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Trevor Gates May 2013
Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

Contortionists, gypsies, and malevolent magicians
All twisting to a dance played by faceless musicians

A night in Tunisia or a place above the Siene
Where else but all in the shadows of dreams?

Enchanted, redolent wonder of festive illumination    
Her eyes absorbed, glimmering in the lush captivation

Enveloping, engulfing silk around our bodies
Days, nights measured by tragic commodities

Arpeggios, rippling across glistening string inventions
Bowing cellos; cellists bowing with audience permission

Masks, costumes, carnivals and the golden mirror
Cerulean dripping limbs that slither while near her

The alabaster piano played by a three-armed puppet
The statues turn and welcome us for a crumpet

Maria Callus sings Ave Maria backwards then stops
The statues and demons laugh while playing with props

“This requiem for the living, begins with a kiss”
The statues said in a tone of voice I could not resist.

“Our overture shall be a ******, a nail in the coffin; a death.
All while you swallow the nectar on your lover’s last breath.”


Needles protruded my head
And I watched as my love was torn
Limb from limb
While the jackals and ballroom guests
Fornicated on the spilled blood and guts
I cried and they cheered as the lights dimmed
For All I could see was the sight of them leave
Into the darkness.
But the noises were as loud as ever as hands
And digits groped my body.
Moaning voices and rhythmic thrusting
And tongues in my ear
And teeth gnawing on my neck
Pain felt, endured, experienced
Then
I was released into the middle of the scarlet draped room
When the phlegm of ****** fluids whipped into a dried crust

A sharp edge stabbed me in the back of the neck
Running along my back, through my spine, down my skin and ending in my ******.
Mechanical hands ripped apart my skin  
I slid out of my flesh like a serpentine ******.
I stood there
shaking from the excruciating, unfathomable pain
the grid and design of my muscular system bare and seen.  

From the pieces of my departed lover,
the master with the many mechanical hands
slathered the slips
and sleeves of her skin onto my own.

Needles and thread went to work.
The puppet master sewed.
The healing plasma
the drying blood
the encapsulating tears lubricated my whole

Once he was finished, I was dunked into a pool of clear gelatin.

For hours I soaked and became whole again.
Then I rose and I was dressed
the finest garments, from across the globe.
I sat once again at the table where the statues invited me.
The musicians, the magicians, the demons, gypsies, masks and serpents
Watched and gleamed
while I sipped my tea

I out spread my fingers.

Layers of skin and stitches

No more hair.
No more nails.
Not just a regular face
but one all shall remember.

I was born as one

Then made from many

In the imminence of zealous devils in my wake
Of the attrition I have forsake

Now as the curtain rose and the spider-silk strings hoisted me up on stage
The master showcased my story to all whoever wished to engage

“Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

I am Vincent Andromeda
Your Strangelove phenomena.”
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
yet even though i count only five members,
i still play with my moustache and beard
like an organism of eight extensions,
thus i weave and think simultaneously,
in this great cobweb of silence:
my hand the spider, my mouth the cobweb...
how pretty the interaction to exact
the daffodil a caleigh with the thistle in parisian persian.

i am as unsavoury in my buds
of the tongue as i might calypso a pineapple for pink
in the new dictionary stating pink defines punk!
i am unsavoury in by tastes
like trans-muscle in its ivory enclosure,
as i am outstretching my hand
to “photograph” the rain
with my hand to get freckles and knitting patterns of aqua gnats,
as i am to say:
a. you dittoed that word without using it prior,
so why exploit such usage in the first place?!
and...
b. it made more sense to itch with rain
than describe drunk & twitching spiders doing a cancan dance
in the four necessary extremes of  21st century morse encoding
with emoticons: s.o.s. = octopus :) reverse :) pianist fake :(.
elevator going up! (this is the scottish parliament,
after all)
shiksh floor...
elevator going down...
ground floor...
that’s just ******* boring...
how about you climb the shcaffold
and drop chimney bricks onto prince’s st. (edinburgh) drunk, eh?!
well i did that, actually... who’s up for a sarcastic tying the knot
and reining in a horse?
no one? oh oops twos a buckle with hoofs for teeth
as the same cement... no, sorry... it’s called *enamel
;
say hi for me to ben and nick harper in this silence of typing ‘
oh i thought (i.e. susan).
**** me, the comma is on the ceiling, who’s going to measure
the time width of that one for exacted humour?!
here's one: when sean connie is on the screen,
you never shush the audience...
unless you get a shish kebab prior... and a shanty town
dr. feelgood - repairs project in motion...
shanty town project thumbs up good to go!
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb!
dr. feelgood - shanty town isn't a hiroshima.
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb, bomb!
dr. feelgood - a nuke on a geographic peanut?!
dr. strangelove - bomb bomb bomb burning bush in the taj mahal urn!
edinburgh is the new paris! edinburgh is the new paris!
yo yodeling the york... new town... virginia...
i'll export revolutionary france via scotland with edible 'burp'
new paris! bon voyage the october-haggis...
settle us among the apache with blood ***** and gain
testifying the hog's intestines as worthy digestion!
Stranger Blue Aug 2016
Strangelove.
Some may say you're an estranged love.
Everything that ever was.
I wonder what it's like to be you,
'Cause you're all the time.
How can you...
love us the way that you do?
Knowing the terrible things we do,
Your love bemuses the mind.
I hope to,
someday find a way to be like you,
to love the world just as you do
but as for now...I have no clue.
Rich Hues Jun 2019
I yeehaw,
As I mount my squaw.
She's let me wear the cowboy hat
While the cat,
Once kitten, confidant and confessor
Of her predecessor,
Spectates...
As I *******.
She was actually born in Mumbai,
But I
Still ride the bomb as I fly.
Shireen May 2018
Every word you said
Plays over and over again
In my head

I despise the broken memory
Of every moment
We shared in secrecy

You sparked a match
Inside my hollow chest,
I knew you'd be a catch

And now that you've set my heart on fire
You're my only **** desire
I smoke,
so cancer
is probably likely,
so since it is
and I still want to smoke,
I had to learn
how to stop worrying
about it,
so I remember
that as a little kid
my parents took me
to a movie
called, "Dr. Strangelove - Or
How I Learned
To Stop Worrying
And Love The Bomb"
and it was about
nuclear holocaust,
so since I was afraid
of that happening,
the movie
cheered me up,
because at the end
there are these beautiful images
of mushroom clouds everywhere
as a woman is singing,
"We'll meet again,
don't know where,
don't know when"
and so
in the same way
I have learned
how to stop worrying
about cancer,
and in the old days
people didn't worry
because they didn't know
about cancer,
and they lived their lives
and died at about eighty,
but now
people worry
for their whole lives
and fight cancer
if it has been found
and struggle
and die when they're
about eighty.
Here we are
Toy soldiers, Barbie dolls
Monopoly money flying off the shelves
As intentions remain disguised,
A rush hour to nowhere.
Suspicion hangs heavy in the air.
Fingerprints of greed upon the land,
Stain the walls and smear every surface,
Tearing our world apart
Entangling us in a labyrinth of lingering agony.
As financial empires crumble and fall,
We tumble towards a dismal crown.

Here we are
A shot heard around the world
Misdirection concocted with twists of propaganda
A sinister plot to keep us quiet
While economic doom looms large,
Forcing us to gasp for breath in its tort.
We are sliding into a sea of hell,
Crafted with a sinister dusk,
Leaving us trapped in uncertainty.
A bipartisan fakery,
A manufactured reprieve of endless war
Bacchanal Celebration of the uniparty,
To keep us all in the duality
Of a totalitarian doomsday cult of our own making,
With ties to the darkest corners,
Where shadows dance in the hue.
Why did George Orwell paint a future so dire
Of totalitarian control, a world on fire?
To blackmail us into believing
We are incapable of repelling it,
Pressuring us to fear, to tyranny.
Wall Street proclaimed, "Greed is good,"
A mantra repeated, understood,
Molding our minds, shaping our views,
Enforcing belief in capitalism's ruse.
Political speech, a vile roast of reality,
A nonsensical tale of deceit,
Yet, within its twisted words,
Makes us struggle to comprehend our reality.
Revelations of a conning government,
Manufactured divisions run deep,
As secrets too dark to keep.
In the chaos of our unraveling,
We grasp for a glimmer of light,
But find ourselves lost in the darkness
Of a world consumed by blight.
Do The Right Thing, a mirror held to our face,
Amid conflict beyond repair.
We consume the lies, a terrible plight,
Believing we're powerless, as they've said.
Free falling into despair
Believing we're powerless as the moments fly by.

Here we are
We've been conned and betrayed.
In the shadows of towering skyscrapers,
Where dreams were once fashioned from thin air,
A secret kleptocracy aims to divide and deceive,
Bleeding us dry, as we unquestioningly believe
In our American uniqueness
Until we start blaming each other
While everything gets worse,
A dysfunctional elite
Building lies around dysfunctions
Inducing us into believing
Our eroding circumstances are our own,
As they steal our lives, forsaking us to atone.
Fake news media informs us to be angry and tribalized,
Daytime television warns our morality is compromised,
Local news instills fear in our neighbors, near and far,
As we celebrate masked actors, forgetting who we are.
Reality Tell-a-Vision doesn't tell our reality,
Preferably, it shows life's hedonistic strife.
Zombie television tells us the public remains our enemy.
Social media floods with existential rife,
With nonsense conspiracy theories and memes abound,
Telling us we're hopeless in a world so unsound.
On a never-ending track,
An all-time high in the belief that we are helpless,
No matter the bubbles we encase,
Bombarded with existential crises in every space,
A surge in apocalyptic film, literature, and games,
Telling us there's no way out of society's flames,
As we buy cans of Liquid Death, in our despair,
And drink Death Coffee to fuel our inner plight,
In this rotten farce, we see no end in sight.
For our entire lives, we've been led astray,
In a world where our strength is fading away,
Divided against itself in a power play so grand,
As we believe we're powerless.
But in the end, we're left alone,
In a world where truth is overthrown.
As we've been brainwashed with silent screams,
We find ourselves constantly shaking down.
Things escalate wildly in a world gone awry
Where Dr. Strangelove teaches us to stop and comply.
In the collapsed towers, nobody stands,
Only masked actors with bloodied hands
As we hurtle towards an inevitable brawl.

Here we are
Investigating the mountain of lies,
We uncover the truth, rotten to the core,
As vicious beasts roam in our streets.
Smoke and mirrors promise miraculous destinies,
But abandoning us stranded, battered, and frail.
In this desperate state of dying slowly,
Words ring true, screaming at us to wake up.
Yet suspicion clouds every intention,
As we ponder the reasons why.
The fabric of society frays at the seams,
As revelations tear through the veil,
Exposing the rot within our midst.
Our lives are a tangled web of deceit.
O say, can you see?
We are drowning in the sea.
On this moon of deception and decay,
We grasp for a semblance of truth,
But find ourselves drowning in the sea.
O say, can you see?
Did we go to the moon?
Why are we drowning in the sea?
Our Statue of Liberty is sinking fast and deep.
O say, can you see?
I'm begging you; can you see?
In the wreckage of shattered dreams,
We find ourselves lost in the debris,
Victims of a grand illusion,
Where reality is uncomfortable to see.
Terrified, yes, but unafraid to tell,
The tale of our time, the ringing knell
Of corruption and deceit,
We rise, we rise; we must rise above
In the name of truth, justice, and love.
O say, can you see?
              Can you see?
              Can you see?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
buying three litres of jack daniels...
at... £20 a a litre -
which is £12 short from the original
selling price...
  (so i've saved a total of
£36... which, at the current selling
price is... £4 short
of two bottles for free)...

   that i would love to believe in
dr. strangelove - and a very real fear &
potential of an atom bomb...

the spectacle of awer...
        how the 20th century could be
a casper -
             but not now...
   i could ask for a blissful sentence of
an asylum - but this current: society
of sociopaths...

  i just can't: beside the don't...
        that there is some fledgling will:
otherwise the negation of want...

well yes... bourbon is whiskey with
some maple syrup...
        i get it now...
                   maybe flashing a u-boat
on the drive...
perhaps taking time to cling
to a bucket list and parachute ****-naked...
buy and subsequently heave
20 years for petting a labrador...

there was a trickling uncertainty
when jerking off and there was....
shyla stylez...
                 born 1982... oh...
found unresponsive in her bed by
her mother... aged 35... in 2017...

it's such a pity to have such a...
monstrous high-blood pressure in
the constraints of the phallus...
i forget the puritan...
if i get away with pursuing
the orthodox guillotine
of a missing *******...
     then again:
     it would be impossible to *******
without any *******...
i guess i'm playing the joker hand...
on the toilet...
**** like a tease...
mrs. no. 1 & 2... subsequently no. 3...
it's not spectacular...
no satans are being deployed
into the air... no scented candles...

it's like a spectacle of inverting
the time it would take for wood to rot...
or ****** on mushy peas...

      oh sure... i could write of
the blue pill platonism...
                   but it's so impossible
to lie... let alone believe in lies self-generated...
from the hiding place
of the obscure... when...
people behaved like people...
had their lives and had their...
           soul crushing competitive streaks...
it was paradise to scribble...

now is no time to come to the fore...
could i encompass staging
a transcendence...
or merely this: a scuttling into the shadow...
not out of fear...
but for the sheer desire to spectate...
i mean: this requires an audience
this... this world this... whatever "this"
actually is...

the neighbour put up a new fence...
i've had over half a year of work
in perfecting the garden...
       there was putting up the pergola
with a wisteria
weaving: now blooming with tender
bishop hues...
    i'm still working on digging
an arcane concept of a trench
and flooding it self-made:
3 parts sand 1 part cement...
so the weeds from my neighbour's
garden do not sprout from beneath
the ornamental bark i laid...

if i were some evil genius:
tinged with a psychology of a soviet
past... or a mandarin current -
i wouldn't wish this militarised democracy
upon anyone...
          
           the original fear:
the oppenheimer crucible is beside
the ******* point...
                    when there was an awe inspiring
fear... a citation from the upanishads:
now i have become death...
who is to be cited in the current
climate of events...
are we experiencing a blitzkrieg
of anger from the elements...

           could it be possible that even
the gods are stricken with
a wake of the titans -
and their first riddled tier 0:
elemental forebears...

              coming to the cauldron...
if i were an evil genius:
i would want to work in the confines
of staging coups with atom bombs...
a period of paranoia and a history
that could make... 50 years a breezy
postcard nonchalance...
i'd pride myself on a parody of
a marathon... by turning up...
with 10 years of experience as a...
postman...

                   this whirling and sedating
prospect of tamed angers and
angered hopes... and docile happiness:
in the plural -nesses
       having exacted a limbo score
of stones stashed in socks...
and then flickering... like an imitation
slingshot...

     the classical period of hebrews writing
a history that would later become
incorporated into the labyrinth of the gentiles...
that London once aspired to
be a reinvention of Jerusalem...
in the 19th century's zenith...

                         that Paris transcended this
ambition...
                      what a mystery...
this new club of intellectuals...
when one tunes in to at least
a bare minimum of 2 hours in the morning
of BBC radio 3...
by comparison i tune into classic.fm
and... the same old... the same mundane...
repetition jargon...
carl orff's o fortuna...

there's no joke: it's just a platitude of
bad taste... it's bad because it's
pop repetitive... pop repetitive:
which is saying much... about classical music
being staged to a palette...

people are supposed to possess limbs...
apparently...
but i doubt that...
one can dislike the piquancy of blue cheese...
or beef honeycomb tripe...
esp. if one has...
tiramisu for dessert...
              
      i listen in on the BBC radio 3 broadcast
and i tease myself with words like...
the seclusive parody... no...
the non-inclusive... i.q. like a pH test...
one is either "intellectually" acidic or
alkaline...

old darwin can't exactly rewrite this
fork... in the lineages of history making...
what is out-dated about the english
is clinging to darwin...
by now this should be
a well reserved fact...
and loiter in the subconscious...
it should not have the capacity
to have the propensity of words...
to still have to be expressed as
a reiteration...
                    the automation
of the heart...
                                   i am beyond
the caricature of this amnesty of
"grief"...
               beyond: with a sense temporal...
only...
              
       it's not like the copernican
heliocentric model was...
but it was... something for a wittgeinstein...
it's not like he was some
william burroughs who negated
the copernican interlude...
searching for ghosts and proofs
saying: the ancient egyptians knew
of the heliocentric model all along!

one person is somehow compounded
to lie...
whether it is true... or false...
it's beside the posit and the will for
the focus of narrative...
the will to power is...
an -esque variation of...
the submerging focus for the masses...
a will to power concerns the elite...

but what concerns all of us?
the narrative of subversion...
               it's not so much a hierarchy of
glistening parodies of giggling...
at the exchange...

the will to power can be compensated...
the ordeal of a narrative...
right now! it's not necessarily true
or false...
     you can strobe light as many scientific
facts... uncertainties...
quack doctors will still sprout!

there was once a will to power...
a progress fabric / template for exceptional
men... the en masse is only now:
the last reigning exception...
what was once )will( is now )narration(...
what was once )power(... is now...
                   a "leisure" of a lie...

                  such the current world has
become so: new and in being so new:
so new-demanding...
                the old quest of a predicament
of the individual... some beckett-esque
oasis is but a half-heaved
borrowing of ancient greek monstrosity
of myth: this now new
pathology...

                   history - mythology -
journalism - temporal relativism -
all kept... within... the confines... of...
a spatial "integrity":
but i very much like... the lost butterfly
wings of "         " (odd)...

when: oh god... and if there wasn't
this propaganda machine...
but only now... you can see it speeding
up... and it's like... trailblazing
and you're wishing for some repose
with a tumbleweed
and how there could be
a cancan moment in h'americana...
when the old soviets would be
at it...

         but shyla stylez is still 35...
and dying of "reprieve"...
but i'm still gorging on beef honeycomb
tribe... and eating an italian classic
minutes later...

            because i might eat...
the livers of oinks...
the stomachs of chickens...
and the hearts...
i am barbaric...
                but i like...
the nova scotia compass...
or where it's "heading"...
i have a dutch lisp tantrum that's
beside a kiss of a tarantula...
that these people gravitated
toward a flattening of concerns...
this bicycle had to replace
towing a tonne of beef:
and milking it...

           hindering the limbo for
the worth of caviar, oysters...
and... scrutiny limbo tall...
a caribbean **** muster-pace...
because mustard is a european
masterpiece... along with
the "jelly" of the horse:
subjected to the readied dish of:
                      radical-conservatism...

calls "us" radishes on the
harsh... told to talk tall bone
with grit of bone...
     i hide my rhymes
with a... most secure... are we'iz'e'kid?
hoods to clamour for a:
"safen und testez"?

the bull-whipped testimony
of the tried and tested..
pair of guggenheim's "dropped off"....
my ordeal at the opera!
stiletto baron... a piercing sort
of "shoe"...
         the elephant's trunk is
a bad metaphor for a jazz fuelled trumpet...
concerning the otherwise
3 blind mend teasing the braille
of carpenter's 1 hour posit for:
no instagram, no fan-boyoh...
this variation of choking joke of junk...

the "rhyme" come first..
a prefix junction...
because executing memory with
suffixes... is... like... "no"... and "new"...
once upon a time some alexnder
the great...
count my concerns...
the balkans are the size of texas..
the ottoman turks were and are...
merely the pronounced presence
of barbery... on the demand
of the english... plumbers...

well... everything in english...
is steroid riddled: shakespearean or not...
macbeth or death...
it's not even dickensian...
it's: school the children or: death's
parrot and the *** riddled quack...
it's that the pillar is... heavier than its
shadow...
the... zunge ein walgrundieren...
              neckerei...
                          ein augenbinde hängend...

not that this is some Latvian
excavation project:
who! is to spreschen richtig....
german-philia or a russo-phobia...
bible blessed nuance
of... ol' david & delylah....
samson & goliath...

      my own pretty azure ice cradle topic...

a lobotomy of wooling
the cushion of an aversion
towards the heave! a grand heave!
prototype of nuance normie...
which is like gradation the arab project...
and he-he! softy-pie y first catering
for cancer last: croatian lobotomy *******
cue:

lumbering at a grief of a sedation..
to chop a tree...
to heave a concept of table
or a toothpick from it...
to give birth for a cherry fruit...
to delight a hindering of
             i aim...
                     the teeth and
the prosthetic... looking pristine...
prime gum:  excavating "leisure"...
it's that....

jaw-abiding:
sharon stone contra...
michelle pfeiffer...
        kim cattrall: godzilla ***
casablanca?!
    shyla stylez izzzzzzzzzzz
zoom?!
       jaw-gnashing teeth counting...
my leisure
of experimenting with
grace...
            my own: men-yoroi...
             licking a lisp...

this 3 bottles of jack a toll...
                       of this summa summarum;
these "croatian" shadow-people...
the lesser kind...
of the less celebrated...
after all: from california toward
the axis of elven-evil via texas...
the pristine people:
beside the primo escape plan
aiming at the moon!
what is the ol' muscovite affair...
that now... tinged with a beijing hindering...      

the soviets would bring a bomb...
the billionth man came
with a cinema of a ******* sneeze!

— The End —