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Taylor St Onge Aug 2015
You were born in the cold black heart of the Cold War, under the fist of
Eisenhower, under the satellite eye of Mother Russia—1960 America.
Chinese Year of the Rat.  U-2 Pilot Gary Powers forgot to **** himself.

Space Race Baby looking up at stars she does not comprehend—
the world is big, the sky is bigger—Shhhhhhhhhhh: huddle under your desk in case a big, black, bomb falls down and burns you so bad you feel nothing but cold  
             cold         cold;

huddle inside yourself in case your plane is shot down over Soviet soil
and everything turns to red, turns to blood, turns to your fingers shaking and your eyes stinging, and you think about that time when your mother told you about the Year of the Rat being associated with white,

with the Chinese color of death.  You think: This is it.  There is where it ends,
but this is not it; this is not the end.  You will die in a hospital bed
in 49 years, so just give it some time, alright?
Khrushchev and Eisenhower can play Tug-of-War and
                                   Vietnam can burn in the meantime.

Mother, when you were born you could not breathe.  Mother,
when you died it was because you could not breathe.  Mother,
when you are not here I think of Gary Powers not having time to press “Self-Destruct,” of the Year of the Rat
                                                                ­      choking to death on
                                                              ­         Lily  of  the  Valley,

of learning how to talk to the 58,286 dead Vietnam War soldiers. I want to
know what it is like to look up at the sky and fear a missile strike smack in
the middle of winter. I want to know how cold the Cold War felt to you in
the Chinese Year of the Rat, and what he felt when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers
fell like
                     Lucifer
                into the arms
            of Mother Russia.
or “The Zodiac Symbol of the Dead”
written for my foundations of creative writing class. this is an experimental villanelle.
Mystic904 Oct 2017
Grand edifices, seem pretty nice
Hoarding up money, such a heist
Pockets full, everything to boast
All that luxury, all that toast

Curtains of wealth, over those eyes
Trapped in such a state of vice
Stockpiles of silver and gold
Deal, a sign, everything sold

Wealth in reality, zero a price
Counting em, this year x thrice
Pretending to be above n bold
The stiff heart you couldn't mould

Crawling over body, ants and lice
Scorpions too, it's nothing nice
Shivering with fear and cold
The pain, agony, all foretold

In the grave, horrendous mice
Game's over for the rolling dice
No one to tell, weren't you told
To that paper now grab a hold

May it be Burj khalifa, all those malls
The huge tall towers, everything falls
Sabotag shall suffer those proud walls
(Awaits!)
The vast stage, superior than all halls
In the meantime in the Állos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
J T Gaut May 2012
**** that ****. This is poetry now. Can you say it isn’t real? Can you say my lowbrow barbaric mind doesn’t express itself? Can you tell me these words aren’t art? **** that. This outcry is whats comin next.

Them burnt cars and bullet scars,
***** boots and tittie bars,
forget to bathe, **** the shave,
my pillow case is made of pave-ment,
twenty years late on that first pay-ment.
I asked the question but got delay-ment,
on what the **** has this all meant?

My colours just distract, them smiles just an act-
you think I’m tokin and ******* and happy go-lucking,
***** im drowning in the bills I haven’t even seen yet,
throwin off the debts as the horse that rolls the best bet,
and don’t forget,
every second you lay down to lie them eyes and theorize,
youre just getten burglarized,
want a burger and fries?
Twenty years off your life- oh and the change too.
Twenty seven ninety-five,
thirteen plus the years I’ll spend,
locked up with nothing to tend,
no garden, no fruit, no love to loot,
no wide eyes to fill and no breeze to shoot,
just a chain gain filling my ***** with soot,
stabbing by the next poor guy,
jabbing by that suit and tie,
the key is not to fit it right- so that every turn reminds who you belong to.
And this is what I wanna do?
Hold up- I pay for that ****?

Now I understand suicide you nihilistic gits,
taking hits while the rest picks up the bits and the red runs the slits but no one sees the slip.
Topsy turvy sliding down the grassy knoll,
the heads tumble but the dough will never roll.
No.
Its busy ******* me in, me and my ilk,
like me too much an *** to be thankful for robes of silk,
mommy’s milk, eleventh hours and the stockpiles of the dowry.
Soft as a baby,
never ****** on the sour but the sweet,
pink feet,
earned on thin green sheet and the red as the man is beat, beaten and burned,
turned spurned despite his age and whats learned.
What is learned?
If only I could tell you.
We’s on the same track , don’t ask me whats gon spell true.
Fah Jul 2013
Dearest Victoria ,

you enquired so, we have:

Listing the problems from her front teeth to the back molars, Winston sat with her back to the mirror

She had bad eyesight so couldn’t really see the contours of her face but was comforted by the fact that there was another person in the room ,

Down stairs Q was making cakes ,

the outfit she wore had enough diamonds to drown a drag queen , some ended up in the cake , along with the usual ingredients : ***** , fluff from under the stairs , a pinch of cremation dust from her Pa’s last fake funeral , the end of a shoelace that had begun to fray and very good quality butter Hard to find in these parts, Most the butter was mixed in with genetically modified jaguar pelt,

modified to grow their pelt as butter, the farmers would attach buckets to their bodies and collect as they malted

This was the latest trend, Q despised it , she made cakes for the café up the road , a dingy old shack with only four stools and one type of coffee, sludge

Out in the garden Sarah Whitely grew her carrots, alongside her parsnips and next to that stood an oak tree who rained down her wisdom onto the veg ,

this made sure that everyone in the house was stocked up with their daily doses of Wisdom ,

Otherwise they were sure to get sick without it ,

I believe in your world , you’d call it something a bit like vitamins ,

Only as one ate the carrots their eyesight into other universes would develop

And the parsnips helped them with their imagination,

I like eating mine with thai tea caramel sauce, shipped in from the faraway land of JAUL , there I hear they don’t need to eat anything but pastries and pizza to keep up their health , they live in amongst wise trees with wise people and wise mountains , thus their capacity for wise is already overflowing, they keep it in jars under the stairs and gift their visitors with at least 3 jars before they depart ,

From across the valley I can see the Snarls house, they are friendly enough and pretty decent fellows but quite honestly they must learn to be a little more understanding and a little less demanding ,

they keep on borrowing all of our rolling pins and never give any back , and the ones they do give back are the ones I don’t really mind them having , it’s that silver one with the flecks of gold dust I really want to use, the gold flakes onto the pastry , that

my dear friend, is the secret to a good quiche, gold dust

The market is 19 kl away , john the Baptist is often the first up , so he goes out there on the solar bike ,

his name isn’t really john the Baptist but ever since he had that motorbike accident he , firstly , switched to solar bikes , and secondly decided that he wouldn’t live any more of his precious life being called Barry McWetsulf ,

anyway, so John does all the shopping but seems to almost always forget the washing powder that doesn’t foam , ergh , the foaming ones contain maggot eggs that burrow into your clothes and before you know it , the foam is all maggots and you’ve got to buy a new cloak ,

that’s a pain you know ,

they aren’t easy to come by anymore Since the hobbits passed through and bought all of he stockpiles up ,

no one thought to make any more

We heard they were dead

(sigh)

supply and demand eh?

Who am i? Ah I forgot, I am the local fortune teller ( that’s what is written on my business card ) but I really I trained in mechanics and have a knack for fixing jumbo jets , sadly the last one I fixed did crash into the Indian Ocean ,

killing all passengers but the dog survived, turns out I had left the last piece of the engine at home, I thought we just didn’t need it anymore

but ya live and ya learn old chap!

So dear, you didn’t put a return address on your letter asking who I was and where I live , so I wrote you one anyway , we do have signal boosters here , maybe I’ll catch you on the airwaves?

Your Friend , Trustee , Peaceful Neighbour , World dweller , Life consumer , time creator , music maker , nebula fornicator

HaHa
Cedric McClester Jan 2017
By: Cedric McClester

We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
The nuclear scientists all say
Before the Biblically revealed Armageddon
Is tragically brought into play
The world believes that a madman
Has his hands on the nuclear codes
And frankly other leaders are worried
Because of what that forebodes

We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
According to the nuclear clock
And people all over the world
Are frankly expressing their shock
At the talk of building up stockpiles
As a necessary and clear deterrent
While furthering an insane plan
That isn’t at best coherent

We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
And some are abandoning hope
Others are still optimistic
By holding tightly onto God’s Rope
But whatever side you may fall on
The potential for disaster is real
When the head of a powerful nation
Operates by how he may feel

We’re thirty seconds closer to midnight
That’s’ a sad but salient fact
With all sides worried and wondering
Who’ll make the first strike attack
Instead of reducing our stockpiles
They’re hell-bent on building them up
Take the time to look at their profiles
You’ll discover that most are corrupt


















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2017.  All rights reserved.
Sand Sep 2013
I looked under the desk
Beneath the bed
Ransacked the refrigerator
But came up empty.

I lost myself again
And finding me is always
The hardest process.

Maybe I should wear
A bell around my neck,
A fashion forward
“FIND ME” noose,
In preparation for the next time
I decide to disappear,
So that way my soul
Can’t scamper too far off
From my self.

Last time I was lost,
I was taped to the backside,
Of an upside-down penny,
Long forgotten on the sidewalk,
Rusting in the rain,
So copperized,
I was changed.

But now I’m a wearied traveler,
Craving comfort over building character,
And much rather just staple up signs:

      “LOST:  Five foot three female.
       Brown hair and black holes for irises
       That **** up all life in hopes
       Of soaking in the aliveness.
       HUGE $REWARD$ PROMISED!!”

But life isn’t so simple;
Inner peace is a cultivated growth
That sets it’s own pace.



So maybe I’ll feel like myself tonight
Or maybe I won’t feel whole for a year
But either way whatever
Smiles and scars my soul stockpiles
Becomes an extension of my existence,
An incorporation of my earthly-bound story.
Craig Reynolds Oct 2010
i remember childhood
like i forget most moments,
something
is always missing

like every autumn
i'd go upstate
to pin ornaments onto trees
like they were war veterans who lost their feet

and rake
stockpiles of leaves

(i can hear their tiny spines breaking)

the ground crackled
because i walked on fire
it was easy
it smelt stale

i recall the fall
in mounds.

i never landed .

i remember floating.
Copyright 2010
Shay Dec 2015
When he caught you staring he would smile
and say that everything was fine, meanwhile
he hid drawings made by a blade under his sleeves
and had stockpiles of "magic" pills, more than ready to leave.

It wasn't until he departed this Earth that everyone recognised
they should've known he was lying, if only they'd realised
every time that he said he was fine,
he was dying inside; oh so confined.
Aa Harvey Sep 2018
Parents – They mess you up


Choices – let me make them.
All your voices I can only condemn.
Knowledge is wasted on your youth,
When all you tell me is what to do.


Choices – I choose to ignore,
All your advice because I listened before.
All I now own are things I hate;
All those choices I wanted to make,
But you corrupted my every independent thought
And all those things I bought for me were yours.


Choices – do parents ever let up?
All those opinions masked as love
And yeah it may all be from a good place,
But now every single miserable day I have to see my miserable face,
In the cheapest looking mirror known to man
And stockpiles of soap for one face and two hands.


Oh my God!  They know not what they do!
These people I love have not got a clue!
Give me a choice and hear my voice,
My will a tortoise unwilling to move in case of upset,
But please, oh please, get out of my head
And replace the terrible bed you advised me to buy.
I hate it so much I just want to cry!
I have to sleep on the sofa now,
Because on that stone I can no longer lie.


So hear my truth, I do love you,
But if hate your choices for what I should do
And all the extra bits of food which I do not need!
Please!  Stop giving it all to me!
It all just goes straight in the bin,
Because I never asked for this!
Why the Hell do you think I have a shopping list?


I hate the way you are so bothered about money.
Let me enjoy it, it could be funny,
To do something fun and waste cash on that.
How the Hell would I know?  You never gave me a chance.


I’m sick of working hard to make my money,
Just to have you spend it for me.
I’m sure there are other things I hate,
But it’s getting late, so I will sleep in the bed I made…

Not the one you made me buy.


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Michael May 2010
As tears fall from his chin
He looks down to see,
This life drip out of him
One drop at a time.

Colliding with his tears,
Down his body to the ground,
Collecting in the mud
His broken heart lies.

His world once vast,
So full of love and optimism,
Now is reduced to a slow painful fading.
One so agonizing, it tears him.

A warehouse once filled with stockpiles of hope,
Is abandoned now, only storing a frigid chill.
A chill that no blanket could heal,
No heart could survive.

It was that very chill that pierced his heart
By taking the form of hope, and lurking it’s way in.
His heart was instantly infected,
And it was more than he could bear.

It was just a splinter of hope,    
No louder than a whisper, no more dense then a midnight fog.
A faint breeze could have blown it away,
But it was powerful enough to make him collapse.

His legs beneath him buckle
Dropping him to his knees
When he lowers his eyes to the ground
He finds the hope lying there.

His heart which has felt so much,
Once bound by an infallible determination,
Now only feels the rain washing away the infection
And replacing it with regret and doubt.
As the beats become slower, the tears descend faster
He is slowly fading to gray.
The voices from within his soul
Cry to him as he screams out in agony;

“Why will this pain not subside?!”
This infection, this plague
It once looked so promising,
But it is now grabbing him by his throat.

Coughing, reaching, gasping
Each breath shorter than the last
He becomes weak and useless
As his face collides with the mud.

The sound of the rain is deafening,
There is no one around to comfort.
His blood becomes diluted, so that no one can see
The truth behind his gray eyes.

Gravity is pulling him down,
Sad, dreary eyes hung low.
As he fades away
He slowly pulls in one
last
breath

“Goodbye my Love.”
© 2009 Michael Plum
Bryan Oct 2017
The green dies.
Never totally, but effectively.
The shadows reach across the land,
increasing their span.
They spill and run off edges like paint that never dries.
Yet you can step in it and never leave a print.
...Or never have one in the first place,
never leave your mark, just crush the foliage:
**** whatever life is left.

The air steams your breath:
A lesson in mortality.
Look! See what makes you tick?
Let me take it, freeze it, condense it,
put it on display, and leave none for you:
the one who made it...
just to make a snowball
(which is really just a fight waiting to happen.)
(Who stockpiles ammo with no intention of using it?)
(Who bites their tongue with nothing to say?)
Too many snowballs grow to be an igloo:
fallacies you can live in for a while.
It's better to just be rid of them.
Let them fly, let them fly...
Relinquish your breath back to its element:
say what must be said, even if it kills you.

It's all the same in the end:
the land will thaw,
the shadows recede,
the snow will melt,
the air will fill with argument.

Why make so much noise
if you can just throw the snowballs
as you make them?

I'll tell you my frozen friend: shelter.

At least then, we can hide for a while.
Mold it to our will.
Sure, we could let it accumulate naturally.
Unformed and unmolded, it's just a burden:
unfocused feelings, drifts of words,
letters, and sounds.
It's better put to use as shelter than mud.
At least igloos are useful for a time,
(Mud still has to be dealt with in the spring,
Why start early?)
and snowballs are at least manageable:
little bites of envy, jealousy, suspicion.

Woe betide the sun who made THIS winter!
Leave US in the cold, why don't you?
Shower US in discomfort!
Leave US to deal with blessing after blessing
in the worst way possible!

It's in our nature to throw the snow,
to waste our respite, to fight with words.
If we don't, in our igloos,
we're washed away every spring
when the thaw takes our shelter,
our words,
our breath,
our loves,

our lives.
Robert Guerrero Oct 2014
I'm 23 as of today
It was suppose to be special
Because the father I never knew
Was suppose to come today
He said he wouldn't miss it for the world
And come to find out
He traded me in for a six pack
Some 26 year old *****
Out for only the money he stockpiles
In every pocket he can find

I lived a poor life
With my mom working two jobs
Barely able to pay the bills
Me quitting school
Even though she hated the idea
Me getting a job as a landscaper
At the age of only 13
Here I am working plants now
Crying because he promised

I had to raise my three siblings
Watch my baby brother die
Because his little heart wasn't strong enough
5 years old and he faded
Disappeared like our father
He says he left for that reason
But he was out the door
4 years before we even knew

How am I suppose to be the man
Of this already vacant house
When there was never a man to teach me
That being a man was sticking it out
Through thick and thin
No crutches and no lies
Just a god we pray to on Sundays
And a lie we live through the week
I can never say I'm strong
I still break down and cry
When I see my brothers footprints
Tattooed on my mothers chest
When I see his name on my arm

They say lessons are learned
Through the mistakes we make
Yet I'm learning more from everybody else's
Rather than stumbling and catching myself
I've watched my younger sister
Sell herself for $50
My younger brother go off to high school
My baby sister crying because nobody can help her
I'm lost and beaten down
I've tried protecting her
Yet I'm too weak to protect myself

My mom says she named me angel
Because I was her gift from god
Yet I know I'm the spawn of Satan
Always working
Always being the role model
I'm the most damaged one
On every possible edge known to man
Only centimeters from the cliffs
When does enough become enough
When do I get to rest
And engulf myself in throw away girls
You know the ones who you ****
Then watch walk out the next morning
Kind of like my younger sister
But she has her own life
Her own special "medication"
Her ritual to relieve her pain
While I'm stuck working 12 hour days
6 days a ******* week
Where church comes first on the 7th day
I want to disappear
But how would my mother feel
My brother my little sister
All those depending on me
Maybe this is the feeling of a man
The feeling a father gets
When things get too rough
Backs in the corner
No left hooks or right jabs to escape
Just alcohol and the flight plan
Where nothing else matters when you go
Leave everything at the door

I haven't had a girlfriend
Yet I've had *** twice
I don't know how I managed that
I've pulled my mother out of debt
Saved us from getting evicted
Even started a fund for my brother to go to college
I'm just hoping I can be as good as a father
As I am a brother and a son
I just wish I could tell every one
Through all the struggles
All the abandonment and self hate
I can still smile for those I love
Their what matter the most
Even when we get mad at each other
Lucas Mock Mar 2016
Dark stormy unspeakables
form eclipses of the shining sun
and the sarcastic ecstasy of a drained emotional high, of cutting veins
while scathing shards of soul
are struggling against the unearthly cyclone,
in conjunction with dirt so mundane
form a manifesto of fire
to drag the heathen into hatred
scorch the earth to raise
a plagued farm of scuttling scarabs
beneath the morphing skin
of diseased brain matter
splattered on canvases.

The cosmic cantatas of hope's celestial voices
coldly calculate into oblivion
while hordes of thunderstorms
in calamitous cacophony
set fire to the wilderness
food to fuel the demons
that crawl into our eyes and retinas
moving our nerves like we're marionettes
severing the stockpiles of memories in our psyche
forcing forgetfulness and ignorance
upon our fretted, filtered minds
and make us fail to recollect
those sunny days
hiding behind the army of darkness
singing etudes to unknown questions
praying to the eternities
or maybe begging?
If you feel like this can be edited at all, please say so. Your criticism will be appreciated a great deal. Thank you!
Jude Duane Mar 2018
I was born under great open skies,
Brought up with the smell of coal-black smoke
Hovering over the family farm.
I grew as distant sounds of whooping
Echoed like thunder across the land
And I was raised on bias, which clung
To the white men of the Black Hills like
Their guns, their religion, and their homesteads.

Those Hills are no place for me.
Look at my multi-colored dress, the
Multi-million-dollar stage, the
Multi-colored lights hanging over me.
This is my home. I thrive in this place.

Gone are the chiefs and their headdresses.
Gone are the dream-catchers and stories
Of battles between Unkthei, the
Serpant, and Wakinyan, the eagle.
Gone is Crazy Horse, always wily
Like the winter fox.
All cast off for a new life of bias.

I make the formula that nurtures
Bias in every little kid’s mind.
Every day’s the same. I spew my words,
My angry, petrol-soaked vitriol,
Which deludes their minds. They’ll be
“pigs” in the not-too-distant future.

In a way, this life disappoints me.
The trailer homes of Indians were
Run-down and forgotten about.
They lived lives of quiet desperation. No
Spotlights shined on their struggles.
The men who killed their kin were immortal.

But pow-wows in South Dakota were
*****, dingy, and dark, yet they were
Attended by many a native.
The farms were barren and gray,
Stockpiles of grain long gone, given to
The plutocratic hands of Washington.
Aunt Ida clung to this world.
Aunt Ida is dead and forgotten.

I was raised on bias in the Black
Hills, and I will stay biased for the rest
Of my days. Why would I give it up?
Joseph, the great Chief, never know
Such a life.
I thought about Tomi Lahren one day, and I came up with a theory on her beliefs that satisfied me. This is a fictionalized version of that theory.
MdAsadullah Nov 2014
Dark souls within garbs bright.
Elegantly attired men in white.
As if politest creature on land.
Travel miles in verdure or sand.

Palms joined before the *****.
A traditionalistic Indian custom.
Faces with unending smiles.
False promises in stockpiles.

From street to street in clusters.
From door to door like beggars.
Their words like song of psalms.
Red or black, color of their palms.

But all are like seasonal bugs.
Many amongst them are thugs.
Their actions draws intense flak.
Tis a choice 'tween red or black.
Matt Apr 2015
FROM BIG FIVE BANK INSIDER-THIS INFORMATION WAS

DELIVERED ,THAT I WAS INFORMED ABOUT YESTERDAY.A

PENDING SYSTEMATIC CYBER /HACK ATTACK IS SCHEDULED

TO TAKE PLACE WHEN "THE GO' ORDER IS GIVEN:CYBER

ASSASSINS WHO HAVE INFILTRATED BOTH TIER 1 AND TIER 2,

BANKS IN AMERICA, AMERICAS LARGEST BANKS, ,ARE

WORKING FEVERISHLY TO INITIATE THIS ATTACK WHEN THE

'ORDER IS GIVEN’.AS THIS ATTACK WHEN IMPLEMENTED WILL

CAUSE THE WORLD'S FINANCIAL SITUATION TO BECOME DIRE

AND A 'FINANCIAL DOMINO LIKE' MELTDOWN WILL TAKE

PLACE,ONLY THOSE COUNTRIES PRIMARILY RUSSIA AND

CHINA 'WHO HAVE AMASSED GREAT STOCKPILES OF GOLD

WILL SURVIVE AND COME FORTH WITH A NEW CURRENCY

WHICH WILL BE BACKED BACKED BY GOLD! THE WEST WILL

CEASE TO BE THE FINANCIAL DRIVER OF THE WORLD'S

ECONOMY AND RIOTS WORLD WIDE WILL EXPLODE-I WOULD

STRONGLY SUGGEST THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE CONTACTED

ROSS POWELL AT (SURVIVAL401K.COM) PROCEED

IMMEDIATELY IN YOUR ACQUISITION PURCHASES, THROUGH

YOUR SELF DIRECTED 401K PLANS THAT ROSS HAS SET UP FOR

YOU, TO TAKE POSSESSION, OF YOUR PRECIOUS METALS POST

HASTE- THE COUNTDOWN CLOCK IS FULLY UNDERWAY,AS THE

MIDNIGHT OIL BURNS HOTTER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE, TO

TRY AND MITIGATE THIS CYBER HACK/ATTACK THAT IS

WAITING FOR THE GO SIGNAL! THIS WOULD ALSO BE PART OF

THE REASON FOR JADE HELM 15 WHICH IS SUPPOSEDLY

STARTING IN JULY ,BUT SEEMS TO BE UNDERWAY ALREADY ,IN

SOME STATES-"81 DAYS TOO EARLY" IS BETTER THAN ONE

SECOND TOO LATE!


Apr 28, 2015
The End of Our Economic System is Near
Eccentric Enigma Jul 2014
Scattered through the mists of time
Ancient bells echo out their rhyme
Swirling dust clouds rolling through
Whispered echoes of the things once true
Raindrops spiral downwards gather pace
Bringing life to dry (wrinkled) creek beds face
Erasing fissures in long dried mud
Drought it breaks and turns to flood
Straddled now aboard fates train
Each day seeing how we lose the pain
Of places once held treasured deep
Where once we did just stand and weep
As changes flowing on life’s tide
Mountain streams feed rivers ride
To replenish stockpiles once deplete
Fate to destiny’s chance we meet
Cloaks their gathered against the cold
Reaching now the things we hold
Warm light floods the way ahead
(More wonderful than that book you read)
Remembering now the things you said
(GE2014)(C) Reserved
guy fawkes was a man from many years ago
and the house of lords decided he would blow
with stockpiles of gunpowder hidden down below.

guy fawkes he got caught when his plot was found
gunpowder was discovered hidden under ground
now he is an effigy that we set alight
that everybody celebrates when its guy fawkes night
MSunspoken Apr 2020
I lay here alone
as my work stockpiles up-
imagine it done
Yes, another Haiku. sorry? no.
This was just a quick one I wanted to write about my friend, but it's too true.
M Jun 2023
"The clock lies!" is the diatribe of a fiery romance.

He stockpiles a little side of diary parlance

in the form of littered poems.

To think the road has stretched itself so far

despite home so closely etched and still familiar

seems but a big lie.

Alas, I've never rambled so far from day one

as I have with her, stapled to hours that weighed like none

other before them.

I'm happy to say that so far as we've walked

the street lamps still shine despite the scaled distance

and sunsets spill to night in nonpareil vibrance

just as they had when we first held hands.
ill see u tmrw ;))
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2021
anything that's young and small is usually fun to have,
fun to care for, tend to... whether a dog...
a flower... or a child... esp. a child...


i'm not into typifying anything racially...
although... with enough experience cycling...
you come across racial stereotypes...
it's unavoidable...
i don't mind black drivers... i don't mind
white drivers: hell...
the stereotype of the white van man:
who's usually white is a blessing on the road...
these guys are a blessing to cyclists...
they care enough to pass you by with the minimum
amount of space required...
but they're not nervy... jerky...
they don't stalk you for a ******* minute
before making a move to overtake you...
but if i see a ******* "ninja" behind the wheel...
or some pompous Asian who blasts his
horn at me... i'm giving him the finger
that'll elaborate into the index-middle-and-ring
and shout at him: *******! read between
the lines!
i can't help myself:
the guy is usually driving a ******* VW polo
and he think's he's driving a ******* TANK...
i can squeeze past... no problem...
i've come across two instances where my
thigh glanced the surface of the exterior of a car...
i once had a collision with one of those
Ronin with an L placard attached to their rear...
******* mileage... doing 30mph... tears in their eyes
from the wind... blah blah...
i never thought i'd say this but...
Heidegger... dasein... where else if not when cycling?!
- a Sunday newspaper...
oh yeah... i'm a "boomer" in that sort of way...
i love the printed press... esp. on a Sunday...
Sunday newspapers are the best...
they have the magazines... they do a News Review...
it's almost as if... the culmination of all things
relevant arrives on a Sunday...
Monday newspapers are pointless...
i believe there should be a media sabbath...
and it would be a Monday since...
the newspapers are most slim on a Monday
and... no one does anything important on
a Monday anyway...
but the following article really did catch my eye...
'Machete gangs on the hunt for flashy Mamils'
(the sunday times, page 15,
october 10, 2021... nicholas hellen, transport editor)
so that's 'x' not "x" since it's a direct quote
and not a metaphor, misnomer or airy-*******-fairy
ambiguity...
the jyst... jist... whatever: the zest of the story
is... a cyclist was rammed and had his £15,000
road-bicycle stolen from him in daylight...
in an affluent part of Loon-dun... Richmond Park...
MAMIL? it's an acronym...
i hate acronyms... it's a H'american "thing"...
middle-aged-men-in-Lycra...
like i said: i too cycle... i'm a nut for cycling...
and i too wear Lycra shorts...
but i cover those Lycra long-shorts with something
breezy... other than that... no helmet...
no Lycra top...
   but it's the closest a man can get to what
women wear underneath...
if Lycra is not equivalent to the finest sort of lingerie
(phonetically... that... lan-jar-ray... not quite...
almost)
a woman can wear... then...
my ******* are not currently tingling
to a point of me thinking i have a ******...
290,000 is the number of bicycles stolen each
year in England & Wales...
funny that... i don't spot so many cyclists
to not have this number properly scrutinised...
i'm guess... scrap metal? scrap rubber?
- it's Lycra it could as well be something sexed-up
like lace... but... it has to be covered with
some sensible material...
i'd sooner be dead than don a ******* helmet...
cycling gloves and that pseudo-yoga-pants look
that women are pulling off...
sure... your *** looks fine woman...
thanks for that libido insomnia i've been having
with a Marquis de Sade hard-on for the past:
20 years!
started ******* aged 8... or 7...
even managed to teach another boy how to *******...
what's the ******* for?
not that? solo projects with ref. to...
no... never... i was never fond of the Egyptian gods...
but this one... so i asked this girl what deity she'd prefer
to... hardly pray to... at least keep in mind:
well... her counterpart... Atum... who spawned
his... offspring through self-*******...
so... hardly a taboo...
of course if i were a woman and had my
decapitated ******* toys and a web-cam...
i'd be milking it...
oh hello plumber... hello... electrician...
it's hardly something to do before a camera & broadcast
it... it's someone one does
on the throne of thrones...
once you do the no. 1 & 2...
that's no. 3 and there's no. 4 that comes up
while baptising yourself in the shower... a proper wash down...
but never in a scented candles spread on the bed
sort of way...
well: if you have to milk it:
i guess you have to milk it...
the sort of erotica associated with pregnant women...
- i never liked Talking Heads...
but this song... qu'est ce que? f'ah f'ah f'ah...
i was sold when watching Bloodshot with van Petrol...
that dance...
i'm shimmy... simmering... hell:
brought right up to the boil...
- so yeah... i can racially profile certain traffic
behaviours...
"ninjas" are not that bad...
but Asian... sorry... not Orientals:
i'll call red red, o.k.?
           Hindus... although i like this slur...
CIAPATY...
          borrowed from japatti...
in my native spreschen it denotes...
eating with your mouth open...
the MLASK... the audible sound of food being
chewed...
but i'll still "secretly" envision a world
where... we ate something French for breakfast...
or just poultry abortions...
something omni- for lunch
and a curry for dinner...
           i can't get over the superiority
of the blue Indian cuisine...
    lucky them: lucky for some to have
stockpiles of salt... but lucky for them to have had
cardamom... green or black... cumin, coriander...
chilly for all this time!
- but when it comes to reincarnation...
sure... i remarked that time sort of stopped being tinged
with a metaphysically: linear and
adorned a cyclic nature...
but... reincarnation implies:
only a fixed number of souls... while the rest of us
are zombies... empty vessels...
i'm not saying it's wrong... but ******* scary...
imagine... it's like the Catholic ELECT...
the Jewish CHOSEN few...
                            it doesn't breed much...
sympathy for your fellow man...
i like sympathy...
a symbiosis of pathology...
i once could quote myself as saying:
apathy breeds no pathology...
a quote staged when someone remarked:
there's nothing worse than apathy...
          dis-ease: a negation of ease... one more scrutiny
with etymological tinges... or hue...

always the two necessary lubricants when
writing... since i never feel like talking:
breathing is fine... but talking?!
refocus of a subject matter: Kandinsky...
talking-head... news anchor...
or merely a ditto-head...
i.e. one half of the "air-quote" i.e.
                                                      " id est... as above...

****... there's some dehydrating washing
in the attic... i need to get that ironed...
there's a decent chicken broth slowly cooking:
i'll need to boil some vermicelli for it
as a starch accompaniment...

i too hate the masochists running riot in...
m'ah race... i hate them...
i don't mind this whole world that has congregated
in Loon'dun...
i feel queasy in a monochromatic society
to begin with...
Poland & Cheltenham are like-for-like...
it's that i've grown among so many hues that...
it's impossible to otherwise an "otherwise"...
but... for a people that espouse so much Darwinism...
but at the same time... trickle down
English... "pragmatic" sensibilities?
sorry... something is going to awake in me
something primordial... something most associated
with the evil genius of the Russians...

you simply can't sell me Darwinism and
behave like ******* dodos!

my Salinger year... my new york year...
whichever name...
a very accomplished movie...
quirky... very quirky...
it's almost like watching...
Bell, Book & Candle starring
Kim Novak & James Stewart...
tamed existentialism: nothing remotely connected
to Robert Eggers' the lighthouse...
a movie on par with Ingmar Bergman's
the seventh seal... or Samuel Beckett's Watt...

i still haven't finished watching the movie...
the night i started watching it
i ended up drinking myself to a silly state
of lying on the floor...
then... attacking my cat with caresses while
crawling without using my legs...
like that cenobite in Hellrasiser: Inferno...
i was head, torso... arms...
a waking nightmare of what watching serious
movies & drinking does to you:
the waking grip of: delirium!

oh i know... a little... w.h. auden famously remarked
that all the Hitlers of the world wrote at night...
the above i wrote during the day:
having forgotten to put on the washing
of bathroom towels...
as you do... gearing up to cooking
the most pristine beef steak...
some french fries... a mushroom sauce...
leftover coleslaw...
you really can't butcher the beef meat twice...
you need to cook it for its final purpose:
tender medium rare...
i'd east blue... i'd eat rare...
but doubly butchering it to a well done?
i guess only the English have this
horrid palette...
they'll make chalk out
of chicken *******! a bit like my grandmother!
no... exactly like my grandmother!

come to think of it... a narrative is a cascade...
a river... a waterfall... something that lends
itself to Heraclitus...
then the cut-up "technique" came
beginning with the Dada movement
and later... fro Tristan Tzara
through to William Burroughs and his
"comrade"... Gregory Corso...
i'm more into juxtapositions...
let's call it...
          Kandinsky's anarchy with the subtlety
of either Satie or Debussy...
i sometimes walk into the forest
drunk... come a special place in my heart...
the highest autumn... the genesis of winter...
with a naked torso: because
i have to take all the clothes of my upper body
and sit... scouting for the moon
on some throne of bark...
peering from behind the branches...
listening to: as a branch is broken...
and something nears...
            
i need this night... it's such an annual event...
a seasonal ****...
like the period it takes me to make my own wine...
i need the trees as skeletons...
it's hard: when... you don't have any colour
to work with...
some might say i write a "word salad":
which is a derogatory term in psychiatry for
those who are familiar with it...
i'm speaking nonsense or...
i'm trying something new...
post-post-modernism...

      does it even matter, right now?
           i don't know my neighbours...
the ones i supposedly knew managed to invent
a tall tale concerning my Arctic hued Maine ****...
kidney failure... sorry... you what?
i was visiting my grandparents while being
traumatized by an advent of future events...
i begged and begged to return home...
if these Asiatic people love themselves so much:
and their community...
how much they might abhor tending
to westerners' pets...
say it... don't fake it...
"neighbours"...

well... that sheikh party... sorry... Punjab?
why do i require all these unnecessary
explanations... why do i need to be schooled?
that party of Sikhs went down well...
i spotted a few of them looking at me sitting
on the windowsill... waiting for an insomniac crow
to crow in the nacht...
  the party was going fine for a few hours...
until 1am hit and... i could hear the aruing through
my headphones...
in the morning a car was parked by
the garden fence that read: DOCTOR
on the front...
so... someone overdid it?

listen, friend... if you don't know how to drink!
don't drink!
i drink because i'm bored...
and i like to... dribble a little scribble...
i am: a harrowing...

     i'm sorry: these aren't my neighbours...
i can tell you why they're not my neighbours...
those Nigerians that moved next door...
where once an English woman... post-wall...
and her pseudo-Lithuanian bulldog of a bf moved in...
the one who told me i needed to ask
his permission when making a bbq...
because he had his washing drying in the garden
and he didn't want a smoked salmon fest...
or the woman that lived two doors down...
with her autistic boy...
i don't know how many men went
in and out after the boy's father left...

i'm not saying i'm better than...
but i like... what is it that i like?
a sensible... polite society...
a society where i can drink a Franziskaner beer
on a park bench, in the shade... and not bark
obscenities...
i like politeness... i like... this most pristine of social
contracts...
i still believe there are...
unwritten... social contracts...
like today... a woman was walking with her
two daughters riding bicycles...
i finished my beer and smoked my cigarette...
i was on my way
riding the bicycle without
holding the handlebars...

LOOK! LOOK! the man is not holding them!
well... i should come up with
some soppy story about being 35 and not having
children...
chances are... society would only allow me
to breed female prostitutes...
and male suicides...
i'm doing the next best "thing"...
nodding my head like a pigeon walking...
pretend dancing while perched on a windowsill...
listening to Talking Heads' ****** killer...

i'm out... the chimp in me checked out...
oh it must be so great to have little girls
and boys...
the ones that spot a man with a beard
and exclaim: LOOK! LOOK! he's not holding
the handle-bars...
he's almost riding a unicycle!
look at the clown in disguise of...
not having any ****** paint!

i'm also jealous... i can make a corner without
holding the handle-bars of a bicycle...
it's like... gravity 2.0: two-point-oh...
but the stuff the English colts in Essex get up to...
gearing up... doing wheelies...
i'm jealous... all i can do is...
turn corners without holding the handlebars....
whey hay! presto!
it's like... gravity can be used outside the realm
of planetary orbit...
it can have its own micro-cosmos! wow!

at this point i ought to be like:
i want to raise young girls...
teach them how to ride a bicycle without
them needing to use the handlebars...
only for acute turns...
i'm sorry... the chimpanzee in me
is sleeping...
i'm Harold... can i help you?

               i'm ******* grooving to Talking Heads'
****** killer bass line...
like a pigeon... strutting... instead
lodged with a leg folded sitting on it
on a windwosill...
              believe me... the world's great!
it's almost as if i never left it:
it's almost as if i arrived to watch its sunrise!

the drink is hear... the absence of any decent narrative too...
talking heads' psychology killer vs.
fleetwood mac's: the chain...
to hell with African-esque...
the European-solo projects...
if it's not about the bass... it's not about anything...

imagine a pigeon strutting...
and my giggling... imitating dancing while rooted...
those two girls on bicycles...
LOOK! LOOK! a man is riding a bicycle
without holding the handlebars!
as much as that might have: ought to...
bring me sorrow...
the sun was shining...
i wish i could... tap into that sort of
research material...
hello dead end... hello project dodo...
for all the right reasons...
for ****'s sake...
my mother loved her father...
but my grandfather "sold" her... the worst of the worst
of genes...
i'm also invested in them...
i'm evolved in that:
i know... when it's desirable to stop...
i want to stop...
i don't want a future i dispose of to
come back to me with... ******* complaints...

i adore the children of strangers...
LOOK! LOOK! the man!
ha ha... the first time i was scrutinised as
a man... i... never remembered being a boy...
LOOK! he's riding his bicycle without using
the handlebars!
it's the little that makes the most...
like... catering to your feline companions...
making them teased... but now abhorring you
up to the point of:
how, the, ****... do, you... arrive... at...
"lost" cats?! dogs i can understand...
i saw this one instance where a guy...
roped a dog to a bench... then ****** off...
for some... strange ******* reason...
the same dog was... running around with
another stray... ******* magic...
a stray dog a "lost" dog i can understand...
but... what sort of a *******... what sort of *****
do you have to be / become...
to conjure up a... ******* stray cat?!
seriously?!

believe me: i've lived a little: to know... a little...
it's not that i know nothing:
which is... that infamous Socratic negation positive
statement....
you can't just... conjure up...
"lost" cats... what terrible people they must be...
dogs i can understand...
leashed...
cats... i imagine cats ******* off on their own...
then i start thinking about
the milk-toast...
the... overcooked beef...
beef that's not... medium-rare... or blue /
i.e. doubly butchered...

the bicycle isn't simply "owned"
by =a: pataphyscian: alfred jarry....
               a cyclist is somehow...
sometimes... a buffer....

hello... the end.
Sketcher Feb 2019
When I'm bored, I get depressed. No motivation, so the stress stockpiles in a mess like loose files or a test that I never studied for cause I'm way to busy thinking about a ***** and that one time we smoked a blunt. Now she's dizzy. Smoke some more. Feel her ****. That ****'s drippy. Kiss me twice. Falls out the door. Kinda tipsy. Never came back. Said she loves me, then she attacked. This isn't healthy. Hurt my heart and mentally pulled me apart piece by piece.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
i wanted to have a bonfire over a week ago...
since the recycling centres are still
closed...
          but no... a neighbour of mine...
had about four each night...
     the english herr - angielski panicz -
didn't mind...
      but when i was about to burn some
evergreen... and as evergreen burns...
when it's still retaining some of its moisture...
it would burn... with a white smoke...
some other neighbour would make
a complaint: are you having a bonfire?
but my husband has asthma...
i own a garden... but i'm somehow...
by law... able to burn garden ****... in it...
once upon a time: but now?
at any given hour...
mother runs up to me... but this other
nieghbour has his washing on the line...
the washing would be infused with...
pine scent?
           but it wasn't about the washing
drying on the line...
the pet peeve project of england:
look toward h'america!
england "somehow" failed...
            two h'americas if not three:
a new breed of punctuation...
there were always the two europes...
   the germans were pushed from
the lands that... they once occupied...
pushed across by the slavs...
who in turn were: funneled by
either the turks, the huns or the mongols...
yes... it's a pretty picture... england...
esp. in the grand vicinity of
the A406 ring road around London...
because anything that teases
the M25...
        over a week-ago....
i wanted to stand before the altar of fire
and say a thing or two with:
the iblis of the quran...
the god of the old testament...
how i made of clay...
am so akin to the spirit without form
of the fire: i - clay - the majority
poker form of water:
i need to breathe... a fire needs to breathe...
i happened to read some rumi
with a milder than usual hangover...
usually an appreciation for some
late in his oeuvre Rembrandt helps likewise...
no... it had to be rumi...
     i come as a rummaging odour...
i'll just throw two or three contending
terms...
the shahada... the testimony -
  tawhid: yes... the H is a surd / apostrophe...
   which could make a hebrew blush...
given a trinity emerges...
    ' י ' ו
               the apostrophe for...
where you'd find the vowel catcher:
the first: the urn of sighs and inquiry (ה)
   and the second: the urn of laughter (ה)...

what is the boasting of:
    la ilaha illallah - the dog term for god
in the language of the maltese is: allah...
again: all?     aaaah... is sigh...
and what of... yalla imshi? camel jockeys
and... the saudi crown... washed in...
because yugoslavia is not... bound
to some ******* translation of yemen...
perhaps not the croat translation...
that mess of... the turks receding...

it really is a "thing" between me and
the english: rich-pants:
h'america: the hope! the beacon!
lucky for some they speak english...
pockets of spanish...
hopes for fwench: but not really...
and the *****-volk don't get out
as much... there's no need to know
whether there's a diaspora hive ment.
in their midst...

       i like slurring... probably as much
as i like jazz...
          oh... i couldn't have a bonfire...
because of someone's asthma...
again: i'm not superstitous but...
when a strong independent woman:
such as my mother...
has a nervous breakdown...
because... i showcased my displeasure
as some variation of an omnipotent
child-god...
no... if... the last leg standing
'ebrews could have countless...
and this... mediator "jinn" can have
four nights in a row...
and there are no complaints...
no one is suffocating...
    well... petty can sooner or later
become an avalanche...

         how do surds work?
in english pretty **** well...
you could technically erase the letter H
from the alphabet...
   say... i own a 'atchet...
      but not when coupled to an S or a C...
sheer: yeah... the "invisible" caron
covering over the S...
   cheap ****: and so above the C...
            closer: szkoda: closer: czekam -
      shame in the vein of: casually: oh well...
and: i'm waiting...
if the pronoun is to be invested into
the word: then in the past participle:
czekałem (i waited - "as" a man)
   czekałam (i waited - "as" a woman)...
     chec-chec-w'ah-w'ah...
gifts of the trade: smithy to the words...
shame the tower and the tongue
do not count for the love of 7...
but... these two already have... profit for
the right sort of narrative...

gender neutral pronouns...
how about the already available:
gender neutral nouns -
no one would call a sun feminine...
no one would call a moon: masculine...
gender neutral pronouns
in a language where:
the nouns are gender neutral!
that mighty oblong IT referential
to almost anything...
including the thinking "res" of man
that being the id -
   and the need to fake... the anaesthetic...
for a psychiatric inquiry...
to sedate a man while keeping
him awake... like a zombie...
   like less than a zombie...
            like a ghost: character in one's
spectacle of the third person...

         surds elsewhere?
           eh... raj butter: dhal... d'aal... or
the macron above the a: to elongate...
      in-valid contra:
   ynvalid contra... welsh... akin to
  the iota in: bid... well... byd...
                           buddy: is no -ee- is he?
he is...
                  inṽalid...
                        i said it three times to summon
st. peter and the cockrel and the morning
of denials...
    someone was choking on a pebble...
someone was the future saint stephen
getting drunk from nibbling on a bud of rose...
if the letters are not dancing...
then... i too: no... then i must be sitting down...

   gnome! 'nome!
                      a gnostic reading... a 'nostic reading!
new rules... the goal-posts move...
medicine and the art of: DiaGnoStiCS!

the hebrews teach only rule for
concerning oneself with god:
the islamic variation you rarely hear:
the taqwa - the fear of god...
which comes hard... to come by...
life requires a dear-almost-forgotten...
audacity to claim its... cherries and prunes...

newly converted proselytes...
        would be asked to cite the tawhid...
but never be allowed the comprehension
of the taqwa...
           one is never... truly...
allowed to be obedient to but one master...
which is probably why...
to grace the ordeals of many...
drunk on love while retaining
the sort-of rubric concerns of sober people...
drunk on the liquid that was
used to disinfect surgical tools...
      etc. etc.
                        
                what good of me: worth of anything:
is that sober regurgitating machine:
clog in the pick-me-up of / for:
the sacred truth of the media...
at least when the church was concerned...
i would be this...
miasma: ushered into a pre-sumptous
hades of sorts:

           in england: there's that vain hope
that... somehow...
that scene... where...
john adams (paul giamatti)...
meets king george III (tom hollander)...
i too whim at: and blink and winkle...
at the idea of a haircut...
and a retained scalp...
        a burning of the beard
and the theatre of the guillotine...
the glass-eyes of a mad king
and the: furore of the upcoming
project to come!
that what was to become...
h'america...
what not what became of england...
and what not...
the old tired breed of systems...

according to rumi: *****-whipped-***-cream-pie
surfer: the statement is universally
afghan:
   man is the created...
woman is the creative...
bless the mongols, the mongrels...
the seals, the apache, the confiscated
budgerigars... the mangos...
the willow trees of queen victoria's
periods as a widow...
the crazed slumbering spiders...
catch a constellation of stars along
with the cobweb nothingness
of the most: easily... agitated stars
in transit in the body of bothersome flies...
the god of gods and son:
who is better known as...
either the prince of leeches /
mosquitos...
                   hybrid effort...
i drink his if he drinks mine...
        the blood the blood!
            
flies: 'ere brown blood...
           almost mythological to have
to digest...
            the throne stands... empty...
          and... once more...
              the neck: upon which...
a crown should rest...
is... plucked...
but plucked... with no word of envy:
as...
      headless...
that the throne... stands... empty...
      and who is... to... bypass the gravity
of the upkeep of grafitti jargon:
to... "master the wave(s)" as... it were?
some... poor slavic shmuck from
a former satellite affair
of the soviet... empire?
     no no... to perceive!
is to not! project!
            fickle heart of woman
and a young man...
we are not to be eased with phonetic
miracles of mere... 'ebrew...
before long...
the arab: our golden goose...
our milk and honey and black gold
and yacht affair...
but what of... the... aldous huxley
of... beijing... the... slaughter
of all religion and of virtue and of vice!
the freed new land
of ethical inhibitions... castrated!
these new land of:
frankenstein's galore!
    oh the joy of...
           inter-racial biases and inter-species
furore!
where one frankenstein is left...
gasping for air: a new breeding-groom
is left waiting to rekindle...
the pax... that science be...
freed from the moths of history
of ancient greece and rome...
squinty-eyed... lemon ******* furore!
of... hardly a buddha training:
yin- the divine sparkle...
yang- the devilish inhibitor...

               the western way:
to better man by interracial breeding...
one should hope to mind...
the slur... skin-head...
between the african and the european:
mind you... what of the eskimos?
the japanese?
never mind...
the skin-head... and the... afro-"tinge"?
what about the raj: the subcontinent...
the... copper-necks?!
what of... the skin-heads...
and... the arab and sub-arab...
the indian cumin and coriander folk...
the copper-necks?
  must i?
   oh but i must...
       if the whites are the skin... heads...
if the whites are... hautköpfe...
then there's a: in-between to distinguish
black from white...  "..." and nanny "..."...
dumbo surds...
      kupferhälse...
                         isn't it... therefore...
somehow... fair?
  the zoo of ethnicity vocabulary:
afro-saxons... twiglet-fringe...
                  my best chase: doberman bark...
as ever... when the there's a reality
of the ubermensch retired in berlin:
active in beijing beside...
the fear of the theory...
the reality... god only knows...
draws... a ******* blancket!
     so, thus... frankenstein can have...
his... warewolf and octopus bride of
8 known vaginas...
and 10 more unknown unknowns...
because... Dr. Rumsfeld is...
too quick to point out...
any other: known knowns...
or... knowy known knowns...
or... unknowy knowy know: knead: dough...
oops savvy... born from piling
up missing link nukes to...
the bread that was born from
stockpiles of rubble from iraq...
dr. know-know: and as of: "now"...
                                   oh... oops: unknowingly:
no: and know oh knowy: gnomes...

if we're working from anything
it's "us" working from...
- if the greatest trick the devil ever pulled
was to convince the world he didn't exist... -

<'paul / lack>
       h'american racial slur for someone
of a western slavic ethnicity -
target practice for not being russian...
actually, though... phonetically...
polak - polska - polski - polka
    the italian gringos love the term...
like they still owned latin
and greece and... most importantly...
the libido governing...
            carthage...
      it's... parfâité complétant...
                           complétą... mind... the -nt
in fwench?
                the h'american "racial" slur...
you speak the most pristine
single word identifier:
not paul... not pole...
but ******...
     which i now truly known: what it is derived
from... king john's nickname...
of the angevin quest to keep most of
france...
  the nicked: 'lackland'...
        
   well... if the devil was so generous...
as to... do the devil's work...
then god... must have pulled a "similar" trick...
the greatest trick that god ever pulled
was to convince the people that the world...
didn't exist...
the fate of all science before
the altar of promise of faith...
which... the promises of doubt and science
ever ushered in...

who would want to invest in a life...
in a life in a fake...
a forgary of a world...
skinheads and the coppernecks...
i like racial-slurs...
              it's what keeps civilised
topics bound to the tattoo of chin-up
and knuckle...
nothing: pacified-aggresive...
*****-squint / squirt...
      i don't even know what...
shrimp-****...
curly-brains...
    candian-goose...
ice-c­ream ***** soda and blessed:
the ever-green of wisteria and
tokyo and toronto?
        
           niqab foreskins?
school 'em! ******* kippahs?!
          i love the racial slurs...
because: no sooner than...
well... to the heavens! we "glide"...
surf... chances of seeing a glaring
naked eye picture from jupiter?

  the greatest trick the devil ever pulled...
the greatest trick a (solipsistc) god ever pulled was...
this world was a forgery...
and that all the evil in this world was:
ontologically sound: bullet-proof!
it was our own fault!
     we were... the only monkey
with... ambitions to investigate the dodo projection!

i feel the absence of the polar opposite...
in that either a god...
or devil... ***** itself into a duality
of supreme kim jungian frown oohn..

best love ever spawned...
watching the grass grow tall...
taller than one's capacity to envision
a knee-height... with or no prior to:
kneeling at the altar;

     the greatest trick... he didn't exist...
     the greatest trick... this world was a fake...
kirk Apr 2020
The whole world is in lockdown, no country is immune
We're all told to stay indoors, and not come out too soon
Like being in a chrysalis, cooped up in a cocoon
Social structure has broke down, burst like a flat balloon

We can't go out to party's, or be in a crowd
Pubs and cinema's have closed doors, locked behind a Covid cloud
Restaurants are out of bounds, because that is not allowed
Our enjoyment has been obscured, and covered in a shroud

Forget whatever we once knew, because there is a different law
Our freedom is now compromised, and large gatherings are no more
Perhaps we were over populated, when they opened the flood door
Thousands of people have now died, and that's without a war !

Everything has turned to ****, why didn't we take a stand ?
Barriers could have been raised, before it got out of hand
We might have stopped contagion, and the infection on our land
Acting sooner may have helped, but perhaps it was all planned ?

We should have closed our boarders, to lock out China's beast
Extend the quarantine abroad, to prevent our own deceased
Could homecoming pleaders, be why the death toll has increased ?
It makes me wonder, if this virus wasn't purposely released

Why speed up the outbreak, and bring our county to it's knees ?
It seems to me it has spread, with a sense of ease
The planet is now suffering, from a huge deadly disease
People think that your infected, if you just cough and sneeze !

The fears of our fellow man, and the entire human race
Drastic changes to our lives, we shouldn't have to face
We don't want people coming near, to invade our personal space
Is two metres far enough, with social distancing in place ?

Gloves and masks are being worn, and the public are annoyed
We're all anti socialists, because our life is now devoid
Most of us are scared to death, since Covid Nineteen was deployed
Ever since they let it loose, we have become more paranoid

Some people they are selfish, their far from being noble
Panic buying in the midst, of a pandemic that is global
It maybe worse than nine eleven, or the disaster of Chernobyl
Just think about the vulnerable, the elderly and immobile

No need to empty supermarkets, until there's nothing on the shelf
Stop buying an excessive amount, and only thinking of yourself
It's bad enough as it is, with the infection of world's health
Huge stockpiles should not be, the abundance of your wealth

Businesses have shut up shop, now the virus has been casted
Their efforts are most honourable, for however long they lasted
Do you need more sanitizer, is greed something you have mastered
Why purchase two hundred toilet rolls, don't be a selfish *******

Paracetamol is now scarce, with all of you go getters
It doesn't stop the disease, or being treated like we're lepers
Scaredy cats are even worse, than all the known bed wetters
How do we protect ourselves, cover the planet in French letters ?

The thought of even going out, causes so much apprehension
A short walk is excruciating, due to extra increased tension
Bus services have diminished, and most shops are in suspension
Some limited essential stores, but we're still held in detention

Holidays have been stopped, most of the planes are grounded
It's unfortunate your stranded abroad, why are you so astounded ?
Ignoring warnings not to go, so no one should be hounded
Staying would be preferable, soon as the alarm was sounded

A sudden interest in the homeless, they must think their on vacation
They only got them off the street, in case of contamination
We haven't had another war, now we're placed in isolation
Is this a way they can reduce, the surplus population ?

Ten people at a funeral, how are you supposed to grieve ?
A congregation cannot mourn, if their hearts not on their sleeve
The dead deserve much better, more respect for when they leave
Our family comfort is denied, it's an evil web they weave

You may clap for the carers, but upon closer inspection
They would prefer equipment, for their own personal protection
Some can't get the Covid test, it's an unnatural selection
People risking their own life, should be a health exception

Stay at home to save lives and protect the NHS !
A national emergency is declared, and the earth is in distress
Washing hands is paramount, but now it's in excess
Where is Coronavirus from, why did we grant access ?

China keep your viruses, don't be a whole world donor
We're ******* with isolation, and being our own loner
All of us are victims, but I am first class moaner
Everyone unite with me, and say ******* To Corona
Disclaimer:

This may not be everyone's view or opinion and if you have different thoughts on this matter then that is fine, neither of them are wrong, every situation however major or minor or in between has an individual view point from each person who experiences it and this is just one, Some things you may like and some things you may not like, there maybe some things you may not agree with but hopefully some of it you will.
To this end I have wrote 19 stanzas as it is a strain called Covid 19 one Stanza per number.
Dove finch he following iniquitous
     licentious, lecherous longing
     extinguished quite
some years ago,
     when eldest daughter
     stopped being polite
actually she ceased - might
tee angry talking heads

     to this papa for months, whose
     only asks prays foe praise,
     and who doth newt
     wish to ignite
animosity from any beloved fan,
     whose critical judgement
     toward my errant friskiness,
     aye snuffed out light

and accepts dues
     against prickly don'ts,
     and opted to risk broad
     casting general height
full actions, which attestation
     spiritedly burst asunder
     blitzing Lenovo external
     screen within minutes bite

mutt hung lest
     censorious replies pillory
     this sensitive chap
     I merely uncorked
     irrepressible facet
     (asian iron maiden
     strangle choke hold)
     forced these words

     to help give hollow explain
nations of this nada
     so shiny white knight
philanderer (juiced now ***
     ming clean) by night just
     an oon din
     aery in Das scribe
     bubble during -

     the day until...zee...
wife found me absent - yee
(ping, and sowing, thee
rather desiccated oats)
     celibacy playing tree
men dose impetus,
     viz midlife crisis spree
from sleeping quarters re:

at 724 West Rail
     road Avenue, pre
planned within
     the basement nee
tricked out as cellar quasi
     pent house suite for me
comfortable sleep
     ping accommodations,

     pleasing this wander
     lusting NON GMO lee
burr teen, sans mat,
     (and also Scottish Matt)
     tress atop boxspring key
ping stockpiles of prurient frilly
     laced female lingerie, je
nais se quois, no matter

     escapade usual lee
took place in pitch black dark
     accouterments singularly, solely,
     and strictly necessitated,
     arousing, coaxing, and
     exciting libido asper
     one barenaked lady for
     yours truly, whereat

     aye do blatantly
     confess flute'n glute'n guilt free
     to concocting, hat
     ching, and orchestrating
     profligate secrete

     rendezvous aspirations
     toward sordid man of la
     cherry munch ching Lothario
     (a combination Casanova,
     Don Juan) wannabe.
july hearne Apr 2021
mornings wasted
spit upon blank pages
stop watch for a man who never shows up
every dream is a hopeful chance
to **** him in your sleep

pull a gun in this sleep
if not, then wait for cancer
a colt 44 is a cold kind of dancer

stolen graveyard flowers
life sentence hours
rabid dogs circling high towers

there's a movie inside
an unfixable life
a demon you thought
was just some pretty thing
something young
coming down the elevator
coming like communists made in china

ugly laughter made in china
something young like laughter laughing
a demon you thought
was just some pretty thing
ugly laugher made in china

something young
an unfixable life
hungry as a reaver
disarm for harm
stockpiles piling

buy your cancer,
cheap, chinese, and made of plastic,
made of slave and
made of master
made in china
buy your cancer
like a demon you thought
was just some pretty thing

hungry as a reaver
a seat at a ***** table
150 square feet
one burner hot plate
made of cheat, made of china
made to confiscate and made of hate

mornings wasted
spit upon blank pages
Disorder
Joy Division

I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand
Could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man?
Lose sensations, spare the insults, leave them for another day
I've got the spirit, lose the feeling
Take the shock away

It's getting faster, moving faster now
It's getting out of hand
On the tenth floor, down the back stairs
It's a no man's land
Lights are flashing, cars are crashing
Getting frequent now
I've got the spirit, lose the feeling
Let it out somehow

What means to you, what means to me
And we will meet again
I'm watching you, I'm watching
Oh I'll take no pity from your friends
Who is right? Who can tell?
And who gives a **** right now?
Until the spirit new sensation takes hold
Then you know
Until the spirit new sensation takes hold
Then you know
Until the spirit new sensation takes hold
Then you know

I've got the spirit
But lose the feeling
I've got the spirit
But lose the feeling
Feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling
Tony Mar 2021
Rosary clutched in stigmata death-palm
coughed-up contrition of flies,
saints of jazz
doo-*** prophets
scrying the future
from the crumbling platforms
of terminal subways
Desolate taxis
hijacked by hobo lords spewing dysentery,
harvest moon waxing
ever-expanding translucent womb
of hostile intentions left to die
Barricades of broken dreams
stockpiles of regret
"Remember the pox of '26?"
"****** your sister"
"Not a prayer--***** priestess ****-altar
in terminal subway"
"Believe it"
Desperate shadows
of neon slave-kings
flutter by like nickelodeon
stuck on 1920
New feasts in empty rooms
served by ******* children
of obsolete gods
Highways filled with
dispossessed shadows
harvested from toxic
curdled telepathic fusion
of soft spiritual resonance
upon flashback landscapes
Jew street-vendors
hustling new flesh
for old scars
New breeds of
the same old crooners
gurgling asymmetric odes
pining over angry youth
and necromantic daydreams
Hostages taken by silent armies
Locust women nesting
virulent seeds in catacomb brothels
Starlight suicide casts silhouette
upon hungry playgrounds
Cruel magic, discarded taboos
fetal totems
Piano plays itself
in spectral ghost town saloon
Iridescent window fragments
of hollowed-out Mardi Gras trailer park
Lazy wolves move
in slow maddening orbits
The meandering scent
of virginal ***** girls
strewing violets with hymeneal joy
The final trumpet
bleating agony of soft pearls
like death needing a friend
Now the seals the scrolls the bowls
and diaries of Hebraic nightmares
"Remember the pox of '26?"
"I'm tired"
"Do you remember Heaven's frozen depths?"
"Can't feel my legs"
"Perilous matrimony
dowry of blood and skin--rest now"
the last of our tears
fall into Hell as rain.

— The End —