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George Krokos Oct 2014
General Note:
This is an autobiographical poem, given here in seven parts for reading convenience, which mentions some personal events of my life and the names of a few spiritual masters that I have read and studied a good deal about, the main ones being Paramahansa Yogananda and Meher Baba; the latter I have also written about in two other poems titled: #1 “The Highest Of The High” and #2 “The Universal Divine Plan” which are also posted on this website.*

Part 1
Even as a little child I do now recall
You often would respond to my call.
And whenever I was filled with sorrow
about certain things feared of tomorrow
You would comfort me in some natural way
assuring me there wouldn't be such a day
and then my heart would experience much joy
almost just like acquiring a long expected toy.

Together we would have laughter and fun
like a couple of children playing in the sun.
Though You did reproach me when I was bad
then lovingly forgive me when I'd be so sad.
You would always try and point out to me
the good things around there were to see.

You always were the one I called on when in need
beseeching You as no one else believed me indeed.
You were more or less my constant companion and friend
and together would see things through until the very end.
Now and then I would go my separate way and depart
but sooner or later I would remember You in my heart.
It seemed somehow, You had a permanent place in there
as if it would be impossible to leave it empty and bare.

Part 2
The days did pass by and as I was growing up with age
You would sometimes come and offer advice like a sage
especially when found out doing naughty things some days
by my elders, at the time, being not agreeable to their ways.
They would, by inflicting pain, try and get the message across to me
that what I'd been doing was particularly not very pleasing to see.
Those were the times when I would hide and cry my heart out,
wailing with remorse and anguish I would doubt You were about.
Blaming You for my misfortunes I would try and close the door
not accepting Your existence and then declaring a private war.
When all would become quiet and my mind's rage did subside
You would try and reason with me to put all my weapons aside.

Often were the times when I would listen rapt with awe,
to words of wisdom coming from deep in my heart's core.
Little did I know, at the time, that they would prove to be true,
as only to realise, much later in life, that they came from You.
Yet then, many a time, I had the temerity to pass You by
and meeting with troubles and difficulties wondered why.
The hardships I encountered seemed only to confirm in my mind
that You were a figment of my imagination better left far behind.

My alienation from You increased to such an extent,
as I grew up, becoming a storehouse of ill-content.
Associating with those very much in the same boat,
I began to drift and sink in life's tide rather than float.
Such was my plight, I realised, turning my back on You
ignorantly, yet willingly, tangling with a desparate crew.
That worldly ocean contains very many surprises in store,
for the unwary traveller, going away from the home shore.
By living an unnatural existence in a stormed-tossed sea
it's everyone for themselves disregarding their humanity.
But there were the moments when You would shine through
via members of my family and others advice on behalf of You.
Little did I heed though, what they would concernedly tell,
as I plunged headlong into a self-created, God forsaken hell.

Part 3
It was only through repeated experiences, I would learn
that, where I was heading, would surely make me burn.
Tempted with fancy indulgences my mind would lead me astray
and going from one extreme to the other in weakness I would stay.
Involved with those called 'friends' who really didn't know any better,
being like the blind following the blind, with many an unseen fetter.
It was living a life of sense pleasures; mainly that of wine, women and song,
which seemed to be what everyone else was doing, as each day came along.
Now and then I would stop to reflect on the state I found myself in
but, though I tried, didn't have the determination to leave and begin
a new life which would bring out and develop my real self
instead I wallowed in the mire of this worldly life like an elf.

Then the seemingly unexpected happened, while reeking with taints
I stumbled onto some wisdom through the words of one of Thy Saints.
Paramahansa Yogananda was one of Thy true and recent devotees;
mystic, philosopher, poet and saint, through Yoga he was all of these.
The story he told of life, in a far distant land, awakened my sleeping soul,
overwhelmed my mind with inspiration and taught that You were the goal.

He made the words of the New Testament come alive for me,
with patience and love, showing how real they could easily be.
Without any coercion he helped me realise the truth they contained
for many years escaping my attention though now readily attained.
By dispelling my ignorance he was leading me gently back to You
with Divine knowledge and practical wisdom, I did follow him too.
He helped to turn my gaze inside so that I may see the Inner Light
and by acting on his advice was able to behold that blessed sight.
Transforming my existence, he told me that which I hungered for,
ignorantly looking in the wrong direction not knowing any more.
I began to know the meaning of discipline, in a persons' life by which
any individual could rise from the bottom of existence and so reach
that state of consciousness from where all problems were resolved
through perseverance and grace did get myself seriously involved.

Part 4
He opened up a whole new world of possibilities and life to see,
while reading and comprehending his words power flowed in me.
Then one day at work almost at the turn of a new year,
I heard someone mention a name they held quite dear.
It must of remained in my head like a dormant and potent seed,
because it was associated with a person of a very high breed.
As it turned out an incident happened, involving someone dear in my life,
which I recognized to be more than a chance to end some personal strife.
So, early in the new year, I became determined to give it a go,
that is, live up to my highest aspirations, forsaking much woe.
In order to remove the distance between myself and that which I aspired to
many things were done, impossible it seemed, while keeping my mind on You.

With the knowledge and courage garnered by Yoganandaji's grace
I began to come closer to You at quite a remarkably steady pace.
A lot of things were given up, mainly those holding me heavily down,
and other things were taken up, suggested by Your chosens' renown.
Purification of body and mind was the main way to achieve that end,
sublimation of all actions, inner motives, Your Will I could not offend.
You had to become my One and Only, all else I had to give away,
all that I thought was mine belonged to You, having the final say.
You were everywhere, in everything and also in everyone,
I sought to please You only, like Your Own Begotten Son.
This was more easily said than done as I soon began to see,
that I virtually had to cease to exist and live totally in thee.
How I were to do this was beyond my situation at the time
though I tried with a little success in that favorable clime.

Part 5
Then I remembered that name mentioned just a short while ago
and thus made some effort to find out more as I needed to know.
I came across and even bought a few books relating to that name,
thus began another chapter in my life which wasn't quite the same.
What I began to read was the culmination of all that had come before
and by maintaining a steady discipline realized incredibly much more.
My expectations and joy increased so much so in what I had found
all else meant nothing to me, it seemed, coming across Holy ground.
The words I read were so beautiful, loving, very profound and true
I was dumbfounded to realize they were coming directly from You.

The books I read were by and about a person called Meher Baba
whose name in English was translated as 'Compassionate Father'.
In actual fact He never wrote those books at all as such
but dictated the words on an alphabet board in his clutch.
He would spell every word out to one of His close ones patiently,
by pointing to each letter in the words, moving His finger quickly.
His close one would then record what was 'said' each time by Him
for the benefit of those who would come later, such was His Whim.

He did not write or speak during the greater part of His life,
communicating with silent gestures, not even having a wife.
The words that He 'spoke' were of the highest wisdom and Love,
bringing down Divine Truth, with which to awaken us, from above.
He confirmed and corrected what all the others said about You,
knowing more than the others did, but also respecting their view.
His was the highest philosophy that's ever been described by hand,
by anyone before or since, in this world, anywhere inscribed on land.
He was The One I was always looking for everywhere to find
You were really Him being the latest Unique One of The Kind.
He was also from the same league as Zoroaster, Rama, Krishna, Buddha,
Jesus and Muhammad, but appearing this time around called Meher Baba.

Part 6
You, Him and all the Others were the same One, it was emphasized,
but each time You'd come down were so very differently disguised.
Each time You would come heralding a New Age and New Humanity,
which was what some of Your Saints were preparing mankind to see.
By discipline, meditation, study, prayer, purification of body and mind,
one could devote them self to You in daily life, so not to be left behind
in the coming New World Order which shall abate the rushing tide
of ignorance and selfishness, being a part of mankind's lower side.

We have all seen and should know how bad its really been lately,
with all the wars and power struggles that have passed belatedly;
causing so much destruction, pain, loss of life and property
Your words would ring through my brain jolting my memory:
You said 'such are the pangs and symptoms of spiritual rebirth'
and that all would be affected by Your presence on this earth.
Which is due to mankind's forgetfulness, of its divine origin, and is instead
all engaged in asserting short lasting and false values lodged in its head.
These are based on illusion which is the reason we are grossly misled
being the cause of much evil, having ignored what You previously said.
It's only by living a divine life while here on this earth that we can all
fulfill life's purpose thus being not required to come back any more.

You compassionately stated the importance of following a Perfect Master (See Note #1)
by surrendering and obedience to Him/Her anyone could get there much faster.
He/She was someone who had already achieved life's purpose and Divine goal
and was the very embodiment and shining example of man's Highest Soul.
Only by becoming as dust at the feet of such a living true saint,
seekers could gain His/Her grace and so attain a life free of taint.

Part 7
Your advent here amongst us was like the 'spring tide of creation',
when everyone gets a gentle 'push forward' to a higher life station.
The work You did while here was often very intense and exhaustive
so much so that many times You remained very aloof and seclusive.
Undergoing a great deal of suffering while working within the inner planes
uplifting mankind's consciousness by removing the vitiating mental stains,
that have accumulated over all the years to such an enormous extent
obscuring the Light of Love and Truth revealed by Your last advent.

The words You gave came from the Source of Truth and have real meaning
and those who are ready to receive them there's a rich harvest for gleaning.
Though You did say that You 'have come not to teach but to awaken'
and it was because of Love, in this present form, Your Spirit had taken.
You showered on those who came before You of Your Love, peace and charity
not forgetting the good humor and Divine Knowledge imparted out of necessity.
Continually exhorting Your dear ones that by remembering and loving You all would be well
because You were the God man (See Note #2) Who was the slave of Your lovers; by Grace one could tell.
You did mention many times that You were not limited by this apparent human ****** form
and that You used it only to manifest Thy compassion being more accessible than the norm.
Coming down to be amongst us on our level so that we could catch a glimpse of You as before
appeasing our spiritual hunger; by sight, touch, words and deeds, thus confirm our faith for sure.

_________
Note #1
A Perfect Master or Sadguru (Satguru) can be either male or female and is on the 7th Plane of Consciousness (Involution).and has achieved full Self-Realization and is one with God. Also called a Man or Woman God. He or She live the life of God in the world and wield infinite power, knowledge and bliss. A person who comes into contact with a Perfect Master is helped to progress on the spiritual path.
See also ‘Discourses‘ and ‘God Speaks’ by Meher Baba

Note #2
Also known as or called an Avatar – a direct and full Incarnation of God in human form. The Avatar appears on earth (is brought down) every once in a while - from between 600 to 700 years or 700 to 1400 years - when there is a great upheaval or turmoil in the world. The 20th Century was marked by two World Wars and the threat of Nuclear Destruction.
See also ‘Discourses ‘ and ‘God Speaks’ by Meher Baba.
There is a department in my heart
that deals with sadness.
This department is non-inclusive
a strict code is adhered to.

This department in my heart
has collected and collated all
The pain, malice, despondency
this broken heart and soul has experienced.

Sadness has my soul in handcuffs
hapless, anxious I retreat into
myself, seclusion, on lockdown
starkest bottled pain is shook.

Harnessed, hardened and shelved
with madness the sadness is in retreat
It'll return though, it has to
It's been called depression

I'm a weather front!

With gladness I'd take the pain
the badness from my heart
and send it away
but there's more room in a broken heart.
© JLB
Dustin Staples Dec 2012
“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******.
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay
Andre Baez Jun 2013
Love,
Deep love,
Why?

I am Vile!

Villainous, Mischievous

Destructive, Productive

Seclusive, Inclusive

Hate,
Deep hate,
Why?

I am, I!

Represent, Comprehend

Wash away, Go astray

No go, Home no...

You

Wish,
Dream,
Feel,
Scream,
Fall,
Crawl,
Won,
Lost,
Kiss,
Squeal,
Heal,­
****

Me...

Unknowingly

Deservingly...

Our connection,
Shattered in the wake of deception,
My repentance,
None is thy sentence

Shivers run below

Shivers run below

Shivers run below

Snowy Diablo
Amanda Frost May 2015
I fell for you
I don't know why
You are a mess
but so am I

You asked me
"why didn't you tell me
you like me so much"

It's because
I feel seclusive
with you
seclusive from
the rest of the world
and I clung onto it

You can see
when I am in pain
You're the only person
in this world
who is on the outside looking in

You're the only person
I have been able to
share that with
and I let you in

When it started
slipping away
it all began
to feel meaningless

I feel as if
I may over exaggerate
and I often over think
but that's who I am

That's the pain I carry
it's a blessing
and a curse
to feel that much

I am a wheel
and I continue to spin
because life continues
to push on the pedals
that make me spin

I am dizzy from
all the life I have
felt
and spent

I often fall
sometimes with a laugh
but sometimes I get bruises

I am sorry
I expected more
maybe I am crazy
but I like who we are together
our lives will pedal well
together
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
may i ask, which pronoun are you searching for, and if in which model, which pronoun-verb in the Cartesian duo function could you ever ask me what pronoun occupies f(∴)? you see, mathematics doesn't sincerely pledge i think with i am, given dues to f(∵), given geometric intersection, both are Gemini, unequivocal, David's abstract.

perpetually open eyes, never acknowledging a blink,
Venetians cascading on Byzantium, near blink near conscience,
but never near an Ottoman consequence;
how ***** into role of Janissary: fear the impaler and all
who reign in his caste disguised... yet you encourage
that they come.... what tailoring of suit
so well disguises the blood? a heavy collar or the lightly
mandated to feel a "conscience"?
i like freaks like him, i too cared to wear many
masks, is that worth a psychiatric evaluation,
you spared me no trust,
your secret dealings could have spared me
my health, what you fear is double-jeopardy,
including a seclusive f.b.i. reclusive supposedly paranoid...
please leave all your badges of officiation to
an affiliated organisation of governance behind
including your firearms, and other scientific
conditionings prejudiced against the church v.
Galileo... please leave dogmatism to students and
anomaly encounters to professionals as stated by
the entitlements of doctorate...
the plot has no identifiers worthy of investigation,
unless everyone was brainwashed into thinking
that goldfish held a greater memory span in a
fish tank than all the people in the world, atmosphered,
and later impregnated by nothing other than
vacuum and astronomical interactions of simple
alphabetical greek into complex chemistry? or
could a world conspiracy come about as simply
the words: she was worth a 1000 Greek ships
worth of **** to later ascribe the capital
of love as Paris? the raw animal is worth more in
his ontological environment than in a zoological one,
cages enliven violence rather than envision them
in either subject or the culprits mind...
it's the added prospect of seclusion that animates
a piquant status of memory to a kindred
fingerprint cloning deviation, a susceptible replication
environment: esp. through no familial motive, other than an
individualistic swarm-like reaction to an insecticide:
however much the individual invigorates a
suspect accommodation to an equilibrated pluralism
within a status ascribed to an: individual.
i admit, the psychological rhetoric is the new
invention of the wheel... it goes on and on forever,
i fear for those hapless idiots studying the logic
of excluding soul (as an absence of thought), god,
and free will to ever return to the rational / sane world
of afternoon tea, given they specialised in these
specified wording to a rubric equatable to 1 + 2 = 3.
you'll learn no more human secrets than that of
a *sloane's viperfish
... otherwise you're entering a realm
of perfected adaptability with some quasi-science
via fiction and conspiracy, that leave you no more than
an agent of the priesthood and a loss of a good
niche of ******... well, is't the priesthood
pathetic so jealous as to have lost the reigns having
kept them for so long? oh yes, the public will react...
regarding the next nutritionist's fact...
it's called adaptability i may say, leave them to it,
you kept to your symbolism for too long,
we learned the crux like we learned to say X
three times ensuring we watched ****...
oh i'm not jealous, i won't be the one having to
orphan the ******* sons, as your church had to keep
them to keep up pretences... all they have to keep
up is the stability of universally recognising a
centimetre, which, like satan said of the kingdoms
to be given, the Orientals sort of ignored with
the grievance demanding an explanation for
the ineffectiveness of thus said temptation.
Meka Boyle Mar 2011
My loneliness is self imposed
I try to escape, yet the door remains closed
The walls I've built up keep me grounded
As I take sanction in the fact I'm surrounded
There's no on to blame for the demise of my soul
Alone and isolated, my heart devours me whole
Constantly searching for something to numb the pain
Yet nothing dulls the thoughts racing through my brain
Hopelessly I long to be proven wrong
For someone to pick up my pieces and carry them along
No matter the wishes, I remain alone
For who I really am remains unknown
I hide, halfheartedly, behind a broken facade
Seclusive, elusive, its myself I evade
Secretly hating all who claim to love me
Yet still I hide in the shadows, allowing no one to see
For no one can handle my distorted senses
In order to protect them, I put up my defenses
In a world of shallow thinkers, I sink to the floor
Blending in with my surroundings, its myself I abhor
Yet I can't contain the longing in my soul
To find someone who fits the missing piece, making me whole
Winona Forever Oct 2012
Let's go.
Public places
people
everyone.

"Hello,"
stranger says.
Seclusive
as I tend to be.

"
You know,
gentle jaws
reside
inside me."

Below*
my multitudinous mask
there is trust
in no one.
Rielle Vobi Feb 2014
Frankenstein's monster will carve the flesh away from crooked and cracked spine.

He will lay it before him, dine on my corrupt core and chew it and taste it
to his liking.

He will lay it before him until I am ground down like cow in malevolent misery mouth.

I will caress the monster's earlobe like a lover loves to touch tentatively.

I will whisper winsome my gratitude in to his deepening, voracious appetite.

Appetite.

I am appealing; I appeal sometimes.

Monsters don't stop.

He is kind, waving his flag of caustic cautionary tails and tales.

He will enable me still I will violate his violently vile mouth.

I will scream skunk scented bile into his diseased eyes.

I will despise his acid belly.

He will laugh.

He will caterwaul, he will sing his celebrity over my aching guts
that are splayed so ******, flinching and twitching for his feast.

In the least, I will show a tired effort of the finished, final scream.

Kindred severance washed down with the finest of red wine
built over breaking bridges that collapse under this foreknowledge;
the monster mocks and flocks like a fleet of wild birds, inside the
married meat of my stride away.

I won't laugh.
I won't smile.
I won't remember.
I won't want.

I will sail like a baby girl delivered into the peaceable tastes of a beginning innocence.

I won't want to remember.

I will want to view an eye that can't see me.
I will want to smell a mouth that hates me.
I will want to taste a hand that closes angrily around my throat.

I will want to hear.
I will want to hear.

I will want to hear you tell me you love me.
I will want hear inside an ear that listens to me.

I will want to devour a bit of interrogating mayhem before it devours me.

I will survive the monster's prowling, hmph...in his putrid spruce pants
he wears to capsize my tries.

Picasso pictures busy themselves around my waist like your arms wind
up love around that girl's.

Shh.

I will hush my turbulent sorrow.
I will hush my endearing memories of the tingling hands
that stand high above my last love.

Reason's charity could've fought my battle but the monster proved
his dedicated engagement
his engaging affliction; he proved his pressuring ability.

I'd like to dance endlessly.
I'd like to movie inside your misery and dissolve, destroy!

Your disastrous danger.

I need a melody survivable, tender through trials of truth.

I knew there would be new.

I've not ever been seclusive, exclusive to you.
I am intrusively presumptuous.

Accept my apologies, I repeat and I repeat, accept my apologies as I've accepted
anxieties

I never expected an embrace.

I don't expect an embrace.

Like that majestic man sips singular sanctuary of that
fantastic, general, genial girl I gulp blue bottles of sky.

I would prefer you drink of me.

Battered, I believe you but choose
you choose
but you choose
the bruise.

There may never be any new for me of you.
There may only ever be you.

Sip me, as I am your Kiss Elixir, feathering against your sable brushes
seeping today, tomorrow and yesteryear.

The tip of my pink tongue tastes your timid tenderness
and your dreaming and driving distinctions quenches
my desires of today, tomorrow and yesteryear.

I am your Kiss Elixir.

Arctic anger wraps inside simple solitude though I've not tasted our separation.

I've sung through every scathing scream you've ever bellowed.

Won't you have me instead?

I am ended.

The monster's claim is one more; another disparate love.
Jealousy.
Poetic AF Sep 2015
Thoughts swirling through heads
An ignored and scorned collection of all life’s thorns
Behind doors- we live lives of seclusive depression
Questioning the lives lived, the lucid lunacy in session

A surge of motivation to achieve the pipe dreams
Sown from the art works of others- the inner child screams
We can’t achieve.
He’s locked inside a cage of fool’s gold
I suppose he’d **** the warden if we weren’t our own foes.

We were told he’d come out but we’ve grown too old
The jail is locked the key was sold
I turned in it for green but as I flipped through the folds
No happiness was revealed just the cost of my soul
There's something about the sound of the wind,
on a cold chilly night, puts goosebumps on my skin.
I feel the Earth turning right beneath my feet,
the thought of dying is just so bittersweet.

I see people on the streets with planets in their eyes,
they look down at the ground as they walk on by.
It's like every person is a world apart,
walking around aimlessly with a broken heart.

I never thought I'd see a day where people on the streets,
were just as seclusive as dreams are obsolete.

It's absolutely crazy,
how we've all grown.
It's drives me crazy,
how much is still unknown.

Sometimes I hurt in my head and in my heart,
but for what it's worth, I can't tell the two apart.
I've spent years upon years trying to help myself,
but what makes me feel the best is when I help someone else.

I see people breaking down, falling to the floor,
begging for help, looking for an open door.
No one wants to ask for a savior in their life,
because their all afraid of saying the word Christ.

I never thought I'd see a day where people in need,
would rather die alone than with something to believe in.

It's absolutely crazy,
how we've all grown.
But it drives me ******* crazy,
knowing how much we've lost.

People think before they feel and act before they think,
this strange world we live in really needs to rethink,
how we got here and how we can still grow,
before we lose touch with what we use to know.

It's driving me crazy,
how much we don't know.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Tommy Le Apr 2019
A brown blot in a swarm of yellow
in the Summer and a cushion of green
in the Spring. It’s white crackled brim
is all that separates the splintered walls
from the gravelly top. The smell of exhaust
whirs the inside to life and ragged dogs
trot out from under the seclusive underside.
The hilly bumps follow up with an uneven
hairstyle of wild grasses. The front door
leads to a cacophony of rustic and tech
as the floors are unforgiving plywood
supporting computers, TV’s, and consoles.

Each step risks a hissing creak and leads
to a weathered table that fed mouths old and young.
Open as it is, the valley still clutches
this place. The winds; sometimes a warm kiss
and sometimes a teasing sting push an old tree.
It shaded a crooked swing set made
for the children, but children they are
no more. The dust kicked up by vehicles
cake the walls with each new visitor,
but just like the children, they also
become few and far between. Grandpa’s house
used to be my house too.
January thirteenth two thousand
and nineteen will complete
mine third score orbitz round the sun,
who as a youth evinced

demure and effete
traits, and now weathered, Ongepatshket,
and plenty seasoned,
I feel ready to greet
a garrulous, humorous, and indecorous

Shikse for an indiscreet
liaison, where she will
get reddit to shutterfly,
and twitter like an uber keet
oozing with NON GMO

gluten and monosodium
glutimate saccharine dripping
with au naturale oversweet
ample ***** shapely waist,
and derriere replete

with plenty of junk in the trunk
cavorting, flirting, and issuing manumission
to fraternize, friskily frolic
fruitfully mixing bedlam with bunk
sundering politesse as a "FAKE",
gentlemanly, and honorable hunk,

when in truth,...this lapsed (Lou Zoo Lee)
christened nebish lunk
bookish, loutish, and wonkish teasing
seminarian formerly seclusive monk
keying into my inner philanderer,
yeah...yeah...yeah overdrunk

with prurient fantasies donning an imitation
of (guess who), one
narcissistic trumpeting punk
at heart my idol, no matter the teetering
ship of state he nearly countersunk,
which purportedly mirrors

his Wharton curriculum vitae,
which...well showed he nearly did flunk
apprenticed as POTUS with
FLOTUS attractive trophy
wife (number three) female chunk

and,...oh yes aesthetically
pleasing female real estate
from appearances marriage
barren and devoid of great
je nais sais quois,

though Melania rarely irate,
and partial government shutdown of late
reverberating with fallout, that does oscillate
furloughed federal employees to perspire
principally at increased amortization rate.
David Hilburn Mar 2019
Themes of survived angel's?
Which in ought, order's and opportunity
Save the mention of silence, with dread little?
Is a reaching gift to upheaval, for the sourness of cunning?

Panic in a solemn justice
With the language of veracity to attest?
A new life of simplicity, to exact argued realization
Of proper manner's and the dole of seclusive lest...

Fancy words, for hello how are you?
Minus the tender kinds and humanity of solitude for youth?
The waiting and harboring of sincerity as when we couldn't...
Strange or strength is a logic best served to innocence as a clue

To decisions
And the inner most desires of having a life adding want's
Is the complexity of substitution for a pronounced, intimation?
Of what was a count of distances as a shrewdness is, or love...

Crying that overcomes the share in shame, we don't need...
But a harmony of ideas and courage entailing, a risen smile
That has a wholeness in mind, is a blessing we save for requiem lead
To decency and predilection's guidance of a habit we seek, for justice all the while

So went wrong, why the defensive glare?
Pain, and its potential as moments; a zealous need
To longevity is given a reach and a presence to care
Having the distinction of being, the call to hope, we save for heed...

A baby with misery to know and hopeful duress taken to worth...
Is it also a prayer?
Minds blown and the invigoration of other's to compliment certainty
Yes, the toil of omnipresence of a soul's affinity of when we share...
Baby goo goo, and soon liberty would, with you too...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
buying three litres of jack daniels...
at... £20 a a litre -
which is £12 short from the original
selling price...
  (so i've saved a total of
£36... which, at the current selling
price is... £4 short
of two bottles for free)...

   that i would love to believe in
dr. strangelove - and a very real fear &
potential of an atom bomb...

the spectacle of awer...
        how the 20th century could be
a casper -
             but not now...
   i could ask for a blissful sentence of
an asylum - but this current: society
of sociopaths...

  i just can't: beside the don't...
        that there is some fledgling will:
otherwise the negation of want...

well yes... bourbon is whiskey with
some maple syrup...
        i get it now...
                   maybe flashing a u-boat
on the drive...
perhaps taking time to cling
to a bucket list and parachute ****-naked...
buy and subsequently heave
20 years for petting a labrador...

there was a trickling uncertainty
when jerking off and there was....
shyla stylez...
                 born 1982... oh...
found unresponsive in her bed by
her mother... aged 35... in 2017...

it's such a pity to have such a...
monstrous high-blood pressure in
the constraints of the phallus...
i forget the puritan...
if i get away with pursuing
the orthodox guillotine
of a missing *******...
     then again:
     it would be impossible to *******
without any *******...
i guess i'm playing the joker hand...
on the toilet...
**** like a tease...
mrs. no. 1 & 2... subsequently no. 3...
it's not spectacular...
no satans are being deployed
into the air... no scented candles...

it's like a spectacle of inverting
the time it would take for wood to rot...
or ****** on mushy peas...

      oh sure... i could write of
the blue pill platonism...
                   but it's so impossible
to lie... let alone believe in lies self-generated...
from the hiding place
of the obscure... when...
people behaved like people...
had their lives and had their...
           soul crushing competitive streaks...
it was paradise to scribble...

now is no time to come to the fore...
could i encompass staging
a transcendence...
or merely this: a scuttling into the shadow...
not out of fear...
but for the sheer desire to spectate...
i mean: this requires an audience
this... this world this... whatever "this"
actually is...

the neighbour put up a new fence...
i've had over half a year of work
in perfecting the garden...
       there was putting up the pergola
with a wisteria
weaving: now blooming with tender
bishop hues...
    i'm still working on digging
an arcane concept of a trench
and flooding it self-made:
3 parts sand 1 part cement...
so the weeds from my neighbour's
garden do not sprout from beneath
the ornamental bark i laid...

if i were some evil genius:
tinged with a psychology of a soviet
past... or a mandarin current -
i wouldn't wish this militarised democracy
upon anyone...
          
           the original fear:
the oppenheimer crucible is beside
the ******* point...
                    when there was an awe inspiring
fear... a citation from the upanishads:
now i have become death...
who is to be cited in the current
climate of events...
are we experiencing a blitzkrieg
of anger from the elements...

           could it be possible that even
the gods are stricken with
a wake of the titans -
and their first riddled tier 0:
elemental forebears...

              coming to the cauldron...
if i were an evil genius:
i would want to work in the confines
of staging coups with atom bombs...
a period of paranoia and a history
that could make... 50 years a breezy
postcard nonchalance...
i'd pride myself on a parody of
a marathon... by turning up...
with 10 years of experience as a...
postman...

                   this whirling and sedating
prospect of tamed angers and
angered hopes... and docile happiness:
in the plural -nesses
       having exacted a limbo score
of stones stashed in socks...
and then flickering... like an imitation
slingshot...

     the classical period of hebrews writing
a history that would later become
incorporated into the labyrinth of the gentiles...
that London once aspired to
be a reinvention of Jerusalem...
in the 19th century's zenith...

                         that Paris transcended this
ambition...
                      what a mystery...
this new club of intellectuals...
when one tunes in to at least
a bare minimum of 2 hours in the morning
of BBC radio 3...
by comparison i tune into classic.fm
and... the same old... the same mundane...
repetition jargon...
carl orff's o fortuna...

there's no joke: it's just a platitude of
bad taste... it's bad because it's
pop repetitive... pop repetitive:
which is saying much... about classical music
being staged to a palette...

people are supposed to possess limbs...
apparently...
but i doubt that...
one can dislike the piquancy of blue cheese...
or beef honeycomb tripe...
esp. if one has...
tiramisu for dessert...
              
      i listen in on the BBC radio 3 broadcast
and i tease myself with words like...
the seclusive parody... no...
the non-inclusive... i.q. like a pH test...
one is either "intellectually" acidic or
alkaline...

old darwin can't exactly rewrite this
fork... in the lineages of history making...
what is out-dated about the english
is clinging to darwin...
by now this should be
a well reserved fact...
and loiter in the subconscious...
it should not have the capacity
to have the propensity of words...
to still have to be expressed as
a reiteration...
                    the automation
of the heart...
                                   i am beyond
the caricature of this amnesty of
"grief"...
               beyond: with a sense temporal...
only...
              
       it's not like the copernican
heliocentric model was...
but it was... something for a wittgeinstein...
it's not like he was some
william burroughs who negated
the copernican interlude...
searching for ghosts and proofs
saying: the ancient egyptians knew
of the heliocentric model all along!

one person is somehow compounded
to lie...
whether it is true... or false...
it's beside the posit and the will for
the focus of narrative...
the will to power is...
an -esque variation of...
the submerging focus for the masses...
a will to power concerns the elite...

but what concerns all of us?
the narrative of subversion...
               it's not so much a hierarchy of
glistening parodies of giggling...
at the exchange...

the will to power can be compensated...
the ordeal of a narrative...
right now! it's not necessarily true
or false...
     you can strobe light as many scientific
facts... uncertainties...
quack doctors will still sprout!

there was once a will to power...
a progress fabric / template for exceptional
men... the en masse is only now:
the last reigning exception...
what was once )will( is now )narration(...
what was once )power(... is now...
                   a "leisure" of a lie...

                  such the current world has
become so: new and in being so new:
so new-demanding...
                the old quest of a predicament
of the individual... some beckett-esque
oasis is but a half-heaved
borrowing of ancient greek monstrosity
of myth: this now new
pathology...

                   history - mythology -
journalism - temporal relativism -
all kept... within... the confines... of...
a spatial "integrity":
but i very much like... the lost butterfly
wings of "         " (odd)...

when: oh god... and if there wasn't
this propaganda machine...
but only now... you can see it speeding
up... and it's like... trailblazing
and you're wishing for some repose
with a tumbleweed
and how there could be
a cancan moment in h'americana...
when the old soviets would be
at it...

         but shyla stylez is still 35...
and dying of "reprieve"...
but i'm still gorging on beef honeycomb
tribe... and eating an italian classic
minutes later...

            because i might eat...
the livers of oinks...
the stomachs of chickens...
and the hearts...
i am barbaric...
                but i like...
the nova scotia compass...
or where it's "heading"...
i have a dutch lisp tantrum that's
beside a kiss of a tarantula...
that these people gravitated
toward a flattening of concerns...
this bicycle had to replace
towing a tonne of beef:
and milking it...

           hindering the limbo for
the worth of caviar, oysters...
and... scrutiny limbo tall...
a caribbean **** muster-pace...
because mustard is a european
masterpiece... along with
the "jelly" of the horse:
subjected to the readied dish of:
                      radical-conservatism...

calls "us" radishes on the
harsh... told to talk tall bone
with grit of bone...
     i hide my rhymes
with a... most secure... are we'iz'e'kid?
hoods to clamour for a:
"safen und testez"?

the bull-whipped testimony
of the tried and tested..
pair of guggenheim's "dropped off"....
my ordeal at the opera!
stiletto baron... a piercing sort
of "shoe"...
         the elephant's trunk is
a bad metaphor for a jazz fuelled trumpet...
concerning the otherwise
3 blind mend teasing the braille
of carpenter's 1 hour posit for:
no instagram, no fan-boyoh...
this variation of choking joke of junk...

the "rhyme" come first..
a prefix junction...
because executing memory with
suffixes... is... like... "no"... and "new"...
once upon a time some alexnder
the great...
count my concerns...
the balkans are the size of texas..
the ottoman turks were and are...
merely the pronounced presence
of barbery... on the demand
of the english... plumbers...

well... everything in english...
is steroid riddled: shakespearean or not...
macbeth or death...
it's not even dickensian...
it's: school the children or: death's
parrot and the *** riddled quack...
it's that the pillar is... heavier than its
shadow...
the... zunge ein walgrundieren...
              neckerei...
                          ein augenbinde hängend...

not that this is some Latvian
excavation project:
who! is to spreschen richtig....
german-philia or a russo-phobia...
bible blessed nuance
of... ol' david & delylah....
samson & goliath...

      my own pretty azure ice cradle topic...

a lobotomy of wooling
the cushion of an aversion
towards the heave! a grand heave!
prototype of nuance normie...
which is like gradation the arab project...
and he-he! softy-pie y first catering
for cancer last: croatian lobotomy *******
cue:

lumbering at a grief of a sedation..
to chop a tree...
to heave a concept of table
or a toothpick from it...
to give birth for a cherry fruit...
to delight a hindering of
             i aim...
                     the teeth and
the prosthetic... looking pristine...
prime gum:  excavating "leisure"...
it's that....

jaw-abiding:
sharon stone contra...
michelle pfeiffer...
        kim cattrall: godzilla ***
casablanca?!
    shyla stylez izzzzzzzzzzz
zoom?!
       jaw-gnashing teeth counting...
my leisure
of experimenting with
grace...
            my own: men-yoroi...
             licking a lisp...

this 3 bottles of jack a toll...
                       of this summa summarum;
these "croatian" shadow-people...
the lesser kind...
of the less celebrated...
after all: from california toward
the axis of elven-evil via texas...
the pristine people:
beside the primo escape plan
aiming at the moon!
what is the ol' muscovite affair...
that now... tinged with a beijing hindering...      

the soviets would bring a bomb...
the billionth man came
with a cinema of a ******* sneeze!
Tom Shields Mar 2021
***** a finger on the crown and make a wish
if your blood catches the moonlight, just right, I just might
crack the golden ratio of your glass charms with a kiss
snap apart the cage between your heart and me like twigs
and since you live for your art, devour it and become one with the artist
right?

Because you sit with that glossed over look on your face, in my afterglow
I have everything you're living for, but you give me everything you're living for
then you can act devastated when you lose it all, like you didn't know
I was going to take, never return, you couldn't be anything to me, not a *****
kick you open and pry apart your dolled-up, pink brain, then smash out the windows
everything from inside-seeing is false and prettified, when I leave I take the door
you need me, fear me, hate me and revere me, but I don't ******* live here anymore
so I only come at night

Be one and I said
you can't make everyone happy
open wide and crawl outside of your head
you can't make anyone happy
stop trying, you're already dying, a man walking dead
I'm taking everything from me
to balance, I chase myself in my stead
I give nothing back, indiscernible nonsense
chicken scratch writing to keep me fed
fretting, I'm sweating, the bellows of insecurity hurriedly squealing
everything juts out, like it's designed to hurt my every feeling
these field mice I'm gathering all at once by the fistful are weeping
each skullcap on my fingers clatters and shatters, none good for keeping
the forest for the trees is never as intended
that's why the clearing he leaves is mostly open ended

He is abysmal, every principle of nihilism,
cold and seductive, seclusive and elusive
bold and eclectic, embodied allure of tasting ellipsism
his intellect, an insect, piercing and intrusive
the ego of a young and vile man,
I give him all I can
every thing that is me, flung into his kingdom
never does he ask for myself, life or limb
never do I question, would I offer them if he needs them
only do I hope that soon the stars will flee, to cover their faces
all light and rays will hide away and show no empathy
there will be nothing human to interfere, in any forms or places
and in that pitchest, voidest dark, I will finally see
the most perfect silence of the senseless, where I may embrace my throne
the absence of humanity and all its voices, where my despair may rest with me alone.
write
please read and enjoy
philosophy: the slow-burn of experience... in one's last recollection: existentialism: out of every instance: an insistence: a preservation of the Hellenic PRO VIVO and not this morphed Roman: PRE VITRO: by sand: from dune to dune: by sea of dryness to the sea of: insurgent hills: boulders of salt: salt like chalk a rock given: enough time... i wonder why i find myself to seclusive and adamant only: by scorn and tear and moan of woman and the tenderness of a cat's lair... o harp and grunt and gurgle around the edges: torture my past last seen: of me, as me: and someone please have my I to switch me on and off on off on off i have sleep on my mind but dreams walking about and around them i place my campfire: rest: assist... auxiliary
that's:
             since the spelling mistakes: redone like a make-up video
with woman:            XI
                                 L
                                LI
                            ­          and that's a-u-X
                                      u-x-I
               ­                     10
                                       1
                                     1 1
                                    50
                        ­                                       51...

that's something special: like the devil's dozen:
matthew, luke, judas, simon peter,
nathaniel,
            mateusz konrad
mateusz konrad
                timothy uzeer
       john
                           Barthamalomew
Bart...
       Barthamoylew: loo! loo! boo! boo!

Q'y'i'y'e

                       and Kye:       Qatohha:
Kevin: *******:
must... sneeze: mustard?! Knaves! Chives!
Chimneys! Open Fields of Poppycock!

WWI: bis (2-chloroethyl) sulfide
in the fields: mustard a **** killer gas:

WWII: diatomaceous earth
             hydrogen cyanide...
Zyklon B: U-boats: Beethoven:
               Panzer: brigadier: BRZĘCZYSZCZYKIEWICZ
                                             ­   ж     ч  ы      Щ ы             ч
sgn: ЦAP


the game of football evolved:
not before my eyes
but when you're sitting watching
snippets of the Sandman
with your mother
with the skull of three mouths
and that's the Holy "the Corinthian"
Spirit to me:
Christianity can be scary
like all the Turkic furor in
Leipzig:
               with the Austrian scorer
and then the game
was on for the last 20min:
  
                 a proper football match:
Edie i love you
but i also love my father
and i also love my mother
and i know Reyla is an oprhan
but i also write
and i know it doesn't give me money
but it gives those around
me the chance to see a spectacle
of one: enamored by life
and finding pleasure in thinking
and abstracting emotions: rather than
using or feeding off of them...
emotions have pronouns
and sometimes they venture
into our minds
without brains like schizoid ghosts
of freezing winds...

Austria vs Turkey:

   not like Portugal vs Slovakia:
a beautiful match

but 0 - 0
probably the most tactical
of matches
with Prima Madonna of Ronaldo
i could comment
on the sport commentary on t.v.
i.e. perhaps Bruno Fernandez will
have a chance to get a kick
at a free-kick?

   point being: football evolved:
from a
4-4-2 or a 4-3-3
or a 5-3-2
               getting the ratios looser:

M. Gregoritsch: sign of the cross
because he was playing against a Muslim:
ahem: Turks are not Arabs
are secular bandits too

modern football formation:
two strikers is so weird: apparently:
as told by tacticians
so much so that even women
got involved and started playing
weird: 144 caps...
10 years: how many officiated games
are these women having
when men are proudest having
capped 100 international games...

like wow...

       3-2-4-1
       3-4-2-1
    
and now my own:

   2-2-3-3
                 2-4-2-1-1

  but there are some weird ones:
point being:
in the old days
you had games
where

4-4-2 clashed with a 2-4-4
game of football was chiral:
and no chiral too:

you did have 4-4-2 vs 3-3-4
and that was given to us "fans"
who played football on t.v.
and still do...
because the game can evolve
and now you have
these weird formations:

new: Portugal:
old: Slovakia:
almost the Cold War reignited...

then Turkey and Austria:
point being there's a siege
at the goal:
that never used to happen:
set-pieces and sieges of "confused"
formation no longer being so rigid
not fuseball fusball fastball:
not snooker or cripples...

obviously tomorrow
i will have to get my father an AC/DC
t-shirt and think about
an ever expanding family
i missed father's day with a present
but socks
and whiskey and sunglasses:

i just remembered that i've been
scribbling for well over a decade
and i have a trip to Hawaii to thank
me for seeking out the vampire
darkest ego and triad
but football has changed
and it's in the formation
and how games are also analysed
and should be noted of:
should their functioning in a recurrent
investment of interest fade:
so becoming deductive de facto: defunct:

blood sports of the Coliseum
football matches and concerts
of the Stadiums...
little Greece in Soho and the West End...
there's always a little Greece
and a little China
wherever Rome still remains: a whiff
of sewage and fresh air
and oranges and bay leaves...
well: no wonder Rome didn't invade
the Slavic peoples
while invaded what is the British Isles
a Germanic and Celtic and Wend
to Pict: conglomeration an Alice in Wunderbra...

the game has changed:
capacity of Madison Sq Garden: 18,000...
if i won't be able to stop
and one but one of my poems
gravitates to the capacity of Wembley:

just to love sport and be sober about
it: i can't imagine
being savage at a sporting event
having to invest in *******
like this is war
war of what? disparaging colors
of shirts?
flags: being burned?

            i have to be sober and critical
and fair and judgemental
whenever watching a sporting event
it's not a managerial investment
to the alternative to playing golf and
making deals and friends and profits...

to appreciate sport is to escape
the hellhole of bedroom antics
of video gaming:
yes: unlike those turtles of the toilet
literature 15min constipation over Proust:
but live sports is what gets you
away from video gaming...
you get to be a play-along judge:
critique: honing in on the Ethic:
the laughter at the devil with:

well i do know right from wrong!
you just worded it differently!
i spoke with the fox:
and he told me: double-sly
against you: being a mammal and all
and probably one of your lesser cousins:
i do know right from wrong:
but you said:
and you will have knowledge
of the difference between good and evil!

simple! math! grammar!
i do know right from wrong!
but if you serpent old peacock:
survived the dinosaurs: ha ha:
crocodile my Mammon and Moloch
with Beelzebub a bird beak pecking...
since: old serpents became
      hmm...

           confused woodland pigeons:
sometimes i see a confused male
unable to call to tell apart
the sexes
with the males less convinced about
flying away to safety:
no greater spectacle than the abandonment
of a pregnant woman...

it should be Shakespearean
but then those old social norms
would have had
two families waging wars against
each other...

            now so lazily: clamoring
to mean anything at all:
best confronted by the friendship of dogs
and it's just as sad to write
anything about these times: at all.

— The End —