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Karijinbba Jul 2022
rddpc your word of honor lives on
our very heart beat drum is us,
God let his heart beat forever
reign peaceful my lover divine .
~~~
He left me as I guarded silence
in shock in my prime later again.
I remained decades sunstruck
in love with this King my twin
no matter what I just do.
~~~
His shamanic drum and ink is my heart beat raising and pausing as
I burn bittersweet at the sound
of his drum beating getting closer
thus my beloved materializes
in my arms again and again
whispering "baby baby"  in my ear
for hours in the same hot Atlas.
worshipping him.
~~~
{ JC felt like Rhett B in GWTHW
with Scarlet O running
to women mad for his all
instead of being true to himself and stay with me whom he truly loved
to fall in love after asking a few key questions to see me eye to eye.😂}
✓\✓\✓________
°°°
His foot steps ink and all I hear
as his familiar rose scent
tickles his chin and I see them there;
then slowly my candle is blown off.
my heart stops ✓}✓___
I am never alone our union warps
etched in time and space as a painting safe inside a fortress of loves sacred parameters and divine brain art.
°°°
His whispering drum drumming
remained embedded deep in my soul.
The love of my life my heart beating
he guards
His word of honor he gave to be so
and so it is
thanks Heaven for his loving ways .
~~~~
√/✓\✓\/√√ √\√\√\√\√√ \√\√\√.
Karijinbba.
https://youtu.be/ivCOrc1HWxI
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
hiatus awaiting

welcome are the nights,
with a chance of snow,
and me...
   writing practically nothing;
i guess the common ground
encompassed by a
acted out "laziness"....
    i can admire *******
and it feels
     the same dead weight of
*******' hanging weight...
        i sacrifice my lamb
on the altar of Slayer
and say goodnight....
  i like these nights, redying
myself for an internet hiatus...
    getting a haircut,
trimming my beard...
        it will be a most pleasant
experience,
being internet-free...
i can actually forget about
the dialogues...
                   for a month or so...
the whiskey dries out,
the will abides by hibernation,
the book is read...
time passes via
         a Maori interpretation....
slow, deathly,
unpredictable...
                 such warm wintry
nights when the snow falls,
and the fox scuttles about...
            are paid grievances
for want of dream...
                i write the least
because i belittled the most...
   zeit werden plötzlich halt...
        like i said: i pay my allegienace
to a tongue..
       i align with german
on a fetishist's whim,
not a nationality...
            speaking german comes
across as oral ***...
            scheiße ficken auster!
      i pay my allegiance
to a tongue, not the people -
  der zunge uber die volk...
            i reek of the kind of hate
that these zombie-people dreams of
the living become acrid...
         i am sodium and sulphate!
                              i watch
the shamanic dance and the *******
"ladies" in waiting...
                      i am the tongue
above the people;
    thinking comes later...
    last...
       the only increment of crafting
a nostalgia of carving
and a nostalgia of what's past;
****** the oyster with the serpent,
maggot, worm...
             there's nothing with
leverage of poetics...
              why has the thrill of life
and upkeep "suddenly"
expired from me?
         why has this quasi-
castration taken hold of me?
                   all before the
perfected mechanisation ugly...
                  doesn't matter,
as individualism dies
i am the one to inherit it...
                      die hitzig nächte
aus gefallen schnee...
und die tänzeln fuchs...
                                    zu sehen.
- perhaps a return to
the saxon rooting...
perhaps that,
perhaps anything at all...
what does it matter,
there's the troubling tomorrow
to pitch against...
             the lost beauty of
the sunrise, to the day's insistence
for love lost unto labour;
the abhorring obedience to
said, "love", and slavish schematics;
love is a pardoning word
in keeping things intact,
but not a word worth an ounce
of motivational value.

and due to CSFR (cross-site request forgery)...

      *Turkish Barbers


once more, the notion of the simplest pleasures in life, are the most rewarding; maybe i should be 30 to 40 years older to make such a statement, maybe i ought to be the colt-type bungee jumping and skydiving feeding an adrenaline rush... but then again once you make life slim of extreme pleasure, the real authentic pleasures come through in the most unexpected way, out of the mundane every day, a proud, strutting peacock - let's keep the intricacies of pleasures and experienced bound to a labyrinth of either such extreme experiences, or the heights of philosophical discourse... keep the pauper's share, allow the everyday form of grey separate itself: till you finally see the black & white.

it was about time, someone had to allow this
ruffian, this ***, this barbarian into society...
sure, a suit makes a man,
but since we're living in times of smart casual,
where ties are not required nor
the top button done up -
the next thing that makes a man,
is a well deserved, haircut.
i come to think that a haircut makes more
of a man, than a well attired suit,
call me old fashioned, or new fashioned -
but it comes as a shame to not bother
with a haircut, like i did for almost a year,
considering the angst of the baldies,
with their shining craniums exposed
to moonlight...
like ice converging to act as mirror
in a firming puddle on the pavement...
yes, i am prone to "forget", well, in actual
fact abandon any ****** aesthetics to
imitate a variant of Lent...
i give certain things up and fast in a much
different way... vain?
hardly...
you only notice the difference
when a girl looks your way after a transition,
even with a puffer-fish face from all the drinking...
but it had to be done,
someone really had to get rid of the barbarian,
this: feral *thing
...
and who better if not a Turkish Barber?
i have to say... i lost my virginity to a razor today...
Turkish Barbers are the best in the world,
that's not an opinion, that's a fact,
and from what the result is...
women can't cut beards,
they can do a brazilian wax no problem,
but the ***** on the face?
ladies, leave that to the men...
and there's one in particular,
a local,
a very cameo parlour,
two seats, almost like a kiosk -
Ustun's -
4 chase cross road, romford, essex,
RM5 3PR.... cemil ustun,
phone number 07447752357...
i don't know what's better,
receiving oral ***, or getting a proper barber's
treatment...
i'm starting to think the latter,
since it's cheaper...
i've come to a conclusion,
forget inquiring into prostitution -
£110 for an hour of agonising *** acts,
i'd take an hour with cemil for
a £20...
first time i actually had
oil applied to my ****** hair,
and foam and blow-drying it into shape...
before i grew my hair like a, ******* hippy,
i never really had a proper barber experience,
and i've learned something important:
not all "feminine" professions are actually
feminine...
a barber is as important as a soldier...
and that coincides with:
well, if we don't really believe in
moral relativism but absolutism,
and if we don't believe in cultural relativism
but absolutism,
we can at least agree that:
every, single, job, is, important,
that there must be a professional relativism,
or that there is a relativism of labour,
since nature does not like vacuums...
every job is equally important,
in that relativism exists on the basis of
gradation, an "ablaut" of incremental changes
in "value"...
by not money has exited the original
idea that it's the source of
the trans-valuation of values -
point being?
£20 for a haircut and a beard trim,
£110 for some wacky fucky-fucky...
hey, that's five and a half sessions
with cemil...
barbers can out-compete
the necessity of prostitutes...
but you can only, really, come to such conclusion
if you've been to both...
and this has to be the most authentic
experience of pampering that a *******,
with her moral baggage, simply can't give;
but it ought to be noted once more...
the best barbers in the world are Turks...
must be the highlight of the Ottoman empire,
akin to the english coffeehouses,
the barbers of the Ottoman empire
probably had as much significance as
the coffeehouses of england...
and that's how the cookie crumbles.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
MYSTICAL VOYAGER Apr 2016
We all have our own destiny,
written in the celestial mystery,
Mayan cycles in the eternal so trippy,
transition of ego death can be accepted,
our souls last forever protected,
fear is only a shadow from light of awareness,
experience deathless consciousness,
nothing but a transformative change,
a quantum jump strange,
fictional in the cosmic game,
rearrange dance celebrate and play,
welcome the unknown foresty beyonds,
all webs of being are woven better,
we are all one from the beginning until forever,
ceremonial tribal & shamanic let's gather together.
brandon nagley May 2015
The shamanic soul wanders the desert
                                                          ­            I trail his shadow!!!
Brent Kincaid Jul 2015
Come and let me tell you
Tales of distant wizards
In far off foreign lands.
The speak in words of poetry
And magic incantations
Even they don’t understand.

They tell of arcane stories
Of dragons and the caves
Of gemstones where they hid.
They tell of verve and derring-do
And swashbuckling heroism
In legendary acts they never did.

They chant, these ancient shamans
To deities and gods of ancient name
Who they know well are fakers.
They foretell and portend wonders
And riches for those who rule, and
Call themselves movers and shakers.

These magic-minded soothsayers
Drape themselves in auras of mystery
And tell the believers they can heal.
And if the congregation fails to look
Closely enough at their performances
They believe the mythological is real.

And time can coat the stores in paint
That looks like the patina of the ages
So it passes the inspection of he willing.
No true believer looks for cracks
In the walls around the real facts
Or questions the truth they are killing.
Free flow, juggling words, consciousness
So to say - like jeweled crescent clouds
Like river laugh - sawing earth-tree
A sound erupts from the deepest depths of mind -
Sorrow, no - something different - completely alien
No language can speak the sound,
For comprehension of said sound turns up no meaning
No meaning in familiar form or shape -
And so the flow flows free, back into the sea
Far from you and far from me
For we are all together, lost abound the creed
Of having something to believe in -
Like thinking that we’re free
But as molecular structure
Binds the soul to ground,
The thought engine runs rapid -
Thinking thoughts resembling ghosts of abstract lands
Lands without land - space without dimension
Seek like tomorrow exists,
And drink to the sun -
Tomorrow remembers nothing
As today is just for fun
We’re free as we sleep
We’re free as we dream
We’re free until we awake
From the unsettling scene - reality screams
The light gleams, past statues of Man,
And petty idols and plastic song
The light shines into the eyes of the knowing -
For the knowing understand
Nothing is permanent nor recognizable
Once the sudden truth is revealed
Through practiced art and dance and talk
Know nothing ‘cept the ignorance of thought
Say nothing save the chance to see
Without ignorance, one cannot know
Without knowing, one cannot live
Without living, one cannot be
Without being, one is without
softcomponent Jun 2014
Up as early as the dawn, clouds sifting leftward westward shimmer and drip-- half like empty crystal void, half like deep-ocean Mariana's Trench with happy-little-pockmarks all up-in-between.

What in the Heroes am I doing up so early on a Thursday morning? Not sleeping. Downloading new video games via Pirate Bay. Watching old-analog-rendition documentaries from History Channel circa early 2000's-- one doc in particular about U.S. government tests on unwilling (and largely unknowing) civilian populations. I as the orifice and experiencier of the world at large, all at ONCE THRU THE EYEZ and at TWICE THRU THE BRAINIAL CRANIAL and out thru the thoughts and words and cramped headspace full of starships, *******, eloquent and twisting sunrise dimensionals...

The Internet? It'll make you the universe as-if you weren't the universe already!
Straight through the blood and sweat and 'it's-too-earlies-for-this.' You wanted a bit of laughter, and that's exactly what you got.

Though it time-lapses across my faulty-flick'ring eyelids, I can tell past the Buddha-Bottle-Buddha-Themed-Beer sitting empty on the windowsill amidst a wild collection of coffee cups and power converters that the Sun sees the Capital Letters that were written out line-for-line in Times New Roman across my RNA-DNA slow-Saganite Cosmic Poetry by God the Author.

Eyelids are heavy and yet inverted and living-- real and concerned with loving the affair of life rather than the marriage! Life as an unofficial longevity-but-not-forever kinda thing.. like young love, old love, marriage, too, when you really get down to it.. just confused little souls feeling pulled to one another in the proverbial Dark Under the Sunlight and Illuminated by Aurora Borealis Forever-Daytime-Forever-Nighttime-Forever.. Syrian rebels waking up on a Monday morning to the sound of gunfire and ALLAHU AKBAR's in distance.. creeps, yea, a television Evangelist preaching God is Love and God Treats His Children Like Children (discipline the soul, yes? discipline the soul!) (**** the widow and ask her why you did it)

All the preaching homelessers who think they've found God in the same dark alleyway they found their snot-drenched headaches every casted winter night-- neglected by the Government, always remembered by the God-- Lucifer (Government, Passivity, Watchful Indifference), and God (A Few Dollars Here and There, A Shamanic Vision at Franciscan Ascetic Extremity) aaaahhhh all bungled-up and waiting for a Savior when the Savior is themselves or the debt they owe to Royal Life Ltd. and we wait like the rest of them, they angry over my no-dollars-to-spare ("look, I make rent, I grab groceries, I pay debt. In all likelihood, you have more money than I do right now. I'd love to help you out if our poverty's weren't so close to kissing") all such rudeness in one respect and yet delinquently honest.. how I can admire the travelling Hippie Bands reckless abandon and yet never forget to fear Abandon..

and all the preaching Home-Leasers.. the strangeness' clad in glass and patchwork straight-black perm-pressed leadership stench and pastel markers smeared across the sidewalk.. ".. if you take away your consideration of the company's weak future bond equity, there are three different ways we could tackle this project.." busy-ness-man.. snarky and corrected with a Job To Do. But Who Am I?

A Job To Do. A Job To Do Do Do Do.

NOT so much A Job Well Done (Never Quite A Job Well Done) (serendipity has a crease-and-fold collective opinion of our concrete jungles and military juntas.. "'I can't even watch the game tonight.. Brasilia is the capital of Brazil?' 'Sao Paulo, you drunk buffoon.''No, Brasilia!' 'Sao Paulo!'")
stupors, collect-calls, drag-queens, militant armies and school shooters in bullet-proof vests all the best, all the best.. what I wanted was a reason to crease my forehead all adult-like and say to the kid, "I really think you'd do a lot better in computer networking.. check the job statistics! international openings are through the ROOF.." and she sighs at the weight of every crush-ed dream coalescing into filmy-slime-froth at top of inadequately-heated Cream of Mushroom Soup.. what silty salty ****.. all the parochial worldviews of the 20th century being swallowed in the Liberal Boom and Bust, Boom and Bust, Boom and Big ***** ***** ***** Bloated ***** (click the link and see your fantasies pass Disney's red-light and hit **** ******* with a vintage glass bottle of ol' Coca Cola Noir)..

After a sleepless neverend night, I stayed up and bored on the black leather couch with my roommates cat waltzing in-an-out-an-in-an-out still confused at his relatively recent move to our war-zone clone of a home.. poor ******* of a cat, names Tonic.. has a bred sister named Gin.. drink a cup of joseph trying to finish illegal-pirate of newest Splinter Cell (sadly o'sad it demands too much on the vide-ah card and lags all creative and bleepy) all the steam from my ****-preground coffee in'ah French press doves upward to the window and the clouds sifting leftward westward shimmer and drip.. I contemplate concerta to stay perked-out and take a shower, pop just that, XL release concerta.. not sleeping makes it strangest experience, uncomfortable at first.. pressures in lower jaw, electric tightness at tips of front teeth as I talk myself down on the 6 to Royal Oak Exchange via Downtown all freaky-vibed anxieties about my blurring vision and perhaps eternal cross-eyes I avoid looking at reflections *** they father me out of my bedroom, warm sanity.. warm seance dance-arounds-a'naked-and-praise.. I feel okay now, though. Better than okay, I feel elated and awake as if I slept a solid 9-some hours and Alex to left writing stories of horse-drawn labor with Petter on Skype telling tales of his not-so-gladness to be home in Norway for another 3-weeks.

A group of hearty-look hardly-look investors in stock business pajamas march past in strange rabble on way, perhaps, to next coffee joint down road. The unfamiliar block next to window I sit near seems as mysterious in existence as Diagon Alley.. where in the fuckssakes is it, exactly? I once ventured to find out and came across library courtyard I tagged as future-reading locale. The hungry sun above was at snowblind potential and eating away at my lack of protected retinas. I've stopped worrying about protection as it all dis-integrates equally careful.

And it's our covert motives that give us reason to shame-- unrealistic to be ashamed, but ashamed you'll be anyway for disliking the guy or avoiding the girl and slithering into a fetal position to deflect the ***-flack from Moral Mike. You escape yourself successfully, and douse the city in gasoline machines for another 15 years 'til our fossil fuels shivvy dribble flop fade into literal thin air.. bubye.. the sun is getting brighter with every passing minute, it's all summery out and I'm inside typelocking myself to a circumferenced earth at the tip of my bleeding fingers. I'm just waiting for apostrophe, and realize that, some day, I will be a fuel source too (you're welcome, Succeeding Race).

and all races are inevitably lost. This is not the cynics drawl.

it is optimism.
Ben Jones Nov 2013
A legendary sweet tooth, had Lady Felicity Barratt
So swift towards the sugar bowl, so wary of the carrot
She dined on only trifle from a honey coated spoon
But tooth decay accosted her and left her in a swoon

By the time she turned just twenty, her two front teeth were gone
By thirty she was running short and on her final one
When that fell out, she sought a dentist, promptly one arrived
She opened up her grizzly mouth and in the fella dived

He took a cast and took his leave with dentures to be hewn
With satisfaction guaranteed by Friday afternoon
And never did the lady have a reason to suspect
The secret intervention of an evil dental sect

By bribing several bakeries and sweetie shops and stalls
A dossier had been compiled within their sacred halls
For crimes against good dentistry were nothing short of sin
Their retribution must be swift or people might join in

Upon that self same Friday, at the very cusp of noon
One Doctor Bingo Rogers and his burly hired goon
Came knocking at her premises with dental kit and drills
With a mission to sedate her and to exercise their skills

They knocked her out with ethanol and chloroform and air
And strapped her to a hastily erected dentist's chair
The evil teeth were lodged in place and ******* into her gums
The bill was quite extortionate, for monumental sums

The shamanic orthodontist, with his henchman in his wake
A martyr to the vegetable and nemesis of cake
Was keen to see his handiwork and kept a watchful eye
For curious occurrences as days went quickly by

By Christmas there was nothing, until on New Year's Eve
Her teeth got uncooperative and forced the girl to leave
They dragged her by her dainty face and led her to the shops
She stood and munched on sugar canes and giant lollipops

They stuffed her face with chocolates, still nestled in their packets
And then a rack of nylon shirts and seven leather jackets
On every size of shoe, she munched; from sixes up to twelves
She nibbled through the party food and gnawed upon the shelves

Then off she sped, into the street, to pursue a passing horse
Dragged along by wicked teeth and supernatural force
But dentures lack in vision, and especially at pace
So when she caught it by the foot she caught it in the face

She skidded to a grizzly halt with arms and legs all twisted
And next to her, a note with all her dental errors listed
So beware the wrath of dentists and obey when they command
And sleep with one eye open and a carrot close to hand

For though our poor Felicity was buried good and hard
Despite floral cupcake with the Dental Cult's regard
And though her body, to this day, lies safely in the ground
The horse escaped that evening and the teeth were never found...
brandon nagley Aug 2015
The irony of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
As being a European, a foreigner to this land
Not a native, as the original people who art still here,
I shalt speaketh truth, on a topic, the European's here
Don't speaketh of;

I seeith politician's, speaketh of building a higher wall
As tis their art already wall's, lining Mexico and the united states,
I seeith wall's, to tryeth and keepeth out, the original people's.
As tis so many I'll heareth, so many sayeth the quote: ( illegal alien's, art coming over here stealing work) huh? Illegal alien's didst thou sayeth? As if their from another land? Or planet?......

Yet the fact is;
Who art the real quote: ALIENS!!!!
Us, the European's, as tis not mine fault mine parents hath cometh here, as not the other European's fault
That their parent's hath cometh here,
As tis I hath Cherokee in mine blood as well, from mine mother;

Though fact is, here's the truth;
The disgusting fact, noone want's to speaketh of, in
Politic's, in religion, in media, nowhere, is this fact..........

The European's and rich men now leading the country
From the quote: founding Father's, which may be other's founding father's, verily not mine!!!!!! Hath built wall's,
To keepeth out the alien's as many calleth them, in actuality us European's art the alien's, the one's who stole their land, built walls, and fences, and hath polluted their water, wherein water was once blue and green here in the river's and stream's,
As for example; in the town I'm in now, Rossford Ohio, some left from the older generation around here in their nineties Or 80's told me and mine family, the river that sit's behind mine place, native river called the ( maumee river) one fifty years ago people swam in, it was blue they told us, thou couldst seeith the fish inside of it, as children wouldst swim it... Guess what? Now that same river, is brown, is polluted, is poisoned, with the glass factories mess , and dump from work site's, into that river..... It's sickening... As tis the land once was open, free, no border's, no fences, here's the good part, see, the chief's all along this great nation, they all hadst vision's, vision's of these white men coming, as they saw it in spiritual shamanic ceremonies, as they saw the land being stolen, their people murdered by the thousand's, they saw destruction, from what? Men thou calleth thine founding father's? Thieves that hadst cometh here, to build walls? And killeth the native people's who were slaughtered, brought disease, and put on plot's of land a mile big? If even that... As tis they used to roam free, now forced into gvt debt, and the quote founding father's ancestor's and politician's hath given them medal's, as if that wouldst healeth them? No!!! As tis even the natives won't speaketh on this topic much. Though some will.... Fact is , àll went downhill, since the quote: founding Father's raised their flag... On a land not their's, on a land, not mine....though noone speaketh of this harsh truth... History channel hath now shown, with other archeologists, that the original people, now in southern Mexico, the Aztec people, once cameth from the north... Northern America, as in Wisconsin, see, in Wisconsin, their art pyramid's down below a certain lake, rock lake is it's name... The pyramids match the Aztec style as tis there art writings to showeth their presence their.. As come to findeth out; there is a map, sent into a famous Mexican archeological historical advocate, the map showeth on it something the u s gvt hath hid, as they do such much hiding from all of us... The map showeth on salt like, in Utah, is known place for the original Aztec people, purely factual, the story was told, the chief of his clan Aztecs, told his people, that he kneweth the men wouldst cometh to steal the land, so he told them they wouldst stop where the eagle eats the head of the snake...... Wanna know something ironic about that? Well here's proof of that, where the Aztecs now reside, southern Mexico, well Mexico hath a flag, like all have flags... Guess what is on Mexico's flag? An eagle eating a snake head... As chief saidst.... As in old map found in Spanish letters written next to salt lake Utah, read the words ( aztec territory) yet hidden in history purposely, these are harsh truth's, some may not be able to handle this, but when thou calleth one an illegal alien, thinketh who thou art... We art the aliens... as we aren't meant for this land... Though not our fault we were born here... As we must go with the flow as they say... As I loveth this great land, though reality is, I don't belong here.... As tis mine religious  beliefs state anyways, this world is just temporary anyways, noone owns this planet... God does..  Not man...its sickening seeing seeing mine own leader's, building walls to keepeth out ( illegal aliens) as they calleth them, yet were the aliens.... The irony... All for their greedy purposes and power control trip....as the native population hath decreased over fifty percent..Or more then.... Yet we tend to think, this is our place.. . as tis the u.s gvt hath stolen native gold, from their sacred places.... Places not meant to be touched, or dug into, though it's the good warrior's like Geronimo who decided and decides to stand against more such thing's..... As a European, it saddens me to seeith what mine kind hath done... And in this great beautiful sacred land what they still do....... That's harsh truth.... Much truth noone sais . yet I'm one who will......as the man who hath received that map of the Aztec's didst sayeth, he put it perfectly, he saidst ( border's art imaginary, border's art only in ourn mind's) how such truth..... And we wonder why there is differences....

That's harsh honesty.....



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Know this won't be a popular one to good Americans, as I love all americans but truth is stated here... and harsh to some ears.. So before anyone decides to judge the poor Mexican farmer out in the field picking tomatoes for a lousy few bucks a day to send back to his poor family so they can eat... or a native American... Think of where your land got the corn u use daily.... And think where your at... That's truth..., as stated. Borders only exist in our minds.   Their are no borders.. Other than what man has made
Left to these eon days.
Welcome to wonderland, I say.
An ethereal eternity in a moments gaze,
To ponder beyond the barriers of time and space.

For a split-second reality flickers;
Beautiful in it's deliverance,
Sublime/oblivious:
Nocturnal firelight on shamanic sands,
Mescaline transcendent communion with the land.
Some daze inspiration takes me.

Suspended here in this celestial haze,
A clairvoyant glance into the eye of the maze.
The cleansing radiance of our empyreal ways;
Left in this aeon daze.
Reece Dec 2013
Bluebell Lucy danced in fantastic flames, taught by shamanic figures
  when the winter nights grew tiresome
  and lonely boys ran passionately in village streets
She stood on ancient structures and sang her song with uttermost vigor
  even after mild paranoia sets in, she stands statuesque
  breathing harmonic, listening intently to the cloud's chatter
Her cobalt lashes flickered adroitly when she scanned the sky atop her locks
  and let the coming rains wash through that azure mane
  until the kiss of eternal gratitude arrived from a stray bird
On cobble stone paving, her heels were worn and dampened, she nimbly strides
  how beautiful it is to see a spirit so free
  and the obstinate world yields to her alone
Loosely, Lucy with a cerulean aura, gathers the injured and feral in alabaster arms
  she is yagé and the world hallucinates because of her
  a subtle enlightenment she gives to onlookers and thieves
Camu Camu sprouting from the wells she digs with bare hands in midnight moonlight
  her compatriots, the beasts of lost tribes, look onwards
  and she wails a verse on hemerocallis singular sensation
The flower that she is, a wild one that grows sporadically to enhance the beauty of existence
  and everybody incomprehensible in thoughts when she speaks
  because she is love when love had died so many suns ago
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i care, i really do...

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
  ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
   ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha...

no, i do...
i'm trying...

   ha ha...

     i'm just imagining what
that one word
looks like in Hebrew...

the...

   ha-shem...
i.e.

     the-name....

laughing, but at the same time
saying the definite article
over, and over, and over again...

the the the the... v'eh v'eh v'eh...
"point"?!
   what point?!
calling a cactus a *******
cactus?
   or calling it
an semiticl headscarf?
  which is which?
a skirt just covering
the knee?!

    better ask your women
to wear gloves...
i seem to enjoy the fact
that the most ****** part of
a woman, are her hands...
geisha hands...

  and wrists i could look
at like i might an enjoy an hour
with a bottle of wine...

aha!
               tell me...

  what's the difference between
a didgeridoo...
   and a modern, nordic shamanic chant
akin to to the berserker warcry
in one of

heilung's song,
notably
         alfadhirhaiti
where the audience go mad
with fervor & fury...

      because didn't you know,
they say:
don't take to d.n.a. ancestor testing,
watch what you absorb culturally...
from what i heard...
the ugly vikings founded
the city of Kiev,
so they must have passed past my parts...

hidden Baltic -
grazing mother of soured milk
that intermediates
a stasis prior to yogurt -

no wolves in england...
    i'll pet a a fox therefore...

            scoop and swoon -
the baronical patience of
a shadow admirer.;

even if the Jews have abandoned
Europe...
what the left?
    
     is beside the origin of what
the crucifix constitutes...

          even if the Jews abandoned
Europe, what they pressed was
the antagonism of Greece -
they pursued ancient Greece -
until the world, and all matters Latin -
stood to understand -

         the Jews left Europe,
abandoning the pursuit of Greek -
penitent people, noble people...
   until the library of Nag Hammadi
emerged from
the sands of both time,
and Egypt...

   noble people... penitent people...
these Israelites -
these Jobs of disgruntled time -
   Hiob, Yob, Hiob, Job...

i am barren in wanting to "forgive"
the Jews...
   how they pursued ancient Greek
to avenge the emergence of
the Second Troy in Rome...
with Rome...

           no Greek will stand on these words
with an Achilles heel...
      the Jews pursued the Greek
revisionism of their testament
long enough...
      as what Nero found hilarious...
i take to wind and soul with
      a drunk mind,
                  but a sober heart.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
my 2nd first kiss was in a romford nightclub dancing
the **** out of tool's stinkfist... don't really know where
the trauma came from, maybe from my real 1st
kiss being aged 4... what was that club's name
though?! rm1? no, it wasn't rm1, is was near rm1... it
had a tutankhamun logo... rm1? i was a club, really...
i was living in gants hill beehive lane and we used to go
there to drink beer, underage as usual... well:
it only me and samuel, and after the club we'd walk down
bus route 86 and sing backstreet boys
song... like ******* our rockers we were...
        less spectacular than stories from first world war trenches:
d'uh...
i can't memory is the best cinema i ever went into...
  they call me mad because they're living out ****** lives...
can help you there: see a psychiatrist? hmm?
i saw 2 or three and i was wondering:
when will you acknowledge that the 2nd
world war isn't a mental illness,
or speaking to relatives that have experienced
it? when will you just: ******* with
  history being a mental disorder?
      like the ****** additions of west germany?
that's "fake" too?
         i mean: who the **** invented
these people? are they needed? are they even
doctors?
          burroughs bukowski and brautigan
would say: don't trust them, they're cuckoo
equivalent of planting their eggs (egos) into
pigeon nests and you being responsible for raising
up even bigger ****-ups than they are...
and if they say that they haven't read anything by
    de sade... i wouldn't trust them...
  not all of doctors adhere to the hippocratic motto...
erm... harold shipman?
to be honest though, i am a supporter of
euthanasia... some also care to call it a case for
dignity.
    ex mort ut amor...
                         some people don't understand love,
i'm just bewildered by life...
          maybe that's why i love leading
toward the standard of: allowing people to live
their lives out?
but indeed it was, my 2nd 1st kiss,
in a shady club... and i remember
the shamanic dance in accordance to tool's
stinkfist... i say my 2nd 1st kiss...
   it was with my acquired tongue,
and i walked home bemused... or rather shell-shocked
as if i were experiencing artillery in belgium...
her mother was there also...
          and then the memory gap convened to
tell me: you remember yopur neighbours living
above your grandparents, and how the man
****** his sister... or something along the lines?
ah, the labours of love...
  whatever that kind love is(,) that prescribes such
a loathing to continue life per se;
                      had there ever been a superiority
complex about to be expressed... it wouldn't be this...
  the part where they mentioned this "objective"
biodiversity was the time to check, whether
there was a superiority complex...
               i feel no less, or more discussing darwinism,
but as it is directed toward populist exploitation
akin to a religious dogma...
     i'm thinking... back off... seriously: back off...
don't touch that ****...
                                              it has basically become too pop
to argue the points... the last time atheists convered
en masse communism appeared...
                  even though from what i heard, under communism,
there was a complete spectrum of sports,
it wasn't just football... football... football...
                         you have an olympic interest in sports...
real "biodiversity"... which is what ****** me off about
the darwinistic argument in england...
                  how about an equal representation of sports?
no? not going to happen?
                so why would i need that argument
in my head?        the time-scale if off the radar...
   oh look... a palindrome...
                      i really don't know why or how i should
conceptualise both the big bang, dinosaurs,
the meteor that killed the dinosaurs and the ****
sapiens with origin in monkey via the extinction
of the neanderthal...  
          or what we called wiping out the entire history
leading up to this point...
                   i'm going to stick to this corner where
i remember my grandfather (who's still alive)
and leave you to the break-up of the nucleus known
as family...
                 or whathever it's called these days
                       in the **** i.v.f. **** relationship;
well, even prostitution had to evolve, i guess;
**** me... you can ask for a service that lasts an hour
and you pay the minimum of 110 quid... so what's 9 months
worth? it's a pretty name though, isn't it? surrogate mothers, eh?
me-mow Dec 2014
sprinkled sunsets over a lush green landscape
as you hold the flame and watch it evaporate.
inhale mothball secrets, let it expand your lungs
what did you expect, for this to be fun?
new dimensions and planes of existence,
no longer questioning your existence.
shamanic swirls and colourful twirls
if you've had a DMT experience and you'd like to collab on this, please let me know!
Gemineyed Gypsy Dec 2015
The Moon and the Stars*

It all started one night under the stars.

Lying in the field on the clearest yet brisk last nights of summer's warm-held grasp. Telescope, blankets, friends and stars. We watched and waited as satellites and planes flew overhead; deciphering shooting star from orbital waste, relearning and recalling constellations recognized throughout man's lifelong past. Gazing into the wide open of the unknown with thoughts of extra-terrestrial, black holes, and the possibility of life after death.

The darker the night the more magic seemed to exist. After wrapping up our outdoor viewing of the universe, we headed indoors for peaceful sessions of passing the pipe while listening to shamanic throat singing and overtones, as our friends sat *gravely
entranced, zoning out to the wonders of the world covered by media through National Geographic and the world-wide-web.

It was somewhere a midst all this where I find myself; body calm and mind relaxed, propped up on the couch pondering the innermost immortal thoughts of the interconnectedness of life and death and sound and energy, spirit and soul as visions of spirals infinitely intertwining as one appear before my eyes. The sensations of what I imagine the reference of “getting the gears rolling” in the center of my brain as my pineal gland begins its first steps of decalcification brought about by the intentions of man.

Up until this point my life was on a one track path. A steady straight line towards the unknown, unawakened, and ignorantly naive, believing everything I had been taught up until that moment was a true solid fact. With this new sensation of the potential for higher vibrations within my own soul, my heart began to rapidly race but without pain and suffering, rather with the excitement of this new realized grace.

Awakening to this new idea, to this new age, to this *new way of life.
© 2015 Ashley Jean.
All rights reserved.
Intellectual property of the author.
Poetry by MAN Dec 2014
Yes I Long....
Who turned this power on?
Emotions once weak now are strong
Only a Goddess could ever awake
Ones Spiritual Evolution that would overtake
Vibe Shamanic..Words spoken supersonic
Welcome to the now..Poetry Bionic
Poems structure a piece of my soul
Thoughts released in my flow
Riddle with Rhyme I can bring
In the end we all say the same thing
Infinity connects us all enlightening M.A.N
Keeps me devising not being part of a plan
Didn't mean to drift or get off track
Life is all over the place..That's a fact
In love I become like the sea
Unpredictable waves overcome me
Too many times I've been torn
It's as if my destiny is to be reborn
Shadows of yester-me still inside
Always there..can not hide
The fool in me will always yearn
In Fire of Phoenix that fool will burn
Reformulate pain redirect feel the gain
A spiritual balance is obtained
In the arms of love a heart grows strong  
Shines the light of truth for which I long..
M.A.N 12-2-14 I wrote this awhile back it took me a long time to edit..I look forward to slamming this poem at a competition in the future..;)
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
and the myth goes along the lines - had i but the eyes to spot
a silver spoon - there chimed a magpie in the the night,
a cackle compared with the rhapsodic
crow call to wake up Barbarossa...
                    the cackle and the literary laugh...
there she was, with the Kraken -
                        she was there bewildered
to sing a song, sroka among the magpie calls
to tell tales of silenced lightning
                        without thunder.....
                shamanic in the extreme:
what a strange nationalism being born
with extracts of a former colonialism in Ukraine -
lost, forgotten, and a brief testament to Israel -
do i feel any pride? perhaps i should...
                  i better myself in the word spoken:
sroka is above magpie -
       the serenity of the sharpened consonants,
the flight to become werewolf legend -
                               sroka, or magpie -
as a language there are some offences -
                           which cannot translate, but merely
tarnish...
                                     s and r
           are two consonants that out-perform stress /
authenticity when m and g are used...
                the tongue is more important than the breath,
counter the metaphysical greek breath that's known
as psyche: i.e.                    γλωßα -
                                         to treat the tongue akin
to the mind, and soul as the authenticity of the verb
thought: when all organs automate, akin
to the kidneys dialysis.
           yes, sroka / magpie...
                                crow / kruk             / crux
                      or the shadow of Golgotha...
                                     toward us: the darkened hour...
                           to gloss over - to speak a phrase in demand -
                 sire *** qua non byzantine sprechen.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
the art of repetition they say, be ashamed of it they say... but it still resonates, why should i feel ashamed of repeating myself when physicists are trapped in revising the big bang theory; it's not exactly repetition, it's revision, i'm revising but at the same time moving on, with these scenarios still intact, like that time i wrote that frost on cars when walking past them resembled paparazzi camera flashes on the red carpet at a film premier.

my two maine ***** are weird,
the large ginger one (male),
quarus, thinks he's a window-cleaner,
he pretends to be running
rubbing his paws against windows,
****** weird,
weighs as much as an adult fox
~10 kilograms,
i should know, i was desperate for
beer and a sleeping pills concoction
and was about to travel a few miles
to an off-license next to the brothel
i went a few times to buy them,
lo and behold and dead fox on the pavement,
backing up to empty two bin-liners
i put the fox in them, had to witnesses
at 5a.m., started walking home,
would have taken a selfie, but i thought
a bit of the occult and bringing a dead
animal house into the house would
cause me bad luck, so i brought the scales
out and measured the poor ******* weight,
like i said, ~10 kilograms,
~115 kilograms of me, plus the fox,
walked into a field of shrubbery and
threw the poor ****** into the shrubbery,
didn't buy the beer, but then i created
a shamanic relationship with foxes,
one time i lay on a green patch at night
(because foxes only come out at night
in suburbia for their thievery),
drank a can of beer while the fox nibbled
at the parasites on its skin,
i admit, none jumped ship and jumped on me...
anyway, so this one maine **** of mine
pretends to be window-cleaner,
when it fact he smudges his paw-prints on
windows...
the other little one, the female,
veronica, does something similar,
but she doesn't think she's a window-cleaner,
she paupers with her paws as if nodding,
she puts them together and does a motion
like a gesticulation to prayer, when she wants food,
and she squirms her eyes in a pleading way
akin to, what shakespeare might have
said about two hands clasping...
and yes quarus has these furry extensions
on his ears like a lynx...
and yes veronica is long-haired
which makes all mongrel cats look a bit small
even though she's small herself...
but one's a window-cleaner pretender
and the other is a devotee in some weird
association with a buddhist ritual...
i'll never get the hang of this -
but yeah, a mature fox weighs ~10 kilograms...
god i almost puked sniffing out the blood
coming from his snout in the cold winter air.
i got it! the cat thinks the window-cleaners
are mimes, that they're miming some sort of representation
of seeing the invisible, well, ok, see-through,
but it's like the cat is telling window-cleaners
something akin to atheists telling the vigilant prayer-mat
hopefuls whether they know if god's east, or west, or north...
that's a cat, bewildered by window-cleaners imitating
them, and i wish i could explain it to him,
but how is he to mould more sounds other than
meow with his crude symphony of teeth that tear into
raw flesh? i can eat a stake tartar with an egg yoke onions
and gherkins... but i wouldn't eat raw chicken,
ok, fair enough, sushi is raw fish... but like that scare
over salmonella that prevents you from whipping up
egg yokes and adding sugar for *kogiel mogiel

(oh irish coffee is great with this stuff,
it's a heat insulating membrane,
whiskey and black coffee and this stuff that's
like a yellow runny yellow meringue on top -
contradictory, but no light is involved,
so out goes the truth about black attracting
light and warming you up, this is pure sunshine
afloat - this stuff acts like an insulator -
it's a colour concoction that absorbs
heat, a reversal of what light is, because in
colour theory the colour black absorbs light
which ensures you feel warmer,
this kogiel mogiel of raw egg beaten to a certain
thickness with added sugar is like a return
journey to the sun, where light is reminded
of its heating properties, rather than visuals
akin to photosynthesis and phototropism -
in a rush i probably explained it wrong,
but then the taste of the stuff overpowered me),
marine life can be hosts of much larger tapeworms -
those long lost descendent of squid -
mm flappy flappy flappy; at least octopuses
provide an ink-well, natural post-modernists in the waters:
spank a splatter... and then... run! well, tense up
the stationary wriggle and imitate what in an
atmosphere is a jump.
Jude kyrie Dec 2015
Winter nights are when the grey wolf cries,
across the skeleton forest shorn of leaves.
Grey and invisible within the resting trees,
Silent and patient intelligent ice blue eyes wait.

It is calling for me to rekindle with the pack
For as a woman I am also partly wolf.
Now my hair turns grey like their coats.
My eyes are as wise as nature.

I lie as they lie with my belly on the earth
in reverence of its timeless wisdom.
to feel its pulsating heartbeat.
The silver shine of my wolfs eyes empower me,
Overflowing my soul, with ancient knowledge.

Though human I lie down in company of the wolf,
suckling the milk of my mother, gaining her strength
Standing in the rains of her wisdom
Her daughter, her immortality, Her wolf.
David Barr Dec 2013
I have openly altered my state of consciousness and have connected with astral planes where the channelling of transcendental energy into the room has occurred through vibrations from the soul of music.
A spellbinding stream of conscious connectedness truly pulsates through unseen realms of reality.
In order to participate, we must understand that healing cannot be defined by the limitations of familiar vocabulary. Therefore, let us permit shamanic drumming to throb within the network of our being.
Thank you. I can feel your transparency.
Wonthelimar, in the last transmigration that he planned from Nyons in the cavern on the eastern side of the Rhone, surrounded himself with mountains that dwarfed them with promiscuous caves of the Eygues. From these buckets as a margin of power and go referring to the nocturnal wind of the Pontias; created his fundamental tool of attraction of the Mementos de Cartography of the Seleucids, decomplexing the logistical notions of the Diadocos after having resuscitated and liberating Alexander the Great from a Cartesian Underworld in the manner of apocryphal late Aristotelianism, mechanizing existential dualisms of Hades with formulas and psychotropic and geometric tricks, licensing them theologies of habeas corpus, coexisting in the first instance with Etréstles de Kalavrita who would establish the term of definitive transmigration of Alexander the Great, so that between the Diadocos and Wonthelimar they would contend the final and disciplinary action to revoke the high arrest, transhuming the sovereign as Macedonian next to the Hexagonal Birthright finally very close to Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth in the vicinity of the Megaron Spilaion Apokalypseos.

The generals of Alexander the Great shared his legitimate Ark without royal titles, they were Perdiccas, Antipater, Craterus, Eumenes de Cardia, and others like the satraps who came to be proclaimed as kings; Antigonus, Ptolemy, and Seleucus. Residing the most substantial in this parapsychological saga in Vernarth; his brother Etrestles de Kalavrita who seconded and predestined his monolithic and constituent sovereignty of Polis, for the purpose of ruling and raising his Kopis and Xifos in the independence of aldehyde and alcoholic carbonyl residues emanated from the ferment of the Backhoi and Nepente, depositing LSD in substantial amounts. to align himself with Seleucus, and materially present himself in the sphere of Patmos as two representatives of both empires, one ancient Christian and the other Panhellenic, placing himself in that totalitarianism of Seleucus over that of Alexander the Great who was splendid in the cosmogony of a king similar to David of Judea, solvent and illustrious in the conception of Apological dynasty and identity, of Zeusian roots and of eternal numeral politics. In the quantitative of the champion of Alexander the Great revived on Patmos, the Mashiach of Gethsemane will continue to be deified with such a signature of both in ****** skies in two absolutist emperors and of dogmatic differential Pythagorean, propagandizing both dynasties with domains in regencies and different latitudes of the conceptual decision. Base, to refute proposals to follow them in part of anti-Alexandrian perplexities or opposed to marginalizing himself from following them after they abandoned him in Babylon. This was sensed in the confrontation between both forces of univocal polarization, for the good of one and the bad of the other of having to distract them from the proposal to enlist and harass dethroned kings on purpose from their deaths and revive them in others than in their own court of observers and bosses, they will only exist in the empty temples and idols without dates to know to avoid and in prevailing dates that will not happen.

Seleucus says: “Khaire my Commander…, unite the divine sanctuaries of Apollo, and take up the harangue of Tel Gomel with us disunited and lost by you. This dating will remain in the offices of reforming Macedonian armies and we will both command our generals in the Panhellenic dynasty, overall the heavenly armies that you will ever have here with fragile oracles confusing your divine blood! "

Wonthelimar, already manifesting from Nyons, lightened his Bucephalus bases, having a great somatic affinity with the bridles of Alexander the Great's steed, unraveling here a great mystery in his parapsychological regression directed from the cavern of Chauvet.

Wonthelimar says: “I have been confined with early Neolithic alloys, here I have dwelt livid among all your intrepid adventures channeling the axons and sketches of manifestations of superior cause and effect of correspondence of the ages and their Aeon and paleo-uncrossing precessions of you and your new death, from the Ardeche river together with Medea and Hypnos, among all of them being aerial, visionaries and northern lights who traveled to my redoubt to spray them in river waters, on the night of Agios San Ioannis. The gorges that swallow the seal of the Pontias, make rivers form with their name since the bulk of their waves of gusts are grandiloquent and robust like a gaseous river that becomes hydrological in larynxes where the wind is astonished when entering the concavity that it is wasted in its nature of time and qualitative content. Unusually I have been the progeny of organisms of rapture and cytological drama, in each one that is represented in these walls in which they are trapped next to me as tricks, and radiocarbon tricks by these vicissitudes, and of their actions that have dated my radiation of radioactive carbon in these caverns and so-called fourteen carbon spaces, for more than fifty million radiometric years. I lived here with my parents until as a child I stayed with my godmother, but one day my father did not return. From that moment on I became after the anticipated axial carbon, to keep myself as a torch in the caverns to see where no one was light but me, only of someone who was more than a dawn to illuminate what they wanted to know in my organic depressions, my trident of dating and carbon, by my parents and I in incisive philanthropy staining all the walls detesting the otherness that made me move towards a Wonthelimar; with dated apparitions and curtains that behind them always like gargoyles appeared before Hypnos, and then Medea, taking me as a child with her hands. When they left, I was left alone and patiently waited for them, when they did not return in the harsh winters they would send me Gerakis Falcons, to deal with your pain my lord Vernarth. In this field, I live, but now I am on my way to grasp the horns of the ibex, which took me to their lair with their goat colonies to give me milk and ursid ***** herbs that shielded me from a lethal genre, although not every day. Remain so. The lord that you will be now is the reflection of the bodyguard along with his ibex that will cordon off your rebirth after leaving the traces and rods of your bone marrow, spleen, and glandular that now belongs to me, to take you to the coldest waters that run inside me since the last ice age. The interference of the Diádocos tried to convince Alexander the Great, this is already a new rock piece to represent him in numismatics, walls, and ceramics in a predominant and complacent way of historical, shamanic record and of astonishing parapsychological fold that I have projected on the walls of Chauvet without your consent "

The new turn from Nyons to Patmos was one of the seizures and ecstatic agonies, for a former little prodigy boy and son of an Íbez and a Bucephalus named Wonthelmar, who comes to rescue the entelechies of someone who was an ignorant man who carried in his arms his divine death, without knowing that before she was eternal life waiting for her in the Katapausis, after building the Megaron and negotiating with Seleucus the evolutionary stylistics of the resurrected Alexander the Great in the flames of the candle enlisted in the night lanterns and united with Saint John the Theologian. Seleucus' talks will be one of the stubborn and ****** visits to persuade and catechize his major general, in periods that do not elapse in real-time, and that will be the fatal fate of his obstinacies because Vernarth was already a prodigal son of the Duoverso-Universe., whose basal was unparalleled in attacking their ideals and hegemonic settlements of the material of minimal cause and effect, a wonder of worthy to lean on invisible gods who at a great speed never seen before..., trafficked in front of every gap or shoulder of their destiny, wandering under a pendulum of a sword and under the support of the farmer, who held prey and meat between a lightning bolt and an elder that supports him, cushioning all earthly sufferings, even more coming out from the silence and the most hidden isolation of those who dare to release from the vaporous darkness of Chauvet, Wonthelimar, already forging paths and ups and downs from where no one comes or goes.
Metaphysic • Quamtum • Parapsychology • Regression
David Barr Dec 2013
How bombastic is the traditional English breakfast, as she spreads her colorful and cardiac enticements across the span of our traditional expectations.
We have far surpassed the golden age of steam, my gorgeous friend of midnight festivals.
Their truly is an eerie silence which is deafening, when seaweed caresses the surface of oceanic intrepidity. So, my brother of anthropological inseparability – kiss the breeze of this powerful and enigmatic mysticism.
I praise the shamanic divinations of Bolivian forests, where entrails are the delight of Haruspex and the Erythroxylum Coca bends her rigid stem on the West face of the Andes.
I have one question to ask of thee: How do we truly interpret Mesopotamian liver?
brandon nagley Nov 2015
I traveled seeking otherworldly unknown spiritual erudition,
Twilight was approaching, the village was illuminated; by lit face's and fiery pit's.

Shamanic foot pounding dug into the ancient soil, visages were daubed by psychedelic mirages; as embers flew from the state of consciousness matched.  As tis these wild child's wore feather's as   celestial hat's.

Chant's of healing echoed the earth, an old man with a map drawn on his countenance, and in the palm of his hand's. Stood crooked, spine shifted; with a feather inked with wisdom as the quill's were year's of time's past.

His peeper's as Sunshined glass, aged and freed, he was around the birth age of at least eighty-three; he's lived many form's back before time, before me and thee, he told me " Brandon, I've been waiting for thyself to be seen.

As tis I kneweth a messenger hadst guided me there, I was standing in the shaman's presence, as the plume's covered his hair; he kneweth I needed soul-retrieval, his grin bounced the air.

He brought me into his Wigwam, as tis I felt the demon's inside me, his singing smoked under his breath; verily a man of astral tithing, I passed out from the beastly being's biting.

Mine apparition hadst left me, I was aloft weightless over mine body, I felt as if I died, none more pride or lifes prizing. The medicine man tranced, none need for him to digest any elixers, he's been doing this for centuries, he was a past angel and spirit mixture.

I hath seen mine life's picture, just up high in the cloud's, mine aura climbed atop the great mountain, I didst not want to cometh down; I was watching this tan-skinned tribal just below mine sight; he danced, tranced, danced throughout the night.

Then at the ending before I awoketh, I stared the demon's coming out of me, as tis their infectious breathing got me choking, I pushed out all the thing's trying to latch onto mine burning light inside me, the hellion loveth good soul's, to Satan that's control: anything good is open to their inviting.

I opened mine vision, when the death-bringers left, a holy Bible was placed upon mine chest; as tis the shaman told me his Secretive gift and holiness: he told me Christ he turned to many kingdom's ago, once back when, when he was working as God's angel.

As when I left that small earthly hut of his, he started singing Christian proverb's; reciting Christian hymn's, he wasn't thy average medicine man, he kneweth truth, not fable's nor myth's; before I left he painted mine head with a cross for protective bliss. As whilst at that moment in time, the devil stayed away from mine mind, Satan's chain's wouldst be waiting for him in the brimstone abyss.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
you had your shrove thursday! you celebrated it with frying pancakes! celebrate harvesting crops by returning to eating like wild animals... no carbohydrates on good friday! carbohydrates? complex sugars... you can ingest fructose and lactose... come on... keep up with the poetics of the religion!

well... it's easter... whatever the hell that means these days,
    in protestant lands there is more commotion around christmas
time anyway... you can literally glance over
   the concept of easter in england; i'm not sure how it
looks or feels like in either *lutheran
or calvinist countries:
   germany in the former (category), switzerland in the latter...
        category...
but easter is **** hard to pick on...
                 it's supposed to be "celebrated"...
  but to be honest...                            **** all happens!
so yeah... coming from a nation that became ultra-catholic
because one of their countrymen became a pope...
     you get this fervour back there:
                           people really get to the grit of things,
and they do! i swear, they do! take it seriously -
          when you hear a bunch of poles stating their
creed: father son and the holy ghost etc.,
                         they sound like an army of satanists!
you have to hear it... it's what i call the...    murmur effect.
holy murmur... mmm and probably as much comparison
as putting your ear to a belly of a bear and listening
   in on the grumbling noises of the bear's intenstines
  doing their magic of the latter stages of digestion...
  so... coming from a culture that got duped by having
a pope's ethnicity overly-stated as: foundation! tradition!
you get an exodus of those who firmly believed that
communism was working... because they didn't get
the marshall plan hand-outs / benefits...
                         a bit like that analogy:
  give a man a fish?          or give a man a fishing-bow?
                       anyway... so you have this pope
that didn't have the human decency to become
                                                          ­            emeritus
slobbering, drooling all over the sanctity of st. peter's
humble beginnings...
                                 and you have what's called: "tradition"
of celebrating this "festival" -
                                  you don't eat meat on good friday,
also called: quasi-ramadam without any mammal proteins...
   saturday you go to the cinema...
                    sunday you go and sanctify
  eggs... that are painted, and hard boiled...
                            and you have what drunks call:
the morning after...
                                           monday? by now you're in
heaven... having risen from the dead!
                       or what's called the melancholia of winter.
but you know what really bothers me about all this?
     the holy sacraments...
                     and the ****** greek poetry that comes along
with it... and how it's misunderstood, when applicable
to the lunatic acts of "celebration"...
                                      so "fasting" is invoked by
not eating mammalian proteins... meat...
                                   meat... meat...
surely it should be about not eating bread / all forms
of carbohydrates! eh?  surely fasting would be about not
eating breads of all sorts... croissants, pancakes,
buns... crumpets... scoans...
                               after all, flesh into bread blood
into wine?
                             or bread into flesh, wine into blood?
water into wine, oysters into genitals?
                                                 lemons into oranges?
the ancient greek critique of poetry provided us
with an artefact that's probably the best joke on the planet...
thank you plato... for giving as a laughing-stock
of a political movement...
                              clearly what beats it with a club
with nails sticking out of it is:
                           a religion that's like, ultra-kumbaya -
the clerics can sing the whole shabang from
minarets - while the dutiful adherents whisper their
                                                 five-a-day, five-a-day...
that's when you get into why milton wrote what
he wrote, and then had his eyes "gauged" out -
                             nothing less than the equivalent of
the homer of the north... i.e. went blind.
                      me? i'm drinking today... whiskey was
not specified...                 now i'm going to an apache
shamanic rant and say...       whiskey! fire! fire + water!
firewater!                and just ****** greek poetry,
because you know that ancient egyptians also had
a sense for poetry, but it had to be translated into
hebrew to have potency... egyptian princes spoke
the slave tongue? it's a bit like prince charles speaking
some slavic language... say... russian....
     i'd be surprised if he could speak french, never mind
the so called "exotica".
Anthony Williams Aug 2014
Soon the northern sun has a corona
nations bound to its regal attitude tide
high sea son's tossed
a half crown head turning golden summer
seas on ends
to land shiny tails down south
as if every sea's on wings
away to seek or sink an immortal sun
I stand on
the divide
feeling the hesitation

two day's
the moon's
seas wax fuller
bridges
spangling love waves
from a salt shaker
on a pearl within
your aphrodisiac
world is my oyster

hinge wriggled open
to be held at bays
sliding into the mouth
of nature's hunger
for where a tan fades
into season spicy
summer's parting harvest
of farewells

surface mining to be done
by stripping vegetation
down to bare branched amber
ore deposit shafts
of light marking
the sun dial's changed number
with your toppled hourglass figure
a vase
pressed with dahlia
and salvia flower
upset without the friction
of pepper heat
milled into smooth skinny
latte malt
drunk on moisture
laden skies

layered over swaying
thought bubble dreams
of cloudy evenings
freckled rain
and streaming grain
fleeing the field seemingly overnight
as fleeting as goals
scored between our legs
running off home
hands full with harvest in
cartwheeling arcs
stored with the last gasp
solar flared nostrils
wild as meadow ripened
yearlings

in the joy of escape
we join their bare backed
flight circuiting dizzy
shamanic heights only to fall
back to earth like Pegasus
shaking off Bellerophon
striking a mount Helicon
with hooves whose marks
cause springs to channel
fountains of inspiration
after defeating a Chimera
with great spirited whinnying
breathing out tipi fire vents
gone sweat lodge native
skins lashed outside
keep the glow snug inside

rustling about the bite
incoming winds of change
fright the landscape
flocking to shower
in fresh cooler air
lifting us like birds to shadow
the moves to renewed
lighter climes leaving
soaked sticks
dripping acorn colour
scattering an autumnal quilt
around tired bed fellows
an interlocked cycle pattern
for coming riders on the storm
to be in memory trunks
splashed with mist
pooled effort

released to dry and recover
side-by-side
once the wardrobe fills wooly
headed
for warming coats of evening
russet
we settle tone down on a chill out
wish
list ridden dotty by a love chauffeur
cycle
ticked off sun set to be sent
to bed early
just when ours clock on two
four
season
happy hour
by Anthony Williams
LJ May 2016
I can see the mask that you wear
The demon that you hide behind
As it chases you loiter it's shadow
I'll sooth you in the dark alleyways
Directly call the shamanic exorciser
to starlight your pebbled and icy path

I can see the mask that you wear
It laughs and mimic's as you **** it
Carrying a collection of your innocence
the disclosures of the haunted past
I'll reconcile amicably with the villain
sign the treaty permanently on your behalf

I can see your charming face behind that mask
That beautiful facade of yours my dear one
the vision in your eyes written on your iris
the ink that pastes a blank page of my desires
Our seal that wraps the crawls in the cold night
My divine one, let's fly afloat in the attic of our dreams
Shift the tide!
Awolnation- Sail (blame it on our ADD)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgIqecROs5M
Andrew Apr 2021
Intrusive Thoughts
A Heavy Darkness Follows
Perceptions With Guilt
I Feel Hollow
Really I See Through
Rationalize
Still I See Too
The Parts That I Block Out
To Help Me Feel Better About Choices
I Make I'm Afraid
I'm Hearing Voices
Reminding Me What I Did
I Feel Sarrow Bleeding Through My Eye Lids
So Many Ways I See In Situations
Making Descions That Better Me
Make Me Feel Anxious
I Can't Comprise What I'm Contemplating
I Let People Go
I Need Myself
I Need Calm My Mind And Free My Self
All These Abilities Will Heal Me And Feul Me
Or Haunt Me And **** Me
No Longer Can I Step A Side
I Take A Breath Then I Step Out Side
The Sky I Gaze Upon
I See A Grave I'm On
I'm Processing And Analyzing
All, Micro Everything
It's Hard To Relax And Feel The Energy
Shamanic Path Dealing With The Entities
I Watch The Embers In Our Hearts
And It's Crippling
To Feel The Sensations Of Mysery
And Try To Justify It With A Beautiful Mystery
I'm To Complex For The Simple Things
I Need To Get Right
Or I Must **** My Self
I'm Praying Lets Make A Pact
Help Me Heal My Self
Doctors Don't Understand Me
There Ain't A Plan B
I Even Feel Distant With My Family
They See Me In The Past Warped
Off Built Perceptions
I Want To Lay On Train Tracks
And Leave Earth
But I Can't Leave A Message
It Would Take Life Times
To Say All My Perceptions
I'm Looking For A Balance Of Peace
Not A Place In Heaven
My Mind Is Infinite And Open
Others Are In A Box
Hope I Don't Get Locked Up
Cos I Can't Knock It Off
I'm Built With
Magick Within
In A Skin Full Of Sin
That Is Thinning
I Can See My Ashes In Dust
Do The Pros Weight Out The Cons
When I'm Adding Em Up
Nobody But Me Can Convince Me
When I Had Enough
Emotions Can Feel Disturbing
And Mold Like
Got To Hold Tight
On What I Want To Be
Not An Old Life
I Feel Like A Vampyre
On A Cold Night
I know Right
Here I Go Again
I Fantasize
How To Shape Shift
Through Candle Light
I Opened Up My Mind To See Things In Ways With Out Confirming To A Single Structure Or Foundation
Battle With Insanity, I Hate It
Sizzle Like Its Satin
Wheeping But I Make It
I See Ghost Upon A Swing
Some Lady In A White Dress
That Dances Through A Grass Feild
The Flowers Dead
Black Roses By My Feet
Is That My Seat
Bloods Clogging The Sink
Meditate In A Casket Just Too See What It Means
Purgatory Screams
The Agony In Dreams
Absence Or Achieve
At The Grave Yard
Writing Poetry Under A Tree
It's Raining
I Admire The Leaves
As They Blow With The Wind
I'm Cold As Ice If You Touch My Skin
Romance And Poetry
Is What I Know
I Used To Hold On The Thorns
Now I Let Go
Observing As Everything Unfolds
Is There A Purpose
Is This A Show
Will The Ones That I Love Most Read What I Wrote
Insides A Symphony
Haunted By The Oak
David Barr Nov 2015
The quest for both burial and resurrection are significant, as their flickering shadows of the self-depreciatory abyss chant their silent and hauntingly audible presence under the canopy of the ancient forest.
Let us celebrate the night together, as we are traumatically enveloped within an exposed and dialectical pronunciation during this classical and acoustic daylight romance.
Although I truly hate your love, I also reject your evident indifference.
This is the essence of feeling like a fake within the genuineness of our actual and perceived realities.
It is heaven-sent, like a feathered breed of unresolved investigations within our socio-political climate of assumed advancement, where the intensity of the beat gyrates her percussionist hips across ******* expressions of the cosmological sound barrier.
Concurrently, the tangible rhythm of nature’s pulse considerately consummates her forcefully placid interactions within the context of gender specific diversity.
It is all in the name of discriminatory wholeness, my friend.
Our ambivalent connectedness to that which is catastrophically uncertain reminds me of drawing curtains across this conglomerate dawn of darkness and uninhibited concealment.
Just look at our ornithological formation, where leadership spreads her wings with censored zoological resignations and simplistic wisdom.
You have truly lifted my soul within the complexity of this circuitry, and I wholeheartedly acknowledge that we are a myriad of expressions which cannot be adequately articulated within the thermals of our cosmological stratosphere.
Yet, there is a certain finesse to delinquency, and I have bridged the metaphorical gap across the chasm of divided entities, where we can embrace the cool and gentle breeze right at the fulcrum of unforgiving landscapes and shamanic pastures.
Like an artistic depiction of woodland serenity, we are engaged in this wonderful neutrality where it is all about the dance – otherwise known as the energy of modern choreography.
Epistemology can be questionable, where assumptions are sickeningly grounded within the soil of egocentric perceptions of supremacy.
Trust me, my seasoned partner of those astral plains of Nirvana: my lips are sealed in this putrid reconciliation of proclaimed opposites, which are said to mutually attract.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
the only greater justice
   that i could ever know,
would be to pass
from my flimsy grip
        of the world,
         into iron clutches
of a higher esteem
    than my own for what
has been written
     by my callousness.
long gone are the days
of passing into folklore,
or to pass as an erosion
of memory in common song
in celebration of
          some event that
pleases the people,
              and the state.
perhaps akin to Hölderlin
passing into a patriarchal
***** of Heidegger -
or what can be said in ancient
tongue - toward the misty
ocular eternity:
        toward a Homeric
                                third eye
of blindness: from all
the phantasmagorical ambitions
of man, having been
   exposed to the shamanic
yet still returning to
the troughs of grey and boorish
affairs of monetary leverages:
as ever - wishing upon
Archimedes' joke of a pound(£) -
settled on a gamble for
                   the grand wish of
   using a pound(£) as a lever -
to tickle Mammon into coughing
up riches.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i found that only the mono-phonetic peoples of this earth act like neanderthals did: protectively... implying i had a chance with one of their ****** counterparts... the loss of monotheism in a largely diffused area creates them, they're prone to shouting drunk slogans when watching a football march: with no foreign invasion impeding... to say the basics: that they can't intellectualise drinking is their downfall... drinking is shamanic like eating certain mushroom is: drink is liquidated fungus, it's an implication of all things thriving on the degenerative, to thrive on decomposition... even those championing the psychedelic escape route with the fungus can't see for a miles' worth of **** the potential of liquidating mushrooms / wheat and bottling it... i never expected to say profound things... and even if i did, i wouldn't get a ***** from saying them as those quasis who say profound things and leave me limp-dicked anyway.

a bottle of beer in between glugs of whiskey as they are:
the most refreshing and happy: sunshine down
my throat... and with those words unsaid
but typed: how i too can adopt a sarcasm
for all the woes that un-inebriated
people state, middle-aged and sexually frustrated
from socially-invoked inhibitors concerning image...
sarcasm is all they get back...
it's kinda sad... kinda...
all i'm doing in writing this verse
is an attempt to re-enter the haunting
house of the epic i started
writing two days ago...
    on the principle of ensō i find myself
unable to reenter than narrative,
every time i think about doing so
i think of: inauthentic...
                and it would be,
authenticity and the equivalent of
said once, therefore said properly...
but i wish to: only to erased the (pending)
in the title...
   but then i look at the script and think:
i've moved past this...
    why would i want to turn a river
of yore, into a lake of the now?
then unto man, who unable to coerce the elements
sought a fifth for elemental as too sensory
encapsulation and boundary,
   lightning being the fifth element...
candles v. light-bulbs, right?
       for too long the tetra-said-and-tetra-experienced...
or toward encapsulating man in
     water (creativity)
       and within wind (empty talk)
          as with earth (proverbs)
so too with fire (rhetoric)
                    so too with lightning (genius),
how i wish to have been able to write those
belittling notes down in industrial print
away from what would be considered
mindless sketching: that is why industrialisation
of print has created a medium of uniformity,
but also the Picasso's worth of hand-craftship
in what appeared at Belshazzar's feast in
the invention of late, western origination of graffiti:
******* rebel. can anyone else imagine
saying something like that, instead of asking
us why the flu or the tapeworm exists?
       the re-, the one true unfathomable monstrosity
apart from the logic of moving from point A to
point B... the re-, the one true unfathomable
monstrosity that burdens us all: who are rested...
the repetitive dream when we are instilled into
lying back and unconscious...
   for the blinking of the eye: and what is sight...
     for the first oyster gulped wriggling down
our oesophagus, alive,
    to the second and third, on a date with a lovely
   at Harrods... for all that re- is, without the -s,
it can only be a thing...                        as
thus said: that ancient curse of the vampiric
insatiable thirst to continue: under whatever circumstance,
repeat, replicate... oh the woe of the re-
                         as to be endured, heard, seen, felt, tasted...
with the demagogue all suicides rebel against:
master pro, master pro,
         who ***** his re *****, who ***** his re *****
in all of us: as transcendental genetics might not teach
us... bound to only escape such a formula,
staging ourselves within the groundwork of
the pre formulae; or how i can understand true will,
or the existence of will, as only a suicide might
investigate: to take death into his ***** and say:
for what will continue in me is but mere an apathy
of submission, but if i take death to the dancefloor,
i will truly find death's master: for in old age i will
not find wisdom, but merely the plagiarism of
childhood with less haste: to chase, to hide, to speak...
i find old age as not blessing with that childhood
already was... let me take death to the dancefloor,
on the seabed, in the hands of a hurricane,
         in the sunken sockets of gravity...
       please, here, in the crescendo of what i feel,
rather than in a congregation of mourners who
weep only in the thespian courtesy for others.
suicide? that is what i understand as true will -
              man, bacterium infernum: lost within
a blinking of an eye - within which all fates of things
freeze, undisturbed, as if alive and relentlessly blooming,
for within them an untrodden path and
within them a hand that never endured tilling as
a scythe... of that Edenic hope: to live among
the less mechanised things and in turn be a lessened
replica of that mecha-...           should this be seen
as an encouragement? too long has the asylum been
romanticised...
                    few have ventured to romanticise
the eventuality of Camus' culmination...
of what had to become the *sole
question...
          hence the taboos... people demand to think
that certain cognitive states are akin to viral infections...
   as if all those bound to the unexplained are
pulverising leprosy to the general public...
   a common trait, among neanderthals.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
it usually happens like this, the moment you expand and exfoliate in vocab gymnastics worthy of poetry, and cannot fathom the mundane lumberjack constraints of writing fiction, were the use of a thesaurus is in plain sight... people start calling your sentence construct a "psychiatric" symptom of making salads... too bad these critics have such a limited vocab bank account, that they still have to use the thesaurus, in order to "spice things up"! i tried and i tried, but i can't make language rigid, systematic; i tried being the bricklayer of language with paragraph rooms: but i just end ******* it up, like a picasso.

a man might as well have said:
                      to have *shared
an experience,
is to also have paid  a remissions for qualms
of having lived a life: mostly apart -

and is that not so?
this "shared" experience,
   is nothing but a reinvention
of the dionysian cult -
and by that i mean:
nothing more than the obliterate
target practice against
any mould, or "biased" glue
to fathom beyond the thought:
something good.

fool the man and folly another,
should he come from an age
of technological "investigations"
and replica interventions -
seems only the nomad,
the less civilised is the one:
who sought wisdom, and found it...
*****-strapped in diapers
and mosquito bites...
    truth to power!
i once had e lake, now aye av a bog,
my my: a fine wide ranging
toilet crouch moment:
but my my, wh'ah a woo!
  i mean view... neever took a ****
and felt so exasperated by the canvas,
than the ease of me giving birth to
a ****-worm...
  oi! armstrong! stretch!

have you noticed why stand-up comedy
is a wholly black vs. white affair?
these days us peeps can't say
anything profound, nothing biblical,
so, we resort to not being taken seriously
and, crack a joke...
    i mean... it doesn't matter that i don't
come from a non-colonial white group,
i still can't say anything profound...
i have to crack a joke, to be taken seriously...

problem is: i might actually crack a bad joke...
i actually might not be that much funny
as a dog chasing its own tail...

a man might as well have said:
to have shared an experience,
is to also have paid
a remissions for qualms
of having lived a life: mostly apart -

and that's true, in that,
a "shared" experience is never a lived
experience...
      the ****'s up with these shamanic
holidays?
   we know we end up on cruise ships
trying to celebrate "thinking",
while at the same time succumbing
to "being" bored...
          
         the only lived we ever had was
down the pub...
    and the "shared" we attempted to
capitalise on?
    bad acid trips, bad shroom trips,
post-scriptum of a white girl
  injecting concentrated ayahuasca...
yeah, really "lived" through it together...
the sharing is not the living,
the week doesn't concentrate with
a weekend, with friday binge, saturday binge,
sunday rest...

     the left? do the capitalist infiltrators
even know what the left stands for,
the left orthodoxy? jew.
you have too much time on your hands,
scrap the 0-hour contracts, and make people
work the mandatory 6, as it was done
in post world-war II "******" states...
less time to riot and chant ******* slogans...
maybe these people can learn
the orthodox way...
        
           people with 2 days off usually waste
one of these days on utopia, and the other
on the status quo...

     **** me, that's decent, i'm going to stutter:

           people with 2 days off usually waste
one of these days on utopia, and the other
on the status quo...

oh yeah, and make army conscription mandatory,
given that universities are obsolete,
just for the boys out there, save the "boys",
bring back mandatory conscription;
it'll be like ilford county high vs.
the ilford ursulines: secular segregation,
and the mosques can just *******;

you know, i this idea of being a social engineer...
it's titillating! like saying the word scone
or crumpet to a russian girlfriend!
**** gives me the giggles!

b.t.w.: shhh, don't tell anyone...
it might be the *** talking...

no, i don't believe in ******* mud sweat
soaking condoms and cheap beer glastenbury of
shared experience...
      i don't believe in "sharing" an experience,
i don't believe in group yoga, group detox,
group schmuck worth of l.s.d. or a dope get-together
to listen to some impromptu jazz and recite
poetry like those beatnik quacks of the 60s...
if it's not a lived experience,
   like preparing dinner, and sitting by the table...
well... nothing is worth sharing... n'est-ce pas?

you either experience a lived experience,
or you experience a mockery of life -
   this... thing, called "shared" experience,
3 days at a festival, and then?
off you go vermin! back into your cages!
chop chop!
            on the ******* treadmills, pronto!
most of these people can't even imitate autism,
or the child, or concentrate within the focus
of solipsism, given the theory, some *******
even claim that it's a mental "illness":
or as i like to call it: the proper state of affairs
of being an only child.

these people do know that they're breeding really
******* patients, hiding behind the label
"mental illness", while at the same time not
calling islamic terrorists as also being mentally ill,
they know that, don't they?
   i mean, the media is breeding really angry people
with this dissociative-dissociation -
yes, i know, but this imminent tautological blunder
can't be metaphorical, akin to plain sighted
interaction of prefix-magnets...

        oh wait... associative-dissociation actually
does make more sense... d'uh: tautological prefixation
never works: the paradoxical blunder...

       oh ****, have a party,
   step it up with "tautological":
as i might also add: existentialism and the inverted
commas - the laziness regarding the aristotelian
genesis of proper nouns, and quick-hand-draw nouns;

and when you write so "confusingly" as to make
your reader distrust you, in that you have read
enough books, for them to not be able to make
identical references of a chronology of reading.

to be honest, given this western media punch-bag?
i'd rather be called a terrorist,
   than someone who's mentally ill...
  god's honest truth, since then i'd be dealing
with puritanical matters of conviction -
and as one theist said to another theist:
much easier contemplating a "non-existent"
being, than being stuck in an atheist's head
pretending to reinvent the wheel,
and the cave man, and return to mama chimp;
just saying... at least the idea of "god"
either brings the desire to procrastinate
by gesticulating the existence of: via prayer -
or being ****** by the void,
    of a non-existence of, the thing that consumes
thought - res edere cogitans;
still, much better than being cannibalised
at an atheist banquet;
i much prefer shoving my ego up his ***,
than into the mind of some atheist,
and then start nodding in approval like
some zombie carrier pigeon,
which scratches its delivery confirmation
with a hook of gangrene.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Maize stalks
Sage cleansing
Prophetic vision's
Unrelenting

All shamanic gifts!!!!

— The End —