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Pythagoras
was
a man,not a fish,
how I wish I had never been so clever to suggest otherwise,though he swam he's a man not a fish for a dish,now I wish that the ground would swallow me whole,it wasn't my goal to be remembered for slating a national figure who knew more about figures than I ever would,
could he forgive me in some algebraic liturgy?,well maybe he should.
I mentioned him once on a radio show, though he may not have heard it,he's been dead quite a long bit, and if you've been waiting for a motion that's stating I'm right
you've a long way to go,
Pythagoras knew and now I know too it's not what you add up, it's what you add up to.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
like... flappy flappy pigeon imitate penguin go shoeshine your ***? like that? i don't even know whether pigeons find penguins to be more pathetic, or whether penguins find pigeons more pathetic... so one has the sky, the other the ocean... it's hardly an argument for either to be staged with a mediator; let alone a matador.

pokraka... (singular),
pokraki* (plural)...
             don't know, i'm not exactly
baby-faced pristine...
         but i don't even know where
that word comes from,
perhaps the riddle of the crow and
the writing desk... why is it that
the crow is writing desk?
          the crow stoops on earth hunched?
almost hunchback?
       maybe that?
     don't know, these fellas are doing
my slating (roof) and i'm autistic imitating
cat tactics of hidig, because i like the drunk
that i am to be hidden, and only seen
in between walls that can hear...
   or apparently but not really so...
    metaphysical question...
why is it that when you encode scratched compact
discs into mp3 form on an iPod
the product breaks? too much l.s.d.?
                 i swear to god, but you trasnslaste
a compact disk into software (it is hardware,
however you think about it; with no alternatives)
         it can **** up the hardware...
                 you have a scratched c.d.,
you translate it into a software package to your
computer, then your translate the "malware",
o.k. a scratched c.d. is literally malware,
                 on the topic of iPods...
                you can **** up your iPod if you include
scratched c.d. material... like itchy-itchy vinyl guys
doing hip-hop...
        but i have this sansa mp3 player,
and i have scratched c.d. on it, and it keeps working...
but the iPod i once owned? broken...
or should i say "broken"?
     no, literally broken...
          i picture prefect a cat's face and then
disappear when the builders arrive...
most of the time i'm a person that doesn't require
the chance exposure of my own face...
    here's to looking at brick walls, and clouds,
and drainage depots on the pave...
      to be writing poetry will eventually drive
your sorry *** into the ground and tell you:
why couldn't you become a crane-driver?
          as a fraction of a billion exemplum similis?
i don't know;
               why did you get plastic surgery?
i know... similis exemplar... that's a variant on the whole
topic.
                 why marvin gaye and the creedence clearwater
revival cover?
           i apparently don't know any latin,
and i find that stating this fact: i'm no big fan of
some grammar school rubric of "correct": toward
the status of ontologically proof riddled,
   correct.
                      *****'s here, coca is here,
sunshine (ugh) is here...
                            what else could you want?
only the etymological disinterest of the word pokraka,
derivative? krók (crow)...
         given the prefix po- (after) -
            well... imitating crow, or after the crow...
                           unto the priest... after all: crows are
symbolic of the priestly-caste in europe...
      also the opposite of onomatopoeic strain toward exactnes:
kra kra... what the crow breathes...
hardly a kraken, but almost... thus po- + -krók:
     i.e. after the crow... inherently so.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
co hytre pod skurą jest iglą
         (what's avaricious under the skin is a needle)
na wieków, amen - co gdyby lwem
(forever more, amen - what's apparently a lion)
czy niedźwiedźem, czy też wilkiem
(or bear, or even a wolf)
da tchu! Vlach! ti i ten pierdolony lis!
(will give breath! Vlad! you and that ******* fox!)
eine fuchs! ich! ja stokroć i nocy nadam
(a fox! i! i the fern who will give unto the night)
imion bez konstelacji Achilles'a,
(names without constellations' of Achilles)
pozorom wbrew: na haczyku brwi
(under no pretensions: on the fishing hook of the eyebrows)
na tle pod imion: dobre sumienie
(on the canvas of under-names: a sound conscience)
wramah chszestu.
(in the boundaries of a christening.)
  a co ładne niech paraduje ze
(and what is beautiful, let it parade)
rzołneczykami!           bo to tfu!
(with it's little soldiers! because it's disgusting!)
bo to harfa i hu i true i Polska podbudjed
(because it's a harp and a ha... lost in translation)
is Rosyja i Я: anglo tomme, niet Яck m'eh?
  no kurva: Mongoła trombone!
mi non sprechen Deutsche,
nor operatic, nien moon-sweep tsar -
lovely, lovely juggles the Peckham
in all of us jubbly: day for the awaiting Trotter -
         or the spin frame Jenny my dearest:
spin! spin my spinning dūbblé / double-blah-blah-eh!
plocker / plonker two sons within graft of a blue
Peter sketch for the youngsters whining: or how's that
****** housed and i'm the one that should be
saying: the 'un that neva'h woz?
bites the Barnickle, that 'un does.
               says as much about cubicle cockers
in née said: Varlance: such that it almost sounded like
Versailles, and it too almost sounded likened to
umbrella when saying Paris or parasol.
       or on par: cubicle cockney poetry:
appellation and ***** hairs: stairs -
       needy and scythed: the frightened bunch...
          why then Versailles and squire?
and not: that ol' chip frier -
     fry err, Brighton on marble: succinct slating -
that walk of shame toward the ****.
     they always made the best foster parents,
that **** bumping, **** dumping crowd pleasing
hush for a Lincoln into linguo as Oslo in
libido -
          trucker tongue tie - gears in reverse -
randomised language replenishing that chaos of
became focus of larynx not cubed
but eyes three-dimensional: or cubism.
             and you sort of wish you knew how to
knot rather than not not not -
                your way into a Wahabi Lebanese
sentiment for truancy -
   which you never, really had a chance to get a
hard-on over.
                       this is how art sorta doesn't feel
that much difficult, more of a diarrhoea rather than
a constipation: less a skiing holiday in the Swiss
alps and more weekends spent on the Southend pier.
    well, we all wish to fish in the spaghetti lake
of verbiage: some of us get to,
and what we end up doing is hoping for
a second as cobblers in China, or beef farmers in
Argentina,    or cigar-rollers from Havana -
b'aah.... blah.... b'aah: i say jolted,
i say unsure, i say nervous b'aah - sheep's surrender!
why? it would sort out and destroy our
claustrophilia: as ever a cranium and an elevator...
         and the congregation,
                    and the dry throat.
Hayleigh May 2014
The clocks came to a halt
As our conversation cracked and fizzled out,
And there was no longer a need
To scream and shout
Because with our arms wrapped the enemy
Of our lover, one another,
We were once again complete.
But you were never willing to accept defeat.
The silence became intoxicating
As it seeped through, caressing the entire room
And fed up with the waiting,
Done with all the slating,
You got up and left
All too soon.
And our only goodbye was the mixture
Of our scents,
Your whiskey breath and my stale cigerettes.
That danced in the air.
The fire inside of me began to smoulder
And the devil on my shoulder
Lay down at rest.
The night grew colder
As day drew through the blinds
And reality burst through, in dark colours, amongst the leaves
And the gentle breeze from the window
Awoke me to its short sharp scratch.
As I came to realise
You were never hear
And really it's been three years
And  I'd spent the night showering myself in my tears
And grieving a loss that
Had been and gone
Many years ago.
The clocks started ticking again
As I accepted the reality
And the formality it came with.
As I dressed for work,
I buried all of the confusion
Anguish, pain and hurt
Under bright red lipstick.
Your favourite colour.
And though I knew what I knew
Before I left
I still turned and waved goodbye to you.
Our memories crammed inbetween frames
On the Mantel piece,
They say coping gets easier
Of those deceased
Tho I have my reasons to question
Such ideation.
It's been three years,
And the house is still the same
Everything is similar
Except now I'm classed as clinically insane.
I guess you could say,
Your death, tore open and apart
My cell membranes,
Leaving room only,
For damaging remains.


And the job I'd got up and dressed for
And the night id stayed up and present in
Wishing, to see you once more
Were both fantasies,
Dreams I'd formed
Tho I wasn't dreaming
And my my mind is screaming
For you to not be gone
And it will never stop
Until we are at peace as one.
So the sun may shine
And the clouds may break
But me, I will spend the day,
Laying under our duvet
Wrapped in yesterday's memories
Of you and I
And I will sit and cry and wait
For fantasy to overtake reality
Because its hard to understand
When the two are so blurred
That I have no clue
If I can do or undo something that's happened
When there's no pattern
Just confusion.
Evolution of a broken mind.
And if I dig deep enough
Consolidation in you I find.
Despite the constant reminders
That you're gone,
Baby I'm still holding on.
A W Bullen Jun 2016
The beryl high land smoulders….

Where skinny manes of cloven trailing, cuff
the rake of jumbled scree,
a porous crux of timbered carol
matins from the mossy shrine
to urchin on the bluff and draft
in nooks of birch and bilberry.

On that high dais, Corvid tribals
potter on the reeks of gale.
Fell boatman of the troubled storeys
quarter in some sleet cabal
to throw their onyx gauntlet down
a slating arc of fallow sky.
Poetic T Aug 2014
Was it needed,
The words that you clawed,
Trying to rip what I wrote,
You think you can do better
I've read your stuff its amateur hour
And your the joke.
Knock, Knock,
Who's there,
Spelling mistakes
A wrong button pressed,
Its my work,
Words that have been written
But you dont care,
You lust after anything you think even
Though me poem is better,
You treat it like a joke,
   Joke is what you call writing
Its more like a doodle,
From a two year old,
I'm not offened but i think
Your comment is more of a joke.
   Constructive criticism is needed
Not a slating,
If mistakes made,
Gently point to the error,
And how to improve,
Its not a joke words wound
As much as your jealous hate.
If you give me a nasty review
I dont see the joke.
   So when reading
Please read it though,
If a mistake is found be polite,
If its a first timer, a vigin of the pen,
Be gentle,
Be nice,
For if your a d*ck,
Expect me to be pleasant,
Don't expect a polite review,if your poems are crap
After what happened on here the was week or so
nivek Nov 2014
lumps of wind hazy horizon
love comes disguised
tapping on the window-
move your short sight
and see with your mind
love can be a cold drink
slating a thirst
you cant put your finger on
Denise Writes Jan 2018
as the gush of invectives admonish me
pouring as it never rains,
drowning me in a drawing sea of phillipic polemic as per Cicero and Demosthenes
slating
I feel bulimic

consume ravage and destroy
to be in being
is to miss out the joys of unbeing

essence before existence
never chicken before egg
hammer before stick and metal

******* malleability is not a virtue
Michael Marchese Apr 2020
My turn for impeaching
Obsequious peaceniks
Are making me sick
Of these linguistic,
Jingoist sentiments
Leeching  
Off coughers  
And coffers closed
Like the schools
Teaching
Their culture supremacy
Remedies preaching
Their outreaching
White-washing,
Black-coded
Bleaching
Intentions
Descending to hell
All contentions  
Are quelled
And if any dissenters
Rebel
It is censured
As well
So extensions
Of interlope errs
On the side
Of the circumspect
State of affairs
Still divided
Itself like a house
That can’t stand
To take planned
Economic
Commands
From the man
And his red-handed
Caught in the act
Band of sycophants
Damning
The evidence
Flagrantly
Blatant
Blank-slating
The bank
Breaking laws
With impunity
Faking
More news about death’s
Final breath away
Pains in the chest
And unrest
Manufactured
As wrested from us
Is the last shred of powerful
Gods in which trust
Is soon crushed
Underneath
The hypocrisy,
Lies
Normalizing
Deceit
Can’t look me
In the eyes
Mary Gay Kearns Jan 2018
Watching the wooden slating,
Where window met sill,
Saw spiders creeping,
Under a full moon,
Owls hooted in the distance,
And the smell of country air
Seeped in amongst fresh sheets.

Our annual holiday on the Island,
Taking it in turns for top bunk,
And first for the bathroom,
Sitting on nylon deck chairs,
Eating cornflakes from a plastic bowl,
This was heaven looking back,
Unless it rained all week.

Thank you Mum and Dad
Arjay Bills Nov 2024
Only in the mind's eye can a true reflection be shown.
The shine of a mirror speaks lies unknown,
The sea of dreams opens a mirror to truth,
Where a visage of one lies and speaks only sooth.

Words can cut the soul as sharp as a knife,
This kind of pain is naught but rife,
Another’s voice can taint your image,
For your reviewers leave everlasting damage,
Words of judgment abstain portrays kindness,
Even if a smile lies on the victim's surface.

Through valleys of doubt and peaks of belief,
In the tapestry of life, find your relief.
Challenges may test the core of your being,
Yet within, find the strength for seeing.

The canvas of existence, painted by your choices,
Echoes of laughter, and silenced voices.
Embrace the hues that make you unique,
authenticity is the language you speak.

As the chapters unfold in your book of days,
Write stories of courage in myriad ways.
In the symphony of time, let your melody soar,
A masterpiece of self, forevermore.

Though the taint of slating bores holes into esteem,
Surround yourself with those who allow it to teem,
In the end those who love create you serotonin,
And allows for self love to build back in.

As your journey ends filled with discovery, love, and friends,
And your knowledge of yourself extends,
You feel the power of knowing who you are,
You are the strongest alloy built into a human shaped bar.

— The End —