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Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
Songs of Oregon: No 5 no general impressions specifically

For the Poets of Oregon, each a unique travel guide

no salt n’ pepper shaker of general impressions for the offering,
for now, ubiquitous generalities means inclusionary which means
likely accidental to be exclusionary,
so specifically,
no ‘all in' clauses

just a few specific eye-sights, hoary words, new birth canals,
to be either eaten, resurrected, van-slaughtered, backyard buried,
all are filed nearby in the seed cabinet or the garage freezer,
or on the C drive of your brain

awaiting ideal planting conditions, and the rest,
a series perhaps,
Songs of Oregon?
Someday

someday, when all the big brief poems are fully formed,
earth ripened, mind fomented; oak barrel aged,
harvest-reading-ready,
green trees shoots busting thrusting through
misleading sandy looking soil,
needy for quenching from
aquifers that are gold geyser plentiful,
a hundred feet deep, needy only for a
“please sir, may I have some more,"
they’l be writ

but for now, these below are,
some easy to be specifics,
reveling and revealed, useful takeaways,
specifics pacifics
for those who might be traversing upon
Lewis and Clark’s Oregon Trail:

them multicolored redneck
full bearded boys
and those of the
vinnie, millennial hipsters and aging ex- hippies, also,
full bearded boys  
are indistinguishable!
many of both wear matching bib jeans,
so be careful who you be calling
a hillbilly in open carry country

the forever refilled coffee mug still exists though the price
is now $2 but the coffee is sustainable (I am evidence)
organic, from a rain forest from Timbuktu,
so it gets planted in your bloodstream and then replaced
in the soil & land,
the loam of the soul
by you

in Milwaukee,
they know how to spell Milwaukee but
not in Portland

don’t be shocked at the town naming,
these borrowers got no  i-magination,
that’s surly lacking in Oregon; mthey’ll steal your
Nor’easter or Indian
town or city’s name
with no shame
or comp-unction,
claiming it’s different cause
they made it organically and
then misspelled it,
correctly

think that pointy poem point well made,
god made only one coast (theirs) and
just forgot to put Shelter Island NY  upon it;
threw it up randomly skyward, landed on some
atlantic backwater body

getting there or anywhere in Oregon traffic
about the same as in NYC traffic, thus
the heavens balance the scales of justice with
dramatic automotive irony

in some counties, the school week is a
four day affair, for the children need to repay
their parents birthing labor, by laboring beside them
in the vineyards, on the tractors, learning from
the book and look of their parents
sun aged faces and hands,
life learning
that man must earn his sustenance
with the sweat of ones own brow
and that word;
week,
can be spelt in contradictory ways
but only one is acceptable
out here

do be careful though Oregonians are very willingly to lam it,
(Willamette) if you ask nicely,
pick up normal looking weird hitchhikers
and drive many a mile
in yours, not theirs, but sure,
“going-the-same-way direction”
if you ask polite with just a smile

and the river salmon have hired their own governmental advisors


like I said,
no general impressions
just a private’s brief recollections
from his first tour of duty
abroad
where he was purple heart medaled shot
through ‘n through with
Oregon kindness

some juicy real specifics to follow eventually
someday
songs of oregon No.5
Raj Arumugam Nov 2011
Scene One



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...
*



Urgo: I am attendant 1. Often known as Urgo.



Burgo: I am attendant 2. Always known as Burgo.



Urgo:  You see this creature seated here
            in the wheelchair? 
Can you believe it?

            This creature once wrote poems
            
and its poems still inhabit cyberspace.


Burgo: Oh, this creature did that?


Urgo: Yes, this.


Burgo: I think I’ve read some.

             Not that I can remember any.
             
Not a word, not a title.
 But must have been pretty good, ha?
             
To write all those words, in verse...


Urgo: I don’t know about that.
           
It’s the girls who write. And sissies.
           
And for all that, you know
           
there’s just one word this creature can say.


Burgo: Really? Just one word?


Urgo: Yes.
All right, watch this.
           Come on, Raj-i.

           Hey baby...Burgo here wants to hear you.
           
Just one poem in your one word.
           
Come on, baby - or no soup for you tonight.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo and Urgo clap)



Urgo: Baan-derful, Raj...
Now Burgo,
           let’s wheel the creature back in

           and dump him in
           his corner.



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)





Scene Two



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...






Urgo: Today, Burgo, is Exercise Your Vocal Chords Day.



Burgo: No problem - Ahhhhhhhhrrrrgggggooooaaaaa.....



Urgo: Not your vocal cords, Burgo.
           
It is Exercise Your vocal Cords Day
            
for our distinguished guest currently
            
on this wheelchair.



Burgo: Ahhh...I see...



Urgo: All right, Raj-i baby...
Exercise your vocal chords 

            and entertain us with your delightful voice...



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa

        Baa, baa, baa
        
Baa, baa, baa



(Burgo claps)*



Urgo: OK - that’s enough exercise for the day!
           Let’s go






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)






Scene Three

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo: Burgo!

Burgo: Sire!

Urgo: Sire? Where in the world
           did you get such a word?

Burgo: Sorry - I thought I was in a *****
             Shakespeare play.

Urgo: Have your head examined, Burgo.
            We’ll never make it there.
            All we have is this 3rd-rate one-act play.

Burgo: I understand. I’m just a little ambitious.

Urgo: Be realistic. Don’t be ambitious.

Burgo: That’s wise, Sire - I mean, Urgo.

Urgo: Well, this creature in the wheelchair,
            for example...It was ambitious...
            and it had a great fall...
            it never knew how to be realistic...
            But more of that, later - first, what Day is it today?

Burgo: It is We Tickle Your Foot Day, today.

Urgo: You learn fast, Burgo.

Burgo: Thank you, Urgo.

(Silence)

Urgo: Well?

Burgo: I’m very well, thank you.

Urgo: You idiot! I mean if you know it is
           We Tickle Your Foot Day, today -
           then what should you do next, you knave!?

Burgo: Oh. Ok.

(Burgo kneels before Raj, takes off Raj’s shoes and with a feather tickles Raj’s feet.)

Raj (laughing): Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                              Baa, baa, baa
                             Baa, baa, baa


(Burgo puts Raj’s shoes on again, and his feather back in his pocket and stands up.)



Burgo: You mentioned ambition
              and this creature that sits on the wheelchair.

Urgo: Yes, it is time to exercise my vocal chords.
           This creature forgot, like all creatures,
           we come alone, and we go alone.

Burgo: Ah, at last! - hints of a Shakespearean play
             albeit we’ll never make it into one.
            With ambition, loneliness and all the Lear madness.
            Will we have the lewd parts too
            and rich imagery of body parts?

Urgo: Perhaps...perhaps...but let us stick to the ordinary ...
           This creature was born in 1derLand
           but was washed ashore to foreign shores.


Burgo: Good, good...like Paris, son of Priam and Hecuba?
             O Paris, washed ashore to Sparta
             O so well-loved and nursed by Helen.

Urgo: Yes, except this creature is more akin to the Wanderer
            like Oedipus, or just the indistinct Mendicant,
            the Samurai with no master, a ronin,
             all cursed to wander the face of the earth...

Burgo: Oh - are we in Shakespeare yet?

Urgo: We are in deep ****! That’s where we are!
           We all are.
           Burgo - let us stick to the banal like hamburgers.
          This creature forgot that
          and dreamt of things like poetry, ideals -
          and therein is the moral of the story for you:
          we come alone
          and alone we go
          one at a time we come
          and each we own, and each faculty
          one at a time they go.

Burgo: So let us stick with the banal
             eat our burgers
             and pick our teeth after.
             Do they supply toothpicks at takeaways
             in your country, Urgo?

Urgo: No, we recycle them, Burgo.
           We just pick up discarded ones from the ground.
           Like some nations pick up cigarette butts
           from the bins.
           Waste not; want not.


Burgo: Oh, if this scene goes on any longer
             it might become Shakespearean, Urgo.

Urgo: Ergo - we must go.
          But let us allow Raj to have the last word,
           since this play is entitled
          “ Raj Arumugam, (a one-act tragicomedy)”.
          Idiot of a son! What kind of fool-writer will have a play
          with his own name as the title of his play?!

Burgo: So, Raj-i, you egocentric ******:
             You have the last word in this scene...
             You really put words into my mouth, you ****!

Raj: Baa, baa, ba
        Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa


Urgo: All right, Let’s go, Burgo.
           Bring him in -
           Let’s drop him in bed
           and may he drop dead!



(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Four



...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...



*


Urgo: Burgo!


Burgo: Urgo!


Urgo: How long has it been since
           you started work here?


Burgo: 3 months, Urgo. Why?


Urgo: Well, show me a game...I’m bored...a new game...


Burgo: Well, have you played wheelie bin?


Urgo: No.
But Oh I love to delve into world culture.

           Show me.


Burgo: Well, let me show you.

             A wheelie bin is a bin with wheels
             and you put ******* in it
             
and you leave it outside on the kerb
             
and the garbage guy in his truck collects your *******.
             
So this is the game.



(Burgo pushes wheelchair round the stage and sings.)



          This is the way we 
wheel out our wheelie bins
           
this is the way we 
wheel out our bins
           
early every Thursday morning


           This is the way we 
leave our bins,
            our wheelie bins

            this is the way we leave our bins
            
out on the sunny kerb

            every Thursday morning



(leaves wheelchair on kerb)



           This is the way we empty our bins

           this is the way we empty our bins
           this is the way empty our bins
           every Thursday morning



(empties the wheelchair; Raj Arumugam  drops onstage)




Urgo
(joining in):
 This is the way we 
pick up our *******

                                  pick up our *******
                                  
this is the way we do it

                                  this is the way 
always we do it

                                  early Thursday morning!



(Urgo picks up Raj Arumugam and drops him in the wheelchair)



(Urgo and Burgo clap, applauding each other.)



Burgo:
And now, Urgo - for the ritual
             of 
Raj Arumugam’s final words in the scene...
Is that right?



(Urgo nods...)



Burgo:
  Sing, you Sir in the Wheelchair.



Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       
Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa

       Baa, baa, baa




Burgo: Oh, you spoil the fun! Let’s go.






(Urgo and Burgo go out, Urgo pushing wheelchair with Raj in it)




Scene Five

...some time in time... bare stage except for a square neon sign on left that reads: “Aged Care Home”...on right is a rectangular neon message display with full title of the play...Urgo and Burgo bring Raj Arumugam out on wheelchair...


Urgo:
          Let's leave him here tonight;
         some fresh air might do him good

(Urgo and Burgo leave, leaving Raj on his wheelchair.)

(Long silence.)


Raj: Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
       Baa, baa, baa
      Baa, baa, baa



(Raj has a thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Hey guys, come back...Another word is coming back to me.”)

(Long silence)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Raj has another thought. His thought is broadcast as a message on the rectangular neon light display: “Another one’s coming back...maybe my mind is coming back.”)


Raj:
**** **** ****
**** **** ****
**** **** ****

(Long silence. Lights fade. Darkness. Curtain...)
Ben Brinkburn Jan 2013
Forget the post code lottery
and go for some sort of
Middle England coterie
beware of the railway towns
and all they used to promise
avoid the light industrial towns
the ones that make biscuits
and plastic windows and trap your
children in call centres
the comfort of non-jobs
selling nothing to people who
are nonetheless convinced
they need it
and avoid cities with cathedrals
and universities
they are artifice personified they
have only one aim to debilitate you
with pretense and false hope
and sophistry deep in Middle England and
Do Not Go To Cities With Ports
they are as thieves in the night
forever looking for opportunity
eternally gazing outward beyond
the boundary of shores unwaveringly
scathing of convention and respectable
behaviour
And ignore dormitory towns exurbia and similar
designed only to eat and sleep in
and cut the grass although
the swinging scene
may have its diversions
and then those army towns cowering
below the shambling spectre of
beaten squaddie pubs concrete and
brick boxes with overflowing bottle banks
and what of flower filled market towns
with neat shops and bi-weekly markets
and Friday night louts and teeming
takeaways and broken windows but
you can escape
to a suburban bungalow
lock the gate feed the carp
watch wildlife progammes and
laugh
then running running running
you find
a suitable small mountain village
where you unwittingly
unexpectedly after stroking a
black and white cat
get run over by a drunken postman
in a neat
little red van.
beatrice dossah Aug 2012
I TOOK WALK TO BULLER BEACH
I COULD NOT WALK ON THE SAND WITH MY BARE FEET
THE WAVES BROUGHT TO THE SHORE TAMPONS, CONDOMS AND PLASTIC
EVERYWHERE WAS CHAOTIC
THE SEAS HAVE BECOME A DUMPING SITE
WITH ******* PILED TO AN UNIMAGINABLE HEIGHT
MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN DEFECATING ON ROCKS
WITH NO SHAME
NO WONDER ITS NAME
TURTLES , DOLPHINS AND SEA BIRDS ARE DYING
THEY SWALLOW PLASTICS AND DIE FROM CHOKING
IF FISHER MEN ARE CATCHING PLASTIC TRASH
HOW CAN THEY MAKE MORE CASH?
CHANGE UR WAYS
AVOID THE TAKEAWAYS
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars

But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site

A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling

He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid

He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun

So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said

The End
Ben Jones Feb 2015
Sailing away on a luxury liner
Packing your bags and eloping to China
Building a castle and digging a moat
These are all things you can't do with a goat

Any assortment of wrapping and bagging
Over the fireplace or under the lagging
In your pyjamas, in Tupperware boxes
These are all places that irritate foxes

An onion, a carrot, a plantain or mango
A tikka kebab and a bottle of tango
A handful of pencils, a flaming baton
These are all things that won't fit in a swan

Pet shops and grocers and stationary suppliers
Takeaways, rivers and all kinds of fires
P&O; cruises, kebab shops, IKEA
These are all places I'm not allowed near...

**
If any path you took would lead you to greatness
Would you still be afraid of taking the first step?
And stay where you were and still are now
Living each passing second in waking regret?

Because the path to greatness does not mean
The journey is a one way, uphill climb
You fall off and climb then rest in between
Taking care of yourself regardless of time

Because the lessons lie in every moment
Mundane or overbearing extremes
You can find each lesson in the takeaways
If your mindset is easy to upkeep

Because a dream will never come to fruition
If it only lies comfortably where you sleep
Bring it forth into your waking moments
Or live a life waiting to grieve

Because I need that daily reminder
That it is not what but who I believe
I am capable of making things happen
I’ll take myself there with my own two feet
I have several things left to pack:
First, the old grey jumper.
Second, a dusty photo album.
Third, that China plate from the kitchen.

Moving through to the hallway,
I swivel on the spot.
The cat eyes me from the stairs,
Swishing his tail left to right.

I gesture to him: In childlike voice
"Don't worry I won't be leaving you".

Boxes laid at my feet, I fumble about.
What a life;
You spend most of it collecting junk;
And then you realise,
What an earth are you going to do with it all?

Leave it behind?
Chuck it away?
Chuck it away, leave it behind?
A disastrously difficult decision!
We are all sentimental someway.

The smell of cooked beef wafted from the kitchen.
Ah, home cooked meals.
I suppose it'll be takeaways soon.
Until we've settled in of course.

It's really real now isn't it?
Like a punch of reality,
Slapping you in the face.
Mixed emotions,
A bit like Sunday: You enjoy it but know that Mondays coming.

Gently, I stroked my cat.
Amongst the purring:
There came a sudden realisation,
That I had not started my list yet.
©️ 2021 Joshua Reece Wylie. All rights reserved. Published 2021 at https://www.hyperenigma.com/moving-by-joshua-reece-wylie/
bleh May 2015
Every fire hazard sign points the arrow at 'extreme'.

                      The drought has lasted several months now, clouds form and the world is left encased in midday shadow, but they just watch, never speaking up, never expelling.

                                   Industrial sprinklers produce short burst waves in spinning circles, the grass a crop circle of pale embryonic green within it's radius; brittle fragments of bleached hay and dry dirt outside.

/
          The fly the waiter gases lands on a half deflated bag causing it to buzz incredibly loudly as it chokes, making everyone uncomfortable
         /

---------------------------------------------------------------­--

        #@000000000000091   The town is French themed, a pastiche for the tourists. it's imprinted on the crockery, see. The restaurants are all le Chinese takeaways selling Classic London Style Fish and Chips. Which i mean there's nothing wrong with i guess but it's just kinda funny in the loosely jarring kinda sense, the we-are-all-thrown-into-history,-into-ablative-cultural-efficacy-b­ut-it's-never-quite-something-graspable-or-fixed;-never-quite-s­omething-that-orientates-itself sense,  is all i'm saying.   i
                 mean it's a port town it makes sense they sell fish, but as all the tourists pass by and the Harbour mouth surrounding the 12 million year old magma plug breaths out the ocean ebbs up onto the rugby parks into the downtown area and breaths through all the cobblestone shop windows, It inhales, and the cars slowly waltz away from their anchorage and into the middle of the lake, which is fine because all the pedestrians have floated into the sky, hardly noticing with the sombre and tired paper-deep excitement that the tourist and holiday workers mirror at each other.

                                   -----------------------------------------------------------------­-


-   //
 #AAC00000121.  A local restaurant and hotel owner laments to the newspaper that it's been a slow valentine day season   "it's like   people have forgotten what this is supposed to mean to them."
//   -

....

a faint line remains marking where the magma reached up the cliff faces each time it drowned everything every few thousand millennia, everyone murmurs that it's jolly interesting, but
    make indignant mewling sounds as the bubbling lava dissolves their bones.



                                  |||   |||
                              /  ///

.
  .
     . . . . .


[...ANywqay, yeah sorry. so what i was getting at was this. yeah yeah no i was! a punchline and everything! yeah! yep, ]
                   so
there's this one art museum a few blocks down from the main street,
  that focuses on cups and mugs; beautiful antique drinking vessels uniting every place and class and history.
         they change the theme occasionally, but really most of the itinerary remains the same so there's only so much they can do. currently it's

            "the sublime
                            as manifest
                                               in the functional and inconsequential"

these simple, life supporting tools, at once represent mans departure from nature, whilst functionally reaffirming our dependence on simple essentials. The drive to turn even these basic utensils into a reflective aesthetic process, showcases -even in primitive societies,- this emergent human drive for the sublime. This gallery hosts in equal regard the exquisite geometry of the gemmed goblets of patron kings, alongside the hand-wrought asymmetric terracotta mugs of artisan peasants. In each is the baseness of re-hydration, in each, the transcendental act of creation.



the coffee at the gift shop cafe was served in bleached polyethylene
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
unique: in that the great cancan o'
h'americana spandex english...
          is littered with acronyms...
             a minor observational point...

also... that there's a europe
as confined to scandinavia...
there's most certainly western europe...

a southern europe...
             although... clogging up the "detail"
with spain... reconquista
   and not the shame...
               a barricade of goths...
                            leftover in the bizarre
gesticulation of a history...
and at: a history...

                 that the italians
                                    cannot be the heritage
of ancient rome: given
the cappuccino is a "nuance"...
  otherwise the greeks are bankrupt...
their history worth of envy is
being exhausted...

                  there's a western europe...
there's a... southern europe...
               but of an eastern europe...
such a piquant vogue of vocab that has
to cherry-pick into existence
an estonia and the latvians...

               central, europe?
                      all that is germany...
beside the fact that prussian-germany...
and the prussians could be bundled
up with the other baltic states...

little o' czech republic...
      a minor ally poland...
                    some alleviated circumstance
of an oriental allure within
the confines of russia...

             it breaks my heart
to see england unfathomable...
               currently without a near
perfect engagement strategy...
      coming to the fore with a headache
of diamond-studded gills...
        that there are
bipartisan "rats" and the ship is
sinking...
    otherwise the provincial aspect
of weeding out...
detestable aspects of cosmopolitanism...

that London could be treated as:
London-London... rather than London-England...
because of the great yawn
of the heliocentric adventure of sci-fi fun...
i.e. what is the copernican west?
what is the copernican east?

       perhaps a return to some sort of
language formality...
to escape with a poetry is hardly
a reconstitution of the soul
to a modern letter: dear sir... yours faithfully...
or a very modern hello! kind regards!

europe as a claustrophobia...
             it's such a limiting delight of...
that there somehow was...
a premeditation...
    to **** with premeditation allows the status:
******...
but to **** by accident is a "mere":
homicide...

              such grave consequences...
the culprit and the tool: but also the thought
involved...

but is there something self-deprecating
about english humour?
a pride of borrowed history...
unlike the interlude of non-existence
bound to Poland...
        this... castrated figment of my old
imagination...
                rule britannia referring
to a period prior to the empire and a ref.
to an english-spanish exchange...

then again...
   how did the spanish: then not the spanish...
create... a post-racial south america...
the tinged copper and auburn
lure of the delight...
there must be "something" sobering
bout an anglo-saxon realism...

that there's a tinge of taming the viking
horde... there's no share
in "grief" should the west arrive
at being licked by a mongolian
extract of prose...

           but always the very
formidable tow of the culprit cog
and:  **** in machina...
              easier to posit a god-phantom
ex-, as that gravity in extension orbit
linear of Pluto...

              postcards from Saturn... anyone?
otherwise, this... simply...
the english have exhausted the concept
of world... of geocentrism...
            
but then the forever soap-opera demand
of the local affairs...
how heliocentrism abides by a breath...
side by side with geocentrism
of the soap opera...
              to have to heave
a concern for the stars and the moon cycles...
this finite basis of a rooting...

        that the forerunner of / for the h'american
presidential candidacy
looks simply bored.... or rather...
unexpecting... while the first lady
is so glued to reciting the autocue
like a evil...
wild-eyed and pure ergonomic...
  a jeffrey dahmer seems to
have a more sedated glee of the eyes...

the first lady is... poison of the soul...
her eyes are cobweb knitting fatamorgana...
bringing to the table of
the arrogance of multiculturalism...
it's hardly a heritage incorporated...
there's the breaking of bones
in how to move forward...
at least the food served by the indians
or the turks has made it
as a pop staple on the high street...
it's very common to want to learn
a disguise of... the incoming horde...
the reception party will be glad
at being fed...
                               chimichurri:
give me curry... a loose translation...
                  
what am i to offer these isles when...
what all these others...
arrivals make such...
  pronounced additions to a life worth living...
turkish barbers... indian takeaways...
such prominence...

a work ethos in the shadows...
a shadow for a body...
a reconciliation with the body-work
of father...
i am forever to test the hobby market...
these formidable words like:
pineapple... like mango...
       some variation of "foreign" inventions...
never the placid anglo- prefix
titillating the paranoia: non-bilingual schizoid...

a dozen europes and a historical agony
surrounding the base narrative "primordial":
of...  i dare say... byzantine-&-darwinistic...
that the byzantines reworked a more
fashionable period before... settling for the laurel
before the shock & awe of the ottoman conquest...
or that darwinism is as much
a lesson in history as it is a lesson in biology...
that... the latter... is...
such a stereotypical predominance
of expected behaviour...

that the former is a... overt over-simplification
of a desire for work, wheat and time...
or a designation of space...
it's not that darwin is not a dickens...
but at least... the world is still inaccurate
with a dickensian take on:
with this here england...
arriving at the 20th century...
cricket players being dubbed...
fancifully: the tourists...
shouldn't all english people have
that affix?

                      there's that...
as there's also...
                  the copernican revolution
has been made impossible by someone as far removed
as william burroughs...
who insist... the ancient egyptians knew
of the heliocentric demands...
that the geocentric model was backward
thinking... that the ancient greeks
were the only people to ever think:
and we have only moral plagiarism to mind...
and a plagiarism of eureka!
or that thinking can escape
the narrative and riddle the heights
with spontaneity...

    this prolonged... western european...
admiration for a people that are currently...
made into an economic scrutiny *******-riddling...
imagine my disconcerting: hier und jetzt!

the wooden stairs are creaking...
there's a strain most unfathomable...
like that associated with a cavern...
and a man's eye having to invest in making
a bridge a reality...
that history is a reflective tool...
nothing sinister or military in nature...
a beer could be considered warm ****...
a bucket-load of camel spit...
should i guise it as such?

           to heave a beginning...
somehow i can't find... a work-around
of a western europe...
spain is still catholic...
             ireland... well... whatever...
the same self-depreciating humour
is to be expected...
          anything serious...
forward moveable and come along
has to be littered with that...
fable of the protestant work ethic...

it's impossible to have a father
who's an underpaid technician in the field...
whereas... mongrel romanians
are elevated to the status of
manager...
           pitch-perfect: ethno-central...
on the continent where
there are: "some differences"...
   zu liben unter deutsche wie deutsch'...
well... to live among the english
is to have to forever retain an otherness...
a foreign attitude of...
down the line... the capacity to...
integrate with a cousin or two being
towed...
if you knew a thing or two about
immigrant poles...
they're not very... forthcoming...
they are so hard riddled on the integration
project...
there is no in-group preference
other people a priori stress...

so... fallacy and fake number 1...
       so much for reading a milan kundera
essay...
in the context: that newspapers are
to be read!
   it's impossible to concern oneself
with the concept of a newspaper as
aligned with: not being read...
force-fed turkey glut and baron fat...

         help the pope to sing!
                        it's not like...
there wasn't a shortening reaction
phase to re-orientate the dynamism of: future "lore"...
europe is such a little place...
made even oh so much more tiny...
provincial... solipsistic...
by these island-dwelling folk that
the english tourists care to concern themselves
as being...

that the english language
is thoroughly recognised as the lingua franca
of old...
to tease learning some arabic or mandarin
is a question of aesthetic...
old fool and bigger than the lost "little"
of a worship...
such gravity... concerning the names...
Angevin...
                Merovingian... Capulet...
           Stuart... Windsor...
    my own sorrow: this common name...
           well...
                        all crippling demands...
big or small...
                   hell... there are bigger onces...
there's no known house of David or or Solomon...
such a borrowed gesticulated at...
the shadow drawn...
                   i forfeit!
from the ant people that abide...
to the swollen eye sore of blindness i tow:
a recreational soviet pact of: me's stealing Siberia!
borys!
Nigdaw Jun 2019
The atheist walks
Past the supermarket
Seeing only shoppers,
Buying their daily bread
Earnt by working nights on security, or
Days serving zombied customers
At drive through takeaways
Getting abused, watching the litter
Pile up from don't give a toss
Attitudes diving immaculate cars,
He sees shattered dreams in the homeless
Begging to survive another day
In pavement poverty,
Preying on good will by sliding doors
In the rain,
Teenagers pushing prams, abandoned
To a cruel world of benefits and scams
Just to make ends meet,
Men wheeling six packs to their hatchbacks
Hoping they have enough *****
To block out another weekend
Of the wife moaning about never going out
And the grass needs cutting,
He smells the pollution of all the cars
Driven a few hundred yards
For a pack of cigarettes
And some dried noodles for the kids for lunch
Just to shut them up,
He sees only individuals
Railing against each other, falling
Over their directionless lives
All wanting to be somewhere, NOW.
He pushes past them all
Never looking up, never acknowledging
A single face, knowing his place
In the crowd.

But I see the woman who stops
In her nurses uniform
Tired from another 12 hour shift
Smiling at the beggar she drops him her change,
Takes her shopping to the car
Looking forward to a family meal together,
Waits for someone to pull out of their parking space
As she leaves for a humble home
Built on love,
I still see a light in the darkness.
Eric the Red Jan 2018
In All sincerety
Modesty
Accolades
And so on so forth

I hope you find a singular
Voice
Underneath all that rubble
Of life
That single
Spark in the forest
That brings it all down
The gold brick
In the Great Wall
Titanium pebble
In the Saharas
Extinct prehistoric fish
Swimming freely in the
Aegean
I hope you find
Your voice
Your stature
Your lungs
Your foothold
Amongst the selfish selfies
The boss
The Instafaces
Greedy
Nonchalants
Unenigmatic
Drunkards and Takeaways
You’ll know them
You’ll break Bread with them
You’ll dance with them
When you’re younger
Know when to get up from
The table
And feast upon yourself
For my children
Salmabanu Hatim Jan 2018
He was a bachelor,
A free soul without bother.
He comes home from work,wan,
The house is ***** and span,
Every thing is perfectly placed,
The table,with food laid,
His pyjamas neatly piled on the bed,
That is the maid.

He gets married,
He comes home tired,
A little clutter here and there,
But the bedroom is done with care.
There is soft music, perfumed candles and flowers,
Romantic nights for lovers,
For dinner,mostly takeaways and leftovers.

They have children, three,
He comes home, weary,
There is chaos,
The house is a  mess,
Children are crying and shouting,
The dog is  barking,
The wife is howling and screaming,
Before she starts complaining,
He takes over the  kitchen,
Tells  her to see to the children,
For, household chores,
She abhors.

The wife and kids go to her mother,
Home is quiet, no clutter,
For a while mum has come to stay,
Once again hot meals everyday,
The house is warm and clean,
He only has to see to the bin.
Mum is the best,
But he misses his wife and kids nevertheless.
Though there are ups and down in his married life he has adjusted and loves his family.
Ben Jones Apr 2017
If humankind was just one man
His house would be the world
He'd live on only takeaways
The curtains never furled
His clothing would be shabby
Just a mess of cloth and strings
But on his little finger
Are a dozen diamond rings
The body might be starving
But the pinky hoards its gold
The hunger could be ended
With a single diamond sold
The kitchen could be mended
The gloom made slightly brighter
That's not the pinky's problem
So it holds on even tighter
It hires the other fingers
And one adjacent thumb
To stab the legs repeatedly
And beat the kidneys numb
The body starts to waste away
And much to its surprise
Along with every other thing
The little finger dies
It's Five pm on a Saturday​  afternoon
Walking down town, I can smell 'em
The takeaways​ will be opening soon
And this street smells like heaven

People at home are in the shower
Getting ready for their night on the town
They'll be having their first drink in about an hour
They'll be listening to their sounds

Me, I'm at home, alone and lonely
With a pizza and a bottle of wine
But I've got the Rolling Stones, 'Exile On Main Street '
So **** 'em, I'm feeling fine

Keef's guitar and **** Jagger's sneer
Charlie Watts perfect drums
They always sound great, whatever the year
I can take the rest as it comes
Avii Oct 2016
Soar like a eagle remain like a plane,
  
I'm higher then high and i don't do *******,
  
Learning this wisdom while building this development,

Feeling so large I might be a elephant,
  
Pursing my goals I feel the achievements,  

Slowly recovering I feel the treatments,  

Taking advantage of these opportunities,
  
Helping these people like  a community,  

Stand for a cause or don't stand at all,

Running for freedom like football,


You should  take it back but there ain't no takeaways,
  
So raise them hands and just praise,

Shot right though you like a bullet,

  I'm cooking these words like a skillet,
  
My faith is stronger then the world's strongest man,  

Its scaring all the people i used to hang with like the bogeyman,

I'm throwing alley oops call me cp3,

I'm throwing words at your face like 3D,

Ain't no stopping this degree of where I'm at,  

I'm moving though traffic  while they still got a flat,
This was number 10 outta 10 in my freestyles so tell me what you think,
Michael Marchese Aug 2023
Then parts of you fade
That once wholly you made
The most vital component
Of how much you made
Not financially
More existential
Affirming
That all intellectual
Causes
I’m earning
The chance to excel
Don’t expel me disgraced
For a harmless,
Albeit now costly
Mistake
But you make of it
Consequence
Where none is needed
And take from me more
Than I ever believed in
EssEss Jul 31
Ever envisaged an island situated in the huge crater of a volcano?
That's Santorini - aptly fitting the description of a touristy soprano,
Fondly described by many as the supermodel of the Greek islands,
It's scenic location is as if crafted by Greek gods, in the uplands

As an archipelago of five volcanic islands, it is located in the Aegean sea,
The island is a head-turner for scenic beauty that makes one scream in glee,
Multicolored cliffs and whitewashed edifices add to the panoramic grace,
Candy-colored houses and paved paths lend to a milieu that's hard to replace

Adorned with black, red and white beaches, Santorini is a waterfilled crescent,
The much pleasing hue of the clear turquoise sea is a tribute to nature's accent,
Volcanic pebbles, spectacular rock formations lace into impressive lunar landscapes,
The breathtaking caldera and the island's geomorphology are sheer dreamscapes

The blue domes of Santorini that bedeck the Aegean Sea are iconic,
As picturesque architectural marvels, they are superlatively masonic,
Perched atop whitewashed churches, they are picture postcard perfect,
The vibrant blue hue contrasting the stark white buildings, seems so correct

Tourists throng the narrow streets and pathways to soak in the photogenic view,
The agonizing wait to gain access to vantage spots is forgotten while in the queue,
The spectacular sight is truly mesmerizing to leave us in a state of awesome wonder,
That it is an incredibly popular Instagrammer's delight, leaves little cause for wonder

Viewing the sunset from Oia is an unforgettable experience that tourists savor,
The energy of the sweeping panoramic landscape is so palpable that one must aver,
The fiery sun sinking into the sea within the caldera remains etched in memory,
Its' the exclamatory chatter of the crowd's praise that shakes one out of a reverie

A visit to the archaeological site of Akrotiri merits high recommendation,
As Greece's version of Italy's Pompeii, it is of noteworthy consideration,
The ruined city sadly buried by a volcanic eruption, holds a lot of history,
As home to the ancient Minoans, now an embellishment of Greek touristry

The ruins depict how people lived in two- and three-storey houses in 1500 BC,
Replete with balconies, underfloor heating, indoor toilets that one can still see,
Remnants of the city's painted frescoes and sculptures are a visual treat,
That such conceptual skills existed in the then Bronze age, is no mean feat

The quality of furniture and ceramic wares bears testimony to Akrotiri's prosperity,
That the people were able to make their own wine, is testament to their dexterity,
Visitors will be impressed by the acumen and farsightedness of the Minoan township,
That was so cruelly terminated by volcanic ash engulfing the town, ending in hardship

Oia's promenade stretches along the whole town with the caldera's breathtaking views,
Rows and rows of shops on either side flaunt souvenirs, boutiques with lots to choose,
Jostling crowds interspersed with multilingual chatter render a touch of street glamour,
As people flood the shopping streets post-sunset view, be prepared to overlook the clamor

The island's capital Fira, is perched on the Caldera's top edge, above sea level,
Stunning views of the Aegean Sea leave visitors awed and a just reason to revel,
Recommended daytime strolls in the scenic alleys fill one with joy and harmony,
An array of restaurants, cafes, bars and clubs adds spice to the nightlife cacophony

Greek islands are in a league of their own when it comes to planning exciting getaways,
Without bias, one can claim that Santorini tops the list with several visit takeaways,
Greece is also famous for it's gourmet food, friendly people and charming hospitality,
By the end of the visit, you realize the multifarious reasons for the island's popularity
Karan Gambhir Jan 2018
I fall
I learn
I stand up back
I fall again but to learn something new
Falling makes me learn
Falling makes me profound
Falling give me the important takeaways
Sam Steele Apr 2021
My wife said ‘I’d like a new kitchen’
And I had a Saturday free
With ambition designs for the project
We both had a wild spending spree

We picked up a range made of flat pack
And then went to the café to eat
The choice of hot food was extensive
And we both had a Swedish meat treat

My mancave was short of some gadgets
So, I thought I would pick up a few
You know, gizmos I’d need for the project
You can find in a big B & Q

Like chrome plated long nose snipe pliers
With a bright coloured high friction grip
A high-powered well-balanced hand drill
With a full set of carbonised bits

To help with the cutting and drilling
I bought me a fancy work bench
I got several adjustable spanners
And an American style monkey-wrench

With devices galore in my kitchen
A heart full of hope and a song
The flat pack was open and waiting
And a belief that nowt can go wrong

The kitchen was stripped of its cupboards
(Destruction sound so much like me)
The skip filled with trash and detritus
The air filled with cursed deities

The cupboards assembled, but wobbled
With left over dowels and screws
They collapsed right back into flat pack
And the air turns a little more blue

It can’t have been too many gadgets
So clearly, I needed some more
And after a hot steamy cuppa
I bought most of the rest of the store

I picked up a taper pin punch set
The label said “high tension steel”
I don’t know if that makes a difference
I just thought that it had a nice feel

Who needs a wall grooving chisel?
I don’t know but had one to hand
A magnesium carbon disc grinder
In case I was tempted to sand

I tried ultra-thin premium somethings
A large milling thingamajig
A jig made for holding a widget
And widgets from small up to big

By midnight the flatpack was kindling
There was no Sunday roast the next day
There were no scrambled eggs Monday breakfast
For a week we just ate takeaways

Come Friday raw bacon and sausage
Were beginning to look appetising
The wife gave me fairly blunt warnings
That showed her blood pressure was rising

It was time for a nail gun and ladder
And extension bars for my all sockets
It was taking so long I bought knee pads
And a tool belt with 15 large pockets

The riveting gun seemed quite boring
But I just loved the boring device
I had not a clue how to use them
But simply to own them was nice

Counter sinks for sinking the counter
A compressor for compressing some air
I also bought 3 different augers.  No reason
But because they were there

With the credit card pushed to its limits
And a month filled with heartache and trouble
I was craving hot food or a cuppa
From a kitchen all gadgets and rubble

But every contraption just vexed me
I was starving and then lost my cool
I condemned all of the useless devices
My wife just blamed one useless tool

We had not had a hot meal in ages
Since the meatballs we bought at IKEA
I guess gadgets are pretty much useless
If the one using them has got no idea
Cars and then more cars
Bikes and then more bikes
People and thankfully people
Milling around the city

Bars and then more bars
Takeaways and then more takeaways
Life and thankfully life
Milling around the city

Through Chinatown
The man wears a gown
And makeup and a wig
On the way to his gig
As a drag queen

The Museum
Full of glass
Housing the past
Where the young to the last
Stare in wonder

Rivers and canals
Flowing under bridges
Glistening brown and murky
Keeps me a little perky
As dog walkers study the depths

Street lights and sirens
Smells of exotic foods
Tempting to the thought of eating
Like lions upon a herds meeting
Nothing can compare

Music loud and booming
From the clubs along the streets
As we dance the night away
While time leads us astray
I love my days in the city
John Bartholomew Feb 2019
Judgemental?
Yes
A car that hasn't been cleaned in ages
It makes you think
Their driving?
Gonna be bad

You step in and already the signs are negative
A mess of untold takeaways, how do some people live
11 Magic Tree's all hanging from the mirror
On the passenger seat their food, an old McDonald's wrapper

CD cases shoved into the depths of the car doors pockets
From Jane McDonald onto Steps, please God, just stop it
Penny sweet wrappers all mixed with their mint Extra's
On the back seat a GB map and a DVD of Michael C Hall in Dexter

I start to wonder what the state of their house really is
Not Hoovered for weeks, stinks to high heaven with old food in the fridge
But let's not stray as they might actually be a surprise
Jumps in, no seatbelt on, no, this really is a pigsty

Whacks it into first, revs right up, let's skip that trip and put it in third
Who teaches these people the way to live in life
Did their parents skip a growing up class on how to live nice
Or maybe I have morals that sour down to being too pleasant
Were nearly there, just a quick ride which I'm starting to wish I hadn't

Getting out I thank them for their generosity, until next time,
She replied,
"Don't be stupid son, I'm your mum, your always welcome for a free ride!"

Think I'll try dad next time

JJB
nivek Mar 2017
Bees have favourite takeaways;
Dandylions are one of them. Fact.
Barton D Smock May 2018
[I still bring snow]

I think mom’s new dog must have the bones of a kite. I have a lover, now. a he, a beekeeper. a she if she saddens in the nearness. a nothing, a dowry. ghost china. spacesuits for stillborns. under this blanket, a puppet reads to a doll about light. under that, the shape of what goes blind in a poem. I miss you. plural. I don’t wash my forehead. I still bring snow.

~

[house musics]

no star foreign, brother kisses a spiderless ceiling.

the diver
dead
our father
loved

~

[untitled]

a sick child can be in two stories at once. anthill. calvary. tell neither. I feel like maybe I am talking my way up the dollmaker’s ladder. eat? I won’t the black duckling. god

won’t the owl. angels

just birds
that faint.

~

[response musics (iii)]

...weigh god in photos. free a crow from the gospel of the negative. (we) revisit the medicines. call you dead and call you hawk gone to curl in the lap of a cyclops. ask (we ask) for what landbound thing did your body carry time? your past, every year, the same spot. thing never shows.

~

[response musics (iv)]

a run on mirrors. lowkey exorcisms.

wheelchair, lamb’s minus
one.

mom and the angel
of last
names. dad

and the snowplow.

dad and the ballet slipper.

yea the shadow
of his yawn.

~

[removal musics (xi)]

it’s always your story to which the afterlife gets added. did you even want children? do crows

hear thunder? no butcher believes in time.

~

[how I want you to remember my sister]

in a puppet show
about washing
my son’s
feet, or waving down

the ice cream truck
with her bible, or

as farewell

to nothing’s
church
of neither

~

[pseudo]

between the house of the first suicide
and the house of the second
there’s one
with a dog door.

the moms all work at the same ghost jail.

the dads say things like

/ finally a parrot I can hear / & / in hell
nobody steps
on their reading
glasses.

the dream is there we put our mouths on. our hands.
the dream
that was nest.

brothers dressed like jesus
brush their teeth
and sisters
keep a tender
thumb.

~

[takeaways from his speech to the poor about what happens overnight]

horror movies are all the same.

babies can’t get amnesia.

I once pointed a starting gun at the head of a thing that wasn’t looking.

sleep is the christ of the mind.

~

[dream saw and dream tooth]

to be
as asleep
as a father’s
left leg

as a birthday
for a window

~

[removal musics (xii)]

if childless, we call it mother.  

-

how long
did you fake
being young?

-

this part / of her poem / is empty

-

three men remove my shoes

-

translates

to yesterbed

-
  
self-portrait in milk
Onoma Dec 2023
a double-ended apron bathtub, holds

an oblong pond of milk--poised to

exude volume.

its faucet drips plaster-of-Paris, as the

bell of a saxophone nuzzles to surface.

the congested takeaways of noir lighting

set in--the: O of the saxophone glints no

shiny brass.

only exhales the black bits of checkered

tiles from its bell--whose blow is the central

implication of sound.

which may, or may not have been produced.

draining a predominant starkness too white

to stiffen.
Salmabanu Hatim Jul 2023
I never wear ready made clothes,
I have all my clothes stitched according to my culture
I like them to be a bit loose so I am comfortable in them,
What with the hot tropical climate.
I am very particular about my food,
I rarely buy takeaways,
I try my best to cook what I like at home.
Going to restaurants my mind
acts weird,
It asks if the chef has washed his hand,
Is he smoking when handling the food,
Hope he does not wipe sweat with his hands,
So I go to restaurants that serve barbecues,
Or food that is piping hot.
My skin is very sensitive,
I don't have the luxury of wearing beautiful trendy foot wear,
Only simple open sandals for me.
I am not a fan of meat or fish,
So I make up by having lots of nuts.
I love icecreams and savoury snacks .
I lead a simple life,
Satisfied with what I have .
without any expectations.
28/7/2023
Peach Pietersen May 2020
Everything I do hurts a little without you
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel now
I feel like I need one last cuddle where you embrace me and make me feel safe
I wish I could have one last night where I’m laid by your side and you pattern my spine with your finger tips
I want one more night of smoking and takeaways when we pretend that we are the only people on the planet that matter and exist
I need you to look at me the way you did after you hadn’t seen me in a while, one last time because I’m longing for that sense of belonging
I’m convincing myself that maybe if I could relive all of these precious moments with you
Maybe I could relive my time spent with you
And it would never really have to end
Soon I will be used to doing things on my own
And you will too
But I will forever hold the times we shared close

You and me, never together but with each other forever
Cyclone Dec 2019
It's foolish what the cruelest duel does to a fool, its a dual rule, fuel for some buzz; got so many throwaways it's hard to count how many takeaways there was, really I don't care cause in a sum they're odd anyway, just to call it even I was leaving them behind to collect the dust I don't want to carry, never will it dare me, to take a step back cause I just go forward, staring at the ground where I might slip again, my sights giving in, so I form ground rules, it's my dream now just to be a groundskeeper, grounded cause it sounds well but they caught me sleeping on the job so the enmity from groundswell killed me in my sleep rather softly I say, that's the hard knock, power of it clocking in faster than a bullet, full of it, I'm full off it, useless is that small profit, though quickly gained, I just lost it much faster than I got it, a usual systematic impediment, where you never knew the deficit your head was in....SHALL WE BEGIN?
five months ago to the day

Twas the cusp of tooth thousand
twenty three summer solstice,
when yours truly (a fool
and his money went separate ways)
mine cherished nest egg,
I would immediately miss
lesson immediately learned courtesy takeaways
linkedin with looted
checking and savings accounts
analogously yanked, unmoored and unbridged

at Citizen Bank quays
me subsequently exhibiting,
maddening, and snorting
re: imagine how figurative
unbridled horse's *** neighs;
a fate engendering
mental anguish on par with
voluntarily unrolling Scottish welcome mat
readying yours truly
being lynched courtesy kkk

(I apologize for any
incantation, incrimination, incubation,
indiscretion, insinuation, intimation, invitation...),
cuz metook poetic license
attempting to accentuate brazen crafty deception,
how con artist invoked tender loving care
while (all the while) stealthily employing
stealing gambit, which hack
by the way incorporated his suppressed hurray
for him positively coaching me

invisibly eliciting, interposing, manifesting,
questing, and ushering entranceway
into sought after vaunted money
synonymously enlisting sprinkled pet accolade
such as "good job"
never disclosing discerning ulterior motive
exacting a risky (business) mission
unlike dramatizing the WWII story
of the Thailand-Burma Railway
regarding those soldiers who built

Bridge over the River Kwai
in the former scenario exhibiting
how yours truly (me) did betray
requisite necessity to protect
fungible assets of mine
by voluntarily cooperating
with the enterprising villainous prankster,
who applying one alias
called himself "Harvey Specter"
guiding blindsided yours truly
(who received nincompoop of the year award)

obliging scoundrel to withdraw cash willingly
and convert sain moolah into bitcoin
(a type of digital currency
in which a record of transactions maintained
and new units of currency are generated
by the computational solution
of mathematical problems,
and which operates independently
of a central bank) courtesy digital wallet,
which nefarious experience found me
posting a gofundme page to no avail!

— The End —