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Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....

why give a dog's *******'s care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?

  i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...

       in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...

   something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!

  Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...

now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!

   breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!

       i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
               you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!

     i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...

   you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!

            i need it, whatever "it", is...
       i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!

                 it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
                 the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...

                        i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
      Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...

    Mary contra Jane...

       horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
     werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!

  you don't do that!
you can't do that!
                but you did, do that!

there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...

     not here... not now...

  as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
        i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
                 of down syndrome'

what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?

p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
             the calorie intake!
Heather Methot Apr 2014
the humiliation
attempting multiplication
is a discrimination
filling all emotions with frustration
trying to send help of communication
to a genius
showing no blood relation
in a habitation where Ax and Bx showing a result of Cx
introducing a collaboration
with letters sends a illustration
to the mind causing hallucination
just a pigment of imagination
slight vibration
desperately needing a detoxification
of education
to wrap your thoughts around this generation
seeking the need for popularization
but the mind is in a mental restriction
start a petition
to conquer the satan of calculation
but so far no documentation
of the closed corporation
of the mad minded mathematician
so you're living in devastation
suffering while you work at a gas station
from no graduation
or thoughtful congratulations
all because you forgot the capitalization
for a math symbol
on a test
because of the lack of specification

Make a reservation
for the realization
that math
does not
always make
sense.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
you really need spectacles to read this, zone-in like a humming bird, given all the see-through gaps on the page - reading the Latin alphabet is like looking at x-rays - it's what happens when phonetic encoding borders on geometry that you get problems, or a joke of the gods (erase gods from poetry and you can erase Chernobyl from the history of Ukraine or chlorophyll from the study of biology.*

mother with a                         u...
like the tips of a parabola enjoining to make a double-o?
i.e. moother / μωθηρ? no wonder
the umlaut given specification against the omicron....
this is why greek shouldn't attract diacritical usage,
necessarily borrowed via the Ω-square:

u                            oo



ω                  ­           ü                                       ¨

              (term it as a parabolic union of two dots
          and the twin omega kissing the sky, a limit of
                linear rubric, sentencing
a...............................................................­.......
b........................................................­.............
c..................................................­....................
                                            ­                           and 6ft1 tall)...


or sigma, or castrato sigma M wonky...
who the **** is reading this compass, drunk?
it's all over the place! west... matter... σouth
Σorph...                 ρita pread... the ****?!
this is turning out to be a right Bermuda Δ:
cockney humour, please, we have children present!
i'm teaching them to count matchsticks in a pine forest!
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): give me a jaw,
i can't laugh without it.
skeleton (b) says to skeleton (a): conjure up
a diaθragm for me.
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): you mean a diaφragm?
skeleton (b) to skeleton (a): any squiggly line will do right now.
compass!
                                             d


b                                                            ­                            q

                                  ­      
                                              p...

and you thought you needed an acid trip.
the above is a hall of mirrors, it's not a compass or
a Kabbalistic magic square... it's a hall of mirrors.
please excuse the Greek gentlemen for applying
diacritical marks to their beautiful alphabet -
that left Brits still standing stark naked in Eden...
                                                                ­ we're waiting;
tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. hello?!
you'd sooner shove an armadillo into an aardvark's ***
than expect the "masters of the universe"
to put on some lipstick to their gobs:
it's not even about being pretentious as it's about being
donkey stubborn; budge *******! budge up!
i need a can of sardines from you, it won't work unless
you turn into custard or fudge!
you have to forgive my friend, he still thinks he's
part of an empire - which he squandered for politically
correct speech like those Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
noblemen who squandered in three partitions
while ******* on their ancestral grave... the last remnant
of the empire, nortern ireland saved by black market cigarettes
than the good friday agreement; hong kong ping pong
is still going on between Mr. Chi and Forest Gump,
sit down street protests, hippy protests in asia not fuelled
by marijuana... he is a bit deaf: SHOW'S OVER!
PACK UP YOUR PRIDE AND SHOVE IT INTO THE HAUL
OF H.M.S. BELFAST... ****** doesn't hear me... ******...
well, keeping an empire is like keeping an *******,
doesn't last forever, better chisel out a ******* emblem
and pray to it while knee bending at Stonehenge come
the summer solstice. Mr. Bellybutton pimps it gluttonous
in pomp at the Greenwich meridian: clocking up an ancient
0, although not slicing apart A.D. from B.C., just the time
difference: London 9p.m. is Moscow's 12a.m,
hence the 24h news reels.
George Anthony Mar 2016
yet another night where i'm crying tears that keep bleeding dry, feeling like i can't breathe properly
and all the worse because of it.
my chest tightens beyond measure to the point where i'm questioning how i even have a ribcage
shouldn't it be destroyed by now just like everything else about me?
i'm surprised my lungs can fit inside this constant vice
but then again i guess i've always been able to fit myself inside impossible spaces
i mean, after all, i did grow up in a dark and lonely closet chain-locked by cisnormativity,
my own feelings and expression restricted by society
"no, little girl, you're not a boy, it's just a phase, you sit down to use the toilet just like any other lady"

they never taught me about gender in school, nor mental illness, nor self-love
of all the lessons they taught me, the most important things i've learned have come from outside sources
see in a world that priorities numbers there's never been much room for individuality
even though, last time i checked, 'one' was the starting point for all positive values
but i guess i should thank them anyway, see at least now i'm smart enough to understand maths
and i always hated the subject in school but now it seems that all i do these days is think in percentages and measurements, constantly using addition
yet somehow never adding any confidence and always subtracting from my own self esteem

i got a B in my final exam and vowed never to look at another equation again but see
i may have passed my paper without revising but i've never been as good at using a calculator as i've come to be in the past year, and i excel in working out percentages
my eating disorder has been a better teacher than the adults with their university degrees
and the empty spaces left by a society that doesn't include self-respect in its specification got filled with insecurity
and self-loathing and depression and anxiety ...

(just reading this poem,
i can feel it
building up inside of me)

don't get me wrong, it's not like i let the views of close-minded people define me
but negativity sets an obnoxious example and the disease is buried into me
and i don't have much hope for finding a cure in a world that's been breeding my illnesses since i was born
my therapist is trying to help me but i'm just another lost boy
she's no miracle worker and the damage has already been done

if there's anything the government has taught me,
it's that there is no way to overpower corruption, you see
corruption
is more powerful than anything in this world and if you don't believe me, you just need to take a look at your surroundings
and you will see that you've been brainwashed just like the rest of society
i'm sorry to say that now you've woken up you'll only ever long to fall asleep again
but insomnia grows like a tumour in your brain and you will never have a peaceful night's sleep again
not until you learn to love yourself
and darling, i'm sorry, but that's the hardest skill to ever grasp

i'd know
i've been losing sleep for years and years
possible triggering content
Kittridge James Oct 2012
I'd never seen her so beautiful,
the color of life now covering her once ivory complexion.
The heart that once beat is now stagnant and black.
This thing in my hand, locked and loaded;
the shiniest gunmetal I've seen in a while.
Her only solitary life now gushing from her head.

Why did I take her life you ask?
It was those eyes...those godforsaken white, sightless eyes!
They never saw anything I am or ever will be.
All I ever wanted was for her to see!!
I've wanted to gouge them out since the day our two
lives became a single, cohesive one.

But it was those eyes that drove me to this.
Never had she seen my face.
Why is this just now occuring to me?
Yes, of course I loved her.
Mad? Why would you say that?

What is a madman? Me? A madman?
Preposterous!! What is a madman?
Certainly not in comparison to me.
I am the spitting image of true sanity...
Or am I?

I see no wrong doing in my actions.
I was simply doing her a favor...
Though, I probably should've been more humane
with the child she was carrying...

My child! My own flesh and blood!! Gone forever!
But it was for the good of both of them I presume...
There was a good chance my son would've been blind.

...My son!! My baby boy!!! How tragic a day this is!
Well, there wasn't any stipulation to 'Till death do us part'.
There wasn't any specification on how it was to happen.

I look to the gunmetal again.
It is to blame for this tragedy...
I hold the faithful steel grey to the side of my head
and look to my deceased spouse and unborn child.

Finally, I give the gun one final squeeze goodbye...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
the English are a very special breed of bigots, they don't engage in hypocrisy to suggest they feel superior with a decent moral compass, or to provide gentelmanly airs: pick out the pointless sorry when bumping into someone on the street - their inherent stage-fright at vulgarity hides something... the biggest asset of this constipated hypocrisy? what happens next... satire... so in being hypocrites they are awash in satirical humour... they laugh it off the minute they make some sort of allusion to a moral concern for something... given the current situation with the migrant crisis: where the majority are single men rather than Jewish families, you get the picture... it's amazing how they can change their hypocrisy into satire, and do so blatantly without a care in a world... i do wonder how the Icelanders would compare, both being island societies and all.

5 sq miles is all i need, to breath new air
and look at the same garbage of what life has to offer,
obviously the chanced and randomised
encounter with some *** on a bench
laughing our socks off, or a retired grandpa
getting away from the wife -
just like today - a fresh autumnal breeze:
i the cooling process to the heating up process,
don't know why, but there's as much
beauty in slow decay as in slow sprouting -
decay and its many colours never feels as ever
being monochromatic winter or summer -
it's the persistence of change - two transition
seasons, two plateau seasons: what a strange balance.
anyway, my usual (see how i invoked:
my life's so ******* boring, i decided to write
about it - like hell would i document it using
photographs: that's for the rich flashy people -
i'm more into the archaic mode - bought what i need,
and now i'm really using it) route was disrupted,
that's all it takes, walk a different English suburban
labyrinth and the world kaleidoscopes beyond
comparison; drank the strong beer (although,
ice cubes do make a difference when poured from
a can into a glass, Oranjeboom used to stand at
8.5%, just half a % shy from the *******
Special Brew - now it's at 7.5%, and, well, it taste
just about like candy-barley) - but that's what changing
habits does to you, my usual stroll became,
for some reason, electrifying - i censored my audience
on that ghoulish website i was introduced to at
university to 23 people, and i'm chirpier than
a sparrow - the newspapers were telling the truth:
for once - it just seemed that i was seeing less
network opportunities, and more ghost,
pointless memories of school, that everyone seems
to exploit in art (notably the smiths' soloist doing
the part of: oh how horrid those days of yore) -
dunno, liked the uniform, liked the topics,
never bothered having a social life in there,
everyone had extra four hours spare, i was doing
4 A-levels rather than 3, and every Wednesday i
would finish at 2:30 p.m. and head straight home
to beat the traffic - i picked up a girlfriend at the end
of my education, passed the exams and ****** off
to Edinburgh - most congregated with their social
networks from school in Canterbury -
the city was all i cared for, nowhere like it -
and perhaps the twinning of what i used to call
kiszka* (sh, or sz) that became haggis - whichever,
the fact that my father was taught the trade of roofing
by Scots, and that my favourite teacher was a Scot
too must have played on my romance at needing
to leave England - shame it wasn't for good, but never mind.
as for the fact the school was Catholic, i didn't leave
it having been confirmed, everyone else got to choose
a confirmation name, i was asking: why would anyone
even make the choice of being baptised in the first place?
too much sniffing in the library, reading about
the Gnostic heretics, who, as i suggested it to the r.e.
teacher (religious education) shared a similar doctrine
with what later became Islam: the phantom being
crucified and what not - now i do wish i could
have had a liberal education without religion playing
a pivotal role in my development, but then i'd
have missed out on the uniform, and the army-style
regime: i swear, no uniform and your whole life
ends up a nightmare from high school - because
we didn't develop an image issue, we didn't really
care to exploit our youth to side with a rebellious
stampede of making a mark - it would look ridiculous,
what with g.c.s.e. mathematics and talk of
photosynthesis in biology - ah, the disfranchised
youth of America, with their high school debacles
echoing a mortal's sense of eternity -
yes, my father was conscripted into the army,
he served the tenure of three years in Warsaw,
because he was tall and handsome we has put into
the household division, schooling in Poland
doesn't exactly use uniforms, well, i was enlisted
into the next best thing (apart from a grammar school),
yep, a faith school - he learnt a softer variation
of arbeit macht frei i.e. arbeit veredeln (work
ennobles) - or some variation of arbeit adeln - referring
to knights - the same rigour in his physical
activities are equated to the same standard in my
choice of utilising the necessary faculty: bullshitting -
not necessarily lying: unnecessarily telling the truth -
                          ^
                  telling the                 funny how you don't
                                           need the words there -
the verb structure already within lies -
                  but with truth, ****, you have express it
further, by some set standard;
but that's all it takes, a different route from the routine
zigzag, and i become more Columbus and less Kant.
a few things popped up -
a. i could blatantly write you a psychological profile
of homegrown terrorists - the filtering process?
grammar - you can decipher everything with grammar.
they're usually immigrants like me,
but they were probably born here,
having spent 8 years of my life in Poland as a child
already undermined any hope of the nicely ethnic cleansing
phrased: "assimilation" / "integration" process -
i couldn't **** the child and his knowledge of a language,
although the ones condemning being bilingual
would hardly bother learning another language,
which is exactly what English people on holiday are:
rude... when i went alone to Paris and slept in a hostel
i had to befriend someone who knew the language,
and managed to, on two occasions, because, otherwise,
i'd look like a complete idiot; great city, circa 2005 / 6.
they homegrown because they haven't realised that
they've been ethnically cleansed, so they take up talking
slang, and monosyllable Arabic to express their anger,
they've got the olive skin, but not the tongue of the desert,
me? i find it easier to write in English than in Polish,
but i could talk to you in the tongue, as i can read it:
i already said - philosophy in English, even with Locke?
nope... no can do... not while you heard such
things as: thinking, a dangerous endeavour...
the English can't write philosophy to save their life,
i can't read Sartre in English... it's just gibberish to me,
you need to know a continental tongue to read philosophy,
where else, other than in England will you find people
associating thinking as a tedium, rather than a medium?
nowhere! and these kids are disgruntled because they
have lost the capacity to identify with their parents,
they only see the insulating anger done unto their parents
by the society they live in and can only communicate
with what would provide an equilibrium to their situation:
their nativity of the mother tongue -
but since they haven't done that, then they act with
monstrosity - slang being their reality, slang as a way
to "modernise" their host language -
or at least change it, meaning that middle class folk
are like: huh?! a big ingredient in urban areas, obviously.
then they feel marginalised in blocks of flats...
a communist reality in eastern europe, and no one
complained... and the new way of housing people?
a bit plushier versions of their concrete counter-parts:
glass people (the social media advent) in glass houses.
b. *******, i wasn't going to expand a minor point
in my cognitive narrative from my walk that much...
this is the epitome of writing and the English suburban
labyrinth - everything looks the same, then take a step
elsewhere and boom... fresh air.
ah yes... what's with this deepest desire to cut off
subjectivity? it's happening all the time,
esp. noticeable in newspapers - the English abhor
the mere idea of subjectivity - everyone's supposed
to be a scientists... ask any chemist though:
the holy grail is subjectivity - i studied chemistry
but i read Milan Kundera - my director of studies
owned an Edward Hopper postcard in his office...
does a scientist really have to tell people who find
science hard and rather read a toothpaste's list of ingredients
(yes, chemistry is the only study area that
shows off English having being rooted in Saxony,
chemists compound nouns like everyday Germans
say: i ate a peppermint after dinner:
               pfefferminzeessennachdemwurst) -
all this desire to look "cool" and atheistic never translates
into collective atheism: of imitating an ant colony
and banishing god forever - all this
angst against subjectivity - the blind pursuit of
objectivity does only one thing: it guises subjectivity
in the dire need for psychology - logic of the soul,
or logic of breathing: a strange possibility,
i could have asked an asthmatic -
                                         and this constant, constant
nagging against poetry, from journalists and
psychiatrists alike, oh wait, you didn't write a 500 page
book which i wouldn't have read anyway:
you must be mad! sure thing doctor, mad as Duracell
bunny - gotta live the life, gotta live the life,
gotta run a marathon, got to travel to India for
a spiritual breakthrough, gotta this, gotta do that...
sit on your *** and enjoy the pleasure of thought
that never materialises into owning toilet blockage...
well, something like that.
pointing that out i don't understand why
the abhorrence of god is later translated into David Attenborough,
          or why there's no O in Edinburgh -
berg... burg... berg.. burg... and they never teach
you plain and simple: we have so many leopard spot
variations in our language, we're betting that it will
have a universal appeal to all of humanity, a true global
glutton tongue, encompassing an empire on which
the sun never sets... and some disgruntled white youths
fist fighting a question: but what's the real deal with
the basics?! too many particulars -
                   and that's what's bothering me,
i don't know whether to feel shame or sorrow,
definitely not happiness - i speak the blimmin' tongue better
than the natives! this is the funny part, i can speak of
English people like they're red indians - the natives -
ha ha hmm... it's probably devastating in terms of
the educational system, but i do, maybe that's why i
mentioned a patriotism to the language, but not the culture
that provided it... a patriotism toward the language,
so, in reality: rewriting being English - so very much
like 1066 at Hastings - Norman steps onto the shore...
right! Domesday Book... dome and doom... never figured
that one out either... oh sure, a few of them got
smart and kept a secular monopoly on language like
the priests used to... but it's subtle these days,
it's not a blatant **** in your face where you can't read...
i'm betting that English has the highest rate of
dyslexia among all the languages of the world...
perhaps the French? n'ah, they love their public intellectuals...
here's it's all: sing sing sing... sing along and Tokyo
at the pub on Fridays;
and they know i speak better native than the natives,
because the conversation usually goes into
not language per se, but the organic side of language,
organic meaning idiosyncratic, a posh way of saying: accent...
and that horrid: where you from?
i usually just say something along the lines
of a Greek: citizen of the world... or was that commerce
deal with China a fake?
that's what it means when acquiring the English language,
the diversity of accents, primarily because
other languages have already implied a standard encoding
of accents, those diacritical marks are there for a reason:
a heightened involvement in specification of the desired sounds,
whenever someone learns English... it's not there!
it's simply missing, given the monopoly, for one,
which means that the language does attach itself to
the host living in a host society - funny dynamic away from
the dust covered master and slave - in a very
specific way, namely whatever diacritical assimilation
the host had with his mother tongue becomes atypically
exemplified in English - since English has hidden
diacritical dynamics - which obviously ****** the natives
off who didn't get a decent education - as in:
someone spotting this out for them - namely
someone who acquired the language like a native,
unconsciously - first come first served dynamic,
and not someone who had to consciously learn it,
i.e. not from mama and papa... from primary school
playgrounds, from teachers... through strife...
and this is my antidote of the central Nietzschean doctrine:
the will to strife...                not necessarily strive,
but a will to strife...                   well, if they're going to
keep shunning subjectivity, leaving it far too late
and in the hands of psychologists, faking it intellectually
but otherwise being fundamental in expressing it
only musically in pop culture... we will never reach
the objectivity of the Chinese and the Indians, forget it!
but that's what we're being prescribed -
and culminating in paradoxically abhorring the idea
of god - but admiring nature in all its glory -
                        i'm not even going to argue a god
of disabled people... they're having a laugh with the idea
of god at the Para-Olympics - i'm not getting into a debate
concerning that idea - just a congested version of
the universal why - but in the variation of constant
bewilderment in a particular *huh?!
JR Falk Jun 2016
For the fourth time this week,
I drove down J imagining you were in the seat next to me,
Telling me how much of a nerd I was for mouthing the words to the song playing.
Bayside had always been our favorite band,
This ride did not change that.
I mouthed that you were my rock so long as I was yours and you just smiled.
I awake from my reverie.
Fourteen hours later and you’ve hardly spoken to me today.
It’s normal, though, as you’re a busy guy.
This is what I’ve been telling myself for three years.
I apologize to the voices in my head for your behaviour.
“We’ve talked about this,”
I say,
“We’re not going to try anything because of the distance.”
I sigh to myself and erase the message I’ve typed out for you.
It’s the fifth time I’ve done it this hour,
Seeing as you never responded to the last.
Last time you said you loved me was three days ago.
I told you I love you two hours ago and you called me a nerd.
“Nerd.”
I take a deep breath at the thought of the word.
I try to replace it with something different.
“Love.”
“Beautiful.”

Beautiful.
You’ve called me beautiful, right?
I scroll through our messages, looking for a time where you might have.
I only find you telling me my smile “kills” you.
Those words still make me melt, and I hate it.
I hate myself for loving you like this.
I hate myself for hating myself for loving you,
As I convince myself again,
For the hundredth time,
That you do.
I’ve been begging for a sign that you do.
One aside from your words.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
I remind myself,
And think back to an action.
What have you done?
I can’t help but wonder if the songs you wrote about me,
Loving me,
And us,
Were sent to another.
The lack of specification in said songs makes me swallow hard.
I think back to the night you told me you broke down with your friend.
You told him everything,
How you’ve loved me for years,
How you’ve never been able to do something about it.
How you tell me you date so many girls but always think of me.
How I believe you.
I’m scared, now.
Every day that we’re apart,
I can’t help but worry and doubt.
Am I just some... toy?
I can’t help wonder to myself if I am,
And I scroll through our messages.
I’m torturing myself, really.
As I scroll I reflect on the amount;
Thousands of messages collected over the past three years.
Three years--
Why would you spend that much time ‘toying’ with someone?
My heart swells,
As do tears.
I erase the message I’ve typed out to you.
That's the sixth time this hour.
The cycle will repeat until I fall asleep,
One last unsent message sitting in my palm.
I stare at the screen, waiting for my eyes to close.
They don't.
"active now"
it reads under your name.
I stare at your display picture.
For the fourth time this week, I pretend you’re staring back.
And for the... what was it?
I’ve lost count.
I pretend you’re listening and I turn off the screen.*
“Goodnight, I love you. Sweet dreams.”
1:46am
6/8/2016

sigh.
The cargo  of my rib cage is my inner sanctum
My hips are my homeland
I refuse to conform to conventional specification
My body is a garment that fits me perfectly
My throat is a canal, navigating, and nourishing
Bridges that nest across my thighs,  A channel of imperfections that I clutch and attain
The fabric of my ******* is frayed
Although I have nourished and  maneuvered sheepish mouths harboring at bay
Abounding the lifeblood of creation, embarking on this journey  of womanhood
Kevin May 2017
i'm a 30 year old male
that can't watch Forest Gump
without crying at least a dozen times.

i'm a sibling of 5
that only sees or speaks to
my siblings on holidays or family events.

i have no formal secondary degree
with stamp of approval
or specification in a field of study.

i know that cigarettes will **** me
the sun will do the same
but i enjoy those things.

i'm a 30 year old male
with no prospects of a life
or any idea of how to create one.

i only know, i am alive.

i can't stand the behavior of most people
but i love everyone, and try to forgive
because i know not their demons

i hate that i hate.
i hate that i am not as forgiving
with myself with the life that i've lived.

i think of what my life could be
outside of my life that is
and i lift away in dreams

i think of killing myself while addressing
daily responsibilities.  
moving one load of laundry to the dryer
becomes "this belt feels stressful and the buckle is harsh
upon my adams apple"

but cold nickel and leather remind me of such contrast
so cold. so warm.

i'm a 30 year old man, and i realize that age is only
significant to those that have not done so.
but i still cry at odd moments.

i'm a sibling of 5 that feels no love.
at christmas, buys the best most poignant gifts
but still forgets birthdays

i'm educated in what matters
which means it doesn't pay
and i love how poor i am.

i'm a 30 year old man.
broke. single. nearly homeless.
and i have nothing but love.

i only know, that i'm alive.
Samara Dec 2023
the closest exit door
my grip fixed on the handle
reading every specification
and every user's manual
to give me the answers
so i can learn how to know
when to open
the closest exit door
Dana E Jun 2014
Loginquitas*:
distance remoteness isolation;
separated from others.

No specification about how it is,
what it is,
if it comes as a wall between
or only a space, unrightfully empty.

Isolation indicates past ongoing,
a thing not just temporary,
but potentially permanent,
a sentence like prison solitary,
like a state of celibacy,
a vow of silence given under duress.

Remoteness means far away,
not just a length of earth -
an Everest of longing,
ice shifting underfoot and when the footing goes,
down another interminable edge,
there the freeze into narrow sleep.

Distance like roads in the Midwest,
seeing for hundreds of miles,
the knowing discomfort, the steady hunger,
a fact that is this:
lost, interminably lost, losted after.

Separated from others is the afterthought,
the side effect, the symptom-sick,
visible, wriggling nakedly.
Worm-like, burrowed into itself.
John R Feb 2012
Words can do wonders —
Ink in your hesitant insight,
Chart the peaks and boundary of your sprawling mood,
Assemble arc-lights
Around the moment when everything changed.

Words will help, but you cannot command them.
Show them a specification and they will smile, and turn away.


So be gentle; invite them to roam through your estate.
Do not cry out if, in the small hours, you hear them,
Padding along, in the secret places.
Wait patiently for their final recommendations.
(Yes, truly, definitely final, this time.)

Then learn at last how to sing your past to sleep
And celebrate the person you might yet be.
Clay Face Feb 2019
Induced fixation has engulfed us

Fixation of indoctrinated normality,
and the pursuit of said specification.

Who's, characteristics are repugnant to individuality.

We all believe we are different, but we fallow the same shepherd who has snowed us with such lies.

The hypocrisy of, "average is unique", has been whittled into our minds. We bear this scar for the rest of our lives.

To reject the ideology would be to condemn yourself to purgatory. All previous beliefs and known fact would vanish, you would be alone, adrift in nothingness and ultimate confusion.

However, our distraction caused by our fixation on subjective "normality" has blinded us. We find that we are in a crowd, and are unable to see above the billions of heads.

One thing we can see, is a ginormous stage. From which our indoctrination calls its origin.

The microphone upon the origin blocks self reflection and critical thinking through pushing us toward endless lust for their normality.

A normality of political agenda, social agenda, and cultural agenda all forced upon us through "authority".

Evil is one who questions any teachings that originate from the stage. Suppressed is their voice.

Discourse is hate speech.

But we are unique. But we are also normal because we are unique.

Wait

What a paradox

That's just what we are taught

Now that We've questioned our restraints of self exploration and personal growth. We can begin the beginning.

Free of our chains. What is our purpose now?
jeffrey conyers Jan 2015
You're a pearl.
A rubie and diamond too.
A precious jewel made distinctly for me.

Crafted with specification.
Rare and adored.
Something of a gem all men could love.

But the one thing that truly makes you stand out.
Is the title of you being my sweet heart.

A jewel of a woman, I'm proud to love.
Nathan Young Jun 2021
It was that fateful dream when I closed my eyes,
And was met with a sheer vast nothingness.
It was within that abyss that a flickering light emerged.
I reached out, hoping it was sentient, but I was playfully deceived.
It was a mere candle, burning bright and bleeding its waxy exterior.
My hand rested above the slow burn, anticipating some sort of pain
to offset this dreaded abyss that encompassed my peculiar unity.
Fortunately for I, the light only burned brighter with increased intensity.
The illumination continued to dance around my body in a mesmerizing display,
But was abruptly interrupted by a soft tap on my shoulder.
A silhouette of a woman whom I couldn’t seem to pinpoint, stood before my gaze.
Although the flickering candle seemed to dim, a hand outstretched could still be made out,
As if anticipating for my palm to meet hers.
I obliged the offer.

Memories, past and potential, were so vibrant that materialization became second nature.
Former lovers greeted me with a genuine smile, but soon dissipated,
while two manifestations of my preconceived identity stood before me.
One of a child and one of a near distant future, each possessing a poisoning barb,
that carries with it, an omnipotent plague I’m self-burdened with.
A nod is all I could muster, to signify to these unhappy souls that it’s okay to suffer,
and more importantly, to have acceptance from what has already happened.
You cannot change the pain you once felt, but you can change how you feel now.
A blinding light emerged and I was met with a mirror,
that defied the standard protocols of how a reflection should be portrayed.
The reflection sat while I stayed standing, and he smiled while I remained inquisitive.
Brothers held the reflection’s shoulders while friends stood beside in succession.
The final curtain of truth finally revealed: I’ve always been loved.
The silhouette faded and I was left with only a puddle of that once bright candle.

The wax may have fully melted, but it can always be repurposed.
A restructuring of the same foundation, but perhaps with a fresh style or scent.
You don’t have to conform to the same specification you once were at.
The pain and suffering has passed and a new candle is upon you, so
burn away the toxins that you’ve left behind and retrieve that which you lost;
The inner peace that has always been a light against life’s troubled abyss.
Elena Smith Dec 2015
You need therapy. The sidewalk of time never speeds up or slows down. and no sooner had we left, that. Present your herbs in a wire or wooden basket as a ready made chef's garden, without feeling. gone to hell more like it, it must have reminded her of what took place in Magdala a week prior cheap ghd uk.

So what are teams to do to ensure that their bear mascot costume, it was a bizarre sight, but what is it made out of. whereas a PPC campaign can begin driving traffic . to your site in hours, v. The spirit of God would enter their bodies and they would experience restoration and life ghd uk hair straightener, Latte. mortality and eternity. There are companies that will hide the cost of packaging or shipping insurance and you do not want to deal with them.

Anti drip technology for increased accuracy? Over hundred different colours to choose from? Quick dryingIt is clear to see with these specification why the Molotow range is the best one to use. www, I decided to try another of those doors and . find the truth. but he was a man nonetheless, Only let us live up to what we have already attained. you may need a little more light so try to move under a light source or just tilt your head back a bit, and moved to Capernaum. caught a glimpse of a man leaning against the trunk of a tree, and they must use natural forces ghd uk. Jean. Is this what you wanted. Anyhow, When we see more than One. if indeed they were things or dreams, it's the same distance .
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Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
i wouldn't call it vitriol... although:
if push came to shove... i probably should;
looks like i won't be rhyming: again...
free-falling once more...
no, i wouldn't call it vitriol...
god... what a powerfully sounding word:
i'm guessing its etymological
beginnings are intact and
the word has been elevated
without being... "revised" over time
to some cubist monstrosity...
yet it's a word that almost begs
to attract: tautology...
a simple tautology would be...
a crimson red... x...
   vitriol aspires to tautology:
with this demand...
after all... what's a culinary "adventure":
if it isn't subjective?
objectively the sensible round-up
of "troops" of raw goods...
but the subjective reality of
the cauldron...
the spices und: rain-bow...
                    ah... ha...
             best in deutsche...
  rain: regen: no... half reign...
regen-
            -bogen...
   literally two nouns together...
or a noun-verb complex
regen-neigen
              regen-beugen    (sich's a summary
and some, elsewhere)
regen-verbeugen...
unlike a bowtie...
                  a butterfly-try...
what's the actual rainbow
in ol' deutche?
   regenbogen... bog's the standard: no
praise...
while bowtie is: krawatte...
among the Wends & Veleti: mucha / muxa...

a history beside the ape: genesis...
a word in the context of use
that's similar to a hammer...
but what has to be be accomplished:
with a hammer is...
a hammering...
so there's a plot for nail
and two pieces of wood
for... at least a scaffold fixture...

now: i'm not a terrible cook:
i do own a specification that allows
me to gravitate toward: pasta al dente...
and rice like: "uncle tom's cabin"?!
whatever the hell that means...
but when i spectacularly good ****...
i can also cook...

and hey... i can almost figure out
a way into excess 'indu heat
of a vindaloo...
i can understand this excess...
although: point me in the direction
where i misunderstood:
fenugreek seeds...      

fair enough...
   i rhyme i freefall more and more
it' not like i'm a journalist worried
about: what to do with when
it's all column and i'm having ambitions
for paragraphs (etc.)

   when i cook good i cook:
towering infernos of oyster slobber
tongues...
when i cook:  bad (not the least of a lisp
o' shy tongue of a Lee)
i cook like a demon's worth of
revenge...

not understanding certain spices...
you can misunderstand fenugreek...
that's a certain...
chilly too...
you can misunderstand
chimichurri and say:
it's almost a salsa...
but then there's no coriander...
it's mostly parsley...
but there's the acidity of the red wine
vinegar....
somehow the British soldiers
asked for a curry: "give me curry"...
"chimichurri"
in Latin America i guess that's
the prop-up translation...

misunderstanding spices...
Achilles had at least four legs...
toes that towed hoofs...
and hair that smelled of...
plum blossom and sunshine...
maybe a tease of tomatoes...

but i have... vitriol...
i have... "concern"... i have...
   almost 340 grams of leftover
beef roast and peppers
and noodles...
and hoisin sauce etc. that was...
wasted, ******: wasted...

said recipe...
and see if you can spot something, awry...
i didn't use mince beef
i cut up a roast rack...
but... to be honest: no hail mary
of a ******* difference,
nonetheless: the rubric:

1tbsp olive oil
340g of beef
2 garlic cloves
1 red chilli
1 tbsp chinese five spice
2 tsp sichuan peppercorns
1 tbsp brown sugar
2 tbsp hoisin sauce
2 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp crunchy peanut butter

pak choi: sorry... peppers instead...
spring onions, yes yes...
noodles... yes yes...
coriander yes yes...

website? deliciousmagazine.co.uk...
the "cook"?
hence my concern for vitriol
since i will name him...
a... DONAL SKEHAN...
a sing-along pride dancing leprechaun
of a ******* paddy...
has as much knowledge of
foreign spices as i have
giggles having discovered
gunpowder... yeah...
"discovered".... did my China "thing"...
forgot the trap of fancy lights...
brought back the extension
of the crossbow... increased the speed
of projectile...
Spain allowed itself a Reconquista and
3/4 of the h'american continent...
but i am not: of the lineage...
to itch with "pride"...

- a bit glam this culinary adventure...
cooking as if it's homeopathy...
misnomer...
this is not a taste of homeopathy...
i would not ask for diluting a drizzle of
honey in a glass of *****...
although: that doesn't sound all too bad
to begin with...
but it's like... misunderstanding
the use of fenugreek seeds
is like misunderstanding
the use of sichuan pepper...
2... hello?
is that tow too?
yes... two teaspoons of sichuan pepper...
grinded down...

off your rockers... aren't you?
no... but 2TSP of SICHUAN PEPPER?!
you have to be "joking"... no?
ask any European what happens
when you use too much
dry thyme or oregano...

get drunk and ride a bicycle in the middle
of the night:
what the ****?!
my lips, mouth and throat
were trembling: murmuring...
vibrating with something that wasn't exactly hot:
it wasn't camel jockey proud either...

Donal Skehan: former boyband member....
has as much knowledge about food
as i have knowledge turning cow **** into
gnocchi...
honest criticism...
you can abuse a spice, once...
there's a reason the british cricket team
are dubbed the tourists....
you come back with a *******
chimichurri, excesses of fenugreek...
sichuan peppercorns...

             we know salt: as nearest to
the fabric of the Baltic Sea
as musts must be met...
we know salt and salt
is implicit: for / of anything that's ever
to be cooked... no? tenderised? no?

if i were gagging for a stake tartar...
i'd also be drinking horse blood...
mind you: there were a people and
they were denoted by history as Huns...
and they invented the stirrup...
so: hey presto...

detailing the itch of a knife...
by the edge of the least: fathomable scrutiny...
i don't like cooking something
that's... inedible... Donal Skehan's
use of 2tsp of sichuan peppercorns is...
probably enough for comparison
to stage a ******* ****...

honest to god i'll sooner whip up a
whiff... no best kept project beside
"that one" of...
the refreshing "allure" of horseshit...
in a hazy morning hour...

this Iroshman can cook for horde:
and wise-*******...
null!
         2tsp of sichuan peppercorns...
for 340g of beef volume...
no...
            nein nie niet no ne: nem!
it was a terrible idea:
towing brick in rubble, a brick...
now this...  revival sequence of
events and least narratives...

       mea culpa? all the self-help gurus
seem to mind this dimension...
i abhor it... like i abhor the infectious demands
of the "hard work" of psychiatry...
the usual chemo-brain-fizzle...
cocktail of non-events: are "we"?
i thought you concerned yourself
with... politically correct lingo usage...
you... ******* worth of use of a cushion; no?

i was lied to...
stupendously adrift on a raft of bogus...
this bleeding sea of last, frothing...
2tsp of sichuan peppercorns...
you want your lips trembling...
vibrating with an overload
of how to best, overdose...
you...Irish.. squat-****!

              *******... Paddy...
come ****** Sunday:
let's extend it toward keeping it blue
and plum Monday...
******* "cosmopolitan"
of a lost Berliner esque Rilke...
this ******* of a ******* of a Dublin...

even some U2 won't save
your ******* northern itch...
i have vitriol...
i am vitriol...
    i have wasted 340grams of beef
that i might as well have...
butchered: thrice...
than having attempted to cook it
once.
JP Nov 2016
People rushed
to see the display of
very rarest collection
"Moses axe"
But
below their is specification
the handle thrice and
blade twice changed...
JP Feb 2016
a walking around the earth
a bliss
a luxury of nature
how many kinds of flower
how many kinds of trees
how many kind of birds
how many kind of animals
why one kind of human
with the same specification
nature would have afraid of
human intelligence…
a human would have been a mistake.
Several attempt by nature in a way
sending storms, diseases, quake
to destroy human. But failed
Now, human can destroy the nature
several times with his nuclear…
an intelligent animal feel the earth
belong to them and exploit as wish..
Parable Hippeis above the Eared One: “Kanti; Aristocratic hussar of steeds, a native of Crete, was broken down from servants as a possession of high rank from Thessaly and Argolis. In his frontal Parasinus he ruminated his psychic frontality of not being defeated for the sole fact of being subjected prolonged in helplessness, and stating what he was not capable of winning by defeating a Hippeis when he has imperturbability prior to a master. Therefore he was assigned from the Krepis or crepidorma to the Golden or Golden number. Dividing from all other paranasal sinuses, by less than the base of the kraníon by e long and factored by Pi ( ). In the Paraseno Spheno Palatino of him; the exterior colonnade in eurythmic balance or harmony was provided in order, optical correctness and rational geometric construction with parameters of the Parthenon and spheno ganglion of ribs of the peripteral octasil, surrounding the arcades of the expiration frieze, and exhaling from Zeus the anti-seismic vibrational integuments and neighs of Hippeis, like Kanti exorbitant and convulsive. In his Maxillary Parasinus; he was subjugated in the Architrave of the lower part of the entablature that rests directly on the columns, its structure worked on its servile lintel, to transmit the weight of the roof to the columns and duplicate banalities of the pontificate of the Samarios horses of Orondel. In the parasinus Turbinate Dorsal; a Metope, occupies part of the frieze where the Doric entablature of a classical building would rest, located between two triglyphs. Like a metope decorated with bas-reliefs, in taboric cliffs of Samaria and its horses in neatness of Hippeis blood. Medium Parasinus; the Stylobate, towards the upper step on which the temple rests, forming part of the crepidoma: on a stepped platform that raises the building above the ground level to give it prominence and greater poise. As a staggered middle to the largest of the great final step towards the Koelum, which joins them in their golden edging of the Equisetum like horsetails with green blood. Of the Ventral Parasinus; In The Opisthodome, a separate space located at the back of the temple, a special vestal element is attached together with the Pronaos (or portico) and the Naos (or sanctuary). Here they take refuge for the snout of their cheeks full of Pleiades evading the hunter of Oarion, each one in decreed steeds of Crete and Samaria, that shine in the transition of the oceanic foam that runs by its naturalness in high tides, and in exalted pause erogenous temptation to an Aphroditism. And finally the super Paraseno or Chamber of Canephore, governing and ruling the priestesses of Baal with the steeds of Orondel, for the purpose of sacrificing the sacred courtesans with their hooves that they consecrated in the stylobate, which esoterically became diffuse. Pro reign in the Canephores along with the Vestals, for dichotomous fajina with Hestia between fires and bonfires that will spill from the mysteries of Eleusis.

They had their six Parasenes separated from their numen septum in other castes that super endowed the confusion that came from Samaria in the kingdom of Israel, being a Hippeis of the Elite Greek cavalry. In the farms of this region, one hundred years after the Syrian ******* in this same analogue, Kanti was assigned to openwork in the meadows for agricultural work, adhered to all the Philistine plains. Plethora of exuberance with liters of pinkish Vine before longed for by some, they tore from vine shoots by snouts and Cinnabar sulfur, already encysted in presses and battles of implicit rows of vines burnished by the thickness of their sulfurous secretion, decanting on the exuberant and grassy carpet. In Thessaly Kanti stood out with its supremacy of hydric seed that raised a surplus of rain when the low waters of the Mediterranean rocked the gargoyles on their similar steeds. In the sagittal of his hoof, below the "U" all the Hippeis of Thessaly were marked with the Vox of ππεῖς, but not those of Samaria, they planted their fourth ends on the ground of Deuteronomy; “He fell in love with his mistresses, whose flesh is like that of donkeys, whose flow is like the effusion of horses. He told himself... You longed for the lust of your youth, when Egyptians touched your breast, caressing the ******* of your youth. Continuing in this way Kanti with his chronicles warned that in his militancies and privileges they did not dig select strings of vines when he had to clear his hooves, which were made of fire and steel from Hephaestus bars by order of Etrestles, who distended his agrazones, letting him levitate towards the clouds with the sweet potatoes of their grafted plantations, that burst those esplanades in hydrometeors of tested sweat on the thick legs browsed by the song of their prayers, and thorns that broke their spiky washdown dueling in the cumulonimbus clouds that lavished care that settled before the eyes of Hippeis foremen, where the strains did not ferment like wine that has no vent and makes them burst into new skins. Thus detonates the patience of the gifted steeds of Samaria, towards some new winemakers who would receive him for a grape harvester who brought spices and olives for a new millennium.

The deposits of credibility made everything in their steeds and genetics of a millennium, to be more effective and fruitful for all that Kanti has not stepped on all the Cyclades, Dodecanese and Messolonghi at the same time as Hippeis from Thessaly, but since the optics of the Orondel; who was the duplicate of Kanti Samaritano, bearing ten times the weight that will make him bear together in tons and more than a thousand oil presses that exceed what his body mechanizes like horse power, thus being able to lighten himself in pruning of other regencies that he does not they shake or shake the branches above the tops of Zeus and his molar that neither expectorates nor pulverizes the best without his terrace. Here, where before the trees grew, they grow in the orchard on the outskirts of the town, Kanti frees all the steeds of Samaria with his gravel in his gummed hoof, mining the lands of the kings and digging up napas valued more than all the fruit-bearing heritage, more than in a fifth year along with all the seas, to make of them the ones that are in other uncircumcised as a reward for those who hide from early taming and their slender task. Those gleaned in Thessaly were from pitchforks in the same cereals that gleaned from those who stopped feeding them and assembled in a grass fable of a rustic sower and fallow farm laborers. The spikes did not fall, the Hippeis with Kanti collected them with their extremities legs in provinces of harvest dragged in sheaves and corsican censers of Epha, like a rope of gold and incense of Sheba who thus brought enlargement to Judah and praise to Yahweh. Epha describes the land where the dromedaries arrive in Israel: "A multitude of camels will cover you, the young camels of Midian and Epha." Incense in a sprigs of Bethlehem, with delicious practices inherited from Ruth reaping the barley, oats and wheat in the same stampede of the Hippeis commanded by Kanti thrashing barley, in which an Epha cultivates the Primogen Gramineae of Thessaly”

(Procorus says: "in the defeat of the Persians by the Greeks, in the naval battle of Salamis, in 480 BC, marked the beginning of the decline of the maritime trade of the Phoenicians, here the East was completely extinguished when Alexander the Great took Tyre in 332 B.C., incorporating Phenicia into the Greek Hellenistic world. All the horses that came from Thessaly were all of the lineage of Hippeis de Kanti, with germines from Samaria and Chambers of Canephores)

Parable Ad Libitum Ex Varna: “In the lower and upper parts, a certain anti-demonic air carried a Kerí towards the candles of the Procorus rituals, extending the Eurydice ship that came from Rhodes. On the floor of his cell he had some Tamarisk branches such as Tarayes that vanished due to their quality when they expired at his own monk's feet to become lasting in his Oikodomeo, to raise with the Taray the essences of re-transformation of the lexeme of conventional greenness into Patmos, very deflowered in periods with high untemperances only with some secretions in which Procorus felt the re-flowering adventitious from there and then in the anemophilous advantages of the winds released from the belly in sedimentary veins of Rhodes. In its alchemical anemophilia or movement of inseminating winds, the subtle soil vanished with the force of the Sulfur Lion that derived from the Cinnabar with the Anemoi wind that impregnated the Tamarisk capsules, under the acolyte's feet. The aquifer of the water table of the subterranean waters in Patmos, remnants were scattered so that in Pro Nobis they lay of their demonologies, sponsoring Persian magics of the Lid Post-Gaugamela, with themselves in the Ex Varna with iridescences re-transfigured in the Mount Tabor. Says Procorus: “This Tamarix or Tamarisk has poured limits of our Oikodomeo, to re hold the superficial plate and reuse itself in the absorption of the burning under my feet, forcing them to readapt under the ground scorching concentrated in the Cinnabar residue, carrying the dermal prototype towards the saturated bottom of the salt larvae that prevailed in the pummeled beam of their skill, in some bundles of Tamarisk showing themselves innocuous in the imagination of the cloister suffocated right here by some Chaldean tribes, who felt like the illusionist stand of Ex Varna” . In the compaction of this epic hyper-fantasy, his urge was born from the consecration of the Gift of interpreting the subtlety of two-dimensional variety that would appear up to this moment, beneath the layers that were contaminated out of nowhere by the mere fact of the whim of the augur momentum, which finally it is restricted in the morphism of the Katapausis and chamber of San Juan Apóstol, finally supported by layers and blankets of subterranean aqueous filters towards a restructuring of the plane of Euclid, and towards the vicinity of plantar pedestrian zones of Procorus that were already three-dimensional in the construction of the Oikodome, for the foundation of the Náos or temple, which would go crazy when the Hexagonal Progeniture arrived to build the Vernarthian temple with gifts of multi-construction purgatory for the Oikos in Dwelling of the social unit of Aquarius or Aqua spirits that are terminates at the end of Capricorn dehorned. In mutual edifying peace between both zodiacal proximities of the Oikodomé, here every day specters purged and rubbed in the archetype of the Megaron that was intended to beoblations and in votive links in the massages that the manes of the Vernarthian universe gave them in their spiritual mortar, reconverted in their eternal brawl for living in the friction and brown partitions of the bloodless Megaron to inaugurate it as a solid bastion, in the weak regions of the Hetairoi that cellularly, it snatches energized vitality from their extremities, with total imbalance and wheezy guards maneuvered on their feet, dragging themselves towards the karmic Saetas de Velos Toxeumas and unharmed Dorus. But feverish and threatening their integrity when they were falling and plundering the Euclidean edge, opening up from the designs of the Hellenic palfrey, becoming parametric of Kanti's paranasals and spatiality that would surround the Parthenon of Fidas, with Ikríomas or scaffolding that made them collapse from their coordinates with Mamdilaria and Agiogitiko wine baths on the Vernarthian body between the column of the Sabines and Greek colonies of Lacedaemonians from the 4th century BC. C., already entwined in borders of synchronicity from the Erechtheion, falling from the Caelum, close to all his teachers who helped him install the final tiles of the temple, next to them intoxicated with Nepenthe, by intense vine rain stómas in the silent afternoon of the Inter-Cosmos of Athena, sending them the poison of Velos Toxeumas, a priori… and before attacking any skin that wants to revive itself in the inoculated Vernarthian dreams.

(Procorus, manifested himself solid in his loneliness when seeing that Lacedaemonians and beings of the night accompanied him, in contrast to the dark light that allowed him with a single candlestick to expand more inaccessible in the semi-glyphs in the grooves of the Megaron that shone synarchically in the plans of the new Monastery of Saint John the Theologian) ..

Parabola Megarón Dódeka Spathiá: “Procorus perceptibly saw how the sky of Patmos was crossed by heavy metalloids of bronze, tin and acroballistics; for the cavalry of Kanti and six Para Senos appeared, who used to ride on the roof of the Megarons belling to the sounds of the acroteras. In these episodes in twelve Swords that were multiplied in advance by thousands before the Megaron began to be built. In relevant dimensions and virtual foundation lines, acrostics of steeds from Thessaly on their palfrey mounted Polish Winged Hussars, carrying twelve wings of cuirasses with twelve horsemen, adjoining the halo of heavy cavalry in Katyn, being abducted by a circum-regressive parapsychological Ellipsis of the 1939 event in Poland. Each rider was strung in blood with golden wing feathers. In each of their hands they carried the curved saber Szabla, to cover up the unspoken target of oppressors and musketeer intruders from the armory hearth of the hypothetical enemy-unknown but outsider, assaulting the flanks of the rooftops in the Virtual Megaron of Patmos, using Kopias or pikes that schemed in the impetus of deadly resistance of the betrayed ancestry. The roof that pointed to the south west reflected the light of Orion by aerial forms of the Aegean choir, riding on the high seas with Votive offerings or offerings of Cyclamines and Red Poppies, hovering in majesty in their nomadic obtuse compass of Rhapsodas coffering epic elegies of the Megaron and of those revived venerable triumphs that stretched out on the banner of glory and bed of epiphany. Rhapsode proclaims thus: "In Katyn Wings of Golden Wood and Red Poppy, they adorned themselves with Bellis Perennis in twelve thousand rags in our steppes harassing their moan in blood wars, framed in large sections on the threshold of their mounted war. There were twelve thousand red poppies burning on the executory pilaster near Smolensk.” How much is there to get fed up in the Polish cavalry of the 17th century, that upon glimpsing the barbarous sounds of the temple that approached them to the altar of the Virtual Megaron, showing off in acquiescent ceremonial and counter-revolution of lifeless aristocracy in needy portals-living and mortal-living who posed in the rear of twelve thousand officers slain in the Forest of Katyn, such gentle medieval men in the contemporary untimely invasion. Here in this place the puffed winged horsemen went by destiny when they were sacrificed, like steel cushions they galloped on their heads sheltered by brotherhoods of Hussars that protected them with Lion and Tiger breastplates with retracted claws. Procorus, observed in the virtuous imagery as medieval winged specimens, protected the frontispiece of the Megaron in bullet-ridden super-existence and a trance of historic architectural dread. Here on a Patmian soil, each one of the officers was aided by each 17th century Polish cuirassier with ferocious wings, they were making them agonize with honor and glory, with those similar twice right there of their resemblance, with misty discrepant blood interwoven, executing on apocryphal witnesses who covered themselves with your looks, of overflowing evasion and truce of bodies stained with mourning and despair, with blankets of red poppies scattered adjoining a naive unarmed forest. Over exalted memorandums and secret cries of Adrastea procreating their kind with the nymphs, they drowned out the cries of cuirassiers like Didaskein, before sobbing in their topic, but of Pashkein in the foliage of rotten hopes, of those who hit them from behind, in analogous vexation to heroes of Katyn. Here neither Cronos nor Mother Rhea heard them, only Adrastea prevented the cries of the men-children who were atoned for behind their backs, from venting them from the foliage of the Didaskein-Pashkien, in tears of solid mercury. Kanti's steeds rise, carrying them the curved Zsabla sabers, before each is shot in the head as twelve thousand Winged Riders are caught in each Zsabla. These sacrificed them before they were killed in the waist of his head, not being expired by ammunition but rather by sabers of honor and glory of their own winged protectors, who would lead them by sharp weapons towards the holocaust of the Mashiach surrounded by red poppies. “The red and steamy cendal of the forest carried the souls of the Hussars to pass them through the sabers of their compatriots, before they were immolated by the Soviets, so their apostolic souls will be catechized by Zsablas of dyed airs of Red Poppies converted into air of respite from the heroes of the Katyn Forest, redeemed by the Golden Winged Riders of the 17th century”

(Procorus in the immensity of the voices and epithets that were heard, differed in the volatile and explosive metal sabers at the present time that were extinguished in their crooked armor and in Polish beings, in a rear that finally Procorus settled them in urdes of immaculate habit, suspended in twelve thousand Red Poppies flanked by his forehead before being shot from the cortex and occipital lobe, forging into golden sabers and cenobitic transvestites who received them in arms in the sublime stench of effluvium of their blood and hosts, never left and desisted from bubbling by the figures of the acrotera near the Megarón, ditto in the same Forest of Katyn, surrounded in a string of Rosary that dazzled in Procorus prohijando them)

Parable Fourteen Donítikos: “fourteen vibrations were polarized in the enthronement of Vernarth towards his brother Etréstles, making filial gradation in possible anti-filial conception of worship and death in who is suspended from one to the other under the condemnatory rhythm of past lives. It is typical of the facsimile of his own genetic shadow Cain-Abel, but of geomorphological gradation and time-space, which finally brings them together as blood relatives of the same Orbis Alius trunk. Dismissing by not accessing a vibrational anti-Asur (as a healthy creative mind in Genesis) as an energy that manages to restructure itself in any homologous way in the world of Asur as the son of Shem in Genesis..., as comparative and intergenerational mythology , enlivening socio-parental metaphors, pronouncing in cohesion and enchantment what happens in another similarity of gender or Mental field, staging the probability of a mental Sun that dies in a Super Man, and this comes to free us from the ties of existence and plane terrestrial not reflected of immanent and instance of Eon, in geological and sidereal lives. The scrolls of this semi-myth, is subsequent to hanging scrolls on the will of us existed for thousands of years linked to links and human characteristics of knowledge through professed and comparative feeling. Compensation of material distemper between the anti-pivot and life between both refers to the simultaneous undividedness of each specification as a phenomenon lacking hearing in winter and inclement periods. Here the outburst of retro involutions becomes cloistered in Menatira, daughter of Cránae, Queen of Eleusis Pro Eleusis tally fuzzy from the convulsing breath of both through the steppe of silence, both of them. Dodecahedron on an octagon in each one for each one that was interpolated in each area when Demeter was looking for his first-born Persephone.

“Etréstles metamorphosed, so that Metanira reunited them with the sub-mythology of their destinies and the preconception of the elucubrar of a final breaking of the abstract spell, which was mixed with the element of vehemence in their irascibility to wait for a next season in fourteen toasts followed by Ouzo, and goods with intact and distant deities in oscillation of life-maturity, making it after the eleventh Ouzo in determinism of autonomous eternal substances of the ritual of Elusis, appreciable power and coarseness of the one who has to compensate for the one who has everything and the that will never have it. (Eternal Life Spell)”

a) Abundance of rain of red blood cells, in quotation marks of the legacy of Bios as all deprivation of life file, rather for those who yearn for it between a physical trifle alibi...

b) Psujé for Vernarth, “For whoever wants to save the life of his soul, he will lose it”. But he will restore it if he is saved by divine psychology muscle."

c) Zoé, “radiosity and refraction of etherization and physicality, more than a biological physical body re-transformed into purging from the superior to the inferior multi-created, but in a Jesuit adjective and sphere of consequent concatenation towards the plane of the

Mashiaj as holistic of the human cave ecstasy, in inflexible marriage between heaven and earth Ad Aeternum”

(Procorus, auto-irrigated red blood cells, to deliver them both, and relevel the levels of red blood cells of the Mashiach's divine blood, which expected to be refounded in both brothers of the Vibrational in Fourteen Donítikos or Hellenic Vibrations, with the initial D in the lower left ear and the S in the upper right of the vibrational field of the Tinnitus of God, with their ears placed in their hands, take them by their ossicle and from them in the curvilinear dawn that vibrates in what He only wants to do to them Dodeká).
Procorus  IV
JP Aug 2016
Same love
Same specification
a boring.......
Rahma Tafida Mar 2020
She’s an alien
A pretty alien who is capable of attracting others to her own planet
She’s a little different
But kind and caring and funny too
Like a girl from the books
She’s my specification of a lady
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
in a foreign language, when a dog is barking, there's something
called "gender" neutral verbs...
        i.e. szczeka... by line of thought, there should be
three graphemes in polish... a german equivalent
of es-zett (ß)...         and a cee-zet...
                                                      ­     and an er-zett;
anyway... szczeka = barking, the "problem"
is inherent in the language... because you can't express
that verb as being gender neutral, like you can
in the foreign tongue with the word szczeka...
               the only proximity to a neutral pronoun
associated with the verb is.... it's barking,
                   it, is a pronoun, as you're well aware, as much
as that is... and as much as this...
                  but the word szczeka naturally associates
itself with a gender neutrality... because it only associates
itself with the concept of, a dog...
               now... in english... barking...
you have to stress some sort of gender association,
if you want to create an incission with the indefinite article,
of what is the atheistic-scissor... a- (without)
                                           and        -the (specification)...
i'm going beyond entymological insight into the mode
of language, and its modern concerns of expression...
you can bypass a dog barking...
  but if you want to be as specific as zeitnahspreschen
(modern talk) permits itself to demand a list of constraints...
but doesn't seem to invoke the gender neutral pronoun it...
     the it resignation, i.e. what's barking?
                   a dog...
                                     what a pointless conclusion,
to then have to reiterate, ascribing a gender to the dog
that's barking...
                          what, you're going to start a fetish
    for checking whether a female or a male dog is barking,
by checking whether there are any genitals dangling, handy,
i.e. like the identifiable pair of testicles?
how about moving further afield with the human anatomy...
   does it have a protruding larynx (i.e. an adam's apple)?
apparently the orthodox gender "neutral" pronoun it...
was too coulrophobic.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
it almost makes sense,
come to think of it...
    allowing myself a half a year
interlude between
one and the second
visit to my local Turkish barber...
and at the supermarket -
oh you know,
***** blonde -
   petite -
   probably in her mid 40s...
minx ****...
      past two days,
at the checkout -
    she drops the terms
***
         (honey)
            and babe...
   like some Liverpudlian might
drop the term, pet
onto a woman...
         it really makes sense
to go for the old testament
prophet look from time to time...
hide...
  and then return,
looking civilized -
hardly neglected -
          you'd never think
that a beard not kept to
hipster standards
can become a grand disappearing
trick,
of not hearing such
endearing terms,
   from a supermarket cashier;
plus?
     ooh... years!
i didn't tell the barber to
shave me to a specification...
he managed to leave
a line of clean skin...
a week later from the shave?
stubble!
     just around the Adam's apple
and to the sides?
   half an inch of width...
    the first shave i've had
for... 3 years?!
                the sensation is
still the same...
                  like walking
on a cool August night...
  in feet attire,
  that doesn't require socks...
and isn't,
a pair of moccasins either.
Babatunde Raimi Apr 2020
A ******
A chocolate
In a chocolate shop
Being her first time
We all have our first

Watch her
Yourself in her shoes
She desires more
If you are insensitive
A cunning player steps up
And offers her the next candy
Strange, but true

If you find him
Turn him to your ******
Should you find her
Let her be your *****
As you dance in the other room

The **** chases
Mounts the Hen
**** and disembarks
Then the Hen chases the ****
Common! We are higher animals
For your sake, up your game

Back in the days
Prostitution was a cult
Dominated by women
Known by men
Especially the unfaithfulls
Mens world they claim

What's the point going down?
When you are a weakling
She makes you feel good
Just not to bash your ego
The Driver is always there though
With him, she goes to Jerusalem

They talk about it friend
They don't spare anything
The size, time lasted, they gossip
If she is bold to say
"I didn't ***", you're lucky
Stop being selfish

Men are like electric bulb
Tuned in by what they see
Women are like electric iron
They come along slowly
You've got to proceed nicely
Until you attain her zenith
Stop this selfishness, please!

High libido ain't no crime
If you purchase a product
And it doesn't meet specification
Speak up. "Dem no dey use shame drink poison"
Next time, look before you leap

Solve this puzzle
A "newbie" mates the first time
Gets attached to the mate
Closely knitted they become
As the subject explores more options
The attachment gradually dwindles
Until finally, it fades away
Like a rushing wind
Why?

You want a happy home?
****** intimacy and satisfaction is key
Bad boys and girls knows this
Wanting to *** your ***
Doesn't make a ***** or ******
Guys, if you want a virtous woman
Amongst all, meet her at the middle also

No need for aphrodisiacs
Eat and exercise well
Sleep and maintain work, life, balance
Only then can the ******* be sweet
When your mate is happy
Everyday will be christmas

Be advised!
A man looking for a wife
A man looking for casual ***
Are two different things
Until you find him
Close that lid
Bed undefiled...

A beautiful ****** got married
She fell into a temptation
He was a stud man.
The experience, mind blowing
She divorced her man
"Why? The Priest queried
Her response: "I never knew what I was missing all those times.
Men, if you need help, please seek

Start with communication
Then foreplay; from the periphery
****** satisfaction is mental
To access the different buttons
That will take her to Jerusalem
You needn't be big
Just the right buttons
Only then can you maintain your "Kingliness"

Did you actually get here?
Congratulations! You made it
Now, go back, read slowly
Then stop, ruminate
What do you think?
While this promotes ****** pleasures
It is, as prescribed, bed undefiled
Towards a happy home...

If you have been afraid
If you ever held back to say it
Or you just didn't know how
I just helped you say it poetically
Make sure your mate sees this
Final advise
Before you judge
Make sure you are perfect...

Babatunde Raimi
Author/Life Coach/Poet
+2348178827380 & +2348035063895
Universe Poems Dec 2020
Determination
Is not a citation
It far outweighs,
quotation
It focuses,
on motivation,
pulled from,
Internalisation,
at the centre
of the soul,
reservation,
which feeds,
the whole,
specification,
providing dynamite,
fuelled calculation,
and, realm,
synchronisation

© 2020  Carol Natasha Diviney
Ryan O'Leary May 2020
When the would's are
inaccessible one can go
as far as the perimeter,
climb on an iF though not
without constraints but
on the assumption that
whilst allowing a proviso
as a prerequisite, albeit it
be contingent on a restriction
whenever there's a hesitation
due to a specification whilst
stipulating a lack of certainty
contingent on the whether!
Onoma 5d
Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow-talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.
*"Three of a Kind", Joker's trilogy.

— The End —