
we drive across the country
in our minivan with the moonroof open,
howling out Tom Waits songs in unison.
Our moments together are conjoined
like tender marks of punctuation—
commas, semicolons, colons:
when the wind washes over us,
it whispers
and, and, and, and, and....
"Last a little longer!"
The heart is getting colder.

My mind trapped in the ocean.
And I am trapped in my mind.
This place is full of slow motion.
Feel like I can not determine.

Bruh, tell me what happens
after when the lights out?

Keep asking me the same thing, 'why?'
May see the answer with magnifying.

Might look cold from the outside
But I am struggling in the dark side
There is nowhere to get lost or hide
They can't hear my scream from inside.

Searched a switch, packed the emotions.

"You gotta go, you gotta go!"
My feet started to numb.

Keep pushing the limit to overcome
Heard a voice asking the net income
Am I ready now, for the next scrum

I know that I can't give up.
I want peace of mind.


Muhammed E. K.  ☾  🅴  ✩
© LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS POETRY
Thank you for reading. Hope you had a nice reading session.

If you want more content from us, you can follow @lightinthedarknesspoetry on Instagram. Feel free to check out our website for news and updates.  

Muhammed E. K.'s debut poetry book "Light in the Darkness" is available on Amazon.com
CK Baker Jan 2021
Chums are settling
in the back room
of the Feast House ~
post and beam
ember dreams
gray fog fingers
and draping fiords
holding patron's gaze

Dandan is nestled
in a fireside chat
(with a song from Jeremy
playing from
the high rafter)
sail east
and greet the dawn
young man,
distant shores
are converging


Old habits
die hard
for the Great Dane ~
whistling tunes
in a somber minor,
baritone sounds and
orchestra strings
rising from a
distant, muted choir

Ruby lips
and finger tips
scour the
cockeyed soiree
the safe house
is old
and rendered,
but well
worth noting


Filling jars
with pickled pears,
the specialist
weeds the
white maggot
and siphons his
favoured grog

"...shackle the outhouse
my mates!
the foreign scrum
is bolting!"
alwaystrying Feb 2015
Oh, what a day for joy!

One scrum and a run for score
I'm making it, I'm making it
And oh boy, what a win!

May not be bigger than the rest, but never run.
Never underestimate the tinier package.
Unspoken contract in this wiring.

Sitting at my desk, head in piles of paper
unexpected surprise, really, a double take
Jaw dropping through the floor, it's you.
Arik Fletcher Sep 2017
A slave I was, but noble born,
A prince to be, they said in scorn,
A soldier bred, in pain and blood,
A single wave within the flood.

A war I fought, each battle won,
A thousand dead, I spared no one,
A field of spikes, my calling card,
A broken mass all burned and scarred.

A journey home, a prince at last,
A world away, that war-torn past,
A wife and son, a peace long sought,
A haven from all those I fought.

A tribute due, a price too high,
A choice to make, to fight or die,
A road to ride, a deal to make,
A slender chance I have to take.

A brother once, my noble kin,
A traitor now, not worth his skin,
A promise made, an oath he broke,
A final straw, no time to choke.

A war begun, a siege to come,
A day to plan, before the scrum,
A saviour found, a dream to dare,
A hellish choice, this curse to bear.
wheel ding utmost pro lix:
scrum compulsions won
despite feeling dog tired, (like a ton
of bricks weighed me down)

while seduced by the sun
solar radiation from the sky didst lightly run
sans, i experienced
a weird wired wider sensation pun
knee sensation otherwise, this sun dry

older puppy nun
the wiser (feeling akin
to an overly sated book worm
to boot) on a Mon
Day, nonetheless, forced
by male incarnation from Lon
don, (via NON FAKE voices

inside my noggin) a potential ***
these tired eyes, could NOT stop reading
even with figurative gun
at my head, until only sluggish progress made,
which daunting task not fun
bore witness thru novel

(in this instance plotting thru - dun
know if fie could finish
One Hundred Years Of Solitude -
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

pea pulling his story with bun
dulls of Hiss panic
Alpha Numeric characters, -
per printed page punctuated

concluded with a period,
(premature mental dejected ******* exclaimed
how ah yee got trounced
by harsh obsessive compulsive task master.

"Nay unto you Matthew Scott"!
Uttered by exactly same grievous rot
while er...mailer daemon (as above, ***
tent shill slave driver subsequently not

quite ditto for identical bon mot
mind wielding **** mask kid ding lot
intonation, now setting me hot
to worry about my thinning hair,
the little atop nixed noggin aye got

as expressed vis a vis A previous poem
of mine titled 'Argh! I suffer the plight of Bad
Hair Year In One Day!'
Gigi Tiji Feb 2015
I'm a bug I'm a little bug and I've got wings like the faerie feathers of humulus lupulus and I've got gilded fractures and they're a silly spiderweb I like to catch myself in sometimes and bounce bounce bounce around sticky wings sticky wings trampoline and here comes the spider he looks quite a bit like I do but he's got far more eyes than I remember and **** do I look tasty tasty let's tie you up tie you up I wanna see you squirmmmmmmmyum scrum didlyumptious

and every strand is embraced by little pieces of ceramic and I'm a broken bowl with biting social commentary sewed back together with the gold leaves of King Louis XV's little harpy harp

rococococococococococococococo
jimmy tee Oct 2013
the sky would burn and the sea would boil
as they paid the price for human toil
a spinning globe a pitch gray sky
could absorb our poisons indefinitely
so the earth as friend became our foe
with a scrum of chemistry and below
the mass of souls behind gilded screening
search every toy for a scrap of meaning
Chris Slade Jul 7
It’s a slow slide to somewhere else...

He shuffles, stumbles stammers and he sleeps.

He knows I am his brother.
I help him go for a wee in a bowl,
we’re standing by the commode.

He shuffles back to his comfy chair

but only with my help.

“Are you my brother?”
“I am,” I say.

Six years is a biggish gap between siblings.

‘Our Brian’ tolerated me...

”Take Chris to the pictures”...
”Aw Mum, I’m 18... he’s only 12!!!”

He headed on out with his mates, smirking,
waving a *** and a ciggie.

But, when he needed a whizzo batsman for his cricket team,
who knew?
 I was strangely unavailable...
But, I capitulated and said “OK I’ll play for you!” We won!
At 81 he shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.

He employed 300 people in factories overseas,

spoke with authority, negotiating with emperors -
always with total ease.
Today he talks in whispers, his larynx squeaks;

clatters like a broken pipe, every time he speaks...

He shuffles, he stammers, stumbles and he sleeps
...for most of every day.
“
I am your brother aren’t I?”

“You certainly are”, I say.

He was the head of magistrates handing down the law...
I joked... I called him ‘hang ‘em high Bri’,

him judging slightly to the right of Atilla the ***.

I remind him of his past... We smile ...
(because of course it wasn’t true)....

The last thing to die will be his sense of fun.
He shuffles, stammers, stumbles and he sleeps.

He played prop forward for Birmingham Moseley’s first team, maybe his problems started way back when...

too many head clashes, line outs, scrum downs...

That’s the last thing you’d think about back then.
But there’s long term damage you might do...by just ‘being’.
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles, 
dummies
and scores in his dreams...as he sleeps.

He even went to garden parties at the Queen’s Equery’s behest
as well as, whilst in India, often - he’d be a Maharajah’s guest.
And, when you mention it, he just smiles wryly

and stares, with rictus grin. He IS in there!
That’s the trouble though... he sometimes IS locked IN!
He stumbles, stammers, shuffles, smiles -
and he does love to rest.
But sometimes he will rally with a string of memories
all lucid and true... and, if there’s food involved
he’ll be at the table way ahead of you.
That’s the quick shuffle!

He makes good progress 
through all his favourite stuff,
Then he’ll lie in his reclining chair 
and enjoy that customary nap

You watch him closely - making sure he’s still breathing
- thank heavens for that!

He stumbles, wheezes when he talks -

and shuffles when he walks...
He shuffles, stumbles...then he sleeps!
“You are my brother aren’t you?”
“You know I am - for keeps!
Love you Bri!”
At the time of posting this Brian, my older brother by 6 years  - now 6 years after his diagnosis of Parkinson's & Lewey Body Dementia...a slippery ***** it's escalating to being now nursing home bound... bed bound without mechanical assistance, doubly incontinent, unable to feed himself, sleeping 23 hours each day, incoherent when/if attempting to speak, obviously sporadically unable to understand simple concepts and speech from loved ones and staff...and bleeding family financial stability which HE would definitely NOT be happy with at all - at a rate of £1,000+ each week for his care... A Change in UK's law is essential!
as origin of **** Sapien species surged ahead,
harboring nascent predominance
   asper said primate reproductively bred
(albeit via incremental fits and starts)
   evolutionary forebears didst dread

   lock, stock and barrel arboreal cred
whence, (since time immemorial) nasty, short
   brutish, loutish, and vampish anthropological,
genealogical, and millennial report
   card found forebears

   precariously position quart
toured place de resistance purport
   head supremacy devastatingly,
   heavily, and literally bruited nearly abort
ting tentative tenacious status oft times

challenged minuscule leading edge
proto humans rendered perch
   (on evolutionary leading cusp) fund hedge
ching hypothetical bets said simians

   nearly toppled off figurative privy ledge
against being easily uprooted
   akin to one weeding out unwanted sedge
imposing fledgling breakfast of champions
   clinging to niched wedge

while serial incessant challenges nearly wrote
off and snuffed out, extinct et cetera
   clinched placed viz *** him tote
often at fateful loggerheads,
   where survival of the fittest  smote
poised dawn of dusky mankind

   viz apish creatures almost got rote
   off while chance dominance, eminence grise
   pitted, spitted, and got vetted sans un quote
   able primal screaming expletives
pitted Neanderthal progenitors note

worthy kickstarter scrum
   ump hired held dim promise,
   whether weathered brood,
which smattering population comprised
   a scattered handful of rudimentary

   destined to become
   some ascribe God's sigh propitiated
   contemporary lass hit dude
whence, amidst looming pointed danger
   confronted Geico caveman,

   and aside from external
   threatening depredations
   comprised tribal family feud
where might versus right
   the deterministic factor aye include

at undoubtedly animalistic behavior
   defied being categorized as lewd
since each monkey's uncle
   punctuated equilibrium with cut throat

   i.e. Maciavellian imprimatur
   fate didst not occlude
attested via rotogravure fledgling artistic shewed
also absence of consciousness rued

until...fast four words
   (count them) - to the present system of a down day
when carnal, feral, and integral leanings attempted
   to rope hormonal, gonadal, and banal found
   more recent ancestors (discovered
   visa vis like 23andme)

   on a greenday rolled in the hay
under natural predilection to lay
naked, especially frisky comb early May
procreative force
   engendered the writer of this poem,
   when his parents coaxed fore play

unbeknownst, that their singular heir,
   would be afflicted with countless
   mental ollie ollie oxen stinging ray
obsessive compulsive mailer to slay
ritualistic controlling psychic threnody
dominated favored holistic paradigm oye vay.
Matthew M Jun 2017
Amid an ungracious scrum of DJ hum,
Her unmoving eyes, hook and bind,
Deceitful lips kiss a concrete grimace,

Her lying words mix with cliched verbs,
My screams, drowning in our dreams,
No fairy-tale kiss exists, it's hopeless,

The music meets radio screech, where life's a beach,
My ears bleed, soul's ugly seed, that's all I need,
Hate's taste, callous as fate, it's too late,

Drunk on ***** lust, by dancer's ******,
Heart-scars unscab, unbleedingly stabbed,
Face writ with tear-stains, no pain, just bitter love remains,

Drum's pulse, with heart's last heat, skipping beats,
Guitar cracks, strings snap, take it back! Remake, dreamer awakes, it's all fake,
Romeo is dead, it should've been Juliet instead.
Please critique and advise on improvements. It's for an English paper.
Dave Robertson May 2021
Friday night fleeing from the scrum
like the last thing on our minds
are other people’s kids:
the outrageous, hysterical bashing we take
hour by hour as
we
just
try
while each successive boss quickly forgets front lines
and asks for ‘evidence’
of piling into the meat grinder

Then something tiny reminds
why we’re even here:
a flood of tears perhaps as dogs have died
or that kid who says “I’m a microwave
bzzzzzzzzz”
and despite our glowering frowns
we smile so hard we cry
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
ooh... those crazed up (a fata morgana of eye shadow) eyes of that sweet-***** Elaine Thompson-Herah... alias: Calypso... i was trying to figure out my kinks... mulatto girls... oriental girls... Turkic raven-haired shamans in the bedroom... i like the Olympics... all the body sizes... in their niches... the high-jumpers... the discus throwers... the swimmers... the sprinters... but also the table-tennis players... everyone is being represented... Shiva's girlfriends... if they cook up a curry... no, they won't... i'll be in the kitchen turning it into an organic chemistry chemistry...

critical race: kink...
  you'd think that some
things would remain
in the bedroom:
topsy-turvy world...

perhaps i'll dip a finger into
this fudge...
on seconds thoughts...
perhaps i won't...

"who"? Hugh's hue...
Hugh's hues...
for any native spreschen guise
i'd like to see
the encapsulated surd of double-v
"double-u"
and how the acronym satan:
Santa ** **'s...

each saint a satan...
critical race: kink...
i tried interracial ***...
i met my match with a bony assed
ivory "princess"...
a small tight ***
i knew because the front of
my pelvis...
the "garden of eden" of *****
grew a shade of plum
from the interaction...

i cannot: not... admire the white
teeth of black people...
i tend to forget about their skin....
if you were born into a
homogeneous racial "scrutiny"
of: origins...
i feel sick going back to the old capital:
once in Warsaw
i turn into a feral creature...
so many of "me"...
where are the blacks... the Indians...
all i'm getting is a whiff of
Mongolian...

mind you... at least on the outskirts
of London... how the county
of Essex is teased...
you'll hear the dogs barking
but then you'll hear...
whatever sound the foxes
make that can't be "magically"
turned into either onomatopoeia or
typo...

all of a sudden everyone is
feeling... un-com-fort-able...
copper-skin brush of joy...
little piglet moi gets a ******* suntan...
the skin doesn't resemble
a serpent's shedding its old
girth after having ingested
a giraffe...

a cheap £125's worth of a viking road
bicycle...
it was a waste of money to have invested
in a Trek Marlin 5 worth circa £500...
it really was...
i believe you only require
only about... 7 gears to fathom
heavy traffic...
even at night... pretending to be
a pedestrian... showing the three-finger:
read-in-between-the-lines
to some: oblivious ******
in a: you going to orientate yourself
on the road like a SMART car...
or are you still pretending to be
driving a... ******* TANK?

i've passed so many oblivious people
concerning traffic it's no wonder
i think of them at best as
sleepwalkers..

white girl academic critical
race: kink...
why would i require over or coming to
21 gears?
riding a road bike... sure...
a 26" inch wheels:
but they have a 23cm width...
so i can gazelle up any elevation...
what's with this basic *******...
clashing with church bells
and the uvula...

esp. not now: when a white girl *****
a black boy: Everclear will not make
a song about: "combating stereotypes"...
a white boy ***** a black girl
that doesn't require added inches
for their sofa of an ***...
how about i shove my elbow into that hole
for better measure?

that's why i like keeping cats...
grooming a female aroused me...
for three days solid i was cycling like mad
to and fro central London
looking for an alternative brothel...
i found the long lost abode...
one hour for £120 with a limp biscuit
of a little richard: ****...
shamed...
i returned... and found my pristine
"killer" of a ballerina...
in a span of 30 minutes...
if only i could invert the hour with the 30 minutes...
when my feline "princess"
agitates me with her **** stuck up
while she's about to be teased with
a knee when being groomed...

i'm not gagging for it...
i didn't experience it more than enough
to somehow want it more than
i can do with doing it myself:
well... if i were circumcised...
but since i haven't been circumcised...
****-off strict monotheistic crowd...
under the guise of monotheism:
and my circumcision...
sure... but then the women have to make
concessions...
i'm not getting a circumcision
if she's not going to don a niqab!

pije... pali... konia wali
(he) drinks... smokes... masturbates...
well... if i were given....
a frequented depth of thirst...
but since i haven't...
i can turn 30 minutes of the best ***
into... half a decade's worth of
abstaining from it...

i toy with my beard like it might
be a violin...
there's a hmm portent at some point...
but that's for the deaf...

over the weekend taking apart an old
b.b.q. meticulously...
however many screws have been unscrewed
in my head: whatever came about
from a "chemical imbalance":
notable mention: Robert Walser...
Fernando Pessoa...

well... if only the asylums were still
open...
if only the asylums were still be open...
i'd still be practising all my best
to enter the cages...
reinvent cubism by smearing
excrement in the corners of the room:
or something like that...
but... the "squares" found out us out...
the prisons are very much alive...
asylums?
well... "they" sent the madman into
society... no wonder...
whatever's still left of society
is... two-crutches strong...
struggling toward a myth of Bethlehem...

it's so exhausting...
no one sentenced to be encased in an iron
maiden would leave it with
a necklace of the torture instrument...
even if he said the least...

day one... let's call it a Saturday...
taking apart an old b.b.q....
without a hammer...
***** by *****...

day two... let's call it a Sunday...
putting a new b.b.q. together...
***** by *****...
Hephaestus... no wonder...
i have to thank him for momentary father
status: since my own father never believed
in my tech competence...
changing a bicycle tyre and inner tube...
someone was looking over my shoulder...

forethought: premonition?
i disintegrate into something resembling
a crossword clue by clue...
Prometheus was the TITAN
Hephaestus was the god of            fire...
that titans came before the gods...
it's not like Prometheus stole the fire
from Hephaestus...
but as the gods built their marble Olympus while
the humans were left cowering naked
in mud-huts...
a sacrifice...

                flimsy narrative...
besides... by the time someone decided to steal
the electric rod of Zeus...
an Edison... he was no closer to being
credited for it...
instead: making his living from having
created the archetype of movies...
ha... "making his living":
i'm so disinterested in money
that translates as...
keeping up a family... the "genes"...

    - each and every day i wake up
"thinking": before i get onto that bicycle:
there's no point eating up the itch...
why do i have to find meaning at the end
of the day: in writing...
rather than at the beginning with the sunrise:
some "vague" prompt...
to motivate me.... ?  ?
                                ?  ?

i probably know why... just today at the recycling
centre some... puppy... late middle aged
man in a Nissan Micra... or whatever...
i just shrugged my shoulders when
i was investigated with an accusation
of missing his front lights
while i was taking an old lamp out from
the boot... petty insect: bothersome little:
cre-ah-ture...
i shrugged my shoulders because:
no damage was done but he insisted on:

OH! WHAT IF?!
it broke me when he called me a silly ****...
pumped up chest...
i was going to say: how much do you weigh?
how many teeth that are not prosthetics do you
own?
i just shouted: ******* mate...
no damage was done yet he was
adoring his entire possessions in
a ******* ******...
that moment between shrugging my shoulders
and eyeing him up...
a momentary pause: i too feed off the petty heart....

i wish it was... the first time i discovered
tom petty & the heartbreakers...
i was with someone in the driving seat who
shouted: better buy a Bentley to
have those sort of concerns...
whatever happened to: innocent until
proven guilty... whatever happened to:
wait until the damage is done
before throwing a ******* poodle cartwheel
of a hissy-fit...
no damage... but being called a silly-****...

petty people bother me... more than mountains...
or the seas...
the heart turns into a placebo of:
what it must feel like jumping out
of an aeroplane armed with a parachute...
i wish i said: bark little doggy... bark...
next time you bark... i'll bite...
but i'm ******* slow... i'm always either
elsewhere: trapped in some variation
of dasein: some horizon of: there's... existence
elsewhere... always...
now mash this up with an elevation of
the cartesian res cogitans: i.e. buddha walking
as i like to call it: res vanus: the empty thing...

that moment of frozen mirrors when
i eyed up foul mouthed poodle...
sitting in his car... neither scratched nor
attended to...
he would do x, y, & z... i shrugged my shoulders:
did anything happen?
oh god... such motivation to find a chunk of
beef large enough to practice boxing on...

i'm thinking about Brazilian mulattos...
Jamaican Calypsos...
all the hoard of Asia brought to the altar
by the Mongolian horde...
and here i am...
abstinent... gladly...
please don't cage me... a moment more with
the Turkish raven haired shamans of
the bedroom...

- it's not even funny...
i'll spend near £500 on a Trek Marlin mountain-bike...
it's only 3 months+ old...
it started to cringe at me... squeak...
make odd-noises...
but that Viking road-bicycle: kol

anything... almost anything with a label:
MADE IN XINA... made by the number...
worth duck-squat...
i still own things manufactured in...
for ****'s sake: Sri Lankan rubber...
Pakistani / Bangladeshi linen...
almost always the better quality than
those fake Beijing silk woorms...

by why of bypassing editorial scrutiny...
aren't the public the better judge of...
what, exactly... is... being... printed?
not much... go go green!
so... me... waiting... one rejection letter
after another... not reaching the immediacy
of an audience... just so... i can establish
and authority of "publishing"?
the gate-keepers?
the... ahem... "selected tastes"?
i have a long attention span...
but i have a very short sense of humour...
for that matter... my father thinks it funny
pushing my span of keeping... my anger at bay...

i'll immediately post: and free! free whittle birdie!
what use do i have with orthodox publishing
credentials?!
when all, i, wanted... was to bypass
the orthodox publishing credentials...
**** the medals: it's all about taking part!
democracy or no democracy?!
should we ask Iraq... Libya... Afghanistan?!
itch... itch... i'm itching...
which implies: the itch existent and the process
of alleviating the itch: by scratching the itch:
i'm itching...

the sort of song you rarely hear on the radio:
black... wonderful life...
i'm too not skipping along to the rhyme
of flipping burgers... or burdens of the easily
available.... scooter frenzy of arrived
at New Delhi traffic:
seems i had to merely introspect
to find a snippet of the Giza pyramids...

- to hell with magic...
there's mythology, there's air all around us...
and like this one poet
mentioned ( )
water water everywhere...
but not a drop to drink...

the Pollacks: the Paul lean brigadiers have...
gladly left these isles...
forget these isles: fellow ethnic scrutiny...
let the English housewives make
better jokes when the ****** plumbers have
left and the tap is left running...
jazzy pop interludes with 1980s/ 1990s...
whatever you had in mind...
thank you... i'll leave it to the closure...
my fellow-countrymen have left...
to concentrate on their own "hood"...
your's? slightly undermined...
but blame me...

oh they're not interludes...
it's fine by anyone's standards if a white
girl welcomes her ******* baptism...
but a shy thought of a romance with Calypso...
or the hearth of Asia by a what-why-not-a-white-"bloke"....
******* clowns and jazz-hand clapping!

i once attempted a take on ENSO...
no chance... not now... not ever...
but the white girls pursue their...
****** liberation freedom:
look at me...
come in between... a decade's worth of
abstinence... halved...
then again encountered...
sell me all that's the Brazilian
of the mulatto bonanza...
i'll buy it...

30 minutes with a Turkish "killer": in her own
words... and i'm freed from
the extravagance of a responsibility...
to tow woman... and at least 2 children
in tow.... towing a woman
and at least two children...
no... thank... you... it's not enough
to merely breed for a product of 2 produce 1...
2 at least better produce 2...

i don't want to breed in this environment...
who would?!
idiot... saint... a *******
psalm singer... a reciter of the qu'ran?
it must still be a success story
among Muslims... to leech onto the
conquest ambitions fo the Turks
penetrating Europe:
although the Arabs probably think the Turks
as lesser "Muslims"...
but who is to forget the... bridegroom
of a reflex...
how the Christian Serbs....
how the Christian Serbs...
made the remains of the Ottoman Empire...
little or no nought of ash, skull...  bone...
we... "we"... Caucasus brigade...
sure... very Anglo-Saxon: WASP sensibly in Nyod: Ork...
just because the Jews can have their
Holocaust... doesn't mean that..
what's sleeping can't be suddenly woken...
n'est c'est pas?
it takes something trivial...

because the sacrificial body of lamb of Muslims
didn't take place... in "Europe"...
the Ottomans: whoever they were...
yes... they "were"... already happened...
it's such a tease... here's my slingshot
of history... the Bataclan theatre massacre...
sure... just give it enough time...
enough soy...
i'm clinging to the memory of Robespierre...
the guillotine too...
i'm gearing up...

who is? not me... some mythological collective: oui!
je! moi aussi!
nice living together: isn't it... esp. in
the clique of keeping up with
updates of Rotherham...
alias for... ha ha!
speaker's corner...
why are the Hing-Leash...
sowwy so so: sur-PRIOR-EASE!
***: onto the surf ye' go forth!

years later... whatever ****** revolution happened:
the girls entered a harem...
the boys were left talking solo
with "premonitions" of:
glad to be awake:
would be... abortions....
vamped up *** revolutionised:
for the women...
if the men were not subjected to world war I
trench warfare... they would
most certainly be crippled my
chemistry infused...
limp biscuit **** while the harem of all sorts...
she... pleads a pretty please back
to... who?
via beer it's he **** of gods...
via whiskey it's ms. amber...
same ****: different cover...

ghosts of the same poker fold... facing...
each other: worth of the same
evil: intent...

the liberated woman:
the liberated man...
seems i "forgot" to pass on the intrinsic
demands of the stereotypical man:
archetypical hunting... gathering...
sorry... you were saying, "saying" something...
no... must have missed me...
i probably "forgot"...

fair enough with the girl playing
her interracial anti-racism white anti-...
o.k.: whatever...
it's a proper antithesis surge of her
already met expectations when
i figure out a Calypso for my hard-on...

she's becoming boring...
truly: literally: *******... boring...
like her adventure was only surrounding
her juiced up opening of an oyster's worth
of ****!
*** is already boring:
i can have it on a relapse...
once every half a decade...
however much she tries to sell it...
the wind sells itself better...
silence also...
eh... she moans: she might moan:
the magpies cackle with
more authenticity...
the crows croak with more "girth"...

she can sort herself out...
after all...
she's the freely available...
variation of: what it might feel like...
living in Buenos Aires...
all the freedoms she requires...
i'll sooner come toward
a foetus within the confines
of a tornado: genesis a tadpole...
than i will ever make do with:

dough: dumb downer... make: do...
ugh! ugh! WOO-MAN! WOE-MAN...
whatever...
i don't mind the crisp: cut... dying out...
this cul de sac...
why would i?

i sort of... stop myself... forgetting myself...
whenever i cycle down oxford st.
and some Japanese gearing up:
****-pants flashes me for kicks...
you lost me at the brothel...
i lost myself at the brothel...
with the Turkish and Romanian girls...
sorry... what?

the night is always in its infancy
while the day: ages: oh most... terribly...
the day ages with responsibilities...
while the night runs: RAM-PANT...
such is the privy acquired by those awake
in the: NACHT...
everyone else is asleep...
by "tomorrow's": today's a quarter
to... 8... i'll be fresh as a daisy...

although the miracle of tourism
of sightseeing central London via cycling
will not be undertaken...
there will be as much of as little
as there is of this: to nibble on...
for anyone: eager...

a pursuit of the roundabout current...
yes yes... many thanks... ado...
no... thank you...
me chasing "shadow" while also gearing
up to the momentum leftovers
of either a bus or a truck...
how, did... so... many...
"cyclists"... get... towed... dragged...
under... these... trucks... busses...
oblivious traffic hierarchy status: "superiority"
complex?
minced meat... i like to think of those deaths
as... minced meat...
they had to be: St. Pancreas: minced: "dodgers"...

best dead... retardo: fernando: minced meat
"dodgers"...
oh guy's gotta looks ups!
(in that ****** aghast voice-over)
i get a hard-on every time
i entertain a roundabout
where i'm quicker off the mark
than some tirade of traffic...
always aiming for the momentum
associated with a truck
or a bus... or a south african scrum...

eh... little women: know very little.
Yardbirds scrum over rain borne delicacies
Dad overlooks my condition in some cloudy
effigy
Water trickles like musical triangles from soaked Silver maples
Tis medicine for sadness
A breakfast of reason , my morning staple* ...
Copyright January 24 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Dave Robertson Feb 2022
The sounds of your voices
work with me,
the resonance of your mirth,
your anger, your vexation,
your empathy, your soul,
is orchestral in our everyday scrum
to keep me humming along
overladen snow covered crackle and crunch
though, this skeptic owned a doubtful hunch
that such 24/7 round the clock whether coverage
     would make laughingstock of forecasting
     how Jack Frost feigned being out to lunch

and merely his
     (or maybe he hiz a her saving
     best surprise for last, thus Jackie Frost,
     cuz women feel snubbed, shortchanged,
     excluded, and being bossed
around feeling pinched at emotional,

     physical, and spiritual cost
with million plus women marches
     that did exhaust
yet, brought more equitable treatment,
     and now risk being lost
in space at the outer limits
     of the twilight zone or tossed
     into the maws of Earth vis a vis

donning miner for a heart of gold,
where a frayed life line offers tenuous hold
nonetheless, despite risks to life and/or limb
     females can experience em bold
dinned journeying
     exposing them to in extremis cold
and worthy bets
     at gambling halls upon casino bluffing,

     thence, slapping (with poker face)
     upon table a winning hand
     abruptly forcing game to fold
grinning ear to ear while she scoops up gold

repudiating ugly rumors stereotyping women,
     within which many other arenas
     the devastatingly constricting mold
now upon many another proving grounds

     non verbally, smugly,
     and proudly assert" i told
     you so" garnering, inviting, and
     kickstarting kudos where,
     their overdue praiseworthy virtues extolled
which hard fight now pits

     more gals to enter the scrum
letting actions speak louder than words
as bragging rights allow them to keep mum
though insinuating

     rightful opportunity to whisk plum
ming access, where once (and still
     to a lesser degree)
     men didst unfairly prune
     and hurl cruel names like hey "****

     bag", and/or other unflattering brickbats
     versus increasing plaudits showered from
on high spelling vic tory
     toward equality effacing glum
scowl into smile breaking out
     finding more men grudgingly
     bestowing deserved accolades
     re-evaluating degrading

     the fairer *** with dumb
asinine barbs, now underscoring
     befriending opposite gender
     making ladies in waiting
     tubby a worthy chum

now, this ***
seeks Alma Mater dames
     and graduates of
     Hard Knocks School Alum.

— The End —