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Caroline Grace May 2010
They came in search of incredible sun,
seduced by cicadas and an easy time;
extraneous baggage with nothing to declare.
Two days in:
Sister Rose shrivels on her browning stem;
survives on lettuce leaves and cheap wine.
Pitiable by design, knowing perfectly
she's past her beauty max.
At her feet:
The blue pool cups cured hide
of idle heat-crazed beast
unleashed from his computer belt-
a doughboy moulded to his insubstantial boat-
afloat for fourteen days!
Entwined-
my crazy brother reclines with his latest lover
to share 'delightful' elderflower champagne
through a single straw,
****** together by their eyes.
And in the shade:
mother sits it out in floral silk,
sustained by seventy deniers
and her would-have-liked ideals-
the shadow of a lattice grill tatooed across her brow.

Then as the just deserts arrive,
and darted looks are handed round,
I glower at the heat - crazed ground
and muse-  'it's time to go,'

........but they would never forgive me..
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
JL Feb 2012
I drown my broken heart with the slow poison beneath the orange glow of the exit sign. Cheap goldent tequila wreaking havoc on my liver. Nothing changes from day to day for me, my misery stems from selfishness thinking of myself and my problems and my own tears_ while the true broken hearted sleep on cardboard beneath the stars. I've been in love before, I was a child, I wanted her name tatooed over my heart I wanted her lips on ny neck and my chest. Her arms tangled and legs spread, teenage ***** moan heavy on my ear. I rember sweat and hair being pulled and ciggarette smoke and perfume and love letters, shaving my head in the livingroom. ******* in the attic of the church while your aunts wedding went on downatairs. its not easy to forget those things, smoking a joint after a long night of drinking and ******* like animals, you looked at me, and you seemed a million years away, your black hair stuck to your sweaty skin, on your neck and your naked chest and the pillow and you said, Jacob, I love you. Cutting me with blue ice eyes. Your knees pressed into my stomach as you carve your name above my heart. I thought it was beautiful when you took that carpet knife quickly sterilized in whiskey and pressed it to the white skin of your hip and carving an ugly "J" big and red and bleeding. Wiping clean the drops with your long white fingers and mingling our blood on my chest.
Asleep
Your eyes fall into the steady rhytm of dreams,
Thoughts of us having white babies
And going to church
And growing old
And being young
And being somebodies
I slip on my pants and boots
And step out of the trailer for a smoke
Looking at the moon
Looking at the light on in the neighbors bathroom
Looking at the bikes in the yards
Looking at the birds
And your name carved above my heart
Red
Torn
Flesh
You tore away my innocence
As I tore yours
We were children
And I had much to learn places to go and not too long away
Back when the drinking was fun and the needles were fun
Back when we were Sid and Nancy, back when I fell asleep inside you and mingled blood on my chest like some ritual of fate.
Back when we rode fast on the ******* Harley  next to the sea
And I picked you up at work
When I broke my hand on Jeremy jaw for slapping your ***
But now
I hate your name
And the scar on my chest
And the cigarette burns around it
And the faded blue tattoos
I love another now,
Someone gentle
Someone understanding
Someone with a real red beating heart
Someone who understands
That the world spins
And we are just two specks
Seperated
And clinging to the same earth
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2015
The Marginal Difference
Tween Child And Adult**

awake Sunday stuff to do...
another unit of life decapsulated,
where one will compromise
with all those lofty
make believe dreamy would-be goals
that course thru the brain,
when sleepy morphs into
the to do list at the premier  of today's
wacky wakey consciousness movie

and a poem forms on lips
that have not yet been
coffee'd
into adult responsibility

the list purview'd,
and you purvey,
foresee, attending,
bend back that pointer finger
looking right at ya guiltily

one and enough,
believe getting that one done,
will be
satisfyingly crossed off that
grownup
groaning
tatooed list
of the unavoidable

one will make the
marginal difference....
tween child and adult
Sunday, Pi + 1, 2015
Olivia Kent Jul 2013
Sweet Catherine Eddowes,
Second lady one of two,
On a night of grisly finds in the square of the bishop's headdress,
In London's not so fair city,
On this the Sabbath's tragic night,
'Kate' tragic shrew was tamed, not by Petruchio,
This murdered lady from tragedy of night walk,
Tatooed lady, hazel eyes and fiery auburn hair,
Bonnet left on after death, protected her beautiful hair,
Perhaps the ripper cared,
Kate filled usually with vile temper,
Her temper not apparent on that sad night,
Appeared to put up no fight,
Her beautiful face was sliced to ribbons,
Cruelly disfigured by this evil,
Usually was a jolly gal, loved to sing and dance,

Unable to make a flight to escape the merciless wrath of this mystery man,
Carotid artery slashed and dashed,
No blood left on the ground,
Smeared foul faecal matter all around,
As ripping evil stole, her bowels,
Lain, like sleeping naturally ,
Still warm corpse discovered,
Fellow passing by saw a woman pass,
May have been her with a chap, fair haired,looking shabby,
Different description from the others,
Poor Kate left family of three behind,
A daughter and two sons,
The sun had set for the last time,
For their poor dear mother.
The forth ripper victim!
By ladylivvi1
MD Jun 2010
On the middle of the corner, in the middle of the street
People stood upon their hands and walked upon their feet
Passing buildings quickly, with windows stacked up low
across busy intersections, where nobody could go

Passed the lonely baker, who was playing with his meat
Passed the school bus driver, who drove a bus that had no seats
Passed the town librarian, who was learning how to read
Passed the determined farmer, who harvested his seeds

Passed the peace corps building, which was breaking out in fight
Passed the b-ball court, where the children were all white
Passed the city dump, filled with brand new mercedes
Passed the rich district, which was really very shady

Across the flowing ocean, where no water had a place
Through the crowded mob of people, where nobody had a face
Up the steepest hill, which to ascend you had to slide
The password spoken honesttly, so we knew you must have lied

Through the unlocked gate, which swung locked right behind
to a place where people searched endlessly, for things they'd never find
where people who saw sickness, didn't care to find a cure
where people who were tainted, had the ***** to claim so pure

where people who were feasting, didn't have any food to spare
where shoemakers kicked at homeless, who's feet didn't have a pair
where pacificstic people,  were often forced to duel
where the hopelessly uneducated, were denied a school

down main street, where the people's needs were second
i saw a statue of a man, who began to beckon
so i went right up the stairs, passed the man into city hall
where a gathering had taken place, citizens hugged the walls

I walked right up to a man, and we began to speak
I asked about the town, which had started to look bleak
"Nonsense," he countered, "we're most certainly at our best!"
I smiled back enduringly, sure he had to jest

"Just take a look" he said to me, and pointed out the door
and suddenly, before my eyes, money rained upon the floor
priceless gems and sea shells, gathered from the shore
and women who wore no clothes, but were tatooed '*****'

My mouth opened slightly, and I admit to nothing witty,
instead, I questioned, "but what about the people in the city?"
he looked at me and smirked, with a wink i must admit was stealthy
"forget that now, can't you just enjoy the fact that i'm so wealthy?"

"Well sure," I admit generously, "but aren't you supposed to lead?
And spread this money around, to teach and clothe and feed?"
Scowling, he shook his head, "I do the best I can"
so I gave it one last try, before it all hit the fan

"I'm sorry, sir, just one more thing, I don't want to make you late"
as I looked disgustedly at the massive amount of food piled on his plate
"Yes, boy, what is it?" (as his belly starts to inflate)
"What about all the people, the people behind the gate?"

We both looked out past the city, where people had started to bleed
passed the dying culture, who was being eaten by greed
passed the fat man who stood before me, who could save lives but was too lazy
"Them?" he laughed heartily, "oh they're mighty ******' crazy."
Natasha Mar 2015
My tired eyes meet yours
Straining in the dim lighting
Sipping the drink you bought me
Through the thin straw
Sweetness tatooed on my lips
I gently lick it away

Your voice is brash
But mine is almost somber
I play the part well
Of the innocent rabbit
And you're the sly fox
Looking to devour me

Suddenly I'm in your den
Sitting on your mattress
Watching reruns we've both seen
You say loosen up
And touch my thigh
Sending pulses between my legs

Your tongue dives in my mouth
Exploring every crevice
Like a cartographer
You reach up my dress
Looking for the ocean
Your tongue tastes of sea salt

Your face between my thighs
Telling a story I've never heard
Your tongue is a paint brush
Skillfully scribbling caligraphy
I cry out in a foreign language
That feels so familiar

Every inch of my body
Quivers with joy
But there is no love here
And I wonder
If I'm really the innocent one
Or if I devour hearts as well
i see this face
this face i see
is tortured and at peace
it speaks for all
and all it speaks
the language of a sunset
beauty burned into its words
strong and full of reason

i hear this face
and no one else
the world has gone dead silent.

i see this face
this face sees me
its eyes tatooed with wisdom
dipicting tales of past and present
the future of this generation.
caution creeps behind its eyes
warning and protecting
yet leaving all to fight alone
the miseries
of blind beleiving.

i see this face
who has no face
lost in realization
crumbled and contorted
by a selfish
oblivious civiliazation
it crys without a tear duct
releasing from the heavens
a pure and noble life preserver
contaminated by humanitys freedom.

i see this face
disintagrate
befor my very eyes
collapsing into space and time
i feel the heart
the soul the source
of my humble existance die.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
~~~

Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence ‘gainst the merchant there.


Shakespeare
The Merchant of Venice

~~~

Dedicated to all people who are
persecuted for their ethnicity


~~~
Therefore, Jew

know all ye men by their
presents
an invitation
to be seated in the imprisoning box,
resting upon and before imbalanced scales,
perforce, by force,
this low world court
of the blinded
and still, and yet,
a chamber filled
of honesty-depleted
unjust men,
courtier witnesses,
of hate repleted

expect only mean justice serviced
for in the course of justice,
none of us
should see salvation


the scales pre-set,
one side favoring,
by the "virtue" present
of the tipping lean of
finger-pointing, weighty, pointless,
consuming hatred

the world despises you, Jew

this sunrise surmise,
no surprise, routinized,
freshly delivered daily
to thine inbox's unsettling
junk mail

so,
inviable victims, you bookish people,
be well unforgiving,
for to fore,
the new day commences,
supplying fresher welts and taunts,
soured served upon a
cracked, blackened,
break-fast plate

no finale,
no solution,
to our rooted rutted hated fate

yes, ours,
for am I not too
numerically wrist-tatooed,
guilty for praising God and
seeking favor with all the people,
the Lord counts me in our numbers,
every day by day,
these present and souls past,
living mated with despotic hatred

be ever sophisticated,
cyanide cynical,
no news here, this too
shall pass,
parse a new year approaching,
and none the wiser

refrain from the pain,
cease to pine and whine,
de-rank from sniveling logicians
for all such propositions,
are
by silence answered

Hath not a Jew eyes?
Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses,
affections, passions;
fed with the same food,
hurt with the same weapons,
subject to the same diseases?
healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the
same wind?

but even the wind
turned against us,
for nothing is sacred,
even a deity's creation,
when men
raise up their children
to rise up
to hate

Therefore, Jew,*

seek no mercy
in the court of men;
thy salvation
and thy recompense
has forever been and will to be,
seak not to wash away
the surfeit return of the ilk of unwarranted hate

code nurture the silent
divine spark
within,
for that is the entirety
of your obligatory,
ancestor-inheritd gift,
this alone
you shall
warrant
and speak,
acting accordingly,
for this is the whole of
your plea
*. http://m.jpost.com/Israel-News/Sports/Israeli-youth-windsurfers-barred-entry-to-Malaysia-for-world-championships-438220#article=6017MTMyQzAyOTEzQThCRjRBQ0RFMUNFNDkwRTBGNzZBNjM=

hardly a surprise to me,
that the reception to this poem is
chilly
Riverdance Aug 2012
who am I?
it is a question i ask in vain
amidst all the terror my life has brought
i find time to inquire.

who am I?
the answer never comes
through all the screams
i look up at the sky and askk.

who am I?
my name never mattered
instead i was given a number
tatooed on my arm in burning ink.

who am I?
in order to stay sane i speak
to myself or others
and together we try to remember.

who am I?
i do not think i will ever know
and i stare at the black doorway in front of me
with the smokestack up above.
wordvango May 2015
tried to buy a little of  it
a new brain and new shoes
thought the name had meaning, like Good humor stood for
good treats my mamma never had a dollar for,
placed , after selecting a two dollar pair of Adidas and a fifty cents  pair of socks
on the counter, and a brain with street sense common, the
( tatooed brown girl, kinda hot)
smiling, chuckled when I tried to pay with my food stamps.

Where as I was serious she thought I was kidding as she said we don't take EBT's and I asked can I get you next week.
meaning, innocently , the balance.

She did give me her number,
but no credit. I walked out empty headed , handed,
skipping with a 555 ou812 written on my forehead.
karen champagne Nov 2014
There is a thunder in my brain,
rush of adrenaline,
my secret addiction,
better than chocolate,
all consuming my body and mind,
extraordinary love,
nothing mediocre about you,
sweet tenderness,
inspiring my ingenuity,
making love not war with each other,
your face tatooed on my heart,
love to us is a verb,
this is mad love.
John Murphy Feb 2015
He said he was a veteran of the war
not this last one, but the one before
Operation euphamism conflict desert storm
he said they brought him here straight from the floor

He said they brought the bodies to a rink
And that the ice did not quite help the stink
He could not hold his hand still, he could not hold his drink
He threw up thirty xanax in the sink

There was Rickie, he was twice my age
Hoped it's not too late to turn a page
he told me 'make the best of it', he tought me to play spades
He said meals are the way to split the day

Aerosol computer duster hose
As far as he could get it up his nose
Something about oblivion, ethyl and the cold
Wednesday lunchtime traffic had to slow.

I'm not crazy, I'm just low
I've got nowhere else to go
I'm not sick I'm just upset
As all these thoughts race through my head
I'm so tired of telling lies
Smooth as corbon dioxide.

Victoria had seen and lost her day
She had the makeup tatooed on her face
She just seemed grateful for a place to stay
And wondered of they'd take her kids away.

Three days for tears and slices on her arm
Nine days, my fault for showing them my card
They'd love to do the right thing, and treat us as we are
But good insurance is as rare as heart

I'm not crazy, I'm just low
I've got nowhere else to go
I'm not sick I'm just upset
As all these thoughts race through my head
I'm so tired of telling lies
Smooth as corbon dioxide.
You militate my mind
And Rehabilitate
My heart back into normal pace
You're a Rainbow Fish, I'm a Dace
Outcast put in his place
He now wants to go face to face
With what is stipulating his
Progress as a human
His furnace is fuming
You are the one subsuming
His mind when he's angry
Now the anger is dwindling
He thinks of cherry blossoms and her smile
He's content for awhile
While alone
If he heard you on the phone
He'd be out of all zones
Not a single hint of drone
In his behavior
You put him in his best
Your name is lightly engraved into his chest
Only you may know about it
Since it's not tatooed there
He'd rather stare
Into your eyes
Instead of tell you lies
He'll hate himself
If he betrayed your trust
You're gold to him
When he thinks he's rust.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2019
Myths, lost in Cartoon Network and its spawn,

fortunate-ly
most criminals, most out-side-the-bubble,
improper thinkers, if you will,
not right thinkers,
those
are not very smart

fortunately, we

have the internet, they left us that.
We can rest and recon
we, the people, can recoup from a coup to the knoggin

next, trip a trap, snare a glimpse of that golden thread
assign that care to the piece
of your core
that cares if you remain sane enough

and follow the golden thread, this one, not
the one connecting riven mouths
of joker gods, barfing in the gulf,
the MOMA tied a cube of hay,
with a golden thread and golden needle,
in NYC, which led to me seeing Moma Luis
and his daughter who goes by
Franceska, spelt otherwise,
unspooling a golden thread on a stage
a few furlongs here
a few furlongs there
in fathomless billows of life,
stitching those gaping mouths shut, for me
thus I share the joy of being
me
and you may imagine I am more
than words
mere me dear reader, quite enough to entangle
anonymously

with a mad woman, wrapped in a feather boa,
needing the laugh, to spark
the healing
healing itches, you know, if you have scars
healing
itches, scratch with gloves,

don't destruct your self, for the rub

the touch
of love, ha, define your terms mofah!

What's love got to do with it, art
official, proper, Q-17, a mystical number
qua
quaf the essence

a puff of smoke, I paid a ttent ion to to

find Babylon, this guy did not know you, Prince
of Persia...

you a hasbeen mofah we be a little bit farther now
push a bit
push a bit
7 come 11, watch I measure smoke cought
or caught in my throat

the artificial-ness, we must dis-pute in time
******* smart
self
aware.
Watch y'self, this is the age of miracles
we got us a clown

wombed-man... it all got choool
the facts
of now
make next appear possible.

forward and up, tough for people
right
now

some words struggle for worth
values
meaning meaning meaning worth paying you
to know
add to your childhood collection of coolhood collecti
stuff
to claim you own it own it own it

ify ify if you glow, who needs to know, like
from a star
POV
Bette from a distance, a mob is a mobmind,
a shared thought you got wrong,
twisted, twisted, twisted to true

and the signal fades into the sound of the helicopter
setting new power poles.

The grid is using humans skilled in war manuevers
to set new power poles.

Thashits poetic.

And my magi-pen don don don't run
dry,
in the summer
we go deep, down to where the big rocks
that would not break rolled
to a stand still
y'know.

a selah, preceding a halle lu Jah.

Another fine day, in Pine Valley, lookin' west.
for overlooked
jots and tittles tatooed is silly places.
Musing
J Feb 2014
Lying lazily in the venus chamber rose-tinted and arabian damp,
the rifle rests nearby, and twilight the color of corpses glows in the blinds.

Beyond, chimeras velvet mechanical gnaw and bud,
spilling out babes crazed and crucifixion stained.

And I know I was spilled with them,
with my back scarred with phantoms of missing wings.

But just like my seeds are boiling in her tatooed altar,
my plot is defining itself.

With my lungs rendered sore by the milky smoke exhaled
and lingering like ghosts of melancholy, the chamber fades to black.

Then my skull begins turning with the planet's core,
and into the alien forest I go, hunting for another kiss.
dated oct. 2012
I got the cup i deserved not
Playing hero
In front of a crowd
A crowd that only cheered and jeered
Overjoyed with my bedding destruction
They gave me a new name, Devastation
Still a name I deserved not
And with the blink of an eye,
A jeck and a wreck i became

Cowardice tatooed on my back,
As i faked my bravery
I took a step forward
When i was supposed to back off
Lured myself into the ocean of darkness
Plunged deep, deeper than i imagined
And i lost myself
Dined with demons
Sang lullabies of doom
Ensnared in their deciet
And crooked, my pathway became
How, why, when and where?
As the questions roars in mind,
I just wish I had done things differently.
When all the drama is gone, when you become sober,,,,, thoughts lingers
donna valenz Oct 2015
Walks along a silver shore
Arrows drawn to the moon.                             Stepping lightly.    
Agile hunter.        
Drifting slightly
In her graceful room
Wanders through the wilderness            
Her eyes sharp and feline
The twisted curls of ebony
Entangled with the vines.
Her body's temple
Tan and pure
Is tatooed with myth and time
When her dirt stained face turns to the sun
It kisses her lips, divine
Esther Sep 2017
sometimes i wonder where she went, that girl. who used to love to dream and read and write and draw, who was so passionate. i wonder why she isn't here with me now, where she went, if she went anywhere at all. if she eroded away with time and if i might find her sediments still somewhere, being tossed around in the waves of my mind. if she was startled from that dreaminess when the alarm clock woke her because she was only a dream, if she ever felt tired enough to go back to her old self. sometimes i wonder if she died, if i missed her funeral, if she even had a funeral (and if she did, who would go? she didn't have any friends), if her body is still rotting somewhere in the cracks on my skull. because that's where she's fallen—in the cracks.

i think about her too often. I am too caught up in the past and future, i don't even recognize the present when it's staring back at me in the mirror.

the words have left me.
i am so lonely without them.
i am so lonely without her.

i write her obituary over and over in my head but none of the words sound right. she was great, she was awesome, she was more than that. she was a dreamer, an artist, she was more than that. she had thrown her head into the sky and rejoiced to see it floating amongst the clouds. no, she was more than that. still more than that.

because i miss her.
i really ******* miss her.

i've said this to myself so many times they're carved into my skull, tatooed onto my lips, blackened my teeth with their ink. i've said it so many times but it doesn't bring her back. i miss her more but that doesn't bring her back either.

i should use my time resourcefully and try to find myself while she's gone but i'm nothing without her. without her i'm just a headless body navigating the streets of newyorkcity at 3a.m. i get lost when i'm alone and i can't stand it. i am a simile without the adjective, just two nouns that don't know what to do with each other. i am getting lost now, writing this.
he had
the *******
tatooed on his cheek
above the scar,
whispers when he talks,
and people listen...

the edges worn
on the black and white photo
he fondles in his hands...

he walks passed the tombstones
collecting the bouquets of flowers,
gardenias, some violets, and finally red roses
kneels
places them gently on her grave

she was the prettiest cop
that ever arrested him...

passed the ******* tattoo
above the scar
one longing tear
forever falling...
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
Sanskrit prudence in Dublin...
because you know...
i'm your next: on cue to be the next
Delmore Schwartz in making
Finnegans Wake somehow "pop"....
not going to happen: dear son
of an Arab lost on Aran...

i thought the prize was the puzzle: per se?

oh i'm sure you have heard... the Irish...
can we please serve these people
the proper non-anglican diacritical markers?
no? we can't?
no problem... we'll find alternative avenues...
i will never find my feet making
footnotes in a Thailand...
the rich rushkeys and the rude -
compensation markers -
the culture from beijing...
always your first go to...
stomach ache...
apparently cannibalism is not so bad...
when you hear about what
the chinese are cooking...

no... can i please pet my cat?
i like petting my cat...
and there's this "how-almighty":
pretty awe-mighty Allah stressing
pork decrees as: "***** meat"...
like i said... ***** are vultures...
but... bound to water, to salt water...
well... you know that salt is...
a bit like keeping meat refrigerated?
it's a compensation guise of keeping
meat alive...
that's at least how herrings from
the baltic were kept...
ask any tapeworm or other kaleidoscope
of parasite...
no thing to be found or be bound
to being denoted: alive...
in the dead sea...

salt curates more than the viscious
sun, the desert...
salt and how it can be thought of as...
******* the juices -
esp. noted in cooking -
in a stew, a broth, a curry...
the magnet addition...
throw some salt into the equation
and watch the tapeworm
shrivel and die...
dehydrate the body...
salt caramel lollipops...

thai... thai **** beetroot:
because there was no bogus
to begin with...
eh... fickle most probably tamed
feeble stomachs...
probably glutton or lactose intolerate...
weak western stomachs that
need to be pampered...
oat free - wheat free - lactose free is
my limitation...
gelatin free too?

but the irish... exploration of
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
it has to be: catcher of the F...
upon hitting the definite article you can
see and sport a sparrow with: delta...
the fact...
the said...

otherwise... i already stressed:
the **** **** worth of truth -
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head - like the next ukranian -
and that's how you pet a dog?
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head... let's watch
a cascade of dominos as if:
if ever karma!

the irish myth of θought...
oh... unlike me...
looking for... oh look...
omicron O iota I...
φ phi insert the door locked...
turn, twist, θ... door opens...
****... troy's trident of
Perseus making miracles
with a strap-on *****...
Ψ pops out, motto: "check your soul"...
an atheist a materialist...
supposing... do i still have a thinking attached
to the existence of a soul,
or was it more or less...
lodged in the bribe pocket of materialism
of the body that...
cancerous evil... when not looked
at the serenity of the event via a botanical
lense of... the mistletoe...
which is a botanical variation of cancer...
it grows on trees...
and people demand to be kissed under it...
hell'oh lip cancer!

but the Irish? oh there's still that....
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
which is like saying...
the sanskrit crowd surd the H...
it's silence... the irish will never...
the θing is true...
nope... the irish will: the τing is true...
or... apostrophe the H out of the whole
"thing"...
it doesn't apply to: THE...
that theta's trip is already lost...
replaced by churchill *******
a east end london girl:
wishing Whitechapel was somehow...
a Hammersmith... comparatively?
they don't differ, that much...

the Irish searching for the tau in theta?
oh sure... no Yeats in sight...
not mention of the chinese philosophy of:
eat dogs first... salvage the cows for milk
Tao...

but in Sanskrit the H is a surd...
which... must be a Boston Irish t'ing too!
how the T can escape the greek F...
and the other greek F of φilosoφy...
otherwise... what do we call it?
ψycology: in spelling: psychology...
but in "reality"?
surd π:
σycology - no... south korean PSI... is there?
nor with a surd gamma (γ) in:
'νoστικ... i.e.
no more a 'νoστικ than... oh! the eye-itch
of having to... nonetheless write:
γνoμη (no-oo-mm)
because by now the epsilon or eta is also,
somehow: surded...

a known-aum...
and yes: the K is surd...
like in no-um... otherwise dhal or dal or daal...
or a macron appears above the A...
and we have ourselves
a gnostic ('nostic): gnome ('nome)...

nomine ex response agnitio?
ex pandectis Florentinis... repraesentatus,
com[m]entariis Accursii, Scholiis Contii...

i believe eta (η) to be the shorter version
of epsilon (ε)...
as i believe that omicron (o) to be the shorter
version of omega (ω) -
then again... that's just me...

believe my disbelief -
to first own a dog - a leash -
to later discard a dog: a bullet to the back
of the head...

but... i fold...
this is not a poker came i'm going to be
best equipped by...
it's all that more simple since...
i'm not a native: curator tourist...
it's a Dublin "thing"...
when... i'm told to stress extracting
a tau from the theta...
calling "it" a τing and not a θing...

i am allowed to relax whenever the 2nd
greek F comes into play...
"relax"... φilosoφy is somehow;
what? the *****-slap waiting in the background...
when the atheist materialists use a term
like soul... but... thinking should not
be investing itself in the existence
of a phantom, a ghost,
all thought should be invested in the body:
all body: no soul...

no wonder... psychology...
oh the name will not change...
after the "death of god" the human soul has become...
at peace in refining its sadism...
it's very gentle... it's very subtle...
it refined fine dining!

first you require the prime...
anaesthetic... a curtain of fiction...
fiction is the ultimate anaesthetic...
it's not the sort of anaesthetic injected upon...
dealing with critical pain...
sending you into a pocket of coma...
fiction is a subtle variation of
the anaesthetic... the pain of a pointless
existence requires more cushions
and less... fears of the needle...
imagine what fiction wouldn't be...
if... you would require people to be
pampared to...
to have pigs slaughtered...
cushions! to have "proper", ahem...
"grammar" and "pronouns"! ahem...

and i have been diagnosed as a schizophrenic...
i tell you...
bilingual is the new schizophrenic!
i love it... the one time when
poetry can meet psychiatry:
on its own terms: on the crux of metaphors!
i love it!

at least that's how you explore:
pseudo-medicine...
psychiatry...
the grey areas with metaphors...
the entire litany is probably an oops
and a Daisy of a correct etymology - "correct" -
otherwise misnomer applications...
a hammer was used for screws...
a screwdriver was used for nails...
same old, same old;

better you than me...
and that me is not the you about to listen
to some heavily tatooed nymphomaniac
from st. petersburg: alias novosibirsk...
i too though i was a bit mad
having moved from the outskirts
of London... into the center of Edinburgh;
clown luck at being right;
i should have been the sort
to have moved from the underbelly of
Tehran - interracially bred -
started a renting company -
and had a girl by the name of Laura...
what's Laura in Farsi Baháʼí?

i was this close to ******* my way into
the cult... this close...
suitor: better i just stick to the beetroot,
parsley root, carrot, turnip,
wholesome cabbage, potatoes...
and sure as **** no mamluks,
no oasis... no mangos... no peacocks...
just your standard ***** meat hogs...
fauns and...
what does the quran call the original:
not domesticated "pig"?
bore or boar? what do i call beer
when they only start serving wine? mead.
Qualyxian Quest Oct 2020
Erin Go Bragh tonight
Tatooed on his chest

A little more basketball
Before I get some rest

Episcopalian church
I wai the Celtic Cross

Red Pine's book at home
My t-shirt is the Boss

Patience, truly patience
Step by step by step

Eddie Vedder's Society
Sung with Johnny Depp

           Placements!

— The End —