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J Nc Mar 2016
Way up there
In the thin, thin air
There sits a man
Who laughs and grins
And fiddles with his double chins
A lunatic, if you must know
He paces, paces,
To and fro
Not love, nor hate
Does Steve perceive
But TV programs make him seethe
Xanax, ******, amyl poppers
None of these are Steve's show stoppers
Thorazine would do him good
But he won't take it
Like he should
So Mumbling Steve will grimace/grin
Until it's time to cry again

His mother loved him not a whit
Flushed Steve away, like so much ****
He killed his daddy, uncle, too
He killed that man, with Devil's Brew
Mumbling Steve drank up the rest
Of that that killed the old ******
Then laughed and laughed
And flashed a grin
Then burned off his extra chin


JNc 3-16
Very dark nonsense. This one makes me a little uncomfortable.
Dark n Beautiful Oct 2015
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.

She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch

Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,

Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.

Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him

She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,

I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories
Edward Alan Apr 2014
You mumblers and raspers
Of resp'rat'ry rattle:
Open your throats!
Forsake ye! the gaspers,
You quoters of cattle
And prattle of goats!

Or lay ye with horses
Whose tongue ne'er divorces
Those ivory choppers,
Those sibilant stoppers;
You lispers: beware,
Whether stallion or mare,
While you nibble your oats!

Stop your speech-stumbling!
Go suckle an udder
You dizzy, damp calfs!
Restrain your talk-tumbling,
And swallow your stutter
Nor utter foul laughs!

You outspoken nags
Mimic bolt-broken stags
As you bleed allegations
Down paths of my patience
And clatter your antlers;
What heavy-hoofed ranters
For no one's behalf!
A C Leuavacant Jun 2014
It was at one time
Many fine days or years ago
Near a place I had known well
Somewhere I had long since
Deemed as 'a place to be'
It was there
That I first met Dwell.  
I had waited there all night
for any such sign
of a slow sunrise
That seemed at the time
Like it would never come  
So there I sat by myself
On a grassy heap
Recently dampened
By the passing morning dew
Trickling through the grass
And overpassing my eyes.
It was sometime in late June
Just as midsummer's day
Had passed away  
I Alone in the countryside
Just as the vague light
of early morning
had passed through the sky
Unsure of whether  
It would turn into something more
Or just slouch back into more night
And I remember
Remember feeling so uncertain
Of what was going to happen next
It felt like a divine crossroad
Two paths
with two equally likely roads
And ways to go.
'On the one hand' I said to myself
'If the sun is doomed not to rise
I could become the king
Who all would despise'
For I had and always will be
A man of the night
A dark towered figure
passing through black corners
That could be me in royal robes.
And I laughed to myself
It certainly had got to
that stage of the night.
But alas there it was
Unmistakably clear
The golden curl of sunlight
Passing through the clouds
Just sunrise
No dark kingdoms for me
No
Just the prize of morning
a small reward for
Surviving the night alone again.

And It was just then
That I heard the first sign  
A clip, a stumble and a low drone
as I peered up
What a sight met my eyes
Out of nowhere it seemed
Something
That I had never ever seen before
High in the sky
Almost touching the sun
It was old Dwell's Zeppelin
Of course
But I had no idea of that
back then.
As it came closer I stood up
A black frame traced with letters
It Contrasted well
with the indigo sky
And I must admit
That even I in my wisdom
And lessons of earth
could not hold back my fear.
But I would not run
I just sat and watched as it fell
Fell down down down
And landed in a nearby lake.
I could read it now
If I squinted my eyes
'Dwell and Co'
It read
'Traveling tailors
Workers of wind
Magicians of sea
And loyal dream makers'.

Before too long
When the clouds all had passed
I heard a click
from the Zeppelin's door
And then a splash
And upon seeing it open wide
I decided to take a look
At that thing in the lake.
I stood by it's edge
And watched.

And then
Down by the lake  
Out of nowhere
An old wooden bridge did appear
From nothing
like some unrehearsed magic trick
Connecting the zeppelin
To where I stood
I almost fell over as I looked at it
Old rotten wood
with dusty lit lanterns along
And just then a figure stepped out
Dark and small
walking towards me
His face catching the light
Not ancient, not young
With a dumb happy smile
He approached me
eyes covered
with those low flight goggles
He wore on his eyes
'It's oh so nice to finally
Meet you my friend!
Your thoughts
they have touched us
And we cannot pretend
That we're not intrigued
So let me welcome you here
There's no need to hide
Please come on with me
And I'll show you inside'
He brandished his hand
And waved me towards
The bridge that had just arrived
And I was confused
By his confusing words
Who in the world
Did he think I was?
'Its nice to meet you too and You're ever so kind'
I responded to him
'But oh can you please
explain what's going on?
I don't want to be mean
But this is the only
floating bridge zeppelin
that I've ever seen'
He chuckled and chortled and said
'Dually received
We'll tell you inside
Of how much you've achieved'
So intrigued as I was
I followed him onto that old bridge
And across the blue lake
And approached the old door
Of that monstrous thing
towering high.
And as the man turned to step inside and out of the light
He stopped for a moment
He looked at me and said
'Don't worry my friend
things are about to get better
Oh and I forgot
The name Is Magician Pepper'
I was still in a daze
And didn't say much
But stepped inside after Mr Pepper.

Inside was different story
And again my eyes
could hardly believe what I saw
Walls of gold
floors of silver
All laced with jewels
Made up the interior
Of an old style living room
Cozy and neat
Magician Pepper announced
that he would go inform Dwell
Of my arrival
He exited the room
And he left me alone
To stumble around this paradise

'What a place'
I thought to myself
As I looked around
And counted the sights
From the shining carpet
To the amber chandelier
And as I had my back turned
Eyes fixed on that glowing red fire
That had previously
Not been seen
A noise behind me
Came shuffling through
And one deeply toned voice
Said  'I knew it was true'
I turned and there he stood
The one who I knew
Would make all ok.
He stood at the base
Of a staircase
That had not been present a moment ago.
Magician Pepper at his Side
And a small white dog by his feet
A tall man was he
With short dark hair at his sides
And Green sparkling eyes.
He was one of a kind alright
Just one look at him
Made you stop caring
made me stop caring
About irregularities
And Zeppelins
It just made me want to
Just go on
Go on and flourish.
He raised his lips
And carried on as before
And I listened right up
'I know this is a strange vision to appear
But once I heard that you were so near
I just need to stop and meet you
In the flesh
You're an interesting Man
I must confess
My name Is Dwell
Of Dwell and Co.
This is my Zeppelin
And my dog Kato
Yes, I'm so sorry
You're probably so confused
Of what exactly
It is that we do!
Well we are dream makers
The swappers  
The tradesmen of dreams
We listen to thoughts
And answer your pleas'
Now I at this time was taken aback
For what on earth did he mean
'I'm sorry'
I said
'And it's just that you
you're a dream maker?
That cannot be true'
Dwell just smiled and gestured
To come up those grand stairs.
Apparently my views were tainted
I knew they were
I had not been the same
For a while now.
Times may be strange
But maybe Dwell will help me
Hopefully.

At the top of that staircase
Was an oblong door
Hung swift with Golden bolts
Dwell swung it forwards
To reveal it's heart
The control room
The centre
Full of Buttons and knobs
and fancy machines
Stood all along
'It really does sound like a lie'
Said he
'This is but the cockpit of dreams
For what I do is
answer the screams
I travel from world to world my friend
Time to time
You must have known there's more out there
Are you not that way inclined?
With a press of this button'
And he gestured at three
'We'll zap up away
And who knows where we'll be?'
My ears were on fire
But believe him I did
'Is it all for fun?
or do you make a few quid'
Pepper really laughed now at this
And Dwell stood as he slowly unfurled
'Most people main doubt is us leaving the world.
But you seem quite eager
Quite keen to help
Seems like you're better
Than anyone else'
And I did smile at him
And I did understand

He told me all he knew
We sat there
Sat there all morning
And all I did was listen
To big tales of travelling men
And the barriers
Of trans-dimensional travel
That he Dwell had overcome
To enable his ship
To cross between worlds
And as Dwell finished
I knew what he wanted
And I started to Grin
'Please Mr Dwell, when can I move in.

I can't tell you the feeling
as Dwell pressed
one of the buttons three
We sped into the air
and were gone
Like a flash
I was unaware
of why I was so ready for it
Like an Albatross soring
above the clouds
We rose
Higher
And higher
A spinning around us
Rocked our bones
And it was then
That me
With Dwell
With Pepper
And the small dog Kato
Vanished from the sky.

I sat all around me
as the wind rose
The thick smoke of city
That filled the streets
But that was no city
I had ever seen
And As we swooped down low
I looked down
And saw the concrete metropolis
Of another world.
A worse of world than my own
For streets lined with cannons
And fire lit roads
I didn't know why
We had come to this place
'Do not fear'
Said Dwell
'This is but an echo of hell
Our destination lies
somewhere above
But what is travel without some
Things we don't love.'
And all through the day we flew and flew
With pops and bangs
And splutters and coughs
Through fields and through oceans
Past winds and villages
We swung down like a beauty
And me myself
Could feel the tap tap
From Dwell's magnificent brain
And as it grew faster
I know we would stopping soon
And sure enough
Soon we started to descend
On a small hill top above
A valley of low hung grass
And Dwell said
'This is the place'.
And I peered out at the grass
As Magician Pepper
Gestured to walking downstairs.

The hill had a light of mossy green
And all around
the wind was unchanged
As we disembarked
The sun shone so bright
Lighting up the beautiful day
Of coloured poppies
And daffodils
Of the now high up sun
In the light of maturing day
And I asked Dwell
'Why does the sun still stay so high in the sky
When worlds and nights and days have passed by?'
'Tis a strange thing indeed'
Replied he
As he he strolled through
The exquisite view
'It must be a trick
Or a practical joke'
And he gave me a wink
Before Pepper spoke
'Ah yes indeed, you see
It's just an illusion.
The sun protects good and evil
And prevents their fusion'
I did not fully understand
But what had I not
On that day.

A small wooden cottage stood
Not far away
And Dwell in his day shirt
Led us the way
Always smiling and never a frown
And I noticed all of a sudden
How happy i'd been
All day with Dwell
With these mystical friends
Alone with the nature
And hard pressed old world

The wooden door
Of the wooden hut
Stood a little ajar
And Magician Pepper
Pulled it open to show
A small frail old table
With a white table cloth
He pulled it outside
As me and Dwell watched
The sun on our necks
And grass at our feet
As Kato ran and jumped
in the field.
The table was laid
And we all sat down
And looked around
All around at the sights
Of that beautiful world
In a daze I still was
And Pepper brought out
Plates of hot and cold lunch
Meats and salads
And all things good
Hot jugs of milk
And fresh honey from bees
We sat there all day it felt
Discussing the day and our lives
And I swear
In that moment
I felt as if
Nothing could do me wrong
And I was the king
I oh so longed to be
Just to be here
Sitting with Dwell
And his team
I momentarily forgot
About the dark pit
Of my normal life
The losses I had
The dreams that I'd missed
At this time we were here
And I was king
Of this high mountain top.

And the day wondered on
And the sun started to fall
And as Dwell looked up
He almost shed a tear
As he said
'Oh such great fun we've had
On this day
But the time has indeed come
To be on our way
For the burning got sun
Is just an hourglass
And we cannot return once
It's fully passed'
So we all packed away
Our wonderful lunch
And put it all back
Into that small wooden hut
And walked all the way back
Through the now orange field
Slowly loosing light
With the progress of the dying sun.
And Pepper drove Dwell's airship
Back into the sky
And up up so high.
Before long we were back where
Soaring through worlds
Mountains and rivers
All now in the dying sun
'I do hope
you've enjoyed your day with us'
Said Dwell with a small little sigh
'It's such a shame that we must say goodbye
But we've got to keep moving and changing the world
For that is just what we do'
and it brought a tear to my
As I looked down Finally
As the sun touched
the horizon line
And I could see the lake
Where we had started.

As we landed I felt hollowed out
Hollowed out but happy
And the Bridge was there now
Pepper, Dwell and Kato
Followed me on it
And as I reached the end
Dwell took my hand
And shook it firmly in his
'What a fine day
What a lovely day
Don't worry my friend it will all be ok
For pain may hit you
And break you in two
But as long as you look up
And dream of this day
Nothing of pain
Will ever stay'
'One last question'
I said with a turn
'Anything, said Dwell'
'Your ship talks of dreams
And happiness making
But why on earth
Does it say you are tailors?'
Dwell made a laugh
and started to walk away
Pepper shook my hand
Kato gave me a bark
'Well as you know
We are the makers of dreams
The lighters of light
And stoppers of screams
It sounds so grand'
laughs old Master Dwell
'But we do fix clothes as well'
And with that
They left
And I watched as the door closed
The Zeppelin took flight
And soon was gone.
And I stared at where
It just had been
Just me
Quite alone
In the now utter darkness

and I returned up the path
Back to the grassy heap
Where the dew had now dried
I sat back down
And looked up at the moon.
I think I must have
waited up all night once more
I waited for Dwell
Even though I knew
he would not return
My day had passed
My time was up

Days passed
Then weeks
Months and years
I was a better man than
I once had been
And now every night
I stare into the sky
And think back to that day
That changed my life
And I wonder if it was real
Or just an illusion
An illusion like the lying sun
Or that Day with Dwell
And Magician Pepper
I've told the tale many times
since then
The Tale of
Dwell's infinite Paradise
I realise it is quite long.
My attempt at an 'epic' style poem.
brandon nagley May 2015
Its a crime to wanna find love anymore,
                        Because if you do find it, you get your heart broken into,ripped out!!!
Stolen.....

And you plead the 5th...
Matthew Bridgham Jun 2012
The club is small and dark and hazy
like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers.
Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere—
dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke.

This hole is filled with the classy of day and the
sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd.
Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five,
booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before
“places!”

—The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb
and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards.
Two acts down followed by some soot-covered
clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what.

Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry—
Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower
the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that
New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act!

The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a
snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers
are off the billing, stage left at some other club!)
The manager thinks fast like a quick change act—

Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook—
In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane.
He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one
swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called
The Vaudeville Hook.
Runner-up in the 2013 University of Indianapolis Poetry Contest
Ottar Apr 2016
beard-red explorers
pillaging-horror practitioners
tribal-family groups
insurgent-nomadic roots
that
trailed wave-rammers across never-ending spans,
continuously-toilfully matters not the demands
women and men side by each
beastly-feasters no table safe
stand up for yourself or be a weak-waif
in the bloodshot soul-panes, fierce
pagan-purveyors by rites
despised-womanizers
siege-setters
monk-murderers
a blood-spilling bee
treasure trove crash n’carry
Thor had his hammer
every wave-rammer had an oar for every
pair of life-stained hands, the stains
were borrowed and the very life-drained out of others
blood-smitten berserkers, heart-stoppers
and yet
discoverer’s children
wandering wet-wilderness
found a Stormy-Stop, a few
actually, and one be Newfoundland
may-haps they settled in peace.
Yup I am so proud of them, they made me who I am.
Inspiration Poetic Edda, did I tell you when my beard
grows it grows in red.
Dawn of Lighten Jan 2016
Do not fear the unknown in front of you,
But explore it's essence!

For fear is a blockage of progress,
And stoppers of growth.

One does not learn to swim in a whim,
But free fall with courage knowing it might be the last,
And come out stronger soaring in the wind.

One can only stay in the maze to die,
But find refuge by exploring the wilderness.

For the liars play their soft lyre to sooth you from the truth,
Like Sirens charm their voices to men's demise.

Like Odysseus, be a nobody for the Cyclopes,
But come out as a victor of his kingdom!

For risking nothing will get you nothing,
But find courage to voyage to unknown,
And be a champion of unraveling!
The greatest fear shouldn't be getting lost in this world, but be fearful of living in confined comfort of your vault!
cameran Feb 2015
between every short pause,
there's silence for a second,
and in that silence i know
you're talking to her,
and no, everything won't be
alright.
"ever heard of suffering in silence?"
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
funny story, yeah, it's a funny one with you and the door-stoppers, i read the Brothers Karamazov; d'uh...

and you want t hear the quote? the salt on the wounds?
to angels - vision of god's throne,
to insects - sensual lust. i love the hyphen just hanging there
for unnecessary ambiguity when it comes to punctuation,
hanging in the air, a ******'s hanky with *gone with the wind

soundtrack, oh look here, sexed the
pomp crew that said ******* to their mothers
are angling with a free-spirit of fancies,
they kept me poor for a reason that
suggests i have to pay up a second time,
i didn't get their B.D.S.M.,
i'm praying for an early death
or a death by Islamic terrorism -
did you get it the first time round? n'ah 'ah,
second time? n'ah 'ah... third time?
least likely... what with Polish vermin to mind
i'd be scared to be a sheep, the Poles might
nibble on the shanks, i wouldn't be too sure
should they pacify with message of love
and gathering together...
once vermin, vermin forever, a bit like
those asthmatic british bulldogs ******* up
phlegm to breathe -
but back to the Dostoevsky quote,
*** is overrated - insects can have this domain,
wait for the cool-down,
the clown, and other jeopardy takers to juggle
the rest - it doesn't take celibacy per se to
ensure a strategy - just a rightfully placed
misogyny - and there was one waiting -
take your little Himmler off the crucifix
and see where you stand in the chicken prior
the egg argument - what a foul-mouthed *******
your saviour is... i hardly think he ever used
a toothbrush to mind the words later
of deity fatherhood - i'm not anti-Semitic,
but he's the only reason why i have every right to be;
along with every other Jew in the equation of
concerns - i don't like him, he was crucified,
i have no predestination lingo to boot,
i may have been baptised but i consciously chose to not
be confirmed, i don't have to like him, i'm not
expected to, the rule of the jungle is:
whatever comes your way - his poker hand is that
he was sold by Judas - he claims the foundations of
monetary exchanges, i was born into this ****-pile of
aggression toward thinking any thinking can be claimed
to be a madness... that old cat & mouse game in
England... if no one profits from madness then no
one is mad... who's earning my due renegade ego and who's
starving? i wasn't born to necessarily like him,
capital punishment was served, the Romans didn't
ask the Jews to build the Coliseum, or the Hanging
Barbers' Beards of Gladiators in Garden Form either...
hence the religious exploration, who he agitated...
the only time the Jews were left intact without
a curse of pointless architecture akin to Babylon's
hanging gardens or Egypt's pyramids and this
**** comes along and says that Sunday should be a
rightful trading day, and so we have it, Sunday and
the supermarkets are open till 4p.m., i don't like him
because he was one of the instigators of modern insomnia;
can we please take a break? nope, n'ah, not happening,
so there we have it, not one philosophical day
of retrospection, of introversion, or reflection,
constantly in the REFLEX mode we head toward
having a civilisation based on the non-existence of sleep,
24h New York, London, waiting for the ultimate pick-me-up
of dementia precipitating after we broke the rules
of the existence of sleep being abolished;
oh sure, he drove the traders from the temple and gave
us a house of prayer - ****** should have been
****** on Sabbath rather than agitating Zealots in
the wheat fields - fishermen like St. Peter were
literate back in those days? no chance! even a tax-collector
like Matthew knew more arithmetic than grammar;
the new testament begins with a bad joke by a few
Greeks concerning the tetra-grammaton -
is it Mark's gospel and Luke's that are similar?
pat Sep 2014
"I am going to punch you in the face" he said
burn
wistling sounds
wiped
wiped again
It's not a falicy
It's reality
you walk, you talk, you die
wonka? He was a sadistic ****
I'd drink his **** if  I had it in me
Everlasting gob stoppers. Clod hoppers
Fizzy lifting drinks to poo stink
swallow blood fest
**** out the rest
Sarpinos torpedos
squeeze my labedo chester chito
flaming hot meat he don't eat
so discreat. Now wipe your water on my leg.
is it really midnight.
YEAHHHHH
goodbye
undetermined Apr 2014
(silence)
quiet
darkness
stillness
quickness
no time
frozen
whispers
tapping
sitting
thinking
listening
crying
su­llen
sadness
good
bad
rain
thunder
no lightening.
happiness
calmness
clatter
thickness
smoothness
cowar­ds
heros
lovers
sinners
helpers
killers
painters
stoppers
halt.
h­ush.
silent
again.
nothing
positive
negative.
neglect
honor
hatre­d
love
shh...
quiet
darkness
stillness
quickness
no time
frozen
whispers
tapping
sitting
thinking
listening
crying
su­llen
sadness
good
bad
rain
thunder
no lightening.
happiness
calmness
clatter
(silence)
AE Jan 2019
If the world was a stage and I was a play-write:

The wind: It was a musician, the muse of a heartbeat and whistling was its charm.

The leaves: The companions of the wind, they were the strings of the guitar. Dancing towards oblivion.

The flowers: They were the painters. A vision was their purpose. They played with colours and mystery.

The sun: It was the stage light, as it glowed upon the sounds of music in the air, the surface of the leaves, and gave life to all the trees.

The stars: They were the show stoppers, dancing in the sky. Revelling in the attention from the eyes of the observer.

The moon: The shy wonder of the night, sometimes barely visible. As it timidly sets the stage for another afternoon.

And lastly,

You: With a thousand stories to tell you’re in thousands of places at once. Looking for mountains to climb and things to design. You’re curious and too quick, never on the stage but merely an observer, but secretly you’re the whole show.


There are a thousand stories to tell,
So I’ll tell you a secret to this mysterious show
The script is blank, the pages clear white
And every minute new words appear
For I am merely following sentimental alliances
Just an observer watching as the future becomes clear.
Elizabeth Reeves Oct 2016
He would file the edges of glasses down
Whenever one would chip
And I would find them,
Rough rimmed
Ragged edges ground
And always where my lips would rest.

I don’t know why it annoyed me so.
Perhaps because I hated the imperfection so badly
But the dishes too, he began to glue those
When broken and that was too much.

Cup handles superglued and breaking just
As I lifted the hot liquid for a sip
Lead crystal port decanters with the
Elegant stoppers mended
And sitting cockeyed on top
Daring me to lift it and then
Only to break over and over
And him,
trying to fix it
again and again and again.

I found myself deliberately smashing things
Down when chipped, or flawed
Throwing them on anything hard.
The backyard patio became my favorite
Breaking point.
I couldn’t stop.
although I cut my feet and knees
While creeping through the yard
barefoot
Weeping.

I hid the adhesive.  

Just so he couldn’t try to mend things one
More
time.

I severed the cord on the grinding wheel
And found myself examining anything
fragile with a keen eye=
Sometimes a magnifying glass.
Searching for any imperfection that might prove
A flaw capable of breaking.

And in the end
it seemed to me

That nothing,
nothing could leave this house
Until finally,
eternally,
unfix ably broken
or crushed into pieces.
cheryl love Feb 2015
Warm toes, cream floating in the coffee
A sweet red apple encased in rich toffee.
Cheesy mashed potatoes and bangers
Cheeky whistles of the old clangers.
The comforting tune to Watch With Mother
The antics they get up to in Big Brother.
The two adorable children in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
The all time favourites that Mary Poppins sang.
Gob Stoppers that used to change colour in the mouth
The warmth of the sun as you travel south.
The cotton wool smoke in Camberwick Green
Rainbows with crushed apricot colours in-between.
Sunsets sunrises who could ask for more
A true gentleman opening the door.
All these things I would not mind doing twice
if not more because they are all things nice.
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
Trippin and falling, high like i can’t touch the ground proper
im stallin and falling like prophetic time stoppers

so stop!

and watch a television show, because when it comes to us you just can’t know

inside the body, outside of time, shulgin synthesized drugs parody the mind.

seen black holes ebb and flow, but you think you on a ro’?

Put on ZINNs shews and check the news

HEADLINE TONIGHT:

PSYCHONAUGHTS PREACHING TO THE MASSES
FROM THE pew pew pews….

our lazers are in favor

ignite the light,

PEW@!

mind blown dead slaver.

2) Silence as my psyche gets psychedelically psychonaugtic, toppin my minds eye-conic depiction of psychotropics, an ocean of dreams, im sailing through thoughts, so potent it seems, l on the drop, this is some ******-logic……

3)…..Naughty nautic.  Sailing through waves of rhymes, try to , but when it comes to the jugger-or-naught, you can’t stop it.

so we dreadlock the dreadnaught just so god can fill the hair lock,

fall from the sky, slow down and reverse this verse,

cause there is no up or down, just forward or rewound,

straight

****** LOGIC
Collab- Zinn
Guss Jun 2015
Hearts.
Pleasurable, they break.
Kid with soul decides his future.
Walks down hall with door,
man with soul divides.
Door opens.
Leads to nothing.
Man dies.
Man grows back.
Chances take a hold.
Congruencies clash together.
Metal sounds of clatter.
These divisions are the fractions of human kind.
Trickles and patterns are hardly literature.
Quantifiable.
Cultured.

Bang.
Bang-bang.
Banging.
Thick is the heart.
Thicker is the melody.
Stoppers.

Man defines himself by patterns near.
Man dies once again.
Theories change.
Hearts do too.
Man does as well.
The life is what they seek.
Never to be obtained.
Man lies.
Heroic he overcomes.
Then he pulls at her shirt.
There he beckons.
Then man rests.
perturbed
Arcassin B Sep 2016
By Arcassin Burnham

In a trance with a different light in mind,
I provoke,
Like the entertaining women dancing for their menfolk,
That's a joke,
Degradation of women is not the subject mostly when
Need to be told,
I guess it might be getting old,
Solid gold,
Chambers with secrets in it like Harry Potter,
Feeling elevated off the ground like a helicopter,
Cops and robbers,
Tell the coppas that I did not shoot the sheriff,
Guess they'll shoot me down anyway call them
Heart stoppers,
Have no beef with anyone , I'm more like the safe haven,
More like a beacon, if you want heaven then just behave and,
Life is too short to be worried about a grave and,
Your mom just lost her job and your dad is on the deep end,
Do what's ....best for your life despite the things you've seen around
You,
You're a..
Lost cause to them, but you'll make it , they won't be better than You,
You buss your *** everyday to pick up on the homework but you can't
Concentrate on the lessons because of a kid that that picked at you and bothered you your whole life,
But your more than meets the eye, okay.
©ABPoetry2016
http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2016/09/than-meets-eye-freestyle.html
cheryl love Jan 2017
I used to stand and admire all the colours of the sweet jars
all the splits, chews, sticks and lips red as cherries
all the funny shapes crammed in and the chocolate bars
and the herbal sticks made from very scented berries.

Mushroom shaped sweets rolled in toasted coconut and spice
watches to eat and pipes with sweets and scented dips
If you brushed your teeth after it was all very nice
then there were orange fish shapes with sweet rosy chips.

Fairy apples with golden pips,whistles to blow and ****
mixtures for throats, chest and for a very rainy day
gums and stoppers big as you like worth a second look
Even chocolate coins in a big jar next to where you pay.

Pineapple cubes and bottles tasting of your favurite drink
foamy shrimps and marsh mallows that are good to float
lemon drops and traffic light lollies make your heart sink
bubble gum bubbles that when popped stick to your coat.

Strawberry fizz and lemon bubbles that pop on your tongue
white mice with long tails and rose centred violets with cream
gob stoppers that would last all the day long
sweets of our youth are now all but a dream.
Raeann Burkey Oct 2013
The other day it rained and while I was driving all I could thing about is how you never used your windshield wipers.
I remembered how I would sit in the passenger seat like a little kid watching the drops race each other to the bottom of the window.
They always knew exactly where they were going. They always had a purpose so it didn’t matter that they had an end.
I used to wish I was the windshield so I could feel the reflected red lights rolling down my cheeks knowing that they had a destination.
And it was with that simple little thought that my eyes became clouds filled with pointless precipitation. And I knew it was because of you.
See every time I think I can breathe freely memories escape like stoppers from my wrapped up heart just to make it bleed some more and remind me the dangers of driving through a downpour.
And every time I try to make sure that my tears have purpose otherwise they will never come to an end.
So I try to bleed you something beautiful with each and every blood cell pumping from my heart.
I try to tell you I love you. That I have from the start.
And I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I can’t get you out of my head and I’m beginning to fear I never will.
It doesn’t matter how many hands I hold or faces I touch something keeps telling me I’ll never love them as much.
I can try to pretend. I can try to move on, but I have never heard nature play such a sweet love song.
I want to know what else there is for me to trust when the pitter-patter of the rain is playing just for us.
It keeps telling me that it was all right to fall. That after all is said and done my tears will have won the race down my windshield face.
Then I’ll smile without hesitation like a child who gives you no other indication of what they have just learned.
But right now all I can feel is the pain as I trace a million blood red drops off the horizon wishing I could find your eyes on me because I don’t want to know that’s something you’ve forgotten.
I refuse to believe that your heart has rotten.
So the other day when I turned off my windshield wipers in the midst of a storm I told people I just wanted to feel the rush, when really I only wanted to remember us.
Date Written: 3/6/2012
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i kept watching a few poetry reading videos
on the internet, and it scared me...
analogue after analogue...
          scared and angry poets shouting
and not one singing...
                                             oh man... they're
shouting, i'm blaming Ginsberg for this...
me? i'm the sort of man that sits up at night
waiting for his doctor to call him from
8 a.m. onward (time-frame? not designated)
                   while watching 1988's rain man
as the incompetent exaggeration of autism
thinking back to a poem about three
tiers of phonetic encoding
                                     and how that sorta relates
to how this autistic guy sees toothpicks
in clear number or how these geniuses
              of so called mathematical Olympics
are good at what they're good at, i.e.
    98723 + 2361 = ?
                                       like i am saying:
that's the key, a + b + s + i + n + t + h + e =
                  a good time... esp. if you have (cubed) sugar
and water to dilute the **** fairy into
                green milk... oh yeah,
this local guy sells the Hapsburg absinthe:
       £40 for less than 70cl... but at 95%... well you know...
    a soloist couldn't do better... but you need
    sugar cubes... got the spoon... only once
   in a blue moon...
                              but i'm serious
though... they can do numbers in the tip of their
little finger... but putting a and b together
        akin to something corresponding to their
genius with numbers? ask them about the concept
of money... well... that's me talking
about rain man...
                                     in the meantime i'm finishing
off my bottle of whiskey, at 6:33 a.m. it's
a dreary day, and i feel dreary tired,
            but on boy scout's honour... till the doctor calls
i'm sober...
                                         oh sure,
haven't seen a doctor in over a year...
                                       you can't these days,
you get cures over the phone...
                             and all they end up prescribing you
over here is paracetamol...
                        maybe that's better than with big pharma
in America...
                                lucky me, sleeping pills ******...
            but after rain man i got into watching
these poetry videos...
                              so much shouting:
rain man could be heard alongside having a seizure...
                   i just heard the same person
but in a different body... i thought i was hallucinating
for a while... and it came with the crescendo of
the mishap of weight v. mass and the Neil Armstrong
curse                     of yummy ivory plums
                            with a banjo accent... twang!
   babes are jaw-dropping-show-stoppers...
            they talk ******* like a plumber talks toilet...
               twang!                   and so hot with that
femininity                  bedroom politics
                                  straightened up -
           could be called evolutionary too...
                                    huh?
        you want my voice?                 i can give
you the encoding... but beyond this writing? pay up.
                        but yeah...
re-watching rain man was cool...
                             those poetry recitation videos though,
slams? yeah, slams they call them...
                              i dunno... maybe i'm too tired
and my senses are a bit dimmed...
                                 maybe sitting through
the sunset (English earl grey)
                       and now sitting through the sunrise
(English early grey)                   i'm feeling ******
and cactus like...
                                 or maybe i had that
moment of revelation: i'm a woman! and i'll
***** for all i care! burn the bras! burn the minis!
burn the thongs!
                                 dunno...
              drank the whiskey, smoked the cigarette,
ate a slice of pizza... waited and blinked from time to time
looking for uptight urban dwellers like
                a typical village idiot full of local mystery.




Do you believe in fairy tales?
In sappy sugar coated dreams?
Do you live a life of illusion
where nothing is as it seems?
What fun it must be
to dance among ginger bread houses
Hand-in-hand up the hill
Best of friends and as spouses
Where the food is just right
and your bed feels like air
In straw and wood houses
and life’s always fair

In this perfect Utopia
you reside in your home
A warm place that’s inviting
and you’re never alone
Nostalgic memories
of Grandma’s house pondering
or trips through the forest
No set plan, just out wandering
Amazing fortuitous scenarios
A piece of clothing forgotten
Somehow equals true love
And of course it’s Prince Charming
Or perhaps it’s the one
where all it took was a kiss
And changed back from a toad
What an amazing wish

A fool you must think I am
to believe such nonsense
But I could dive head first into the pool
and still be frightened and tense
See, I think you’ll agree
Even in Never Never Land
Exists horrible threats
Things not always going as planned

Humpty might have his dance
but he still fell off the wall
Everyone tried
Even King’s Horses they called
A shattered egg he remained
of scattered tiny pieces
The contradictions carry on
seemingly it never ceases
For the town stopped coming
Even when cries of “wolf” became real
“What big eyes and teeth!” you said
As he ate you for a meal
Still he wasn’t done
His revenge he finally took
With a bellowing blast of air
Those house of pigs’ shook
Hay gave away first
floating along like tumbleweeds
Then wood framing exploded and splintered
Stabbing shards making pigs bleed

Next an anonymous tip
on the crime stoppers hot line
And the bear police showed up
Arresting Goldilocks just in time
A recent spree of break-ins
had the neighborhood rattled
Her accomplice, the Wolf
but she ditched him so he tattled
Spotted Hansel and Gretel
on their stroll in the woods
So he called the Old Witch
Knew she’d take care of them for good
Then he climbed up on the hill
There he sat patiently waiting
When Jack and Jill came up the hill
confirmed the brother and sister were dating
Saw them kiss and it grossed him out
So upset he nearly lost his lunch
With two swift kicks they fell down the hill
Their bones he heard crack and crunch

You can sell the Brooklyn Bridge
but I’m not the one who’s gonna buy it
Karma doesn’t always pay it’s due
Sometimes it’s good-guys who get bit
Fairy tales are for infant minds
Only those so young believe
Must be innocent and pure
Somewhat gullible and naive
Those long in the tooth
Perhaps like you and as is me
Life’s made us jaded and aloof
Shut off possibility
Dreamers appear to us as silly
and not set in time and place
But they are the ones whose minds are open
Challenges are easier for them to face
For when we close up our minds
and that part of us begins to shut down
It kills inspiration and creativity
Our thoughts are rigid; Our mind is bound
Life is full of awe and wonder
Not always fitting perfectly into a box
But the best thoughts come outside of it
Be a thinker; Shed those locks




Written: March 19, 2018

All rights reserved.
neth jones Jul 2021
the sleeper...

riled in slumber
         her face fevered
     cussed about the terrain
                                     of a floral breeding
  bedding patterns and the print
                                        bunched in struggles
in smudges
                     an amateur trial with sisters makeup
     primal cosmetics
            make a mock
                    daubed
                                ceremony for slumber

dusty and museum are her dollworks
        an amphitheatre audience
                                 overlooming her berth
    flaunting the gallery shelves
                sustained expressionist menace
Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule
stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down
****** sawdust and your sullied label
they bray and they brawl
         and they sluice their gull gall
    a sick drizzle
       over the sleepers form

   from the exterior
  wild wails the weather
its being
     drubbing
  peers fragile
at the windowpane
a raid on this vulnerable sleeper
impounded in bedroom aloft
raised to meet the jet stream

she is fumbled in dreams...

  abraded adolescent swells
judder out figments
  a bleed of vandals
     siling her muted childhood
       parading the playground
          berating old
         once loved playthings
       adopting no sympathy
    adapting in favour
      of the wild riding will
        of the direful pre familiar

into the woods...

a ***** charmed breath
       dressed smartly as boy
stoppers her pathway
       insisting a gentleman's assistance
frustrates her recitations
      of grandmothers doting
           stern teachings
         like fragile pottery
            come to harm
         broken into teeth
the quick blood beating
       this nocturnal forest
     busy in heat
      bonding death
       to refract the hustling moon

a company of wolves
    fill out the clearing
not a spell too soon
their howls reverberate
             jeering
mocking their new glut
sifting followers
      from the raggle-taggle array of fools
the foolish dreamers
          rounded up
amongst them she stands
red dressed and nervous
one hand clasping
                  and sexing the other

fortified
a great jaw operates here
an excited irresponsible mastication
committed to this fairytale

...agitation in her sleep
Inspired by the movie version of The Company Of Wolves

Sile = Strain OR filter
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
never certain whether it's actually happening,
or if i have reached a pinnacle
of myth-making,
never really know....
   but it's fun when you do begin
thinking less, and myth-making more...
   for one thing, drinking beer,
after about 100ml of whiskey is a hilarious
event...
or drinking in general,
i never really feel ashamed at my vice,
   ****, i embrace it,
  i like writing about it,
   after about 5 beers and 70cl of whiskey
i turn into a ******* sparrow...
   so i might enlarge my perspective on german,
and everything that was once idea,
   and... theory...
    like spotting the lack of diacritical marks
in english when the greeks are: well,
kinda overloading on it...
               a bit like writing about the sun:
it's recurrent, it never changes...
   or a bit like me giving my ***
  the jerks and wiggles, bouncing up and down,
watching the moon behind a clot
of cloud: hello!
   while squatting, picking up
   the cigarette buts off the roof just outside my window...
    frozen moon,
the dilation and shrinking of a cat's eye...
very feline, haven't you noticed, the moon being, thus?
    last night, i spent about 20 minutes,
drunk, literally about to do a coma
caressing a cat... a maine koon,
ginger, weighs about 10kg...
         forced him onto the back,
on a nice, soft back-rest...
     and those eyes appeared...
   day-time cat eye: scythe nearing,
actually a diamon sharp...
   night-time cat eye? wild-eyed!
   big, bulging things that could scrap
any theory on the black hole...
   i already said it's a 2-d object in a 3-d space...
it's monster carousel... spinning spinning spinning...
   like a fern bush in the first Lara Croft game,
and with computers being all about
experiment, it's possible, you actually can
encode a two-dimensional object in a three-dimensional
system, it's doable...
                 well... i'm sorta *******
that i get to teach the lesson about forgiving your enemies,
i'm actually: really, really ******* about it,
  i've become much more disgruntled with life
and i've turned into an imitation of a boar,
i.e. a boor... gboor in polish,
  and no, i don't belive that in gnostic
the g is silent, nor in gnome...
given that you perfectly say it in the word:
diagnostic...
              that's english: so many particular
examples, quasi-etiquette, that you might as well
forget bird-watching and look at the language,
given that it perfectly complies with
a universal quality, as it stands:
it really is a lingua franca,
besides talk of a commerce medium, there's this.
oh, that guy who tried to **** me
  telling me i'd be taking something akin
to l.s.d., well, he's bipolar now,
oh sure, i know his name,
    i know where he lives,
his mother was, quiet fond of me...
     started acting like he was the only one
in the "ghetto"...
          and the woman who invoked
the original plan.... schizophrenic...
calls me up (9 years ago, pst)...
****, what's a prolonged S in german?
thankfully i have a sense of humour...
dark, isn't it? i don't know where they get those
stars from, on screen and with camera,
dark as **** around here,
     very much akin to a blue sky...
so dark, i have only about 3... ok, i'll stretch it
to four constellations i'd care to talk about,
that rhombus, that zodiac scorpion,
and those two identical constellations of
the big and little dippers...
   and i was once asked to travel to Australia
to see: "the many more constellations"...
i went up to Scotland, to a remote place
   near Ben Nevis, in the highlands,
   got dropped off in Glen Coe...
climbed a mountain, walked a craig...
   camped in complete darkness...
went to a pub, drank an ale called:
   sheepshaggers...
        huh?! the Welsh, so far up north?
and guess what: all that talk of light-pollution
proved to be, utter tosh....
           where are they? am i sight-able,
am i blinking?! what's with this talk
of so many stars that William Blake talked about?
i.e. how, there are more stars than grains
of sand on all the beaches in the world?
  i can see jack-****!
i already said, a max of 4 constellations!
      i'd see more stars in a cat-pounce-ready
being petted at 3 am by a drunk like me...
it really was me listening to bonie m's rasputin
picking up cigarette butts off the roof
   just outside my window, above the kitchen...
squatting, and looking at the moon from beneath
the clot of wintry clouds, moving across
the sky like a Mongolian horde...
   i have many names... huh?
oh right... i've been called the hunchback angel
by a thief, and simply an angel
   by this spanish girl who took me back to her
flat and i said: honey, been with prostitutes,
we don't **** under the bed-sheets...
to know it all, you have to see it all...
   then we went to the Notting Hill carnival
the next day, after some time spent talking
in a bath together... and her two intimidating
gay friends... my "erectile dysfunction",
and my limp phallus in her mouth,
  *** under the bed-sheets... ugh...
   and her madonna-***** complex prescribed by
Freud...
         she lived with two gayos...
     i'm sure my **** was just about ready
had i asked...
              and that robin in her garden...
puffy-orange breasted nibble for the eyes...
chirp... chirp... the smaller the better:
nervous twitching, lightning like strokes
of head-movement, a bit like a sparrow,
that never could walk like a crow, indulging
in a funeral-procession, domineering schwarz...
  just skipping, unable to walk, just... skipping.
so that's nice... being called
   a hunchback angel...
   (i don't leave my hermit hole that often,
when i do, i hear the most amazing things,
as i usually do, when picking up a newspaper) -
but the cherry has to be coming from this friend
of mine that tried to **** me...
oh it's a cherry... the death of death...
     and it's in English!
  how could they ever drag the gentleman out
if not in speaking english?
                 now i don't know whether i should be
******* that i didn't die aged 21,
or whether i should be happy, that i have
so much happiness in drinking...
         and look! so much agility and capacity to
write a load of ******* while drinking...
  ah... rose Isolde... don't despair...
           i have canned laughter
             and a theatre filled with an audience
of 1.
   this is the part where you say all of this
is *******, and find adventures in a supermarket aisle
while shopping for canned sardines.
bon voyage! mon ami.
   not all punctuation marks belong alongside dot...
   hence the ...
                            how to transcend into the
practice of ensuring ! ? are not like dots
and more like commas? and do not, necessarily,
belong as sentence-show-stoppers?
          is it just me, or is there an astma problem
in the punctuation sector of the, given language?
hoo! ha! hoo! ha! who! ha ha ha.
TERRY REEVES Feb 2016
I  HAVE  NEPHEWS  AND  NIECES  WHOM  I  LOVE
TO  PIECES  -  ONE  PART  FOR  THE  SMILE,
ANOTHER  FOR  THEIR  STYLE,  MEANWHILE
THEY'LL  GO  THE  EXTRA  MILE  FOR  ME;
YOU  WISH  YOU  WERE  LIKE  THEM,  UNINHIBITED,
NO  WORRIES,  ACHIEVEMENTS  WHICH  ONLY  TIME  HURRIES;
WERE  YOU  POPULAR  AT  SCHOOL?  WERE  YOU  ONE
OF  THE  BOYS?  OR  GIRLS?  WERE  YOU  GOOD  LOOKING?
NOT  TOO  SKINNY,  NOT  TOO  FAT?  LANDED  NICELY
ON  THE  PE  MAT,  GOOD  AT  SPORTS,  WILLING  TO  SHARE
YOUR  LIQUORICE  ALL - SORTS?  AND  GOB  STOPPERS,
WARM  BREAD, FROZEN  ORANGE  ICE  WHICH  WAS  SO  NICE;
NOW  THE  COLOURED  PENCILS  OF  LIFE  ARE  LIKE  A  RAINBOW,
ONE  DAY  THEY'LL  BE  LIKE  ME, PRAISING  THEIR  OWN  FAMILY.
cheryl love Aug 2015
Nothing, but nothing would make her life more complete
Without something in her mouth that tasted oh so sweet
But then everything sweet that went into those rich red lips
Gathered permanently on those rather expanding fairy hips.
It did not matter how sugary, the colour of the sweet or the size
It was all eaten pleasurably and then went to her thighs.
She loved it all,  gob stoppers, fairy pips and most of all toffee
Sugar mice, dandelion heads and gums flavoured with coffee.
She always had loads of packets of creamy fake sweet eggs
they had the taste of an orange but accumulated on her legs.
The more she ate, the fatter they got, which had its good bits
They enables her to perch in the tree until the wood splits.
She had packed in her fairy store all kinds of fruit whips
every kind of chocolate bar, lollipop and candied pips.
In all flavours, apple, banana, woodland berry and plum
But it mattered not to her how sweet, like it does to some.
Every slice, every little fruit drop, each little wrapped bar
was placed in its own nicely labelled sweet jar.
Lined up at the bottom of her favourite tree, her treat booth
Her world is complete, for the fairy of the sweet tooth.
Amelie Arnaz Apr 2013
Don’t let me use you. I will,

but tenderly.

I found your words 

you wrote them on parchment

left them in "bottles with cork stoppers" on
street corners

not for me - for everyone

tangible words, you said

you said, 
“i will cut out of my heart all the 
things that dont serve me”

please use a sharp, surgical instrument

sterilize it well

if you infect your heart

it will feel like mine

you said I don’t try hard enough

I have to try hard not to be there

leave everything

only to find you checked out 
before I arrived 

and laugh at myself
Gaffer Aug 2016
It was the less i could do
Climb the mountain
Scale the kitchen
Talk to the neighbours
Find a neighbour
Inspiration, need it
Words on the refuse truck
Toss it in
Screaming kids
Screaming mothers
*******
What, oh *******
Talking art
Modern stuff
Bed with a ****** in it
Jonny
Go home
Bus it
Converse in a foreign language
Can’t understand them
I live here
Inspired to shout
Who am i
This week
A sign on the wall
Jesus saves
Bankers own heaven
Hell
Drowning in realization
Happiness can be bought
What price
Yesterdays
Snow on the hills
Dutchman panics
Refuse collector has a Phd in
Wednesdays
Bus stoppers look in awe
Three together
Another day dead
Dear diary
Inspiration
Boots in bin.
Alice Feb 2019
The witch whirled around her golden cauldron,
Her shoes clacking on the stone floor as she
Chants in a language that's now forgotten;
Perhaps chanting to awake the ancients.
Her voice resonates in tune with the smoke,
As it rises in ever growing wisps
Like the clouds that shift to veil the moon’s face.
“Fumus! specula!” she cries as she stirs,
She’d lift the wooden spoon from the bubbling
Cauldron only to find that it’s melted.
Still, she'd flick through her potions book, searching
As her eyes would flash verdant as glow-worms.
Against the starry night sky—Constellations
In their own right against the cave’s night sky.
She’d cast madly in a fervor as bolts
Of lightning illuminate the night sky.
Knowing what’s good for them, the ravens scatter,
Their shadowy bodies blocking the moon.
Still, the witch would brew, throwing anything,
And everything into that dreaded void.
Outside, the cicadas would hum madly,
While the moon would drip silver in the brew.
Madness is found behind her vibrant eyes,
As she stoppers the potions into vials.
Lining her shelves with the odd colored vials,
She waits, hoping for someone to visit;
Waiting for someone to knock at her door.
And yet, after all this, no one will come,
So the witch sits drinking her tea, alone,
Watching as the ravens fly though the night
Preparing to brew another potion
That will never be shared.
Lillian Rae Lee Jan 2015
Fight after fight with step monster, Show Stoppers
Cause I'm a no good, low life, pill popper.
These pills keep me sane, that won't stop her.
Screams heard through the walls from father:
She's a good girl, works hard, act proper.
But I'll never be good as her daughter.
chloie Jun 2018
have you ever felt so angry
that it was almost like magma
was hiding at the back of your throat?

pulsing and glowing and taking its time
before it erupts and dribbles down your chin,
flowing to your shoes and destroying
everything you've ever held close.

because lately, i've been postponing my eruption with these desperate words;

paper against fire
ink against magma

feeble stoppers to a bottle brimming to the mouth with froth, pressure building up and up and up—

crack goes the glass

paper against fire
ink against magma

sometimes they hold up
sometimes they just aren't enough.
it's been sooo long since i've posted!!
Babu kandula Oct 2015
Life

Thought me

You face some

Rough patches

Which will

Never gonna be

Your show stoppers

They may cause

Some technical glitches

Defer your success

But, for sure you will achieve

For What you came for
Trust the wonderful creation of God

Trust yourself
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
once upon a time, my english teacher (a pict), blamed english soap opera (namely eastenders), for his students treating books like bricks, or at least door stoppers.

yep, and the most entertaining drama
i've seen unfold, was between my
neighbour's dog, and my pavarotti's
worth of a cat: every time it rains
and his meowing, i'm an inch's worth
close to phoning *amnesty international

on grounds of: human abuse...
hate this ginger ****, this castrated frankenstein
monstrosity meowing all the time...
it almost feels like i guillotined his
******* + testicles off, even though
i'm the ******* of pedigree annoyance
tactics...
   but, really? it must be the jazz pedigree
in me, transitioning from classical music
that really, gets me,
i hate bands that disrespect bass guitarists...
i'm either sly, or pedantic, or simply
nerdy...
       i don't like bands that forget bass guitars,
i like to think of them as a buffer criterium
segregating rhythm guitar and the drums,
bass guitars allow a harmony,
listen to enough jazz, and you'll know -
i like, and i also don't like bands like
metallica... i must be deaf...
   i must have had a mumbai elephant stamp
on my trombone's worth of owing an ear,
but i can't hear drums...
        so i must be deaf...
   i know the bass is there,
but it's subtle... too subtle for my liking,
it might be a guilt-ridden thing,
having lost cliff burton...
    but i have to be a bit deaf guarding a reminder...
i have no respect for bands that
hide the bass, and bask in rhythm guitars
and drums...
              sorry, but bass guitar is a crucial
mediatory medium of what comes after:
either solo guitar or the already apparent
"stage fright" of vocal exfoliation...
and that's truly the case, the most "soap opera"
i've seen these days, was staged
by my ginger-ninja and my neighbour's *****...
when people become too docile to become
interesting or entertaining,
you revise yourself using animals
as a blank slate...
         and i must be deaf,
   i can't hear any bass guitar on the majority
of metallica's songs...
       devil's dance is besides the point,
being stated;
    just call me deaf and we'll be ripping
                   a dollar bill to the hush of: evens.
History contends that on that score
hing hot summer at 6:00 pm June sixteenth
in the year 666 after the Devonian era,
two lovers - a Mister Belmont Me

and Missy Bryn Mawr Hu felt the call
of the wild within the wilderness
in ****** hinterlands of Penn Valley
and supposedly got cannibalized

by a Hottentot Mailer Daemon named
Manayunk Yahoo. All plugged stoppers
got pulled as the passionate children
of Mother Nature and Jethro Toll

rumbled, fumbled, bungled in
the jungle, and shook the firma
ment echoing subterranean cat a
combs with their private feral

Carnival antics.The ensuing Millennium
spawned one bizarre tale after
another each appending a more
farfetched tail spinning embellish
ment from the preceding legend.

Mary Waters ford considered as
the first person to record the shroud
of mystery lurking in the hollows
of sleepy hills, which rumor harbored
this legend of lost Lower Merion lovers.

Even to this day (one eerily similar
at that fateful bewitching hour)
one can hear the blood curdling
and hair-raising bacchanalia under
ground Brahmins deep pounding
beets on their crude ovens deep
purple within the bowels of the Earth.

Many believe present day tremors
that line the main tract hearken
Earth linked presence of sinning
wood nymphs and elfin grots continually

being birthed within many gnarled rocks
causing groundswell similar to
a Welsh Valley overtaken by hocked
conch blowing Harridans. Some
of these hardy adherents corn beef

hash tagged as unprintable expletives,
whose self-righteousness bound
by unwavering assertions of Woody
Woodpecker apparition. Visages of
fearsome flesh eating muscle bound

underground golems toting haversacks
as big as a town (surpassing the likes
of 1148 Matthew’s rolled into one)
sustains longevity of ogres not even

all the brooms could sweep away far
as next square rush new town. Although
rarely seen, but more often heard
tectonic vibrations that shake and bake

like local crowded house special chicken
Radnor (often cleft fissures upon flint ******
layers of bedrock comprising Delaware Valley)
infuses imagination of (top notch pugilists)

bravely ventured into this haunted haven
and vanished without a trace. Most likely
their fate became a gourmet meal i.e. tasty
as Salad Augustus with seven season Caesar dressing.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
Spartan anti-pain treatment....
i.e. heavy duty listening
tactic...
back pain?
        what else?
some ******* worth of science
with a hot-freeze spray?
**** that!
press ups!
      i'll fight fire with fire!
i'll eat up agony with: AGONY!
the advances in science
turned gorillas into mollusks!
my body infuriates me?
i'll infuriate the body with more pain!

i abhor Buddhism...
i can't escape suffering!
i welcome it...
pain = a sensual overload!
pain, is welcome...
what i don't need?

i don't want NEEDS!
i don't want to be attached
to anything...
except: a bicycle and the death of my mother....
and the death of my father...
i don't want NEEDS...
i don't want to be a being of being a being
of needing... qua...

pain is best alleviated  by instructing the body:
more pain must be applied...
no! no more relief... more pain!
push-ups to gain relief from back-aches...
dip your fingers in copperhead metal paint...
become that forbidden copper-hand Xerxes...

exercise! no love: all the body to be used:
regardless...
exercise is the sole pain reliever...
when... all other pain relievers are bound to: FAIL...
the Spartan reemphasis of the skeleton!
as much as it might pain:
i best double the pain than sooth
it by halving it via the Athenian method...
of faking it feminine...

            pain is to be digested...
it's not to be treated as neurotic...
   pain is compliant with the digestive system
of masculinity...
and not... the nervous system of woman...
pain is to be digested...
it's not to be FELT...
PAIN is to be DIGESTED....
it's not be FELT...

          more pain to cure the already stated
pain!
        more pain!
pain to counter pain!
AH!           Xerxes! lash the Aegean
into submission!
                                           now i feel like
an "upright monkey":
only now!
                                  when it became obvious that sitting
down made me oblivious to "constellations"
and "leisure":
me? i just wanted for the war to never end!

give me pain to sooth the pain....
more pain atop the pain already invoked
as: less ******* on cloves and as more:
the placebo anaesthetic...
i need pain to sober up...
but there has to be a sobering pain
to begin with!
then again: i need a pain to become drunk
with..
               i don't require painkillers...
just show-stoppers...  knock-out blows of
consciousness....
    since 2AD i'm tired of people celebrating life...
when there's... nothing:
clarifying... worthwhile... to be believed in...
or to be celebrated...

crucifix my *** i'll ******* impale you
with a gimmick of **** to  begin with...
the sadness of an imitated god:
once so formidable!
pyramid toppling! how! all of a sudden!
reduced to a *****-wink
dying on a cross... yeah... right...
at least Hell had its pristine troll sacrificed!

                 journalists are not the new
secular priests! they do not own the same
authority! i cure pain with more pain:
the Spartan way!

— The End —