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Jedd Ong May 2015
There is a Seymour in all of us - not more a fragile name but perhaps not less. We are all equally cut, strings loosened past our own internal metronomes, flashing bits of poetry past those who will listen. Or rather, those who must listen - the longer no one does the faster these strings within us snap piece-by-piece. Soon we will become balloons that float away and pop. We, leaving Earth for space. Note that poetry is not just the meter that stirs heat and snaps foot-beats within our tongues - but the needles that ***** them too.

In these poems are buried stick figures and falsified diary entries - excepts of a language wrought from our own souls. Today I wore a baseball mitt scribbled with bright green verse as to not get lost running around the diamonds. We are all, in our own way, misunderstood and that’s where I feel Seymour’s got something over us. The innate, misread poetry of our collective consciousness is pervasive in his entire life. Maybe this is less of an introduction. Less of a poem even, than a eulogy for Seymour Glass - the most delicate man who ever lived.

He threw a stone at the one girl he truly loved, as we drew stick figures.
Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters can be found here: http://www.ae-lib.org.ua/salinger/Texts/RaiseHighTheRoofBeamCarpenters-en.htm. It's not necessarily a poem, but I hope it's poetic enough to pass as one. It's been tough.
howard brace Sep 2012
He'd been conceived in Flamborough, so his little sister assured him some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole eighteen months his junior and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid, "on this very rock" River insisted, kicking her heels in delight, "next to this very rock pool" they were both sitting beside, "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky... she taunted as the rest of the colourful story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant concealed... she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded close enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
        
     It was conceivably an ill wind that blew no one any good that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister...  Having just taken a well earned drink from a neighbouring rock pool, Sockeye the floppiest Springer Spaniel this side of the Pecos decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching wriggle instead... then promptly flopped over and slid into the hole... life was sweet.  Now covered from nose to tail with every species of deceased shore life usually found frequenting the high water mark Sockeye, in a blinding flash of canine inspiration judged it would be in everyone's best interest were he to have a really good shakedown which always appeared to go down well on these occasions... and give everyone a good peppering, just so they could see exactly what they'd been missing all their lives.  

     "A rock of all places, for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he jumped up and wiped his palms on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then sat back down again and began exploring his left nostril in quiet contemplation before finally jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..?  these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool...  a baby crab marooned by the tide scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss to herself and considered what further mischief she could possibly pass her brother's way.

     Rocky tossed a piece of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby flock of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be a discarded bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch gambolled after the stick, his ears flying courageously in the still Summer air and burst, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping magnificently from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the fratching seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their daily business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.

     After fourteen years of valiant endeavour his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair assembly, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumping gallantly atop his waistband...  

     After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically overlooked anniversary cards a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... his better half, so she insisted would ride rough shod, administering her own brand of justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded revolver... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.  

     Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger badly trapping the mound of his thumb in the process, "Aaargh...!!!" plunging his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rock-pool "aaah...!!!"   Still marooned by the tide, the baby crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good offensive nip, then hang on spitefully as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully used earlier.

     Acknowledging her husbands misfortune with a perfunctory grunt as she rummaged in her beach-bag for the thermos, she refused to be drawn in where thumbs were concerned right now, after all with his DNA sequencing she was convinced he could probably grow a new one within the month... whilst Tina, well... she was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in her direction... and who in turn was more than happy to listen to the woes of others and went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more of poor Mrs Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently..? you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone... and how she couldn't wait...' and as rumour had it, neither could her husband...

      Feigning to be otherwise engaged, Tina... as her husband, now blowing frantically on his mangled thumb, stumbled backwards over the half erected lounger and with a spine jarring "Ooomph...!!!" landed squarely in Sockeye's subsiding earthworks... professed total disassociation with the entire fiasco as she plunged her nose even deeper into the overdue library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to stick with the same itinerary once they returned home... and that while she was here, she did not under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed hanging from the door handle... but if anyone should, then whoever it was did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a mangled thumb she luxuriated, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth as the one normally found playing around her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.

      All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with a certain someone out from under her feet then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock pool comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide was now sat busily knitting four pairs of matching leg warmers in the cool, still water but that was only if that certain someone... a shrill  "AAaargh...!!!" somewhat more desperate than the first, ****** itself upon the as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated across the warm Jurrasic rock and recoiled out to sea... "now where was I", twisting her book uppermost "oh yes..! someone was going to pay..." only now it was going to be sooner rather than later, but only if that certain someone didn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disappeared and drift into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold out, or was that she reflected, simply too much to ask.

     It was his Surname that Rock found so objectionable, or it had been right up until his little sister's enlightening disclosure, now it was both names Rocky disliked, it would have been far kinder had Rock Salmon been sandwiched between sliced bread and given to Sockeye... who's solemn duty, from the first mouthful to the very last, was to gaze up beseechingly from beneath the kitchen table  and devour anything that passed his way, even the postman had to be quick about his business or have his arm follow the mail through the letter box... then Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.  

     All Rocky's mum had thought about for the last fourteen years was seconds... every last solitary one of them since she'd suffered with an infection of matrimonial neurosis which had deprived her of common sense and her maiden name, from Chovey to that of Salmon and how with hindsight she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted was everything the name claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying your condolences to.

     Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good, his grandma-Ann by all accounts had been dead set against the union from word Go and saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth in whatever rock pool he found himself in, swimming against the tide as it were, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rocky, almost eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family... only he couldn't swim.

     "There"! her husband exclaimed "all finished... better late than never eh', who fancies trying it"? his wife luxuriated over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition would complement formal mourning attire.  Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and cautiously took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the last two hours, this was what holidays were all about he declared, one man pitted against insurmountable odds...  His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.  

     Having gathered her offspring with the promise of verbal earache if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally located Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of feathers poked tellingly from the corners of his mouth, his tail beating mischievously on the shingle decided in one further blaze of canine brainstorming, as Tina attempted to slip his collar on that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... Tina then devoted the next ten minutes chasing him amid unrestrained salvo's of cheering from the rest of the family... then bid goodbye to the little crab who, still marooned by the tide waved a friendly pincer in return... and trusted that she wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then she slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have shown you" she snapped "and don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered a jaunty angle with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.  

     "Woof "..? said a bewildered Sockeye, bringing everyone to an abrupt halt... and with paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation on his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress "I've met your sort before" and knew exactly where to place the toe of her dainty size-5 as Sockeye, digging his heals in even further created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband the unwitting holder and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned to clean up his own masculinity and dismantle the recently assembled, now redundant deck-chairs by himself... as for Tina, well... she'd had quite enough excitement for one day thank you very much.

     Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rocky making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite showing a brave face was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long to point out her oversight and... "please Miss" they'd all chant "we haven't had Salmon all week" and while the rest of the class were having convulsive fits, Rocky would elbow the lad sat at the next desk in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays.  Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilarious names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "what's wrong with River Salmon".

                                                      ­                         ...   ...   ...*

a work in progress*                                                        ­                                                              240­6
Arlene Corwin Feb 2017
Seymour Phillip Hoffman: The World Is Crying For You

If he’d known
The world would mourn his passing,
Would he have overdosed on ******?
How much self-love does it take
To break the habit?
Would you grab it, if you could?
I think I would.
Even kids and wife
Can’t make that change in life:
The skid, the slide,
The gliding down and down
And even more…
Until you’re on the floor,
A needle in your arm,
Unconscious of your heart’s alarm
Whispering “Stop
– or else your time is up!”

SPH, you never knew
They’d mourn your passing
As they’re doing.  
That it would cry: the bylines, headlines
Sounding, bounding, ‘round the world in living print.
If you’d been more intuitive, more self in-touch, less self-indulgent,
Drugs might have been out-of
Thought and need, thought and greed, but…
Habit feeds on thought
And you were caught.  
And so,
We throw
No stones at windows,
Even if and though
We know the world will not cry at our passing.
We’ll mourn
And learn.

Seymour Phillip Hoffman: The World Is Crying For You 2.3.2014
Special People, Special Occasions; Small Stories Book; Birth, Death & In Between II;
Arlene Corwin
  



https://arlenecorwinpoetry.com/2017/02/03/seymour-phillip-hoffman-the-world-is-crying-for-you/
The world lost a revered actor that day!  I wrote this the day hie died.
Charles Sturies Mar 2017
Drea De Mattea
Kathy Matea
See they're both in entertainment
Michael Jordan
Morton Downey
Get it both of their opinions are respected
Seymour Gross the decadent businessman with his two sons -
Greg and Seymour, Jr. Get it - Seymour
Someone put of Mad Magazine's Greg
and Ex-Chicago Cubs player- (He got famous at it.)
decadence, I mean, and Junior Gross -
We're all getting really tired of real decadent types
like his father and Greg. - I'm just being facetious about
the bloodline connection. What, are they both adopted and just
copies of it?
And Seymour's morals are especially refreshing
compared to his faults.
Loretta Lynn
Brenda Lee
Two gifted singers
Eisenhower and MacArthur
2 great West painters
etc., etc.,
You get the picture.
I'm glad I got the chance to know you
You were always there for us
In the good times and bad times
You always knew just what to say and do.

Comforting us whenever we needed you,
we could talk about anything.
No matter how good or how bad things were,
I knew we could count on you

When we got married you were there
when I wrote my book, you were proud of me.
When I got sick or if I got hurt,
you were there and made me feel better.

You always had a great sense of humor,
even when you were at your worst.
I'll always cherish the great times we had,
at the farm and at holiday time.

I'll remember all the homemade dinners,
that you cooked for us
Whenever we were there, on the farm,
and the good and bad things you shared with us.

Thank you for letting me in,
and thank you for being you.
No matter how anyone looks at it,
You will always be my second mom.

Thank you for all of your love and support,
you were the best second mom I could ever have.

I love you with all my heart,
and I will always miss you!!!

Denise Seymour
March 26th, 2015
This poem is in honor of my mother-in-law who has passed away on March 25th, 2015. She had liver cancer, and was given less than a week to live, but somehow managed to survive for over a month, since her final diagnosis.

This is that last thing she wrote, 1 week before she passed:

I've been ill. Time to begin the hard work of learning to walk again and clearing the puddly out of my brain.

Thank god family and friends are pulling me through slowly but surely.
You may get good care at the hospital, you will get good care from Hospice, but none of it equals the care from family.
John, no complaints ever, has kept me clean, dry, fed,even if I could or would only eat two bites.
Jane's cool hand, love and soothing voice are reassuring.
Chad as usual gave his steady support keeping us on the rails.
Bill and Denise looked for a cure with continued support and love.
Grandsons Dustin and Drew gave great comforting love, support and priceless knowledge.
Last but never least Kasey and Isaac, thank you for your love and support as your studies would allow.
A special thank you to the Seymour, Terrill , White, Smith and Shoen families. They always knew what to do and when to do it. Also to my island buddy Pam Ross, cousin. Friends Bill and Sue Cain and the Hurd Family.
The worst I've learned about myself through this is that, lying in bed doing nothing is definitely NOT my forte. The long dark hours of night will turn on you and if you're not careful, "I can't" may turn to "I don't want to."
The best I've learned is how good a shower can feel, using your own commode, the ability to walk two steps and having the strength to **** a straw.
I've a hard road to a hopefully descent recovery. (For a while anyway) Thank you all for the hand you are playing in it.
Too bad our wounded warriors must fight these battles daily.



She battled with every fiber of her being, everyday, just to get up, and she didn't like lying in bed all day, doing nothing.



The sad part about this, is that when we visited her for the last time, she wanted everyone to say their last good-byes to her. She went from the brink of death, within a week, to rebound, just long enough to thank everyone for supporting her through her illness.

The photo that you see above, is a photo of my mother-in-law, taken back around Christmas time in 2013. She was a very happy woman, with lots of love to share. I miss her already.
Chris Thomas Jan 2023
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers

Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself

He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man

To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces

He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes

He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished

"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching

A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
This is a poem about hopelessness, unrequited love, and the sense of loneliness that accompanies every loss.
Justine Sep 2010
Think back to a time when the world was innocent
When the sun didn't torture
Think back to the last time your smile wasn't a lie
I bet you can't
You live in your plastic world
Where nothing can be tarnished
And a single dent in your flawless identity
Is worse then ******* the oxygen out of a child's lungs
And devouring their soul deep within your selfish throat
My identity is full of darkness
Yet it's required in your presence to find a positive light
It's exhausting to pretend, it's exhausting to see your perfect face
Because you know what I'm never going to be okay
I hate how it's okay to be happy
Because happiness is only meant to leave those who are unfortunate enough in feeling it more aware of what it is like to want to watch the life drip out of every pore that freckles their skin
How can you possibly understand?
You wont until you blow you're life away because the only time you felt pain you couldn't handle it
I guess it's just a perfect ******* day for bananafish
boom

Read more: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAllCustom&friendId;=124424912&swapped;=true&pag;;=1#ixzz0zlEWNV8S
8/28/2009.
Tryst Aug 2014
January 1st

Dear diary!  It is my fondest
Wish to record all of life's
Little events so that someone
Might one day re-live the
Magical moments of my life!

February 5th

Spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.
Had an early night.

August 14th

What an enchanting evening!
I met the most beautiful woman,
Tall and elegant,
Long dark flowing hair,
Ruby red lips,
Oh how wonderful life is!
Her name is Sally!!!

August 16th

Sally came over for dinner!
She seemed a bit nervous until
I invited her in and then we
Danced through the evening,
How delightful she is,
And dare I say how ***** too!
As we were kissing goodnight,
She bit me!

August 17th

Woke up feeling terrible,
How much wine did we drink
Last night?  Wrapped myself
Up in blankets and closed all
The curtains, weather outside
Is abominable.

August 18th

Awoke in the early hours
Feeling ravenous.  How can
Anyone feel this hungry?
Raided the fridge but all
I could find was some
Stringy salad, nothing to
Sink my teeth into.

August 19th

I feel so ill, haven't eaten
Properly in days, I think that
I'm wasting away; Looked in
The mirror and I couldn't
Even see myself, I'm that thin!
I wish Sally was here right now.

August 20th

This hunger is unbearable,
I could ****** for some food,
My skin is looking so pale
And I feel dreadful; God I
Wish I was dead.  I've been
Having weird dreams
About Sally, I think I've
Been hallucinating.

August 22nd

Roused from slumber by
Someone banging on the front
Door; Peeped round the curtains
And the light almost burnt
My retinas;  Looked like some
Doctor collecting for the
Red Cross.  I waited a while
And he drove off in his van.

August 23rd

Tonight I reached my limit;
Dragged myself to the car,
Hoping to nip to McDonald's
(Yeah, I'm THAT hungry), but
In this atrocious weather,
I was blind as a bat.

August 24th*

Doctor van dude came back,
Couldn't face seeing him
So shouted through the
Letterbox, asked him to
Come back with a big steak,
I do so hope he does.

... diary entries end ...
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
whatever i wrote, found below... sorry, enjoying my *** and ms. pepsi... i know that even when i sober up, it won't make any sense to me, because it only made sense to me in drunken trance; as in? ah man, i'm here for a good movie, even a "******" movie, and definitely some pop songs when i'm trying not to give some sort of intellectual critique when easing back, and glug-glug-glug some fire-water down; all these arguments? maybe tomorrow, maybe next-week, maybe (please god!) never; honestly, listening to these arguments, actually made me want to break my "ramadam" of not jerking off... i simply hard to ******* after the threshold was breached: too few feminine vowels in the argument, after all, consonants are *******, prompt, *****... never really bubbles of pleasure, but sure as ****, logical, brick on brick, and a mile high... still, gets to the point of being tiresome that you have to move the tongues into a down-south manoeuvre; and i can, i am excluded from the biblical onan quest, since i haven't been m.g.m'ed.

so hold on,
               atheists think about god,
and later talk about god          as a void?

wait wait, too much ***...

and theists don't think
about god,
  and later turn into automaton
kneeling pawns?

****, this is confusing,
i thought that *** would
clarify...
      evidently, it hasn't...

what's confusing is the anti-theist
movement,
what's the anti-atheist movement
look like?

   ******* alice, walking through
a mirror glass...
   tricks of sophistry -
   you really can't even wish
for a fishing-hook
   to rein that word in...

oh god i'm trying...

  so:

   an atheist is someone who think
about* god,
      but states that there is no god -
well, the +? at least he's not
in a coma, or brain-dead,
  or a vegetable,
   or someone seeking a comfy couch
after the sunday services.

and a theist? is that someone who
"thinks" about god,
but states that there is no "god"
(i.e. thought) to be concerned with
the argument, beginning with:
my purpose is to gain a mercedes-benz
and turn flashy before the congregation?

no, wait, this is turning into a spiral
i can't control...
    can someone get me in touch
with mid-west tornado hunters?
   i'd love to spend a life watching
those things...
     i'm literally a convert
    after watching the film tornado
starring
oh **** me, what a great ******* to movie,
with the late philip seymour hoffman,
ever imitate the oiled-up *******
while pulling your cheek skin from
your jaw?
     sounds about the same as
chewing a beef steak...

oh right, right, these people are serious
atheists,
         but can't fathom the basic
solipsistic delusion
  that we're not living in alaska,
on our own, hunting, gathering, whatever...
that's atheism for you,
  in a society: solipsism lite...
    sure, it's a great talking ground
compared to the ritual of prayer
and the act of kneeling and singing
hymns,
    but the one thing atheism or anti-theism
(whatever the **** that means)
       will not be, is? solipsism...
  
            i can't fake either a belief
or a disbelief in a god - but i can empirically
state that i'm sitting in a room, by myself
and writing on a blank piece of
pixel "paper"...
                     that's the nearest i get to
grasping a "solipsistic" attitude in terms
of a self-sufficient self-dependence...
    who the **** will take my trash away
with regards to pencil-sharpening
the atheistic argument?

    atheism shouldn't exactly lead toward
anti-theism, that's anti-poetry, and i can't stand
by that... if only atheism leads toward
solipsism, i could understand you,
you pseudo adams...
          women will never exactly succumb to
a form of atheism that men seem to try to
make pop...
      this atheism has no potency for
the kind of pop that music can provide people
with...

wait wait... i'm still confusing terms, aren't i?
seagull 1 says the same as seagull 100...
        that's going to be hard to formulate,
given that we don't know who
the first atheist was...
       buddha? buddha thought he was
a levitating head of a god attached to
a body of a human being...
  who was the first atheist?
                        so this is seagull 100 talking
with seagull 200, with seagull 1003...
     now... now i lost the plot...
   who's seagull 1?
               ah! seagull 0!
  there's no seagull to begin with...
           so why are we talking in seagull 1's
talk?
        
so atheists "think" about "god"
          while "theists" think "about" god...
the former translates as talk,
while the latter translates as worship...
       **** me, the "theists" invoking
   the "about" is a mind-****** -
  where is he? mecca?!
            yes, about as in coordinating...
    funny though, how atheists manage
to talk more "about" god,
   than theists get to pray "to a" god...
atheists can indulge in their activity
24 / 7... theists get to only do it for 1 hour,
every 7 days... what a scary comparison...
             and when i remember going to
church, i remember the comfort of
being able to yawn during the service...
whenever an atheist speaks,
   my ears turn into agitated antennas...
        can i cite a one word quote and end this?
*losers!
victor tripp Feb 2014
I keep,battling, myself, but, am, slowing, drifting, away, was, clean, and sober, of drugs, for, twenty- six years, but, the, needle, in, my left, arm, while, lying, on, the bathroom,floor, drove, lasting, life, away, won, an Oscar, for, portraying, famed, author, TRUMAN CAPOTE, who, wrote, IN COLD BLOOD,sadly, I won't, be, picking, up, my ,young, children, today, felt, really, comfortable,on , the, movie set, or Broadway stage,had, so many, roles,left, for, the audience, to see, years ago, when, drugs, ruled, and called, out, my name, day or night,I  ingested, whatever, was,near,but, now, as my eyes, flicker, on life, for, the very, last time, dying here, wish, there, was, more, control, and resolve, I had, seems, the final, bow, always, says, goodbye
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts.*

a shortened critique of pure reason -
                                                               ­   a) based on phenomena
                    (things most likely talked about)
and
                                            b) based of noumenna
                                        (things least likely talked about)....
i.e.                    a) and the ego implant,
and                                                     ­ b) the god implant -
likewise the zealots on either side,
bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims...
i forgot to mention that Kant forgot
to mention the trigonometric foundations
as justifying owning a villa or whatnot,
the same foundations of having
the implant ego secured and willed
are the same parameters of the
implant god secured and thought
the point being dynamic parallelism,
mid-way between cosine and sine
rigid fluctuation tangents occur,
the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.;
you're basically born with ego
or you're born with god -
there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between -
ring-a-ding-ding-surprise?
there's no side-winding to create cinema -
being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced
with monetary affairs;
being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced
with murderers, lastly -
no psychological theory will box-me-in
given the lost tribalism and the usage of
the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing -
with money came slang - and all thorough evils,
with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab.,
Arizona in the ******* Amazon -
i'm basically saying what Kant said:
god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget,
it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it
by argument, and we certainly can't accept it
by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either
for worth of understanding tornadoes;
because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me,
filming Twister.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
sometimes a private message on the sly
outlasts a poem,
i'm no quack - my prescription list
if a bunch of theories,
i can't the Hippocratic oath even if i wanted to,
which also means a theory here,
or a theory there can't hurt -
it's levitating as a chanced choice of consideration,
in terms such stated, there are
the questions of consolidating the problem
socrates faced as to how confront a unity
of particulars and universals -
well, a mathematical impression
with the prime expression of division would be
a start, a comprehension of units
akin to millimetre, centimetre and mile
would be due a referencing to.

i hardly know what to call the cartesian
subsequence equation -
sartre tried to invert it -
let's say that thinking is an *essence

and being is existence -
drag in newton's causality and einstein's
lack of causality - i do believe
descartes is pivotal in terms of causality
and what existentialism suggested
via sarte: that existence precedes essence
or vice versa - causality i should think -
but if the itemisation of space
as divided enduring placebos of millimetre
and centimetre with each point
as the Freudian id to divide is loosely estimated -
i understand Sartre's argument when
being a revisionist via Descartes -
existence does indeed precede essence -
you learn from your mistakes -
first can existence example itself
before thought (essence) begins its learning process -
indeed it can't be otherwise, intuition
does exist to a cloning zenith reached by animals
who're only vociferous via the medium
of onomatopoeia - ferrous sounds -
but among men there are more enzyme-related
processes to create the Enlightenment from
the Renaissance - the latter an artistic progress
the former the scientific -
study chemistry or physics and philosophy becomes
a playground - biology for some reason
has too many octopus tentacles attached to
obvious things - mutations of Chernobyl to mind -
and history, **** sake's the stone age and the
17th century will deviate far between on the spectrum
of analysis - there is much more bureaucracy from
the 17th century than crude cave drawings from the stone
age - i'm hardly saying it's not plausible
but the time-scale leveraged with boiling a cup of tea
is the worst kinds of distraction - scout's honour,
cross my heart and count to 20 in under 10 seconds.
anyway, for the majority, people are hardly
innovators, a few can claim to be a pure res cogitans
(a thinking thing), since such a being would require
an id scale of division, not necessarily a scale of division
akin to the majority of people, with their
9 to 5 working days, monday through to sunday,
january through to december -
with the latter list of exemplification we're talking
about a res narro / a narrative thing - alt. include
res transloquor (a thing talking over -
a loss of etiquette when talking over older people)
etc. -
           since i find that thinking is primarily
about innovative feats - but most of the time what we
call thinking is actually narration -
a book never written, an idea never materialised -
and the existence of the Buddhist "mindfulness" /
simply not thinking, a full cartesian sum embodiment,
akin to driving a car, a bike, whatever you like.
or i could have written about the news review
articles from sunday: the boo! that's Broadmoor,
the lush living conditions in blocks 2 & 5
and the squalor in blocks 1 & 6...
names include the murderers:
jonathan lowe (aged 52) writing a letter about
the Ritz hotel like conditions in 1898,
croquet and cricket, tea weak beer and gambling,
tobacco luxury and servants via the lesser
fortunate inmates,
william chester minor's addition to the inaugural
edition of the oxford english dictionary (ex-military
surgeon he was),
chippendale bookcases, bathed once a week,
shaved three times a week,
(now you can understand my fascination with
Ezra Pound) - thomas harry a would be assassin
of the p.m. Gladstone of 1893 walking about
the asylum gardens mentioning Gladstone's
last plea with a smile akin to the eager buds of
may appealing to harry's sense of "remorse",
a dutchman who attacked his wife with a mallet
pleading to renter the lunatics' Ritz circa 1895 -
a jack the ripper suspect amongst them -
dr. richard brayn hardly ***** burroughs' dr. benway -
a madman had never so much luck under **** brayn -
but the less fortunate remarked:
'my name is T Perkins, i have been murdered here,
by those that know not what they do,
because they have ether in their heads!'
i'd guess ammonia to add to such a confession,
or skunk ***** to mind the least.
thomas cutbrush was the ripper suspect.
jimmy saville wetted his ***** in the female wards...
can't complain with ******* adolescent girls
why complain about ******* crazed chicks -
Michael Meyers in the room? i thought so,
democracy is the ideal export, people know
jack the ******* by compliments from the toilet's
perfumery as described: strawberry scented,
mm hmm - Kentucky tattooed on my left buttock's
cheek. but boo! a.k.a. Broadmoor is closing,
pristine lunatics on the street - mind you
in the news review they had an article about
seymour hersh - what he called
dum-dum and darth vader of the galactic empire
surround fashion trends of 9 / 11...
joy uu bushy and st. francis cheney -
prior to this poem looking at russian sables in
fur farms going berserker over the size of the cages,
a lynx rummaging in a theory of geometry
walking out lemniscate treading on its own faeces,
and i felt good for the jews
not wearing leather on Yom Kippur -
in their orthodox black attire walking into a
synagogue wearing trainers -
yep, lived next to a synagogue for several years,
a flat above an estate agents...
but of course weddings and mazel tov a rekindled
happy event!
scurrying like rats in an area not allowing pride -
apologies for the comparison,
but Gants Hill wasn't exactly Golders Green,
well the Hanukkha did stand proud at the roundabout,
but then the social project took over
and subsequent evictions proceeded -
Bangladesh came over - and half of Pakistan.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
symphony arrangement for poetry - personae distinctions of hidden violins and woodwinds, somewhere along the way brass - leaving Cabaret Voltaire (Zurich), moving to the Beat Hotel (9 Rue Gît-le-Cœur, Paris), ending up on the Cowgate (Edinburgh).

when you read newspapers you realise that dinosaurs roam
the land, the fortress of printing press, unlike the printing press
(which was taken seriously from the word go!)
the internet has been largely squandered; you read these
things in newspapers, the evolutionary reaction - ensuring that
among these dinosaurs are also opinion pieces, dinosaurs write accounts of what's happening, batrachotoxin amphibians write
opinions: i.e. what isn't happening: opinions go forward unchecked
and undisputed, added that there are many potions in the cauldron
it's hard to pick one out and dig deeper until both parties are in no position to hold such and such opinion, given the missing
muscle of implementing change or the skeleton to keep
the status quo - but this is a slight deviation from what i
was intending to convey - the old guard of printing is worried
sick that it might be usurped in the long run - it prints damaging
reports about the existence of the internet, looking at it as not
a niche environment, which it technically is - but cats, ****, cats,
****, apparently we all log on to meow and moan -
as a tool of entertainment it's the least thrilling source of
the desired "entertainment", the unscripted nature of this niche environment is what's actually good about it, in that a single
person can become both writer, editor and publisher -
but indeed, the internet has been squandered,
although it improved from what used to be a wholly anonymous
environment peppered with dangers of random encounters -
the infamous chat rooms changed even more to infamous
phone-books: you heard it, stories of cyber bullying - the internet
has been squandered, by all means, trying to save it is a bit like
trying to save the world, or as one Tao principle suggested to me
early on forged in me: the best way you can aid the world
is to forget the world, and let the world forget you.
a film director would say, well, i'm stuck in the house,
i'm thinking of shooting a biopic of Lawrence of Arabia...
i see a desert, a man riding a camel through it...
but you have to then start muling over the facts: you'll have to get funding, get the casting right,  but no one likes shooting in
the desert, you have to get  the catering sorted, you start shooting,
but the camera track ruins the desert, so you have to move
to another part of the desert that's pristine with wind parallel
ridges in the sand, then the studio calls you and says you're
spending too much money, then peter o'toole stumbles
out from the trailer hungover almost everyday; sure, you need inspiration and ideas, but that's only 1% or the whole,
99% is working with people - as a director you're not actually
playing god, you're helping other people, De Niro preferred
mumbling something prior to a scene, but Seymour Hoffman
went into a scene like a crocodile quickly snapping
to the shout of cut! and the clapperboard.
i suppose poetry could be like that too,
99% being the audience and the necessary oration,
that would work - unless of course you'd do the same with
painting - but whereas with painting you're invited to critical
thinking, see an artist next to his painting elaborating on
the themes and use of colours? i don't want to assert common sense
wisdom from one profession and apply the same wisdom
                                      to another with a trans-occupational
relativism: that red           is relative to               crimson -
              but we'll have to do away with lighting,
              darkening and what not, so yes,
red is relative to crimson insofar as we forget lighting
and Edward Hopper. anyone can appreciate the
lazy approach, but i took to some mammoths without the help
of audio books, a reasoning man, not a mob gob emotive conjurer worth a tonne of heckles and haggles - but i guess the dream
through this gamble would be the monetary reward...
you know... after so many years writing for peanuts i have lost
all appetite for spending money beyond what i consider
to be a workable cure for insomnia - i don't have to buy music
any more since i can stream it, i have more privacy without
a mobile phone, all i have is this little brick wall that's stationary
in this virtual jungle on which i scribble - with the radius from
this point being anything ranging from 1 to 6 sensible miles,
beyond 6 and we're talking blisters on feet; can you imagine what
our predecessors could endure in terms of walking? they had hoofs
instead of feet, while we have skin as smooth as a baby's buttock
cheeks on the soles of our feet. the strangeness of modernity:
1. a man drives a car with with a bicycle on the roof, just so he can    
    peddle down a scenic route...
2. the volume of skimmed milk bottle is the same as full fat milk,
    but if you bought full fat milk and added water to it the volume
    would triple (via semi, so yes, triple)...
3. healthy diets - 350% increase in vegan population
   in Britain over the past 10 years - the protein problem
   (once it was the fat problem, low fat yoghurt came about,
    turned everything into a sugar problem), i.e. women aged
    between 19 & 24 requiring to hit the 58 gram daily
    recommendation of protein would have to eat:

everyday foods
chicken breast (251g = 276Kcal)
eggs x4 (460g = 658Kcal)
salmon fillet (291g = 533Kcal)                                 v.

clean-eating foods
quinoa (1,318g = 1,582Kcal)
chia seeds (371g = 1,818Kcal)
                              goji berries (405g = 1,504Kcal)
                              kimchi (3,222g = 863Kcal)
                              tofu (707g = 70Kcal)
                              ******* (384g = 632Kcal)
                              coconut yoghurt (3,422g = 6,844Kcal)
almond milk (14,500ml = 3,625Kcal)
avocado (2,900g = 4,843Kcal)

  as healthy as stuffing turkeys for Thanksgiving, can you imagine
  drinking fourteen, fourteen litres of almond milk?! i don't even
  have to imagine drinking 700ml of whiskey to get the point
  and reach the threshold of the effectiveness of sleeping pills...
  no alcohol, no sleeping pills, better sit it out than take so near  
  ineffective buggers; although as a warning: you might end up
  sleeping for *12 hours
- variations on the BMI and previous habits
  of drinking - socially? not so much, medically? primarily -
  not in favour of the anti-alcohol lobby being part of the "safety"  
  guidelines given to the public...
4. charities' costs eat up 78% of donations,
    another 21st century anomaly, effectively dismissed
    by the church's alms giving history depicted in Sistine opulence,
    so no wonder whether in cardinal robes or suited and booted for
    the near-invisible secular religiosity, such poverty of symbolism
    compared with the predecessors, at least back then you'd
    know who to send to the guillotine - and this is how Louis XIV
    treated his courtesans, he made a certain type of clothing
    mandatory, a Versailles school uniform as it were,
    most the the courtesans went bankrupt having to buy the
    clothes, some pieces would be equivalent of a sports car,
    they went bankrupt to remain in the club,
    so they borrowed monkey from Louis, and so Louis kept
    them in his pocket: poor rich people, or necessary
    leeches (as once used in medicine, Louis' absolutism
    being the sole malady, abuse of power necessitates
    paranoia); or to quote Lisolette about the royal *******
    'mouse droppings in pepper.' Philippe (Duc d'Orléans)
    was the transvestite who charged into battle
    and conquered the Dutch, much to his brother's
    shame at having only made conquests in the bed - well
money here, money there, shoving a piano into a concert hall accompanied by an orchestra, something Chopin would never
do not wishing to leave the comforts of salons - although
Metallica dared to.
                                                             ­           welcome to
the age of silica and chameleons (cha cha cha champ a camcorder anyone? well, imagine what scrutiny Narcissus would pay a photograph, imagine giving a photograph to Narcissus and
wonder would he change his behaviour), get fooled by
the adverts once, second time you'll eventually see needing to feed
a charity's bureaucracy rather than an African, hence the migrant
                                                                                                    crisis...
sometimes there are no surprises as to where certain things
originate, Marxism and England, zenith of the empire,
or as historians claim, the decadence of the Romans was their fascination with food prior to the end: ready-meals and
microwaves among cooking shows, currently the daily program
of channels, esp. that of 4 is culinary and horse racing,
all the interesting programs are broadcast when everyone
is about to fall asleep... Saville bankrupted the B.B.C.
posthumously: a game show, "jackpot" of one grand.
- advertisement didn't expect live T.V., the mute button,
the pause button and the fast forward button...
but in a 100 years time if not more they'll look back at us as
having finally exhausted Groundhog Day (starring Bill Murray) -
sure, the technological breakthroughs were great, magical,
but the content? 20th century most probably,
the ideal time of fluid and at ease plagiarism - obviously
exceptions were made, but this walking nightmare
of the exhausted second half of the 20th century caught up
in the 21st century - dialogue replaced by visuals,
clash of the titans (1981) v. clash of the titans (2010) -
the only good bit of the latter is the inclusion of Hades -
it's beautiful, i'm nostalgic to a history i was born in and
belonged to, i'm not a nostalgic Nietzsche or Hölderlin
bumming about singing praises of the Ancient Greeks -
you see, it's close-at-heart nostalgia because i belonged to it,
the infant of it - a peculiar circumstance to be in; or coming
to terms with the first signs of decay: cartoon network's
cow & chicken with i r baboon - have you seen the horrors
of modern cartoons compared with computer graphics?
readies them to  pick up gaming soon after,
given gaming graphics. in summary - some say sitting behind
a computer screen is a sign of a lack of self-assurance,
or confidence, self- anything you want to suffix with, well,
that could be true, but you have a photograph included,
and the days of the typewriter are over - but i could also say
the same about certain brands or shops, are they too lacking
self-confidence to stop their existence on  the high street?
the royal mail delivers junk, you might get 100 junk envelopes
and a christmas  card... o.k. make that 1000 to 10,000 envelopes
of junk and one letter directly addressing you that hasn't been
written using an analogue like

dear mr. / mrs. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

we would like to inform you that your insurance
claim has expired.            etc.

the infancy of this century is what's deceptive, the greatest
deception i can think of - the great health scares and subsequent
over-usage of antibiotics breeding super-bugs in hospitals
anything and everything under the sun - including
that damnable idea that the planet Mars employs people whom
it's attracting into its orbit - earthly geologists must be bewildered
that the only subject of learning from all of man's
capacity to send into space is geology: and on the return flight
home we realised that we'd only be bringing back some arenite
(sandstone); that quote about about painting being 50 years
ahead of writing, the same is true with science fiction and
actual science.
A man and a woman stand in a yard
their fingertips touching slightly.
She sits between them
criss-cross-applesauce
hands in her lap
voice off
like she was taught in school.
Mom and dad have a secret.
She thinks there is a surprise waiting for her in the house.
Katherine
Katherine Anne
Katherine Anne Seymour
Katie
There is something abnormal about you
cell deep
malignant and capable of killing.
If we could take it out of you
and put it somewhere else
like a star or the highest branch
of the tallest tree
somewhere so
unreachable that we could ignore its pain
we would.
But Katie
Katherine Anne
Kitty Cat
we can't.
Forced poetry for a creative writing class.
JRBarclay Jun 2010
Your liquid is
leaking
all over my table
yet
you stand tall
beckoning me
4:13 with no mercy
please save
me
drink me
drink me
light another
cigar
...ette
Miette? Miette?
Me yet?
How does this
make sense to
a Frenchman?
How come some
people get fat
but then stop
at a certain point?
Is it
possible to not
lie?
:Tell the truth
all the time
We're all liars
bigots
*******
creators of filth
Will my hair
stop falling out?
Will my hands
stop shaking?
Will my feet
stop pounding?
Will my thoughts
quit pouring out?
Will this
beer
stop flowing down
my throat?
Will the Cure
stop making me cry?
Will Tool ever
break up?
What do people do
when I'm sleeping?
Who do I like more
Black Sabbath or
Led Zeppelin?
Dead Kennedys or
The Misfits?
Mozart or
Beethoven?
Philip Seymour Hoffman or
Daniel Day Lewis?
Natalie Portman or
Scarlett Johannson?
Goth chicks or
Nerdy chicks?
or both
or all of the above?
Do my eyes
perceive reality?
Do my fingers
feel gravity?
Does my tongue
taste sarcasm?
Do my ears
dare to fathom?
Can I trust my friends?
Should I trust my lover?
Mother
should I trust
the government?
Who do I hate more
Nicholas Cage or
Ben Affleck?
Nickelback or
Linkin Park?
George W. Bush or
Adolf ******?
Money or
Women?
or both
or all of the above?
© J.R.Barclay 2010 (except, of course, the obvious Pink Floyd reference)
lmnsinner Sep 2017
writing for non-recognition**

“It was exhilarating to get the chance to be useful, which is always an issue for a writer.”
          Garrison Keillor


a hundred readings, so flattering,
the heart tickled, nicely fluttering,
then one day it is a thousand,
and the crushing soul flattening
has set a new higher,
a low base needs an achieving
in every thing

**** writing for recognition,
need a few thousand, ten will fill the bill,
now
to consider myself ok average,
which shhh,
I know I am

now have to choose each word
with great daring caring,
worthy of the great writer
whose devotees demand,
offer a simple choice, want want
pleasured ooh ah's of perfection or
face sacrifice
on the poetry altar
of the Feed Me Seymour plant of
being ignored to a
vegetative death

**** writing for recognition,
you want my I-curse,
steal my purse,
reach in, take my cigarette styx,
exhale a **** poem

**** writing for recognition,
please don't read my hand crafted,
diamond cutter designed,
succulent crap
go away, don't like me, and for god's sake
don't dare love me,
that's a killer,
then my busted ballon ego can't be taped
back together again by Humpty Dumpty's men

after this will never revisit the prior past,
that will not - shall not exist

one anonymous poet
spilling with unfazed unglued fluency
disregarding what pleases,
writing spilling that which surged
that electrify
my soul
and then never
to them return

**** writing for recognition,
no more subbing
no more sinning
no more using
just me using me
up
If its my blood that needs to be shed for you , you can have it all , id rather you live life happy then me living it recklessly, if the devil wants your life he will have to make room for me. Im not going to  lose the only person in life that keeps me breathing , i wonder if god understands how i feel , if we dont live old enough to be wed, can you marry me in heaven Stephen Seymour ?
Just some thoughts dont judge :P
John F McCullagh Mar 2014
Like an expectant batter at the plate,
sitting on the Pitcher’s change of pace,
Philip took the speedball for a strike.
Imagine the surprise upon his face.

Found by a friend upon his bathroom floor,
The last used needle still stuck in his arm,
Philip heard the Speedball called strike three.
Inevitably, the addict came to harm.

Some will weep to see such talent wasted,
while Realtors will inquire on his space.
Philip Seymour Hoffman burned too brightly;
some other star will come to take his place.
( Musing on the late great Philip Seymour Hoffman)
Joshua Levesque Sep 2021
I’m sitting at the side of the Seymour River,
watching the water
blast by
and I can’t help
but picture the feeling of
being ripped by the flow,
smashing into stones.

Suddenly a fallen leaf floating like a feather on the surface flits by, drifting in
and out of
my vision,
and I think that a thousand careless leaves must ride the river’s current
every day.

On my best days, I let my fetters
float
on
by
me,
but at my worst, the river of my experience
pushes me back into the flow
and I fight the current
and I always
lose.
They put me in a room where everyone knocks on the door. They expect you to keep your sanity where most of the patients needed to be locked up in a funny farm. They fill the patients full of psychotopic meds but in truth it is turning these morons into zombies. They don't know if they are coming or going but Imust actually say the only positive thing I heard from the psychiatrists out of UIC psych floor is why don't you get your poetry and stories published to me. I will never havea normal life again no thanks to Robert Littlejohn, Michael Czech, and http://facebook.com, which I have closed down. I do miss Denise Seymour I wish she would call me. She blocked me from her facebook and changed her phone number. I love you Denise come back to me  please.
I hate facebook.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
a many a great things have happened recently...
hmm (insert a weasle's snigger)...
i was watching a russian production of...
the escape from sobibor...
yes... i know that rutger hauer is dead...
but not unless listening to some vex'd...
citations from blade runner:

    firey the angels fell - leaping thunder rolled
around their shoulders -
burning with the fires of orc...

at least that's what i heard...

    i want, more: life... ******... which echoes...
no not that 1987 tv flick...
the russian produiction...
      of recent years...
          upon this the god's green earth...
        i could watch... schindrel's list two times
in a row... before being subjected to...
escape from sobibor...
                if only i had a toothpick handy
and pickles and some martini and god forbid
the onslaught of yawns...
         only one aspect of the film stood out...
a sort of:

    the death of Matti Nykanen...
the finnish ski-jumper who ended up being
a stripper...

    i didn't recognize him at first...
or "at last" i'm usually good with faces...
esp. those on film...

         i think the film itself was supposed to
be... the need to capture "the look"!
      oh believe me... a cary grant or
a gregory peck would never...
                                a rock hudson?
a john wayne: drawl... yep: that six-a-piece
sharp shooter...
guns 'n' roses: civil war...
opening citation: from cool hand luke...
paul newman eating all those... hard-boiled eggs...
paul newman couldn't give "the look"...
that antithesis of roxette's pop stamp...
the verb that is actually a noun...
when there's someone worth it...

no... they could never convince me of ever
having: "the look"... these major actors...
paul newman or a robert redford...
i'm counting only the men...
this one's spezial...

        from first hearing queen... to seeing the movie...
Karl Frenzel...
   that same tortured soul
of a Ralph Fiennes playing Amon Göth...
i had to wonder...
did they decide upon psychopaths...
or was it already a priori from the words
first uttered in the hitlerjunge?

nope... completely amiss...
is that really christopher lambert?
raiden from mortal combat...
connor macleod...
                 hell: if this be the fate of skin
to be a much later devised
disguise in stretch-armstrong of leather...

but it was all about "the look"...
it was so intimidating in it being intimate...
"do you still remember me"...
i don't think i had such trouble
with val kilmer...
then again: who's the busy body
in my receding memory loop-hole to loot
from?

  they must have used dubbing...
otherwise it would seem that christopher lambert
spoke the very base of german
like a puppet of a ghost...
most certainly a changed man...

he had that look in his eyes that read:
i don't remember myself...
this face is no good: for you... either...
and it truly wasn't...
truly petrifying this enigmatic cloak
of ****** features...
but those two voids like a lemniscate (∞)...

i can X with my eyes when concentrating
on the egoism of the tip of my nose
and see the water inside the aquarium
all blurry and salty and mirage prone...
but not this...
this was a sensation of...
seeing an unrecognisable face...

again: i'd sooner revisit watching schindler's
list: because of it being in black & white...
otherwise cudos for the work
by a yanuš kamińци... that red dress:
"here" and... "there"...

for a russian the poles are traitors...
but thank god for the bulgarians
being the bell-boys of their whole
affair of wounded pride...
given the bulgars frequent the aisles
of st. cyril...
             but it looks like... the mongolians
are having... "counter-productive"
thoughts: themselves... good for them!

so close to the germans:
is it eastern europe west of kiev?
is it?
  traitors... oh god... those minor
denominations of the baltic states...
   perhaps... once upon... a time...
prussia would have been just a pocket of influence
akin to estonia... or latvia...
let's not mention lithuania...

it was a christopher lambert... by god...
sure... he was suited to age...
isn't everyone? but not like this...
in a positive way, though...
incomprehensibly unrecognizable...
a loot of enigmas...
well... if gérard depardieu a citizen
of ol' mother russia...
what doesn't stop a christopher lambert...
being dubbed when speaking german
like a manakin does running...
eyes that scream rather than peer...

it's one of those sad affairs of appreciating...
beside theatre... acting...
of course everything is in the detail
of the edit and the production of the end
product: with at very little hiccups as is to be
avoided...
it's a russian production: nonetheless...

but thoese eyes...
i didn't remember him...
was it perhaps donning the uniform...
or was it perhaps... perhaps of:
    seymour hoffman?
   but why couldn't i pick out...
a b-list actor... look at me... mr. hierarchical prone...
but no?
    chris cooper... bruce greenwood...
sure... no problem...
always the general, the "protagonist" of
"real" life... somehow along the line:
hardly a basis of a shadow meets shadow
compromise...

i think i saw a human being that became
unrecognizable from the burden of life
off-screen! i actually found a conviction from
a thespian... i saw two blinding cauldrons
of ire... which was...
ire... it wasn't fire...
    two blinding cauldrons of ire: i saw...
a blue tinge of flame... i saw tears...
it wasn't a purity of fire that will be later
made into a recycling power...
it was...

a fire that keeps intact a status quo...
that unfathomable perspetive
and an unmoveable object:
even if armed with the binding will
of a sisyphean determination:
where are the demons whipping him
to comply?!

   i was two blinding cauldrons of ire...
i saw fluorescent blue of glowing squid and less
revealing monsters of the deep...
i saw... a face disguised as a mask...
i saw a face from beneath a donned niqab...
more clearer than the glee of smile...
the chubby moon-clip
or the scythe of reasons behind...
the bulging shadow of harvests pending...

all this... and not much more...
  i'm good with faces...
   apparently not good enough...
was it really christopher lambert playing
karl frenzel in escape from sobibor?
i try to bypass the glamour and all that dry
artifact affair of keeping score...
to denounce all actors as...
the last and the least obliged to put pressure
and fathomability of the concern
for human... "things"....

what sort of a man is a christopher lambert
wearing.. if his eyes are...
pencils and needles piercing me...
that i can't recognise his face?
have i been gorging on too many
digestive biscuits... or something?

    by faking it... but i didn't see a slouch
of wanting to fake it...
given the numbers...
          what are the puny rhymes...
                   i want to see a rhyme
that riddled a blunt hammer-axe at the end
of this... foreboding of "contemplation"...
i want to find it soothing
for man to justify the antics of a slaughterhouse
concerning the wailing pigs
and the... cowering aum litany of the...
sanctity of beef...
            or the lesser kind via
the goat of the graces of riccota...

          i don't exactly know what i saw
in those eyes...
    but i saw enough to make me forget
a face.... i would most, be assured to...
have a memory of...
i was drawn into the eyes...
it's not like brian may aged so badly...

i did see the flabby skin of a pig become
stretched... then contracted...
over a square mile of a Berliner's post-code
"hum and oops"...
    little ******* good that would ever
do me!

              these tires need to be burned...
this soil needs to be shovelled...
this butter needs to be spread on
oozing warmth toast...
this rootweiler requires a leash:
are you the sort of walker
to allow a lessening of tension...
mind you: this "hanz" and "heinrich"
tends to tug along like
a pirañha on a diet...

                 the other head
of... the clamour fest... of feeding of...
cerberus... this night-walker this...
shadow-thief...
                   this... burden of my pride...
synonym coupled with ego...
rottweiler to the east...
       dobermann-pinscher to the west...
get this...
a ******* pop-up head of
a dachshund heading south:
                                        in lombardy!
hey presto...
                    my luvvie-dubbie companion!

for me... give me a harem of 72 dogs...
i'll sooner dog-wrestle bit
and chow-mein
and clash with teeth before...
         don't make me...
preside over the gratification of having
72 virgins: that same number
of the names ascribed to the hebrew god:
you and not you...
"you" hairy-hey-rab! ibin!

there's a barking... i'm pretty sure i don't
hear anything worth biting into?!
i'm quiet unamused hearing barking...
when i'm not entertaining
the convinction to suma summarum
it with: chewing...

              i would most certainly like
to hear less barking...
****** punctures of flesh...
i'd like that very much...

              i'd like filled stomachs of dogs
to be the only precursors...
the wolves are at the gates...
    
           words like daffodils easily
plucked up...
                  is that serious enough of "us"
to have these minor griefs...
as... vectors for what's to become
of the unfolding rest?

— The End —