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Darla Cooke Jan 2011
Bad boy with your tattooes and piercings.
You are the player of our neighborhood.
Why do all the girls gather around you?
Can't they see that you're up to no good?

Bad boy with your sparkling blue eyes.
Your hypnotic gaze it captured my heart.
I fell head over heels in love with you.
Never believing one day we would part.

Bad boy with your charming laughter.
It's what I missed about you the most.
A sound I would hear late every night.
Haunting my dreams just like a ghost.

Bad boy with your seductive smile.
Never again will you trick nor fool me.
I am no longer trapped by your spell.
From your hold I have broken free.
Martin Narrod Feb 2017
Into the crash, imploded. Escape from light, I've known it was, the righteous and right thing to do. Where is the name? I'm listening. I hear the storm, it's growing for me, an old familiar know-it-all, with a glowing knack for mediums in the park each seventh Sunday, it takes a demon to splice my hearing, I'm in a covert closed-box first-class second-rate fairy-tale, and it is my time to start going for something transfixed, something the locals bare their graves and lapse over the journey the girls take heavily with their ****** and their men are swaying with the light. Taking their time to get to know them, until the lye takes off their fingertips and their lips cool an echo that I've cured my ears to listen closely towards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until this lover you chose by name, can't see. Until this lover you saw inside, can't see you very clearly tonight, you can't get by. You only just realized you're not the kindest mind, in fact yours is the weakest light.
wm jones Dec 2011
you and me?
yeah,
our kids will bathe in paint.
look like that colorful zebra
from the brand of gum that i can't
think of the name of
she'll have your ears and nose,
and lips if she's lucky. my eyes, my short legs
my love of spicy food.
he'll have my hair and nose,
and good teeth, eh, maybe.
he'll be born with your tattooes. maybe my dad's sense of humor.
grow taller than any of us, turn into a tree.
span the view of sky from the tips of you and me.
she'll cradle this planet's ashes in her hands,
and he'll hold our hearts together with duct tape.
she'll have your voice and my phrasing,
a hybrid accent in between.
this is the best hallucination i've ever seen.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2021
from the depths of a drunkenness that's melancholy:
the most sobering truths...

co to jest: świadomość -
to jest... narodziny pamięci...
i nie-pamięci tzn.: akt zapominiania...
w tym że człowiek się rodzi
w stanie pierworodnym:
a pierworodna świadomość
to "jedynie" najczystrza imaginacja:
co potem staje się:
zagmatwana, jako taka "druga"
za pomocą zmysłów:
nie jako ta piersza:
          czerpioną z świadomoś ci
samej-w-sobie...

nonwendigkeit:

not wrtten... but how a German might say it...
non-vendish-kyte...
or... sharpening the caron of the invisible S
entrapped in the G...
to a... nonwendiśkeit...
non-wendiś-kajt...

like... ich is also isch... which is also:
iść: to go... to walk...

NOT WHEN DIG KITE...
digging for kites?
or... Keats?
    
   no one serious, no matter of seriousness...
just sounds... encoding of sounds...
Hangul or hieroglyphics...
most certainly too much drinking...
oh: and a translation...

ha! if i were a Milan Kundera and wrote in Czech...
right... even if i wrote in German...
how many years later would
a translation arrive?
writing in ******...
ugh... the etymology... Slav...
the English imply the origin of Slav...
is labouring under a "lost" E...
hmm... should i start calling the Russians
for clarifications?
let's see...
   Slav has an etymological root in Turkic...
which Slavs? the Yugols?
the southern... Slavs?
you're all ******* Franks?!
Swabians?! are you? last time i heard we
ref. to ourselves as the remnants of
the Sarmatian inquisitiveness...
some... Iranian tribe... Aryans...
  
******* sputnik historians...
makes my blood boil...
little things... always the little things make one
into a ******...
punctuation marks... displaced...
i'm a pedantic beast...
Slav is derived from Slave for Turkic...
really?!
Słowianin... word-smith...
słowo: word...
     ANIN: you want to know the meaning?
having no master...
word without a master...
slav(e)... the English approach...
let's suppose...
secretly i'm rubbing my hands waiting
for the Scots & the Welshmen...
why? why... because i can...
because i will not be subjugated to
etymological dunces!

******* Western sling-shot targets...
Bristolians...
Devonshire pompous *******...
what are you... some ******* proto-German
with ambitions to make a history with
Anglo-Swabians?
the winged hussars of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth: no... didn't... no... n'ah...
didn't come to aid Vienna...
well... i was told to learn the history
of the Norman invasion...
& the life of Edward the Confessor...
whom i very much adored...
i can't bring my history to these isles...
my "tattooes"?
in the script it states:
black-African... black-Carribean...
but not anglo-slav...
sorry... ha ha! i "feel" discriminated!

******* English ***** thinking all Slavs were
slaves of the Turks... yeah... maybe...
the Serbs! the Balkan Slavs!
us western Slavs waged wars with the Ottomans...
now my barber is a Turk & i thank god no
ethnicity touches my ****** sprout...

see! the English stress their values...
i managed to call them: universal
on a ZOOM call...
sure... "universal"... but hardly without their own
fault... come... come one...
who's kidding who?
labouring under the strict obligation of discovering:
DISCOVERING... not learning...
history...  sure... up in Edinburgh...
the local are... ******* up in arms
with standardised Elizabethean English...
*****...
     pompous Derbyshire whittle boys!
toffs or wigs! either of them!
        i want to bark in a way that i might
spew a spare tooth!  ****'s sake... hark! hark!
i want to bite! i want to bark!
no... you don't spew etymological spoofs
and get away with it...
i'll just round up some Ukrainians...
some Russians...
Tartars & the Cossacks...

        it insults me... "thinking" that...
there's this clue of a... oh... "merely" a "missing" E...
to arrive at Slav from Slave...
blood... is... boiling... & i'm not even on the side
of the imbecile surrogates of marzipan C4
explosive vest quests...
my grievance is... eh... more personal...
no Iraq or Iran invoked...
    i like to watch...
i need to watch...

           i like... still life... decay...
     what once was fruit is now cider...
  you don't confuse etymology though...
i.e. where does the term German come from?
the man with the germs?
the sickly **** bring-along?
******* Anglo *****...
broken bonkers on their audacity...
always the prideful wankers...
they were & are... pandered prideful wankers!
i ****... but you couldn't tell...
these ******* stick of ***** wasted!
ugh!
  as much as i love them as much as i hate them!
hey! hey!

so... what's a windmill to a
pumpernickel?

pronoun neutrality in the plural...
what the **** happened to the ROYAL:
ONE & WE?
did that simply... "fizzly" put?
one might,
we were expected...
to hell with trans-gender grammatical rights!
what next?
trans-physics! then state it!
metaphysics & metaphor is a load
of *******,.. as is the thesaurus...
let's do... trans-physics...
i'm clueless as to how we'll begin...

i'll just check with the Russians...
the seem to be the most informed people...
i stopped looking at the setting sun...
when i started up a conversation
about... tortoises...
reiteration... between Tamil...
Hindi... you can speak perfect Hindi...
& Urdu is not some superiority zunge...

to the steppes with you!
tam! dalej! wio!
huca! tym rze! dawaj!
fio!

       pampered Englishman...
when were you last invaded?
ha ha... oh... right... your beginning of history...
so... Darwin was a... ahem.. a...
"mistake"?
ancient Rome knew of the **** similis...
they paid enough attention to it...
but not as much as might not be required...
sorry...
you might right: but only on the sly... with a slight...

i drink the DARK WATERS... the sharpshooter
liquid... whiskers without a cat! hey! you *******
meow i'll turn you into a ******* pear! face first! hey! hey

— The End —