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Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
beginning with a title... the transcendent bicycle...
because it really is just that...
if you have walked as much as i have:
a marathon from Romford
to St. Paul's and back...
a marathon from Romford to Epping
and back...
       i don't know but i do know that
i might have been aiming for: flesh of my flesh...
aged 34... but i'm still "trapped" inside
the dimension of the bicycle like
i'm ******* quicksilver / the flash...
i haven't ridden a bicycle in well over a decade...
today i found out i have ghost muscles...
the bicycle became the antithesis of
prosthetic limbs...
   it's hardly a Descartes contemplating
a desk and / or van Gogh's chair...
beauty in pickling... depths of thought in:
picking, juices...
how a second birth happens with
the advent of thought...
when... penetrating inanimate things...
to think about objects is to...
become more objective?
         it's not like i'll summon...
a Freudian complex...
using a bicycle... as a Deleuze
did when ushering in the bicycle from
a Beckett's perspective...
  beside the "village bicycle" i hardly
want to give sway to some ******* metaphor...

the bicycle is more than a chair
a chair is such a fermentation process
since you can sit on it...
but can hardly concern yourself
with making a ******* gallop on it...
but a bicycle is not a horse...
but a bicycle is not a horse...
writes the man that...
yes... i have ridden horses...
all the equestrian clubs in Essex can shy away
from the detail of...
i have allowed myself to ride a horse
to a gallop... neck, sore... entangled in:
want of massage... yes...
but a bicycle is not a horse!
it's a dog... at best... it goes where you want
it to go...
the leash of gears the muzzle of the breaks...

the **** i need a car for?
in London... even if it's outskirts /
kilt Loon'don?
     ha ha FARKER TARTAN WILLIAMSSON...
blah!
enriched with hidden energies of
newly discovered... otherwise plainly
shelved sensations of motion...
there's nothing new about a bicycle...
said the man who withheld a smirk
when attesting...
a gap... the same centre of gravity... though...
almost like the buoyancy arrived at
when swimming...

oh how my father tried to teach me...
how peer pressure taught me instead...
it's this exasperating O oh and ah...
that's not really becoming of adding any more
detail to a rekindled love for life...

notably concerning England...
and outer-suburbia...
- when you have been walking these
labyrinth streets for months...
to be suddenly injected with
a very new, but at the same time:
a very old concept... dimension: which sharpens
the genesis of thinking about the sentence...
a new dimension of... speed...
time, space are their own affairs...
invoked for a day by a day...
walking is merely movement...
cycling? that's not merely movement...
that's...             speed...
because... there's a whole chi focus
of X yes precisely X...
        only half an hour's worth of cycling
and i covered the whole peninsula of the area...
unbelievable the detail of acquiring
traffic coordination...
a shared responsibility that a mere
pedestrian might take for granted...
      
tomorrow's a Sunday and i'm supposing
come circa 7am the
traffic should be "slim"...
having tested the breaks and the gears
somewhat proper...

bicycle bicycle... where have you been
all my past decade...
bicycle: grandfather Joseph...
death toll murk... fill the bells!
let them not resound in the night
while i reclaim the wind for my own...

- that i sometimes drift in and out
of solipsism...
yes... that solipsism is
laboratory minded experimentation
with states of autism...
but you're given the excuse
of riding a bicycle...

i wonder what wings might feel like....
a bicycle is not a horse...
a bicycle is more or less a dog...
it's certainly not a cat... meow...
if there was an advent of wind to harness...
but there's me... merely pulverising forward...
the leash the muzzle
all that's frame and the breaks:
downhill...

the lullaby of emotions intrinsic in:
blocking all rancid thinking... all thinking
like so...
Zen by ***... it's not that i know more...
i know... different... but first you have to walk
said distances... before loopholes...
wormholes appear gesticulating the mind
with a provided for, otherwise...

i'm 34 and i feel like i've just...
accomplished more than
having shed feather of my virginity...
never make me feel so entrusting...
never make me feel so demanding "x"...
peddle ******* peddle...
tread-water.... in your pyjamas...
i do remember, like an elephant's cranium
might... details of a historical tattoo...

philosophy books are...
paupers of metaphor...
language is ever hardly elevated into
a bouquet...
i don't want to be in love again...
i don't want to be such an...
undemanding... lack of ambition...
lack of sacrifice...

take me into the woods
and shoot me in the back of the head...
but before you do...
i'll merely ask...
take me into the sort of woods
where the deed be done...
but appreciate walking me so far
off the well trodden path
that you might not remember
how to retrieve a safe-footing back...
take me into the woods of no known
horizon...

guarded by a strict wall of a mile of trees
that block out the otherwise pleasant
azure of the sky come hiding the sun
at sunset... or sunrise...
in that zenith of immobile grey
between the hours of commotion
when nothing is to be salvaged as one's
own... but... abhorred as it too must be...
somehow... shared...

some privy in on England... a land
of fertile imaginings...
when Descartes had his table, and chair...
to fist & fester on...
i'll lay clamour to the debris of alt...

yes: an overbearing load of sensation:
delusional.. let's put him in his "right"
place... let him believe the sole provided
the psychiatric source of angst
no purpose = no posit of transcendence...
no bicycle...
   custard... pie-load...
angst...
               jerking off from "excess" libido...
well... exercise the "excesses" of libido elsewhere...
exert well squid parallels
and more: firm grasp... "tentacles"...
see the same within the confines
of an "elsewhere"...

how ***** i became being so...
muscular abiding... simultaneously... docile... too...
it's not a Lamborghini it's not
a British T... triumph motorcycle...
it's a peddling ingenuity of
somewhat self-origin...

i could have eaten up a Solomon's share
of ****** and *******
that same of wisdom...
should i, could i, would i have
demanded less than was already left available
from the Tetragrammaton...

how did "we" ever learn to laugh...
how was HA... the hebrew definite article spawned
those biggest,
no... those grieving questions...
how a monotheistic deity might be all
good... yet somehow not all powerful...
yet all powerful but not all good...
bling alley... cul-de-sac view:

the algebra not solved: attempted by
numbers...
letters later sieved...
and more letters sieved...
played the party pooper with membrane knowledge
of katakana and Hangul...
because... Latin script does slip...

chi-focus?
the multiplication ascend of:
what was walked prior...
can now be cycled... shortened because no
"lost" time was ever to be grieved...
although... the front suspension is...
an unwelcome addition...
ha ha... privy me on details
like... excesses that are there...
21 gears and when there was a rigid frame
throughout and rising up from
a sitting position is not necessary...

no... i'm not gearing up for motorcycles...
i like the idea...
but also... subsequently... the experience...
of a double-decker... bus...
of a bus of being the transit mahjong skeleton...
pieces... mein alles!

mein alles!             gott, mit... uns!

yes... unbelievable... the demands for yachts...
for ******... diminished into a fizzle....
when a Beijing demand for bicycles
skyrocketed... and all that was left to salvage
was... promises of a Sunday,
circa 7am...

hidden gems of plied-play-dough-esque:
sort of truths...
sort of beefing up... doubting pork...
within the confines of chops...
between me and a prisoner...
between me an a prisoner...
it's hardly the yacht...
the hardly any nuance of bother...
believe the existence of hierarchy...
because the Bolsheviks didn't
come about the first time around...
second try...
escape the English cwown they said...
escape the litany of squares
they-void-thought... "said"...
herr omar bin sa-id...
conquest of the Hey-Brews... "said"...

don't undermine the intricate
tribal workings of...
half-possessed...
half truant... thereby almost totally... true...
associates of Casimir the Great...
there be a god of wisdom
and there be a god of fire...
there be a god of letters...
if so...

the same god will be inclined
to mind...
an apostrophe as much as a surd (letter)
in Ęgli-sh...
when not minding... "it"..
lay an Ę to the side to wreck havoc with...
ha ha!    Щ...

  Ę / Щ... the **** are you looking
at me... like i were the one
who killed your mother with a *******
harmonica / what have these galoshes to do with
"these" galoshes...
what has this pumpernickel to do with
this windmill... "this" is an obstruction...
the proverb states...
what has a pumpernickel to do with
a windmill?

exactly... ****-all!

two-riddle *******' worth... worth of...
newly ******* jargon... and crust of...
for the load that might be minded
invigorating life... as life in prospect...
re-orientating man toward the clamour
of detailing sky...
not on foot...
not on horse...
not via car... will you...
to hell with running down...
a stampede of perspective...

planet... luancy? is that where we are all,
from?
i am born of madness...
i am this salty precursor of i think...
clearly i first arrived...
later... i somehow managed to "think"...
i didn't think first
but i certainly didn't either:
i think therefore i am therefore i think...

i was more on the lines of...
from the lineage of:
trouble...
i am therefore i think therefore i am...
i am not a spider i'm not all emptying and detailing
the filling of gob-***** with
i am hungry i am vector...
i am therefore i think therefore i am...
but this... ****** of french...
premature *******....
of i think therefore i am... therefore i think:

honestly? thinking is sometimes not...
necessary...
sometimes water needs no... glue, metaphor...

Amsterdam's open mouth darkseid
apocalypse abode...
le trio joubran - masar.... a finite quest...
primo.... detailing conquest...
handling crux....

            the cat's in the riddle...
the yard is in a mile...
scrutiny of the Levant...
           leverage of hark... -ing
denote: closure... of "ambition":
this lesser "king"...
brow of the most dignified...

                   keeping with allowance
(an)
  justly, met...
  
give me wind:
   give me... air...
not... hair... i laugh... i laugh too little...
i chisel my teeth...
i scream: nothing primo!
my life but q.
there are more lived importances
that matter, thus...
cradle... diamonds...

"the end".
Liz Apr 2014
I wish
It were Christmas 
Because I love the frenzy
And excuses it brings.

It's a beautiful 
Excuse to not do 
The ******* things 
In life that we spend 
Our lives doing.

The fairy lights 
Entwined in the trees
Cross continents 
With the buzz
of electricity.

I wish it were 
Christmas because
It brings the beautiful 
Excuse to love
Extravagantly. 

Just as we love
The icy daisies
Of spring I love
The warm branches 
Of bare Christmas Trees

I wish it were Christmas
Because I want to 
Hang the rosewood
Baubles round 
And see the glitter of sequin
Bunting strung happily
About the bedrooms.

I love the beautiful 
Excuses brought
In the gifts bought 
And how love is sieved 
Through in the snow.
I miss christmas ok!
Snehith Kumbla May 2016
have sieved the
ruins of discarded
things,

sometimes finding
in an old magazine,
women looking
through you
with ageless eyes

block square keys of
a typewriter,
cardboard covers
of fragile messages,
images of shattering
glass,
empty bottles of
RAT POISON,

‘Kamasutra for beginners'
‘The lonely wife’
other clandestine
books, sometimes,
extracted from some
secret wardrobe chamber,
wrapped in brown paper

school notebooks with
red tick-marks, blots, rights,
wrongs, devastating
stories of marks, homework,
a light bulb that still works,
the legs of a chair,
toy horses, toy cars,
scratched plastic

gaping holes in mugs,
buckets, fake notes
from a crumpled game
of monopoly,
a chewed dog's collar,
a heavy rusted *****,
every night in my dreams,
they come hopping over a barn,
now you know,
that I do not count sheep
This poem was first published in the Jan-Feb 2012 issue of Reading Hour Magazine
ryn Jul 2014
Windows to the the world through which I see
Images of shortfalls and views of perpetual inadequacies.
Shut my lids ever hoping for a change in scenery...
But only pictures of emotional chaos, mistakes and uncertainties.

Visions I can't ignore and they can't be severed;
Like a splinter that's embedded but can't be retrieved.
Reluctant at first I wish to have them captured...
Capturing all the disorder, but have the beauty all sieved.

Beauty and light engulfed by this visual turmoil
From windows to canvas, I paint but with a sombre brush.
Vicious strokes represent the feelings that roil;
Devoid of pardon; sing of pressures that crush.

This brush that I use; I've taught it all too well.
It could paint even when running on the subconscious.
It never does relent, nor never will it ever quell,
It'll keep on painting the dark side of the senses.

My canvas just lays receiving the brunt of the strokes.
It lays there quiet; accepts it all without struggle.
Like fuel to a bonfire, it provides and also it stokes;
It lays there ready to accommodate the dust and rubble.

Again the brush finishes with its last deft touches.
Producing the same painting it's painted over and over...
They will never depict meadows with the farthest of reaches
But a portrait of me; staring mournfully into forever...
arielle Jul 2018
staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?
not entirely sure if i'm doing this right but yeah
I
Parting from the golden tinge that tears the azimuth
The red orb descends into the vast blue
Infuses a consortium of colors immaculately blend, an interlude
Between the morn, and the night that has to brew

A stillness engulfs the trees, the night dawns
The last rays sieved by the green leaves, swivel through
Escape from the small pockets, shimmering, marking their finale
Afraid from his embrace, light the path in lieu

Amongst the drowned colors of the night, he moves
Trampling the undergrowth, merging into singleton
And though his destination's vague, for others he carves a path
Follows the constant ire, within his heart that burns

And this began years ago, roots unclear
When fingers hadn't yet gained freedom from flesh
And a luring innocence emanated from within
Cuddled in his mother's ***** he rest

From a bedlam of impetuous thoughts arose
A symphony both bitter and sweet
Ridden with memories, some wounds and falls
An overture of edification he knead

Though the day he learnt to tame
In the dark velvet, white jewels they shined
A servitude of the dreams, trapped awaiting emancipation
He set them free, let them touch the open skies

Taught and steered by the ethereal sun
He embarked on a voyage into the unknown
Trying to steer into the path, nebulous that lay
Though comrades there were, he vanguard all alone

II
The patter on the leaves beseech him from the trance
As the faint drizzle makes its way through
The carved lines on his face that hide deep within
Underneath this hardened countenance, a figure unblemished, raw and ****

And then he sees Nature unleash itself
Her eyes gleaming red with rage
Irked by the persevering being that stands before
She vows to vanquish him failing the riddle she lays

"O fellow-being, I am Nature", she cries
"I have seen a myriad of men come this way
But few could pass, who could answer me correctly
Listen carefully O traveller to what I am about to say

Tales speak of a thing within with mysterious origins
Whose workings be elusive and indiscernible
But O my dear friend, it lays carefully hidden and though we can't see
It vivifies the moment, to make the next turn"

As her hair waves in an eccentric swipe
Like Hades from Hell, she tore
"Tell me what it is, for I forbid thee to go further
Answer wisely, so that I know that thy heart is naught but pure"

As he remains mesmerized, feet transfixed to the ground
The courage and valour he has loomed over so many years
Trickles down with the warmth and the cold sweeps in
As the bells ring, the symphony of the impending doom is loud and clear

The very earth beneath him quivers
With a thunder, as an eerie force pulls mountains apart
And these vestiges of time adorn and reflect
The cursed fire that ensues beneath the two halves

The covetous fires leap, advancing towards their prey
As the tumult above marks its arrival
With a crescendo, the storm imposes its anarchy
The clouds do its bidding, the skies they stifle

The exodus of the falling black rain
A blanket covering the sky, sheds out the light
The Satan's canvas anew, the impenetrable darkness pierces
Awaits the strokes that pervades the crimson into the night

As the mountains rise up, blot out the way
The vultures lay sprawled, their eyes, they shine
And these scavengers of death swoop down, sniffing, awaiting the moment
The hunger glistens in the pupils, today, to their appetite they dine

And he stumbles upon a rock and falls
As the storm vivified by the fire creates havoc
He lays exhausted, a numbed mind, though awake
And he witnesses it though the windows of his eyes that lifts his shock

Amongst the carcasses and the carrion strewn on the bloodied ground
Carrying the dead, the little creatures, ants, unaffected they stride
As they move on, compelled by an unfaltering force
Binding them, as they tread these dark knights

And he realises, what be these, these colossal clouds?
Intangible they may seem, it's the air we breathe, remain just misty shrouds
What be the mountains that stand on our lands?
Boulders they may be, remain just mounds of sand

Darkness never ceases unless one open the eyes
Like the wind only carries those who spread their wings
And the destination is never near until taken the first stride
Just as the tide only sails those who hold on to the mast's strings

Dreams shatter and hard blows we receive
Our eyelids close, wet waters they meet
But we look at the lily, from the depths of the murky waters, it rises
Basking, with a smile, the sun it greets

He speaks "Faith be the elusive power that exists within
Emphasises the goal in the turbulent times
Each human capable of it, umarked by religion or creed
Urges the torment laden heart to beat along", as Nature smiles

And with a single wave of her hand, it all vanishes
He stands before the place that his heart for eons has yearned
And the utopia unfolds as his dreams present themselves before him
And his eyes finally give way, to the tears he has for so long shunned

As he stands captivated, ebullient
Savouring each bit of the magnificent sight
The fresh fragrant air fills his nostrils, as he understands
It hasn't been the destination but the voyage he has prized

As a flock of birds chirrup their way through
And the wind toys with his hair, him they beckon
He smiles and with a lasting glimpse
He starts off again, for sleep has yet to come.
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2019
Today I saw a sign in a
town called Cahirsiveen
County Kerry, advertising
what appeared to be, Sive.

I sieved my thoughts, and
what came through the fine
mesh of my mind were the
filings of amnesia.

Earlier, I had passed by Glencar
the foothills en route to Valencia
an island off Ireland, last stop
before New York harbour.

Hugh O' Flaherty, The Vatican
Pimpernel was looking at me
through James Joyce's glasses as
I passed Daniel O'Connell's church.

It was O'Connell country for sure,
****, a native of the island could
share the ball with O'Dwyer and
Paudie O'Se, the three coasters.

Balinskelligs, monks Islands,
isolation, invasion, inhospitable
weather, antarctic insurmountable's,
Inis, Inn's, Inch, Tom Crean, Fungie.

I sieved my sievings only to discover
that Sive was by John B Keane, but
guess what, the Queen of the Kingdom
should be Miriam O'Callaghan!


Ps.

This is a poem with a colloquial
flavour, one needs to be a native
to comprehend it.
Petal pie May 2014
We're cooking up a thought stew
A mindful casserole
Compassion the sauce that our hearts impart
sad tales sieved from our souls.

The base of the dish is hope
seasoned with laughter and tears
we stir in empathy to the mix
and we plan to allay crumbs of fear

Our stew has a dollop of knowledge
jugs of experience
ears that are prepped to listen,
Spiced with strength and resilience

But we won't prescribe your recipe
for  journeys are made with choice
your life's kitchen tools, your recovery rules,
empowered and mixed using your voice.
This is a work in progress. I feel excited to be involved in a project to train other peer support workers in mental health, and creating the course at the moment. I hope this poem inspires the process x
You tell me three little words;
I reply with four smaller words,
You smile at me;
I laugh with glee,
We share a moment or two
But we hide many things through
And through from each other
Wonder sometimes why we even bother,
Don't know who's going to speak up first
I'm parched from talking got to quench my thirst,
We walk away to our own little planet
Etch a sketch shaken we don't plan it,
What we'll say next
Lies shallow deep fabricated text,
How long can we keep this up
You're half empty I'm half full brimming cup
Of false interchanges amongst us
The world outside can't join this circus,
Always putting on a show improvising
We wear masks to keep from disguising
Our deep dark truths threatening to be sieved,
We are the greatest actors to have ever lived...
© okpoet
At one
with the wind
in a midnight dress
a necklace
dripped around her throat
   like raindrops
I didn’t buy
but should have
and

how she adored
the water-lily pond
I’d paint her
in delicious shades
myriad   colours
but only an image
in the end

static

solid complete
now

heading
to Bemelmans
down Fifth Avenue
she dances
          a dragonfly
in the winter dark
I catch her
   twirl her
and the trees
don’t seem so empty

savour her voice
like fine caviar
study the   liquid   flow
of her legs
heels   clicking on cobbles
my left foot
     twists
and I     wobble
breathe in her laugh

a detour
a walk into the park
skips   along
   snow-sieved   paths
her hair
a merry   jazz
in the bitter air
the strangers
think we are weird
and we find Alice

motionless in moonlight
a kiss on a cheek
sway     circularly
until everything
smashes into a blur

and we spill

giggle like kids
seventeen again
can’t drink enough
of the evening
I ended up
     in Wonderland
Written: August 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, and another in the ongoing city series (the last of which was '$2.65'). The title comes from the character Holly Golightly from the novella/movie Breakfast at Tiffany's. 'Golightly' is intended as a slight play on words in this instance. The poem however is not about the character, and like most of my recent works, is not based on real events. Feedback always welcome and appreciated.
martin Dec 2011
Tap tap tap and ye shall find.
I sieved and panned for nuggets that shine,
Searching for those elusive lines
That transgress space and transgress time
Or soothe and calm like favourite wine
Or send a shiver down the spine

I chanced upon a wealthy seam
I tapped and from it gushed and teemed

A geyser of emotion
A tide of wisdom
A planet of experience

Hello Poetry, how do you do?
I'm very pleased to meet with you.
A thank you to this site for making it possible to read all the good work posted by members.
brooke Oct 2017
love a girl like pyrite
when you found me in the mines
shook me from your baskets
saw me glint in the sunlight
said my  irises shifted like tiger's eye
i was never what you thought

love a girl like pyrite
if she's your gold then i'm a
shade of amber, a copper quarter
if I was hard then she is soft and
quick in your hands like a gardner snake
faint and without teeth, tangling through
the grass and you love the silent chase
the girls that flip belly up and
kiss your corners, kiss your
borders, rub away the ash
and lay themselves over your grenades
your sticks of dynamite you blew
me away with

love a girl like pyrite
because I was a fool's gold,
the normal luster of something
grand, sieved through your tables
back into the river, the unspoken
daughters of not-good-enough
lying in wait, picked up by farmers
by men who sell, who hock, who
pawn, washed down in Vindicator Valley
run between thumbs, turned up amongst
rocks the ordinary, run-of-the-mill
we can only be imitators of
the greatest


love a girl, who's fool's gold
would you find her?
would you keep her?
(c) Brooke Otto 2017


a phrase that's been on my my mind for a weekq
The words are sieved
strained
disguised
Hiding the truth
wrapped around
in lies

No longer recognize
the faces
of the unknown
Knowing nothing
is the passcard
to disapointment

Were it just a game
a trick
Sleight of hand
But it's not
It's the putrid
breath
of death
upon the lips
of life
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.

Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles

Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,  
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,    
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs

Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!

Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
It is the description of a tea estate witnessed in southern India
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.

Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles

Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,  
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,    
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs

Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!

Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
Olufunke Kolapo Mar 2016
Clay and water
Sieved and pounded
Moulded and shaped of His hands
Why do you then boast?
Of these riches and wealth?
They were here before you
And here they will be
When you are no more
Of wisdom and knowledge?
Acquired and will be required
When you are no more
Your beautiful skin
Nothing but boasting dust
Simply dust, safe that first breath
Giving in love, and with love
If there be any boast
Let it be of His second to none
Lucky Queue Apr 2013
On this ground I was born raised and lived
In the years since my birth
I've sowed much wheat, and many rocks I've sieved
Making this land mine, this sky and earth.

The blue, clear skies, and evanescant clouds
Have dissipated now, this land is torn
I'm a mere denizen, yet here I still stand proud
So that on this ground my children will be born

The dust roils in ferment around me
And flings topsoil in my face
No green thing, nor bird nor bee
Is allowed to thrive in this barren place

And for my progeny, their future I mourn
This land is dead now, and has left me forlorn
4.11.13

Sooo this it the first sonnet I've ever written. I had to write it for english yesterday and now I'm hooked... I can definitely see their appeal
Danielle Free Oct 2017
Rain sieved through my window screen, leaving clear freckles upon my cheeks.

The stars blanket the sun, but still flashes of white light up my room.

The sky roars and it cries as though it's fed up and the air rushes bitter down my side.
ottaross Oct 2013
They are each and all still there
The moments we have lived
Toss them bright up in the air.
Like diamonds out of soil sieved

All exist like coins we've scattered
Time's the path between them taken
We keep the ones that we think mattered.
Memory-sounds like spare-change shaken

Uncertainty too in our exact position
Life's velocity with no certainty known
Entanglement tells naught of the mission
And futures sprout like crystals grown

And thus we dig as life goes on
And smash small things to find their meaning
Until we find our Higgs Boson
The pieces fall and scatter screaming.
A little ditty on the intersection of time, life and everythingness.
Michael Blonski Apr 2016
Whatever happened to the boy
who dreamed?
The master architect of worlds
rarely visited.
Fragmented artifacts are discovered,
sieved out of the sand.
The body as whole remains incomplete

A lonely man singing along
with his guitar of woe
Sing to me your story,
tell me what brought you here
Failure to dream or overwhelmed
by choice?

I've heard of the living
I know of the afterlife
The walls between you and me
are physical
Follow the paths forged by the few
Liberate your passions
I see you in me.
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.

Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles

Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,  
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,    
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs

Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!

Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
The tape, as I unstick it from its place, rips off plates of paint from our crummy, moldy walls.

My heart wrinkles a little.

I fold the tape over the corners of my collage. Lay it down over my everest-sized pile of clothes-to-trade-for-souvenirs.

I sigh.

It is quiet.

A cockroach scurries out of a shirt sleeve. I flick him lovingly off the bed. The only one to keep my house company these days.

I start pulling out notebooks, so much. So many. Too many things I collect and funnel value into.

I must decide which to take and what to leave behind in the ******* bin.

Back at school, I chuck half the pile, almost violently, into the trash and stride away. Stay there then. Have it your way.

Only a few minutes before all of this, I bragged about being ready to go home, washing my hands of this ridiculous place.

But it only just occurred to me then that by leaving Africa, I will be facing a whole new life. Like a neo-Alice, falling further down the rabbit hole. I am being sieved, strained, pressed until the juices of energetic volunteerism is squeezed dry.

I have only heard rumors, of course, but I believe that what I will be facing will be maybe even more terrifying than it is here.
How can I not walk the twisty path,
Sit in chairs away from everyone
To read about poetry
and drink hot chocolate
When your beauty is at every corner?

How can I not grow and flourish,
Like the long shadows of the early morning
on the path in front of us,
When I am nourished at all turns?

How can I not feel lightness,
Like the soft white flour sieved by a cook
Into a competition winning cake,
Baked to perfection,
When you stir my worries into treasures.

How can I not love you,
When you brave
Unmanlyness
To show me your soul.
Life's a Beach Jan 2016
I was more than this

More than the sieved shelled
husk in a hallway
Waiting for relatives to
scavenge fragmented
memories

More than the salted sinner
deserving of slaughter
Further than the fear in
my shivers as I stared down
a bullet; and lost.

More than just a media martyr
A way to sell papers
A symbol of massacre
Emotional wankery; societies comfort

That isn't me

I am more than just bravery
I am not merely someone's
More than a parent
More than a child
More than a hero
More than a minute of silence

I was my own.

A scribble;
Hobbies, Quirks, Tics,
Snarks, Anger, Laughter, Tragedy,
Sexuality, Inside Jokes,
Embarassment

I was secrets, that no-one else will
ever know.
I am secrets locked inside a rotting mass
I am forgotten; because I can no longer remember.

A stockpile of emotion,
reduced to a photo,
and the title of 'victim'
'hero'
'martyr'
'missed'

Today I am 2D
Today I 'RIP' Remembered

Tomorrow, I hope to be real
and forgotten

Tomorrow, I hope to have
**lived
ArominizedM Mar 2014
Every day, I die upon a lingering sin,
Choice that I made, consequence there has been.

Every day I die for a promise to spare
Me from the moment that I held despair.

Every day I die; both confused and contrite,
Settled on Truth that spoke that of life.

Every day I die – not another should I miss,
A day less of You is not the entirety of bliss.

Every day, I die for the seed to grow
A seed of hope for me was bestowed.

Every day I die; that Christ may live
In every way I try, His grace fell sieved.
Michael Blonski May 2016
Shards of my soul
Are sieved out of the sand
The painted desert
Draws me in by
The beauty of its romance

The ground is clean & pure
Undisturbed grains of wonder
I carry in the filth
From which I must endure

My footprints are canyons
Marks of were I've been
Only to be filled in, covered
By the ancient wind

Heat fades to cool chilled air
I sit to drink from aged roots
With spines and pedals
Dueling reminders
Of
My cherished
Youth
Rielle Vobi Nov 2013
Stem, that stretch of branch over rocky, fragile ground,
****, those plastic, lemon circles you got for eyes
Lick, that smile, that smirking smile you shot at me,
Wet, that water on your baby fat cheeks
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
A knife in my hair, my working birth branched over rocky, fragile ground,
Your sorrowed songs sieved, your happiness a chalk outline on tulipwood tables,
A knife in my teeth, I sing these dreams of me, you see
Mirrored, that miserly misfortune you got for a heart
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
Cap, that satin wrapped cloud, circling wrangled, strangled cows and crows
Stab, that forlorn fire, ever end that showing, shallow show
****, that plastic lemon smile you shot at me
Lick, that water on your fat baby cheeks
I can’t sing for you
I can’t sing for you
This is my working birth, mirrored and miserly misfortune branched over rocky, fragile ground.
This is my working birth, mirrored.
Our lives are under a circle of changes
In our boldness we persevere many things, shame on those who dispute resolve in public their personal affairs, our call in life is to be famous but rather fame of positivity and great inspiration.
A great kiss restores fundamental memories for it digs through the roots of the heart.
But those who live to please are carried on like a flying paper over petty winds of smoching goodies whereas the die hards know the pinnacle in the hunt.
Be meek and spy eyed to sieve and not be sieved in deceit.
When you love to change positively, you live to grow positively, in our journeys the start point is the destination but many destroy their paths in light of never return instead of having cleaned green their paths that on return their traces pave way.
Good shall always pay you well though even bad has got a price. The ditches you live in life are those you will find dug by others for you.
Run a race of tactical peace amidst wars of the sheeped wolves.
From smoke of random thoughts,
The world as it should be
Burning, a fire of invention

The pen wets the paper,
Smudges of a dark ink,
The calligraphic mastery of art

Following strokes of fine brushes,
On stretched surfaces of white canvas
The coloured sunsets of oil pastels

This, the epitome of a dreamer
The long bars holding,
And glass walls reflecting the mountains a far

Searching within particles of ether
The knowledge of outgrowth
Sieved through the many minds over time
A fallacy, pretentious and normalised
Innately defined of which claims reality rejects
Encloses the screams of forced commitments,
Despair remains silenced,
No one wants to be here
But they can't cut off their limbs, or switch lanes
No one's done it without spiralling out of existence
Struck by constant revulsion on sight
Strings of sanity sieved from the sheaths of the conscious
The urge to assuage loneliness cruelly descending in deepened solitude
Soft hearts turned stone
Apathy dissipates
Boxed in, then locked out
Great walls erected to impede deserting  
Bricks piling on as bloodied fists and claws scrape to break them down
Grid never empties as more piles descend
a game only over when agony triumphs

Or maybe the soul breaks free to dance with the stars
Giovanna Jun 2020
In my dream bubble,
all the glee is filterable.
No words said.
The blues with the reds,
on a wide spread.
As the clock strikes my happy hour,
there is a prey of my power.
I stand strong over the killed,
with a thirst unfulfilled.
When I said glee could be sieved,
it was misery I picked.
Do u have a thirst like mine?
I thought of how fair you are,
And a hue to dab on you.
‘Red’ would do a tinge or two:
oily drips on apple skin.

Cubic glass that sprinkles rays
Mixed with brilliant sparkling smiles.
That you are, in white as sun
Only sieved of scourging warmth.

Afro-brown has joined the queue;
Melon-bulb that’s packaged soft.
Mummy’s nurse that props my head:
Food and rest in dermal bronze.

In the night, your colour glows;
Leave me not in colour blind.
Pledging scent that cuddles me,
Shadow not your penal self.

As you pecked my cheek to sleep
Half way through some lullaby,
My eyes caught the snitcher’s love:
Just too real in whitish-blue.
May Asher Aug 2016
I've screamed a thousand words,
Into blank pages, with black ink,
And I fall in love with things,
Too twisted, too inhuman,
Too dark, too nightmarish.

I try to crush paper in my fists,
But it pierces through my sieved skin.
I touch the unsaid words,
Resting on my chapped lips and wonder,
What color the sun might be.

And I try to learn,
To hold my breath,
Because someday,
They might take,
My oxygen away.

And I press my words,
Onto empty white walls,
And swallow the stones,
Rising in my voiceless throat,
And stare at you for what could be eternity,

And I blend colors on palette
with broken fingers and wonder
if I'm a ghost born out of empty canvas.
I try to copy the serenity in twilight colors
but I only see thunderstorm gray.

And I try to separate skylines,
From skyscrapers,
But my cardboard hands,
Are too clumsy,
And they tremble too much,

So instead,
I fill your vacant inside,
With unlit embers,
And rewind the time,
Until we're alive again.

I leave traces,
of my painted hands,
on your face from all the times,
I used to struggle,
to paint a perfect apple.

And you're still frozen,
In a photograph beside my unmade bed,
With your mouth still open,
To say a word I never heard,
And an arm dangling from a ladder rung,

And you're watching me,
But I've grown too old,
And you're still seven years old,
Imprinted and stilled forever,
Into a seventeen year old photograph.
I forget to tell you, I still miss you.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
ah... Saturday... completely switched off...
in between watching the Wimbledon matches
a nature show came on...
all about bears...

                           bears... funny creatures...
pretty ingenious creatures...
    i think my totem is a bear...
     perhaps it should be a fox...
or an owl... perhaps even a rat...
    maybe a wolf... or a European bison...
or a stork...
      but i feel like a bear...

i'd oddly placed in this world...
i'm a carnivore that's actually an omnivore...
i have thumbs and pandas have
sort of thumbs too...
   pandas need to sit down to eat...
horses... maybe my totem is a horse...
or a boar... perhaps a snake...

but i like bears...
   i sort of walk about lazily like one: from time to time...
bare: bear: beard: beer...
at least in my native language the word
for bear is: niedźwiedź...
bare: bear: beard: beer...
  boor... that's another b-b-but... of course...

i think evolution span to great jokes...
man and bear...
       let's face it... what animal is intelligent
enough to grow thumbs...
and... tell winter to *******...
eh? the hardships of winter?!
   i think i'll just sleep it off...
and come autumn... when all the fruits
have fallen and are starting to ferment...
i think i'll eat like 100kg of rotting apples
and get drunk...

i've seen footage of drunk bears...
no cat video can top it...
drunk bears and drunk deer...
          i mean: cat videos are boring my comparison...

so in between watching Wimbledon this
bear show came on...
          they're carnivores but some "chose" to be
herbivores, they forage... men used to forage...
some are omnivores...
   the only carnivore among them is
the polar bear... what the **** grows in the Arctic
that also green? there's nothing green
in the Arctic except for the Northern Lights...

i feel like a bear...
           i want to be the joker among the carnivores...
be like: hey! look at me!
i can eat berries too! i can slurp honey
climbs trees like a monkey and rip into
coconuts... i swear to god...
apply biology to a geological timeline
and i can almost see some strange creature
emerge out of the bear that would
completely obliterate the origins of monkeys
and the evolution of monkeys...

or perhaps... that wouldn't be the case...
and that's only because bears are loners...
oddly enough: i'm a loner too...
sure... when social-stresses come into play
i switch gears... but... dump me in
a forest and i'll start wandering...
on the odd occasion i might curse at myself...

then again: bears don't have a clue about
conjuring a minotaur, a cyclops(e),
that horse-man-torso-"thing"... or mermaids...
then again: the Egyptian gods had heads
of animals and bodies of man...
hard to combine...
there was never an ancient Egyptian god
with a head of a monkey and a...
a shaved body of a monkey...
      i wonder why they were blind to such
imaginings... perhaps they feared
the obvious?! the similarity?
                            
they must have sensed it back then...
  they would rather put a jackal's head on a human
body than put a chimp's head on a human body...
name them: Amun,
      Anubis, (i'll exclude Apophis and Ma'at)...
  Ra, Horus... Thoth... Sekhmet...
                   Sobek...
but to be honest... i never found the Egyptian myths
alluring... i just mention them now because
i'm thinking about bears...
    but i couldn't just chop my head off
and chop a bear's head off and switch...
for starters... invert this head-chopping business
and put a man's head on a crocodile...
or put a man's head on a cat... or a crane...
hell... sure... enlarge the body of the animal...
for the "shoe to fit"... and what do you get?
sphinx riddles...
                    i'm really ******* surprised the ancient
Egyptians didn't invent the guillotine...
i'm actually shocked they didn't...

wow... what a strange advert: get better therapy...
it has a woman talking to her
Google Nurse... gizmo... or whatever you call
her... the grand A.I. project...
interesting is a buzzword for the tool...
toxic relationships etc. and the advert ends
with: seek real contact with real people...
are there unreal people? most probably...
are there unreal objects? yeah... inanimate objects
that can travel at the speed of light:
given that light is animate "object"....
the sun might be an orb in the sky...
but look at it with naked eyes and you'll
soon see the Ultraviolet pulverising sheen on it...
it doesn't shine... it doesn't glow... the moon does
that...
         the sun is chaotic... it sort of twirls
and "froths" and whirls... in Ultraviolet...
              it's like a melting metal when sieved...

come to think of it... is anything in this world
inanimate? French philosophers loved thinking about
chairs and tables...
i like to think of a chair on an abstract planet...
is the chair inanimate? but the planet is moving...
this advert prompted me...
so many people live a life of lacking question-worthiness...
people ask these stupid questions about
their stupid mistakes they keep repeating...
like the phenomenon of the recurrent dream...

only today i had a "blackout" dream where i was
eating a burger... but i think it was a dream
that informed me that someone was dreaming about me...
because i didn't see anything:
i think i just read while asleep: YOU'RE EATING
A BURGER... am i? i didn't see ****...

i'm dying to find out if i can write the...
right... at least the Hebrews are consistent with their
deity: they always said: it's all scripted...
there's no imagining "him"...
right... so what's the Tetragrammaton in Katakana?

    my best approximate is:

ヤハワ    (ya-ha-wa) - hmm...
                     i know, right... no Adam-and-Eve of the original
hiding of the vowels... and that W is not part of wHEN
but part of vERY...

what's the alternative?
       it's sort of "counter intuitive" when it comes to Katakana...
since? the language is orientated
with syllables that begin with consonants:
consonant-vowel...
there are no syllables of a vowel-consonant nature...
there's MA
                   but no AM...
and with the mysterious Katakana N sharing equal
status with the vowels... hmm...

so it's like: can you please hide a Y in an A?
that's how it works... i had it all wrong...
i seriously had it all wrong... the whole WIKIPEDIA
matrix of Katakana was not
about hiding an A in a Y... but a Y in an A...
for example...

    it's not about hiding ア in ヤ (A in Y)
but Y in A: ヤ in ア...

          タ (T) in ア (A) and not A (ア) in T (タ)...

K (カ) in A (ア) and not ア (A) in カ (K)...
it even looks logical like that... how the vowels
accommodate the consonants,
they "unravel"...
even though there's no AK to each KA...
the vowels are ingesting consonants...

there's only one "strange" dynamic...
between the free-standing vowels and the only
free-standing consonant: N...

the vowels:

ア イ ウ エ オ (a, i, u, e, o respectively)

   the "consonant" N: ン...

it works differently in this instance...
in this instance the "consonant" is ingesting
the vowels... not the reverse of the vowels ingesting
the consonants for the syllables...
just look:

ナ ニ ヌ ネ ノ (na, ni, nu, ne, no, respectively)

but all other consonants work in an opposite
dynamic: although they're written as BA MA KA...
how they're written is actually AB AM AK...

but of course i'd also revel in Hangul...
the Korean script...
but not all websites are compatible with it...
while almost all are compatible with
the Katakana...

i feel like a bear...
            and i'm also feeling terrible English...
there's this current ad. project...
crisps in? or crisps out? in / out of where?
sandwiches... IN! IN!
but unlike someone who's "terribly" English...
sure... crisps inside sandwiches...
but i'm talking about vegetable crisps...
dried beetroot, dried carrots...
dried sweet potatoes, dried parsley...
i don't mean putting standard potato "fries"
into buns of bread-dough... with cheese...
maybe some fresh celery stalks...
some pickles... yummy... i'm already salivating...

last night i got back home around 2am... limping...
the previous night i had a tumble on the stairs...
drank about 35cl of whiskey... tumbled...
****** up one of my toes...
throughout the shift i was walking with a quasi-limp...
trying to re-orientate my toes so i could
place my foot better...

i got home and drank another 35cl of whiskey...
went to bed around 4am... woke up around 2pm...
i felt mentally exhausted...
i love it when they throw me into these situations
above my usual pay-grade...
while about 12 people have been laid off...
i'm still punishing myself with ambition...
well: if i'm aiming to be a chemistry teacher...
might as well learn crowd control...

even today: i'm not even drinking that much...
but i'm already exhausting myself mentally by
peering into the Katakana...
i already mentioned: i would look into Hangul more
often if i could simply ctrl+c / ctrl+p more
of the script... but i'm only allowed 2 examples
of Hangul at a time...

for example?!
                           너    (-|)
     N  (eo)                                 i.e. you...
sort of... better example on:

oh man... but that match at Wimbledon?!
   between  Nick Kyrgios and Stefanos Tsitsipas
today?! that was something...
this is me returning to the sensible secular reality of...
i started watching a tennis match...
i ended watching a tennis match...
but there was this bear show in between matches...

i suppose any European can appreciate
either Hangul or Katakana...
   personally? i can't be the next Ezra Pound and fall
in love with Chinese ideograms...
just like most Europeans can't fall in love
with Russian ideas...
       i abhor English egalitarianism...
                         a lot of people abhor Communism...
i abhor that Capitalism usually invokes
making money from the misery of other people...
or the concept that they are nothing
but useless consumers...
    hmm... just start buying whiskey...
the odd shoe once in a while...
and bicycle parts...
                                start going to prostitutes rather
than trying to get a girlfriend and spend
money on gigs...
       i've distanced myself from pair-bonding...
i can't stomach that pair-bonding *******
when in public... i couldn't stomach a girlfriend
who ended up telling me "what a special we were"
when she was competing for the attention of other
women to show me off...
        
and how hard is it for two bears to mate?
given they solitary creatures?!
pretty ******* hard... but it's purer than some
chimpanzee harem...
perhaps bears didn't evolve to shed their fur
for a ****** good reason...
personally?! i too would love to hibernate
and never have knowledge of winter...
no... i take that back... i wish i could sleep through
the summer... i abhor this cult of:
*** only happens in the summer...
    *** should happen in winter
so that two bodies can warm each other...
counter what nature dictates...
after all: i stand outside of nature,
i stand outside of time i stand outside of space...
i am the abstract quantum of this world...
because i admire fire as much as i fear it...
should i find myself in a forest ablaze...
because i admire water as much as i feart it...
should i find myself in a leaking boat
in a middle of a storm at sea...
    but compare that with drinking a glass of water
on a humid day...

that's my answer to: and you will know the difference
between good and evil...
by consensus that's already decided:
but it's lied about... it's left hidden... for the advantage
of others to gain from...
will i be conflating polar opposites?
will i call night day and day night
should i venture as far north as Alaska during the summer?
should i call 4pm night during winter
but also call 4pm day during summer?

eh... sure... perhaps Latin looks sterile... it doesn't have
a Nomadic aesthetic similar to either Arabic
or Hebrew... but i don't appreciate either
of these scripts... none of them could
have perfected mathematics
in a way that Latin script could...
the Ancient Roman concept of the coliseum would
never be translated into a football stadium
(that massive hole in the ground,
like a meteor crater of the past rumbling
and agitating the present) like the Latin script has
preserved...

since even the dangling sacrifice on the crucifix
couldn't overpower the stature of the Latin script...
i'll call it what it was and is:
a Greco-Hebrew conspiracy against the Romans...
even that couldn't undermine the death
of this script like what was used to undermine
the death of the Babylonian Cuneiform...
and sure... the Glagolitic script died...
   as did the Runes... but they are still retained
and fondly remembered...

but of all the other scripts of the world?
i have envy for two... the Katakana and the Hangul
(the Japanese and the Korean)
respectively... i have no care for the Mandarin
hieroglyphs... they do not speak more sounds than
me: i speak more sounds than them...
their encoding is just too pedantic: ancient even...
alien...
               because they write without
a consonant to vowel differentiation...
Mandarin isn't superior: it's all ******* emoticons!

🐩 🍞💩

basically: less skeleton and more form,
which reads as: dog eat ****...
            but hieroglyphs are hieropglyphs...
the eat might as well have been written as
ate...
     dog ate ****... who cares if it's a poodle?!

i couldn't find an emoji with eating...
so i chose bread...
because... what do you do with bread?
throw it?! you throw rotten vegetables
in a theatre... cabbages and tomatoes...
the best you can do with bread
is dry it... in an oven...
so it doesn't venture into... turning mouldy...
or you soak it up... in milk...
and mix it with pork meat...
and create Slavic pork-burgers...

dog bread ****...
i.e. dog ate ****... no?!

just reminiscent of yesterday... how stressed i was
at the beginning... but then how i dug deep
into the role... how other supervisors spoke
of trouble with some of the stewards
and how i had: ZILCH...
you're never up in a hierarchy...
you're always down... ******* down...

it's so much better to keep them in position
and if they're gagging for a coffee...
you get the coffee for them...
you don't tell them to ask for a toilet break:
you just allow free reign...
it's not ******* prison...
         when you give them free food
how happy they become...
of course i fancied two of the girls on my shift...
one ****** Somali goddess...
i swear i was looking at the Queen of Sheba for a bit...
then this mixed race girl with
my wild hope: god give me a girl with curly hair...
god give me a girl with curly hair...

but i kept roaming... i was always present...
my feet ached by the end of it...
but CONTROL messaged me... 0 times...
i told them: you can be on your phones for as along
as it might take to pretend to checking the time...
how many did go on their phones?!
none...
                  i'm going to celebrate myself...
why the **** not...
   i did a good job... i fed my "pride"...
my... "heard"... i checked on each one...
are you happy? yep... most were happy...
i was just waiting for one of them to say the words:
it was a pleasure working with you...
once that dropped i knew i was waiting
for some other people to get fired...
for... egoism... nothing else... pretentious egoism:
"pretentious" without any cultural
knowledge...

**** me... some websites allow Katakana...
all the emojis... but no enough Hangul...
****** me off...
        
i was really enjoying this match-up between
Kyrgios vs. Tsitsipas...
                it's tennis... ****'s sake with football...
then again: it's tennis... and not squash...
i just remember myself being stressed...
but once the herd / pride were fed...
it's how you look...
               people respond to looks so
much differently when it's otherwise an attitude
assurance...
              the less i spoke the better they
behaved... and the fact that i kept them fed...

walking and walking... more walking...
                 more walking...
                              even i was telling them:
i'm tired of ego-mani(a)c hierachic busy-bodies...
obviously i had one lose canon...
i told the rest of them:
just break yourselves... ignore him...
ignore him...
                 they ignored him...
let him... let him: feel rejection...

                        he's a spare wheel
when the 4 are already working...
                my pride... my herd...
                             that's what i was aiming at:
a reminder... can i work with Matthew?!
i just need that... i need the word to be passed along...
what did "Matthew" do?
he allocated us breaks...
he fed us...

                   that's all i need...
                                 i don't need ego-tripping
hierarchical measures being implemented...
i know i'm dealing with jokers:
but i'm also not a woman...
i don't need minor cues...
as a man i know that when i snap
i'll bite rather than shout...
    
                 perhaps that's why i love the ontology
of masculinity...
           ontological-masculinity is
the antithesis of what's to be ever approached
via the movement of feminism...
the counter to feminism is... ontological-masculinity...
crazy women and ***** men...
perfect coupling... although there's a "third":
***** men: perfectly crazy:
as the prostitutes disclose... ***** men and
prostitutes...
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
chasing rabbits -

chasing rabbits:
slowly...
   reimagining standing
still on a treadmill.     (502)

she had to come round for about two hours today, my neighbour, she must have sniffed out that i was making pizza... i love making pizza slightly tipsy... i did the house chores and started writing this, abandoned it, now that i returned to it... well, what could have possibly changed? pristine ******* dough... ooh... what a lovely cushion of flour and water and sugar and a pinch of salt and: yrast... i love the smell... hmm mmm hmm... these hands make magic... the pizza sauce? compliments on that, of course... what did i add? oh... just a read pepper... some paprika: i wish i used some Kashmiri chilly powder... perhaps i had... garlic... onion... blitzed... sieved... twice... plum tomatoes... itch of the juice: clenched teeth saliva boiling: juicy... thinking: my tongue is a knife... now i'm going into the garden and drink a beer, or two... try finding the moo... ah ha ha: moo! moon! ah-woo! no... quiet right... one needs a forest to find the howl! but at least i can bark... when some fox penetrates the gardens and the dogs start barking... i'll bark too! free! free! free! so my neighbour likes my cooking... great! am i about to think: capitalistically?! start a pizzeria?! i like do: what tool is expected to do... because... i have "other" concerns"... the whole veneer of interacting with people is: what it is: a veneer... i have to entertain both the Jezebel and the Sophia... Sophia is difficult: since she's as abstract as Athena... it's not a lost libido: it's not impotence... it's... why would i want to ******* if you're going to spend my Saturday afternoon shopping for ******* curtains... or... whatever?! oi! Libra! come 'ere! this weigh-in weigh-out doesn't make sense... can you apply your corrective scrutiny to the "problem"? - i do make some fine pizza... no one's taking... fair enough... fair ******* doubly enough... more for me... more for oblivion... to which i answer: ah-men.

тo йeст щыт:
to jest szczyt...
diese ist der gipfel!

it only happened once...
discouraging: "discouraging" a circle
or omicron from being a circle
and becoming an ellipse: a 0... a zero...

"god" is not a moralist...
he's an existentialist...
          "he" he not not "he"...
only in English is the phenomenon
of a pronoun "problem" prevalent...
shrapnel-tongue:
               schrapnellzunge -
it's so unusual for anyone speaking
in the Slavic tongue(s) to overuse
the pronoun: iota as much as the English do...

it's like Knausgaard mentioned
about the Swedes... a people that haven't
been invaded by another people for a while...
no memory of subjugation...
the cultural Cyclops(es) of the world...

the English are pretty much the same...
they're being invaded: politely:
by their standards...
mosque after mosque reiterations...
the implosions of the greatest empire
the world has ever seen...

what?! i'm like Voltaire... i'm not native:
i write what i see...
this is not an invasion: this is not a polite invasion:
this is not an implosion of the lost
pride and empire?

once ol' Lizzie dies... it's not like...
however many popes and prime ministers she
died will have died...
tyrannical matriarchy...
          
well... if... "if"... john wallis "invented" the lemniscate:
a concept and a compact symbol:
all the same... back in 1655... ∞
who "invented" the number 8 or the letter B?

i know who invented the letter B...
******* with modern feminism and all that
came prior with the Sibyls and Carmenta:
*******: modern woman!
i get my ******* elsewhere...
among women that still want to have some
joy in life... who else?! prostitutes!
no ******! because: we're symbiotic:
hygienic minded people!
   ******* with your
       cluster-****-of-****-*****-scabs!
flaking away... flaking away...
wash... your... *******... hands!

once upon a time women held very
important positions in society...
now? microwave ovens shoved that dream
right up our ***** with 12" ****** sticking
out...
         of course i'm *******!
why wouldn't i be?

     bitter? no... i just enjoy the plethora of emotions
that come with rage and doubt as much
as those that some with the soothing:
mollusk tenderness: melting... ice-cream
of ooh-oops of love...
           but...
                            b-b-b-b-ut...
something's itching me: i just heard
a quake of thunder in the sky through the loud
music playing in my earphones...
i'm on the right track...
           if there's lightning but no thunder...
esp. in the night: i'm suspicious...
but if there's thunder and no lightning:
comfort music... i must be hungry...
i think i'll sacrifice a chicken tow-toe-into-the-night...

(towing, a)

       let's just say: "hypothetically":
"god" created the pristine man... the advocate...
the priest... the "somewhat" and some "other"...
as curator for the basis of ontology..

the rest?! mutations: self-generated prejudices...
the original plan was X...
but the plan morphed and became Z...
there's no point blaming a deity for a lack
of intervention: who would want to entertain
the idea of free will while at the same time
succumbing to a c.c.t.v. "state" (of existence)?

life without effort is not worth living:
but then again: carrying the burden that ought
to be shared equally: for others...
Somalis... the English and their *******
anti-racism mantra: fair enough!
you abolished the slave trade...
fair enough! but now the English are
getting culturally ***** by their lenience!
a people that haven't been subjected
to conquest for a long, long... long time...

they have become: complacent!
   too agreeable! trust-worthy pilots flying to:
**** knows where... not even the seagulls know...
perhaps only in London...
elsewhere perhaps they're as thick-as-custard...
but in my vicinity...
            
a bit like my facebook page...
the "people you may know"... what? stalkers?
why is this coming up?
this website used to be dead for me for a while...
now i'm getting this "issue" with:
"people you may know":
i never used a dating application, but it's starting
to feel like i'm using one...
i'm swiping right sieving through:

uriel darl, souad dharhi, aura huckerthman,
   andressa wangel, yus ningsih, el drema,
gülan meriç(ch), ramina amores, kristina jodzkiene,
angie biada, consuelo siouxe, sulistiawatisetya setya,
Xриcтинa Линчкo (christina linchko),
             unayah naya, goharik javahiryan,
Гaлинa Лaщeнкo (galina lashchenko),
    nilufar shermatova, cecile valeron mmaacv,
Kaтя Пaлий, nelu medina, maryati pujiman,
cida oliv, thaizth mendezt, katell seignoux,
lorena ramirez, taylla kamylla, keyza adelia putri,
kelly martins, emma ryan, carnevale chiara,
douce tusorapas, sonia de flaviis,
              carmen antonela, rosalia delgado,
delpine lafontaine -, cegail rapley,
            ariel alear, aghori aaleem,
                   florine fremont, mary HM,
dorota zarzycka, tayana zakh, megan barfield,
helena maria soares, jan lose, perrine kali-yoga,
annie zhou, angel mawar, sabrina muhlberger
(that's with an umlaut hovering above the "yew"),
sylvie lescan... ****'s sake the list is endless!

i'm bored of listing all the "friend" suggestions...
all of them: women!

don't blame me! blame the algorithm!
i've never seen these women!

     nope... life's not interesting enough to be
fully sober...
not even close... life's make more sense drinking
and typing typos: finding TY-POS...
i don't imply: drinking in your face...
on the street with other winos...
i mean: drinking alone, at night...
   listening to foxes... spotting a rat scuttling...
admiring the moon...
thinking: how does one not write
a Chinese haiku... how does one?

    i'd love to find a woman that could cook
better than me...
i truly: would love to...
keeping the chicken at best the highet
of 165 degrees Fahrenheit...
medium rare beef... hmm... debatable...
145 degrees Fahrenheit is probably my maximum...
****... i think we're questioning 125...

i'm yet to find a woman who's...
pedantic about:
not butchering a piece of beef steak twice...
i can't... butcher a piece of meat twice:
corrupt it with the Arabic tendency
to obscure the fresheness of blood...
and that: stale... yuck... sawdust...
beef overcooked... in the format of steak...
i can't butcher a beef twice:
we know... it's obvious...
the males are segregated for the meat
while the females are kept for the milk...
no irony...
                  
          it was preordained:
no point cowering away from the cruelty
by replacing authentic meat with
vegetable substitutes...
or... synthentic cat-food pseudo-proteins...
or bean-burgers...
i sometimes roam the fields in Essex
and see the horses...
well... aren't you the lucky ones?
shouldn't you be... extinct?!

                   shouldn't they? why would you
need a horse... when you have a bicycle...
when you have a car?!
so... why keep them?
i'd love to pet a horse...
i loved riding horses...
not ******* Lamborghini no
rich boy ******* Ferrari will ever compare
to riding a horse through a forest
at full gallop!

               not even if i were getting a blow-job
in a car... speeding... in those sort of cars...
no... nein nein nein nein!

i'm immune to envy of that sort...
i'm against society as such...
  what?!    Q = ?!
                 isn't the western tradition invested
in individualism?!
                                   q

why would i need a car when living
in London...
when... i can cycle around London and back
in about 5 hours...
take the train to Liverpool St. in about 30 minutes...
i don't have to:
a) think about paying for parking
b) ditto about paying for road tax
c) m.o.t.
d) e) f) g) and any imaginary points
you might conjure...

               now... you give me a horse?
the game changes... i'd love something larger
than the already Maine **** cat that could come
across as a poodle (no, not a puddle)
size-wise...
    i love the coyness of horses...
            they really do require you to become
patient with you...
unlike those ****** of dogs that can immediately
run up to strangers and blah blah tail wiggle
and: whatever...
cats... semi-, on the spectrum...
horses though... brooding *******...
they take oh so long to gain their trust...

i was roaming the fields, the forest at night...
blasted: beyond comparison...
i forgot my apple,
i forgot my cube of sugar...
came across a herd of them...
gave one of them my hand to...
nibble... it nibbled...
then retracted: are you mad!
you're implying i'm readily willing to
eat man-flesh?!
it buckled... glancing my forehead
with its hind hoofs...
"buckled"... no...
the ****** almost knocked me out...
because it started nibbling on my fingers
"thinking" i might have a treat
of an apple in my hand...
massive teeth... buck-tooth...
even more massive hoofs...
    
         i sort of wished he knocked me out...
the last "thing" i would have seen
was the moon...
and the sheen of lubrication
of quicksilver pouring over almost everything...
like a: liquidified mirror...
        just like that: like a liquidified mirror...

how long will this tyranny last?
    i want to be as old as Plato and be as exhausted
as Plato...
and still retaining my heterosexual flaovuring...
of that rancid old man...
until that time comes...
        at my peak: i want to play with my
yo-yo...
                all the women that are interested are
either single mums or married women...
young girls are uninteresting:
i'm not a predator... i'm a herder...
         young girls are boring...
"boring": i.e. unrelatable...
    the sexes have diverged beyond
compensation...
                          funny that:
i'd rather spend an evening with a bottle
of whiskey than with a woman...
with a bottle of whiskey and my own thoughts
than with a woman...
                     even i am struggling to comprehend
this anomaly...
      
why talk? when you can be left alone
foraging for new music?!
akin to keluar's - vitreum?
                        i get the romance part...
but... the plan part i don't get...
   the plan being: i work... i work... i have no socks...
i pretend to have underwear...
i work... i work... i do overtime...
i come back home and... and...
     who does the cooking?! i hate her cooking!
she always overcooks the pasta!
she under-seasons the sauce!
                she can't do **** with yeast!
i make my own pizza... i cook my own food...
i get the romance aspect being sold:
but... what's the plan?!

           she already has children by some
other ****-wit...
i get the romance bit... but... what's the plan?!
i can cough up: pretty much all of my earnings for
her and her *******... i can make concessions...
by then: there's the plan...
but there's no longer the romance...

by now:
do i really want more? than simply a bed to sleep in?
can life afford me
any emotional adventure?
do i want it?
              i like my own company
too much to let anyone share it with me...
not out of a feeling of superiority...
just out of necessity... almost god-like...

         habitually: i'm just not used to having
people increment the details of my personal life...
i like them: behind a membrane...
a niqab...
                 i don't care where you put them:
i just dont want them near me!
except for the children and the animals...
i could spend an eternity with these two
classifications...

                 one night with Sharon Stone...
when Sharon Stone was Sharon Stone
and when te 1980s where the 1980s...
she just reminds me of: Samantha....
kissing Milena..
            
                               i really miss these girls..
i hope they forget me
with a burning: sensation ...

history will not be kind to us...
we'll be a laughing-stock of the ages...
let us pass.... let us pass:
into the lava lamp of Hades.
is it happening again?
am I expelling my tears, a rare, ugly act,
my head crumpling at the thought
of stepping on, then off,
my slapdash navigation through unfamiliar streets,
the hours as red as crushed cherries.

at that age I should’ve been better.
at this age, surely, better,
or not? Soon the questions will pour in,
indigo sky thunderstorm, discovery of love
jump-scaring up as through bread in the toaster,
my conversation sieved with droll ripostes,
a flame of humour, laughter clasped in your hands.

I feel a change coming,
tastes like liquorice on the tongue.
Crumbled at eighteen, but what of twenty-six?
My flaws still surface like bottles from the ocean,
rusty reminders that I still, I say, lag behind.
Will I need your hand? Do I want it?
Tell me history has not become present again.
Written: October 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for the National Poetry Day 2019 challenge #speakyourtruth. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.

— The End —