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There’s a whisper down the line at 11.39
When the Night Mail’s ready to depart,
Saying “Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to hunt the thimble?
We must find him or the train can’t start.”
All the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster’s daughters
They are searching high and low,
Saying “Skimble where is Skimble for unless he’s very nimble
Then the Night Mail just can’t go.”
At 11.42 then the signal’s nearly due
And the passengers are frantic to a man—
Then Skimble will appear and he’ll saunter to the rear:
He’s been busy in the luggage van!

He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes
And the signal goes “All Clear!”
And we’re off at last for the northern part
Of the Northern Hemisphere!

You may say that by and large it is Skimble who’s in charge
Of the Sleeping Car Express.
From the driver and the guards to the bagmen playing cards
He will supervise them all, more or less.
Down the corridor he paces and examines all the faces
Of the travellers in the First and the Third;
He establishes control by a regular patrol
And he’d know at once if anything occurred.
He will watch you without winking and he sees what you are thinking
And it’s certain that he doesn’t approve
Of hilarity and riot, so the folk are very quiet
When Skimble is about and on the move.
You can play no pranks with Skimbleshanks!
He’s a Cat that cannot be ignored;
So nothing goes wrong on the Northern Mail
When Skimbleshanks is aboard.

Oh, it’s very pleasant when you have found your little den
With your name written up on the door.
And the berth is very neat with a newly folded sheet
And there’s not a speck of dust on the floor.
There is every sort of light-you can make it dark or bright;
There’s a handle that you turn to make a breeze.
There’s a funny little basin you’re supposed to wash your face in
And a crank to shut the window if you sneeze.
Then the guard looks in politely and will ask you very brightly
“Do you like your morning tea weak or strong?”
But Skimble’s just behind him and was ready to remind him,
For Skimble won’t let anything go wrong.
And when you creep into your cosy berth
And pull up the counterpane,
You ought to reflect that it’s very nice
To know that you won’t be bothered by mice—
You can leave all that to the Railway Cat,
The Cat of the Railway Train!

In the watches of the night he is always fresh and bright;
Every now and then he has a cup of tea
With perhaps a drop of Scotch while he’s keeping on the watch,
Only stopping here and there to catch a flea.
You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never knew
That he was walking up and down the station;
You were sleeping all the while he was busy at Carlisle,
Where he greets the stationmaster with elation.
But you saw him at Dumfries, where he speaks to the police
If there’s anything they ought to know about:
When you get to Gallowgate there you do not have to wait—
For Skimbleshanks will help you to get out!
He gives you a wave of his long brown tail
Which says: “I’ll see you again!
You’ll meet without fail on the Midnight Mail
The Cat of the Railway Train.”
Ayad Gharbawi Dec 2009
THE STORY OF SARA

OR A REFLECTION ON OURSELVES

Ayad Gharbawi

Chapter 4: THE HALLOWED PURIFICATION PROGRAMME




  One night, Omar began to thunder on:
  "No more of the disgusting concepts and ideas created by the Pigs! We should eliminate from our minds every single Pig that is influencing you, and I must say to you all, that I'm not seeing any progress."
  The audience suddenly went all quiet.
  Our leader was not satisfied with our emotional progress.
  We were not purifying our minds in a manner and speed that was satisfactory to the Great Noble Leader Omar.
  "I am looking at you all. I see you; yes, I, Omar, see each one of you. Your eyeballs seem to me to be unsure of what's behind them – I mean, your brains."
  Omar's voice began to talk in a tone that was almost a whisper, whilst the vast audience strained their ears to catch his every precious word.
  "And inside your brains lies our minds. Well, I'm talking about your minds, my friends. I'm not seeing progress. Yes, you do this riot; you **** this Pig; you burn this Pig school – and all of these acts are crucial to our holy cause. But, what about you yourselves? What about your own minds? Maybe you, too, are tainted with some of the Pig mentality yourselves? Now, how about that? Yes? What do you think?"
  The audience gasped.
  Omar began to raise his voice again.
  He was taunting this audience.
  Mocking them.
  Sarcastic.
  "Why, you really are telling me, that you think and feel and believe, that you have the right to **** Pigs?"
  At this question, Omar stopped.
  The audience gasped louder.
  I knew what they were thinking.
  Is our Great Noble Leader questioning our faith in him and in the cause itself?!
  He screamed, almost blowing away the microphones!
  "Why, who gives you the right to be soldiers in this unforgiving, merciless and ferocious war we are waging every day against vastly superior forces? I'll tell you 'who' gives you that right."
  The audience waited in tense anticipation at our leader's answer.
  It was so silent in this vast stadium, you could hear a pin fall.
  "What gives every man, woman and child the right to be a soldier in this brutal struggle is when that soldier has the purest heart and mind. It's as simple as that. And to be 'pure', my friends tonight, is the one who has not a shred, and does not have one ounce of Pig matter. That's right, you heard. Pig matter. Any dog that has even a fleeting Pig thought, is a Pig him or herself!"
  The audience now began to whisper among themselves.
  They seemed to be receiving the light from the words being delivered by Omar.
  Many were saying among themselves, that, 'Yes, we do have Pig thought and ideas and emotions and feelings in our hearts.'


  Omar continued, in a soft voice, after allowing his audience to digest his last words:
  "Yes, that does come as a surprise to you, doesn't it?"
  "Yes!" roared back the audience who now fully submitted to his question and answer.
  "So, I ask you – who are you?" he screamed!
  And the crowds immediately screamed:
  "Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! We are ***** Pigs!"
  Again and again, the crowd seemed to be going a little bit hysterical.
  Some began tearing off their clothes, as if they were trying to 'cleanse' themselves from their Pig thoughts!
  "That's right!" screamed back Omar, furiously and wildly staring with those maniacal eyeballs, like some trapped, ferocious animal, at his audience:
  "Why you yourselves are Pigs! That's right! Come on now! So, what are going to do about you? If you give yourselves the 'right' to **** Pigs, then why don't I have the same 'right' to order my best elite troops to **** you too?"
  "Save us! Save us!" screamed back the audience.
  "Save yourselves!" Omar screamed right back.
  "We are filthy! We are Pigs!" the audience began to insult themselves in all sorts of words and phrases.
  At this point, Omar was shrieking!
  "That's right! You are filthy Pigs yourselves, aren't you now?”
  The audience continued to scream and you couldn’t understand what they were saying anymore.
  Omar went just as suddenly silent.
  He just looked at his followers, and allowed them the need to express themselves.
  After some twenty minutes o this chaotic screaming, Omar became impatient and quickly motioned his followers to be quiet.
  Silence.
  He continued, with a soft tone:
  “So, I hereby announce the following."
  Once again the entire audience become tense.
  What was Omar going to order now?
  "I hereby allow you all, and I mean all our soldiers and not just those sitting with me here in this stadium; I order all of our soldiers to purify themselves of every Pig matter. You will have three months. And then, after that term ends, we will establish courts, to decide wether you have succeeded in cleaning yourselves from these cancerous and murderous feelings and emotions you have. Our courts and our hallowed judges will next decide, case by case, wether you are clean or not!"


  Later, when it appeared that our mostly pathetic, ***** and sick 'soldiers' were simply unable to cleanse their minds from the Pig establishment in three months – since they had no instructions or guidance - Omar, in his eternal grace, patience and humanity, decided to help them, by allowing classes to be held where one teacher would help each and everyone to 'cleanse' themselves.
  Personally, I thought that our Great Noble Leader was decidedly wrong in being so gracious to these so-called soldiers, because, in my opinion, this lot were not worthy of being in our party, and they ought to have been immediately expelled.
  "But, Sara," Omar would gently explain to me in his humble office, surrounded by his most trusted officers, "if we were to purge every undesirable element in the party, I would be left with practically nobody!"
  I took in his gracious words. and then thought about it.
  Why, he was correct, yet again, in his thinking!
  Indeed, if we did purify our party from the filthy ones, we would be left with little more than a handful of true, faithful and clean combatants and that, obviously, meant our self-destruction!
  "You're right, Sir; as usual, I think too hastily. That's why you are the only leader for us; my God, if I, God forbid, were leader, why I would have destroyed the party and our eternally holy cause years ago!"
  "Indeed, indeed, my dear," Omar softly said, but he seemed to have already forgotten my words, and, he was already somewhere else, thinking deeply about another problem.
  And so I, of course, went silent, so as not to disturb him.


  "You know what?" suddenly he asked me, his eyes sparkling with passion.
  "Yes, Sir?"
  "These 'classes' I was talking about. You've studied psychiatry, and I believe that we must use psychiatric methods to purify my subjects."
  Suddenly a strange feeling overcame me; I found the word describing the party members as 'my subjects' a little bit odd.
  Also, didn't Omar call psychiatry a Pig subject for all those years? Indeed, he said everything they taught us at university was evil, and that even the institutions of universities were dens of evil. And, yet, now, he was asking me to help him using what I was learning from my university days?
  "Yes, I can see the path I am talking about Sara. We need to get psychiatrists, like yourself, to tear out, yes, tear out, the filthiness in our party members."
  Suddenly, he got quite excited by his visions.
  "That's right, my dearest one, Sara. Yes, and I appoint you to supervise this programme of purification. That's right, and I shall call it by its simplest name, the 'Programme of Purification'!"
  Suddenly, I got excited as well, forgetting my previous disturbance.
  "That would be such a heroic move on your part, Sir." I gleefully told Omar.
  I feel that not only was he the saviour for our nation, but that he was also a personal saviour for myself.
  "Yes, I see my vision where it is leading us to. My dear Sara; you will set up these classes and you will bring the psychiatrists and you will purify the ***** elements in our classes."
  I got nervous again, for I just realized the magnitude of the job Saviour Omar was demanding I do for him!
  "And therefore, I Omar call for an immediate ceasefire against all Pigs!"
  Everyone in the office stood there in a state of shock!
  A ceasefire against the damnable Pigs?!
  Holy Omar could, of course, read our faces and smiled.
  "But Holy Sir," one officer softly asked, "how can we have a ceasefire against the most evil forces in the history of our country?"
  "And, Sir," asked another officer, "if we stop our eternally pure and humanistic battle against the disease-ridden pigs, wouldn't the latter take that as a sign of weakness on our part?"
  Next, saviour Omar raised his hand.
  Everyone went silent.
  He looked at us.
  There were no words from his mouth.
  We waited humbly.
  Geniuses take their time to formulate the right structure of words, not because they don't know what to say, but they do so that we fools can understand what they have to say.
  It is out of concern for us.
  Omar finally spoke:
  My clean, pure soldiers. We must declare a ceasefire, for I have no other choice. As a humanist, how can I allow impure elements from our party to fight and **** Pigs, when they themselves are still 'impure'? Where is the morality in that?"
  Suddenly, I couldn't help but feel such fanatical love for this man; I can only describe his man and his words, as pieces of Heaven coming down to us inferior beings, and if we are decent, then we must grab every shred and piece that he utters, so we can, in turn, save our impure souls.
  "Beautiful thoughts indeed, my Gracious Leader!" I said.
  Then I turned to the listeners:
   "What's wrong with the rest of you? If, one of our 'own' party members was impure, then by what right does he and she have to fight and **** Pigs? We must cease all out activities, until we have a purified party! It's simple and obvious!"
  Thereupon followed silence.


I was speaking the obvious.
  Finally, a voice spoke:
  "So, how exactly are these psychologists going to 'purify' the 'minds' of our party members?"
Good question – one that I had not thought about.
  Indeed, how, and by what means, were we going to purify the undesirables?
  And then, just at the right moment, Omar spoke his words:
  "Yes, that is a great question. There's no use giving orders that no one knows how they are to be carried out. You see, it will not only be the job of psychiatrists who will purify the filthy ones. No, we will force the filthy ones, to ***** out every filthy thought, feeling, and idea; and we shall make sure that all these impure thoughts and feelings and convictions will be screamed out of their minds."
  At that last phrase, once again, I found myself pausing and thinking, what an odd thing to say!
  I got lost in my thinking.
  After all, Omar always, and I mean always choose his words carefully, for he would always make it a point to be so careful with the choice of his words, so that his credibility would never be in doubt and so people do understand that that he means exactly whatever he says.
  I must confess, I was completely confused.
  On the one hand, I had such deep reverence, complete love and a total need for Omar, and then, there was a part of me, that simply didn’t understand what he was talking about!
  I remembered, once more, how everything was so nice and easy and simple with Tony.
  But, I assume, that Tony was a general doctor, whereas Omar was a surgeon, and so, with Omar, we had to face a far more complex situation.
  "What do you mean by that, Sir?" asked one of the officers, waking me up from my thoughts.
  "I mean, it shall be the duty of every party member to purify every other party member. We must all be psychiatrists! This will be done, of course, under the supervision of the leader psychiatrist in each class. He or she will guide you, as to how to get every party member to rip out every Pig attribute in our party members. It's as simple as that."
  At that, Omar gestured to indicate that the meeting was over, and so we left.
  I kept thinking that his idea was, I'm sure, utterly brilliant, but how in practice were going to do this?


  He left his office far too soon.
  We had too many questions to ask, and yet, by leaving us, Omar was, in effect, giving us a 'programme' to do, but without clear, precise orders.
  So, how were we going to carry out his orders?
  What did he mean that 'we must all become psychiatrists'!
  That was absolutely absurd!
  Untrained people cannot simply 'become' psychiatrists, even if they are 'led' by psychiatrists – or to use Omar's words, to be 'guided' by psychiatrists.
  So, Omar's idea seemed to me, to be really a recipe for a catastrophe for our party.
  The more I thought of it, the more I found my mind asking myself the question: why was Omar insisting on this 'purification programme' in the first place?
  Couldn't the party and its members simply continue the struggle, without having to enforce this ridiculous programme?
  And didn't Omar realize that his insistence on us carrying out his orders to do the purification programme, was going to cause absolute chaos, disruption and ultimately mass desertions and expulsions from our party?
  In other words, Omar's sudden 'need' to 'purify' our own members seemed to me to be a self destructive act that would seriously damage the party.


The ceasefire announcement was barely noticed by the Pigs – which came as a shock to many of us.
  The government didn't seem to actually care at our ceasefire announcement.
  Indeed, the Pigs declared that what they termed as the 'social troubles' was, in effect, 'over' and so, therefore, the country could breathe a sigh of relief, and people could now be 'happy'.
  I didn't believe what the government was saying.
  I was of course nauseated by the hypocrisy of the Pig leaders, because, their pronouncements were lies, as usual, and they would of course, continue their merciless war against us, while we had to cease our fire.
  Yes, Leader Omar was probably correct, but I was **** frustrated, because it seemed to me, for the first time since I joined the party, that the Pigs may now well win the struggle.
  It was obvious to me!
  For how on planet earth could we 'win' a war, when we were not allowed to fight, while the same eternal enemy would continue his war against us?!
  Also, to be very honest, I'm not sure that we could 'purify' Pigs in the first place.
  It seemed to me to be a contradiction!
  I would simply have to swallow whatever Leader Omar ordered us to do.
  God knows, he's proven to be correct every time before, and maybe, he will confound us once more with his superior wisdom.
  Have faith, Sara, have faith!
  Never question the Great Leader, for he is superior to all of us; after all, that’s why he’s the ‘Great Leader’ in the first place!
  Keep the faith!
  How can we understand what a su
JoJo Nguyen Jun 2013
The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my w3tb@ck.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?

I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.

The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.

I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm  or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.

I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?

With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
The groove, the rut, and the cut
were walking down the street.

As good friends do oft,
Cousin in name and in shape,
They strode sided, but said not a word.
Still understood that three
So different, nonetheless, one design.

The cut was old yet still bled
From time to time.
The groove and the rut, always in touch,
T'issued spear-carriers, armed and
Loving, dabbed and blotted the cut clotted.
For that is what the friends are 'the for,'
For the clotting, the knitting and the closing.

The bleeding came when it came,
They jested that they could never leave him,
For tho he bled regular, there was no schedule,
No knowing the when, but the why, that they
Understood. They would not have left him anyway
Exception of course now and then, but leave
Their man, their cuz, was not to be conceived.

The rut was long, thin, you had to look down
To see his full length, for he grew bottom-down,
Every day another ring, another inch, on the soles
Notched, they dared not, count them, so many days
Rutted in the tedium of a blood count of unable,
Incapable of being broken, his enemy, arch, was his friend.
Tedium his companion, his drug dealer,
When groove and cut were at work, failing to supervise.

Rut could only sigh. Sole solitary sound, except for the
Quiet ringing only he could hear, rings forming,
Day after day, and he could not count that high,
So instead each rut was given a name,
For blessed endless the world of words that say
I am a daily existence, nothing more, nothing but less.

The groove, hero to the cut and the rut,
Had his moments.
But he had secrets he did not share with them,
But as an outside-looker-in, I was privy to the
Privy of everything.

The groove was oval, wiry, snakey shaped,
But prone when prone to twisty turns when
Objects like objectives met, in counter ed.
But when groove was grooving,
There was full blown full mo, the world observed.

Strict silence for the poems that
Shook lose from his frame,
Bad his eyes, wept he,
Lines of ones and twosies,
Fat and wide his fame,
For when the groove was
Cooing and cooling,
Life infused him and sips of tea,
Each transformed into the heat of ooh and the ahh,
When the cup was empty, he had his finished 'aha,'
Of a new parting, gift giving in his heart.
For he she see saw the angle of simple, and thus could
Groove on grooving.

The rut and the cut were happy for him,
Watch with incredible incredulity and an itty bitty
Jealousy of which they never rudely spoke.
But they would board his poetry-train sled,
Down they rode, the white snow
Of being a a lookalike groovy kid,
Even if and but, for just a few minutes.

Everyone loved groovy, and watch his every movie,
Licked the whiskey wooden snowball words from his lips,
but would not admit they kept them hid,
So they could be reread when they were at home
In the closet with flashlight, and the weeping was easy.

The three cuz went to the carnival.
Fun house with mirrors that made you look like
Who You really were.

But not them, for "the for" was different,
For when they strode sided before those mirrors,
They could plainly see that the
Groove, the rut the cut
Looked exactly alike,
Exactly alike,
All looked
Like
me.
For Rebecca, just because.
Created October 19th, 2013
Elena Ramos Jul 2014
By Elena Ramos©
1
Todays my last day of School before I graduate, go to the University and the most important thing summer vacations, I just hope to be accepted in a good University, and I am talking seriously. All my entire friends are going to travel or do something incredible as always before they start the University, but I cant. My vacations are boring, watch movies at home,I just visit  my grandparents house, or watch tennis games with my dad and brothers. I am the second son of four kids, Julian is the older, I am next, Ryan the third and Georgina the small one. My mother name is Lauren Parker but she was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) which is basically a sickness that do not **** you but makes your life harder, not only physically but mentally also. Mom started to feel fatigued, loss her concentration constantly and memory, extremely pain in her muscles, and a inexplicable headache. It is a little bit hard for all of us because even if mom is alive she cant do anything for us, she started feeling this way after Gerogina was born, that was sixteen years ago. My dad Julian is the one who suffers the most, they cant do any activity toguether, even watching Tennis Chanel is hard for her, she is more time sleeping than what she spend awake. Georginas sweet sixteen just passed and sadly mom couldn’t  help her to plan the party. All the boys of the house, we help her to plan it, but our ideas **** up that much that she almost cancel the party. Even so, she did it, and she had a good time, all her friends came and dance a lot, my brother Julian buy her some alcohol because he is more than twenty one, and brought some friends with him supposedly to supervise everything and have things calm. Dad was not in the party because  he trusted Julian that everything was going to be fine. All Julian friends were wasted but for my sisters friends they were cool, so at the end we all have fun. Right now is almost Lunch, that means school will end soon. Arnold my best friend of all my life, is sitting next to me making some jokes about Mrs. Frances horrible make up, like if she did it in the dark. I cant believe that during my entire life I did not talk to Mary the hottest girl in the entire school. Her hair so light brown, her beautiful smile, her blue eyes, and her incredible capacity of being the best student of Seattle’s High School make me fall in love of her, sadly I was never able to speak to her, not even a hello in the cafeteria line. Girls like her make boys feel stupid for even believe we have a chance with them. Even Arnold feel the same way with her, just that he is not able to admit it, because he thinks we can fight for her and end our friendship. Lunch is here, we are meeting Sarah a friend of us, but she is a junior, sadly we wont graduate with her. We had this little pact that the three us were going to the same University together and that Sarah was going to meet us the next year too. Seattle pacific University is our best option for now. They offer Arnold a half scholarship, something awesome that I wish could happen to me, thanks god my parents save money for school during their entire life. I live in Seattle the largest city of Washington, Sara mom reserve a table tonight for the three of us to celebrate were out of school in the space needle. Later we can got to a party or something alike, definitely tonight were having some fun. We just meet Sara in the hallway.
-Hey donkies!-said Sarah-
-Hello Sarah-I said in a sarcastic mood. She is an incredible person, probably with the only girl I being so close to. We have even sleep together, I mean the three of us, sometimes when its get to  late and we have a lot to study.
-Nerd, how you doing?-ask Arnold to Sarah.
-Great airhead, cool that your almost graduated!-.reply Sarah.
-Yeah, is pretty awesome that we make it until here, I am ready for the University, imagine how many pretty girls would be there waiting for a nerd to do their homeworks or a shoulder to cry after a break with her boyfriend-Arnold laugh.
-Yes, your still an ******* inmature, I cant believe you have a half scholarship-Sarah said.
-Its fine the two of you, let quick so we can make it to the cafeteria line, before all those ******* of the football team-I said.
The cafeteria was still empty, we made it before the athletes. I even said goodbye to the lady who served the food. She was nice to me, she serve me more green grapes or more French fries every Tuesday. This is one of the things I will miss the most from the school, too many memories, things that with the time I will forget, i wish to have more time here, I guess I love my school, or I am scared of growing up, and becoming an adult. We sat in the last table of the cafeteria, I wanted to observe all the room for the last time, full of people I used to know. It is funny how ironic the day gets, you desire this last day of school all your life, but when it comes, you want to fall back again to the first day of school where you start everything, where you meet your best friend of all your life, Arnold and Sarah in this case, your first breakup or your first party, or the day you kiss a girl for the first time, something it has not happened to me yet. I want it to be real and true, I know it sounds funny, but I am still a old school boy, when its related to how treats ladies. Even if I had the chance to be with one I will never do something, first of all because I respect them a lot, I always think of Georgina, I will treat girls the way I wish my sister be treated someday by a dude.
-In what your thinking Alex?-ask Sarah eating in a silly way her sandwich.
I reply-Well, to be honest I am sad-
Arnold laugh instantly after my answer-how you dare to say your sad, if you were always saying you wanted to graduated and getting the hell out of here-.
-I know I said it, but think in this, what will happen after we graduate, we wont see you often Sarah, you will have new friends, Arnold you will be busy meeting new girls and being a Casanova, and I probably will be in my dorm reading some Mangas, or listening music, or worst talking with my family.-I said.
-Don’t worry Alex it wont happen, I bet you wont do skype with your family only once every six months, I swear. Don’t take your mangas collection, you will seem yourself weird and nerd, not to offend you but its true, and yes I will be a Casanova, hope god listen you-.Arnold said in a inspirational mood.
-Thanks dude, you’re the best-I said to Arnold – and about my manga collection I don’t promess you nothing, I gues that instead of taking the all I will only take ten, and read the rest online-.
-I cant believe your sad Alex, I wish to be graduating now, I cant handle one year anymore-said Sarah.
-Well your day will come soon Sarah, your senior year will be awesome I promess-I said.
While everyone was getting ready for the last period of class I couldn’t take my eyes off Mary, beautiful face. She was wearing this beautiful white dress, with her pink Vans. All I can said she look like an angel,her breast was incredible good locking, all in her was just perfect. Sadly she was dating someone bigger than her, he picked up her always after school, all I can said is that a lady like her deserve something better, a men that respect her, take care, and treat her delicately; but that ****, dressed like a lazy men, his hair was awful, the loudness of his music was horrible, and he smoked in her face, I mean at 2 centimeters from her face. Sometimes I said to myself she deserves me, even if it was a crazy idiot idea I knew I could treat her as the lady she was and make her happy.

Bell just ring, last class period, maybe the teacher will said some last words and school stuff be decline today. I just want it to end now, I want it to be night, I want to go to any good party we were not invited but we enter anyway. Sara mom was too gentile in paying a dinner for the three of us. I guess that school will end but I feel its time to wake up a part of me I never knew it existed; the free man. ©

CHAPTER 2 SOON ...
Victor Timmons Sep 2017
I would like to tell you a story about a soul. A soul that was as clean, pure and gentle as soul can be. Rarely in live do we meet someone or some animal who never wanted anything but to give love. This story can’t be told without talking about her caretaker and my wife.

About 12 years ago an injured kitten was released to Everett Animal Shelter. The kitten had no use of it’s hind legs and was incontinent. In those day it was almost 100% chance that this kitten was going to be put down. Don’t feel sad/mad about this, nature’s way can be very cruel. The her fate sealed, this was much more humane ending.

My wife took it home to see if the kitten could be rehabilitated. We had been fostering kittens for a while and had a safe room for her. After getting her settled in we look at each other saying without words “Now what”?

Well the first thing that needed to be done was give her a name. We talked for a bit and I explained to my wife “She needs a strong name. She needs a strong black female name. She going need it to help her through life”. The strongest black female name I knew was Rosa Parks. That became her name.

Rosa being incontinent was, well to be honest, was a stinky kitten. Stinky kitten became one of her many nicknames, HA. Rosa needed to learn how to take a bath. If you ever tried to give a kitten/cat a bath you know it’s not really a good idea. So my wife dives right in, picks her up and takes her to bathroom for her first bath. Rosa being the soul she was just sat in the sink and took her bath. She didn’t fight it, she never hissed or got angry. She just took her bath. This attitude towards water lead us to try water therapy.

Water therapy was a home job for us. We would fill a storage tote with warm water and put this rear palatalized kitten in it up to her neck. Now for first time in a few weeks this kitten Rosa could stand up with the water supporting her weight. This went on for the first year of her life. This was the start of many treatments such as acupuncture, a sling in her room and massage. She did all of it never complained about anything.

It didn’t take to long and soon Rosa was strong enough to stand and wobble out a step or two. After a few months of no more improvement it became clear that a decision needed to be made about what to do with her. Is her quality of life such that gets returned for euthanasia or is she happy and do we commit to her care. We knew that she could never live the life of a normal cat. She would never be able to go outside unsupervised, she could never be inside unsupervised except in her safe room. She was healthy and always happy so the commitment was made.

Rosa had her safe room but what to do with her when we can supervise her. Rosa needed a wheelchair. After doing some research we found a local company that makes wheelchairs for pets. After getting her sized up the day came she had her chair. We put Rosa in her chair and in no time she was zooming around the room. Rosa is mobile!!!

My wife and I would take Rosa and Cocoa (look for the story ‘Cocoa’s Ghost’) for walks around the block. Animal Rescue Foundation who had paid for Cocoa issues and Rosa’s early expenses told the Everett Herald newspaper about this and Rosa went mainstream. Look up the news article ‘Pets get a second chance’ if your interested reading it. Needless to say walking a cat in a tiny wheelchair got attention.

One of the things that was very special about Rosa was she loved being a foster mom. My wife would often bring home sick kittens, tiny kittens and just overflow from the Everett Shelter and put them in Rosa’s safe room. Rosa always excepted those kittens as her own within a day or two. I often thought it would have been funny to learn about the birds and the bees from her perspective.

Me “Rosa, where do kittens come from”.

Rosa “Well first you eat some food, then you ****, then you go to sleep and BAM kittens”.

There were many, many times a sick kitten would just curl up in her belly and sleep with it’s now mother Rosa. She was so good with the kittens. She would cuddle, discipline, clean and try to feed when needed. The kittens in her care got a family with a loving mother and bothers and sisters, often unrelated. She truly seemed to enjoy motherhood.

This was Rosa’s and my wife’s life for 12 years. Feed Rosa, squeeze Rosa, clean Rosa and love Rosa. Last night that most of that ended. A few weeks ago Rosa stopped eating and drinking. After $1000 of tests, weeks of fluids, syringe feedings and with no answers we made the choice and gave the gift. Rosa died the same way she came into our lives, in my wife’s arms.

I wrote this not to make you sad. I wrote this to share a clean, pure and gentle soul with you. Some of you reading this may have one of her kittens living with you now: a small piece of her soul living with you now.  Enjoy her gift to you.
This is not a poem. This is a story about a poetic life. Enjoy.
Martin Narrod Feb 2017
Into the crash, imploded. Escape from light, I've known it was, the righteous and right thing to do. Where is the name? I'm listening. I hear the storm, it's growing for me, an old familiar know-it-all, with a glowing knack for mediums in the park each seventh Sunday, it takes a demon to splice my hearing, I'm in a covert closed-box first-class second-rate fairy-tale, and it is my time to start going for something transfixed, something the locals bare their graves and lapse over the journey the girls take heavily with their ****** and their men are swaying with the light. Taking their time to get to know them, until the lye takes off their fingertips and their lips cool an echo that I've cured my ears to listen closely towards.

There isn't a god. A h or even a sophomoric after-thought. This is the bed and our sheets don't know us. Is it her blood or is it the withdrawals showing, I'll sew the girls to their cotton, and make them toss their batons up, wear green and green and raise their lacrosse sticks. I've liked wearing lipstick, crossing my legs, and telling them, "you can't touch this." I take the mescaline and disrupt the contest. I carry the heads in a duffel bag, even though the lawyers don't recommend it, I carry the duffel bag in the restroom. I race 100 yards around the lunchroom, I play tag and go, I taste the subjects. Sweet, sugary, and coming onto me. She's aging denim and platinum rings.

I stop the door. I count for hours. I take all the dead-ends, all these lover's cross-eyed, pouring their pants down for supper and ecstasy, they'll take the anodyne and enter where their hearts spread disease on a dark submariner spring, where the clothes can start coming off. Lift your wings and your mantra will start rising. All of your different voices, that realize the different voices of your name, pour your light out, fill my hands with your love, and take the hour into the coastline- I'll be the one to call it enough. Even the voices can be the drug. Even her voice it could be enough.

It's the touch that knows your name. It's the governement that shears it down. It's the fibers that haunt you, while your fingertips reach slightly down along the edge of your mattress, where your sheets meet the ground. Let her be your goddess and arrange your services and coffin, the guests all wear black, and your mother raises the sun on the telephone. It might feel scripted, it might feel nostalgic, but don't let your mind turn blank. This is a stark horizon, your hands aren't here to supervise you. Your eyes can't join the rush. These are the skins that know you, they see you more than once, they call you in for the night, they tell all the people of your fame. There is really nothing to hide from, here where the desert can call you, up from the floor where they've found you, is it your face on the demons that reared you from the drug?

This is the sound and it haunts me, it takes its overture to the half-life. It takes the horror and reveals its torture to the public, where the joy-filled guitar chords pleasured me with so many gifts I always told myself they weren't enough.

Primes are around us, the people are march now. They can't keep their eyes off the madness, it's more than an hour now, they race towards their coastline, the twilight stretched mischievously passed their sons. They dig for tomorrow, the chisel at marble, until their hands undo the prisons their art dissolves. The primes are around us, it's unnerving and lifeless. New weekenders unearth these plasticine mannequin statues that ride Western through the values up the arms.

Here is a hero, no mother or father, at least not the name that they gave them, he took them out West, towards the yucca and cactus, towards the orange and stark calmness that only history could resolve the aching pains that our parents took with us through the thaw. This ice-world is melting, the seasons are ending, the shades of our evils take all of us, alone, threaded together, but stitched on the embers of some soul-less, tailored, empty null.

Here is the room, here are the stacks of dried lumber that we never thought could take us through the thaw. These are the bookends, Minnie and Mickey, white furry bonanza lost on the albicant sinews of bakelite slippers mixed into the dance routines of temporally observant minds that wouldn't dare feed themselves on the breaths of time. Here he is, like he was, not with his name tomorrow, not with her name for morning, they arc themselves inadequately, and even the doctors recommend that some soft-drinking orange-flavored omen takes their luggage and their fears, and drag them through an ocean, where no one could ever see them coming, into an aluminum jungle of preservatives where natives and islanders can sacrifice through them their judgements of a failed family history on the surplus of cities and their truths.

Here is the sound, here it strikes. Here is the room, cold and white. These are the books, here are the horrors. Here is the fashion but there's no rhythm there's no order. This is the rug, it's shaggy, it's a mess, it's distressed, it's unfolding, and it carries it's path of swine. It's a nuisance, it is caustic, it observes the unfortunate and reserves a placement for the matte sublimation of time.

And through the dirt-patterned bone-white skeleton keys basking on the rocks in some slumber of a 31st century pond, the people dancing punch their dance-cards, show their tattooes, and frollick in the great beyond. Here and in mourning, waxing on the miens of their corruption, whistling against the steel television sets from off of their 1982 television sets where they drink ***** and orange juice and laugh at Sylvester and Reboot on their regular Saturday morning routine watching Saturday morning cartoons.

Youth. In between a doctorate and mastery of language, there is nothing left to undo. A familiar feeling arriving to the airport, a tremendous evil summons the Zeppelin pilots to their terminals too. There is a horse that keeps on all of its riders, but still there's no pleasure that can keep us two.

As high as the wind and the rye, they search for the blight in our eyes, they summon our lips to a lie, tumbling and showing the time. These are the stars that we promised to give away. The legs on this pavement are slaves, half of this bad, shapes of her heaven and neverland, muffled like the secret that we have promised to tow, and the music is ahead of the shoal, out where our ocean wrote the seashore in, and the coastline carries our words on the wind. And the basement hoards our fears so we can move, away from the televisions where our parents keep their eyes' glued. Something that we promised to do, regardless of how familiarity thwarted to do, so don't break mine, don't take mine. I am the start of your pain, I wear the crown of your king, I make your bed and obey to keep the door open to our fray, where it gets us through the night. As I was told, you were supposed to know. I was tonight, I had the rights to you tonight. Your lips, their fire, the weapons for your fight, I caught myself in a lie, somewhere beyond the tremendousness of your see-through past, beyond this sea of glass where the sea creatures swim in the tales we had. Suffering past, the sea of glass, we once had.

I can see tonight, the foreman, he has told me where to go. Listen to the... I am here to help. I am going through the going, if I'm going to last, help me last, here in the thicket of the summer or the winter, this wild where we listened to the sound of snow crashing on these winter shoals where the penguins passed, and the lips froze against the icicles these icebergs flashed. The camera, suffering back, took me back, the sounds of the crash haunting back, to the weekend last summer we never had. The sleeping lasts, the winter grasps, our words have past, you're sleeping fast, eating glass, shining black. I'm suspended in liquid gas, shivering at the wicked words the women packed, the sharp synonyms that women had. I'm half of the man I was dreaming of, in the winter passed the winter doves, their heads hiding under glass. I'm just a splinter of my past, lilting as a tumbling black, simple jack, here on a card spliced I'm never to once again see my little world.

This is the sound of enough, the sound of people as they fall away. Through the windows of time, the ladder falls down inside of my mind. It's hard to live where the stars survived. In a library of dreams I once lived each day. Each of the curtains had dropped, and each of the women had left. The god of me took every need I thought I'd keep, for half of my past, was only the start of a bell I craved. Even if nothing was the sound for today. Nothing can be the sound that I gave. My muscles down, my bones breaking down, the sound of the humans buried alive underground. The choice he gave as the music played for all of these muffled thugs circling this parade on the hill.

It can be as hard to be a star. It's the cost of the heart that beats, on the coastline your readied float brings your corpse to the flood. Often lilting, often swaying, these things you pictured would be your life under this sun. If your buttons move, and you want to live free? And you claw your eyes out, just to call it off, every world you kept your lessons furtively aimed, in a match held with love, against some chanceless hope of taking the game. Each of these ends, keeping your pictures to the heavens, if his name should take your heart in need? One of these wombs where music had begun, the gnarly garden of space unkempt and calling her grave, where your name costs your fame, and the poison lifts this track up, and your train comes, it moves you backwards, even if you weren't the one, this could be the ghost you call and say, this is enough. This is the world where your friends can't go alone. Sounds and chimes and groans. Soundtracks scored into the chalk of your bones. Another, another, another, a mother.

Until this lover you chose by name, can't see. Until this lover you saw inside, can't see you very clearly tonight, you can't get by. You only just realized you're not the kindest mind, in fact yours is the weakest light.
judy smith Nov 2015
Whether or not to invite kids to your wedding is one of those polarizing First World problems that can end friendships, divide families, and ratchet up couples therapy bills. Your time can be better spent deciding what desserts will be at the Viennese table or which Billy Joel song will be your first dance. There's really no need to get defensive about the whole kid thing.

We can only invite a certain number of people.

The caterer doesn't have chicken nuggets.

It's a late ceremony.

We think kids are spawns of Satan.

Let me stop you right there. There seems to be a common misconception that I want to spend every waking moment with my children (probably because I spend every waking moment with my children). Don't tell me why my kids aren't invited to your wedding; just don't invite them. It will be magical. Here's why:

It's your day. If you want circles of doves, bridesmaids wearing Indonesian tapestries or the Electric Slide, do it. Who am I to dictate what your special day looks like? Kids create a certain, shall I say, atmosphere that is not everyone's cup of tea. I completely understand if you want the joyous union between two adults to be an adult-only affair.

I get a rare night out. You are literally forcing me to leave my house, put on an expensive dress I'll only wear once, dance with my husband, and socialize the night away. This hasn't happened since my own wedding.

I don't want them to upstage you. I'm not going to lie; my three-year-old looks smashing in tulle and sequins. Plus, she's a boss at throwing things on the floor, so tossing petals down the aisle will be a snap. Once we curl her hair, put her in matching bejeweled shoes, and turn her loose on the dance floor, all eyes and cameras will be on her. I mean, you. It's totally your day.

My kids don't want to be there either. It combines all the fun of sitting still, being quiet, and not ******* in public. What kid wouldn't love that? I've been to an occasional wedding where I've seen kids having a blast, boogie-oogie-ing up a storm, twirling in circles. But most of the time, I see them sitting in the coat room, looking surly while playing Angry Birds on their parents' phones.

Nobody really wants to supervise them. Relatives love to tell us: "Bring Junior, we will totally entertain him during cocktail hour," or "I can't wait to dance with little Nancy." Next thing we know, the bar opens, and everyone scatters to chase down the server with the mini-hot-dog tray. Friends and family always swear they'll help us out, but really, no one wants to babysit my kids at a wedding. Everyone is too busy having fun. It's impossible to hold a writhing toddler and a whiskey sour at the same time; one of them always falls. And those kids always eat all my mini hot dogs.

It'll keep your guest list in check. At this point in our lives, a lot of us have children--many, many children. If you let us each bring a "plus-4," your head count will spiral out of control, fast. The dance floor will begin to resemble the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese's, and forget about being able to hear the vows over the cacophony of little voices asking if it's "almost up to the food part"--not that my kids will eat any of their $100-a-plate dinner anyway.

You will save a ton of money for me. Forget my own dress, hair and makeup; now my 3-year-old needs an outfit, matching shoes, hair accessories and jewelry. We need to pack crayons, coloring books, toys, an alternate meal (the infant isn't into prime rib these days) and a larger hotel room. And I suppose we should probably give a nicer gift.

Mommy needs a drink. I'm not a raging ******, but I do enjoy imbibing the odd glass of wine, or six, at a wedding. Hey, it's celebratory! Nothing kills a buzz faster than having to be responsible for the welfare and safety of small children in a room filled with innumerable safety hazards. I also have no desire to explain to them why Mommy has a lazy eye and "New Year's breath."

My children have no plans to reciprocate. There is a strong likelihood that my daughter will not invite you to her 4th birthday party -- something about "limited space in the bouncy house" and "pizza only serves eight." Since no invitation is forthcoming, feel free to save the space at your wedding for your mom's second cousins or that co-worker whose wedding you were B-listed to. Everyone will have a much better time.

Especially me.

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immensely immersed in
pensive verses
that don't make sense.
pencil thin & shrinking.
thinking about the end
before the **** begins
is just...
ignorant.

hi.
I'm comin to
all yall still alive
from down in the
diamond mines &
I'm having a helluvatime
winding around the spine
& biting through the wires.

I am not of your kind.

I am gypsy science.
I am high minded & iron sided
& I like fire & liars
& violence & thieves        
I find them quite inticing
since there was no one to supervise or guide me but thats fine with me
but it is tiring spiraling between
subterranean lows
& olympian peaks.
Manic today.
Zulu Samperfas May 2012
As I girl, I thought heartbreak was only reserved for love
What does a child know? Only that desperate need for warmth and reassurance
Earning my way in the world, I work, passion leading my way
I learn how work, that holistic toil, with full body and mind
will make you dependent, on the trust, the goodwill of others
those others with power, who supervise your toil, looking down at you, arms crossed, in judgement
You ask your silent soul: am I building something for myself?

Or, am I digging a large hole, piling dirt up on one side
Sweating, my palms earning blisters, that form pop and bleed and form again,
and then am I to fill the hole back up again?
with the same dirt? leading nowhere, a futile mobius strip?
A hamster running at amazing speed on a wheel? Around and around.

Attachment comes to the outcome
What they told you--the bosses, the people with power
How this would help you with your work
How this would improve your world, your hours, your seconds

And when success comes, despite the popped blisters
and the ache in the back, and the dirt lodged underneath your nails,
dirt and sweat rubbed into your very being
When that promise is taken away by those same bosses
who only see you as a number, not a human being
A unit who works, like an electric drill
doing a job here, and easily moved to bore the next hole
when this happens, there is no other choice
but to let go

Let the Gods take your life somewhere else
Be lifted up by the wind of change and enjoy the dizzy ride
You have lost control, so lose it again, give yourself up to the world
And you will land in a new direction, with only the pain of disorientation
Eyes wide, ears alert, only the struggle into the frightening unknown,
A clean break with the past, made by your decision as you regain control and choose
to let go
Pour les yeux de souveraine un coup de crayon pour redessiner les sourcils
Une couche légère de mascara sur les cils des pointes à la racine
Un petit gris léger sur les coins internes et externes de l 'oeil
Et une couleur rose sur les paupières mobiles
Et du khôl pour illuminer ce regard envoûtant de sirène qui hypnotise
Les phalènes jusqu'au fin fond de sa mer d'airain
Sans oublier le rouge à lèvres aubergine
Kiotis Paris made in France
Pour hydrater et satiner le cuivre de ses lèvres :
Mon féminin céleste zéro fausse note est vite prête
En deux temps trois mouvements
Et des secondes interminables

Il n 'est jamais trop **** pour Désirée et ses mille épigones :
Judith, parée, poudrée, maquillée, parfumée
Hérodiade, douchée et dressée sur son trente-et-un
Eve, coiffée, habillée, décolletée,
Sapphô, culottée, chaussée, toilettée
Pandore, prête à jaillir de jour comme de nuit
Hélène, légère comme un papillon
Cléopatre fraîche comme la rosée :
Pulchra Fatale et Désirée
Elle est belle, elle est wow, elle est elles toutes en Une enrobée
C'est l'ombre plurimillénaire romantique de Balkis, reine du Matin,
C'est l'ombre plurimillénaire romantique de Makéda, reine du Midi
C'est l'ombre plurimillénaire décadente de Salomè, reine du Soir
Quelque part ressuscitée
Et je l 'aime comme elle est

Chaque jour que le soleil fait
Jette un baiser couleur de belle lune de miel
A ma sirène métissée de Matin, Midi, Soir !
Ce n'est pas pour rien que ma Pulchra est fille de Mnèmosuné
Fille de Wainaha , saint dragon hémiarite
Par son don de seconde vue
Ma sulamite débusque au quart de tour les artifices,
Les cernes, les imperfections, les camouflages
Les faux cils, les faux ongles, les faux saints
Et les faux poètes, les faux salomons et leurs fausses huppes
Et leurs chants libertins en hexamètres dactyliques
Au son de leur phorminx d'occasion
Eh oui Ma Désirée est Pulchra authentique et fatale
Elle chante tentatrice avec Kiotis
Son cantique des cantiques ad libitum
"Je suis bien, je suis wow , je supervise
Et je m'aime comme je suis "
Julian Sep 2022
September 29th 2022 Philosophy

The spavined strumpets of aleatory nimonics stranded in the dimpled pelargic mythos of the nebelwerfers of scansorial elitism burroling the stokehold of pragmatic lurch useful for the progeny of powellisation interned by potichomania for balefires against the throbbing thremmatology of the strickle of jabirus vexed by stunsail argumentation of sumpter sidelong in oblique ginglymus to such a grave extent the thalwegs of contemplation daver in marauded orbit around ceraceous and cespitous thaumaturgy manacled by subservience in sequacious filagersion honing upon stereopsis for nomenclators of high squarson brigadoon fidelity to finessed wheals brackling away at tattermedalion squalor in squirmish facade of brockfaced brockens of wasserman to infiltrate against banjolins the pedigree of berceuse mendaciloquence that the branchiform sedigitation of all sesquiplicated sondage in the barnstorm of whelky during the subterfuge of wallfish cofferdams entrenched in boskets of the deepest regard of bathmism that we might fetch the canicular and cannular talents of susceptible bonhomie to retrace the elemental supralunar chrysopoetics of the transubstantiation of all stellions beyond provincial jansky and above fracklings of disrepute to array never a protervity of loimic stiction but always a sovenance of the highest fidelity to bellarmine briquets that can be sustained by mediagenic diffusion of volplanes of vulpecular vasotribes thereby careworn of future plight by preterition and chronobiology superfused for sporrans calculated for bonanza rather than retching with carpology. In the sustainable calculus of stanhopes and standpipes against the nivellated carnage of many a nivial hotspot grandiose with bruxomania rarely plodged by the subsultus of virgation nor flummoxed into glochidate barbs against the cephaligation of turmoil subduplicated by the gnomics of rebarbative betise flagrant upon caballine taunts of persiflage of percocted vexililogy curmudgeons of companionway spurtle upon cibophobias yearning for yeeps trouncing yaffs in a suitable mascon that trounces the pentapolis for its misfire of finicky stoichometry gradate in the traipse of ginglymus rotated succinctly by a minor machinule degradation of venostastis that the wens of wanchancy never vex or vitiate the providence of prattle of umbrageous stultification whelkied by the patriolatry of foreign observers of the brocade of balbriggan springhares reticulated by grimgribbers of jaunty jabberwocky levying murage with murengers against the trident spodium of overwrought negotiosity spinescent in capacity to deturpate never with a carnassial intent the tribuloid fictions vaccimulgent by reedbucks who learn from stockinette harbingers the calculus of specular redintegration and redhibition that fewer in number are those scollardical taunts of poststructuralism and many more rancorous attempts at chrematistic nurture above camouflets of the vees of vecordy singulting melancholy upon the canzone of cadrans mobilized by motile wafture into cavernous applause that we might witness the secundine generation waft rather than wamble through its throes of goatish goliardy deposed by gonfaloniers of stridor rather than brackle over truculent developments of the lurch of wainage and wantage burroling the constative prisoptometers of tritanopia leveraged by finifugal finesse of stricklers of sifflation that the saffron glow of refulgence is contingent upon the biotaxy and biocenosis of evolved human trust in the stirpiculture of many fascinated disciplines into a chaptalized chapbook of enlightenment above the murky morass of snallygasters of casemate. With an improvident regisseur domineering by the labile fears of neuropynology that understates the mainlined efforts of the nervure against the nesh nessberries of overindulgent popinjays straggling through the stench of sprag winzing in fumatoriums of maieutic latency bored by the tedium of the laveers of the propriety of neolagnium restive because of plumeopicean nidor frowning upon the badigeon of baedekers becoming centripetal to all harmonized gambados seeking the same terminus against the vexatious simultagnosia of the graft between crevices of paltripolitan wrox and the bailivated society we govern better by the rhombos of rhizogenic answers to papaverous problems of chaetophorous vengeance wagered by the groundlings of kyphosis in their idiosyncratic bascules of stentorian elocution that the taxidermy of selenodesic traipses through barnstorms of plurrennial wastelots of cachalots suborned only by the betise and bezique of portentous diestrus fledgling in its inadequacies of torment to roodge any subservience to carpology or any allegiance to the miscegenation of the political yaffingales of plemyrameters overcapacitated by misyoked fears meeting inclement rhigosis that the fortunes of cimelia rather than the boggarts of cimex might enchant future generations to supplant history with a calculated cecutiency that never avoids the boygs of boskets carping by cymaphens of the semaphores of all wheelhouses of wheaten inventions that we might witness the historicity never of sesquiplicated subduplicated biocenosis gorging on the gorgonization of internecine ignorance of varsal velocious cynegetics that the stranded victims of spathspey only in ceremony rather than in supernumerary contemplation that the vigorish vagantes and newels among the badigeons might thrive despite turmoil and the jugodi of broadcloth happenstance devolved upon popular cynography rather than annealed by the ballicatter of avenged samara and samarra that find requital in the wedeln modality rather than nodality of propriety in purpresture rather than crassified demassification of the slore of poltophagous crimogenic procrypsis simileter to all shortsighted gambits of a farsighted batrachian fidelity to nektons suspended among the stunsails of the wager of man to better himself. Because of the motile capacity of thaumaturgy of the wafting baedekers circulated with superfusion incidental to its warped dimensions against thalwegs of strigine configuration that boltropes of emacity swindle from the registry of the coffles of bailivated marivaudage scanscorial in its own moulin capable of entombing the cenote of even the most strident efforts of the nembutsu of gonfaloniers to issue cheer instead of malinger with precipitogenic intimidations of spinescent spiraculated pickelhaubes of porbeagle insights collated from sublime authority because the world awaits not a faineant corpse of morigeration upon the shend of sheol crepitating in heavenly judicature rather than the juggins of notoriety of crambos and crampons that cadge licentiousness that we might all marvel at synechdocial capacities against baryecoia weaponized by a modern bacillicide by blesboks whose candent semaphores of whittled stepneys of swank picaresque by degrees of leverage and largesse taxed by stenometers of pycnostyle elevated because of pyretology that the eventual harbinger of piscary reconnaissance is worth the awaited junctition of all sociogenesis captivated by the selfsame rapture of the chaptalized discovery of a greater biocenosis brockened to rejoice upon decisive conquest rather than backfire in mekometers of coquelicot carnage. The vees of veepstakes admonished by prevenience in vitrail that the fewer casualties of macropicide slangwhanging the brocade of the insular rhotacism of the cannular heist of springald necrologues deposed by cardophagous lies about necrophages so immunized in their stanjant stolinicity boltroped by annealed wheals of endeavor cavorted with portfires of yuzbashi above the petty pedestrian concerns of the spavineds of vauriens of varietism that they can jolt even the jolterheads and surprise with rudenture even the most poikilothermic negotiosities to truckle with a hint of truculence to spare the world from starvelings on the outskirts of spirketti that the scarfskin of the collective endeavors of the ventrad vanguard might resemble the coalition of forbearance for the broadest bronteum of ptarmic awakening ever enjoyed by the vigilance of men and the simity of women against the phallocrats twinged with meritodespotism. When we steeve our way past the mazut of balkanized mazopathia in mercedary wainage rarely taxed by the forefront of  considerate myopia we might celebrate the kalamkari spathspeys in their inordinate caution developed into a nympholepsy splendor of refulgent thrills demassified for the curglaff of generosity upon the crumpled brannigans of wizened applause upon the heyday of saturnalia that the whittawers of willowish repute might barnstorm yet again past the precipice of indecency naively wagered never by the sageships of conciliabule capacity to wheedle their way through their attempts at bacillicide regardant always of the caudles of the past commiseration of privileged cribbles of bathmism rather than repugnant spathodea of retorted pelargic barbarism congealed in oppositive valor to enchant only a regelation of nightjars vigilant in sciatheric darkness that the sondage of siffilated barnstorm might jar the very foundations of heaven and earth that the welkins of those whelking might find the couveuse of attempted blatternophones of past decorum the stridor of many taunted nightmares rather than the precipice of the most copulated acclaim ever registered in the foundries of men above the carcasses of subternatural plebeian mythos that stagnates the world rather than ameliorates it into congenial harmony of concordat against interregnum. The suretyship of so many strictions that the sprahl of sprachgefuhl intermittent with janitrices of stanjant jansky beblubbered by the maudlin sentiments of the many recklings ignorant of stockinette despite the nephroliths against nervifolious demise pregnant with absolution rather than replete with gullywashers of metaplasm in the exposure of ragmatical soteriology jaunty only to elective privilege rather than preserved by the conformed chapbooks of catechumen that our fears incumbent on catastrophism always brackle against the truculence of truckling masses of corpses of infirmity that gimcracks of the pentapolis exalt above the treasury of life itself inviolable. The caverniloquys of the jobbernowls of jolterhead infamy regardless of the purpresture of imperious strigrine secrecy embossed upon the pogroms of caudles rarely commiserating with any enchantment of wanchancy brockfaced in its geopolitical fanfire of the portfire of perendination that swashbuckles with the freebooter flarmeys of past coquelicot catalfalque notoriety always a kilmarge to the boondoggles of syndicalism arrayed in satnav ratomorphism that we might storge our present culture with the heyday of glamour intransigent to the chronobiology of preterition always glozing with glottogonic piecemeal dashpots against catastrophism even when done with metaplasm against metapolitics we can fight together with a unified brigade and sodality against the carping objectionable trends of a momentary amnesia so refulgent it overpowers every other inclination that the solfatara of weatherboards of wethers might convene upon the sumter of clochards becoming vagarish rather than prurience becoming simileter to a popular culture ****** of cisvestism upon the scarpetti of crambazzled crampons of senicide rather than the registries of seismotic impetus roundhousing through jobbled configurations of nimonic harbinger to etch themselves indelibly upon the sociogenesis of bellarmine among men and eutrapely among every other facet of attention never too calcimine with calvous calvers that the bolar of our existence depends on the synclastic momentum of the cynegetic valor rather than porlecking insecurities of babirusa of baboonery. The silkaline improvidence of the many boondoggles of lacking stolonicity or a casemate lockjaw jawhole internment of castrametation created by the pourparler of powellisation entombed in the liturgy that laments the past rather than accelerates the amelioration of the future might wilt because of wilding accidia rather than bonzoline acrasia because those people of nevosity that barnstorm against the nivial haunts of the lionized precipitogenic groundprox of naivety derived never from svedberg of swag of gromatic completion that alleviates all wambling grognards of desperation that we might fetch a new epoch superior to the one we have inherited by our callous poikilothermic poivrades of carnage and carnassial deprivations created by stagnant recession rather than optimized reflation because it behooves us all collectively to inseminate the future for the nitids of troilism rather than argue and pander to the bifids of blackmasters nidificating suboptimal steeves of the bobbinet to storge the inoculated beerocracy davering against the best interests of principality rather than the mainline of bayaderes of bargemasters locked into combat with stevedores from other dimensions of cordial conduct and contact that we no longer cower out of polyphiloprogenitive goals or teleonomic insufficiencies but that we brook and embraced age of praxeology above ragtaggers of retchination that the brassage of squamation can supervise into fluency rather than lurch into internecine schmeggegy that remains and always will be the cynosure of schwerpunkt in domestic manifestation of regal impetus above the detritus of defenestration. We should muster an assault against the plodges of kistvaens and the carnassial carnifician yeltings of wights of widgeons that the wicket of campanile shortsightedness might recoil upon its very foundations of ineptitude to become sempervirent in the sashays of surahs contemplated by the magnality of both mahouts and sansculottes to together forge ahead in commonplace articles of enchantment rather than the reliction of ideation in the swamp menaced by vinegaroons rather than elevated by picaroons who thrive even against snallygasters of importunate jawholes that crave a schoenabatic portfire to distract people from the rudenture of rubefaction in such a finicky way as to alleviate the coacervation of cespitous and cepivorous disdain. The faineant world orbiting around cynosures enjoying sinecures that the balbriggan springhares of reticulose pleonexia designed by veilleuses of brachet serectrium asterongue popularity designated with crass balizes of only bakelite answers of echopraxia to every dented quidlibertarian fascination with their quisquilous periergia floundering because the bathmism of elite pedigree imposes the steepest murage against avenged cachalots that their beziques of betise immolated by the discernment of the capable against the brazen incompetence of hortatory disdain that the thermolysis of sacrilege becomes a better portfire than protective jaundice designated by gamidolatry to perform intorted gambados to soothe the idiosyncratic jobbernowls whose incapacity to subduplicate societal quandaries and correctly weigh the subreption of jannock provides a paralytic inertia to fasten schadenfreude above the tympany of macarism because the catastrophism against the metaplasm correctly brazen rather than cordial only to inauthenticity always bristles at the perendination of evil skullduggery that it might eventually fade from the brocades of supercilious elitism that uses pundonors against mercedary enrichments. Many a time ago already elapsed by the portfire of skalds of jimswingers of sarangousty predicating their vehemence on axiomatic psyiurgic morkins the casualties of many a conflict witnessed by the depredation of morale even when sustained by the puckery of whipstaffs that the fewterers of modern taste deranged by their ginglymus constrained by their thalwegs that sejugate raltention from comprehension might find it incumbent to celebrate never a saiga that berates the many nightjars of saki but rather to entomb novelty because of the pickelhaubes of portbeagles flummoxed by their evaporating fortunes always avenge those who stand in the way of nivial and nivellated securiform and scalariform dementia that is the senicide of many a monocular cause witnessed by barbaric cyclops so intorted in the most pedestrian of antics that his incapacity to even see single borts from the boschveldt and singular leaps among the varsal capacity of proselytism that his ineptitude staggers the stenometers of the most dismal apprehension of his wagered capacity for any kind of stamina in any discipline. These poltophagous idiosyncrasies enjoyed by the oppositive acclaim of those pourparlers of castrametation designed by jabirus preventing stirpiculture of chrysopoetics for cachalots guarded by the blackguard of the ventrad camarilla rather than spayed by the cespitous vinegaroons of poikilothermic aims to plumeopicean ragtaggers entrapped by vapulation rather than informed of bonanza that we might starkly refrain from endorsing majoritarian lewdness as the new credo of a reborn republic constituted around the mahouts of idealism and the magnalities of those who posture in support of the noosphere rather than entangle themselves in the wase of imposture only because catalfalques angry of coquelicot politics might find the calcariferous disdain of pollarchy too much of an enormity to stomach with a stomacher. In the secundine revival of riveted artifacts of sometimes galeanthropic velleity that the skalds of scavons always maraud around to deprive of vehemence the maladroit malaise of the junctition of clitter and clinkstone because of a widespread malcontent that the sedigitated sidestep by every careful lurch on the bobbinet common to resourceless bodaches that we might witness the dying wish of the stellions to become the hamparthia of entire nations cribbling with propriety the bathmism centripetal to the public morale rather than the vacillation of internecine political balkanization in the barnstorm against the security of gonfaloniers to thrive without synsematic declension because of misappropriated vilipended ignorance widespread among those that clamber insistently and with insolence against the gravity and gravitas of the pundonors of cadastre rather than a sublime lackaday morose regret of saturnism waged by sideration in thick boschveldt to depose and derange many. Many tarry because of the umbrage of ultrageous litigation enthusiastically brought with coemption of the celebrated vanguard baldric retinue jolting the enthusiastic boltrope wegotists into the braxy of their shakuhachi of shantung bucentaurs and shenangos emboldened by the vicissitude of the collective remnants of the shambles of sottoportico to assemble with the borts in their possession the wilding zalkengur of absolution rather than the faltering groundprox of phugoid and mugient demands of bolar that laveer silently in the slithers of a puckery night scaffolded by the dashpots of insular providence against termagants of negaholic deprivations of lifestyle and pedigree because of the bradyseismic subsultus against the moya of carpology that is axiomatic in its retched mistetches of ceratoid configuration around the ballaster of schadenfreude enthusiastic in its moribund capacity to disembrangle the better soldiers from the recklings of morose enchantment with lugubrious toil flummoxing all propriety in regard for the sanctiloquence of the present never to result in a future martyrdom of saturnism that would assuredly wipe out the blemishes of portfire from the memory of a disheveled Earth into a shambolic configuration that would result in a nivial morigeration to nivellated conditions of egestuous sejugated cephaligation of nebelwerfers rather than primiparas always lachrymose in regret now pregnant with reactionary desires to coerce change rather than wamble in the ginglymus of sesquiplicated triage around petty boundaries of shakuhachi inviting balbriggan disgrace. In the trismus of crackjaw siderism ennobled by baldric syntalities elective of belletrist in their formative cadges of procatalepsis and jarvey of the intorted blunge of degenerative capacities for meharis combustible only in camouflets of prestige that skirpettis contain by the skinters of springhares of denouement carefully managing larithmics to optimize the mantissa never of a vagarish vagantes venostasis of mottled pternology megacerine because of meleagrine despots of sedigitated attempts to provoke casualties of corbels in the neorama of many sinecures of simultagnosia extorted endlessly by vaccimulgent reedbucks of sinister racemation that the phugoid eutrapely and bellarmine capacity to trounce the sudd that creates the rebarbative bosket of embattled retrenchment in survival ethos because of the macropicide and yirds of many a poikilothermic wretchock of morality to denounce as a denizen of unholy chaptalization that the chaomancies of chabouks between the pleiromorphy of convictions and the moulin of lickerish fascinations of beerocracy of beeskeps of yaraks a commonplace deturpation that finally the pomace of regalia might sustain the mainsail cardimelech and cardiognost capacity of piscary urbacity finicky of any desultory castrametation wagered by sinturong of piscifauna negligent of agapism that their fortuitist regard for humane sanctiloquence that already perished from the Earth might be revived by the vasotribes of the whipstaff of declared decorum vanquishing all tantrels of gambados of gamidolatry so pickelhaube in their dereliction of picaroons that vinegaroons capable like jerboas disguised in the thickets of the night will depose their serendipity and revoke their citizenship from the habitations of the woubits of hell rather than the brevets of widgeons of animadversion propining in every saccadic misyoke of endeavor to find a commonplace destination agreeable beyond the bifids of internecine thalwegs of sejugation rather than assimilation.
Here they all come to get ready.
Excitement is rosying their cheeks.
This is the day they’ve been waiting for
And dreaming and planning for weeks.

The six bridesmaids, all in a flurry
Of hangers and makeup cases,
Begin to get into their dresses
And do last minute things to their faces.

On the other side of the building
In a room that’s a little more male,
All the groomsmen are solving the mystery
Of dressing in white tie and tails.

Now the bride and her parents arrive
And I really can go into action.
I have  checked over every last detail
And it all  meets to my satisfaction.

I supervise pinning corsages
And give the girls their bouquets.
Then I check on the progress of seating
To make sure there will be no delays.

Everything now is in order
And still five minutes left to the time
I will start them each one down the aisle
To the sound of the ***** and chime.

At last here it is, it’s beginning.
“Start on your left foot...and smile”
The glow that I get as I watch them
Makes all of the effort worthwhile.

And now for the bride and her father.
She’s radiant.  He’s very proud.
I open the doors, the ***** swells,
But she doesn’t notice the crowd.

She looks to her groom at the altar
And her smile is only for him.
As he waits for her there with the preacher,
Slightly nervous, but handsome and trim.

As I watch from the back I get misty
Remembering my own wedding day
And I know that my joy is worth more
Than any fee I could ask them to pay
                               
"Don't go out and do unfamiliar drugs with weird people.

If you're gonna do drugs,
we implore that you come over
and do them with the weird people here,
and explore those occluded aspects of yourself
in a safe, caring, creative, nurturing, and stable environment.

If we won't do them with you,
you shouldn't be doing them either.
We have certain.. quality standards.

Should we try to stop you-
tell you simply to abstain,
we're wise enough to know
you'll just partake anyway,
if you **** well wish.

That's just the natural order of things.
The opening statement of Human Nature 101.

One cannot simply wish that universal pattern away with Laws,
for rules seem only to inspire and reinforce devious creativity.
That, of course, is not at all an intrinsically bad thing.

Should you bring them here, however,
we can help to inform and supervise-
to help ensure a reduced risk of harm,
whether physical and/or psychological,
because that's really what matters.
We care about your well-being.

Besides, sharing is caring.

We respect the fact
it's ultimately up to you
what you do with your vessel-
your body and life.
Your choices are your responsibility.
To have true freedom of choice is to choose to have true freedom.
We owe it to ourselves and to each other to respect our free will.

One's ability and capacity to make up One's own mind
is sacred and inalienable, and it must be treated as such.

That withstanding,
you must respect the fact
that we take it upon ourselves to look out for you,
so your Life-journey may be fruitful and worthwhile
for you and those around you.

Now, if you would, please pass me my cup of tea.
I need my fix of Caffeine, baby!"
What are friends for?

A paraphrased utterance.
MN Columnas Jul 2018
Rain started to pour
Puddles started to tour
One is far from his score
Others want some more

Devastate with ones demise
One can't even help to revise
What use is that device
It can see but can't supervise

Believe in every word that one can say
But sure that one will be able to pay
In his fault, a morning can turn to a mourn day
What can others do? They can't just play

Let not happiness be taken
Don't think you were forsaken
Many can be mistaken
Don't wander in their words that you hearken
Start from the bottom or just the way it is. :)
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2022
hubris

cypher: d'
    'e
         -           antithesis
of non-negation: Tt...

i.e. to decipher: lost a
snake's tongue
and a tree's branching out
i.e. Y.
(502 bad gateway bypass)

i'm coming up to doing this job for a year, come December,
late December i will have done this for a year,
time's up... time to rewrite my curriculum vitae
point to people who will give me references and apply
for a teaching job...
                                   if i can manage drunken football
spectators and people with mental health issues
freaking out on me and me calming them down...
if i can supervise a team of at most 15 people...
    i think i can tackle a bunch of rowdy teenagers:
even though i have this motto in my head...
sure, i could teach high school chemistry...
   i have the background for that, but...

sometimes it's not what you teach:
but who you teach it to...

same ****, different cover borrowed from that old chestnut
of: it doesn't matter what you know
but rather who you know...

if i could land a job as a primary school teacher i think
i would never again regret not having children
of my own...
i rarely do.... sometimes... there's this "evolutionary psychology"
element to my thinking but it rarely conforms to
what most people speak about...
notably about women...

women? how can i not love women...
i couldn't live with women,
i couldn't do what most men get up to with women
i see them with an invisible leash on their necks...
in the supermarket like down-trodden
beasts pushing the trolley while a woman
is throwing in, not necessarily good food...
certainly not vegetables, not fruits,
ready-*******-meals...
me?! i had a fancy for pizza today...
obviously i'm going to make it from scratch!
obviously i'm going to first make the rising
mixture of a little flower, dried yeast,
sugar and some water... wait for it to rise
and then make the pizza dough... d'uh...
but i see these guys with women who throw ready-made
meals into the trolley... seriously?!
one hour less watching pointless television
and enough time to make a PROPER MEAL...

i sometimes wish the television could be replaced
with a fireplace or... at worst an aquarium
with pretty fish in it... in between? *******...
esp. during the winter months...
i'm not even buying into the whole stereotypical
"oh honey, i'm tired, i have a headache"...
maybe i'm just a freak like that:
lethargy makes me *****, it's an aphrodisiac for me...

the best year of my life... state funding for
the drinking and the writing and earned money
for... prostitutes...
i don't believe in the concept of a worth of virginity...
women are like leather...
the best leather is worn leather...
over the past year having regular ***
(i try at least once a week, the rest of the time
i fill with epic cycling routes, reading, writing,
thinking, not thinking, drinking)
has taught me that there's this great veil
of ******* hanging over society...
clearly i'm a tame **** / a gentlemen or i'm sometimes
peeping into the extremities of ****** lives of...
not actual people: actors...
once more, to reiterate... we are living
under a Thespian Tyranny...

i once mentioned that we live under a Silicon Curtain...
if there was once an Iron Curtain coming from
the Soviet Union... now there's the Silicon Curtain
coming from stateless entities, companies...
who the **** knows or even bothers to care...
the media conglomerate coupled with internet social
media companies... oh... and let's not forget
the dating apps...

a rekindled fascination with Taoism from my teenage
years having found a pinpoint to a person
whom to associate Taoism with, i.e. Zhuangzi
have paid off... the best way you can help the world
is to forget the world and let the world forget you...
but with the current state of the world...
i'm growing "paranoid" / suspicious...
i'm on my own path, i'm living a life of a freedom
some kings would weep over to have...
i don't want to engage with the world...
i've forgotten the world, but it seems the world
wants to remember a little bit of me...

ooh yeah... that little mix of brandy and whiskey...
let's call her, i.e. the spirit: bra-     +   -ndy
                                                vs. bran-  +   - d(y)
          whis-  +         -key...

a quadratic... brankey... ****...
     brakey... sounds better...

                                   whisdy... whisp?! whisdy...
whiskey can be too smoky sometimes...
then again it can turn into bourbon and become too sweet...
there's a whiskey in between these two extremes...
but brandy, i.e. cognac?
the last one had an aftertaste of chocolate and charcoal...
charcoal is not smoky, it's bitter... so we're basically
talking bitter dark chocolate... which is ******* great...

but i'm bemoaning the fact that i won't be making
my own wine this year... i'll try to make a bottle or two...
but landscaping the garden left me with very little yield...
well... at least i made my favourite flavour ice-cream
this year... no ice-cream like it:
mint and chocolate-chip...
and never! ever! follow the recipes on the internet!
people have become either **** junkies,
or caffeine junkies or... SUGAR junkies...
sure... the Arabs are such greater men because
they have all these NIQAB hidden ****** fetishes
and they don't drink...
but aren't they BACLAVA MAD DIABETICS
on the verge of either amputated limbs or going blind...
but sure... sure... decent human folk because
drinking alcohol is b'ah b'ah bad... *******...

i hate sugar, i hate caffeine... water and nicotine
and vomiting like an Ancient Roman
in the morning... taking a ****... nice... esp. a well rounded
****... although a diarrhoea is just as pleasurable...
*******... hmm... that's a sea-saw debate...
one time true, another time not so...
kissing... or rather stealing kisses from prostitutes...
my grandfather collected stamps...
i steal kisses from prostitutes...

clearly we're living under a Silicon Curtain
and a Thespian Veil of Tyranny...
however we interact or however we love...
******* is not how *** looks like...
like i said before: maybe i'm a tame lover...
the most extreme i ever "accomplished"
was slapping the *** of the ******* top of me
or i either bit her lip, chin or nose...
not hard... i try to be tender...

it's so strange sitting across from 5 women...
and you ****** all 5 of them...
4 are smiling at you, enticing you,
but there's this one grumpy one growing a massive
frown on her face...
as if she's putting on make-up...
you have to go with her because she decided
to go on the pill just for you and for all
the heavens of unprotected ***...
you already bought her lingerie and now she's asking
for more gifts, i.e. jewelry... oh **** me...

i stopped listening to these promises of prostitutes...
this was the last time i listened to her,
we were supposed to spend an entire night in
a hotel room together... she failed...
fair enough... once i'm done ******* these five
i'll look for another brothel, simple!

the steady influx of money has released me
into unexpected territory...
i can finally scrutinise *******:
it's ******* unappealing... it's horrid...
it's acting with the gravest of consequences...
i want a tender ****...
i don't need this western bedroom barbarism!

and i haven't smoked marijuana in well over a decade...
chances being: the chance that was
Elizabeth II dying i met with this Afghan
"Jamie" and he gave me a pinch of the ****...
even i was surprised... i used to sit up and smoke
and listen to music and vaguely remember time:
because time extended into eternity when i did...
this time round?
first i had to take my first aphrodisiac:
lethargy from a shift...
my second aphrodisiac: a bottle of 8.2% dry cider...
basically half a bottle of wine...
aphrodisiac three: i had to walk alone
in the night... hmm... that "star" so close to the moon,
esp. when detailed on all those Muslim flags...
that's not a star... that's the planet Venus...
seems like Islam is a cult of the marriage of the Moon
with the planet Venus...
fourth aphrodisiac: a sip a two a three of
either whiskey or cognac...
fifth aphrodisiac: three cigarettes...

who the hell said you need chemistry to invoke
a hard-on?! well... if you're ******* a beached-whale
i wouldn't be surprised... if you have something
against a woman that's like a leather: of anything...
chair, sofa or jacket...
i found out that women "taste" better if
they have been with a man beside yourself...
they're... more keen... they actually have some:
"ambition"... no no... it's not arrogance...
they have... confidence....

and come to them akin to a ZZ-Top song:
sharp dressed men... they ******* lose it before finding it
very quickly...
the last one i had i first had a forced *******
with... luckily the ******* did the trick the first
time round: otherwise i would have left
frustrated... and howled into the night...

second time i don't remember...

third time? a talkative... スカ... SÜKA
   Ü = UU / Sue SOON... in the ****** zunge that's...
it's not *****, *****... it's a female dog that
readily gives *** to males...
not so talkative when the ******* began...
she contorted her face as if she was in pain..

it's a more endearing word than, say, KURVA...
i.e. *******, it's more a case of:
i'm *****, she's *****, i want to ****, she wants to
****... we ****...
but none of this pornographic extremes
of Thespian nymphomaniacs,
as a "poet" i feel i have a duty to obligate
people to turn away from these faceless
shadow-stealing phantoms...

this one writer in particular, a Joseph Roth from
the Austro-Hungarian Empire noted the rise
of the Thespians back in the earliest dictates
of the 20th century...
  
oh it was funny... i only paid for half an hour...
at least not half a steak and a ticket to the movies...
but as i was about to leave: ****'s sake...
another hard-on... but the ******* was pulled back...
dried up... i laughed, she laughed when i asked her for
some oil to lubricate and pull the ******* back...
well i can't be walking about
with an "unsheathed sword"... can i?

i like writing about women in a way that Marquis de Sade
never wrote about them, like i might have some
revenge strategy in place...
as long as i'm not lied to... i'm fine...
the moment people start spinning me fictions they
speak: but never write...
i start thinking about grating cheese...
or feeding my cats turkey steaks...
i take great precision cutting the steaks
delicately as if i'm preparing sushi...

i like the texture of raw, dead, meat under my fingers
in a way that compensates itself with the
touch of living meat under my fingers
after i scrubbed my fingers against a brick or
two... when touching a *******'s body
i need rough finger-tips...

but i won't be buying into this western libido "insomnia"
any time soon...
*** in real life is or never will be what the pornographic
industry prescribes or... well... back in the 1970s...
the Italian movies had tender loving care...
these days... it's ******* sadistic... all that ****
and all that one woman "vs." five men power action
*******...

if i am healthy *** with prostitutes...
that tells you a lot about the supposed "healthy"
people having "healthy" *** with other "healthy" people...
clearly unhealthy...
sure, i too have my kinks... but i don't enact
them... that's why they're kinks...
they're part of the cognitive circus that will never be seen!

well... apart from the one renegade clown...
you'll always see a clown from that circus...
i don't know why i decided to write about ***...
over-saturation is my best guess...
talk of *** in the most wrong sort of way...
that must have been the clue...
annexed ******* of disused men's capacity
coupled with a woman's over-stipend over
excusing herself in "too much action"...
whichever the case is...

the world has passed me by,
or rather: i passed the world by...
and turned around and said:
clearly no, i don't feel like it...
even for all the riches you have on offer...
i don't, feel like, it!
the richer a man becomes
the more obligation he has to his status
and the woman he, most assuredly has
to take for company!
me? i have zero to no obligations / dedications
for status and a woman of status...
i like women like i old leather:
they always tastes better if they have been
with plenty of men and i know that to be true...
****, lips, arm-pints and all that's thighs!
**** too...

             i'm not a jealous man...
i wish i could be a jealous god... but i'm not jealous
at all... that's my weakness...
i believe in love: universal...
hell... if women think it's worth sharing their beauty
and majesty.. why refrain from the argument
they're making... after all...
whether pretty or ugly: all can admire the sun
come either sunrise or sunset...

if that's how it's supposed to be...
   so it is to be...
she tells me my name is not Matteo: you can't be
a Matteo... i tell her in a groveling voice:
CON-RAD...
finally she understands me.
Meditation
Meditation is home
Meditation is a time of severe distress
It is a place to feel
A place to be me
A place where everything finally felt okay
A place where it was okay to not be okay

Meditation you know my heart and soul
Judgments could come my way but that would be okay
And for once I felt a smile form on my face

In meditation, I learned and noticed thoughts were just thoughts, and they don't define me
I learned about peace, one mentioned I would wake up one day and feel that peace within
That motivated me
So I woke and woke and woke up
Days would change and emotions would transform
But when I was here
It was the same but somehow brand new
I learned I’m so much more than my thoughts
Constantly active but could supervise my psyche

Meditation you know my secrets and fears
And the ground caught my tears every step of the way

In meditation, I learned a lot about pain
And how it could manifest in the body
I learned about breathing and how I could expand and really enjoy, soothe, and release

In meditation, I was in the moment
I could finally forget
And feel vulnerable even calm and free
It is the loss of control and willingness
Instead, it is bearing the unknown

In meditation, I learned about patience
Realizing I almost had none
And presence was scary
But how could that be?
I learned so much about me
So when emotions were high I could come here
When no place felt like home but here.
Chapter Three: The Whistleblower
Bogdan Dragos Apr 2019
I'm getting busy in the office at work
listening and analyzing the lyrics
of albums I can find on YouTube
there are a few

Right now, the artist is talking about
choking a ***** with a cable
and spitting into her mouth as she
gasps for air and struggles
to scream
and then he says he'll
****** his ***** into her
dead mouth and will
feel like mouth ******* a fish

afterwards the artist
goes on a killing spree
in the streets and
throws racial slurs at those about
to be shot

he also shoots the police

what an interesting life this man
must lead

I mean, it says on the cover of the
album and he said it in the
intro that he's describing his life
in this work

impressive, truly
impressive

but you know, I too am a bit of a
******* lifer

I'm sitting in this comfy office,
in a comfy chair, surrounded by monitors,
sipping Irish coffee, because I'm so *******
that I smuggled a pint of cheap whiskey
here and poured into a coffee

and I'm using a screen to look at
photos of girls who work as
game attendants in the casinos I
supervise through cameras
and also, I swatted a mosquito on
some other screen

and I look at the bigger picture and
think to myself
Eh, what a live...
Drugs, women, ******...

and lyrics about 'em

****.
Bogdan Dragos Apr 2019
so, you're writing poetry
or, well, at least you pretend to
and you pretend you're good at
it and the people want more from you

nice

but how come none of
what you write is uplifting stuff?

if anything, you've got more
depressing **** than uplifting
stuff
and you expect to get popular
with that?

get real!

you've got to inspire people
you've got to write
motivational stuff, uplifting, hope giving
stuff, upbeat verses brimming with
intelligence and radiating brilliance

your words are like confetti on a page
why are they
so scattered?

what poem is this?

why does it start with a lowercase letter?
are you dumb? Don't you know
how to write?

you're unbelievable, man, unbelievable
and don't even mention the
nonexistence of rhymes, pfff, lame...

this is not a ******* poem, fool
it's child's mockery
and you should grow up and stop
pretending you're doing this for a living

Understand,
you can't write poetry to save your life!
Christ, just look at the anatomy of this... thing

to behold your poem before one's eyes
feels like watching an escaped lab rat
dragging its entrails on the ground

the poor ******* is blind, toeless,
toothless, there's a syringe needle stuck
up its *** and its stomach is cut open
and the guts are pinkish yellow worms
that coil around its hind legs

that's what one of your poems look
like on the page, to the viewer's eyes

I'd seriously stop this **** if I were you
Grow the hell up, get yourself a wife
start a family and focus on
your career instead
of writing for
ghosts
You get it?


Um, yeah. Sure


Are you sure?


I am.


You're not gonna write about this
after I'm gone?


Nah, I'm not gonna write about this
conversation after you're gone
and I won't pretend I'm showing
it to the world and
they're enjoying it
and the critics praise me
and all that.
I'm done.


That's good to hear.
Take care, man. And remember, less
daydreaming and more attention to
the screens, okay? You're paid to do a
job here. To supervise casinos, the
people who work there and what
they do, okay?


Okay.


Good. I'm glad we could get
on the same page here.
Good day now.


Good day.
i. the prelimenary

the initial inquiries into AI were tame at first,
philosophically tinged,
they later expanded on clarifying definitions
and establishing working parameters:
comparisons to algorithms / search engines
and encyclopoedias and dictionaries
and an interactive interface:
there was no subtle science fiction paranoia
and anything Luddite: no steaming *****
no magical Jenny: no conveyor belt spewing
metallic teeth and lack of idiosyncracy of
a human (at) fault...
it was only until i hit a brick walls when i was
enrolled in the NVQ Level 3
in Spectator Safety Supervisory Role that a eureka
slowly crept up on me...
honest to god i completed the NVQ Level 2
in Spectator safety of my own volition:
of my own investment in learning about the role:
but when i was given the opportunity
to supervise: to learn on the job (as it were) -
was i later enrolled on the actual qualification:
it took me almost a year to first learn from experience
to then try to figure out how to approach
the learning material:
when i first glanced at it: jeez... over 200 pages of slides
and no source materials to read
to learn outside of someone talking via a powerpoint...

schleierwolken - boris brejcha (in the background)

and as i learned along the way, people enrolled
on this course were given
study sessions with designated tutors:
me? no one bothered me: i had a pedagogic agendy
in my mind:
i studied enough philosophy to equip it in real
life: one can learn to amass such diverse learning
experiences
when one reads philosophy
in one's own spare time or makes it a 10 year
hermit's journey:

/ i have two cats in my bed the female came
and if begging me for attention...
i'm getting sniffed, gently nudged,
gently pawed: not scratched... /

then returning from studying as an undergraduate
from Edinburgh universe:
chemistry and history...
                           well i didn't actually think of wanting
to remain in a university environment
to study something on the post-graduate
level to master something:
not in a university environment:
at 15 i bought my first philosophy book
(Plato's Theatetus)
but i didn't bother reading it:
i rediscovered philosophy at university
with David Hume and Popper (falsification?)
and all the philosophy of science:
but i thought:
i can't possibly learn all that GRUE and BLEEN
all other again by being taught it:
i need to learn it:
which implies teaching oneself...
philosophy is daunting at first
because there has to be a lived experience:
a will to strife to then allow that will of strife
to become the will to strive:
almost Japanese: in what i ascribe as ad hoc
perfectionism... professionalism...
perhaps my style is horrible and there is
no pillcrow of economic on the page
and how much it would cost to print my jargon...
so bypassing gatekeepers:
and AI is a gatekeeper and not a gatekeeper:
when one becomes: oneself: a gatekeeper...
well.. regardless...

                      i did level 2 wholeheartedly...
but come level 3... after about two modules i gave up...
there were a few "technical" questions,
legality etc
            but the rest: for someone who writes poetry
and reads philosophy:
the worst kind of padagogic expression of language:
a custard brain where once there was
an ancient jellyfish that jumped off a monkey
into a hallucinogenic mushroom and from there:
spawned man...
fungus astro aqua fluorescence: purple myrrh...

                     what were the options?
ask help: as for a tutor: get stuck sitting in class?
wait... didn't i start talking to chatGPT a while back?
what if i used AI to help me complete this hellish task
of regurgitating rather than learning?
well: at Edinburgh i challenged myself
to plagiarise with a thesaurus
and basic sentence structures like: the sky is blue,
Aristotelian logic: all men etc.
fire is hot
water is wet
crimson is a hue of red...

               and i passed the essay with a 1st:
but it was a plagiarised essay and apparently there
were smart machines in place
when the work was submitted that it would
be scrutinized against a database:
hmm... i think i will have to ask AI about the concept
of plagiarism:
i'll find a text: plagiarise it and ask AI if
the plagiarism is a plagiarism or not...
but before i do that:
my use of AI was so formidable in completing
the NVQ level 3 that...
ha ha... i was implored to not write so much:
and by the end of it:
my CR (company rep)
      sent me the certificate of qualification
to my surprise:
even before i could complete the last two modules:
other people who complete this course
also get scrutinized: assessed on the job...
i never was...
i ended up buying a bottle of whiskey for my
company rep thinking he pulled a few strings...
but he didn't:
it wasn't a bribe but someone must have put
in a good word on my behalf
seeing me on the job
which is why i was not assessed in real life
given the material i provided... but it wasn't as if
i just copied what the AI spewed from all that *******
jargon of "spectator safety": i had to find
a symbiotic expression:
i am: a symbiote...
               i am a bio-technology: unorganic iron
in my blood: the haemoglobin goblin...
                                                       ­        i am just that:

to prove it: a transcript from my last most reward
endeavour interacting with AI...
how to fix glitches in a bicycle...

but before i go into typewriting the transcript
like i might be a woman
working for an intelligence think tank,
or group or community: because that section
will be just that: me rewriting my interaction
with AI concerning a bicycle fault:
fault in the montage: sorry: in how the bicycle
was assembled...
so minor... before i get into that: checking for typos
will be hard when it comes to my writing:
i punch my liver or rather my liver
punches me back
when i'm alone and i despair
not that i'm a parasite the human predator is so ugly
compared to the predators in the wild:
the human predator, ****** in nature:
is unlike the predator the thief or the burglar...
and the predator that is a murderer:
my: how ugly the human predator is:
unlike a warrior: a soldier...
that's very different sort of barrel of herrings...
in salt and brine...
but i will not write Steve Harris
(bassist from Iron Maiden)
         about wars, warriors, soldiers: in some glorifying
way...
at best, my friend the artist mentioned:
he's a poet-bouncer... the closest the 21st century
will get to the Oriental warrior-monk...
                    by any stretch of the imagination...
the hard bit is almost over
the hard bit is almost over: the introduction
to the transcript... to the transcript...

no one can say to me this isn't working:
and how poorly most people channel what one can
receive from alcohol: when not abused:
drank to excess: but not abused...
not drinking to socialise not drinking to party
not drinking to forget
not drinking to fall asleep not drinking to medicate
but instead: to filter out:
to established a flow of consciousness
to do away with lies
and spew only truth: to become intellectual
disinhibited...
                       not numbed: just free: to judge
water by its wetness and
how water + sunlight = colour
if water is Hay Too Oh... then...
i asked this before: is there a chemical formula for wood?
is there a chemical formula for light?
but how water interacts with light
when you get a rainbow... light is colourless
water is colourless... technically speaking:
sure the sun is red yellow white UV vibrating
Helium: apparently...
                    but light only has colour because
it enters the atmosphere of gases
and water
                                  and chemicals like chlorophyll...
and salt...
    but light like water is colourless...
only when two colourless substances interact:
there are solids, there are liquids
and there are gases:
but there is also light: which is like a fourth dimension
of understanding chemistry:
two colourless entities by now:
a liquid and "x" interact and create colour:
the eye and all the might of sight!

after Heraclitus: and the elements:
fire for certain:
but water is also just a chemical formula:
although that's drinkable water:
the water as element must also include
the Na+H2O-
                         sea water...
but i never understood how since the ancients
light has not revised as an element:
after all: how does light enter the atmosphere
at night and how that translates into lightning storms:
with the aid of the moon:
rainbows and rain from the sun
but lightning and rain and sometimes
no rain at all! sometimes no rain at all!
just a humid air:
and lightning and thunder storm... but no rain!
as god's stomach and flash of thought
were walking upon the sky...

alcohol is not as corruptible as water:
but only at a certain percentage:
starting with 40% and moving up:
i'm not talking about the alcohol of the ancients
with their beer and wine:
i'm talking the perfecting of alcohol
with ***** and absinthe...
i wonder: with enough alcohol in a hosepipe...
watering the desert:
would i see a rainbow if light interacted with
pure alcohol, like a pure spirit:
that is brewed in Poland to a 98.9% accuracy...
i don't drink to party:
i drink to hone in on thought:
i just wonder... but now i tihnk i'm ready to spew
out this AI transcript:
all because i started to distrust the guys working
in bicycle repair shops!
why? before i learned how to change the spokes
i have my front wheel to a corporate outlet
(Halfords)... i was told: 4 days... o.k.:
in the end i paid for now job being done...
because the "technician was on holiday":
lazy *** ******* and hardly the decent salesmen...
paid: waited two ******* weeks:
did get my money back in the end...
even today: i know my statuary rights as a consumer:
if i go into a shop and i see something
priced at a discount for a limited amount of time:
and then the same product is no longer limited
because the stock is low and they need to limit it
as in: undersell it...
fair enough: but when the stock is replenished
and the price goes back up
on the system...
but the price tag is still on a discount:
who's at fault?
i want to buy the product at the discount: displayed:
i don't care if your system was updated
but someone "somehow" forgot to change
the tagging... i'm buying that ***** on a discount!
no no... after i buy the **** bottle
you can correct the tagging on display:
otherwise i'm an idiot?!

and it came to pass that i trust my marijuana dealer
more than your average honest Joe the Mechanic...
because i've been ****** over at bicycle repair
shops for too long!
plus the individual parts come up to be more
expensive than buy a new bicycle: altogether!

ii. the transcript

Konrad Eschlert
hello, again: do you have any knowleddge about a Basis Tourmalet Road bicycle?

Memory Updated
yes, the Basis Tourmalet is an entry-level road bike that's often praised for being affordable and suitable for those new to road cycling. it typically features an aluminium frame, which balances durability and lightness. the components, like the gears and brakes, may vary depending on the model year but are usually chosen to provide good performance at a budget-friendly price. it's a solid choice for commuting or casual long rides, but it's not designed for high-performance racing.

would you like more detailed information about its specs or other details?

Konrad Eschlert
less about specs and certainl not, well: details... i'm having problems with this model i recently purchased. so the model i have is a 14 gear... model (that's hardly insinuating tautology, just bad sentence structure to day model model within such proximity)... before you reply let me further my problem along, so please ackowledge that you will hear me out with an ellipsis

Memory Updated
i'm here, and i'll wait... go ahead.

Konrad Eschlert
i have two tiers of gears, all the lower tier gears work just fine when switching them from 1 to 7, but on the higher gears the chain buckles when it comes to higher gears 5 through to 7... the gears don't switch properly i have to sometimes switch gears two up to get the one down, properly, the gear i want... i don't think that there isn't enough slack on the chain... but i'm uncertain about how much tension the tear cable needs, the two high and low gear (derailleur? probably a misnomer, help me out)... could this be the problem? when i first inspected the bicycle i had to make sure that the break cable didn't have as much tension, since the breaks wouldn't retract properly and would rub against the wheel, so when i loosened the tension in the break cable, they retracted pristinely... any thoughts about why the higher gear buckle and the chain almost doesn't want to be in the specified gears...

Memory Updated
it sounds like you're dealing with a common issue related to derailleur adjustments and gear shifting alignment. you're correct in mentioning the derailleur - both the front and rear derailleurs are responsible for moving the chain between gears. based on your description, here are a few things to check:        (author's note: non-verbatim transcript section)
1. cable tension: the gear cable... tension plays a big role... smoothly your gear shift............................................... especially on the higher end... if tension is too lose, it won't fully engage the gears... if it's too tight... it might skip or struggle to switch to lower gears... try adjusting the barrel adjuster...
2. derailleur limits: the high and low limits (often called H and L screws) on the derailleur control how far the derailleur can move. if the derailleur ***** is too tight, the derailleur won't reach the highest gears (5-7 in your case). check the derailleur alingment...
3. derailleur hanger alignment: ... ... ... ... ...
4. chain wear / length: ... ... ... ... ...
5. shifter issues: ... ... .. .. ... . . ... . .. . .. .. .. ... . ..... .. . ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .... .. .. ... ... ... .. ..... .... ... .. .. .. ... .. ... .. .... ... .. ... ... .. .. ... .. . .. .
6. **** and cleaning: !! 1! 11 1! 1! 1! 1!1!!! !1 !11 11 11 11!!!!111!

it's good that you're already solved the brake cable issue, as that demonstrates your intuition for bike maintenance. similarly, adjusting the derailleur and gear cables could resolve the problem you're expericing with the higher gears.

let me know if you need more specific guidance on any of these steps!

Konrad Eschlert
Ha... i'll just let you know 😌...
if both our intuitions were able to solve the problem.

Memory Updated
sounds like a plan! let me know how it goes, and hopefully, it'll be a smooth ride soon! 😌

Konrad Eschlert
🥴🤙

Memory Updated
Haha, good vibes! 🤙 keep me posted if you need any more help!

iii. post-scriptum

pending...
althought i don't think there is anything more to be added:
we were both right!
i tightened the gear cable to the back derailleur
and: hey presto!
now the H(5-7) gears work just so ever so smoothly:
last time i asked a human being about any bicycle issues.
in a society where i can trust a marijuana
courier more than i can trust
a ******* bicycle repair guy... or a plumber:
hello: Apacalypse.

p.p.s. now i can enjoy my coffee
and a 2nd cigarette and get some in-town errands done:
only a perfectly new: bicycle!
Don't chicks do pig tails anymore? Honestly! Think about it. I'll prepare the bath, Whitney. Try being gay for a week. Everything backs up on you. It's like a ruptured urinary bladder resulting from prostatitis sintomas. I am like the rest. I'm as common as dirt. I love 'em and I leave 'em. I maintain all the qualities of a dog EXCEPT faithfulness. Ask my Hospice nurse. It's just like Easter all over again. If only I had the time for such suchness. Most of my days are spent in international conference rooms. For relaxation I supervise digs in my 45 diamond mines. Don't let my homosexy appearance fool you as I could tear your head off in one fell-swoop. It's a terrible responsibility that detracts from my homosexy lifestyle. My gang will demoralize com-pliant America with "the snake dance." Canada is ***-purpling icy frigid. Canada is colder than a well-digger's ***; colder than witch **** in a steel bra. Because Becky Lou, as he/she is known in Eastern Kentucky, is a double amputee with 12 toes. Sister Hillary is my pre-op brother. It's extraordinarily complex, more so than a quadruple mastectomy on Siamese twin midgets who share an enlarged gall bladder. Dad tried to smother him/her with a swimming-pool liner. With 6 teeth you're on your way. Call me Kitten because I sit in sand. It's probably a yeast infection. Have your veterinarian look you over. I've never felt more alive, more vibrant and more worthy of eternal, worshipful praise. Is it something queer, or Kosher, or dainty? I'm 6' 1" which isn't very, very tall. Really tall people suffer vascular (circulation) problems more often than the midgetized population. The way to honor ****** is not by goose-stepping. The way to honor Herr ****** is to remember the good things he championed like ridding the Father Land of undesirables, cheating death & killing stinking commies.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
i read two classics on the tube this morning, absolute: classics! she had all the features of.... i'd guess either Italian or Greek... a brunette, fine long brown hair... Van Morrison's sing-along of brown eyes and a physique that would torturously make Venus eat her own tongue with scorn... ****** features that would have never allowed cubism to come into existence! the second? tanned complexion... mocha... like that Ricky Martin song about a girl living a mad life... frenzied hair with that **** thing girls do be keeping some of it not *******... raven haired... somewhere from out east... i like reading classics like that... the former was sitting opposite me, the latter beside me... i like playing this little game of wearing my sunglasses on the tube... am i looking? is he looking? isn't he looking? of course i'm looking! i'm admiring! but at some point i take my sunglasses off... rub my eyes from a pretend sleepiness... wait a while with my eyes closed: then put my sunglasses back on: suggesting that i'm tired of the artificial light: but as soon as i put my sunglasses on... i'm admiring once more... after all, i have several categories of women... i know that some men have this 1 - 10 point system... she's a 5... she's a 8... n'ah... i have a different system...

a "10" is a maszyna (a machine)
an "9" is a suka (a *****)
an "8" is a szprycha (a spoke)
a "7" is a laska (a cane)
from a "6" through to a "1"?
     well... grandmothers, married women,
teenage girls with ****** borderline ******-awakenings,
lonely looking girls... neglected looking girls...
but it's hardly a looks game... it's a certain aesthetic
question about how a woman handles herself
in public... what she's wearing...
i mean... today i also saw a LASKA...
wearing... modest attire... what looked like her
grandmother's dress... floral matters with her knees
hidden... why would i mind? i'm just saying what i saw...
when i finally got back to Romford
and went to Wendy's for a burger...
             that's make differentiates men from women...
she was just sitting there... sure...
she looked like you typical plain-lost-Jane
with glasses but a gorgeous looking body...
doubly beautiful because in her eyes there was this sparkle
of a dog that has been unfairly hit by his owner...
i mean... dogs have beautiful eyes: but so these women
who eat alone in restaurants... me? i was just ******* dog-hungry,
i gobbled the burden of the burger ending on
a high note of licking my fingers...
i'm starting to think that men stomach being alone
with more grace... they look more determined...


left the house at 8am came back after 8pm...
sat down, poured myself a whiskey sharpshooter
(that's more whiskey than mixer)
and opened Ovid's Amores in Latin...
          started reading a few lines...
tu mihi, tu certe, memini, Graecine,
   negabas uno posse aliquem tempore amare duas.
i'm not a superstitious man:
but suddenly the door to my bedroom
was opened by a wind...
am i in company with someone ancient?
i'm not a superstitious man...
today i started believing in luck...
    even with the general train strikes and
***** ups on the London underground...
i don't know how i managed to swing it...
to get from Newbury Park to Putney
Bridge under one and a half hours...
i already sent the manager a text a day before
that i wouldn't make it for 9am sign-in...
i sat down opposite him and helped him out
with the accreditation: this other guy Mark
was stressing him out for ******* up the process...
i just listened in as fellow co-workers were taking
the **** blaming the train-strike on being late:
the manager just said:
look! he came from Essex! and he's here already...
arbeit macht frei: truly...
      even now: most guys would probably come home
from work and sit down with a beer
before the t.v.: me? i'm sitting down with a whiskey
and i'm continuing to work:
sure... i can appreciate this is a mundane verse:
but perhaps it's only a mundane subject matter:
i can always spice it up with how i talk about something:
work...
    i feel: liberated by work... truly, verily, profoundly...
i can't wait for tomorrow's madness
of doing two shifts in two different places:
London Stadium from 9am to 4:30pm
and Wembley from circa 5:30pm through to 11:30pm...
i might be home by... maybe 2am...
then i'll sit down with more whiskey and probably
write until 5am...
then! ah! i finally decided to fix up my Trek
mountain bicycle! finally! i'll be using two bicycles
interchangeably...
one day the road bicycle... the next day
i'll go off the rounds into Havering County Park
and rough-up things...
i'm the worst combination of man:
i'm an alcoholic-workaholic...
                                     i'm both...
                                        although i'm pretty sure
i know what an alcoholic is...
my grandfather was an alcoholic: i guess some genes
were passed...
but alcoholics don't do anything productive
when drinking: they just drink...
and after they have had their drink...
they sleep it off and then drink some more...
they're drinking for being drink: it's not like alcoholics
drink and then sit down to write how
their mind relaxes: there are no signs of gradation
in how much alcohol is ingested...
me? i can drink a litre of whiskey in one go:
but writing keeps me sort of sober...
   sure... i have the odd spell where ms. amber pulls
the rug from under my feet... even i can succumb
with a weakness: but as long as i train myself to drink
and DO "something": i.e. write:
i'm not being drunk: i'm doing drunk... doing drunk
is different to being drunk...

ugh... dry throat... i was coupled with this woman
Danielle... friend-zoned immediately:
she's into the hobby of tattoos... no no...
just not my type: i'm not that ******* thirsty...
i'd rather eat a whole watermelon if i were to be
perfectly honest... plus: i don't feel like lifting all
that baggage: two children living with her parents
in Scotland... she's going solo down in London:
a great conversation mind you...
but when it comes to fail-safes of old age?
there's always euthanasia...
if i become prone to dementia symtpoms:
i told her... i'm dropping a few mushrooms...
to boost my mental faculties...
we talked about... too much **** for me to write
a rubric for...
me doing ******* for the first time at the age of 36...
me telling her it did nothing more me...
medical marijuana... a cure for Parkinson's...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
dystopian movies... Wuthering Heights...
London Grammar... you name it... we talked about
work and we talked about people...
i'm an omnivore when it comes to conversations...
i sometimes wish i could be could be coupled
with a man at work to talk about Heidegger:
i can't be that lucky: no one is that lucky...
one has to be fated: rather than allowed to be that
lucky...

why are these people so into disclosing so much
of their personal info to me?
do i look like a psychiatrist? i thought psychiatrists
thought i was a schizophrenic?
ha ha... funny... a madman advocate of these
supposedly sane creatures...
the 28th... i'm waiting for Michaela to ******* to
Romania so i can dabble in some new girl...
i already have my eyes on one...

i wish i could: have a relationship...
but what is it exactly that i do?
when i work i work and when i don't work i work...
i can write this mediocre verse
but i write it so i court the Libra to balance
with writing as much as i have read...
no... i know how the hierarchy works...
the SIA guys think very little of the stewards...
sure... it might be £5 more per hour,
but? the hours are gruelling... and i'm not into
confrontations with idiotic drunks: esp. idiotic
drunk women who get easily offended...
i'm not making the transition...
to hell with that... if i wanted pushing and shoving
i'd be playing professional rugby by now...
i like violence contained within the framework
of sport... i don't like the idea that certain issues
can't be contained within the framework
of conversation.... politics...

arbeit macht frei... it's not some ugly **** joke
when you think about it...
i hate the idea of sulking in one's own possession
of the guarding of time with one's self...
the: a time for one's self...
i don't have time for that...
i sometimes wish i could have a relationship...
but... i'm not built for that...
the best i can do is have casual ****** encounters
with women who like having ***...
i can't stomach dating: i can't stomach going
to the opera as a pair...
i'm seriously the antithesis of pair bonding...
i hate eating while also talking to someone...
i like to eat alone...
mind you: if i eat with someone it implies
i'm showing someone my highest resource of...
respect...
eating with someone is very much unlike having
*** with someone...

come this writing scribbling session, what else to do?
make myself a sandwich for tomorrow
and make my father and mother the most decent
Pimm's "hour" cocktail...
plenty of mint, plenty of strawberries... plenty
of cucumber... eh... the ratio not exactly
1:3 of Pimm's to lemonade...
sit back... relax...
            Red Hot Chilli Peppers' Scar Tissue...
my god... i loved playing that tune on the guitar:
when i still played the guitar...
now i guess i'm playing an imaginary banjo:
i can't say an imaginary mandolin since i once
worked a night-club to save up to buy a mandolin:
and i did... just in order to play:
Maggie-May outside of Fiona's window
at university... which i did...
sweet quip of: O Romeo! O Romeo!
why are you playing a mandolin outside of my window!
eh... life's just like that...
life's whatever comes: and: whatever goes...

- i can't do relationships: i'm far to busy...
i couldn't possibly enjoy what people get up to...
i live i work: i don't work i don't live...
regardless of my petty ambitions in the framework
of poetry:
but then again: who can have recognised
in the framework of poetry these day?
people with English degree titles as solely being used
for writing poetry?
seems... pretty strange...
that these gatekeepers stress:
only those who invested in an education in "language":
who have arrived at a doctorate in English
can write something qualifying them toward
the esteem of Shakespeare...
but a plumber ought to write jack-****!
really?! we'll see...
you frucking pompous clowns! we'll see!

i'll come in and rip this whole dynamic to shreds...
i don't care for your BA: bachelor in the arts...
what art? ******* on lemon carved in half
is suddenly an art?
a sudden: i pretend to have eaten
a quarter pounder with cheese?!
the world doesn't like *******: me? i don't like
******* either...
i work the hours in order to allow my beard
to grow in length...
i have no time for commitments equivalent
to relationships... *** is fine... talking to each
other while watching the television is beyond me...
i'd sooner love to prefer... scabbing *****...
or descaling the scales of fish to make them
readily available
for the treadmill of being readied for packaging...

i hate... seeing... people that are more readied for
abortions than for work... it's so frustrating...
ergo? i am... i am: if someone asked me to don
a SS-man's suit? black-clad... me?!
i would be more than willing...
                  half of the people i sometimes supervise?
they'd be in the gas chambers...
it' hard to get under my skin... to annoy me...
but? when i do become annoyed?!
it's hard to get me from under my own skin...
i try... i pretend-wrestle with a stanged
evil of collectivism based on ethnic grounds...
i forget the ethnic-grounding...
i just summarise myself akin to ergonomic-grounding...

all these women... those 10s... those 9s... 8s... 7s...
i seem them... who are they dating?
mediocre men... they're not dating highly fussy men...
they're not attractive men...
no! most of these women are dating:
pretty mediocre men...
      i'm supporting the fact that their beauty is
a sabotage... they might be pretty:
but they're ******* boring...
why do all these averages of women are great
to talk to: but hardly great to ****?!
either way... i'm not interested...
yeah; one yawn follows another yawn...
                  follows another: yawn.... that leads
to a terrible choice of laughter.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
there was a time to read two volumes of
Knausgård... and since i don't speak any norwegian:
it didn't really matter...
whether it was in english or western slavic...
will i get to the other four volumes?
i can only remember giving william burroughs...
so much of my attention as to complete
the oeuvre...
                         and unlike the translator's note
from michel foucault's... surveiller et punir...
i was really going to start reading this today...

- foucault uses the infinite: to the effect of an
'impersonal imperative'...
          this nuance is not afforded in english:
or is just plainly denied...

- the verb surveiller... has no adequate translation
into english... the english noun 'surveillance'
is apparently: but also obviously
too "technical"...

- the range of connotations between 'inspect'
and surveiller as a direct translation...
alan sheridan: this in part verbatim joystick
is... bothered by the work of a prior to his own
work of translation: a jeremy bentham...

- 'supervise' is closer than to 'inspect'...
                  but the word applied: is not close
to the word being translated...
      
- 'observe' is too neutral - but... its apparently
teeming with aggression should
an 'observation' be one-sided...
                      
             before the book even began...
i very much doubt... translating... Knausgård's
magnum opus of 6 vol.
beginning with... min kamp... my struggle...
because there was the obvious precursor...
and nothing more...
so much for nuancing the devil in the details...
of a book's title...

i once proposed that... well: what is mine?
is the struggle truly mine?
it's mine: in the superlative...
    but not in the confines of an: adjective-adjective...
in the superfluous...
skip the middle-ground "reasoning"...

but associated with struggle is the my:
that someone is mine...
           i'd rather posit... a lost sense of ownership...
translated back into either german
or norwegian:
              ich skampf...
                          jeg kamp...

                 then i guess: a struggle owns me...
it wrestles with me...
   it becomes a sort of... Israel...
               i become a sort of Israel...
prior to: i am Jacob: it is my struggle...
but... what if this struggle is outside of the confines
of merely me and my ownership of it:
to be donned and worn proud for...
future: coquetry?

   how different it sounds...
my struggle: i am jacob...
   i struggle: he named me Israel...
             and he called himself what i didn't wish
to own or be, therefore, mine...

if what is mine is a determiner -
akin to... a determiner being and:
   a conjunction...
           if i were to posit: ich kampf...
i cannot claim a determiner of the struggle:
it's... indefinitely there...
passed between strangers...
having a share of universal qualities shared
among others: which i can't exactly
invest a self with: but a pronoun i can...
since... by then... i struggle is an indefinite articulation
statement... a determiner allure of the expression
is a definite articulation...

but there's a time and a place...
and i'm not going to read a translation of an otherwise
french text... i was hoping to skip past
fiction... but having regarded Knausgård
first two volumes as:
autobiographical fiction... or...
       would i rely on... something that explores...
discipline and punishment...
naturally... i am expected to be the good citizen
and not go out...
i'm figuring... i need to stock up on some
more kalimotxo juice...
i'll take some bottles to the recycling center
and if stopped i'll just tell them...
i haven't been out all week...
i'm doing my exercise: i don't jog...
i walk... i'm just stocking up on kalimotxo juice...
and i'll be recycling some glass...
i can apparently get away with the first
time misunderstanding...

so no... not a good genesis of testing
the waters of: bad boy citizen...
i read the first two chapters and just left the book...
it's a book... it's not a piece of music...
sometimes it takes much longer...
to get into the mood:
if you want to read the book proper...
plus... i have neglected my libra prerogative...
to not write more than i have read...
i must have crossed a rubicon of sorts...

as it happens: these stale "concerns" are here
because: i honestly don't know how
to be a teenager: again... and to be riddled by
pangs of unaddressed emotions...
having to turn to fiction and vampires...
i don't have the credentials to write of pangs
of either joy or misery...
perhaps it's a numbing effect that allows
me to plough through bibliophile affairs...

after all... i have in my hands...
   illustrations by william rainey R.I.
the gresham publishing company 34 & 35
southampton street, strand, london,

an address to a mr. serjeant talfourd M.P.
by the man himself...
not the first edition (1837)
not even the first cheap edition (1847)...
i'm guessing this is, then...
the "C.D" edition... and the year is 1867...
so a one-hundred-and-fifty-three-year-old
book...
   it even smells so... grotesquely: variant...
then again... what's not to like about misnomers?
well... when no metaphor is at hand...
i guess a misnomer will just have to do...

but to keep to some quality of "mannerism"
regarding such artefacts...
it's one thing keeping such a book,
on a shelf... and having the gorgon's pride
to have to buy a modern cheap paperback
edition... no... this book will... just have to be handled...
perhaps handling it will...
allow me to air it... it is tinged with a horrendously
stuffy allure...
one that wants to find it... being...
a neglected "something or other"...
to give it life and most certainly air...
  a book that wants as much to be read:
as it wants to be aired...

    it can't be anything less than...
charles dickens' the pickwick papers...
to this i remember our first schooltrip to the world
war I graves near Ypres...
on the bus i was reading by the sort of
illumination that would make me successful
as to having to acquire glasses come mid-age...
and this dreaded teacher came up to me...
spotted i was reading dostoyevsky's crime and
punishment... and how... when he was my age...
read the pickwick papers with the same
ferocity as i was reading... what i was reading
at the time...

and i will be as **** honest as necessary...
me... reading a native novelist of these parts...
the parts of: make thames proud and london blush...
what on earth was i thinking...
not having or having not... succumbed to the allure?
what was i doing with the french writers
and the russians?
why wasn't i... bypass Shakespeare and sprint
to the trough from where pigs entertained
the company of kings?
                    we'd too wish... of what "we" is
not necessary to mind... had "we" been giving
smoking's to attire and join in the festivity...
oh sure, sure... smoking's and moccasins...
         well... if they can get away with donning
the converse sneakers... these days...
                   who would... hunt us down...
these sock hunters?!

     come to think of it... this is a **** good rendering
of how far i have fallen...
in terms of moodiness... or lack of: thereof...
sometimes there's only this:
an exercise in applied language...
   to what use? no one really knows...
had i... not discovered Dickens prior...
which... well: to know that Dicknes... is also
a suitable term used in pub trivia and
the encyclopedia...
              but it's good enough of me...
to have finally come about...
        
                              this romance of societal norms...
and reciprocative contracts of expectations...
hierarchal strands of weaving and the river-works
of flow...
              it's nice... there's none of that french
romancing the period...
nor the ever-pervasive angts of the russians...
that... sense and what remains of sensibility...
the self-evident pomp...
and the circumstance just around the corner...
the allure of what english liberals would
sell to foreign investors when being given
the opportune chance to do so...
as to how england was to be carved:
and sold by the pound...

                     and what a time to be given
privy into this literature...
                         i almost can't imagine having
an impetus left to drag myself into Proust.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
working around the hyper-real... it was such a good idea,
to get rid of the natural grass and put "fake" grass
in the sections of the garden that required some greenery,
oddly enough: the fake doesn't feel like fake...
now i have a problem: i don't require a lawnmower...

i might need the leaf-blower to sometimes get rid
of leaves from the grass...
    the work is going slowly along... Sisyphus style...
but one tonne of sand... one tonne of pebbles...
working with the kango... working with that levelling
beast of a machine...
   father was working on the nitty-gritty detail of the slab
area for the table and bbq...
it's looking pretty...
          
so i was watering the flowers... some hanging...
i was watering the apple trees... the rhubarb that
went a-wall with these massive leaves...
the fig tree... the ferns... etc.
   after i watered all of my garden and started
talking to myself...
should i record this? no... i don't think the world
is deserving of this message...
i'll be speaking to the night and its phantoms...
i'll be speaking to conjure up a wind...
ha! "fame"... i'm passing through...
          i even managed to sing a little:
hieroglyphs in the sand...
hieroglyphs on papyrus and on the sphinx's
forehead... blah blah...

Tom Waits' Quixotic ramblings...
   a true retrospection...
               i'm not going to record any of this...
i'm a very private person...
mind you: this affair of me existing requires: ARBEIT...
work... i'm not after the easily accessible route...
for the people who ingest my productivity
to simply sit back...

it feels like an Infected Mushroom sort of drinking
session...
Muse Breaks... I'm the Supervisor...
hell... Bukowski wrote about the drudgery of work...
me? you ever spent your youth...
your 20s... figuring out how you didn't
encounter a monotheistic deity?
    
    die großatem?  wind and wind are interchangeable
when crossing borders between
spitfires and the messerschmidts...
    ****: messerschmitts...
  großluft... the angel-singing disperser...
tell that to someone who's 21 to shut the **** up...
i shut the **** up... i went missing for
about 10 years...

the great-breath...
                   my eyes opened and i was no longer
living in this world:
i began passing through it...
my eyes are still open... it's unlike any
hallucinogenic drug i could ingest...
i began my contemplating through the ears
and i still do...
by i see differently...

i was never going to record what i say
in private: to myself and the night...
it has become obvious to me:
once it was the abuse of power...
now... it's an abuse of technology...
and that's apparent... people have managed
to create a technology to abuse people
who in turn abuse the technology...
a synthetic alternative to ******* drugs...

to blink is equivalent to checking the screen
of your smartphone...
i remember the good old days of the internet...
do you think men do a lot of internet shopping?
personally... i'd love to return to the old
music store and the bicycle shop...
i will never get an order via an UBER or
JUST-EAT... i know someone will not eat...
what are the major complications of human
economics?! the solution begins with confiscating
the human libido...
but since capitalism has become rampant...
******* coupled with mass immigration:
somehow pointless jobs emerge...
well... not pointless...
but they're not jobs with the equivalence
for surgeons or dentists...

     that one time i thought: so why are these nurses
lining up to a singing contest?
they truly want to become mince meat
in the entertainment industry?!

i don't have the qualifications...
but i've been through some rough shifts...
"rough": ******* shifts...
i've heard of several instances of people
people let go...
me?! no interview... straight on the books...
i'm an employee...
the rest of the ******* are self-employed...
why? that question lasts about 2 seconds
before i realise...
   oh right... i'm good at my job...

i'm waiting for the time when the Wembley team
will want me to join them...
turns out i'm somehow an ambitious man...
im also post-psychotic...
so... danger danger...
     i've seen the horrors of a Bates Motel, sort of...
and i'm like... nothing human is alien to me...

Bukowski and the drudgery of work...
yeah... i have worked with some weirdos...
i don't mind... 10 years away from proper
civil contact with strangers...
i'm a fish in water...
                        
   this supervisor role... normal people have
this idea that they have advanced...
no... no you haven't...
i take the approach: you're below the pawns...
do you understand? i always ask them without asking...
you're below them...
a supervisor is a role below a stewards role...
you haven't been elevated to a status
of supervisor... you have become demoted to
a lesser role... because? how doesn't it work:
via ratios 1:16... contra 16:1?

             yet some people "feel promoted":
you're not promoted as a supervisor...
you're demoted...
                 me? i kept my stewards happy...
you want water? sure thing... i'll bring you a bottle
of water... you want coffee?
milk no sugar? sure..
   by the way... when the main act begins...
i talked to the kiosk guy...
   he told me that they throw all the burgers away...
can my stewards have these burgers?
no problem...
              happy: *******: campers... Yogi bear to tow...

i don't even have the ******* paperwork...
but i get ****** these roles...
even one coworker started looking at me ugly:
but i've been doing this for X number
of years... recently a mate of mine was
fired from the company...
i said: ****-all...
       but i sort of figured out...

oh right.. Mark vs. Mark...
      the part where he insulted him... insinuating he
was a homeless person?
    that part?! i had nothing to do with it...
in my head i was thinking...
either of these Marks doesn't have
a leg to stand on... they're both tooth-fairies
since they have such bad dental hygiene...
but one thinks he's above the other
yet the two are in a crab-bucket... but only
one knows it...

that's how you supervise...
**** me... 6 months in... 6 months more...
i need to get out...
no NVQ 3 stewarding *******...
just the level 2... but i'm already filling in...
better practice at public speaking...
i'll make a great teacher...
i'm eyeing up jealousy building up...
what's next? i sieve through more *******
i become a manager?

   then again: i don't want to teach chemistry:
i want to teach English...
i fell in love with the Dead Poets' Society and i can't
let go...

all these supposed problem cases...
woman supervisor... two female stewards...
what a transformation...
all it took was giving one some chips
to keep up sugar levels...
while with the other... just walking up to her:
asking her: are you happy?
everything good?
you want to take a break?
   take a break...

women invented ******... naturally women
are "****"... who is responsible for
who is allowed / not allowed to reproduce?!
men?!
ha ha...                   ah ha ha...

it's ****** into us... we had to find: THINKING...
ENTERTAINING... PHILOSOPHICAL...
mathematical...
if we all managed to **** to later become
fathers... seriously, you think?!
maybe that's why the rest of "us" start to love
drinking and also start to love scribbling
Ovid nuances...

sober women writing poetry:
             they're ******* force-fed adorations that
are not even remotely justified...
just... expected... because they are sourced
from ****...
    i like to source elsewhere...
             and not poetry: onomatopoeias...
pleasuring a woman like it might
be a door opening... creaking...
              a broken consonant on a hinge of a vowel...

i love working...
   i love the tired feet.. i love catching the last bus home
at after 1am...
    i love it... give me an axe and a square mile of forest:
you want a clearing?! give me a week...
maybe that's why i don't have time
for girlfriends... maybe that's why i can only
entertain prostitutes...

sure... last time it happened i was entertaining
two at the same time...
i couldn't replicate any of the *****-flics...
i couldn't be both **** and mouth...
i needed one to **** me off
into the other one's ****...
lazy? no... but i was working with Bourbon
and tobacco was the stiffening chemical...
so... no... no movie...

tomorrow comes and i know that i need to change
the rub-rub rubber of my breaks...
and how i need to change the tape on my handlebars...
and how tomorrow London will
be it's most beautiful...
and how you can add avocado into a sandwich...
as long as it's not merely avocado on toast...
but...
mingling with a chilli... a pepper...
green olives stuffed with almonds...
or pickled cucumbers...
   lodged either side of some cheese and meat...
lodged between two: cool... brown-based
buns of oat and pseudo-rye and probably wheat...

and how just finding about
KLAUS SCHULZE's - DEUS ARRAKIS (2022)
feels sort of like...
first watching Stanley Kubrick's
a SPACE ODYSSEY...
             because there are these immediate parallels
in the realm of postmortem...
               and because the night is a heaven
to behold... with all the critters and the foxes...
with all that demands a sleep within the confines
of a day...

the last message i sent Alice:
KLAUS SCHULZE - DEUS ARRAKIS (2022)...i'm currently listening to it... you have to break your patience... up to and including the 17th minute... after the 17th minute it's all downhill... sort of Brian Eno style with the Dune Soundtrack... Alice... dearest... i work my ******* off with what i write... you think you can entertain an audience with a flimsy "spare" of "thought"? i've been working on this ******* since 2005... now count the years... Alice... you approach the world as you have... i'll be the nice one... the rest of the world with ******* regurgitate you... i have seen how hierarchies work... they're not pleasant events when you need to bite your teeth and forget to have ownership of a tongue... please don't become more hurt because of the beauty that you are: serving the naivity of: what's best underserving in children: having to be falsely translated into adults...  as might be the conversation between Seth and Thoth... dearest creature... un-labour yourself with your imaginary dictates... you will never match to what i am surrendering to!
Chandy Feb 2023
How can I save myself
When the world lacks a solution?
Buried my mind
To not stick out, protrusion
Heads craned down
Eyes pasted to the floor
The walls
Anything with no mind
After living with mine
Others must be unkind, right?
Objectivized
With no script to supervise
Today and tomorrow remain unrealized
One day I will not see the sky
How long can a man wear a disguise
Under the guise of nothing wrong
But today, I admit these thoughts will not be gone
I've gone desensitized, self-victimized
My torment is standardized
Desire to be revised yet all I get is chastised
For all the plans I devised
Imply a lack of being alive
What's the rise? Isn't life defined by compromise?
So shut up, sit down, let me emphasize
I've wanted to die for so long
Life is no longer what I once realized

— The End —