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Becka Vees Jun 2012
Cut the forget-me-knots.
Dot the t's and cross your eyes;
My balance is a flight-risk.

I knew swindlers of used expressions,
Their attempts: relentless!:
Plucking and picking at taunt silouettes.
Close calls splintered by tall tales.

I held on by the skin of my teeth.

Swindlers with twisted policies
Racked on the broken back burner.
They got scare tactics
Slipping fast from mal-practice.

We we're born to withstand such turbulance
But just in case- i fasten my seatbelt.
Knees bent and heartfelt,
I render these empty spaces moldable.
Heavy minutes move mountains.

Little boy blue beat the big bad wolf
And balance is always a flight-risk.

(Written 4/12)
Daniel Handschuh Nov 2015
Tingly under the daisies;
   Glassy-eyed, glazed, greasy;
   Shaking, shivering, shuddering,
   Wishing, wandering, whimpering,
   Westernizing—
   Romanizing—
   Constitutionalizing—
   Institutionalizing—
   Perpetually searching
   And dying
   And living,
   Watching Death survive
   And scythe the frolickers,
   The prancers,
   The rompers,
   The merrymakers.
   A rose clamped between his
   Grinning teeth glistens brightly,
   And he dances so joyously.
   “Yes!” say the naysayers,
   Confused are the soothsayers,
   Lost are the cartographers.
   Oh, Utopia!
   The monks are extravagant;
   The meditations are a farce!
   The preachers are beggars
   And swindlers and chargers,
   And Machiavelli fulfills his wishes!
   Babies are stillborn, stabbed, and
   Ritualistically sacrificed,
   And their blood is spilled, drunk,
   Slathered over the ***** man.
   The evangelists scream and lie:
   “You are all predestined to die!”
   Oh, hail Utopia!
   Wedded are the girls to the girls;
   Wedded are the boys to the boys;
   Wedded is Death to Death,
   Life to Life,
   And Life to Death.
   Wedded are the living to the existent.
   And the milking babes are slaughtered
   Ceremoniously,
   Surreptitiously,
   Ostentatiously.
   Oh, hail great Utopia!
   We are all dead and unintelligent:
   Laugh, laugh, Einstein, at your
   Stupidity.
   Laugh, laugh, Temple Grandin at
   Your retardation.
   Laugh, laugh, laugh!
   Look at the sluggard, thou ant;
   Look at the boy, sobbing wolf;
   Aesop was drunk,
   Aristotle was delusional,
   Michelangelo was blind,
   Beethoven could hear,
   Poe was sane.
   And I can't read.
   They ramble,
   I watch.
   They sleep,
   I watch.
   They dream,
   I watch.
   They sleep-talk,
   I watch.
   They scream,
   I watch.
   They choke,
   I watch.
   They suffocate,
   I watch.
   Stone-faced, I stare;
   Raspingly, I breathe;
   Uncontrollably, I twitch;
   Inwardly, I rage.
   I hope you die, I hope you die.
   I hope you bleed, I hope you die.
   I want you begging and crying,
   I want you blubbering at my feet,
   I want you gnashing at my ankles,
   I want you writhing in pain,
   I want your arm twisted off,
   Cracking with the snapping sinews, I want your beating heart in my hands, I want your genitals uprooted and stuffed in your throat, I want your stomach so I can eat the still-digesting food, I want your shrunken head and I want to force my thumbs into your unblinking eyes and I want to tear your face in two and I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die.
I hate the city
How you can't see the stars in the sky
How hopes seem to die
How life is a swindlers mind
It's not that the stars aren't there
They just fell, burned out, hidden in apartments
They forgot their worth and so forget to twinkle
Like a black hole
The city swallows every star
Lou Dec 2017
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
I wrote this over a year ago, took me a few months to put it together properly but I wanted to share this fun time. Its about this bar I use to go to when I was in my early 20's and I use to watch people a lot act like savages, trying to pick up women, usual bar stuff. I hope this isn't too much of a mouthful, enjoy.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
even hegel read jakob böhme                   (boo m'eh) -
to keep the democratic spirit - obviously the Kardashians don't
know a hairbrush from a toothbrush - but that hardly matters -
what matters is how Pearl Harbour turned into karaoke applause -
the idea of an american in europe: spaghetti slurping  -
even that considering the "special"
       relationship of anglophiles -
    anatomy of antagonism:
        spaghetti swindlers of talk -
slurping that tangle into an easily sold
global affair would never juice up the idea
to think about my neighbour as someone
i'd care to be;
          and as common with the postmortem
childhood educators, the curriculum of such
people always stated: learn otherwise -
       no wonder their screened the
personal vanities of Versailles in the 21st century
coming from the 18th and 17th century -
learn the truths concerning the genesis
of the 21st century in the 24th century at least...
i'm under the righteous impression:
most of the people i live with have
been savaged by science fiction,
and the slowness of science in itself
that they are tattooed with a care for now,
but never tomorrow... imagine living in a society
that pays its workers in month's wages than
in week's wages... can you imagine it?
the two re- debate: again quick (reflexive),
and the again slow (reflective) -
if i'm glorifying the latter than the former?
oh, that question... you have to reply with:
usury and why the libido of old men
equips young girls to the same libido,
and why young men are worthy of a war memorial
and the mud of trenches...
and why young men can't with enzyme-fervour
bind of the satiated young woman sexually
compete... and why so many say: **** it.
one *** spends its youth barraged by usury -
and all other hamster wheels,
the other *** parties with the cocksure crowd:
and then you expect a withstanding human bond?
ha ha.    forget it... hey lady, how's that old man
treating you? he's the pope, i know.
                         forged from the Martian
        ashen heat cooling: in how she thought
the two would meet and raise a family in the mythology
of Eden... when she got paid her student fees
by sugar daddies, and he got spit to extract feeding
handshakes - that only turned into jacking off
                                                                ­      gambles.    
  she now the happy soul fathomed as the bigoted
              entrenchment in this world: as forever
  and if only trying: then at least expecting war
to solidify the point.
                just the other day in Camden Market:
she's complaining about her libido with older men,
   he's complaining: your problem is that you go
for older men... oh ****, then all the problems of
natural correlative assertions, and children to
masquerade the real problems... and pop culture
and what's being gagged (apart from the gimp,
forever caged and clad in leather, and a mouth
that's really an ****) -           the children suffer
    from would otherwise been a beneficial anti-evolutionary
suggestion: that i was recipient of the outside environment,
rather than the inside environment of some benefiting
sir esquire toff -                 give me my tail and fur back!
   i don't care for gymnastics or vogue! give it back!
******! this ain't an improvement,
                 who heard of primeval predators building
guillotine scaffolds (although, i admit, that's humane) -
or ****** Mary being beheaded with a blunt blade -
or gas chambers... when i think of tigers i think of
humanity greater than man with his apple i7 phone -
i think of vampires... i find it hard to believe
we evolved from what was already perfect...
                   to improve what? we were always outsiders...
    narrators - then again, if i'm the sort of
"creationist" scumbag, then i can just say:
Chinese and Welsh dragons and dinosaurs...
   and to be honest: history is obsolete given the
two timescales of the big bang (what a ****** name
to start things off... heard a bang in a vacuum?) -
              and monkey -
                                             which is no wonder
why history died given the timescales, and why we
are overly saturated with journalism, the 24 hour reels
and nothing really happening in those 24 hour counting
                   mechanisms:
which is no surprise journalism resurrected a pseudo-dialectics,
   i.e. an opinions section - and there they are,
like third world dictators, unchallenged, journalistic
freedom is the last thing to fight for right now,
   not when journalists don't have any journalism to give,
  and invoke the need to be opinionated,
and in thus being the above said: unchallenged.
                 Colonel Falafel? sign me up!
476

I meant to have but modest needs—
Such as Content—and Heaven—
Within my income—these could lie
And Life and I—keep even—

But since the last—included both—
It would suffice my Prayer
But just for One—to stipulate—
And Grace would grant the Pair—

And so—upon this wise—I prayed—
Great Spirit—Give to me
A Heaven not so large as Yours,
But large enough—for me—

A Smile suffused Jehovah’s face—
The Cherubim—withdrew—
Grave Saints stole out to look at me—
And showed their dimples—too—

I left the Place, with all my might—
I threw my Prayer away—
The Quiet Ages picked it up—
And Judgment—twinkled—too—
Tat one so honest—be extant—
It take the Tale for true—
That “Whatsoever Ye shall ask—
Itself be given You”—

But I, grown shrewder—scan the Skies
With a suspicious Air—
As Children—swindled for the first
All Swindlers—be—infer—
"Who needs rules? Rules are for fools! I'm the King of the Bees!"
              - Buzby, the King of the Bees*

Today the dank atmosphere brought down heavy curtains of fine high thread count cotton a magic carpet ride for a colony of lost bed bugs sturdy and steady so steady and sturdy it crushes my back when it descends down down down to crush the ever loving **** out of me so I pretend to pray

Pretend to pray because all my life I seem to have gotten it wrong they must have wanted more than I could give I couldn't talk to.someone I couldn't see and who who would at least acknowledge that I was being listened jim Morrison loudly proclaimed "YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LAWD WITH PRAYAH" time I thought that seemed pretentious but though I don't doubt the possibility that the LAWD may in his ****** way answer some of those impertinent petitions I a.) don't know those people or b.) slightly resent the fact that he's done so much for swindlers, charlatans, and scammers but never saw fit to send me the super sized blessing we been waiting for

But I was provided for and for that I am grateful tomorrow I'll be dispatched to see the grade school kiddies (just before they get slapped with a  handfuls of mercenary stew)
This  p
an suffocates

Maybe for the sleepy
A song
"We won't wake up tomorrow
So celebrate
On the ***** blvd
With Lou Reed
Mitchell Jun 2014
'There wasn't a beer in the house. The wind pushed the branches and the leaves of the trees outside like bullies does its prey. There wasn't a single beer in the house while the moon hung in the night sky like a thick toe nail. The stars were splatters of milk on an endless blackened canvas. I looked at my watch. It read 1AM. I had an hour.
My dog Wino laid next to me on her side. She was a miniature french bull dog who took pleasure in sleeping, eating, and occasionally drinking wine mixed with cocoa cola and water. The perfect dog if one had a small attention span and could keep them fed, petted, and fit. The coke and water trick had not come into fruition by my mind, but from my friend, Penny. He drank at a place called The Lounge, a dive of dives meant for locals and young kids with old souls. Luckily we were still young and somehow blessed with the formalities and general manners opposite of a drunken frat boys bent solely on intoxicating themselves on red bull and jager shots mixed with an aperitif of bud light.
The Lounge was four blocks toward downtown from where I lived. It was the kind of place that served microwaved hot dogs until closing if you're wondering what I meant about dive of dives. Penny was there, dead drunk or pain-stakingly sober, depending on how much money he had. I don't know why I thought of him at that moment, most likely trying to figure who else to drink with other than myself, but right when I thought of him, I knew it was already a lost cause. It was 1:05. The hour was too late to reconvene with anyone. I knew I'd have to go alone.
*******, there's got to be something, I thought, this God forsaken house is empty? A beer? A shot? Anything? Nothing! How can it be? My good for nothing roommates must have drank it all...or maybe it was me? Maybe I'm to blame? No...that couldn't be right. I would have remembered? But why so sure? I could have easily forgot from all the beer I was drinking before...people make mistakes...happens all the time. Jesus, I told myself, get yourself together and start thinking straight.
I felt like a handicapped, bloodthirsty hyena. Pensive, I looked down at Wino. She was dead asleep with her tongue oozing out between her lips. The stench of wine coke hung around her. She would be no help at all.
I got up from the kitchen table and looked in the refrigerator. Hungry gripped me as well. Getting attacked on the front of drink and food was not an enjoyable place to be. Moves would have to be made...but where? When? Well, before 2AM of course and where, well, that would take some thought. As I scrounged around in the deep crevices of the refrigerator, pushing aside moldy mashed potatoes and old plastic tins of Chinese food, furry oranges and near empty bottle of ketchup, dark soups with mysterious things swimming around inside and a very large bowl of what looked to be sugar, but was actually Arm and Hammer. We would eventually get a dating and signature system to avoid all of these unwanted science experiments, but that's another story.
There was nothing of nourishment in the fridge so I closed it, discouraged, weighing my options. There was a liquor store on Geary, the main drag in the inner richmond, my neighborhood. But it was a Wednesday and they were most likely closed. Why would they stay open late on a weekday? For people like me? Not a chance. I stepped into the laundry room and looked out the window. The sky was clear and the moonlight and the stars were white florescent shining down on the tops of the leaves hanging from the branches of the trees like a prisoner dead on the gallows. The roofs of the apartments across my ours were painted with this same cream white. I could smell the salt of the ocean from sporadic gusts of a sharp wind. In the distance, an ocean tanker heading into the city or out to sea blared their fog horn. It sounded like a whale in heat. There was a party going on in an apartment across the way. I saw people with glasses in their hands and listened to their chatter and their laughter. I knew they would have *****. I also wondered who throws a party on a wednesday night in the middle of June in San Francisco's winter of all the times. The fog had been rolling in hard the last few days and that night was no different. I was in a thick sweater, pants, and knee high socks and my teeth were still chattering. No use staring over plaintively at their apartment, I thought, I probably look like some kind of shadowy, drunk apparition. Better go inside before they call the cops on me...
Inside, I ran the faucet with hot water into a bowl. When it was almost full, I stopped the water and submerged my hands. That sting that happens when extreme cold goes to extreme hot began. My entire body started to tingle, go numb, especially my hands. The reason for this action I never fully understood for I really wasn't that cold, but the image of a hot water filling a bowl just popped into my head and I gave it no thought, only action. If anyone had walked in at that moment, I'm sure they would have thought me drunk and craze and, well, maybe I was? I was no longer sure. The only thing I did know that needed to happen was to get down the stairs, out the door, down the street, and to the 8th and Geary where my liquor store hopefully, was open.
My phone read 1:21 PM. I'd be cutting it close. Luckily, I had cash, so they wouldn't have to be bothered with a debit card transaction. I recalled trying to use a debit card there once and they were convinced it was OK to charge me $5 for a purchase under $10. Most places would charge you 50 cents, a dollar at most, but these hustling swindlers were trying to push $5! I wouldn't have it. I walked outta' there quick and knew the next time I ever was forced (I usually bought alcohol at grocery stores where their inconvenience offered more deals) to step foot into a liquor specific store, I would have cash in hand, poised in the ready position.
There was a problem with my departure though: I couldn't find my shoes. I thought back to when I got home from work, beers in my backpack as well as a pint of whiskey in the secret zipper department. My shoes were on at that point, I was sure of it. When I had arrived say around 3:30 - 4 o'clock in the afternoon, no one was home. They were still all at work and in no way taken my shoes by accident. This had never happened, so I was curious why I thought that that specific day, when I would later need my shoes so desperately, somebody would have mistakingly took them to thwart whatever plans I may or may not make to go out. In truth, I couldn't see any of my roommates devising such a plan, at least on a week day, even more so a wednesday. But where were they? Had they slipped under the couch? I checked, but was only to discover a few quarters, which I pocketed for pool and juke box use in the future, various types of potato and tortilla chips, a hat, *****, lint covered socks, and a remote control to the TV which I had been searching since the week I had moved in a year ago. No shoes though. Where could they be?
I lightly ran downstairs to check the shoe rack that no one ever used. The middle of our door is a rectangular piece of glass, so one could see right through and down to the street. The stale light of of a single street lamp beamed an orange streak across the pavement. Besides that, the block was black. There was a car parked in the space in front of our steps. No one was inside, at least it didn't look like there was. It was very dark. I could have been mistaken. The car sat underneath a large tree with heavy, thick branches that blocked any light that may have been coming from the lamp or the stars, so very possibly there could have been a mysterious person, thing, entity, what have you in vicious wait. But, I asked myself, waiting for what? For me? Why for me?. All I'm looking for is a six pack and another flask. What would this thing in that car even want with me except twelve bucks? I stared out the window, thinking these things until I remembered why the hell I was there in the first place. The shoe rack was filled with old bills, coupon brochures, voting ballots, and neon pink Chinese menus. I rummaged around this heap, with no sign of my shoes. Well, I thought, there's only one more place these ******'s could be.
My desk, which holds most of my books, looks out onto the street. It holds stacks of papers in deep drawers that should be thrown away but are kept due to the fear of tossing something potentially important, condoms, pens, checkbooks, candies, film canisters, notes from friends, headphones, cards, hair gels and deodorants, and really anything I don't want on my desk. Occasionally, there will be a left over dinner or breakfast plates lingering around the edge of the desk, flirting with its own demise and even more so if I have left the window open, which is  half a foot away. If not plates then bills that have yet to be paid or notes on old papers, probably old bills, that I never got around to flushing out or did and just never got rid of. A large oak desk, it sits and feels a little small for my size, but, I make it work, for it was a gift. I try to use whatever I receive for free to the utmost until the discomfort is either too much or I come across something better that I can afford, which is rare. But, there they were, pushed up against the wall that faced the street. My chair was jammed all the way up into the desk as well , so much so that it was tipped slightly upward, like someone had been trying to throw the thing out the window. I didn't remember doing this at all which made me think perhaps it wasn't me, maybe someone else had been in here...but who? Why would anyone trespass on such a simple, lowly place with no real worth or chance of treasure? It just couldn't be, so I threw the thought into the wind and got my shoes on. I checked my phone again. It read 1:37. That gave me 23 minutes.
I stumbled down the stairs, out the door, and down the stairs. A car drove by me as I walked down the street toward Geary. Their headlights were off. I turned to see the driver of the car as they passed me, but they were mere shadow, their faces black, blurry smudges. I paused and turned around back toward my apartment. Something in me told me the car would stop at my house, but it continued on to the stop light, then up the hill toward the park. Where we they going?
At Geary, I took a left and walked quickly toward 8th avenue. There were no cars on the main drag. Both sides of the streets were completely empty. A large gust of wind from the west forced me to pause, almost making me take a step back. I looked up into the sky. It was thick with a rolling grey fog. At night, the fog always rolled in the hardest. I never knew why. It just did. And there were no stars. Everything was black and grey, but when I pushed forward through the wind, I saw the neon yellow and red shell station ahead as well as the flashing stop lights which hung over the streets. As I came to 8th avenue, I saw the liquor store. It was closed. The only light that shone was a rotating blinking light in the shape of a beer bottle. I wanted that beer bottle, even if it wasn't real.
The store windows were grated and there was a large metal gate before the actual door to the store. This told me they had had trouble before, probably from guys like me. Inside there was everything I would need to get me through the night and to the morning. Out there, on the cold sidewalk with a violent fog swirling around me like a hurricane, I was just cold and dangerously sober. Reality rapped on my temples like a ravens beak on a thin window. There was nothing I could do. I was forced to go home, empty handed.
As I brushed my teeth in nothing but my underwear, I wandered to the back deck and opened the window. The fog was still rolling heavy and would continue to do so until the sun came to burn it all away. Sometimes, the fog was too much and it would hang there all day like a heavy shawl. Those days were nice. They didn't make me feel guilty about staying inside all day reading or sleeping or really doing nothing at all. Sometimes that is necessary. I spit my toothbrush saliva mixture into a dead plant that rested on the banister near the ladder that lead to the roof. I hadn't ever been up there. Terrified of heights, I figured I never would be.
My clock read 2:13. It had taken me a long time to walk home after such a defeat. I had spent so much time thinking about moving I had failed my overall goal. Too much discussion with oneself can make you go crazy. I've seen it happen to friends, family, ****...myself. I closed my eyes and told myself there is plenty of value in talk, in discussion, but it takes a true human being to act after all of that talk. I would have to remember that one. Yes, I would have to write that one down.
Vera Anne Wolf Apr 2019

We’re all in the same Hell now...
The swindlers, the believers,
The cowards, and the leaders.
We’re all in the same Hell now...
Welcome to reality,
Welcome to reality.

It’s nothing personal
You were born mortal.
Heaven watches from the skies
But Hell waits beneath the lies.
What are you going to do?
When you stand and face
The life you chose.
What excuse will you impose?

The devils are laughing
as they welcome you.
They once believed that
they were special too.

(But)
We’re all in the same Hell now...
The ******, the healers,
The judges, and the killers.
We’re all in the same Hell now....
Welcome to reality,
Welcome to reality.

What are you doing with your life?
What are you doing with your life?
Flash back to Sixteen years
Did you relish in their tears?
What’s waiting for you when you die?
What’s waiting for you when you die?
Rich or poor, we don’t care,
The weight on sin will find you here.

Did you really think that
Doing some good things
Would hide all the stains
On your grubby little hands?

(Ha!)
We’re all in the same Hell now...
The victims, the abusers,
The winners, and the losers.
We’re all in the same Hell now...
Welcome to reality,
Welcome to reality.

Wake up! Your not dead.
Get up from your bed.
We’re still waiting,
We’re still laughing,
We’re still watching you.


©veraannewolf
What the hell is wrong with me???
Vernarth says: “Nocturnal mutism, nocturnal stuttering, goes from the fragile phrasing, peripheral phrase, hovering last word, where my loudspeaker hits, dissonant Sagittarius, I must prepare my denarius, not but, beforehand, cheers of hope to Zion, who among the bush of the millionaire wind that travels from Pluto to Mercury, each day that we map ourselves, trying to be more earth than in its own flowering. Paradiso Omega, nap of the oldest dream, adobe path. My  to fly Anne genuflects her heart towards Mariah from Heaven, in the title of hundreds of throats and gargles of the pyogenic sediment rambling. Oh so long night!, so clear firmament born of the fallen ether of the great Heaven so clear and enlightening Compass 37 on the quilt of God, three by three towards one, linking above the easy pit and dreams, dying Paradiso, Agonizing Horcondising, a fragile mass disoriented, discouraged, with numeral letters and quadruple letters, stone after stone of forage falling on the cinnabar sky "

Joshua de Piedra from the high pinnacle exclaimed…: “Stone after stone in its correction is born of a new silence eternal bond. It eats it during the day, it eats at night, just like the galaxies licking the frivolous awakening from a starless night, but being the substance of stars liquefied with a whip. Pilgrimage or Path of the Cross, on the stony ground of Uncle Hugh's house, in the other similar, my Anne's house, further on in the hidden and clayey chaos, the last Indigenous in Western clothing, working and stuffing the wells with green size, distributing alms for his apprentices, I keep looking from the high hill earlier. Kaitelka the whale and a Dwarf Leviathan; steward of the unnameable, perhaps of an unknown Cyprian squirrel censoring Noah in his animals empowered to tell him about a magnificent episode.  Each species balancing its essence to make the most grandiloquent dossier in the world, to join them and value them towards the unknown peasant world. The big apple to go, with its tailcoat worms, well dressed and united by the march of the rock sentinel Evangelus. Kaitelca alpha and omega cetacean, fluffy with bast for all the most lost seas of the watery world. She so down cetacean, she throws herself into the sea in fears in this gloomy space, exhausted warehouse, lifesaver between lives of lives, like wishes without delay, to beat the divergent period, falling on the flat ceiling. Enter to sail through the mud of Iodine, of this great Parnassus of all iodine, the Messiah was squeezing his robe of love all over the upper margin of the face, Jesus light, loving great pilgrims who helped me to urbanize the skeleton of this great demolition, of a great geyser on its oceanic back, distributing gifts through the tangled brow of the Horcón and Cantillana massif.  Freshwater meringue, fluffy flowers, incense, fuchsias, and Calypso smoke migrating from house to house in Sudpichi.  Adelimpia, holding the cord of the axis of the fatigued planet, Queen Anne restored the acute respiratory meridians, which moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed, cursed globe moving to another galaxy towards its 9600 years of expansion. The stumbling of the sun's rays, crowded on the back of the Jacinta, which multiplied on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages of millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world. The world has no end, God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are ..., being less true. Rather, we are the waste of the almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of creation that was felt wandering, perhaps it was its breathing, of its lipped wise crater, in the most irresistible protoforms, devoutly preparing turgid liquids for driving through every dinner, without stars tasting their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick his honey-like him, we run out of a famished minute of life not lived”

Says the spirit Leiak:

“Without a doubt, without drooling, without Buddha… the tendrils of the universe flamed, like rolling pickets within his hearing sea ear.  Striped with wounded marks in zigzag, by the middle row between the unarmed infidels.  Filled with the greatest amazement, massacred with laughter riddled with the non-shining meteor. From temple to temple, without Buddha close to him, he continues lost on the path of valleys among several, by the waves of chimneys like the snout of a mastiff with typhus, infected badly that detonates a thousand times, circular or macrocosmic chemistry in submissive grounds, to drink, where no one is wrong. Pendency of the lymphatic jellyfish, among the meek otolith of Kaitelka, almost deaf, of so many prayers of impious savages to hunt her ..., she continues begging for mercy as a species, she shakes and shakes as if eliminating the supposed flea jellyfish in whirlwinds of babies in her ears of children's stories. Anne came out of her basket as if she had been picked up from the Nile, but in reality, she was close to Chocalan, Popeta, or Polulo, lit up like coal from a steppe oven. I continued walking shirtless on an insomniac night, waiting in the decimals of the full moon, some indebted Solaris of the evangelist, in a space that slowly locked the crooked tongue of sleep, locked by the treacherous luck of doubt. Plague and doubt, plague and nail, which opens the vast sea, unsanitary radio, from the messianic ****** of the muses to Botticelli blaspheming. Anne, a diva of the division of past lives, does not die in misapplication against all odds like a thousand sperms of an ensign, making her stipends simple, to buy sensitive chaste little flowers in suitcases of her super-saucy folds ..., there is no probing look similar to the ocean Cousteau's journey, through which the lost retina drains, lies the selective gaze, covered by the Guardian, who looks before the denigrated sap unfolds, which wears away scarlet fever, the gaze of substance, in front of thousands of sayings, plagiarizing Tramontane rumors "

Queen Anne rolls up her sleeves, collects ashes from the ill-fated victims sifted, by the tobacco, a very good service from the fumes of venerable lost in disbelief, this painting becomes vague and with a sordid diametric image and silent cataclysm. The confine of evil godson in a duo and verse of the Universe, of the concrete displaced with pieces of the tobacco, has been spoiled. Joshua de Piedra with filings in his stomach was with hundreds of particles tickling the metaverse on the beards of extraterrestrial comets. Heaven and Hell, interrupted sleep, fatal nap, draconian wind, Ultrasensitive Glory of austere forces, as long as you are alive, you are prey to it. Ignorance continues to spend the night in the empty vapors of the valley of chaos, duels of masses of sleeping consciences underlying the erosive *****, Queen Anne, is gathered at a gallop by Joshua de Piedra, blindfolds him so that he does not numb more body incense and set on a spring flower. By the knees, they are incinerated, but sometimes they are half-burned, burning like incense with Joshua in reversible adulation, of the rawest exquisiteness of essence of escapes of blossoming in chains, with the drama of carcinoma petals in anti-carcinoma times and of eternal life external. At the Post Office, the postman envelopes the new vignettes, new gardens of relevant highlights. The friend Joshua links the trough of flames escaping from his domain, at a faster pace for other readings, varying in shreds of first-time, delineating, and walking breaths that are lost in the misty vividness.

Says Leiak: “After making a round, Adelimpia with Hugh and Bernardolipo, restart their adventure, almost at the top of the Horcondising massif, collecting riches from between stranded galleys, and vaults dragged by the cataclysm towards this consistent mountainous ..., The amounts of coins from different origins were countless, from all those wealthy who stole from all their belongings, the tainted and intrepid wisdom, getting rid of everything before confronting the thunderous flashes of the Guardian, to subtract intelligent action from the oppressive limit in maintaining the Gnostic parallel. Adelimpia saw how the thousands of nausea cleaned themselves, before liquids and gastric ills, of which they are the bad residences, deciding to die acidly or spiritually towards an alkaline light.  Karmic oppression, anhydrous bubbles, carbonating every breathing capsule of compassionate life. Every day there is more foul-smelling hunger in men of acid rust, for the good spirits of the dipsomaniac in the diet of the most lost undefeated blind, a universal record of walking impoverished at the end of his objectivity. Adelimpia…., And Carmina; maiden of the extravagant silence is linked to the ox Xenon, master of his pumpkin ox, collects bubbling fragments from their stomachs of acid and fragmented, with unfortunate applicants to obtain him, all of them exalted before his prayers, as well as that fleece that the other possessed ox; Cricket that was grazing in the radiant spaces of the grasslands, ruminating lost ties for the good of all and being able to observe in the distance going beyond all sensitive imagination, being me Leiak, the spirit of Vernarth who looks over where he does not it does, sometimes incomprehensibly because of its purging. "

Joshua de Piedra says: “Horcondising, land of Spa, of beautification to correct your beautiful osteological inhabitant, your beautiful pro-lieutenant inhabitant, I believed that wealth would flow from my hands to finance my own poverty. Horcondising, is my nurse Luz, tracing with her blood the route of the Talami reign, everything continues without direction, the lustrín lost his paste of ruby cream and powders, of the conductor who governs their destinies in my hands ..., and it is required. Horcondising, badly and fearfully I say genuflected, here are my riches, but I swear by the most sacred, that I never thought I was so poor at the same time, in the presence of the almighty. Karmic planet, you come like bread and honey from a dazzled bee, you come to fill us with light through the horns of the cat, mounted on the back of the rooster, mounted on the roan bovine. Horcondising ... What a memory! When I was running fast through good waters and Sudpichi, I saw in line some swindlers in uncertain Faith, loudly dismantling the stunning consciousness of possessing without letting those who do not have know, and what it is to lack, what is the love of the slightest doubled second, until it brings honey and milk to the mouth of the beggar and with new clothes, around the circular saffron, the light of isolation and God's judgment on Hommo Sapiens. Baba, Vrja Ananda, I know that to ascend you have to put clean, white clothes on the wind, lavender with druid purple and stuffed on the petioles that fell on the stumpy back of the little elephant. I never got tired, I always laughed and the manly wind stretched my cheeks of purple roses, to laugh at the feminine world like a new man being born from the darkness of loneliness, in a new man, with a new life, in a deranged valley of Solitude, gaseous, ulcerative and asphaltic soil, of Horcondising, in the blaze of a fierce virtuous lantern ..., lying with its lost light on the rich and poor, entangled in resin from a hopper and a villain with feet tired from walking. As immeasurable to act I continue, although there is too much, among which nothing was ever forbidden from an ominous advance. But more awaits me, whoever wants numb oppressive anti-libertarian oppression, I will continue to ruin myself after this world, in the jaws of the rogue armchair of emptiness, with strong and pious prayer, strong and pious karmic augury to ruin the ruffian, that he holds and looks at you like a kitchen log in his dispensary. Karma comes to without and are, with are without are, with dream sounds, hallucinated sounds to realize the truth of accuracy. I have no vocabulary when I am hungry or thirsty for Faith or equanimity, but rather, more than all the power of the high massif to fall on the despotic ripper and cutthroat, accursed beings of the night darkness! I decree worse evil than all the bad curses to which it provokes by a glance, and stuns you like an ant in the fragrant countryside. Karma, baba nam kevalam, anti-karmic, to anyone who doubles your life, to **** you more than three times, without falling into the arms of Forgione or a Buddhist Monk tired of getting tired, self-love and improper Karma from now on everyone and all who with their deeds and gaze invade them with disloyal flatteries and evils, the true triumph of Truth and Equality so that it is equal to all resigned, looking less like the worldly offering of goodness, but rather bad at last of counts. Francesco, are you coming right...? Here I wait for you, low-cut I will also get in line to be supplanted. My story will be vital and oppressive, full of capital, anti-charitable because I have never been able to understand it. I know that powerful affiliations will come, and I will be in your lap, and all those who process your consummation and death will fall, a bad omen of their whim like any piece. Force the spirit that outside is evil, always yours, Master...! I am going, I am going, each one who looks at me as his prey will have to govern and feed him, for better or for worse, and otherwise, I will be eternally burned along with all his progeny in the Horcondising. "


So Joshua spoke when making a wooden whistle. He cut his index finger with transparent grease, and saw a viscous bleeding liquid fall into the constant complaint, from each head of frustrated saboteurs, and mercilessly squandered by those who aim at you every day to finish you and beg your entire eternal psychic substance, without Numbers or paternal letters, Vernarth and the Hexagonal Birthright, attended with great enthusiasm this regression, knowing that he was in their nation and domains where their mythological beings accompanied them beyond all vision. They all remain normal; doing everyday things, but Vernarth's voice accompanied them from an altar in a vivid voice and with great clarity in the voice that expressed their pilgrimage.

Vernath says with an infernal tone: “The Horcondising rack runs out of people benches, to attend to their requests the sky has become convex and unattended, to walk down the fragile plateau crouching down, weightless trees rub their bruised roots on the scrubbed Living spirits over each parlor, each present master along with his present consort seemed like perfect strangers, each separated by name in their new and uncertain divided destiny. All by putting the hand where the ulcer makes intermittent unhealthy purulence, on whether we are and correspond what we are or those who manage to have in this twisted life without a surplus, and what would it be if we had surplus ...? Rows of speakers and auditors are compressed, trying to want to be understood, but the words are keys and conclaves of high architecture sifted, of the wild despair in which we are beasts escaping from an eternal safari of thunder and cannon, vaping fumaroles of ancestry and drinking Bourbon to the thunder of the steely ***** on the orphanage of looming. Here Fray Andresito unfolds his body, you know it here is…! Right here he aimed at the weakest, the strongest, perhaps being a slave. What a difficult word to define... This cell without adjoining limits, called Atman, or female soul engendering another female soul, in the arms of the sorcerer, whose packaging and the serial knot would be made by a novice, who did not know if it was tightly closed, so as not to know if it would be fine in the future and reopen it with light in Gandhi's eyes, or by a child in care appointments without his arms to approach his mother cradle, perhaps being ivy or algae that sway his breaths vain…, from the flickering of the dotted throbbing of the Sun in flight through the lost night of the altarpiece, putting silicone because it comes out of the picture. Today a being was born in the arms of the almighty, a being anointed in the placenta of golden liquid and augrum, filling everyone and everyone leaving them speechless… ”.

Its ancestry of eternal way comes from mutual funds, equivalent prices in promoting values, on falls and rises, in franc growth, and various financial statements to beat dividends. The lines of people obediently migrated to the Horcondising, they never thought that they would be a great family, all in chains of multicolored and endless shapes, all in the high mountain at more than three thousand meters, and no higher, because in this Age again life, I cannot count more than thousands, in which the hundreds stay up late every day on this streetcar called the alliance. Branches of salty puree and ammonite soups with coriander, in the transversal valleys, to the southeast, with verve envelopes and their large moral excess on their backs and their hope of leaving all their treasures on the sidelines, before entering the muddy showers. when swarming with turbulent regrets and losing all ego money, highlighting a new epidermis, with an unprotected but opulent soul. Each being devoid of the word and thought, was trans walking through the heavenly ranks, with buzzing in their hearing aids attenuated and a smelly shanghai screeching, nothing would be left to pour into the channels near the almighty, the one who picked them up from the ground satin in some small sulfur coins and bleeding hollow, nothing will charge to their accounts or in their excess pride, only white skin in dark skin, and dark turning to dawn gray dermis, for exclusiveness, only lost in the jungle of ignorance shipwrecked tundra. Grandmother Adelimpia cleaned with sweepers and pine feather dusters, wormwood trunk and molle, and with the ceiling. My Anne, swept the flat floor with her wedding dress, years ago seasoned ..., Hugh and Bernardolipo laced some wines pigeonholed in the devil's segment, so as not to lose track of the high hill, which could be seen falling on the witnesses of the fallen Calvary Before the world ends for many, but not for the Huasos. The auction continued; Anne still had an end-of-the-world fever, with so many degrees…. Don't worry Anne, a Mapu aboriginal boy; the one with the sinister ..., brings a good herb to improve you, it is said that he comes from less to more, with his face like a beautiful farm landscape, stream water that quiets fevers and ills of charm. Have faith, says the elder Sylph Angelita Huenuman, reborn to Anne…: “The bark of that oak will be demolished and crumbled to cover you from evil and worse evil charm. Tomorrow on the high snow-covered peak, sweet cakes will fall steamed with berries and flavored almonds in your Word, which always deserves to smile to the limit, you are the omega star stele that will know how to smile, you will see it just like your Joshua de Piedra; which is an eternal incense of ruse, you will be dressed as a coco channel between aromas of eternity like spring light and first communion, between your snowy new garland of sap and in which you are always like a web-footed dreamy bird, moving away from the Aculeo lagoon, away from the giant hermit emerging from a nucleus of water and its pool, sobbing on each step of lake light of ascending sketch and of a lagoon avoiding new despised damage "
Alpha Day, Alpha Night, Omega Day Omega Night
Bathe and bask in the smog
and let it become part of you
as you step out onto your
sidewalk cemented front yard
in the cold windy bitterness
that slices and dices your face
like an 80s horror slasher.
Accelerated footsteps in the
stampedes of raging bulls
alongside sewer rats
that scrape and scrounge
for dead rotting meat and
disease infected feces
in dumpster palaces.
Quasi-soiled bums and
bag ladies push shopping carts
filled with trifling treasure troves
and putrefaction in
filth and squalor
of the streets and gutters.
Panhandling and playing guitar
for loose change and lint *****
to run down to the local convenient store
and purchase their nicotine breakfast
and liquid bread
to get them through the day.
High rise buildings
in public housing districts,
where striplings dangle their legs
from fire escapes,
blasting boom boxes
and smoking spliffs
as they watch the adolescence
open fire hydrants on hot summer days
and toss lace-tied shoes
over power lines to indicate
the local drug hotspots.
Young suburbanites
swarm to the slums
to purchase the opioids and stimulants
that can not be found in their
utopia of the suburbs.
Urban ghettos are like combat zones
filled with mugging,
gang fights
and drive-bys.
As the world turns,
they're unscholarly minds
turn to murderous rage.
Parking meter maids ticket,
boot and impound
land yachts and puddle jumpers
to collect tax revenue for the
money grubbing municipality.
Anguished pregnant women
stand in overcrowded subways
while the disparaging
pussifacation of masculinity
comfortably sit as they
ride along the colored lines.
As the sun sets and
the hours of darkness arise,
the night crawlers and troglodytes
seep through the cracks of
condemned buildings to play
in the sandboxes of depravity.
The night is where the
hard concrete jungle comes alive.
Where the money is made
in this metropolitan playground
filled with libertines and temptresses
that prey upon *** deprived wallets.
Swindlers ring out every last drop
of currency from leaf peepers,
like a sopping wet towel.
Mad men run amok in the
wild streets begging for filled pockets
and sharing silly stories
and crazy conspiracies
to any ear that will listen.
Hot dog and taco stands
supply the most supplemental
nourishment.
Not a tree in sight.
Not a star in the night sky.
Under charcoal clouds,
planes soar through the
pink pollution and acid rain
showers down on all of them.
The banality of urban dwellers
filled with monochrome minds
and deep languor hearts
rest in twin beds of
studio apartments
and fall asleep to the
comforting sounds of
loud trains,
police sirens
and car alarms
as the city slowly ***** them in
and swallows them whole.
Elizabeth P Mar 2014
Life puts a dent in the armor
It makes someone sour,
Spiteful and rude

The delicate line of life becomes crooked
Swindlers happen
***** drowns hundreds

They are faithless
They speak of pain
Revenge and all that hogwash

They try to call themselves rebels
I think they're just weak
Because they can't handle life
Like the rest of us

Last words to remember:
Be smart.
Be kind.
Be fierce.
Denis Barter Apr 2018
A Judge, once noted for his lack of compassion
Found when sentencing crooks, he’d a passion!
When sitting on the Bench, he was permitted -
Appropriate to misdemeanour committed-
To administer punishment to fit the crime!

With his court full of petty crooks that first day -
Thieves, robbers, swindlers! All found to their dismay,
He would show no mercy!  He could not be swayed!
Once declared, their sentence was never stayed!
Though he would allow them to make their plea!

On his first morning, after he opened court,
He would give judgement on each case brought,
Then once proved beyond a shadow of doubt,
He’d carefully mete apt punishment out,
To each prisoner that came into the dock!

First to come ‘up’, was a ‘known’ lawbreaker!
Though a skilled and ‘rising’  craftsman baker
He’d been caught ‘loafing’ with counterfeit ‘dough’!
Evidence was brought. Police ‘kneaded’ to show
The Court, he never did a thing half ‘baked!’

His legs shackled, - which was no surprise,
Was quickly found Guilty, then told to ‘rise’
So this first crook, a very unhappy wretch
Was sent to ‘Leavenworth’ for a long stretch!
Given five years incarceration, for his crime!

A carpenter was the next to be jailed.
Evidence shown was quite ‘plane’!  When ‘nailed’
By the local Cops, they ‘saw’ he had ‘awl’
The loot he’d ‘chiselled’ from a shopping mall.
The Jury  ‘panel saw’ he’d not got it ‘square’!

So it ‘augered’ ill for the carpenter’s fears
When the Judge ‘ruled’,  ‘free board’ for six years!
This cracked the ‘veneer’ he’d worn though the trial.
For prison ‘drill’ would soon wipe away his smile!
Once ‘clamped’ in irons, with others he ‘filed’ away!

The Butcher was next to find himself in a jamb
He’d sold ‘scrag ends’ for ‘prime’ and mutton for lamb!
When the bare ‘bones’ of his case, were fleshed out,
That he was in the ‘soup’, there was no doubt!
While the police asked that he be sent for the ‘chop’!

The Judge declared the punishment he’d ‘meat’ out
Would break the Butcher’s ‘links’ with crime, and had no doubt.
He’d never ‘carve’ his way out of the ‘joint’!
Without ‘mincing’ words, he ‘skewered’ each point
Explaining his ‘beef’.  He was in a proper ‘stew’!

When Police ‘cottoned’ on to a ‘shoddy’ scam
They caught a tailor, ‘embroidering’ a monogram.
‘Patterned’ after that of a famous fashion designer.
Smuggled out in the ‘seam’ of a jacket ‘liner’
This ‘needled’ the Judge, who, with some ‘zip’

And some ‘bias’, ‘felt’ he should practice ‘needlecraft’,
“Stitching’ mailbags for the post office. Hard graft
For a man who had ‘satin’ comfort for a long time.
But ‘fitting’ punishment for a ‘reel’ bad crime!
He praised the  police for ‘buttoning’ up this case!

When Police ‘forked’ over newly ‘dug’ earth
Their ‘spadework’ ‘dug up’ ‘planted’ goods worth
A fortune .  ‘Raking’ through the ‘compost heap’.
‘Embedded’ by a gardener, were, buried deep,
‘Silver Bells’ and a gold chain! This ‘chain, linked’

‘Fences’ to crooks who stole goods on demand.
He’d ‘staked’ all on being put on remand.
But the Judge said I ‘dig’ your kind! ‘Turn over’
A new ‘leaf.  Mould’ and mend your ways.  Moreover
‘Perennial’ felons! Are ‘rooted’ in their ways!

So, ‘till’ you ‘turn over’ your loot and repent,
You’re ‘grounded’! It seems you’re an ‘annual’ event !
You tell me that with this crime, you’ve been ‘framed’,
But I’m sure you’ve not been unjustly blamed!
Five years in a ‘glasshouse’ to sleep in a ‘raised bed’ !

Next, a Furrier and his girl - a sly ‘minx,’
Who went too ‘fur’ when they ‘stole’ a ‘lynx’
A ‘foxy’ pair!  Of this, there was no doubt!
‘Trapped’ in a Police ‘cloak’ and dagger stakeout
They were loaded with ‘pelts’ when caught

Now the Judge, whose ‘ermine’ robes shook with rage
Said the only cure for this type of outrage,
Was to ‘stretch’ them on the ‘rack’, and ‘tan’ their ‘hides’.
This he ‘felt’ would be ‘fitting’ !  Though his insides
Told him he should send them away!  ‘Furbelow’!

A cobbler, without a ‘sole’!  A ‘ low heel’,
This ‘snob’ with an ‘Oxford Brogue’ had a zeal
For stealing! Not the ‘last’ incarcerated.
He was caught ‘legging’ it, while inebriated
His ‘cleats’ leaving ‘patent’ clues to see!

Wearing ‘rubbers’ he’d work in gloves and ‘spats’
Stealing mainly from apartments and ‘flats’
He was down on his ‘uppers’, quite destitute.
When caught with his heavy bag of loot.
A ‘slippery’ customer if ever there was one!

A ‘dandy’ with a ‘black belt’ in Karate!
Was sent by the Judge to a ‘necktie’ party.
He’d killed a haberdasher, without passion -
He complained it was ‘knot’ the current fashion!
But he could  ‘hang’ around until it returned!

Sentences varied but all were most apt.
Strong men turned deathly pale when his gavel rapped!
By sentences received, none were less enamoured,
Than a crooked auctioneer, who got ‘hammered’!
For ‘knocking down’ ‘lots’ ‘under bid’ to himself!

Crook followed crook in quick succession,
Making quite an impressive procession,
As each took his turn in the prisoner’s dock,
He’d turn and face the courtroom clock,
Under which the Judge sat, with solemn face!

The Judge went down in history that day,
With sentences most apt!  What more can we say?
His procedures quickly made the front page,
And soon appropriate penalties were all the rage!
Except for those of the criminal class!

This punishment proved to be a deterrent.
More so, if they were set to run concurrent!
As for waiting crooks, from Con Artist to thief,
When he adjourned court, they sighed with relief!
Hoping they’d get a more lenient Judge later!

Rhymer April 18th, 2018.
Sorry, it's tad long, but I got carried away!  Lol.
a small man dies somewhere
he doesn't make news
they are no news
herds of small men dying everyday.

big men only capture the headlines
big politicians big deceivers
no petty thieves or pickpockets
but swindlers of nations

you are awed by the headlines
the big bold letters
big disasters mishaps
genocide mass extinction

and may miss in one corner
a news of a man of no imprint
a small man's death in small print

an ill-paid half starved courier
his head crushed by a brick somewhere
not a thief nor a beggar
but looking forever
an address to deliver
going from door to door
with his back breaking loads
on alien bylanes and roads
where someone suspecting him a thief
broke his head with a brick


the small man in his death
made it to the news
only if you noticed it
from under big prints.
Count the pauses… count the ums.
Bankrupt sit county sums.

Budget, a fixture, no more than a talking point
Biased ramblers to appoint

Unintelligible doctrine to spout
Fear mongering to tout

Advertisements pair worth to a nine-year absence
And speak of self-mirroring balance

Public workers left without voice
And an inability to promote their choice

A fountainhead meaning proved invalid
Still chattered on about for the sake of the ballot

A demonic man with cat on lap
Spewing forth a **** load of crap

Chosen stance, in promotion of defense
Bankrupting the nation in a swindlers fence

Bound in decision to a blurred spectrum
Loyally stuck brown-nosing a corrupted ******.
susan Dec 2014
he's a slippery human being
moving in and out
of passages and doorways
alleys and streets
sniffing and searching
until he finds what he is looking for
the need in him pulls him
to the darkest areas of the city
the dank underbelly
where the bad stay
the connivers, thieves,
con artists, swindlers,
pushers and users
motherless scoundrels
who's selfish desperation
lead them to do the unthinkable
and he is one of them
a snake
who's desire must be satisfied
his insides cooked, brain baked,
blood boiled to give his body a jolt
of hard lined, vein pumped
rapture
this reptile of a man
a mere shell of his former self
will scour the deepest corners
of filth and damnation
to find the cure to what ails him
and by doing so
will offer a short fix
to his broken life.
tonymac2113 Jul 2015
Bears lions tigers, thieves swindlers liars, your soul burns to feed hells fires, but thats not widely known, sorta like the feelings not being shown, a trip to the other side on my own, told me if I respected life I would leave it alone, but this addiction has grown, can't even hear my soul moan, a king being overthrown, what it feels like anyway, waiting on death any day, I'm a lost cause is what so many say, just a nod and okay, followed by whats the next play, and did you know the last called just the other day, told me I could be saved if I would just pray, hung up and threw that book away, I guess I should stop because this isn't making sense anymore, passed out with my soul covering the floor, woke up to death at the door, asked if I knew what was in store, I'm sorry if this is a story you've heard before, I truly do not mean to bore, the vast emptiness in my eyes is something they just can't ignore, I remember when this trip **** was nothing more than a key to unlock the doors in my mind, came stumbling back but sadly I left myself behind, maybe its something I will one day find, but til then its one tripped night after another, for my past sins my future self will surely suffer, started searching for death right after we buried my brother, I know one day my memory will be gone like yesterday, tomorrow isn't promised is what I've heard many say, but I just keep abusing life anyway, waiting on death any day, the root of this madness is quite simple if you would just look, just another page in yet another book, under the weight of the world you never shook, on that cold november night my idol isn't the only one death took, because I was right by his side, told him I was always along for the ride, even after me they still won't decide, the nights I cried, all the times I lied, and after all this time I still haven't tried, but we both know thats not a truthful line, but I swore I would never surrender mine, but I was at such a dark place at the time,
Suja Gunasegaran Feb 2017
WHEN I  HATE U,
YOU BEG ME A EXCUSE;
WHEN I LOVE U,
YOU BE WITH ME;
ALL HAVE BROTHERS,
BUT THEY ARE SWINDLERS;
ARE U A PEST?????
NO, YOU ARE MY BEST.........
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
the Übermensch anomaly was short-lived
in Europe, it was never going to be an
idea with a survival instinct for longevity
in Europe, just like Copernicus became
defamed by Galileo...
the Übermensch idea was prescribed to America,
what with their Superman and Batman,
and Spiderman... Nietzsche didn't
include America for a reason, you could
speak of Emerson as the zenith of American
intellectual output as the reason,
but that's hardly a reason...
tourists to the Caribbean will know,
Americans think they're super-human...
i hate the American accent, it's like a mosquito
buzzing in my ear, i just call them
the spaghetti swindlers of tongue, gluttonous
harp players... and because Nietzsche didn't
mention America, America is his most fertile
and therefore most arable landmass...
i mean... Nietzsche reached pop culture status,
just because he didn't mention American culture
in his writing... and that's how the Americans
see themselves, the righteous inheritors of
the post-**** mindset... Übermensch Staaten Amerika...
hence the reason they're on the gold medal leader boards
at the Olympics... i.e. if those ******* aren't doped
then i'm doped...
not doping athletes makes chemists redundant,
dope the whole lot of them, let's make it fair.
yes, i know it should have been written as staaten,
but i like my diacritical arithmetic, and given the
umlaut, i count that as a hidden extra a... so from
staaten into stäten;
oh yeah... and **** your "perfect" teeth;
or the Penguin cover for Philip K. ****'s
man in the high castle, the red & white stripes
with 50 swastikas.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2016
I brag about my prowess
But I’m really a big mess.
The truth is I’m coasting
Nearly roasting in the fire,
The one I lit when younger
Full of burning desire
And right down to the wire
I hid, lied, swindled me
Double-handedly, as if
There was a rift between
Myself and the truth.
This was my youth.

I believed lies I was told
If I liked them better than truth;
I was such a shallow  youth
And the swindlers could see
When I was coming down the road
They’d load me on with their stories
About what great glories lie
In putting people down so
i could rise as high as the sky
With just a little lie or two.
How easy it was to do;
To lie my way through.

It would be years before
The score would catch me
And ****** me out of my pride
And get me to walk alongside
Those I had walked on, cheated.
At every point I was greeted
With reality standing next to poetry;
The myths that were my story
With very little glory in them.
They were sort of a battle hymn
Of someone who always before
Fought all the wrong wars
And called the dead losers.
Oh, and I was a big ******.

Does that explain a great deal?
That I really didn’t feel,
That I was on autopilot
And made sure to deny it;
That *** was my navigator
And hope was an alligator
Just about to consume me.
You could costume me, but
The way I talked and walked
Gave me away, every time.
Lying was my crime, nor was I
All that good at it. I failed;
I went to jail and confession
But none of these sessions
Helped me at all.
My heart was too small.
My pride too tall.
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
The preacher, the politician both the same
Nothing but swindlers spewing specious sermons
Noisome talk from their mouths came
Rapacious hands, oh what vermin!

I, as if compunctious for my fault
Left feeling only surfeited  
Fulsome factitious assault
I am left as the convicted
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
How many times
One dream so it seems?One fight
one more addiction
Is it in one card prediction
Did someone tell you
they love you
There you go the cry

Or they need you
Don't ask why
-?
How they used you
Only one time you were
too good
You knew his game
Be the Robin hood
Steal from the rich
Only one time
Lotto what is the motto
So many swindlers
You didn't see the
numbers coming

Seeing through his lies
he's humming
Taking away someone's mind
To switch the lightheadedness
match
They know there prey

They wanted you just
to hear it the catch of the day
Never too late clean slate
He aggravates such etiquette
Being pulled on his strings
He's carrying your weight
of wings

No manners what happen
to her many tears of flowers
The competition being
the sore loser he showers
or take one good
beating
Getting a second wind the winner
someone
beat him to it from behind
Takes one time to know
the fate whats in front of you
I don't think so we are not through

Is that what we saw
from close up painter Gogh
Or it was your farsighted
eyes of your imagination
Did it get you so fed up
So near for him nearsighted
Pay your rent it happened
the very first time

The first time ever I saw your face
Throw your clothes and suitcase
One bad apple in my song
Birds and the bees throwing it to
the birds your picking
way too many seeds

Sesame noodle brain or pumpkin,
Head  takes one time to wet her bed
What do we represent
The munchkin land takes one to know
  Disney land
No man is an island shady roots
of the tree, he shows his
fortune hand
Takes one bad copy
For the counterfeit hand

Again takes one to know one
Love me or not or he loves me
or won't
I cant get out of my French knot
Too many reasons I'm not going to
tell one side of the story
When there are a million reasons
Someone keeps lying and
buying my story

At the deli, cold cuts
The rating one good movie critic
Don't panic Super bowl
Bologna Salami Hoagie PA
Takes one time to reach your goal
All turkey necks waiting
so long you
only got
one ticket

Beatles she got a ticket
to ride she got a ticket
So many songs but only
the cruel to be kind
The two-way mouth street
At your ***** feet, one
sunny side closed
the street

Takes only my heartbeat
Robin redbreast only one
the bird you tweeted too
many times heads and tails
Flipping nickels and crimes
one bad interview
One thing to gain another rear
view window Alfred Hitchcock
  couples they kiss and pass
Twin doubles
one piece of the rock
Two headboards are better than none

You see one
a nasty side of her cheek
an Oxy Miss Roxy a pimple
Forgive me one
chain link are we all linked to know
only something
How that very one thing
bothered me

Her glasses yep you're getting old
I could use a double by now
But I am human I could
use a smile
My one and only
or way too many
traffic jams
Don't point your finger
Computer slammed it
I love strawberry
homemade run
Raspberry, we know
Mom always bought
blueberries
She knew what was
good for us
Everything is a mix
not one flavor the trio
Only the lonely got
to be her bio
take one miracle whip
minute
One computer crash
One blink of your eyelash
She takes her time throwing
out her hefty so nifty yard sales
  Her garbage trash
Mom telling me you buy one
good thing news flash

Chamber Blabber dapper do
 takes the Babalou one singer
Lady GaGa performs hella
Queen  to get her bed rest
She is spanking mean
one night beauty sleep

Women for one
For one lady that thinks
she's the only one
Having his one baby boy
Like the ****, he forged
her name like boy-toy
Like a fat Porky Pigpen

What one slice of ham left
at the deli
There is only one
Houdini or the designer
One creative style
Valentino
Takes one photograph but one
too many stares
Come to see the Mona Lisa

You say Holy crap I have
been trapped
So wired up my coffee
Take one Starbucks
Hip just one big tip
Hip Hooray
I never saw such
vultures so many cultures
coming out in one day

All this time with one person
please get out
of my poem line
She takes so long with her
call we used to
have a phone line

Now she loves to be inside
Her own brain not taking
New York train
She will never complain
about how it takes
one to know so many
well-known artists
In the cell like a jailbird
con artist
Only one call on
her cell phone
One is the number even if its the only one or you feel like you are his only one.
Don't take love for granted and you know what let us have fun with one even if you want so much to make it a two  I will be right behind you and your the one who will decide life is always going fast take it slowly go for your ride
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
for those yet, imagining themselves alive...
i "kwa'ight"....
quiet... quite...
         acquitted...
if there's a rock to be lived
under:
i'll just be the rock... i once had a faint
notion that i was alive...
i had what might be congested in a summary:
a thirst... a willingness...
summary and all those
broken things... "things"...
within the enraged solo
projects of solipsists...
self-"betterment" up a cul
de sac... has... infiltrated my
breathing: crease... count in german:
eins zu zehn
jeden do dziesięć...
   kurwa jebana mać...
poor traffic... thd ******* blinkers are
on... a turning right done awry...
ein(s)... one... jeden...

eine ein eins jeden raz one
zwei dwa two
drei trzy three
vier cztery four
fünf pięć five
(pięść is a denotes a fist... a faust)
sechs sześć six
sieben siedem seven
acht osiem eight
neun dziewiendź nine (nein nein)
zehn dziesięć ten....

mind you...
be drop the pointless diacritical marker
on the iota... we'd see more "punctuation"
markers: where, otherwise: we wouldn't...

i congested myself with counting
in three languages to somehow...
ease-up...
ten? informant: he / him!
ta? informant: she... shimmy(?!) her's...
hisses of his'...

i will not bring the Iberians into
this discussion...
what's left, though? scraps
of language and language policing...
******* and bells...
twang... death to the ditto... blah blah:
bleach and mythological blondes...
scraps i do one job good for you...
most... better... will not trace lineage...
no smear...

          t"they" never think less of
the Yugoslavs... i'm tired of being a punching bag of a people...
of all "people": the Irish not 'ard enough to
challenge the English have to find...
come the Soviets come the Nazis simultaneously...
looks like integrating into English society
didn't allow me to forget...
this zunge doesn't erase the ******* blows...

rich, though... no surprise that the Reesh
would squander and throw their *******
potatoes like monkey **** at...
oh i guess: shelved "life"... peoples...
if i were living back among my brethren...
i don't think i'd be living at all...
what would i do with not being
agitated concerning... minor... qualms?

the ******* leprechauns... priests...
are less than the english...
but are somehow tier above the pollacks?
it's no offence when it sounds proper...
in a foreign babble...
dzida...

          i'd just ask the Eire son...
so... ahem... where's your ******* Celtic?
gone... non-existent?

aon, dhà, trì, ceithir...
   còig (what's wrong with co'ig?)
sia,
seachd, ochd... naoi... deich...
so the grapheme CH = X of greek origin...
a ******* hark?

the Irish like the ******* Arabs...
the British did this to: oos...
it's impossible to live with these
go-to-party "solipsists" to begin with...
integrate? into... or for what?
rot? that's a-plenty...
but when some spaghetti monsters
and those potato jargon-fiddlers start
their usual **** about a fellow
european people...

it's not like the Croats or the Serbs are
ever mentioned...
they vent to h'america and youz zee...
zese irish and italliano guinnea pig-me-ups...
kwoss-eyed... you know...
best bitterest better...
inbreeding... takes a chunk of coal...
chalk and cheddar...
mustard...

  inbreeding mentality... superiority complexes...
no reimagines parmesan cheese like
it's not... shredding... old skin
off of heels...
talk stinkiny witchy with a missing R...
this massive ******* gloat of "riddle"...
that suppose: it's also a man...

       while the world... "also" happens...
these little: belittling interferences...
as if we were all supposed to be crowned kings
or queens... it's not that i'm even elevated
above these concerns...
but that i must have them...
must: if i were a king... i most probably wouldn't
even entertain the sense of hearing
on their existence!

in a society of sociopaths and solipsists...
a massive get together
of protest happens once in a while...
i get drunk and dump ****** words
onto paper...
i'm not alone in this "adventure":
yet i'm beginning to be...
more and more sorry for having
such... indigestions to sorrow over...
moral relativism is out
in the words of the choicest
of the choiciest...
   i'm looking for something beside
the superlative adjective: choicest...
the diminutive "concern"...

which doesn't exist in english...
and i can't exactly introduce it using my:
mutterzunge either...
correct spelling?
look at it... choiciest vs. choicest...
the most most choosey...
to pick of calculus exponentially incremental
details of observable shifts...
the exponential aspect of detail...

how many of the Irish still speak
their Gaelic...
apparently there's a Scotch version
of the tongue...
but... the Scots will not speak it...
completely submerged in their union...
they'll just exfoliate in how distinct
they are from a Loon'don'er
speaking the same language...
you could probably rewrite trainspotting
using that linguistic language
embedded in the dictionary
of:

   how i met your mother, the mute...
/ (haʊ) /
       / (aɪ) /
                 / (mɛt) /
               / (jʊəp) /
                               / (ˈmʌðə) /,
                        / (ðə) /          / (mjuːt) /

i wonder... and what if we started writing
like this? proper... phonetically...
like linguists?
the side note of /(x)/ though...

the written word is doubly ambiguous...
to the point of no return concerning
the sufficiency of its practicality of use...

ʃeɪk  ænd
                ˈʃætə...

if i had the time and *******' worth of
writing a poo'em like a linguist...
if i had more love for the Irish...
sowwy... all love spent on the Scots...
from these Isles at least...

sheikh who? shake your: *****?
that's ******* fwank zapp'ah...
      
but it's not that... i have qualms with
the Irish over the stature and seriousness
when occupying the "underground"...
i won't rap: god forbid i...
"**** someone": my catchphrase
wouldn't be:

allahu akhbar... it would be that teutonic chant
of: gott! mit! uns!
if that Norwegian hyper-smart terroroist
chanted those words...
what words? these words:
gott! mit uns!

   but around these isels...
you'd think there might be a sense of solidarity...
among the catholic irish and the
catholic poles...
but no... tępy ajrysz...
  blunt-irishman...
                  one side arguing for the other sides
dislodging of "i.q."...
same with those spaghetti swindlers...
the...

mind you... ****** is not a racial slur...
it's actually better to denote a pole a ******
since... not kinh john: lackland...
the whole hiss-tow-stowwy...
i'm not pole: positioned...
i'm not...

    divorced from "my" people:
and the "mother" land...
                  Warsaw the last great end-venture...
keeping it up...
mawa: little old gone...
         in the hunch fabric of
lessening the diaspora approach...
you don't think i mind the missing links...
when there's a collected agenda for the purpose
of a purge of the intelligensia...
now... because only the Jewry suffered
a historical lineage of tonguies
towing complaints....

         **** it: the russian sayingly... newly invented:
**** me?! ******* too!
but in the english realm who's the lesser
******* among the polacks and the irish?
who's less gingerbreadman?
my side... most probably...
how will we ever let the 20th century become
past?
oh **** me... we will need another
war... but chances of that are...
sort-of-slim...

             no? it might begin with:
bypassing loan-words...
and how self-help gurus and famous psychologists
refrain from infiltrating lost hybrids of
focus, that there might be a clearaance to
discover society outside the realm of pop!
saavvy?
i don't like this...
psychological testimony of:
what's an alpha male?
not me... what's a beta male?
not me... what's a malaise?
what's an omega man?
everything that an alpha male is...
in that... there's an antonymous discharge
of needs... requests...
demands...

how many Irish still speak their...
diego / alfonso magic "whisker" ****?
that ******* Gaelic?
so much for aardvark "typo" in Scotch...
because it just so happens...
you speak an over exfoliation of lettering...
the aesthetically bogus: claim of...
no... no "originality":
i'm not even going to bother the higher
tier of diacritical markers to
instigate "something"...

but this whole: i'm a lesser "european" when
it doesn't suffice in north american parlance...
i'm sort of... em.... ******* bothered?
history seems to be a lesson
in teasing small-**** and the infinite
summary of infancy... last time i heard...
because the Mongols never made it to... "x"...
because the Turks never had ownership of Vienna...
because it took both the Nazis and the Soviets
to make me bow...
in England? the invention of snooker...
tennis... football... rugby...
bored people... obviously...

how: else: woudln't you have capacity...
need... to invent so many coliseum...
distractions to mind: and take seriously...
if you knew: you were an island dwelling folk...
and you staged your pride in not being
invade-prone...
a bit like the whole of east London's
pakistani-land...

wake up 40 years from now... from...
little bengali land...
the Pakistani grooming gangs of the supposed...
while i'm getting more and more irrritated
by paying for ***...
having Bulgarian ****** pretending to be
Romanian....
you see the grit in my use of teeth that aare never used to
nibble and conjure...
a "drying of bones"?

i will complain about the Irish as i will about the
tail-tan'ohs...
******* spaghetti slurppers...
we of the same European origins and the same
brain-drain... because the anglo-saxons
fiddled out a mechanism for...
a "coming together"... of...
a people... just like germany was confederated...
into a federality...
wow!

  the pope receding... on paper...
the Irish make complaints against the Polacks...
the Irish demean the Polacks...
nice nice... here's to me equipping myself with
Haitian "nouns"...
you, *******... ginger: knuckle-fiddle-numb...*****!
what Celt wishes himself to have
a Cyrillic ancestry?! almost all...

have your little i.r.a. memento...
       i'm only concerned about
a pomeranian, conrad... quest...
aren't the czechs / hungarians locked into
that... posit of being: without an access to
a "window"... hardly... that the baltic...
already is... Samaritan....

porsch monkey: among the slurrs... "poet"...
pshek in... denotative lingo...
it's a: thank you...
i call you worse:
    karot... burak... syberik....

thankful though: it's hardly a slur...
king John was known as lackland...
given the shrinking of the Angevin empire...
thus "we"... shrunk to the duchy of warsaw:
a satellite of Napoleon's ambitions...
then the Warsaw Pact...
pandering to the Bolsheviks...
blah blah: now more pandering to
woke ha-ha-h'americanacancan...
the mythological blonde: always on my mind...

the first words in my language
they managed to speak and they somehow managed to
call it a slurr... and polish: paul-leash isn't?
pole position, heading north?

say strawberry in ******?
TRU-S-KAWKA...
     paul's on a leash of nibbling on the quarters
and halves of would be barons of pandemonium...
we were teenagers once...
and once upon in an Ilford mall...
we bought compact disks...
rival schools... fugazi...
coal chamber's dark days...

  those where somewhat architecture days,
though...
you can't make this **** up...
you probably have had to live it, sort of.

- otherwise who can't forget the flight of the Jewry
from the area...
once there was a makeshift synagogue on
Coventry Rd.,
now there's a 7th day evangelical war band
gathering pulpit... source...
i was expecting a mosque: in all honesty...
it's a common suggestion:

now first comes the flight of the Jewry...
the whites are somehow 2nd...
but as i explained to my mother today...
i feel sick in a monochromatic...
homogeneous society...
i went to Cheltenham once...
to hussle my own self-published book...
i felt ill seeing so little minority
representation...
it's not like i'm brainwashed...
but among these minorities in Loon-dune
i'm a ******...
back in Warsaw i'm a feral animal...
among "my people" i'm zero-punkt-zero-nic...

the vagabonds of the world decide to congregate
in Loon'don... for some reason: ulterior or
altogether "other"...
the world has congregated:
is this still about the English having their
nationhood infringed?
perhaps from a perspective
of the Midlands... Birmingham...
but over 'ere...

funny that... i live in England...
but i probably interacted with more Irish
and more Scots than the supposedly
demographically first...
i probably encountered more Pakistanis too...

so what's the difference between
a Samaritan and a Sarmatian?
you're running? i thought i ran...
i might run... who's running?
is it raining?
is that... ****'ite iconoclasm?
sign me up...
            
but living among the Irish who are
not living in Ireland...
a tired old bunch... sometimes...
it's hard to fathom their identity crisis
since a whole swab of them
spoke a zilch of Gaelic...
it's like with these over-impressed
succcess stories of "integration"
from olive-pound land /
****** copper...

the parents want to integrate...
that **** backfires...
the grandson retains the tongue
to his grandma to speak
back to her her native...
yet his... "in-between"... "integrational english"
becomes a sick joke: stereotype...
almost a cul de sac accent...
the sort that has to breathe into a phrase:

oi oi! bown and bwead!
  em... bone and bread?
how does that work?
i guess it must work "miracles" from places
where the ingestion of gelatin is
foreign... transcending "foreign":
too alien to compose...

yes... detailing the promises of pork, pig...
the most economically sound
animal: beside the hoofs...
you can utilise almost... "almost": all of it...
one way of the other...
an animal that can never be a waste:
unless you're into dabbling into a cannibalistic diet...
plus... lamb... lamb: *******: stinks...
the aged lamb...
plus... how would you herd pigs...
pigs aren't herded...
it's a theological anger at...
camel-jockeys being unable to... harvest
the only potential of farm-food... via the pig...
pigs aren't herded:
i've only heard of a herd of pigs
and that's when there came a time
to treat a trough like an array of teats when
the porkies were 'ung...
is it a despised animal?
a despised animal because:
and the devil reimagined himself as a pig?

so god looks like a mythological blonde...
the devil looks like a piggish minotaur...
why this demise of pig?
why this gratification in the islamic mirror
of words looking accessible: i.e. dog | god...
my all mighty: allah: blah-lah...
fork in the road: are we 'appy... "now"?

but when you live among the diaspora of the Irish...
you'd sort of suppose... what's the gaelic for green?
now that the internet is here...
i can find out for myself...

why demean the pig? was the pig created by
the ******* devil?
or is this one of those Abrahamic ploy-toys...
rigidity structures...
to leave you surrendered...
go against anything else: beside the pig...
it's such an economic model, creature...
you can utilise almost all of it...

not all of us were born Afghan sheep
herders... savvy?
that eating pork is somehow signature
of inbreeding and s schizoid tinture...
wh'ah?! i lost the TAU along the way...
o.k.?!

it's a waste of time having arguments
with... oh forget: rag-muffin'...
inbreds... i wass thinking about ***...
i picked a spot... Rotherham...
Pakistani grooming gangs...
oh... right... here's a lollipop... here's some dosh...
i'll get a hard-on with a girl who didn't mature
into prostitution wtih a crack-******* 'abbit...

chances of me ******* low i.q. is like
zilch then? i imagine the tirades...
the knife-insinuations...
**** a barrister: **** for life...
settle down: solve **** concerninng:
immmovaable objects:
the sun still has "egotism" to rise
and call it tomorrow...
and her ******* own too: to boot...
imagine that!

why go after the pork 'n' pie?
why pet a dog?
why pet a cat?
     i've already mentioned...
sometimes lamb: just stinks...
lamb kidneys?
STINK... SCHTINK!
but you also can't keep pigs
in an environemnt where you also use
camels instead of horses... no?
no one is talking about this...
because... it's probably too obvious to have
to stress this ******* argument....

came the Ottomans... the Mongols...
the Soviets for a while...
came the Nazis...
why weren't we the people who championed
each other at snooker...
why didn't we invent football...
tennis... cricket...
rugby... i don't want to blame the English
for their race...
but they have been privileged in:
intra-"whiteness" terminology...

what English soldier ever stood ground
on ****** soil?
i've heard of ****** pilots having dog fights
for the battle of Britain...
how the enigma machine was not merely
the work of Turning...
etc. etc.
gravesend: i'm here reduced to "biasing"...
yet i'm giggling at the remote prospect
of "gravity"...

i have clues to concern myself over...
ownership...
          a hierarchy of a cascade...
time follows time...
this solo project of "individuality"
was never going to... "work"...

pending...

   connlach dearg...

    but the welsh still speak welsh... no?
i guess that Carlsbeg moment of:
probably the best'ly integrated people in
the world... the Welsh are...
they still exfoliate in having a punching bag
of their tow-tongue...
unlike that most, supposed... oppressed people
of the... anglophonic world affair...
the Reesh that speak no ditto of Gaelic...

who are, you, you people?!
Satsih Verma Apr 2018
Time
was the great avenger.
It takes you away
into war,
with swan words.

My baby poem
cries. Lost in a crowd of swindlers.
Not finding the home of truth.

Was it a rarified
phenomenon, that it was
a dark nebula,
that gave birth to the sun?

Are you free to
agree with me, with my existence?

The conclusion was
beyond the judgment of insane people.

Are you going to harm yourself
by accepting the fireball questions?
She stared into his eyes
Filled to the brim with lies
It was liars she despised
And swindlers who connived
It was as if she’d won a prize
When he admitted he had lied
She admired his new candor
To which she had been previously deprived
They lived happily ever after
In a world they both contrived
Filled with butterflies and laughter
Where nothing ever dies
jeffrey conyers Nov 2019
Every culture likes to push the good side of us.
Everyone.
When in facts all cultures have that terrible past.

No denying it.
Or avoiding it.
We all have a past based with criminals.
Which continues to haunt us.

Some just get treated better by the media.
We have robbers, rapists, and killers and swindlers and more.

We can trace it all to every culture in existence.

So, don't paint this image of being so perfect in society.
We do it.
We shouldn't.
Because it does exist.

Again, it's within many of our families.
TAhis what we refuse to address or mention?
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
to think that life is "here"... "there" to be... ahem...
"enjoyed"... well... no wonder
that the Iberians are full of this shyte...
not ****: shyte...
       life's a given... we're talking about navigating
through a minefield of would be
walking abortions if we check the selective process
these days...
far from it: i'm not going to enjoy myself...
some spinach has passed its best-before-date...
i'll salvage it... cook up some quick spinach +
chick pea curry in a hurry...
once the spinach is cooked: it'll last longer...
some cumin powder, some coriander (powder)...
turmeric... since it does pretty much the same
thing that: enter search... ingredient that
turns rice, yella... oh... it didn't even come up...
search engine my own brain: saffron...
achar masala, just a pinch...
bay leaves, all-spice... cloves, on or two...
cardamom powder... black pepper... salt...
paprika... Kashmiri chilly powder...
     blah blah blah...
come to think of it... i have three real passions in:
this, given, life...
cycling... esp. at night... mid-week...
when the streets are... truly empty...
my god... it's like flying...
cooking... esp. the Indian cuisine...
spices like... a chemistry set...
the buzz you get from cooking up a storm...
nothing compares to it...
even if you're using something as bland
as spinach... one spice goes 'ere...
another v'er... hey presto...
some tomato juice, some coconut milk...
now all you need to finish the dish off is
some coconut milk and... the proper flour
to make your own japati hmm's...
the hmm's part is: so... yet to discover, yeast?!
it's like this basic formula that has
to stretch as far back as Assyria:
flour + water + salt...
dough-making... then exposed to heat...
of a frying pan...
what's flour? good question... i know what wheat
it... i know that paper is a variation
of timber...
are the people who discovered these
things, famous, these days?
the man who discovered beer?
even Plato said: good on him... but what, was,
his, name?!
fame, like memory... what a fickle little creature...
now fame is shovelled en masse over a load
of *******... someone invents a cure
for some algebra "X"...
it doesn't matter... some ******* some *** some
camel-toe will always be more important...
think with your ****... act like a *****...
all these suggestions...
to get the women you need to be an *******...
yeah, sure... but... i don't want to be an *******...
do i need to pursue existential validation
in the medium of: the pursuit of women...
after all... who ends up successfully pursuing
women... despicable creatures with the alias
of man...not that i care...
my fetish for German is perhaps...
no one's fetish at all...
      i'm just tired of hearing about a woman's sexuality...
she gets all the joyride while i get...
what? an urge every half a decade
when my female maine **** raises her ****
insinuating: i want *******
and i go off on a psychotic trip around London
looking for a brothel?!
i'm driven by an IMPULSE...
which is not exactly a SENSE...
i know there are the five senses...
but how many impulses are there...
and if there's to be made a schematic of differentiation
between / among them...
ought they be isolated,
don't they simply congregate when the timing
of some matter is... right / ripe?!

- and let's face it... if i were going to ******* wait...
for a date? payment: upfront...
from all these... hyper-"real" western women...
wait wait... come back...
wait... hyper-"real"... stacks against me...
a diversity "officer" might get paid 300,000 USD
for a year's worth of propaganda spewing...
but a poet, earns... ZILCH?!
i  might drink... but i have a work ethic...
i certainly don't need to accredit some
******* spelling-mistake editor like Bukowski
might have had to...

so... the game's rigged...
here's to all my flavoursome little brothers and sisters
in the universal conundrum
in some... Chinese sweat-shop / salt-mine...
******* sang jazz, ******* sang blues...
******* entertained...
perhaps picked cotton in the fields...
well thank god they didn't work in the metallurgy
industry... thank god they weren't coal-miners...
good god! they might have just been
"over-worked"!

n'ah... leave the Russians and us Polacks to sort of...
break our bones...
make work less an addiction and more a fetish...
masochism... trust the Germanic tribes to make
work an addiction... i like pain...

perhaps my northern "sentimentality"...
i, abhor, the, passions... the "supposed" passions...
of southern Europeans...
they're too influenced by Arabic thinking:
or not-thinking...
i abhor the PIGS: the Portuguese:
starboard: geese! geese! i know... a cheap joke...
the Italians... whatever mafia they're pushing...
priestly or H'Americana Incorporated
******* load of Italian'ah... ******* spaghetti swindlers...
loafers.... Greeks... let's suppose
i can stomach this ******* ethnicity...
i like basic mathematics,
i like philosophy: the basics of enjoying thinking
when no other pleasures are made available...
i abhor the Spanish...

but **** me, the next time a "******" starts singing
about...
"when it snows, my eyes grow larger"...
among the Hyperborean(s)...
**** me... let's try a mammoth-hunting man
singing about macaques monkeys
eating bags of sugar from your hand!
i tolerate you, forget about respect...

i was in Kenya, once, once upon a time...
to be honest? once's enough...
i saw the macaques, the baboon pirate...
agonised by hemorrhoids...
good... pain in the ***: pain for your ***...
serves you right for stealing...

i heard that some wheelchair bound French woman
was "stolen" from a beach in Kenya...
lucky me... i forgot to go to my hotel room...
wept when taking sight of the Indian ocean
crashing against the coast...
had a *****-nilly glass of bourbon in my onion's
worth of hand: onion's worth of mind...
i unpeeled it into some sort variation
of a dream... slept in the wide open... warm
air of the equator...

i was waiting for pirates...
not a lot of birds in Africa... plenty of humanoids...
i'm not going to do a *******
TOTO - Africa sing-along...
i don't want to go back... too hot...
i'm not an Anglo-Saxon... send me to... hmm...
Siberia... i need the cold...
i suffocate in a climate without a ******* season!
with... an equilateral reality of sunrise to sunset...
n'ah... i need! i crave!
winter!
inherently in me... the longest nights come
the wintry months! there's a time & there's a place...
send me to... oh, i'll willingly go...

KAMCHATKA! i'll **** of: immediately...
you will not hear from me again...
i'll do the whole Pontius Pilate scene...
no worry...

here... look at these words...
THE WORLD, SIMPLY, IS...
BUT... H'AMERICA... SOMEHOW...
ALWAYS HAS TO:"HAPPEN"...
resurrect a dying donkey
getting ****** by an elephant?
anglo-sphere right load of... *******...

perhaps i was simply on a hunt for ivory
for the "right" sort of white teeth...
white teeth.. mmm.... like...
stinking socks where never in existence
in Africa... perhaps socks weren't...
but stinking feet?
perhaps the two were never to be combined/....
"liberal" European Elitists (white),

oh  hello!
em...

bye, bye!
Bob B Feb 2020
The president's having a pardon party
To prove that he's a big wheel.
He's showing us that corruption here
Is NOT a very big deal.

Extortionists, swindlers, and liars
Now are going free,
While those accused of lesser crimes
Must pay a penalty.

Financial crimes are not a problem
For person number one.
Then let us see his tax returns
To see what HE has done.

In Trump's previous presidential
Pardons people saw
A whimsical and similar
Assault on the rule of law.

He wants to send a message to
His fellow partners in crime:
"Remain loyal to me and you'll
Avoid serving time."

And he claims he was concerned about
Corruption in Ukraine!
What a farce! Everyone knows
Corruption is HIS domain.

-by Bob B (2-19-20)
Yenson Dec 2020
Their usual wanton fare
in brine spittle and laced tongues
to minimise those which they want to prey
transferring their cancerous breathes in pincers
light fingered light brains murky in misdeeds galore
the minimisers puppeteers playing Svengalis incarnate
disdained guttersnipes declared rots as personality changers
the hyperbole of dismantling a mind by the dismantled minds
degraded moral insolvents frenzying to degrade an unstained
the putrid visitations of mindless swindlers and brazen liars
trenched thugs and rabid cowards imprisoned in piracy
slave traders ghosts in living hosts baying in hunger
in a year of Sundays miscreants will forever fail
never will professed fodders blight my mind
nor will I cave to back street wasters
or ants in jealous and envious ills
I see you lack grace and skills
unworthy to be humans
I am that which you
so can never be
am that one
you fear
hence
what
you
do

— The End —