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Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.
Waverly Feb 2012
Posted up,
Trap Keeper's
what
my girl call me,
a few baggies
near my belly button,
and my 6-inch demon
below it,
when I hand you something,
I hand it from the bottom of my stomach,
imma make you love yourself,
for a few moments
Imma be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen,
you might even love me back,
might even love my shirtless
breast, the way my tattoos
swirl and alligators pop off the letters on my chest,
I might just swallow you whole
and make you another part of my arsenal,
another inch to the sixes.
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained

drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk

Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream

landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna

they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused

the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Duncan Brown Jul 2018
The golden rule never gives change.
And gamblers only drink champagne
Losers can’t afford it
Don’t play poker with medicine men
Doc Holliday's a sore loser
It goes with his obsession
He's a dentist by learning
A gambler by profession
An' a renaissance assassin
A Medici Faustian bargain
Playing the green baize table
Where ten’s the changing sign
The alchemist’s calling card
The card of transformation
A card of changing of beds
And a change of friends
They could even be enemies
Fortune changes for the worse
An’ losing is a winning gamble
When hands like feet change direction
Losing yourself is the smart play
Sooner’s so much better than later
In time the world loves a loser
But gamblers hate a debtor
I.O U’s don’t spell for less than A an’ E
They’re just vowels without provenance
Gambling cashes in on culture
Money is the 'lingua franca'
Of a very deadly silent economy
No really one talks about it
An’ you can’t keep your eyes off it
But sure as hell everyone
Listens to the silence
Ten’s the calling card of consequence
A very suitable number
In Fire Earth Air and Water
They can be quite soulfully pedestrian
You never know what’s in the elements
A good card to keep up your sleeve
But lose your shirt you lose everything
An’ it goes without saying a lot
Not a good card to be found naked with
Be careful with a nine in any colour
It’s the most deserving in the highest
Nines, sleeves and gambling
Are a triple tray of troubles
Heads have been known to be served
On a tray of trays
Nines can be very Trinitarian
And quite John the Baptist
A good card to lose in haste
But eternal if a friend,
There’s none better
Eights go on forever
The Via Dolorosa of numbers
They are a sacred journey
Only the compassionately beautiful
Gamble with an eight in their hands
Eight is a sacred mystery
In any suit it is never cut
And always woven
From a seamless gambled-for cloth
Eight never gambles in suits
Only in garments
Never gamble with an eight
Unless you’re gambling with redemption
Hand life and soul have been
Eternally lost or found on an eight
Truly a gamblers card
And sometimes a calling card
As every gambler knows
A card of consequence and karma
When it calls keep your eyes on the dealer
Sure as hell a deal's been done
An’ all the blue eyes are on you
Sevens like fives are a journey
Good cards for travellers
Wanderers and shape shifters
Seven seas and five continents
Suits those wandering souls among us
Two solitary prime numbers
Indivisible onto themselves
They can be quite pedestrian
Fives can be over confident over land
But they shouldn't try to be seven
Walking on water's a mistake
Unless you’re an avatar
Treading wine is better and safer
Fives and sevens are a journey
Good cards to keep in your shoes
Sixes are sixes by themselves
An’ they don’t go with sevens
They're the card of reflection
A scriptural card if ever there was one
A card dressed in a triple mirror
Vanity and vexation in the curves
A card to turn and turn
And turn your eyes again
The number of this card
Another Trinitarian consequence
Is reflected in the mirror
An image of ourselves
The card has an identity problem
Don’t knock it, you might need it
It’s your friend in need of friend
An’ with friends like that
It's just as well that any three
From any four sixes
Is the sign of a winning hand
In a loser’s smile
And the best part of a full house
A card of Jezebels, angels
And mirrors, on reflection
Don’t you just love sixes
Five is five and let’s not talk about it
It’s an assassin’s calling card
It goes with its own territory
A card that doesn’t take prisoners
Fours are strangers at the door
Every one with a Matthew birth mark
In the image of John
Like four seasons they arrive
Like pilgrims then are gone
To change themselves to be
The same again, another season
Another fall of leaving calls
A card for all weathers
And shelter in a storm
You are kind of pleased to see it
But you don’t know why
Also cards of mystery and obviousness
And only fools an’ fours
Can tell the difference
It’s the ‘maybe’ card
You never really know with fours
The proverbial knocking at your doors
But sure as hell
They’ll never ring a bell
A tidy card to send to acrobats
And other kinds of well-balanced people
That’s what fours are for
Commitments tailored to your needs
And the occasional highly wired friend
Don’t go out without them
You never know if you might need them
Threes are trinities and divinities
Fathers Sons an’ Holy Ghosts
And more usually the cause
Of a quick divorce
The world moves in threes
Sattwas Rajas and Tamas
The triune dance of the universe
Light, Action and Inertia
It even grows on trees
Every one’s a traveller
Some are even gypsies
A good card to keep in your shoes
They can be an invitation
Or a visitor from a distant place
They're the taxi cards of the pack
Call them when you wanna go
Somewhere, they'll arrive
They're the calling cards of falling friends
You'll never be lonely on journey
Of five and sevens with a three
They’re the crucifixion card
Unless it suits you otherwise
To be so amused
Deuces are twos, the mirror card
Duality’s their basic business
They really are a wolf card
Always travelling in packs
Not sufficient to be dangerous
An’ just enough to not be lonely
They really appreciate your company
It suits their reflective existence
To travel in togetherness
The faces are places searching for aces
Jacks in a pack never look back
If they can possibly look sideways
Concealing their knavish tendencies
They’re quite the well-tailored card
Fine raiment maketh a fool attractive
In very unfashionable circumstances
Treachery an’ deceit on each turning face
Sure as Clementine’s your long lost darling
An Ophelia never got her hand in time
A gambling Hamlet is a sight to see
Jealousy rage and a ferocious anger
Writ upon a countenance looking back
Beyond the cardboard eyes of the beholder
Dumb broads are never dumb
And seldom abroad
Sometimes they can be
A very home loving card
Two jokers live in every pack
One out front the other looks back
They’re the magpies in the deck
Less in sorrow than in joy
They cover every missing face
The hooded birds deserve their place
Their reputation precedes them
In black and white they are the night
In colours they’re magnificent sevens
And they’ve really got your number
In spades it suits their harlequin fashion
To be a veritable grave digging charmer
In jewels they ***** the precious deck
Two diamonds and they’re everybody’s
The vagrant royalty rules the roaming pack
Their world is another creature’s finery
Gamblers are such snazzy jazzy dressers
If you have to lose a shirt do it in style
Second hand clothes and second hand hands
Aren’t so much a misfortune more an affliction
Desperately seeking a lost occasion
Well-heeled fools engrave it on their heart
Better be dead in your gracious threads
Than kicking in rags of common comfort  
They’re the card that always looks back
The face in every hand smiling at you
Looking at them with cardboard eyes
Then there’s the precisely tailored box
The transient funeral parlour
In a good-looking box like that
You can die an’ dine anywhere
In reasonable style
If you’re tailed a toss head first
Into a losing situation
Cards never call they beckon
And if they speak it’s a good idea to listen.
Cricket is the only game which lures me so much;
And then engrosses me so much.
That craze would never drive out of me…
My inspiration was ‘Yuvraj Singh’,
Only then I arose to identify that King.
Once Yuvi’s record of six sixes in six *****,
The firmament was incredible for certain minutes:
That was the first time I witnessed cricket,
And India’s triumph provided me a mind-blowing buzz to watch cricket,
Nevertheless continuing with ***** and wickets.
I would turn crazy when Indian cricketers approach the ground,
And that would certainly not halt lest they are made proud.
This T20 shadowed by IPL,
Made me to by stand that awe-inspiring sport.
Chennai Super Kings-my favorite,
Followed by Royal Challenges Bangalore …
And lots more hilarious teams and cricketers.
When Chris Gayle approaches…
Tsunami warning must be lifted and “Gayle” (gale) warning must be given!
That’s how cricket relocates…
Most matches concluding in the closing over
And some others in the finishing ball…
The most exhilarating sport
Read more →and the format-
IPL is all fun for me…
With cheer leaders and the draped studio;
With cameras and videos
And at last the much awaited IPL trophy-
Cricket is all that it needs!!!
nick armbrister Mar 2022
By Sixes
With this book we have to make a difference
The weight of worry and seriousness is huge
This has not happened before not this way
And very soon all things could happen
They try to control it but can they?
How do you control so many soldiers?
Along with the other shooters
Planes ships launchers tanks and more
Myself I've never felt this way
Except briefly in the early 80s
The world moved on in most ways
But not in Putin's head for him
He alone wants his empire back
And will ruin the world to get it
This is why we all must not fail
And stop him from winning
Even if the unthinkable happens
It has already started the walk
Sleep walking to Armageddon
NATO and Russia and the rest
This is really it...
Justice* for the meek
   won't come soon
Under skies aligned
   with sinful moons
Neglectful statues
   posing as mothers
Executives commission
   the blood red summer

Venture across the divide
earmarked by three lines
another writing exercise
sweet leigh Jan 2014
Maybe you’re normal.

Maybe everyone feels like this.

Maybe everyone spends days hiding in their bed,
terrified of nothing and cringing at every imagined sound.
Turn off the lights, stop your ears and pray it goes away.

Maybe everyone tucks a ******* between their privates
(sticky pink lips leaking),
on grocery trips, bank errands, and late-night fast food runs.
Sometimes you just gotta feel a little something more than nothing, you know?
More than no one, more than Not Now, Babe, I'm Busy.

Not that you can.

How'd you let us get so numb?

What should take minutes, might take hours.
The ******* wasn't made to combat the all-powerful battery.

You should probably stop before
your pretty little ***** swallows up the toy in retaliation.
You’ll die from toxic-shock syndrome,
even after all those ******-box warnings, and when they cut you open,
the coroner will sneer derisively at the shiny rhine-****** pleasure bullet,
and your mother will blush and stammer
when they ask if she’d like to keep it in memory of you.

It’s so cute and handy
and it smells like pineapple jam...

Everyone should have one.

Maybe everyone cries on their way to work,
shaking and gasping because their hands gripped the steering wheel too tight,
and you knew you were a second away
from jerking your car into the oncoming vehicle
but you stopped yourself just in time,
and now you’re not sure if you’re more horrified that you almost did it
or that you still haven’t done it...

Maybe everyone needs things in twos or fours.
Not sixes, and never fives (unless it’s 10).

In pinks and not blues.
Oranges, not reds.
Oh god, never red...

In horizontal stripes or perfect tiny dots
each one an equal distance from the others.

You need colors arranged by ROY G BIV,
and big to small, A to Z.
Crunchy grapes and crustless bread,
washed hands and doors that open rightways inwards,
not leftways outwards.
You need buttons buttoned and laces tied.
You need straight lines and hip height,
You need perfect spelling and drawers that shut neatly.
You need lids that fit and matching earrings,
You need absolute silence and clocks that don’t tick.
You need dreaMT, not dreamed. EIther, not EEther.
You need speed limits and dress codes.
You need time frames and outlined lists,
you need to always see the sky outside and every door locked shut.
You need spoiled endings and expectations met because if they’re not
you want to scream.
You want to shriek and caterwaul.
You want to rip out your hair and scratch at your eyes, and you want to smear the slick juice of your ***** under your nose and throw your arms against the windows 'til you crack and bend. You want to **** in the mouths of everyone who ever told you Not to Fret because how could this happen, oh god, why could this happen, what did I do wrong? Why is it all wrong? Why is everything so wrong? Please help me, ****, help me! I can't breathe, everything is wrong and I can't breathe...  

But maybe everyone is like that.
an excerpt from my book
JC Lucas Sep 2015
I open all the windows at night
and let the frigid canyon wind wrap me
like a sheet

It's never cold enough,
truthfully

There's never enough justification
to sleep next to some(one)thing
warm

It lets in all the mosquitoes
and the ******* squirrels
wake me up with their
idle chatter
each and every morning
but I like it.

The comedown's most always
(never)
worth the high
(So I'm quitting stimulants
and other people)

But then I remember
that when the music
resolves
it's almost always
worth the wait

so I think
"Just one more day,
then,
just one more beer,
just one more roll of the dice-
they're bound to come up
sixes
sometime"

I could sit
here naked in front
of this typewriter
and tell you
about how I'm the wind
about how I'm a good guy (no really)
about how I'm a ******* (really)
about how i am                            (an artist)
i am                                                                              (a martyr)
i am                                                                                                           (a fool)

But frankly I can't think of anything I am
that I really believe any more.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
I pity anyone visiting us with
A language besides English;
Who tries to understand the words
We like to use with relish.
We seem to say so many words
Just to keep our lips busy.
It occurs to me the so much of it
Has never graced a dictionary.

Upscaling, downsizing
Offloading the whole magilla
The whole nine yards, bottom liine
The big honcho, the whole enchilada
I was completely plussed and then
I had my self a hissy fit
I didn't know I had a flabber,
'Til someone went and gasted it.

Hanging out, kicking back
Into myself and whatever
***** it, man. I am like, wow.
And y'know, yodda yodda yodda.
Some mean kinda fudpucker
Betcher bippees, yabba dabba doo.
Mazoomas and headlights,
Totally hyped megabitch, too.

Talkin' about 'sup bro
Stufflike windas and winders.
Jammin and gittin widdit
And sumpinbout pillas and pillers.
So, I goes and he goes,
And I'm all jazzed and by golly.
It really rocks, rad to the max
Get down to some serious party.

Sixes an sevens, p's and q's
What's your point? Get real!
It's pretty much a ******
So, what's the big deal?
Too much, I mean it's tough,
And stuff, and really far out, man.
Twenty three skiddo old bean.
Just a flash in the pan.
It *****. It blows, It bites, big time
A wicked righteous mindfuck.
Get jiggy with it. Kiss my crank;
Slob my ****, Lord Love-a-duck.
I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.


And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!


'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'


'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'

For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!

Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!

He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.
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...
Cass Lee Aug 2016
when you are twenty something and haven't
grown out of what your family called “baby
fat” don't worry, because you are still loved
by your body. everyday it wakes you up and
nourishes you, and when it fails to do that, it's
only a malfunction, a button hit wrong. when
you get shamed into wearing a one piece by
your friends in eighth grade, don't panic, because
that swimsuit is killer and everyone you are
with is working it. when your friends talk about
skinny shaming since they have never experienced
fat shaming, listen. when you see fat shaming,
talk about it. when your mother starts shopping
in the plus size area for you, don't feel ashamed.
your body is meant for what it is meant to do.
when you have a panic attack in the dressing
room of the local american eagle for not fitting
into size sixes, calm yourself down, no one will
ever see that size. black it out with a sharpie, cut
it out with scissors, let the tag fly. when you
get ****** into pro-ana sites, shut off your phone.
when you are on your knees with ******* in
your mouth, close the toilet. when you use ice
cubes as a snack, eat something else. don't
let your brain become a calculator before it’s
too late. when you come into school the next
day, your friends complaining about a not flat
stomach, tell them that the sack needed to hold
parts of your body is not flat for a reason. when
they complain about size four jeans, show them
how you wear eights like a badge of honor, like
your lipstick or your hair. show your stretch marks
as tattoos, show your cellulite as gold, your hips
as the gates to your mansion, and your thighs are
thunder thighs, let them boom down and let them
be free.
thanks for reading!
Jamie L Cantore Jul 2016
Twilight, the early black some may call,
Is upon the horizon, on the hem to fall;
And I see a swarthy bat round the belfry,
As I shudder cold, wrapped in a peltry:
What madness this is, I think I know;
I've been here before, not so long ago.
Could I be on the fritz, at the edge
Of Sanity -once more at the selvage?
Come with you where? The Asylum?
Yes! Yes! I do want a slice of delirium!
But please do loosen these **** buckles.
I can't breathe-- -& neither can Chuckles.
David Bird Feb 2010
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
     He went out to bat,
     NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.

On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
     He bats with aplomb,
     Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.

From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
     He'll be there for a while,
     All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.

Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
     Sixes so great,
     They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!

A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
     Gritty and tough,
     We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.

No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
     His batting is slick,
     Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.

Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
     If he holds each catch,
     We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.

Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
     His batting is great,
     Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.

Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
     He can oft' bowl too short,
     Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.

James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
     Please bowl nice and full,
     Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.

Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
     He makes them play,
     While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
..............
It was day 1 of the first test vs South Africa, we'd only lost Cookie (who is a left-hander and therefore great) and I was feeling positive and bullish. Here, in batting order, are 11 limericks for the England players.
Mike Rollain Jun 2016
Sixes and sevens
Mark new beginnings
The after-burn is bittersweet
A full rose moon lights my way
Maybe after
When the breathing's done
I can pretend
To sleep
I've always been wary--
and celebrated my potential
Betrayal
and
Certain
   death(.)     (oh)
At The Juice Joint.

All wet.  (incorrrr
--ect.)

Applesauce. (non


sense.)

All dolled up. Showed off my
       Gams
And Big Jazz
(eyes).

Wanted to get spifflicated with some
Dolls
and
Jellybeans.

...my fella.

?

Didn't have enough clams.

Any of us.

We

   're the new

Lost

      ...generation.

I thought I'd keep the bank open,
but
interest wasn't given
Cash or Check:
didn't really matter.

Might've been
     the
cat

's

meeeeeow.

And
how.

Ahhhhh...

we all had our glad rags on.
the Daddies hit on all sixes.
      Let's get ZOZZLED on some
jag juice,
dewdropper.

Deeeeeewdropper.  ~errrrrrrrr.....
Though giggle juice is more apt

...for me.

Leave the Mrs. Grundys at home...no fire extinguishers allowed.

How ironic.

                You were the extinguisher.

Bring Your Own Knife

      , we said.

It's a Stabbing Party

     , we said.

I didn't want to handcuff you. Didn't want to exchange manacles.
       ("No, I'm no one's Wife, but OHHHHH, I love my Life.")

I percolate.
I percolate.

I percolate.

I'm not your quiff.
...not your sheba...or a vamp.


Just admire my

           chassis

if you will.

    they

all
    do

The engine'll purr
   for you,

~~if you turn the keys just so

Everything was
    Copacetic.

Copacetic...

For a time.

         (get'hotget'hot!)


Caesar's here.

                                       Hussssshhhhhhhh...

...speak


         ~~eeeeeaaaaassssyyyyy.

And then I realized.


  

                                I'm tired of being Caesar



(      .       )
Lucy Tonic Dec 2012
Birds like airplanes like crosses in the sky
Give me strength and weakness at the same time
The trees a loft for the first realm of heaven
A grid of sixes beneath the mighty sevens
He was the firstborn of every creature
And the last of all the great teachers
Thirst for his word, cleansed by his blood
Rise out of the ashes like a lotus in the mud
Glorification means being ready to die
To submit to the rainbow throne on high
Maddie Fay Dec 2013
counting breaths and blinks
makes it easier to detach
from hands where hands aren't wanted,
and lips and teeth and tongue and ****
and heat and sweat and rhythm.
heartbeats and seconds in packets of four
are better for the brain
than fists and blood and fear,
and ticks of the clock and fingertips tapping in time
beat uncertainty and helplessness
and not knowing if he's going to live
any day of the week.

i can wash my hands until they're red
(beet red, beat, beet red, beat)
and raw
(and dry and cracked and bleeding and bleeding).
i can write and re-write
and control and perfect,
perfect the verb because
perfect as an adjective is
impossible
(but nothing less will do).
i can line everything up and count it out even,
in fours or
in thirty-sixes,
(six times six, six six times, perfect square, perfect square),
and i can hope
that my neat tall stacks of the things i need to control
will finally outweigh
the scattered mountains
of the things i never could.

i can tell you how and when and where and what,
just please don't ask me why.
ConnectHook Mar 2021
After sextuplets come septuplets
Inconceivably set-uplets . . .
Long hard nights of Mom kept-uplets
Sevenfold fruit of busy couplets.
Not to mention octuplets . . .
or even baby squids
I'll put a brick in my hood
I'll throw a brick to ya dome
I'll shove about anything
To get me through up my nose
And I still flatter them  hoes
And get their ******* all wet
Until they drip, drip outta the dryer
I'm washed up they said
Yeah, I'm sauced up too bad
Sick as **** in the head
Don't give a **** about bread
I'm busy countin' my lead
I'm about as sick as they get
So I break up some nugs
Have a *** count my stacks
Line my crib with straight thugs

One, two, three, six, click
Clappin' these sixes while she's suckin' my ****
Leavin' my Deagle 'cause I'm wantin' to live
Givin' heaven the finger 'cause I'm lovin' to sin

No one gonna stop me
Yeah, nothin' that can top me
I'd wreck a ******' Bentley
Then suit up on a Harley
Take a trip to Muncie
And load up on some chronic
And smoke until I'm smellin'
Like a farm of hydroponic
****, I gotta get my mind right
But I can't 'cause I'm livin' in the high life
Not a cent gets spent on a dime, right?
Wrong, I spend it all the time

And time keeps tickin'
My watch looks broke 'cause I can't stop spinnin'
Run outta smoke so I tryna hit some resin
My lungs stuck up, but I just keep rippin'
Them souls apart, them hoes apart
Nothin' but the best for my bros so far
I am the number one in this
God-forsaken little blip
Midwestern farmer ****
No one here allowed to spit
But I do everyday
While all my ******' neighbors be balin' that hay
Hooray, we got another couple mouths fed
'Til I force-feed 'em an entree of straight lead
twas a poor performance
on the cricket pitch
the fielding side let too many *****
go to the boundary ditch

those batsmen were fabulous
hitting run after run
they really had the fielders
well and truly under the gun

sixes and fours flew
in both sessions of play
the batsmen had a magnificent
selection of strokes to array

the gully fieldsmen
and those on the off side
were unable to contain
the brilliance of the batting side

the South African cricketers
were too sharp for the Australian team
in short order they put paid to
the Australian third test dream

had the boys from down under
done a better job on the cricket pitch
the South Africans wouldn't be crowing
like a rooster at early morn pitch

a concerted effort with fielding
would have handsomely paid
but the Australian side
couldn't withstand the batter's raid

before the next test series
the Aussies have much homework to do
if they wish to accomplish
a win over the other crew

it is a sad day for this
avid devotee of the cricket game
she has witnessed a poor performance
which was rather lame

one is hopeful of a turn around
in fortunes for one's cricket side
and should it come to pass
one will be heartily filled with pride
Jean Sullivan Feb 2015
I miss them,
I miss them in all sorts of ways,
we would argue,
laugh at the argument,
I could have been kinder,
Now,
now it's almost as if they died,
as if I never knew them,
Now we call,
we call to hear that echoey tune,
the hum and life we lived with once,
where everyday we were mad but happy,
we hated each other,
but we didn't need love from anywhere else,
and that hum stays with us when the phone goes out,
it sinks in deep to our soul and sleeps,
and we sleep,
knowing that we have been robbed,
robbed of 18 years or more,
robbed of something so many take for granted,
and so many others have been robbed as well,
we did not get our 18,
but instead 4, 5, 7, 10, 13,15,
and what a beautifully horrid 15 years it was for me,
still I miss them,
God I miss them
This is a love poem, a poem to my siblings who I love so much and miss everyday we are apart. I will never be so in love as I am when we are all together, even with our cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and mothers and fathers.
SOMEBODY loses whenever somebody wins.
This was known to the Chaldeans long ago.
And more: somebody wins whenever somebody loses.
This too was in the savvy of the Chaldeans.
  
They take it heaven's hereafter is an eternity of crap games where they try their wrists years and years and no police come with a wagon; the game goes on forever.
The spots on the dice are the music signs of the songs of heaven here.
God is Luck: Luck is God: we are all bones the High Thrower rolled: some are two spots, some double sixes.
  
The myths are Phoebe, Little Joe, Big ****.
Hope runs high with a: Huh, seven-huh, come seven
This too was in the savvy of the Chaldeans.
Coyote Jan 2014
In a land of 93 people
lived a preacher and a nun
In a church without a steeple
they professed to 91

The sermon was quite boring
so seven found the door
They left amidst the snoring
leaving only 84

The nun looked to the altar
and the scary hanging Jew
Twice 11 faltered
and that left 62

But the preacher kept on talking
and he didn't skip a line
Then 13 more were walking
leaving only 49

The nun began to worry
as she saw the empty pews
They were leaving in a hurry
by sixes, fours, and twos

A dozen minutes later
they were in the church alone
The ****** masterbater
and his faithful penguin drone

"So what are we supposed to do?"
the preacher asked the nun
They started out with 92
(or was it 91?)

To be honest it was 93
including priest and nun
You'd think that I would know this
as I wrote it in line 1

But the time is getting very late
perhaps I now can sleep
These lines are not so very great
and not so very deep

But they served my shallow purpose
as my eyes begin to close
And since nothing rhymes with purpose
I believe it's time to go
the Australians are playing
a good brand of cricket
they've got the English
at sixes and sevens at the wicket

our bowlers seem to be bowling
with much strength
all their delivers
are of a fine line and length

last time we met the English
in an Ashes Series
our Australian team
played like a lot of old ladies

but they've made
some key changes to the team
which shall yield
our cricket side a winning dream

play to-day sees
the English batting at the wicket
they've a bit of work
to do on their cricket

the Australian team
are drilled to perfection
with all their plays
going in the right direction

the Australian's
catching and fielding has improved
we'll be making sure
that all the English are removed

twill be a goodly day
at the Gabba Cricket Ground
watching the English batting
heading outbound
Delusional Minds Mar 2015
I have no control,
I'm just a reflection of emotions deep below,
Feed me some antipsychotics,
Free me from my mind,
Bionic-

I got the sickest of Minds,
Come equipped with the quickest depictions that sicken your eyes,
Unassisted, don't be resistin' the fight,
Trip sixes leave you ******* to die,
Rap circles around you like a serpent constrictin your life,
Drag you through the mud and the muck before I kiss you goodbye like the crucifixion of Christ,
You don't know what's livin inside or what I put into these lines,
You might wanna diss me but it's almost forbidden to try,
**** on you ******* while I'm kissin the sky,
Diss all your writtens while you listen to mine,
A misfit, I'm twisted with an addiction to rhyme,
Watch you stiffen at the sight of me hissin at night,
Silence these voices I tried but my prescription ain't right,
My lungs are collapsin like somethins kickin my sides,
I'm not twitchin, I'm flinchin,
Pay attention, there's a difference,
Somethin wants to get in and take away my decisions,
Sometimes I wonder how the **** I got in this position,
I keep talkin to God even though he don't listen,
He's prob'ly ******* from all the sins I've committed,
Unspeakable actions let the demons in, scratchin,
I keep pleadin and askin but believe I'm the baddest,
Can't seem to keep it, reactin, but receivin the static,
Creepin in the dreams of an addict that needs to be handed,
It's reachin in me and its makin me panic, I'm takin it back and,
Retracin my tracks and erasin the past and,
Replace you with ashes and take the flame back I'm,
Burnin alive while rehearsing these lines,
You can feel it churnin inside, the turnin through time,
You're cursin my life,
Feel like bursting inside-

Feed me some antipsychotics,
Free me from my mind,
Bionic,
Walkin a fine line,
But I called it,
"Its night time,"
Don't worry, I'm on it-
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
I’m not quite right today.
I’ve a thoroughly gasted flabber.
The milk of human kindness
Seems to have begun to clabber.
I got plussed but now it’s minus,
I’m so chalant I am nearly flat.
I am almost as spaced out
As a modern day Schrodinger’s cat.

Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.

I was once a pillar of immunity
But lately I am wagging a scally.
But somewhere along the line
I became a cat in some alley.
I‘m at five sixes and sevens
I lost the war and the battle.
My creek is totally full of ****.
Here I am without a paddle.

Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.

My last leg hurts a lot, and
My pooch is rather *******.
I’d say I am a bit ******,
But then, that would be lewd.
I’m a scant one barrel short
Of being a real son of a gun.
My **** has started whiffing
And is no longer much fun.

Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.
annh Sep 2020
12
•                               •

•                                                 •
|
9         «———  >§<  ———»         3

•                                                 •

•                               •
6


“Struck is the hour from its ivory tower,
At sixes and sevens, the stars in their heavens,

As minute hands dance at twilight's advance,
To the cadence of time, the archangel’s chime;

Listen closely for me at a quarter to thee,
‘Twixt the tick and the tock of grandpapa’s clock,

Unquicken thine pace, for run is the race,
Hear the pendulum lock, ziccoty, diccoty, dock.

‘There was a sudden stillness like the gap between ticks on a clock, but the next tick never coming.’
- Sadie Jones, The Outcast
John Holmes Oct 2014
As to how I feel thou wilt never know
like winter days crownèd with golden sun,
like bold summer replete with summer snow
while autumn's trees lose of their foliage none.
Much better for thee to view such a thing
than perjure the priz'd innocence of thine,
for such is its worth angels would take wing
and gather round thee thinking thou divine.
But O, to be at sixes and sevens
not wishing for thee to know of mine plight,
mouthing mine sorrows to the cold heavens
bearing this burden of wrong that is right.
For better for thee to think what thou will
when for me bad is good while all good ill.
From Selected Sonnets, iTunes (Free download).
Ghxstcxt Apr 2022
We got those 1800s vibes
Men with moustaches
Women with moustaches
You ready to Hunt for your lives?

Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keeping schtum
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.

It's that time again, we close to sittin' pretty
Lord I pray for courage, so light that soul fire in me
Stacks of crucifixes, so we don't run out quickly
Hang it loosely round my neck should it get dark and dingy
Ward off the devils spirits, or beasts made from three sixes
Martini firepower, and no I don't mean drinkin'
Sometimes be something sicker, cos these demons I be killing...
I'm off to hell and back, to stop em from existing

Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keeping schtum
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.

Guess its our turn now, y'all ready for a feud
Ain't no stopping us growl, we're simply too imbued
That cross around your neck, its just a waste of fuel
The venom flowing in us means conditions won't improve
We'll just keep on marching, until you're twice removed
This is our land you're farming, the boss is not amused
The biggest baddest of us here, do this **** just for fun
You'll never take us all, something wicked this way comes

Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keeping schtum
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.

Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want

Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want

Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
bulletcookie Oct 2018
MBS
MISTER BONE SAW —

black bearded with carnivorous teeth
lurking in palatial shadows
unfit for the news that make him
biting the hands that feed, Him

Mister Bone Saw

yesterday's trail leads to you
like a wounded animal's blood
dripping on an already red carpet
where you sit licking a fat photo session

Mister Bone Saw

presidents suckle your Old Scratch ****
while snorting sulfur with thousand dollar bills
up their snouts, twisting their tales of greatness
again, and again, and again like sixes in a row

Mister Bone Saw

time will shear your hairy back alleyways
place a sign and seal upon your lies and deception
even those minions who worship your coin
will find a sword of justice between their *****

Saw Bone Mister!

-cec
CIA owns the facts now; too bad Trump is in league with him.
b Nov 2019
do you ever think that
in a deck of cards, when we’re
using them that the sixes miss their
fellow sixes and their neighbours the
sevens and fives.
when we first unleash them from their
structure that their world could
just unravel?

or maybe, it feels like running into
some old friends.
i haven’t seen ace in years
jack’s got it figured out,
good for them.
like a highschool reunion
that doesn’t end.

i don’t believe in bad bets
we are just playing cards.
if you ever need a friend you know where to find me
Not to greet the dawn of the day
At care free weekends
Leisure infused lethargy
For him it was up 7 at 10 AM
He was at sixes n’ sevens

Quipped from cuddle of bed
At the warning warrant
Of piled up weekend errands
He sipped tea n’ clicked on screen
To play music of unseen scene
As he surveyed household
To bring home into his fold  
  
Cutlery rattled prattled
Vessels cranked in sink
Threatening to stink
If not surfed to shine
Used clothes hanging banging
Summoned washing wearing
  
Carpet in sequence flared up
To mop it up long along
Bathing tub demanded its bath
Well before he had his bath
  
As he peeped out a while
For refreshing breeze
Waving blades of grass
Accosted to trim their size
Sinking hope of a post lunch nap
  
Grouse of grocery then unveiled
And kid’s unrest for the day-out outwit
Took a long drive for the joy ride
Week end outing weakened though
Alas!  Weary weekend seemed longer than week
Martin Rombach Mar 2010
That classic cliche of a clock ticking too far
And a love that burns in the back of the mind
Scratching heat into the seams of social self control
But I'm strong enough to smile for the cameras

The tasty dabs of smiling sherbert keep me posted on the here and now
The all work and all play lifestyle brings smile from far and wide
I don't deserve forgiveness for the bitter taste in my mouth
I was the one that melted my key into the furnace
And I'm the one who can see the bridge behind him

Spit on me if you must, my love, my friends, my observant big brother
Pity is not for the imbalanced and favoured
I am strong, I am proud, and I am rolling sixes

Just allow me an occasion to mourn my mistakes
My hand feeling cold and singular again
My eyes dragging across the floor in retrospect
My lust seeping from under my fingernails with gangrenous inferiority
I want what I can't have, shouldn't have, not again

But that empowering sense of growth makes the counter productive
So appealing
Sometimes I can't take it
I would show you the nostalgic touches of the boy you've lost
And the inspiring intensity of the man I have become
Through every nerve and every word you would know why I love you

But..
Life is not that convenient
The imbalance is the nature of this evolving colossus encapsulating our species
I will learn to accept my loss
I will learn to love another
I will continue to develop my scripted status and materialistic hollows
Just know that I hate myself and you
For how much I miss you
Yenson Nov 2018
A tall slender grizzly old man gently touched my shoulder
exactly the way my late beloved father used to do
Daddy a saint who loved and was proud of his son like no other
He lived and loved for all his children too

Unjustly hated alone and friendless in a cold cruel barren land
This grizzly old stranger patted my shoulder
Cause in a simple polite gesture I held the door opened for him
But in that gentle pat of his touch I felt the spirit of my father

It told me not to worry and that one day everything would be ok
In that sanctified epoch it was a message from heaven
Be as you are my child for the old and the wise see truth like day
we know the good ones unlike those at sixes and sevens

Those that are wilfully chosen to walk the path of true Light
have Guardians, ArchAngels and Pious messengers
Be it my saintly father or someone else's grizzly father in white
To reassure, protect, to guard and remind - Stay the true path

A tall slender grizzly old man gently touched my shoulder
When all seemed forlorn and wicked voices sang
An innocuous humane act but a sign from God's realm older
I will reach out and touch and distance you from evil,s fang


Go gently my children for I am here and no harm will befall you
Not to greet the dawn of the day
At care free weekends
Leisure infused lethargy
For him it was up 7 at 10 AM
He was at sixes n’ sevens

Quipped from cuddle of bed
At the warning warrant
Of piled up weekend errands
He sipped tea n’ clicked on screen
To play music of unseen scene
As he surveyed household
To bring home into his fold  
  
Cutlery rattled prattled
Vessels cranked in sink
Threatening to stink
If not surfed to shine
Used clothes hanging banging
Summoned washing wearing
  
Carpet in sequence flared up
To mop it up long along
Bathing tub demanded its bath
Well before he had his bath
  
As he peeped out a while
For refreshing breeze
Waving blades of grass
Accosted to trim their size
Sinking hope of a post lunch nap
  
Grouse of grocery then unveiled
And kid’s unrest for the day-out outwit
Took a long drive for the joy ride
Week end outing for joy weakened though
Alas!  Weary weekend seemed longer than week
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Sixty-six chapters and sixty-six books
(please, Catholic brothers – no ***** looks)
were needed for God to make known His plan:
the gift of salvation and future of Man.

Yet sometimes it seems rather cryptically stated;
poor Israel must wait and will wait (as they’ve waited).

Isaiah took sixty-six chapters to tell it;
for two-thousand years has the Church tried to sell it –
must Christ and his teaching thus languish in mystery,
waiting offstage in the wings of His history?
(Wings of the cherubim, angels, and vultures
now beat down upon us, uniting our cultures
while tech surges up in a dizzy parabola
micro in management, global in formula…)

Sixty-six chapters to say it in Greek
(Aramaic – or Latin;  whatever they speak)
while the somnolent audience scrolls on their screens
in apocalypse trance over zombie machines.
The scrolls are unopened, the parchment still sealed
the slot-machine handle refuses to yield;
as the sixes line up towards the threshold of seven
the virgins sleep late in the Kingdom of Heaven.

— The End —