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CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016

Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.

Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.

Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,

Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,

And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.


The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra

Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the

Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Pandora’s box,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.

Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.

Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.
The first poem in my second collection of poetry, "Blood for Honey", available at and Amazon.
Hadiy Syakir Jul 2018
The doubt is with the night
forever hanging in the head
it sips all the fire
the flickering stars, the
bickering meteors
the maelstrom spews hate
over the pinned madness
the magnetic field emits hate
over the pinned sadness
if it sincerely wants
to be accepted
look no further than
how life has been enacted.
Francie Lynch Apr 2018
Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who scared us shitless election night?
Donald scared us shitless election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to **** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to **** on beds.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
Hope you can sing along.
Sung to Raffi's version of "Must Be Santa."
All mafia bosses are called Don.
Others who have jumped or disembarked or been fired are Cohn, Shulken, McMaster, Powell, Scaramucci, McEntee, Porter, Omarosa, Price, Gorka, Dubke, Yates. Yikes!
Francie Lynch May 2018
Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who scared us shitless election night?
Donald scared us shitless election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to **** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to **** on beds.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.
If you know the Raffi song, "Must Be Santa," you'll get it.
Alysia Marie May 2018
She lingers,
She speaks-
She sings in my mind.
For she polishes these windows,
My eyes-
How divine.

Yet sometimes I’m a puppet,
Her precious marionette.
At times I want to cower,
Wish only to forget.

For those words she speaks freely,
Cage me up like a bird.
Making me feel less of a human,
A soul-
How absurd!

Yet even though I’m aware of this poison that she spews-
Sending chills to my bones,
Leaving me internally confused.

For I’m aware of her games,
Yet I’m completely content-
With knowing the consequences,
Still I don’t repent.

Yes, it’s killing me slowly,
Forcing myself not to breath.
Figuratively and relatively-
Casting my body out to flee.

For the porcelain in my sight,
Calls my name like a god.
My body’s screaming for mercy,
In and instant-
She applauds.

Released and freed,
She whispers in my ears.
Slowly and surely,
But she’s housing all of my fears.

For this voice that sang sweetly,
Praising me for the days-
Of vacancy of my body,
Turns my mind into a maze.

See her words create hallways,
One intertwining with the last-
Of memories from my present,
Being guilted by my past.

Leaving me feeling so helpless,
So alone-
So afraid.

But that same voice brings be comfort,
For all of those days.

Yes it’s confusing in a sense,
Perhaps even to the eye.
But for me this is a daily,
A struggle of the mind.

See my body is strong,
Yet I feel internally weak.
For these words that I’m writing,
My lips can hardly speak.

                     Alysia Marie 2018 ©
It’s been quite some time since I’ve posted on here, struggles come and go in waves and I hope that all can grow into a better being/version of themselves. For beauty in this world surrounds us, even if we don’t see it within the walls of our own mind.
L B Apr 2018
Down the ******--
Adventures of Feral Children

If there has to be a gate, I suppose I have always had my own theory that “The ******” was one of those places through which God pulled Paradise inside out.  I was always wandering there, pretending-- playing sometimes or searching for something-- the exact moment that spring begins, or the place of my secret dwelling where I was in charge, where I was queen.  Always hoping for the constant surprise of beauty, a lady slipper-- stunning last year's leaves, a meadow of white violets-- May snow on green?  Or was the startle of of seeing my first scarlet tanager in the saplings-- still too cold for leaves?

To the uninitiated The ****** was nothing more than the meaning of its name, a bending tube of woods with a brook tracing along it-- like snake's spine.

Not a practical place for a housing development, it had an ether of history as some “Valentine Park” and playground, and I guess that was true, judging from the ruins of bridges, stone half-penny steps, and the overgrown lima-bean shaped pool.  Huge, stone block stairs had faced each other, lining the entrance of a spring-- a fountain once, covered now with moss.  It loomed at dusk like an ancient temple.  Even the course of the brook had been maintained by giant, redstone slabs-- long-since tumbled in the wake of hurricanes whose names I've forgotten....

...Like a snake's spine... always there for a thousand years, wearing its steep banks ever-deeper into the guts of city till oaks, hemlocks and white pines became sentinel giants, far taller and older than their genes had ever intended.  In the war for sunlight, they through up an unwitting wall against all-- but the most daring encroachments...

...Like say-- like say half-grown people, cigarette butts, broken bottles, and underground “forts” with their smells of stale beer and musty clothes, old mattresses-- echos of giggling, the aura of explored forbiddens.  To us who knew her, The ****** could outlive remembrance but not rumor.  Like an old graveyard or an abandoned house, it was the place to go with our bags of candy, pea-shooters, and fire crackers!  We'd go there to fake-smoke punks-- we either were or wanted to be--
Somebody's parents always leaving their lights around....

We came there to delve into our made-up mysteries, like the one about that antique car that had rusted in “The Swamp” for centuries!  ...that someone's dead cousin drove off The ******'s cliff side one night... drunk as a skunk!  ...right where The Diamond Match's got this big pipe that spews all that gray **** into the brook! ...right where we used to swim and play on the hottest days since we couldn't use the city's Paddle Pond (folks were scared of polio in those days), so we played at “The Pipe” --making “Indian pottery” with the neighbors,  Gary, Davy, Shelley, and Sandy.  Red clay cups and ashtrays on red hot afternoons-- making wild polluted Indians of Jew and Irish kids alike.

Now I almost forgot.... I was telling you about that antique car-- the one some cousin of Ross was supposed to 'ave driven right off the cliff into the swamp and died... Well... His ghost still lurks there! ...and goes into 'iz cousin's body-- Ross, that is....  Let me tell ya!  Ross could sure mess up an afternoon's good time by his appearance!

But The ****** wasn't just for spooks-- not if you were into spraying girls with rusted cans of rotten Reddi Whip, kicking skunk cabbage (same effect), or finding frogs eggs under lily pads,  Gary even discovered those curious old Italians picking water cress barefoot in The Frog Pond.  Intensely curious, he was not afraid of their funny speech and ways.  He had gallon cans and pickle jars for raising pollywogs-- so he was on a mission.  But best of all, Gary had a backyard that overhung The ******'s swamp!  We could even view The Pipe hurling runoff ten feet out into the basin!  Our aberrant Niagara after a good storm.

Then there was the time that Tarzan swing just appeared!-- Like one of those convenient vines in the jungle movies!  It hung from a pine on one of The ******'s sheer sides, and was capable-- when wrapped around the trunk and given a running start, of providing one helluva-swooping-good ride-- out over the brook, into the sunlight and back-- with a thousand terrifying variations.  Took me a while to work-up my nerve-- a little longer to be really fine!

Tommy Gireaux fell and broke his arm.  Our swing was nothing but a stump of rope next day.  Twenty feet up, dangling fun, cut off and left-- to remembrance of times so real Tarzan made personal appearances!

Of course, there's more to this.  Our feral band of explorers discovers the soggy Playboys and gets sidetracked from their mission to find  "The Pine Cathedral" and where The ****** actually ends.  Ross shows up.

Not a fiction...not a fiction.

I am totally frustrated by my efforts to use and delete italics and bold print.  Why can't this site just post them as they appear in the writing???   How hard can that be?
I'm going to go through with it
This just has to be done
It's all going to stop
Chasing our tail around
For The ****** Dollar
It's all the same in the end

Passionate and proud
At the burst of a cloud
Rain falls in whispers
All today and into the night

When the wild are on the verge
Of some kind of taming
Who cares who you are blaming
How much does it matter that some are unaccountable

Not that you can get away with ****** and wars

When it's time to take your artwork
And put it in a frame
The picture is yours
It's the painter who takes the claim

When it's time to die
What's in it for the stars
Maybe a big wake and
Miles of lined up long electric cars

The mountain's shadow
Keeps the place cool in the summer
Not 'till the volcano spews it's guts
Will you lay down and burn
Or vaporize just in time

It's over with the death of the Star
'What is and was will be  bleaker and bleaker
A place you'd turn your head away from

When we have this chance to change into living without borders
What does that mean a shot of the The New World Order
An evocation of imaginations of and for the somewhat rich and the richer  
A full and complete Police State, militia walk the street, Their bidding done

No way to travel but by foot
And the odd old bicycle  
Horse and mules being bred
To save the soles on your leather boots

All the waters contaminated all the crops hollow not fit for an animal

We go this way or we go that
Who will drag us down or
Who will bring us up
Vibrational  influences could save us all

We can't keep trying to tell ourselves that the Government
Has our best interests at heart because they don't
If there is war among the classes it's a way to distract us
But it needs to be done and I'm bringing my 'A' game
SC Kelley Aug 2018
The Heart.
It beats stories.
It throbs symphonies.
It shutters like butterflies.
It shatters like glass.
It spews desire.
It drips lust.
The Heart.

~S.C. Kelley
For The Ones Who Love
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018

I watch the children play
on a sunny Sunday in Rotterdam

like a stereotypical alien
studying humans.

Their cries rise and fall
like seagulls as they swing

sea-sawing or blurring into one
on a brightly coloured turnstile.

A man looking
like a badly drawn cartoon

turns the handle slowly  of
a broken down barrel *****.

A monkey in a red fez
dances on the end of a chain.

The barrel ***** spews out
everything from Abba to Franz Lehar.

The decrepit old man
and even more decrepit monkey

appear as if they have
stepped out of another century.

I am far from home.
The day is dying.

I read from my battered book
Hamsun's HUNGER.

It's lurid cover torn
half hanging on/off.

The park deserted now
as night steals its colours.

The last words of
of this the final chapter

are lost to me
swallowed by the dark.

The barrel ***** peersists
the soundtrack to some forgotten film

The monkey red fez
fallen at its feet.

The monkey blissfully

The music caught
entangled in branches and  leaves.

I watch the yellow lights
blossom one by one

a silhouette of houses
like a stage set.

Houses like cut-out silhouettes
a stage set.

The last lines revealed
under a passing  lamp

"...where the windows shone so
brightly in every home..."

I laugh at such
a coincidence.

Leave the book on the bench
for some other me

to discover
when the sun comes up.

And return
to my space ship.
Graff1980 Oct 2018
These marvelous mystics
work word magic,
in the realm of poetics.

Waves of sounds penetrate
the mental barriers
my peers have made.

They speak with silver spades,
digging up the beauty and wisdom,
bending, and breaking the light with
the weird wonder of their syllable prisms.

They crack the mental prisons
that embiggen
the cash flow of sexists and bigots.
They expose the spigot
that spews *******,
with chunks and bits
of acid spit and ****.

They turn the darkness
into lighted corners,
take the depression
and hopelessness
that was all consuming
and present you
with a new view.

They assimilate and share
information and inspiration.
With similes and metaphors,
they explore
all avenues to truth.
Though they soar
too close to the sun
they still manage
to bring back that blazing beauty
before their wax wings melt
and they sink into
the history of
salt water words.
Britney Lyn Jan 16
To the tune of your hypocrisy she lay awake and debate this life that she had grown so accustom to.
A mere glimpse of this plague that you call “truth”, buried deep within your bones, alone, gentle mercy muse.
But beg no more for the fate you’d hope for, vacant; she is not here.
Even a childish girl would see through these words, weeping from the vile that spews from your mouth; lies.
To play on a heart in which strings are frayed, a game in which both sides are doomed.
From what is right and what is wrong, a choice you must make; choose or loose.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018

The milk swooned over the spoon and
swirled itself into the coffee cup.

Her lips took a sip and
found it still too hot.

Leaving her coffee to cool
she undid the top two buttons of her blouse.

The tiny hand
held the breast in place
as if to keep it from escaping.

The ****** blindly tried to find
the place in the baby's face
where it could come to rest.

Baby's mouth
suddenly collided with
the searching ******.

'Bliss! ' it breathed.
'Bliss! ' breathed the breast.

The room smiles
as it swells to the
curious sound of *******/

'Undid her dress there and then and when...
she had finished exposing herself
she shoves the baby onto the ***! '

He stops and spits.

'I was fit to breast...bURST! '

The Freudian slip
peeps out from behind
the words spilling out of his mouth.

His disgust spews
(splits at the seams)  
bursts out into sheer

'******' *****! '

All this is hissed
in a whisper

loud enough to seep into
her consciousness.

Her breast weeps milk
into the now sleeping baby's mouth.
orchid Aug 27
The thoughts in his head crawl like centipedes.
Ugly, squirmy centipedes,
Trying to escape.
But no matter how they scrape against his grimy head,
They fall down, back into his
Endless, meaningless life.

Sweat spews from his complexion
As he thinks of everything that's changed.
Blood leaks from his ears
Until everything is a screeching cacophony of noise.
Instead of escaping, they've eaten him from the inside out,
Leaving nothing but his feeling of anxiety.

He's practically nothing now... haha...
Isn't he just an embodiment of
Looking tired and feeling ugly?
And yet he loves it.
As the bags beneath his eyes darken,
His sickening love for these centipedes come into light.
It's blinding, yet I keep staring at his protruding radiance
Because I'm too scared to look away.

He's a centipede boy.
And that makes me want to hurl.
Brandon Conway Sep 2018

Floating brazier spews electric amber waves
as a setting sun radiates on the ceiling
a shadow of a ship coquettishly sways
while in the center charybdis begins swilling

another message, another missed call
another debt collector and his esurient talk
watch the ship begin to swirl, this scene so banal
amber feathered tawny eyed peacock

continues furtively to scroll her story and shoe shop
crowded room with a panel onstage
reality and fantasy evaporate and fall as a single raindrop
drown in the muck, don't know how to disengage

and to stay in the sway of fantasy.
Spent all day in a conference about chemicals. 10 hours. It was quite boring, but the setting was nice.
jonas ernust Nov 13
blue moon scud missile detonating in LA.
MILLIONS perish and millions are displaced.
The queer bar is turned into a microwaved dirt mound and city hall is a black lung. Gavin newsome is a glowing red **** and the **** doesnt exstinquish his radiated carcass.

I fly by at night and talk to Toquito and the 2 bums.
I drive away kicking dust. The hills shake as volcanic lava spews forth and acid rain pummels the street. I have a taco from Toquito and lm racibg by at 120. I dodge the rain and a big steaming boulder rolls past. It crushes a bystander. A pit forms in the street and swallows the nearby buildings. I skate by the cracking pavement and my car nearly slips in the pit. As i speed past the street crumbles entirely and all that remains is a hellish inferno. I continue on for about an hour and the hellish vision subsides. I park my car and fall asleep and in the next morning drive to china. I have panda express and write of my harrowing journey on my 17 follower blog
Bob B Oct 2018
Eleven dead; six injured.
How does a person try to explain
The enormity of such a crime--
The inexplicable loss, the pain?

All were shot at a place of worship--
At a synagogue in Pittsburgh, P-A,
On what began as a peaceful morning
On a late October Sabbath day.

Early that morning no one could have
Imagined the horror the day would bring,
Even though we live in a time
When hatred seems to be in full swing.

It takes only ONE hater
To change the course of many lives
In a country where underneath
The peaceful appearance, violence thrives.

The president says that armed guards
Are what we need and not tougher laws.
He bows before the gun lobby,
Addressing the symptoms, but not the cause.

Helping refugees get settled:
For that the synagogue is known.
That was an issue that irked the killer,
Who was from here. Yes, homegrown!

Do we ignore red flag warnings
And turn our heads when someone spews
Hatred of groups such as Muslims,
Asylum seekers, gays, or Jews?

Do we ignore the poisonous words
That constantly drip down from the top?
At what point do the majority
Of people say: This must stop!

Give praise to those who strive for positive
Change with every heartfelt endeavor.
And hold in your heart the many people
Whose lives have now been changed forever.

May the victims' lives inspire us all by showing us the power of love,
and may they rest in peace.

Joyce Fienberg
Richard Gottfried
Rose Mallinger
Jerry Rabinowitz
Cecil Rosenthal
David Rosenthal
Bernice Simon
Sylvan Simon
Daniel Stein
Melvin Wax
Irving Younger

And may thoughts of love and healing embrace the injured.

-by Bob B (10-28-18)
wolflet Oct 2018
Well where do I start

From the mean girl settings
that are ingrained into every high school girl's brain
that spews out in a constant fountain of negativity
unable to reconise their fatal flaws
and just how toxic they are
ingornant to the painful words that they spit at people behind their backs

To the brainless children who are waiting to be told what to think
snorting themselves half brain dead
empty and indifferent
to what will happen to their worlds
as the world decays
along with their brain cells
unable to care about the life they are wasting

from the overly nice fake smiling girls
who think it is important to be liked by everyone
forgetting the most important person's approval
is their own
working their whole life towards
an impossible goal
left with a fake smile and hundreds of people they barely knew standing over their coffin
but nobody crying

to the sad tear drunk teens
with nothing to do but to wallow
with no other way to express themselves
than the scares that cover their arms and legs
and as they slowly engulf their bodies
it will become an armor
something to hide behind
instead of living

What I am trying to say is
I don't want to be you
so stop trying to morph me into
the sick twisted barely human thing
that the world made you into
Yenson Sep 2018
So what's it they have, what's it all about
Work for the bossman.
Use your brawn Earn your pittance,
Then eat, Pub, drink, **** and pay the bills
Go footie, shout and scream, at one with your tribe
then  go sit in front of the telly, play at family
Week is done
Till the morrow when you do it all again

How about a soap opera, you direct and act
Gotta a Royal down the road ripe for the taking
Lets go invade, see how the other halves lives
Come, lets all join and become Kingmakers
Under our ***** thumbs he goes, we pull the strings
Entertainment for the masses, beats our mundane cages

For once, we are the bosses and can pull the strings
Knowledge is Power and its all here in Mao's Red Book
Lies, fabrication, distortions and misinformation
Disinformation, half-truths, slander it ain't no matter
Everything he says will be taken down and used against him
This is control at our finger tips, this is power to play with
He's going through the Red mill, drilled and ground into dust

Look we've got him as the puppet, we destroy all his trappings
So gather round and join the fun, this is us like God
Lights, action, now you do this and this and watch us play him
what do you mean puppet ain't moving or re-acting
OK let's do this, you go there and you do this and do this now
Still no action, OK let's try this, if you go there and say ah
You drive here, you stand there, you watch here, you stand
Nothing still, OK you come here, you put this here
Still nothing, This puppet is NUMB, this puppetting is no fun

They had drawn up the master plan, written their ****** script
The puppet looked and laughed, what a bunch of prime morons
No substance, no value system, no morality or basic sense
Infantile, one track minded sociopaths full of flaws and manure
Go back to your drinking and ******* and your mundanity
The united pack of crooks, ****, racists and the vacuous coerced

Go look after the Leading Lady stuck with rehearsals and scripts
The imagined romantic interest paying debts for UK residency
Waiting for the Prince to come running and tomfoolery begins
The bit part actors are still playing, too stupid to realize
The control is on them, their time energy and effort all a sham
Our Directors are directing making it up as they go along
The supporting actress are still hopping and hoping
The new characters are still buying false scripts and playing
Playing with themselves as Puppet stands and watches it all

They wheel out their demented scribes and brain dead peoters
To write dirges, glooms, ******* and negativities galore
Casting their dark fantasies and the rancid spittles of their dregs
Muds from the festered pools of their putrid minds dresses up
Ready to visit nightmares of their making from their darknesses
Areas thankfully unknown to a mind and soul untainted, unsoiled
As is their bitter lives, valueless breeding and hate and prejudices One ignorance and neurotic existence, the depravities of depraves..

Poor, poor imbeciles, they really don't have much in their lives
Illusions and delusions by the bucket loads, anything would do
To remove them from their sad, miserable sorry realities
Hey its Clockwork orange, we are all stars in our *****
Diversions to their mundane, unrewarding and depressing realities
Their frustrations and powerlessness, their insignificance
At last a vent for their frustrated lives, miseries loves company
A release valve for pains of centuries being underdogs and serfs
A safe playground for psychos, control and pain in abundance
Let's call it Revolution and add Republic to make it more palatable

Down at the palace of Attrition, a blameless man sits and muses
Crazed dogs of war at the gates, salivating insanely, bloodthirsty
Watching Controllers tieing chains to masses and jerking them
Into frenzied hysteria, nothing beats permitted wickedness shared
Dropping poisons and acids into hungry jaws, patting heads
Shouting rallying calls, we got the Bastille of the blinds going on
Scientists please take notes, this is Herd mentality and Groupthink
This is how to manipulate the masses and incite Hate unawares
Majority wins here, this is Democracy, this is people power

Do, you are ******, don't, you are ******, Hate abides all.
Puppet sees injustices but better to play dumb and numb
They can't abide a black do well, hate spews from fear
Hate festered by the unique decency of a successful blackman
Who had all they wished for but could never have or be
Riddled with lust and envy they merely went on to steal his
But that wasn't enough, the bullies and cowards had to ruin.
Under the pretext of them and us, blue versus Red they lied
Rabid racists takes another black man down, green bottle falls

Man proposes, God disposes, UK, KKK now play god
Thy will will be done O'Lord, I am but your servant
It's rather flattering being The Real Deal in this production
Confirmation of differences betwixt Gifted and the Depraves
A Travesty full of sound, false images and fury by the loonies
A Red Racist Production by Idiots and psychos for fools and sociopaths.

Lights, camera, action
"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
“Neither a man nor a crowd nor a nation can be trusted to act humanely or to think sanely under the influence of a great fear.” .
.how did the political "debate" ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session...  Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session... i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions... bass, a tier above the drums... masturbator-grand-master-soloist... i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write... elephant's ******* choking me to come... oh well... not even a Decalogue will save me... the political art is no art to begin with, curtains... all i'm seeing if curtains... and households filled with retired personel... and curtains... curtains but not blinds... it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar... notably metallica... apart from devil's dance and... where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music... fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar... solo guitar and vocals all you want... it's like... the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo... went, "missing"... i need the bass, man... frantic bass & drum genre type of music will not do lollipops for me... what was the alternative? dub-step? well... vex'd & distance... burial... who were the others? i don't remember... don't make me cite skrillex: white privelege man! yeah... at least with rabbit teeth missing, doing that well known party trick! i don't like bands that have a knack at an over-emphasis of the rhythm guitar, who neglect the bass guitar... it's so counter the jazz-inheritance... tool: grand bass, red hot chilli peppers, silverchair... i need that smoothing out layer of sound that manifests itself in a bass... a layer of sound just below the rhythm guitar and a tier above the base (not bass) of the african drum borrow... bāß... base (not bass)... yes, it's not supposed to look pretty: a phonetic antithesis... as most "things" in english...

             mind you... did i mention how heidegger
has a foot in the door?
       oh... i didn't? did i?
     the reflexive and the reflective quadratic...
the reflex of conscience "vs."
the reflectiveness of consciousness...
                  language - only if speech has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it become
strong for the hidden play of its essential
   multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"),
of which poets and thinkers alone are capable,
in their own respective modes and their own
directions of sovereignty.

  of the few lyrics i've entertained these passing
             the black keys: lonely boy -
              i got a love that keeps me waiting...
borrowing from Kafka i guess:
      in that case, i’ll miss the thing by waiting for it.
   guess there's no "oops" where these words
come from...
    with the "passive" circumstance of the faculty
of memory...
                two tiers of memory:
the reflexive memory type,
the scholastic rubric type...
  1 x 4 = 4, a + b + a +c + u + s = instrument =
counting... etc.,
            that's the reflexive memory type...
a scholastic rubric...
but memory also occupies
the reflective parameters...
          which involve personality...
a sort of memory dissociated from schooling,
and more, associated with:
disinhibiting any chances of succumbing
to dementia's grinding machine
of the mortal circus...

  the reflexive memory storage bank is
the buffer...
the "placebo": nay... the safety mechanism...
but... too much education,
too much pointless education,
and the erosion of the reflective memory
storage bank: this is not a buffer,
this is not a something equipped with
a "safety mechanism"...
        given that a self is perpetuated
within the confines of
a constant conflict with the "self"...
   a and italics / the and "ambiguity commas"...

well, there's always a place to start...
i find of like philosophy as being
a rigour associated with a satisfactory
form of vocab.,
i can use the associated words bound
to a sentence with confidance...
unlike a ****** fiction writer,
sometimes dabbling into loan words
from a thesaurus, to, invoke:
an intelligence superiority...
  don't worry...
  when people lend themselves
to use a thesaurus, having exhausted
their adjective knowledge... it shows...

come on... a background in chemistry nouns?
3,5-methylhexane... you think?
that's the remains of a saxon past in english...
in chemistry...
germans spell like dr. faustus to begin with,
they, compound...
        the remains of a germanic past in
the current state of english shrapnel still
lives... in chemistry...
                  usually met with a hypen:
well, very german: what a waste of not employing
punctuation marks (', -) when it came
to the caterpillar 189, 819:

Me­thionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucy­lphenylalanylalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylgluta­mylglycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylle­ucylglycylaspartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleu­cyllysylisoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylgly­cylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylp­henylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthr­eonylisoleucylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucyl arginylalanylphenylalanylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylala­nylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylle­ucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucy­lprolylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparagin­ylleucylvalylphenylalanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylg­lutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylv­alylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylpr­olylvalylglutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarg inylglutaminylalanylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylal­anylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleuc…

or just read the end of james joyce's ulysses
or jean-paul sarte's iron in the soul...
you do have to insert shrapenl punctuation
into this word...

but these are the last remains of the english language
being associated with a germanic origin:
compounding words...
             esp. in chemistry...

as any drunk would state,
to suffice...

    what was it that the luftwaffe
prescribed for the night raids
on London?

   and what did isis fighters
be prescribed?

   (minus the extended omega:
oooooo enough time
for a katy perry song,
an afternoon shower,
a slap in the face,
and then a few punches,
hey, jerking off became

   so the british,
and a few polacks doing their
r.a.f. bit beat the germans
   oh... **** no...
they were ingesting
an impediment factor,
durg, ****,
drunk, numb-skulled...

    we're talking counter
measure to the "enchanced"
    high on amphetamines...
insomniac, but still going...
i guess the loci of
the amphetamine adventure
had to relocate to the anti-ego
focus of the phallus
in the variation of viagara...

i care more for my giggles
and a friar tuck physiognomy...
   it's more important than mere
gymnastics of
a freudian "metaphor"...
  ha ha...
   i guess conversation is
also allowed...
   try keeping that up...
given that most men are
******* into a solipsism...

     date nights... m'ah ah ha ha ha...
i figured that i don't
need french intellectuals to
redefine absurdity,
or german philosophers
to "redefine" existentialism,
i just needed to leech
off an nativistic english

                      what the ruling
class spews:
   i reinterpret...
                  simple, 1 + 1 = 2...
crux, numbers,
   bounce back...
     compliment to the language...
as i stood in the shower thinking...
well isn't modern gaming
slightly "ingenious"...
money piggy...

or... reversed...
    provided the unlimited time
of experience...
no constraints,
just a game within a game,
like sims 3: making a sim
play a video game...
wormhole paradox
      and a brain shattering moment,
a jolt,

         these modern "free" games?
well... at least if you
do not invest in them,
are... games mostly associated with
time is the game...

   whoever gets ****** into
the money laundering schemes
of these games,
forgot to read the cheat walkthroughs
akin to final fantasy VII,
because of homework,
and... Saturday mornings.

   **** air guitar:
here's to air drumming to posit
a point...

          the allies drunk their pint
of whiskey, slightly debilitated,
without the circumstance of feeding
a feeling of superiority,
the germans over-inflated
their superiority complex with

    i'm either proper drunk, or just plain dumb,
or... it's related to listen, repeat,
listen, repeat: katy perry
  (sucker for POP!)....

      never mind...

games used to be fun,
games used to lead to a completion,
tenchu, that was fun,
final fantasy VII...
but this current,
money-sucker of an experience?
well... sure...
now games have reached
an anti checkmate conundrum
which it is...
because, the games are "free"...

           apparently time,
is perceived as a non-commodity...
tell that to someone stuck
in traffic...
      time: the "elder" flimsy
              construct of relativism...

try not giggling
while exchanging whislting to
either the british grenadier march song,
and the french la marseillaise...

   it's like eating pork liver with onions
fry funny...
    or at least a stew of chicken
hearts... tight tender little *******...

but modern gaming is just that...
ingenious counter measure
to the old school variation
of gaming,
    games... without fiction,
games, without script...
    continued perpetuation
of engagement "syndrome"...

     thank god,
i'm pretty sure that if i went beyond
owning a PS1,
i wouldn't have spotted this,
and have a narrative subsequently,
for the worth any sort
of compromise...

ergo? i drink...
   eh... i need to dumb down...
it wouldn't be fair otherwise...
it's not so easy,
to acquire a culture,
a psychology,
a mentality,
   and then...
     to ****... (grimmace, burp,
         snigger) it all away...

**** me, the flute always
gets me...
          i mean...
every time i hear that flute...
my feet at rambling,
itching to tap along...

   well of course it wasn't
the ******* jazzy clarinet,
was it?!
  tell that to the broad
who perfect a *******...
see if she comes back
as smart,
as smart to comply with
the intricacies
of playing, the ******* clarinet.

aud lang syne: the only song,
of all time...
shakespeare seems
pale by comparison,

          broad vs. brode,
******* giggles in the afternoon.
Yenson Mar 25
A car owner in Nairobi Accra, Ouagadougou or any African city
would, as one drives through potholes and ancient ragged tarmacs
be approached by beggars, street urchins and the poverty strickens
all with hungry faces and rags reeking of miseries and street lifes

With arms outstretched they beg pennies or two for a meal to survive
in the blazing sun hopeless lives look to the cars and those who drives
meal tickets wheezing past impervious to painful rumbling stomachs
in air-conditioned splendor they glide quietly past unmoved as stones

The poor wretched would hiss and snipe in ringing tones and anger
look at you useless person, you stink and you **** that dog you have
your mama is a *****, your father is a donkey and we **** your wife
you can't read and you **** yourself, you are a worthless *******

Some hunger crazed ones will throw stones and spit as cars speed on
again, again these desperados will exercise their right to free speech
Mister, you wet your trousers, you're fat like hippo and you smell
you and that woman, you look so ugly like charcoal and mud statutes

As they hurl insults and jipes at these car owners they found relief
with wide eyes and foaming mouths and rotten teeth they laughed
each cheering the other and high fiving as an original curse spews
it's the frustration of the wretched, it's the anger of those without

But worry not for we have these same forlorn and desperates here
angry, powerless, insignificant people watching successes drive
hating all those they feel is above them, hating those they envy
hating those they wish they could be like, hating their mediocrity

But they don't mill about on dusty roads screaming asinine insults
they go on computers and troll their targets, projecting their pains
flinging defamation and putdowns, hurling demented idiotic slurs
casting doom and despondencies,  accusing others of insecurities  

So like their African kinfolks, the wretched and the poor find relief
mediocre needs to release pent up frustration and pained anger
they need targets to hate and blame, they need distractions to ease
and the troll screen warriors and haters have the computers to thank

Their African kinfolks just want a meal not to waste time and energy writing **** to their envied, that is nonsense ****, they say!
These people too full for their bellies, what is wrong with them
them crazy, maybe their ***** done fall off, maybe they **** dogs
crazy western poor people, no wonder God give them long noses!

Who are we to judge, I'd must be horrible to feel inferior....!!!
when you're hungry,
you only end up thinking about food;

sure... you can glug down
the whiskey,
but the whiskey soon
becomes akin to milk...

  and the problems of
other people, made real,
in some quasi-take
on reality,
of voices, that once were
voices, that now become

blood sugar level...
               i write with
a fainting to curate my
body into the next half an hour...

the cat is still asleep on
the bed...
         i remain hunched
on a chair...
     you know how annoying
it is,
to watch these youtube
with a squint:
one eye closed,
the other peering
        into a void of gob?

i keep and tract
myself to a concession of a nod...
yes, i agree...
   i just can't fathom
   the fight of the english,
when, i am,
myself, not english...

   a land a lore and all
for the glorious succumb
of the exodus...

             in my mind,
at least...

                   i'm not english...
i never was, i never will be...
but seeing these people
bombarded with the journalist
jargon that cannot replace
itself from
the humble beginning
as depicted by
all the president's men...

             sure... i'm the pauper...
and you, you're the skyve?
given a pension aged
49... old...
      so!                  was­ is't arbeit?!

all art is but
a scrutiny of any and all
recreational activity to bypass
made, more accommodating,
  the consolation prize of
being....   funded...

       me? i failed...
but nice to see to having failed
on a canvas of
8 billion people...
                     such a lurking
inhibition of comfort,
to be made an association with...
the 10pm newsreel
           of an ambitious speaker /
reader of the news.

i imagine the 30 minutes
involved between
to either turn the t.v. ON
or the t.v. OFF...

after a while...
i lose the ability to choose.

so there's no loße...
           to have made a choice...
to choose...
     but to have chosen...
a choice...
      ******* riddling loss
                  of an omicron...
sure, sure...
   mr. ******* john wayne...
so there's no loss:
there would be none
if there was no
   centimetre measure
of a difference between
loße and loose!

loose: not to loße...
     spaghetti myopia
of the spelling...

me: equivalent to
gene hackman
in enemy of the state...
i get to enjoy being
with my words...
when i'm writing while fasting...
and there's
a ******* cat sleeping in my
bed, just prior to my wanting
to drink myself
into a lullaby of a metaphorical
boxing-match K.O....

      the more i fast,
the more of a quran spews out
of me for
any worth of pedantry...
     it's like an itch...
in the gut...
  juggling a vacuum
of something waiting
to be reiterated back
into a function of sorts...

you want to die,
but then you are told to live...
you want to live,
but then you unexpectedly die...
******* took a ****
good care of the "proverb"
of: life's a *****, and then you die...

what sort of proverb is that?!
that's only an excuse for,
rather than of a proverb...
******* Shakespearean
      grapheme tackle of
the spelling of the siamese vowels?

me, gene hackman grumpy...
listening to some ed sheeran...
****'s sake!
        the lot
of very little sugar,
writing while ingesting
the Switzerland of
the body's worth of fat...
          ******* annoying.
Ormond May 2
The fly makes his way through the house.
Its tongue, like billions before, is tainting  
All it touches.  The fly has wings to spread  
His mess, and though he has innumerable  
Facets to his eyes he cannot see  
The swatter coming.

The house surrounds the fly and is sacred.
As the great blue world beyond is sacred.  
And the fly is spreading fast, flitting here  
And sticking there trampling his own  
Shelter, spreading pollution and excrement  
With a rolling tongue  

That spews and spits upon his own home.  
And though he is happy while he soils  
His house his eyes are two dead worlds  
Barren and still, born to die by the hand  
That flies even higher, so, the fly cannot  
See the swatter coming.

Buzzing, like a burn, through the innocent  
Air he dreams of vast minions rooting  
His world with legion hands.  The house was  
A garden that led him in, he cannot  
Wait for his seed to fester, all's he needs  
Are God’s green plants  

And clean water, some fresh air to conquer.
This house was made for him he would have  
Himself believe.  But when all has dried  
And all is soiled the fly would wish to move  
On, if only he could, trapped as he is  
In the earth and wooden house.

He could taste it all, oblivious to oblivion
In God’s green wooded world— all spinning,  
The sands are running in the sacred home  
That he himself has always defiled,  
As he has never shown any grace;
The swatters hand is His—
Own spendthrift hand.
and i will go to her,
either monday, or tuesday,
and ask her:

what is the lesser
of the two evils...

drinking less,
or rather, not drinking
at all,
    and only being
able to find roughly
2 hours of sleep
in 50 hours?

or drinking...
ending up waking up
imbued with
a body odour best
to a whiskey brewery,
and being awake
for about 14 hours
of the 60 or so available

     do any of these
hallucinations come
from sleep deprivation,
while all these
        omamy of a
      desperate tongue...
translated into
    a language of despair...

in the newspapers...
the opinion is:
    prison cells are not
schizophrenic hotels...
   i must be the oddest
variant of a "schizophrenic"...

i was mistook
   a police van for a taxi cab...
lying near to death
from alcohol poisoning
at a bus stop...
a passer-by called
the police,
we exchanged courtesy
with the police-officer...
he was pleasant enough
to put me into
a police van cage....
and he drove me home...

i must be an oddity...
   my reaction to psychotic
anger is like a turtle...

mixed opinion about
my experiences
with the police...
one cadet cuffed me
while i was on my knees
and shouted at me
for ******* in an alleyway
on drunk friday
in romford...
while i just refused
to get up...

one minute,
   hand-cuffs missing
the next...

   it's either i was a good
liar, or wasn't a liar
at all...
  like: what sort of idiot
would lie about
being schizoid?
   for a meagre social
   of 120 quid a week?
**** me...
7 years later and i'm
stretching it...
stretched it as far
to travel to Athens,
through the Balkans,
Poland, Amsterdam
  and back to London...

hence my dissonance
when it comes
to the "question" of,
             like i ever tried
talking "reality"
  on a scale of inquest by
the physics department
of Edinburgh university...

and then the radio
spews out:
  bruce hornsby -
i start thinking about
the neurotic cage
of the lyrics of
   2pac and the "stealth tax"
of... ******...
        we just borrowed...
and then my reply:
so when
is my chance
to play the tennis back?

   it was never
a harsh: plagiarism...
but in all honesty?
  i felt more free being
on my knees telling
a colt police cadet
that: as much as he
was going to scream
at me:
i would not stand up,
he'd have to pick me...
getting kicked
in the *****
at one of those martial
arts classes
for not shouting
HA my making
a martial law chop-suey
was easier...
   than all these mental
   fake *******
of saying: 'the "n" word'...
   i'm pretty sure
those people
   are saying: 'the n- word',
i don't see the "air" quotes...
i see there's a hyphen
in that...
   it's a prefix statement...
of the already apparent
thought: screaming
for some retribution
of a past,
  which has not currency
for me in the present,
other than...
     bruce hornsby
                              ft. 2pac...
so where's my tennis

        coolio ft. pachelbel...
being thrown under
the multicultural bus...
   i might even want to relate...
but being born
into a very monochromatic
   police officer
care for no *****?
   in london,
given the knife crime
   it's more ***** care
for no *****?

    - but i'm cool with that...
white boy uncomfortable
         can only ever become
a mental health patient...
who has never been
section, doesn't know what
a mental asylum looks
   know how psychiatrists
employ false regression...
know the chemcial
of: "abused as a child"
   talked about in third person:
talked aloud...

i should have just left
this night with
gyöngyhajú lány...
but then this song came on,
this piano...
  and i thought
about my childhood
friend samuel...
  how i walk across
st. valentine's park
from my house to his,
and from his house to school...
and we'd spend about 3 hours
per day walking
and talking...
  we'd pretend to be
   and all round
   basic ****-ups...

and seriously: some of the language
is just bait...
   such a base piano
    being taxed with
      so many words akin
           to 2pac's... sample;
just when when words
are polarizing,
and they're not philip glass,
or krzysztof penderecki,
   seemingly the:
      last chance script.

p.s. samuel,
who introduced me to
old jamaican cream soda...
     how to not
    don a mohican haircut...
           what is ever
come from within
   the circus of memory.
Abbie Nov 2018
I felt…nothing. My limbs were almost like static, I couldn’t move my arms or my legs, twist my head, lift my chin. It wasn’t that I couldn't but rather, I wouldn’t. It felt as if time was frozen and as I stared at my hands I wondered how long I could sit here and watch myself without moving. It would be a comfortable eternity to sit and stare, feel weightless and fixed in my spot. No cares, responsibility or anywhere to be, at least no regard for them. Anytime I tried to focus on one thing, the sound of static in my head grew louder, like when I was just a child and the old, dinosaur television with the huge back attached, would emit that static when there was no channel station. It was hell and yet almost content like living in a conscious limbo where there were endless opportunities to take any sort of action. Yet, jaw clenched, hands twitching, aching to make a move, were denying themselves the very pleasure. The desire to make any sort of action drowned out by the white noise dominating over any sense of will. The questions directed towards me only powered the surge of static within my bones and my mind.
I can hear him. The words he’s saying. And keeps repeating. But I cannot, will not, bring myself to answer.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
My head shakes side to side.
“Are you coming to bed with me?”
Another shake of the head.
There’s silence.
The more he asks those questions, the tighter my jaw sets and my teeth gradually sink into my tongue.
He sets forward now and my gaze locks onto him. I will him to understand the look in my eyes to stay away but he does the exact opposite. He sits next to me and my teeth are grinding together, praying he doesn’t touch me. That he doesn’t look at me with the soft eyes that match his voice when he repeats the question, “Are you okay?”
A single tear sliding down my cheek is the only response. I don’t move. I don’t want to. My body is screaming don’t touch me but his soft voice, the warmth of him right next to me. More tears fall.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and the sobs become audible. The breathe I was holding, gone.
I can hear myself screaming like I’m in the other room listening, like I’m not within my body for the process. Deep sobs wrack through my body and gibberish spews from my lips as I gasp for air. My arms feel numb and I don’t remember putting them on my face but here they are, just like the arms wrapped around me I didn’t notice until now, squeezing tighter as if they’re trying to get every single drop of this out of me. It feels like minutes but it could have easily been an hour. There is no sense of anything but trying to expel the breathe from my lungs that come out as screams and gurgled coughing. There are some words I can make out through the whimpering and I can’t tell which is which. “No.” “Why?” They’re caught in the gasps for air. Sensed in the drawn out screams that slowly melt into incomprehensible sobs.
If he had just kept his hands to himself this wouldn’t have happened.
But that’s the first clear thought I’ve been able to make up all night. The smallest part of me sighs in relief, comforted that I’m not completely lost to oblivion.
I can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not. At least some sense of semblance has returned to formulate some words into a clear thought.
She’s gone.
She let herself slip away in the sliver of a moment. When they stepped out of the room just for a glass of water and to check on her elderly mother. I guess she thought it would be easier that way, or rather choose in that instance, to let go.
That was her moment.
And this is mine. For her.
This was only a moment ago that seems like a dream you try and hold onto to remember in the early hours of the morning.
a mcvicar Dec 2018
gold hair turned silver
young mind spews out the old, timed
words of graceful remorse
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