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Tommy Johnson Jul 2014
It's sad to say this
We live under umbrella terms
On some kind of spectrum
Abiding by Murphy's law
Being read our Miranda rights
Numbers on a scatter plot
In other words it's an open invitation
For one trick ponies
To sideswipe us
Knock us for a loop
Knocking us down a few pegs
Making us a laughing stock
Sieg heil the zeitgeist
Study the hermit's manifesto
It speaks of finicky beggars
And groveling choosers
Honor slayings
Oscar-worthy faked *******
First rate blood baths
Second rate novelty acts
Bending over backwards
And knee **** reactions
Cooking up something abominable
Having it hit the fan
To ensnare and entrap all who are near
Hot off the knock-off stenograph
Tack on another ten thousand years
In other news...
       -Tommy Johnson
Fond of scribbling words
Especially when I'm down
A way of letting it go
A way of easing me down.

Now scanning a notebook
Full of unreadable writings
Like it's some kind of stenograph
Which I only can understand.

Some say that I have the gift
And some say that I'm brave enough
To tackle about my life,
To write about my pains.

But I can't see it that way
'Cause all the words in my mind
All the ideas I'm writing down
Isn't enough to express what's inside.

I'm dying to write all of it
To lessen my burdens
But I hardly find the words
And not all of it could be shared.

As ideas struck my mind
And I'm starting to write it down
It's where the complication start
As the words wrestle to form a phrase.

I can't make it rhyme all the time
But it doesn't matter
As long as it's lyrical
A free verse poem will do.

I follow no rule in writing
'Cause the best way to write for me
And the only way I know,
Is to write from the heart...


Krystal Marcelo
04/28/16

*But originally written 04/16/16
I've written the first two stanza couple months ago, planning to make it as mi BIO but I don't know what else to write.But as I scan all of my unfinished works, the idea of making a poem of how I write struck me. 'Cause every poet do have different styles in writing and I just wanna share mine. And if you have the same style as mine, well, hello there! xD
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
cooking sauce earlier... bane's theme, thematic of con carne erotica therapeutic digression... the ambivalent chuckling worth if not simply wanton of stereotype, conversely a stenograph, and a dynamism of acquiring an autograph; or how to undermine poetic rhyming: akin to tenacious d's one note song paraphrase divisive of the futility engaging in such a genetic gross-misconduct and apprehensive on up-keeping a cultural initiative brought forth and necessarily worth a replica; in true or a truant sense of Heidegger, an altruism of conjunction, the birds procrastinating or peacocking, whether the scenario if worthy of loathsome to be minded... it's nonetheless there... it's how language is used that concerns us... not what we do with language, but how we use it... the how is more important than the why... thankfully the reality / ontology of language is how rather than why; why is already answered with us being and continuing to be here, it's how we are that we are... persistent in being claimants of a continuum, whether akin to a Schubert or in continuum or in infinituum... ah that natural convenience of the acquisition of status... jargon and char... a heated discussion and nothing but the marring of furthered augmentation toward one's own clarification of ponce. me and my scabby version of events, inflammatory bulging where Oliver Twist suggest: please sir, may i puke on this **** some more?!

sooner be than think,
       and no sooner
                    be more than θink,
to θink
               is as much a piggish
oink when love is concerned,
meaning that φilosoφy
  begets relegation
                 when naturally
nailing the coffin shut in Cymru
is what was waited upon;
        orn the higher tier of Manhattan -
there too the earthenware -
or the calypso fury against the panzer....
the new Iraq against my flavoured jive,
oh i'll dance the culinary stinking socks bit....
like i'd dance the Caleigh in Glasgow
to pride the Irish....
                    Pakistan stems from
a dream: counter Saudi Arabia, or dune,
arable cunning-deform of
                                         cuneiform.
spider-jets.
                                      whe­n was Arabia
the Sheikh Fortune to chuckerfore a: wise said so.
you'd be sooner dead that dealing
the prescribed antics -
                        and death akin to bane's theme:
thespians' ergo medium: a life of puritans,
a life of pure fable.
                 i am still here...
     waiting,
demanding,waiting,
                Rizzo Papa,
Ritz Pulpa Johannus.
                                            thespians' ergo medium:
when thinking doesn't translate into being,
                                it's there,
interim...
                             a tragico-comedic allowance
to shelter a nearing extinguishing of oaf narration....
and a depth thus scolded,
                a depth thus summarised,
a depth with a fatigued enterprise -
                               a churning bechanced by coup after coup:
lazily forgiving a Lazarus undertaking....
hence crescendo Chile...     ore of the smartly dressed
Husky dressed men... alternatively stated: the men
in the quiet describable attire.
                  take a dog for a walk, take the tongue
into a waggling ha ha heap's worth of a dictionary;
    wo fish vocalised their citric concerns
when the loaves in fraction levelling five was brought
for questioning.... or the ***** socks....
                              alternatively dressed *lumberjacks

in hankies and chequers alias chess.
says as much as munchy is talked about
in Tuscany - where munchy is referred to
                    as fibre, or the dietary worth of inedible.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
if it ain't the three drunk giraffes learning
to sow: knitted knickers...
and: for sure... the bulldozer'd
leopard...
          and if we meet a zombie...
just imagine if...
  just imagine if... the quran told the
ummah to **** all pigs...
just imagine what sort of leather-jackets...
what belts and what shoes
we could steal from that decrepit
quasi-carrier of soul: of animation
devoid concerning itself with
the function of... the heart...
the liver... the brain...
all the more invested in the x-ray spectacle
of bones and the exertion of muscles...
no... i'm pretty sure the pigs would be
left freely roaming...
rummaging back into...
their less domesticated form of
a boar... huff and puff...
and grow a pair of hooks for teeth...
the pigs would still be here...
once... <burp> and only when...
the kuffar / ***** were either all dead...
or converted...
and if converted... then they would
be the janissaries or the mamluks
precial copre of fighters...
to rid the world regime
of the omni-caliphate: Islamia...
from the Morge-haul invaders from
Mars... or Mongolia...
i never know which is "which"...
the lament from Alexandria...
or the lament from Baghdad...
but the glorious books never says:
**** all pigs... it just says... don't eat them...
lucky for the pigs...
a **** gives two rations of pork
for an infidel a martyr status...
but don't eat the pork...
           **** the kuffar... wow...
last time i heard is was merely a *****...
ah... hafiz... too similar...
extending an insinuation into
qof-from-afar!
i dare say... reading Dickens for an
hour did me much good...
all those existential complications
from russia: circa the same time...
the angst of urban alienation on the streets
of st. petersburg...
completely missing...
reading Dickens having already read
a little bit of this... and a little bit of that...
cricket... and going hunting for
rooks: crows... in the trees...
for a morning ancedote of pie for breakfast...
and... speaking like a stenograph...
better than braille...
just saying: the Tehran folk might as well
march: blessing the virus...
which they would... surgical face-masks
and the niqab are somehow synonymous
with ninjas... or johnson's...
   satan's postpboxes?
       i am pretty sure i heard that one...
lucky for me and the belief in
Abraham's *****... a return to...
when i didn't make a runner with a childhood
friend of mine... days after his mother
committed suicide by drinking vinegar...
Hubert... "hubercik"...
now... but i do remember...
those two fine fine... slim... belts...
and a glorious hot bath afterwards...
to: MAN, UP!
                          to conjure up the mind
of that 6 year old...
    i tried to replicate the violence...
on a dobberman of mine...
two whips for biting a ***** of the same
household...
nearly gauged my eye out with a bite...
i guess the teeth about to bite
were implying: watch a little...
i could almost understand a prolonged
waterfall of cementing memory
of a drunk father...
that i could remember...
but all this... scarse female boxing ring
antics... i can forgive my mother...
but a slap in the face for "lying"
when visiting my grandparents...
it's only a shame her last words,
her last real words an onomatopoeia
of vowels caught by H of the tetragrammaton...
7 times she said in one night...
and if we're playing games...
the 7 hill of Rome -
after all... the new testament is the work
of a greco-hebrew "conspiracy"...
what is 666 is turned into Χ Ξ Σ -
the letters...
a 7 headed beast...
oh... you mean the roman numerals?
I, V, X, L, C, D, and M...
                    looks like a 7 to me...
how did they do it...
to have to use 7 letters as numbers...
i'm guessing they... must have...
reserved special rights in keeping
the meaning of number: upper-cased
and the meaning of letter: lower-cased...
but oh: a violence between men
i could understand...
like i can understand... what i understood
when wrestling dogs in my childhood...
omni- litany of the "god" and the affair
of a woman swinging a forehand...
to be later met with
a drill shoved up her ****** and...
a ***** to a frankenstein to the head...
at the temple... when pleasure...
oh pleasure... no pleasure...
and if i were to just forget memory...
and get a tattoo on my body like
a branding at a butchers' for a hanging
hook-dripping squat of grizzly... meat...
at the ready: not mauled...
          turned into a cottage pie of: mince...
but bitten off in chunks that could best
represent... the divine torsos of
         sculpture... or a steak tartare...
yes... they would sooner **** the infidel
than they would **** the pig...
shame... since they wouldn't eat either...
and the pig... is such... a perfected animal...
you can eat almost all of it...
well... from snout to tail...
except for the oink... except for the oink...
for me that's also a capital scam...
when it comes concerning
persian carpets... esp those that boast
about i-ran-out-of-persia...
       having come across the scam in
Sarajevo...
               elsewhere the sort of "men" resorting
the the violence of... sneakers...
and... nothing of the fist
and much of a Medici intrigue...
     whether by poison or by scam...
a fist a knee **** a self-evident opponent
i would probably gesticulate at
with a frown a growl of a poker's-best-kept
secret...
that there's no need for a consciousness
of the heart... beside the heart-attack survivor...
or the cardio-stellar surgeon...
that the brain doesn't exist
outside the realm of a... haemorrhage...
or the neurosurgeon...
         the bones beside the toothpicks...
the teeth as the bite exposed...
and the arithmetic of the osteologist...
my self in these matters not invested...
   that somehow a bilingualism can betray
a schizoid theory of...
exfoliating gwammar...
       and all that can be excused is a rhyme
and all that can be excused:
what can't be excused is a blank page...
because... about as many more of these:
that found origins in nothing
and in nowhere and in: not-how
and in no-be...
                            toes crisping...
on the edge of tomorrow...
for a flame of absolute darkness...
crisping... well: more like freezing
to a numbing death...
                      but the crackling is still
summoned...
as any excuse to exit:
is met.

— The End —