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min May 2017
trouble is our destiny
only two can play this game but

who will get hurt first?
who will love first?

these calls which i declined
these text which i just read

i love to tease you
i love to see you angry

you keep shouting at me
you keep calling me names

i thought you could keep up but
i just can laugh at you

there are no rules
and there will never be

but how can you win a serious game
with a funny player?

let that sink for a while sweatheart
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th
K G Jul 2015
I knew who she was before, with that crooked smirk on her face
I knew she was looking at me like it was an instinct
She always had her ways of looting me
She's always had a beautiful face but inside she maybe anything except rightful
She knows I could've done more but I was such a kid not understanding what she said
Oh so she knows that I know that I like to be unknown but still says she's maybe out to get me, I know that she knows that she's not gonna wrestle with me, the two of us it could've been, but she's just so intense also insensitive to the point
Though she looks like a diligent sweetheart, she likes to act like she is, but so intense she is
She goes into a alley way to hide away from me
I just die everytime i look inside
Shy she called me, when I hid away from the drugs, she took a shrug and kept going and blowing the smoke my way
She knows that I know that I like to be unknown but she's maybe, maybe out to get me, I know that she knows that she's not gonna hurt me, the two of us it could've been, but she's just so in-fenced she just too intense
I just don't wanna let it go
I don't wanna let her down
I knew who she was before, with that crooked smile
Though she looks like a diligent sweetheart, she likes to act like she is, but so miss understood she is
Olivia Conlon Dec 2013
Most beautiful fragment,

You're a frayed photograph,

Your focal point blurred,

with the tears you have,

swallowed.

Don't tuck your fingers,

beneath your sleeves.

Darling I have seen the,

severed butterflies.

Which bit into your wrists.

Sweatheart, don't ever,

let my eyes wander,

over -new found- gashes

of vapid metal.

My sinking love,

with -emaciated- scars.

Running down your

-pronounced- ribs.

With every ounce you

tear from your thighs,

I sigh in depleted joy.

And weep to the

children of the sleepless.

To those who ****** their

bloodied knuckles-

scraped against a charred throat.

Hold fast to-

these horrid delusions.

To which you have conceived.

Close your sleepy eyes,

wake  for tomorrow's morn.
Larry B Jan 2011
She traces her finger along his lips
And smiles with satisfaction
The poison leaves him paralyzed
Just another fatal attraction

She lures them in with her beauty
And keeps them with her kiss
She looks for those who no one knows
A stranger they wouldn't miss

A female Jack the Ripper
But no one knows her name
A hollow soul with a morbid goal
Who plays a deadly game

A widow of sorts with ice in her veins
And all of your money she'll steal
And when she's through I pity you
There's nothing left but to ****

One eye is green the other is blue
So beware of the women you date
I'll tell you this with only one kiss
It will forever be too late

I'm sorry dear, what do you mean?
And why do you have that knife?
No, sweatheart, I didn't mean you
It just sounds like I mean my wife
ky Feb 2014
I. there was life before him.
i know its hard to remember a time
his presence didn't make your whole body shiver
and his eyes didn't make you
want to wrap your arms around his broken soul.
but there was life before him
and there will be life after

II. he may no longer love you but you have to love yourself.
i know you had yourself convinced
that he was the only one who could love
all your loose ends, all the pieces, all the brokenness.
but he doesn't anymore and its okay.
now you have to grow
to love all your scars, all your craziness, all your faults.
after all, you're the only one
that lives with the voices in your head

III. he was never meant to be your last
you both spoke words of forever, planned a future together.
with 3 dogs, 2 sons, and a huge house.
you never decided where
but maybe that's how you should have known.
and i know you may feel like you'll love him forever...and you will
but, sweatheart
he
was
never
meant
to
be
your
last
IV. it was real
V.  he is gone
VI. and you are still ******* breathing
????
Adellebee May 2014
Break still young one
Hold your candle high
Salvation comes to those who wait

Be still grasshopper
Don’t react so quickly
Time isn’t going anywhere

So still loved one
Weave in and out of the lines
Make some mistakes along the way

Time changes, sweatheart
When you least expect it
It shifts
The Sweet Moment
The moment you come in the door
The moment moon rises in the sky
Let my sweetheart to see and adore
The moment hear jumps to fly high
My eyes are in trance,soul in dance
My heart sings all sonnets of love
Let me love to take every chance
You are  sweers creation from abve
Let me be with you to but embrace
Let me kiss you in a go my sweatheart
I want to taste all your great grace
Be mine for ever never ever to depart
Colonel Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright May 2021 Love Remains
Baby
Darling
Sweatheart...

I've known for so long
just how much I love you
and tonight it struck me
like a lightning
just how much
YOU
love
ME

Hold me, darling
[hush]
Kiss me, baby
[hush]
Erase them marks
that all and everyone
have left on me

[hush]

I'm right here
[you say]
[and kiss]
I'm holding you
[you say]
[and caress]

there's no way
[you whisper]
[and I know]
anyone
could ever
love you
more.
Fateha Ferdousy Feb 2020
Once u were jealous
reading the pages
of my handy book
"Oh there's nothing about me"
with a sad face
but dear my silly sweatheart
how will u understand,
U stay in the deepth
of my heart .
A house on the green land
A castle of peace
we will be together,
forever...
And a endless sleep on ur chubby lap
With Warm And peace❤
My honey wants me to take me to her paradise
Where she wants to please me with her sensual desire
I know she is wonderfully beautiful and wise
Because she understands language of love like fire

She needs me and I need her let love play to discern
I am thirsty for the dew drops in the desert to drink
My sweatheart I have been taken over by your concern
Let me embrase you let me kiss on your lips so pink

Love is the stamp on beauty let me be your associate
My love I love you to the utmost and to the limit
Come in my arms in your ears I whisper to narrate
Let me encounter your treasure pace by pace bit by bit

Colonel Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright Aril 2020 Love Remains
An Evening
Your presence has made my evening more beautiful
Your graces has reinvigorated my spirits great
Your beauty has taken over me being more bountiful
My love chain me in your tresses never liberate
The wonderful evening amidst blooming roses
Has taken over my heart towards love and romance
Your innocence, your beautiful cheeks to buldoze
Me my heart and soul with a wonderful sweet chance
I will ever celebrate this evening for times to come
My love will cherish with your blooming beauty
My sweatheart let me be your appraiser to overcome
All the hurdles and thorns to be totally free
Colonel Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright July 2020 Love Remains

— The End —