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Mary McCray Apr 2019
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 3, 2019)

“Not all those who wander are lost.” -- J. R. R. Tolkien

I was an office temp for many years when I was young. All the companies: Kelly girls, Manpower, Adecco. I took innumerable tests in typing, word processing, spreadsheets.

The worst job was at a sales office for home siding. I logged complaints all day on the phone about faulty siding.

I worked at a construction site in Los Angeles, a new middle-class ghetto they were building on the Howard Hughes air strip. I worked in a trailer and had to wait until lunch break to walk a block to the bathroom in the new library.

There was one warehouse I worked in that had mice so employed a full-time cat to work alongside us. The cat left dead mice everywhere. I was always cold there.

A lot of places I was replacing someone on vacation, someone the office assumed was indispensable but there was never anything for me to do there but read. I wrote a lot of letters to pen pals and friends. Email hadn’t been invented yet. Sometimes I’d walk memos around the office. Nobody ever invited me to meetings. Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes it comes true and you end up sitting in endless meetings.

In one swanky office I prepared orders in triplicate on a typewriter. I kept messing up and having to start over. Eventually I started to enjoy this. It was a medical lab and was convinced they were doing animal testing so I left after a week.

One of my early jobs was as a receptionist in a war machine company. My contact there asked me to do “computer work” (as it was called then) but I didn’t know how to use a mac or a mouse. My contact called my agency to complain about sending out “girls without basic skills.” My agency told me not to worry about it, the war company was just trying to scam us all by paying for a receptionist to do “computer work.” So they stuck me at the switchboard up front where I found bomb-threat instructions taped under the desk.

I worked at a design store and learned a program called Word Perfect. I started typing and printing the letters to my friends. The St. Louis owner was trying to sell the company to a rich Los Angeles couple. Once, a young gay designer I admired called and referred to me as “the girl up front with the glasses.” I immediately went out and got contact lenses. Before I left, I bought a desk and a chair they were selling. Years later, I sold the desk to an Amish couple in Lititz, PA, but I still have the chair.

I once worked for a cheap couple running a plastic mold factory. The man was paranoid, cheap and houvering and I said I wouldn’t stay past two weeks. They asked me to train a new temp and I said okay. The new temp also found the owner to be paranoid, cheap and houvering and so declared to me she wouldn’t stay past the week either. She confided in me she had gotten drunk and slept with someone and was worried she was pregnant. She was freaking out because she was going through a divorce and already had two kids. I told her about the day-after-pill which she had never heard of. I don’t know if it worked because I never used it myself and I never saw her again after that to follow up.

At another office I did nothing at the front desk for three weeks, bored and reading all the Thomas Covenant novels. I would take my lunch break under a big tree to continue reading the Thomas Covenant novels.

I worked for months at a credit card company reading books and letting in visitors through the locked glass door. Week after week, the receptionist would call in sick. One young blonde woman would give me filing work. She was telling me all about her wedding she was planning which sounded pretty fun and it made me want to plan a wedding too. After a few weeks she asked me what my father did. I said he was a computer programmer. She replied that my dad sounded like somebody her dad would beat up. I was too shocked by the rudeness to say dismissively, “I seriously doubt that.” (For one, my dad wasn’t always a computer programmer.) When it became clear the woman I was replacing had abandoned her job, they asked me if I wanted to stay on. I said no, that I was moving to New York City. I wasn’t  (but I did eventually).

Some places “kept me on” like the mortgage underwriters in St. Louis. That office had permanent wood partitions between the desks, waist-high and a pretty, slight woman training to join the FBI. She fainted one day by the copier. It was there that I told my first successful joke ever. Our boss was a part-time Baptist minister and we loved him because he was able to inspire us during times of low morale. One day we saw a bug buzzing above us in a light fixture.  Before I even thought about it I said, “I guess you could say he finally saw the light.” Everybody laughed a lot and I turned bright red. I wrote my essay to Sarah Lawrence College there after hours at the one desk with a typewriter. My boss and I got laid off the same day. He helped me carry my things out to my car.

I worked at a large food company in White Plains, NY. I often came home with boxes of giveaway Capri Sun in damaged boxes. I helped a blind woman fill out her checks. She was really grouchy and I wasn’t allowed to pet her service dog. She had dusty junk all over her desk but she couldn’t see it to make it tidy. I realized then that she would never be able to use a stack of desk junk as a to-do list...because she couldn’t see it. You can’t to-do what you can’t see and how we all probably take this fact for granted with our piles of desk junk. Years later I had the same thought about to-do lists burned in phones or computer files.

They also “kept me on” at the Yonkers construction company. I was there for years. The British woman next to me was not my boss but she ordered me around a lot. She told me I looked like an old 1940s actress I had never heard of who always wore her hair in her face. I was annoyed by this compliment because when I looked the actress up on the Internet I could see it wasn’t true. At the time, everyone was just getting on the Internet and I was already addicted to eBay. I would leave meetings in the middle for three minute at a time to ****** items with my competitive late-second bids. It was my first job with email too, and I emailed many letters to all my friends all day long. One elderly man there thought it was funny to give me cigars (which I smoked socially at the time) and told me unsavory ****** facts to shock me. I thought he was harmless and funny and his attempts to unsettle me misguided because I had already grown up with two older brothers who were smelly and hellbent on unsettling me. Later the man started dating and seemed happier and I met his very nice older girlfriend at one of the laborious, day-long Christmas parties our Italian owners threw every year. Months later his girlfriend was murdered in her garage by her estranged husband. Most of the office left to go to her funeral and I felt very bad for him.

And they kept me on at the Indian arts school in Santa Fe. I loved every day I spent there, walking the halls looking at student art. I had never seen so many beautiful faces in one place. One teacher there confided in me about her troubles and I tried to be Oprah. She ended up having to take out a restraining order against a man she met online. At the trial, the man tried to attack the female judge and she awarded the teacher the longest restraining order ever awarded in Santa Fe: 100 years. He broke the restraining order one day on campus and we were all scared about where he was and if he had a gun. All around the school were rolling hills and yellow blooming chamisa and we found tarantulas in the parking lot. I was there almost a full school year until I moved away.

I was once a temp in a nursing temp office that had large oak desks and big leather chairs. The office was empty except for one other woman. The boss was on vacation and she spent all our time complaining about what an *** he was and how mistreated the nurses were. I remember feeling uncomfortable in the leather chair. The boss, who I never met, called me one day to tell me he had fired her and that I should know she was threatening to come back with a gun. When I called the agency they laughed it off. I told them I wouldn’t go back.

My favorite temp job was at a firefighting academy in rural Massachusetts. I edited training manuals along with two other temps. It was very interesting work. The academy was in the middle of the woods, down beautiful winding roads with old rock walls. Driving to work I would listen to TLC and Luther Vandross. And whenever I hear Vandross sing I still think of the Massachusetts woods. When I left, they let me have a t-shirt and I wore it for years. One of the trainers had a son who was a firefighter who asked me out on a date. I said I was moving to New York City (this time it was true) and not interested in a relationship. He insisted the date would be just as friends. He took me to Boston’s North End and we ate gnocchi while he told me how he didn’t believe it was right to hit women. This comment alarmed me. He then took me to a highrise, skyview bar downtown where he proceeded to **** my fingers. I thought about Gregg Allman and Cher’s first date where Gregg Allman ****** Cher’s fingers and how now Cher and I had something in common: the disappointment of having one’s fingers ******. My scary date didn’t want to take me home and I was living with my brother at the time, so I told him my brother was crazy and if I didn’t get back by ten o’clock my brother would freak out like a motherf&#$er. That part wasn’t true...but it worked. I made it home.

I used to be deathly afraid of talking to strangers on the phone. I used to be bored out of my mind watching the clock. I used to wish I were friends with many of the interesting people walking past my desk.

When I look back on all this and where I’ve been, it seems so random, meandering through offices in so many different cities. But it wasn’t entropy or arbitrary. I was always working on the same thing.

I was a writer.
Prompt:Write a meandering poem that takes its time to get to its point.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F

~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green

it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual

"record breaking warmth"

yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen

traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived

so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city  bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day

"record breaking warmth"

for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night

indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
# but not tonight, as I am
unbelievably,
upgraded!
patty m May 2014
Overturned are my
struggles to find the jewels of the sun.
A stealth of time, purveyor of death,
watches me constantly.   He is the sole survivor;
bag of bones, a Lazarus, rising from the grave,
his dark half my constant shadow.
Shrouded in mist the ghost moon rises.
I feel snared in its web of dreams.

Null regions, temp idle chance,
The Mirrored Realm on high,
indeterminately drifts.
Dog Chewers battle the Serpentine Lynx'
their violence flares.
                 Hugging the thorn-bush
I become both pawn and victim,
making frightened noises
while rooted to the spot.

Then a brief interlude as War-birds fly over,
and the hunters flee their domain.
The shore line winds bone-white
past deserted fishermen's shacks as
gulls shriek eerily over a turbulent sea.

Vaporous thought, as a perpetual chill
seeps through my skin,
how I yearn for yesterday's blankets,
but yesterday was years ago.

I slip into oblivion, boulder-gray
blown about in frantic wind gusts.

Suddenly tiny creatures
descend through the darkness;
each small hand holding a glowing ember,
as they flit on tiny wings
offering hope from up above.

I stare, dazzled by sunlit-ice
no mouth of death, this,
but a luminous feeling of well being.
Now descending  is a glorious presence
scattering  goodness upon the earth.
Two embers she gently places in my hands,
jewels of the sun,
                 see how they gleam and flicker,
or could they be stars?
if i was a pearl i’d feel itchy scratchy stuck inside an oyster shell if i was a tree i’d  be a big fat redwood fantasizing about Julia Butterfly Hill living and peeing around me if i was a dog i’d be a Catahoula hound if i was Italian i’d be Sicilian if i was pasta i’d be spaghetti if i was Icelandic i’d be Bjork if i was a rock star i’d be Elvis Presley Bob Dylan Jimi Hendrix Jim Morrison John Lennon Bruce Spingsteen Maynard James Keenan if i was i writer i’d be Herman Melville Mark Twain James Joyce William Faulkner Thomas Bernhard Yukio Mishima Naguib Mahfouz Phillip K. **** Gabriel Garcia Marquez Annie Proulx Lydia Davis if i was a poet i’d be Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Ted Hughes Gwendolyn Brooks Pablo Neruda  Heather McHugh Carl Sandburg Robert Frost Arthur Rimbaud Dante Alighieri Homer if i was a painter i’d be Leonardo Da Vinci Michelangelo da Caravaggio Johan Vermeer Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Cezanne Marcel Duchamp Jackson ******* Mark Rothko Ad Reinhardt Anselm Kiefer Susan Rothenberg if i was a photographer i’d be Man Ray Ansel Adams Edward Weston Diane Arbus Robert Mapplethorpe Sally Mann Helmut Newton Richard Avedon Annie Leibovitz if i was a philosopher i’d be Socrates Plato Aristotle Jean Jacques Rousseau Sören Kierkegaard Immanuel Kant Karl Marx Georg Hegel Friedrich Nietzsche Henry David Thoreau Ralph Waldo Emerson  Jean-Paul Sartre Jean Baudrillard Michel Foucault if i was a singer i’d be Woody Guthrie Otis Redding Grace Slick Bob Marley Joni Mitchell Marvin Gaye Johnny Cash Patsy Cline June Carter Patti Smith Chrissie Hinde Nick Cave P J Harvey Beyonce if i wa a band i’d be Velvet Underground Ramones *** Pistols Clash Cure Smiths Joy Division Uncle Tupelo Pixies Nirvana Nine Inch Nails Madrugada Sigur Ros White Stripes Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra Justice of the Unicorns if i was a boot i’d be Chippewa Frye Ariat Red Wing Tony Lama Wellington if i was a shoe i’d be Christian Louboutin Jimmy Choo Kedds Chaco Chuck Taylor p f flyer if i was a dress i’d be Channel Dolce & Gabbanna Giorgio Armani Marc Jacobs Comme des Garçons if i was a cowboy shirt i’d be H bar C Rockmount Temp Tex Karman Wrangler Levis Strauss Lee if i was a hat i’d be a Stetson Borsalino Stephen Jones if i was a fruit i’d be a mango apple banana blackberry if i was an scent i’d smell like fresh perspiration jasmine sandalwood ylang ylang the ocean if i was a doctor i’d be a gynecologist neurosurgeon if i was a flower i’d be a hibiscus rose orchard if i was a stone i’d be a sparkling ruby diamond opal if i was a knife i’d be a k-bar switch-blade machete if i was a gun i’d be a Remington Winchester Beretta Glock AK-47 if i was a car i’d be a Lamborghini Ferrari BMW Saab Volkswagen GTO Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger if i was a  TV show i’d be Law and Order if i was actor i’d be Charlie Chaplin Humphrey Bogart Steve McQueen Robert De Niro Ed Norton Shawn Penn if i was an actress i’d be Marlene Dietrich Ingrid Bergman Natalie Wood Audrey Hepburn Marilyn Monroe Helen Mirren  Meryil Streep Brigette Fonda Robin Wright Julianne Moore Angie Harmon if i was a female comedian i’d be Gilda Radner Lily Tomlin Nora Dunn Joan Cusack Sarah Silverman Tina Fey if i was a  football player i’d be Sid Luckman George Blanda Walter Payton **** Butkus Mike Singletary Joe Montana Jerry Rice Payton Manning LaDanian Tomlinson  Drew Breeze if i was a celebrity i’d be Charlotte Gainsbourg if i was a rapper i’d be Tupac Shakur if i was a movie director i’d be Sam Peckinpah Robert Altman Stanley Kubrick Roman Polanski Werner Herzog Rainer Fassbinder Louis Bunuel Alfred Hitchcock Jean-Luc Godard François Truffaut if i was a bird i’d be a eagle hawk sparrow bluebird if i was a fish i’d be a dolphin shark narwhal Charlie the tuna if i was breakfast i’d be a French toast pancake folded in half with 2 strips of bacon in between if i was a cold cereal i’d be snap crackle popping rice crispies shredded wheat cheerios oatmeal if i was tea i’d be Japanese green matcha Irish breakfast Tulsi Thai holy basil Lapsang souchong Luzianne Lipton if i was a soap i’d be French hand milled ayurvedic Avon Ivory Dove Pears Aveda  if i was a man i’d be a football basketball baseball tennis swimmer athlete if i was a woman i’d be a track star runner writer painter gardener doctor nurse yoga mom i'm just scratching the surface and the beat goes on lahdy dah dah
.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
“leave at your own chosen speed”

always,
Dylan inserts a phrase that haunts,
indestructible permafrost,
played in slow and ever slower reverb all life long,
for it’s intuitive and you recognize it too well
as the best companion to the sour ending of another love affair

(but! this one differs; called love yourself)

the sad of a dying love, remembering the steady drift away,
capped by a casual remark that doesn’t sting but
cuts a Y on your chest, a lover’s coroner courtesy,
the bad humours permitted to at long last healthy escape

you’re staggered but say nothing for
speed
is a changeable elf, a mischievous devil,
requiring constant monitoring cause you moving,
but the speed limit alway a reflection of the road you’re on

speed is a tag along to show the overall fit still works,
though now far from the obvious and familiar
and the inspiration modifies,
so you retrofit untill the parts are incapable of
bending to new demands, contours unfamiliar, old plans no good

“leave at your own chosen speed”

for I am leaving you as I leave myself,
beaches erode,  lighthouses corrode, the salt cannot be refused,
the earth demands your return as the lease is deemed
non-renewable and the space where the date shall be inserted,
is parcel of the contract and though blank, certain to be fulfilled

the body erodes, the ***** parts corrode,
and this season of the new year^ comes with the usual disclaimer
recited on the tenth day from today

‘who will live, who will die,’^^

taught to you as a young-in, a child who can comprehend
even before manhood arrives, comprehend that life ends,
all good things and it ain’t no use, born compromised, but
“don’t think twice, it’s alright”

the slate you have written overdue for a prudent clean wet erasure,
so you begin to leave at your own chosen speed,
which is kind of nice, even cool, organizing your papers,
write with contented softness that so long eluded,
now come easy heady peasy

after a life of reciting poetry, good bad and always too long,
the pressure is on and off, side by side, even a dimming bulb
sheds some light, revealing what yet needs revealing


that Day of Atonement annual visitor,^^^ he/she of impish humors,
makes Pandora play a new station,
‘dimming of the day,’
reminder that it gave you a piece of an unowned heart to hold,
leased temporarily but the temp is roaring,
who, boo hoo, for you?

life and love is all about leaving,
the pen in penitent gone dry, no refills in this new world,
wish that **** rooster would stop crowing at
the break of sundown,^^^^  when I'll be gone
I'll be travelling on, for when the new day begins,
that’s my own signature personal gravestone marker,
the sundown poet
------------------------------------------------------------­-------



~the first day of the new year on the Jewish calendar
  Mon, 10 September 2018 =  1st of Tishrei, 5779

  Rosh Hashana 5779
^ see https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur

^^ see poem  https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833523/for-leonard-cohen-who-by-fire/

^^^ see poem https://hellopoetry.com/poem/462537/how-i-observed-the-day-of-atonement/

^^^^ jewish law says the day begins at sunset till the next sundown
Josie Sep 2016
Cell phone, oh cell phone
Why won't you ring
Any job will do
I need money
To stuff in my shoe
Nobody is hiring. Sigh.
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
Returned flush with excitement,
From a ten mile bike ride,
On a day near perfect,
Out along the river,

Temp in mid seventy's
not a cloud in the sky.

Beside the river I ride,
the water summer calm flat,
Scents of wet mossy rocks,
and dogwood trees non relenting.
The perfume of the Valley,
the River damp, sweet and pure.

Ride as I did the trails,
some on paved surface.
most on wood chips and dirt.

Shifting gears to suit the,
changing terrain and the
resources within my aged knees.  

The wind from my speed,
blows refreshingly in my face,
Dark glasses slipping down my nose,
yet keeping sun glare from blinding.

I pass some people,
I smile and wave,
they reply in kind,
Maybe we even
exchange brief
verbal greetings,
Some lost in a blur
of movement.

Easy for us all to smile,
we are happy in our work.

Half way there,
I stop for a drink,
Ease my burning legs.
The spot I pick is under  
cover of a huge old walnut tree.
It's massive umbrella shade,
an embracing sanctuary.

Across the way, a little lake,
On the far bank there stands a
metal skeleton outline of three
buildings that once stood there.
This recreated site of the first
European settlement in Oregon,
Clear back in the year of 1837.

Methodist Missionaries they
were, came overland West,
from North East by wagon.
Bringing so they thought,
Needed "Civilization" to the
poor "heathens" here about.
Almost as always a very,
mistaken, arrogant notion.

There effort lasted only
four years, the locals
responding not so well to
their well intending invitation.

In historical retrospect,
one can not but applaud
their self scarifies, hardship
and strife, some of them even
died still trying.

However they did open
the door, to a new beginning,
Be it for good or ill.
Soon other settlers
made the long journey.
Becoming "Oregon Or Bust"
for many.  

As I reflect sitting beneath
this tree those early people
no doubt planted,
from seed or sapling,
brought so far to this
new land of beginning.
It stands here still,
176 years later,
a wonderful living,
still growing testament
to human efforts of trying.

The breeze livens,
stirs sweet pungent
scents of brackish water,
forest, and Valley,
hints of crocus,
ripe black berries and
summer flowers blooming,
All these scents mingle,
and grow ever stronger.

Off in the near distance,
a strengthening breeze whispers,
Approaching through forest trees
coming ever closer and nearer.
Reaching me in a refreshing
gust that lasts for only a minute.
The sweat upon my face
cooling at it's touch. As I smile,
in grateful acknowledgement.

I have seen this day,
two kinds of squirrels
one red, one grey colored.
Coveys' of doves taking flight,
from my approaching bike,
And birds of many description,
A Red Tailed Hawk on wing,
Harassed by two small pursuit birds
protecting their nests from him.
A huge Bald Eagle diving for fish.
And one of my very favorites,
a spindly legged Blue Heron.
Standing in mud, fishing.
Even a smart fox,
scurrying back to hide
in the foliage, too shy
and too fast to be viewed
for too long by a human.

Thankful as I am,
for this one more
glorious day of living,
In the ***** of nature
so inspiring, so splendid.
I embrace Life and in return,
it grants me, continuation.

I plan on returning soon,
maybe tomorrow if my legs
let me.
To those new agers, young hip and maybe even a little
judgmental friends out there. I'm a plain simple old guy,
not word fancy, I write pretty much like I speak, a little
old fashion but straight from the hip and heart. No pandering,
no pretense, no ******* and surely no apologies intended.
It's not pure, maybe not even poetry, but what I guess I'm
saying is consider the source and take it or leave it.
It was written and intended all for me, from the beginning.
Which is what all writer's and poets should always do,
write for themselves not a Jury. There is a real freedom in that.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
a poem I didn’t plan: but a foot upon my shoulder
gave me no choice

if perfection came along regularly
we would not take note of this August Sunday

the breeze looks steady, blowing a firm few knots
making the waves rulers of the bay
without the necessity of troublesome whitecap shoutouts,
the sailboats muttering ‘thankee’

the kids dock jumping into the water so warm
they shiver running in the chill of a warm summer day, 
 to home, where they do the coverup thing
with hoodies and their Great Aunts white haired cozy blankets
which appear in untold numbers,
one for everyone and don’t drip the cherry frozen sticks
stains from your tongue and lips!

the sun temp modulated and moderate, a summer kiss farewell,
after weekend of thunderstorms and house shakings, it is sad for now
we recount the costly lost days unretrievable and
sky watching
for  naught

the waters inviting again come walk-upon me Island Poet,
to  see my new sea bottom treasures that the heavens,
abetted by foolish men and children
have added to my storehouses of grains and pains

decline and recline for
Oh! have I not got one more weekend, to
close out that Melville tale^
and that is something one need not rush to complete

let me clarify -
!I am a Summer Man!^^
and the summers sunsetting
is a ring around my chest that sings ever louder
nearer my god than thee;
now at the age where one only counts down to zero at double time
marching, eye straight

in this place where we - god and me -
have sung and battled together
like good friend and peer,^^^
college roommate permanent enemies,
he keeps his teary rains in abeyance to remind
that the coming of his schooner is
inevitable and to pack my poems in
plastic for the journey
finale

Oh! how can perfect be so saddening but it is...

my perfection days are minimizing and should not complain
for wrote many poems to day, unable to refuse my traveling muses
who summer with me, one upon each shoulder
until god kicks them off, with a bossy look of
he’s more mine than yours

to make sure his presence acknowledged he
makes Pandora play Billie Holiday singing:
“I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you”


subtle, right?

but who am I to complain
the razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin
sometimes are they not the same thing

ne sont-ils pas les mêmes?


an unplanned poem
naturally

part of the plan
Clouded Aug 2015
The temp of my body is insinc with the earth
The health of my bones is tossed with the rocks turn
The temp of my body is insinc with yours
The heat of the body burns down to my core
The temperature of the temple is increasing rapidly
And the height of the thunder is high and howling
The earth stops to turn
The seas dry to burn
The thunder cries and yearns, to howl at our bodies insinc heated temperatures.
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...

lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...

sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...

every story has a different
author, ending...

sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment

eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination

oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente

cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...

how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes  better,
sometimes different...

why
is a question needs no asking...

when

when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...

when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming

when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking

where

is when
the how and
the why
intersect

the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


times are tough
more than ever;
bills come at the speed of bullets
taxes gather like summer flies
and debts ricochet against our walls;
the banks want more and more
but there's just air in our pockets


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


the jobs dry up and
the dollars dwindle into cents;
permanent becomes temp
and temp becomes non-existent;
full-time goes into part-time
and part-time into casual
and casual into zilch


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


nature conspires with the economy,
sweetheart:
she sends rains and fire and landslides;
she claws sands off the beaches and
all we have left are
government ******* and *******
who care a hoot about our fish and chips


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


time's not on our side either, sweetheart;
mind you, with mighty puffed cheeks
he blows H1N1 flu round the globe
and so sends people and customers away
and those who remain turn cheap and nasty
and all these pigs want are discounts and freebies


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


the collection agencies are knocking, dear -
it sounds much like the knock of death
in Beethoven's ninth;
the mortgage barbarians are on their horses
and they send writs and auction threats
and re-possessions


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life


O hang on, sweetheart,
hang on tight:
many will fall, many will bleed
but those who hang on tight
and those who can love
those who can dream together
they will ride the nights out into clear day


hang on tight, baby -
keep your senses wide
for we're going on a roller-coaster ride;
scream as much
but just hang on tight, baby -
hang on for dear life
a song for our times, that is, during this world credit crunch (1st published online 2009/05/31)
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
the english don't know how to drink *****...
sorry...
  they don't...
  by the way?
  the english artifact of saying sorry?
it doesn't actually mean an apology...
the apology always comes too late...
but english nightclubs?
the english? they don't know how to
serve *****...
   ***** is never served on ice...
       i'm losing followers? am i?
good...
               i like my self-imposed
censorship...
    i like weeding out the soft pockets...
of people with weak
stomachs...
   for all the celebration of Darwinism?
peer into my eyes...
          if you really want to serve *****?
***** isn't whiskey isn't
red wine, served at room temp. being
allowed airing...
    mind you... funny fact...
   six cloves of garlic dumped into
a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks...
3 x 25ml of the wine...
apparently curbs your appetite...
don't ask me whether that's inclusive
of a placebo effect...
               but when you're drinking
*****, proper?
   you don't add ice...
and keep it at room temp.,
          you freeze it...
   to below -10°C...
            ***** isn't whiskey!
   i know what warm **** tastes like,
i once fused red wine,
and, having ****** into the holy grail,
and subsequently drank the concoction...
    come to think of it...
******* the Vatican colored flag of
extraction into a sacrament?
  you need ***** to be served below
the freezing point of water,
given that, 0°C is a baron of quality
differentiating water from *****...
           alcohol evaporates at around
70+°C...
                        p.s. interlude:
i was never fond of the imperial rubric
of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds,
miles, inches...
  and all that quirky "genius" of
measurements...
            mathematically?
i'm aligned with French...
         but you don't serve *****
at room temp. with ice cubes
and a mixer...
            given that ***** has a lower
boiling point,
you serve it under the "niqab" of
waster becoming ice...
so you serve it...
   as something, equivalent of
gomme syrup...
   you drink ***** that appears
syrupy...
                   like any single malt
puritan when it comes to whiskey?
there are ***** puritans out there...
you don't drink ***** lukewarm,
or slightly chilled...
you drink it at a temp. of
a gomme syrup...

liquid -20°C...
         thick...
                with all the alcohol poisoning
bacterium dead...
                appearing
     excessively sugary,
but not really...

           night clubs that serve
***** not stashed in refrigerators
like butcher's meat?
            don't drink the *****
in those places...
   if it doesn't have the smoothness
of a gomme syrup?
sliding down your throat
like a mollusk on amphetamines?

the epitome:
*****... and orange juice?!
you ******* me or opening
a ******* parachute while
stranded to the the ******* ground?
Quentin Briscoe Apr 2012
I don't sleep,
You slumber
Your weak,
I hunger
For flesh,
Your flesh
that you will desire
I temp you with fire
heat upon your bones
send you comfort in cold homes,
I play when your awake
plan then you par take
Hahahahaha I'm what you want
make it easy or els I'll taunt
Come and join my craziness
These things will be your happiness

MONEY
***
GETTING YOUR BODY HIGH
POWER
AND FAME

Forget the rest of life its Lame
NO LOVE FOR YOU
No respect of truth
Lies Lies Lies
You all love the lies!!!
I'll never leave your side
No seat belts on this ride
HAhahaha I'll Win
Cuz all you want is Sin
So go head and close your eyes
Cuz You'll never sleep when you die...
Joshua Vincens Apr 2013
Ya wonda why I'm filled with so much passion and rage/
But that's what happ'n when ya lessen a man to a cage/
I haven't even unleashed the darkness/
Imagine a soul that's cold 'n' heartless/
Crowley is weak compared to the I beast/
Within me, 'n He I now release/
It in I and we have begun to feast/
Spit it out/
Shut ya impudent mouth n listen/
Time ta quit ya ******' insolent dissin'/
Check me out I'm hookless/
Reckless/
You follow the text n I'm bookless/
Check this/
Determination look me in my Eyes/
Ya gunna stay in tha gutta, ***** *****, just to watch me rise/
RA!/
I am incomparable/
Can't match  me, I'm too lyrical/
I am a spastic assassin/
Breath deep/
I am the heir, with anthrax-in/
How I see it, You nuttin' but fails/
You in a row boat *****, n my ***** got sails/
Ya call me crazy/
Ya vision is hazy/
And ya thinkin is lazy/
What I know would make ya a sage see/
I'm filled with these higher optics/
Shouldn't need a telescope ta spot this/
But you do/
What, Hoss is up, Livin life in love/
'N neva givin' a ****/
Crowned/
I Come here to shut ya ta hell down/
------------Chorus-----------
Duranged/
It's Dark n Strange/
Quit ya askin', 'What am I?'/
Darkness Fire burnin' opaque, I neva Die/
Strange Set by Ra, Look to tha Sky/
Nothin' weirder than I/
So Dark N Strange/
I Am, Cryptic Poetic Hark outta Range/
Who is, Dark n Strange/
Ya frightened of tha Wakin' Age/
Ya tormented by hæmaluna change/
IT'S NOW/
Needa label me "I Am" - The Omnipotent is Dark n Strange!/

------------------Verse 2--------------------------------
I'm spittin' real ****, so consider me exlax/
Banishing the lies, I'm leavin'em just facts/
True talk is how this ****'s gunna torment Ya/
Break ya Soul if ya fearin' It, I'm thinkin' torture/
Wake Up/
No fire to go with  your sulfur/
Poor tormented Souls end of time to torch ya/
Flowin' hot speakin' blazen fluid/
Become a fire frequency king druid/
Remain in vain and **** it, You'll die morbid/
In days last You'll be over timid/
Skinnin' weak people like piglets/
Label me 'Naught' I've no limits/
I'm life Livin'  in center aligned/
Tippin' scales them ******' swine/
Ascend win twin minds combine/
Balancing act Life's **** or 'dalini/
Rise Up/
I'm beastin' the intensity/
I climb ladders frequently/
******' sick of livin' hell I harmonize Energy/
Mind insane I'm bringin' ******* madness/
Lost senses found you still sittin' sadness/
Be More/
I'm mastering levels with the Dodecahedron/
Ya livin' lame that's ya lazy ******' conundrum/
I get pure data that's distilled in a cauldron/
Most minds are piles of **** like postmortem/
Abominations bossin' somniliquists with abhorrence/
Only condemnation for such ******' malevolence/
Opened eyes providing ya with luminescence/
End for all contempt contrite by due reverence/

-------Chorus-----------
Duranged/
It's Dark n Strange/
Quit ya askin', 'What am I?'/
Darkness Fire burnin' opaque, I neva Die/
Strange Set by Ra, Look to tha Sky/
Nothin' weirder than I/
So Dark N Strange/
I Am, Cryptic Poetic Hark outta Range/
Who is, Dark n Strange/
Ya frightened of tha Wakin' Age/
Ya tormented by hæmaluna change/
IT'S NOW/
Needa label me "I Am" - The Omnipotent is Dark n Strange/

---------Verse 3----------------------------
I'm Clinically Fearless... Absolutely scared of none/
You're afraid of my haunted paradox... Defined me Fearsome/
I'm sick of this ****** lost society/
Living a worthless illusion no reality/
What is it/
Mass Individuals stuck in egotistical vanities?/
I am goin' crazy contemplatin' such insanity!/
Can't you see/
This is the path of demise for humanity/
You need a hand, so sad/
Refused for me to help you, your bad/
To hear this/
You need to wear a mental harness/
This is the seed of my soul's darkness/
Everybody does share none and lives careless!/
The fruit is hard truth, Ya life is hopeless!/
There's tha gun, here's tha trigger- PULL THIS!/
Should have been Tempus Fugit as We Carpe Diem/
Too late tempers temp-is ****-it Masses parley Global Requiem/
Yeah I know my process is dark & strange/
My mind is warped definitely it is deranged/
After all I Sow & Reap for simple change/
Here is wisdom, which is validated by three/
Blow your ears & gouge your eyes, than you will see/
Divide by none return to your commUnity/
The end of my advice, now reach for DivUnity!

-------Chorus-----------
Duranged/
It's Dark n Strange/
Quit ya askin', 'What am I?'/
Darkness Fire burnin' opaque, I neva Die/
Strange Set by Ra, Look to tha Sky/
Nothin' weirder than I/
So Dark N Strange/
I Am, Cryptic Poetic Hark outta Range/
Who is, Dark n Strange/
Ya frightened of tha wakin' age/
Ya tormented by hæmaluna change/
IT'S NOW/
Needa label me "I Am" - **The Omnipotent is Dark n Strange!
I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.
It makes me anxious, and it’s not only the chemical interaction.
Somehow, I associate it with “adulthood”—reading the news,
Drinking coffee—I can’t tell you how many days of the last few
Years have been spent entirely in this fashion. The coffee
Growing cold and the news colder still. I don’t even taste the
black, fluid drops. I don’t hear the screams of people I read
about. I just want to hold on to something—so I raise the glass
to my lips. I can’t say

the shocking words when my mouth’s full; I can’t tell

about my experience, my privilege, when I’m drinking it.


The production of the commodity

creates a line from some equatorial region
to central America, and my mouth.
I think about the Autumn I worked in a corn-seed
sorting facility. What a short experience—
and yet,
something that weighs heavy on my imagination.
I was a temp worker.
I chose to work there out of shame and guilt for having
missed the deadline for college enrollment.
I could have done anything else; but there were people
there who wanted nothing more than a job. They needed
to be
there.
And I think of the people involved in producing coffee beans

in much the same way.
Removed
from the thing they’re making, as the raw materials are shipped
to places you pay workers more.
Why shouldn’t I swallow with difficulty when faced with the pro-
spect of a person supporting their entire family with the type
of work
I did
reflexively, as a choice?

Now I sit here, reading about North African riots,
a region, where coffee is produced—
ARABICA COFFEE— and I think about what’s sitting
in my cup, how I have
spent more money than they make in a day
to buy
one container

and sit here
for an afternoon
doing nothing but reading about their families’ misery.

I am a human parasite.

And like the bedbugs that have crawled meticulously
between my mattress and bedframe, hiding in a safe spot
until they can come out, undetected, and **** my potency.

I sit here, in the comfort of an apartment furnished
and paid for by my father who grows corn in a highly-
mechanized, agricultural society. I take more and more,
festering to the size of a blistering, red dot
blinking in the dark, in the form of the record light on
my voice recorder.
I expect so much more from myself, simply because of
this position of luxury.

But I don’t take time to think about my reaction to these
stories or how I am involved in them, in shaping their plots.
I’m even eating more now
as I’ve nearly lost my concern with avoiding certain super-
markets.
I smile at the greeters, make small talk with the cashiers
whom I am openly exploiting. But it’s ok, because
I worked for a month at a cornseed manufacturing
facility
and I read Marxist Ideology,
and I know about the Arab Spring
and I was against American intervention in Libya
and I disdain the air strikes from robotic planes
(unauthorized by congress)
and I disdain congress
and I support gay marriage
(I stopped eating chicken).
I don’t drive to the suburbs of my city.
I walk and ride my bicycle as much as I feel like.
I use public transportation at times.
I try to get to know women.
I practiced safe ***, once.
I write poetry.
I tell my mom I love her.
I bought my nieces birthday presents.
I’m not overly nice to people of different
ethnicities.
I voted for Obama.
I’m trying.
All these things make it seem less bad
to smile at the cashier.
But then I think about my black studies Professor
who used a walker to come to class
because she fell
and spelled the word Amendment “Admendment”
on the board when talking about Reconstruction.
I think about the war in Syria.
I think of people dying from cholera in Haiti, in 2012
A.D.
I think about fracking and oil spills and …
irrevocable damage to Indian reservations.
I think about football coaches molesting children
and people eating fried butter.
I read about people
upset
with a movie
who protest in the streets for days.

It makes me realize I shouldn’t smile at anyone.
I shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
I shouldn’t be reading the news.
Poetic T Nov 2014
And so the green balloons did grow
Inflated, nurtured over time,
This tree of air
Nitrogen,
Oxygen,
Carbon
Dioxide,
Argon,
Traces of other gases too,
Out side was warm
Internal temp minus triple degrees,
What had been barren branches
Now sustained as these
Strings matured forth
Buds of latex and rubber grew,
Liquid air exhaled as the buds nurtured  
Air expanded with warm the green balloons
Grew
&
Grew
Sprung forth in to life what once was
Small, now expanded fuelled by the
Cold fuel of the tree of white,
In the winds they did gesture
As if dancing putting on a show
Tree,
Branch,
String,
Green balloons flourished there veins
Feeding air anew,
Blustery winds picked up
Strings did snap, green balloons did
Float away, drifting upon high
Into a sea of blue,
But as seasons change,
Green balloons became loose
Many floated away to places new
Those that did not,
Deflated,
Depleted,
Exhausted,
Nourishment of air, no longer green ballons
Phenomenon's of gases changed
And green faded now this tree of air
Brought forth new shades of
   Yellows,
Purples,
Black,
Oranges,
So these colours did fall from the tree,
Floating not as before,
They did descend, slowly to the floor,
Biodegradable. they did fade
From view, not what they were before,
The life cycle of these green balloons
The tree of white grows evermore cold,
For seasons change and green balloons will
Grow again next spring  floating in the air once more.
All balloon poems/writes can be found by  balloon-series
Nature science & balloons
Westley Barnes Jan 2018
This is the fourth time it's happened this winter
The fire is sparking
("Put on another log to dull the flames")
The wind, whipping up chaos outside, conspires with the moon
to plaster open our eyes, and
tangoes with the red of the streetlight to foreground the terror, the dramatic pull to this scene like the beginning of a barfight.
But all you notice is the snow.

Captivating Slush, like the wondrous stupid glow of children's television
("Close the door quickly, it's below zero outside!")
My chest wakes up to the sleeky bitterness of it, gentle but rousing,
like the critique of a crush taunting the back of your neck, but in reverse.

You've said that last line, and it's the response of everyone who can't savor what they most anticipate, the arrival of the thing itself cast aside for something mundane like safety.
The thing itself for you is watching snow,
and now you gladly push it away.

Life is so unpredictable, yet so callously routine.
To live in seasons is to be constantly surprised at things exactly how you've seen them before.
It's not emotions that frighten us, emotions are hand-me downs, the old favourite band t-shirts of experience, often ones we've worn before.
It's the feelings that surround emotion that we shunt out, that we tipex over in our journals of memory, our synaptic splints.
The tears of children who never turn back
to confront their tormentor with their tears.

And so now I'm walking upstairs as a means of brushing off these notions
("For the love of ... make sure the bathroom window is closed")
And I check my phone while debating how to spend the rest of my evening engaging with my phone while you rewarch American sitcoms, so cosy, your contentment as reliable as Irish wind
Then I sigh and look out the Bauhaus insulting bedroom window
Again I see the circus coloured tarpit the weather has made of our street
And wait a minute, trying not to feel anything
Because this is the fourth time this has happened
This year.
Ilunga Mutombo Aug 2018
Anxiety Pills popped
skin temp dropped
Depression sky rocks  
Mind feels numb
Mellow from popping pills I shouldn’t swallow
One pill, two pills, three pills, this is how love kills, chasing cheap thrills, to end up on reels
Pride suffercated, ego tested
Limits ignored
Emotions battle back
as I stimulate myself with techniques my counselor taught me, they don’t seem to help
as my heart still feels empty, this pain truly has taken the best of me, and introduced me to my inner enemy “me”
Breath in and breath out
Deep inside the demons want a chance to shout
Wrist full of memories
Blood loss reminding me of near tradgeties
Anxiety kisses my neck while depression traces its ***** hands all over me
This is a ******* I hoped to not be in
In the end I *** pure emotions
Give it your own means. Three stories combined in one poetry piece.
erin haggerty Feb 2010
mundane
poems
of
heartache
bleached
curtains
dull
skin
scenes
of
fury
once
alone
longing,
oh
shape
shifting
black
crows
pecking
at
new
life
fantastical
frenzy
leading
me
down
to
the
purgatoryof pretentiousness
erin haggerty
Perig3e Dec 2010
Remember the Christmas
we rolled our own chipatis,
Indus whole wheat,
like fine beach sand,
an equal measure
of all purpose white,
water, oil, salt as needed,
then rolled thinner
than unemployed hope,
stove top baked on high temp,
topped with fresh tomato red,
and green pepper salsa?
Now, that was bread!
All rights reserved by the author
Mia Apr 2014
Scars

One. If I could, I would nail these hands to the edges of sky. I would sacrifice this body to the earth, hoping to resurrect someone that doesnt have the heart to  care about you anymore.

Two. Staple me to a table. Pierce my side with your broken promises and I will bleed all the pathetic reasons why you deserve one more chance.

Three. Loving you was the last thing that I put my all into.

Four. You wanna know how I got so bitter? Well, I ripped every last piece of you in my heart and soul and all that remained was regrets that you didn't care.

Five, I whispered you into my dreams.

Six, I spoke you into my heart.

Seven, I dipped my hands in a future that didnt exist, I touched you until you were imprinted on my very soul, treated you as if you were the only molecule of oxygen I needed ; I was good to you.

Eight. You wanna know how I got these scars? Well, I cut out my pride and then it crawled it’s way out of my mouth and I begged you to make me happy.

Nine, I realized that I was never really your girlfriend, I was just your ******* convenient-temp.

Ten, I hope your next girlfriend gets stds.

Ten, Yes I said stds.

Ten, I really hate you.

ten, I never want to see you again.

ten, I still love you. Wish I didn't.

ten, it’s hard for me to keep count when I get emotional.

Ten I heard that over 90% of human interaction is not verbal..so.. I guess the signs were right. You don't want me. You don't need me.

Ten, if I could, I would tie your arms to a wish and then auction you off to my best and worst memories. To the random girl who will start dating my ex boyfriend two days after we broke up (yes, I know you're going to move on real fast.)
When I realized that you were in a relationship with the one guy that I thought I would someday spend the rest of my life with, I broke into a million pieces. I said to myself, “Kevin Hart would say he wasn't man enough for you. Or you weren't good enough for him."
I swore I would never love again, it was all a joke to you. Some twisted game you won.

One: Everytime I see you with girls in a picture, I want to take my entire arm, shove it inside your phone and smack the happiness right off of your face.

Two, if I ever see you around me, I’m probably going to punch you in the throat. Or forget I ever knew you.

Three, I apologize in advance. And I know, I know that it makes no sense to have this much anger toward a man that I love with every bit of me,but my definition of love isnt being stabbed in the heart over and over as you watch me bleed out and hope that this time it won't hurt. There is nothing
logical about putting the most important parts of yourself inside hands that can't support you and shake, tremble, and drop you.

Four, there is nothing rational about love. Love freaking hurts. It lies. It leaves you wishing you had never met the person who makes you fall over and over and breaks you till you are a mess that can't be fixed.

Five, you're ******* irresponsible, and I’m tired of you using me for target practice.

Six, I was told that time heals all wounds. But what exactly should I do on days when it feels like my clock stopped cause you're gone?

Seven, you always said I loved you too much. My mistake.

Eight, I think I’ve seen you somewhere in her dreams. Like I’ve heard you talking to her and being happy together in her laughter. I’ve smelled your cologne on her thighs. Cause am sure you will be all over her like you can't be for me. I bet if we dusted your heart for fingerprints, we would only find hers. I wasnt the love of your life.Nine, you see I have this envelope in my head and heart.it’s full of all the butterflies I felt the first time you touched me, kissed me, admitted you loved me. It's full of memories for when I thought we had a future. Most of them are still alive. I can still feel their wings through the paper. Guess it's my hope. Here, am giving them back to you. I suppose they belong to you, too.
there is no better shoe
breezed and open
leather soles
reeking from my trips
to here
and there
when i go to wash them
on sunday afternoon
i always find a stinging lizard
but i know its mostly my environment
if i could move
should i relocate
there should be far less pain
nothing to ***** about
a new space means
the denial of spiders of the mouth
denial of room temp pasta salad
denial of eat hate pray
please
let me wash your feet
ShamusDeyo Oct 2014
The Little Skiff Slips through the water, following Swamp Trails.
Soft Light of a Bayou Moon in the Mist, on right the splash of Gator Tail
As it hunts in the Moonlight,  Twinkle of Neon Blares through the reeds,
From a Swamp bar Southeast of Lake Charles, Fiddle and Wash board,
Scrap , over Sweet Chords of Accordian Tunes drifting in the mist, As a
Patron of the Bar stirs coals on the bonfire, Drunken Guests Cut a Rug
On rolled out linoleum, Et Toi a Night of Bon temp Roulle on the Bayou
Inside the door, for some Cat fish and Red Beans & Rice with a cold brew
The Old Juke Box Plays Aaron Nevilles "If Tear Drops were Diamonds"
As the Band takes a Break, fiddle laying at Bars end Winks in Orange
To the flash of the Beer Sign, Uncle Solacess Raises his glass to the Moon
A high toast to La lune ete Amour de Coure, A Drunken Fight breaks out
Old Family issues, the contenders hugging and laughing over fresh Beers
As I Stumble out the door, just as the Zydeco strikes up I crank up the skiff
As I float into the fog, Bon Temp Roulle under Bayou Pale Moonlight
C'est bien de te voir, A bientot Au Revoir Bonne Nuit et Beau Reves....
.......................................................­..........JMF 10/114
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
thankfully my nostalgia concerning the late
20the century, coincides with my youth,
i mean youth, and that i also mean
****** idealism, when women were phantoms
and could never be girlfriends or
widows, or tears shed at the grave,
or nothing needy, nothing clinging,
nothing resembling mussels...
         i have to admit, i got ***** the moment
i detached myself from thinking about god...
the third partisan of the a priori
implant dictated by time & space...
            i didn't only shove my genitals into
her genitals, i shoved my ego into her
concept of god... and i subsequently became
a dimmed version of st. augustine...
              because that part of me didn't exactly
make confetti from her reasoning....
shoom!
          scalped me and dragged about 1000
tumbleweeds in its travels...
             the grand point? i didn't see
   a hairdresser, for the next never ever...
unless they do trim ***** to coincide with
      funny tattoos...
                     i don't know... maybe i was really
ultra-idealistic about women before i lost
my virginity, that after i lost it, after i lost
the foremost grace, i didn't learn the gorilla
impetus to keep one... let alone a harem...
   women really were fun and beautiful and
mysterious when i had them in my head...
      after the fact that i learned too late that they
also took a ****, i couldn't believe it!
        me, adapting to this? this fog-smeared
creature? yes, i can see my nihilism,
                    i''ve been burning that amber light
of a litre of whiskey per night for quiet some time,
drop by Collier Row's Tesco and look at the c.c.t.v.,
but then i put on some creedance clearwater revival
(not cool, aha, used the whole name, right?
cooler me saying c.c.r.? bukowski, lebowski...
same ****, different cover) -
   but i really did experience love... i know... huh ha...
did i recover from it? i'd probably have
recovered from 20 ****** over-doses...
        she got married, obviously...
  because women, don't idealise men...
  unless they meet the criteria of what men are supposed
to own... man idealising woman is a woman per se...
woman idealising man is a man contra per se...
                     after all, a man idealises
thinking about a temp. storage space for his
*******...
              which later turns into offspring...
   any woman could agree to being part of that phlegm
and being content at housing those "lucky" offshoots
in her kangaroo rucksack...
           it's as ugly as European thinking is going
to get, it can't get more scientific than this...
   i really do need a square on a rectangular canvas
to prompt a generous conversation about redifing
the point: we're not going back to the Milan school of
oil on canvas... or Rembrandt...
      it's not happening.
so creedance clearwater revival and graveyard train...
how we have bass guitar, and it's nibbling,
just nibbling... just grooving...
                  more like stalking but keep in mind
nibbling... and the there's no rhythm guitar,
because the guitar is just making accents,
the guitar is just twitching... i can't believe how
un-jazz comprehensive modern music is...
                   rhythm doesn't belong to the guitar,
there shouldn't be a rhythm guitar...
rhythm is all bass and drums...
          and i say that: because i hate metallica and how
i can never hear the bass guitar when i listen to them...
no wonder the original bassist got scribbled off...
   i love bass, don't you love bass?
something has to overpower the strength of drums
in modern music, something has to restrain
drums... needs to set the soothing rhythm,
rhythm guitar can't do that, you need the bass
guitar... bass guitar is, quiet frankly,
the most underrated instrument in modern composition...
techno techno! bongo bongo parties of
               berlusconi... bongo bongo... hatchet plus!
yes... silvio... we have the guillotine around here
too... choppy waters... plenty of sharks...
   enough to take a bite, though.
   and i thought naked lunch was bad...
well, i didn't, i didn't even want to plagiarise the Tristian
Tzara bound to it, reminiscent of cabaret voltaire.
huh?   ah yes... creedence clearwater revival,
and the bass on graveyard train, like water coming
down from a leaking tap...
  tum dum doom ta dollop... and it sounds nothing
like that... but something to allow the guitar what
it does best, sure, it joins in the rhythm section at
the beginning of the track... but then the guitar
sets up a momentum of creating accents,
  no rhythm = no solo... accents...
   little licks of being there... very ******* jazzy...
my my, so jazzy... and that's the safe ground to have
in music, retaining the jazz...
             otherwise you get into territory akin to
classical music's anithesis... the opposite of classical
music is... earthquakes... techno techno... drum drum...
drum drum... drum, drum... drum drum drum...
classical music was all about breathing...
  césar franck's les éolides (the breezes) -
and the antithesis? techno techno... muffed up techno:
ambient music... refrigerator sounds...
muffer up drums...
               don't get me wrong, i do listen to
e.g. man with no name...
         but it's rare to hear the jazzy side of things...
  it's just such a waste to see the bass guitar
not used as it should be, i.e. being over-powered
by drums... and using so much rhythm with
a guitar... having the rhythm and the solo...
  like squeezing a pair of testicles of a celibate monk...
god, that hush hush: tone down, tone, tone down,
tone, down... down... down...
             pst... kaput....
                                      i really did start talking
about something else, didn't i?
                this is new... digression as a column of
rhetorical perfection... fair enough having the rhetorical
skills, talking persuasively (well, just lying)
    about the same topic... but find me the rhetorician
than utilises digression, and forgets his talking
because he's changing subjects without really
    categorising them as being different....
    it's a trance state akin to eastern meditative practices...
digression as the most pleasing form of rhetoric,
teachers' oratory technique... not politicians' oratory...
   i never understood why digression was
not the foremost element of rhetoric...
                    political rhetoric is always about
ensuring people remember something,
they never do...
                        politicians drill in the points...
   and for some reason, they never talk to rhetorical
perfection, i.e. being able to digress...
                the most persuasive rhetoric is the rhetoric
with digression at its core...
                       or at least that's how i learned
english from a scotsman...
                                just blah blah blah blah
and at some point, there always will come an aha!
which is the next best thing to an eureka.
Joshua Vincens Oct 2012
Ya wonda why I'm filled with so much passion and rage/
But that's what happ'n when ya lessen a man to a cage/
I haven't even unleashed the darkness/
Imagine a soul that's heartless/
Crowley is weak compared to the I beast/
Within me, 'n He I now release/
It in I and we have begun to feast/
Spit it out
Shut ya impudent mouth n listen/
Time ta quit ya ******' insolent dissin'/
Check me out I'm hookless/
Reckless/
You follow the text n I'm bookless/
Check this/
Determination look me in my Eyes/
Ya gunna stay in tha gutta, ***** *****, just to watch me rise/
RA!/
I am incomparable/
Can't match  me, I'm too lyrical/
I am an assassin/
Breath deep,
I am the heir, with anthrax-in/
How I see it, You nuttin' but fails/
You in a row boat *****, n my ***** got sails/
Ya call me crazy/
Ya vision is hazy/
And ya thinkin is lazy/
What I know would make ya a sage see/
I'm filled with these higher optics/
Shouldn't need a telescope ta spot this/
but you do
What/
Hoss is Down, Livin life like  love/
'N neva givin' a ****/
I Come here to shut ya ta Hell up/
------------Chorus-----------
Duranged/
It's Dark n Strange/
You askin', "What am I"/
Darkness Fire burnin' opaque, I neva Die/
Strange Set by Ra, Look to tha Sky/
Nothin' weirder than I/
So Dark N Strange
I Am, Cryptic Poetic Hark outta Range/
Who is, Dark n Strange/
Ya frightened of tha commin' age/
Ya too tormented by change/
IT'S NOW
Needa label me "I Am" - The Omnipotent is Dark n Strange!

------------------Verse 2--------------------------------
I'm Clinically Fearless... Absolutely scared of none/
You're afraid of my haunted paradox... Defined me Fearsome/
I'm sick of this ****** society/
Living a worthless illusion no reality/
what is it
Mass Individuals stuck in egotistical vanities?/
I am goin' crazy contemplatin' such insanity!/
Can't you see
This is the path of demise for humanity/
You need a hand, so sad/
Refused for me to help you, your bad/
To hear this/
You need to wear a mental harness/
This is the seed of my soul's darkness/
Everybody does share none and lives careless!/
The fruit is hard truth, Ya life is hopeless!/
There's tha gun, here's tha trigger- PULL THIS!/
Should have been Tempus Fugit as We Carpe Diem/
Too late tempers temp-is ****-it Masses parley Global Requiem/
Yeah I know my process is dark & strange/
My mind is warped definitely it is deranged/
After all I Sow & Reap for simple change/
Here is wisdom, which is validated by three/
Blow your ears & gouge your eyes, than you will see/
Divide by none return to your commUnity/
The end of my advice, now reach for DivUnity!

-------Chorus x2-----------
Duranged/
It's Dark n Strange/
You askin', "What am I"/
Darkness Fire burnin' opaque, I neva Die/
Strange Set by Ra, Look to tha Sky/
Nothin' weirder than I/
So Dark N Strange
I Am, Cryptic Poetic Hark outta Range/
Who is, Dark n Strange/
Ya frightened of tha commin' age/
Ya too tormented by change/
IT'S NOW
Needa label me "I Am" - The Omnipotent is Dark n Strange!
Please, I would love to know your thoughts on this lyric? Out of curiosity, do you think I should write another verse or leave it as is? I would love to receive some advice if there is any you wish to share?
Mike Essig Jul 2015
All the women
in his life,
until her,
came from
the same
temp agency.
  - mce
sancus May 2017
people try
to heat up my
frigid exterior
but drop me, like
a glass of hot water
and leave me shattered
on the ground
as soon as they sense
the fervent menace
brewing within me.
Ted Scheck Apr 2013
Oh God, spare me Your
Lightning
Nuts!
Bolting
Out of the blew
Sky...

As I clumsily at
Temp to
Equate unimaginably
Complex emotions
Into knock-
Knock jokes.
But here it goes.

"Who'se there?"
YOU WALRUS.
Huh?
"You walrus hurt...
The one you love."

I can't hurt my Dad
Anymore.
He's in Heaven, a
Place as real as
The soul.
I wouldn't want to
Hurt my Dad.
I MISS my Dad.
I'm crying, now.
Right now, electronic
Tears drip near my
Electric pencil
On top of the
Virtual pad
Upon which I write these
Abstractions.
(The emotions are real, though)

When my Pop was
Alive,
Toward the end of his
78 years,
I was busy with the
Family of my own.
He and Mom were
300 miles Ioway.
I took his existence
For granted,
Always, always
Believing I'd always
Always get another chance
To see him.
I wasn't hurting him
On purpose.
I was just his oldest
Son involved in his
Oldest son's life
Wife
Kids
House
You know,
Life.
Tomorrow, Pops, I
Promised
No one at all.
I'll see my Dad
Tomorrow.

There are only so many
Tomorrows.
So after Mom passed
In the Fall of 2008,
I get a call from my
Sister
That Dad's in the
Hospital with
Pneumonia.

300 miles...
ON ICE!
Not an Ice Show, but
An icy nerve-jangly
Mess.
I didn't miss my Pops
Then, on the road, when
All I could do is pray
He wouldn't die before
I got off the **** road.
I felt the opposite of
Missing someone.
I wanted to be with
Him, near him,
Holding his hand,
Looking into the eyes
Of the man with whom
I went to a picnic with
(And left with Mom,
If you get my snow)
Drift.

He's in the hospital,
And we can only see
Him for a minute.
He struggled to do the
Very thing you're
Con or Un
...ly doing right now.
Each breath, each
Ebb and flow, the
Tide of respiration
Was a struggle.

"Pop?" I said through
The salty curtain of
Rain covering the two
Windows through which
I viewed the skewed world.
"Dad? It's me. Ted."

And stricken in that stupid
Narrow inhospitable
Bed, he raised up,
His rheumy old-man
Eyes now longer in
Respiratory foggy distress,
Clear, clearly:
"Teddy."

How many words
Does a Father speak
To his son, from
Before birth, talking to that
Comical roundness in
Mama's belly?

What whisperings had
My Dad placed into
My ear, beard-stubble
Making me giggle as
My chubby little hands
Hung onto him for life
Dear?

In that moment of clarity
Between tidal volumes of
Unbearably bearable
Pain,
I loved my Pops more
Than ever before.
And though I was with him,
I missed the old
Younger Dad.

I regretted nearly all of
My college years, when
Alcohol and girls
And girls and alcohol
And my friends
Took selfish priority
Over the man who'd
Once whispered into
His baby boy's ears.

The words of wisdom
He tried to bestow
Upon me, in those
Desperately rebellious years
I didn't take the time
To count.

I miss you, Dad.
I'm doing the best
I can with my own
Two boys, the same number
You and Mom had
(Minus the 6 girls)

My oldest, Michael,
Will soon be an
Elementary Teacher
And eventually, Principal.
If you can see him,
From Heaven's Perch,
Then of course, you know
This already.
I'm not sure if you can.
And I'm not sure if it matters
If you can't.
Heaven must be
Amazing enough all by itself.

I miss you, Dad.
I didn't appreciate all you did
For me while you were
Alive.
And now that you're gone
From this earth, I think
I can hear some of the
Murmuring
Whispers and
Hums you put into
My little bald head
As you held me
In your arms.
You taught me as
Best you could.

I put those same
Murmuring Whispers
Into Michael's ear
Nearly 22 years ago,
Into Adam's
Nearly 15 years ago.
And, hopefully,
The same thing,
Repeated, in an
Unknown span of years
With my Grandchildren.

I miss you, Pops.
And I love you.
Please tell Mom
That her poem is
Next.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
This is the game, set and matching end-piece to what is known as:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/385266/poetry-round-find-your-self-within/

by way of an introduction....

T'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

I get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they, upon my tarnished earthly being,
muse and are bemused

unreservedly and never judgingly,
share shards of inspiration unstintingly,
we share, never measuring
this captain's humanity, his human efficacy,
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
and his beloved words, derived there from,
all only know one measure...
immeasurable

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/699991/adieu-my-crew-my-crew/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Pilgrimage (Reunion)


at last to begin,
to begin the 'at last,'
this reunion occurs
this first day of June
where on my
body's flesh colored calendar,
X red-marked,
deeper than any real cut of despair


this morn, leave for familiar parts,
embarking 100 steps to that
Adirondack chair,
my name, my self,
(oh god at long last)
so often, long lovingly
revealed unto you


the garden's sundial welcomes me,
Prince, Guardian, of the gate to the green,
the green steppe way to bay and beach,
a brief song of "ring around the irises,"
blooming around him,
he issues,
to celebrate his own glory recalled,
his own purpled prosed long ago one ecrivez'd,
by having the third mate
ring the greened worn,
bronzed ship bell
upon conclusion of
his raising of the gate


shorts and T white hair shirt,
costume de rigueur
of this Peconic pilgrimage,
turban and baseball uncapped,
stepping humbly
toward that worn wood throne
where carved are
the initials of
my poetic friends,
and his vast modest,
Concordia of poetic essays


Those odd disordered
collection of aleph bets
that have been prepared for this hour,
are sun dappled,
breeze caressed,
wave watched,
a fresh redressing after a
dum hiems,
a long dark winter


all rise up welcoming with voices
tremulous yet oratory,
sing with a love so spectacular ,
Handel's Messiah Hallelujah Chorus,
au naturel


the armies of ants declare this a
Truce Day,
parading before me in formation,
the rabbits race
in elegant uniforms,
white tailed bemedaled, dress grays,
announcing their  showoff arrival
with a new across-the-lawn
land speed record


the dear **** deer,
familiar families and generational,
look upon this human and
grumble while chewing our shrubbery,
an act of sherwooded lawn high robbery
but perforce acknowledging our entrance,
by uttering a Balaam blessing/curse,
a neutralized
"****, they're back"


the seagulls on the dock,
sovereign state observers from
Montauk and the far island city,
sent by the mother winds superior,
observers and reporters to nature everywhere,
Summer Season of Man Has Begun


a few white wakes disturb the water's composure,
the early low arc'd sun has not peaked in strength,
at 10:00am, the temp just breaches 60 Fahrenheit,
the beach sand untrod, no unlasting human impressions,
no children's red pails yet to them decorate,
amidst the sea life's detritus and smooth licked pebbles


Enough.


each tree ring and grass blade demands a verse,
an all my own tributary accolade,
this too much to accommodate


a year ago I issued an invitation,
do so again for my word is my bond
my responsibilities, my *******,


there are chairs for all
on my righted round and my motet left,
here, there are
no Americans,
no Canadians,
no Aussies or Brits,
or Indians and Fillipinos,
no African or Asians present,
East nor West,
None Invited here,
Only Poets


even those hardy pioneer
West Coasters, a proud lot,
and my Southern family drawling,
and perhaps lessening the mourning
just a touch, a minute modicum,
all sit quiet in the admixture
of poets come to celebrate
the blessing to have been tasked,
to write from and of places we visit
in the cerebral,
and to imbibe each other's words


Three Hundred and Sixty Four Days ago,
I wrote :

We sit together in spirit, if not in body,
You join me in the Poet's Nook,
A few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs
Overlooking the Peconic Bay,
Where inspiration glazes over the water,
And we drown happily in a sea of words...

I am exhausted.
So many gems (poets)
to decorate
My body, my soul

I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out,
none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

Once again, in your debt


Again,
I await your beckoning wave of hello,
greet you in your mellifluous native tongue,
iced drinks at the ready,
the opening ceremony already started,
when all are seats taken
we commence officially,
with a blessed

*"Now, let us begin"
See the banner photo...paying off the promissory notes owed to myself
Drifton A Way Feb 2014
Nobody knows the troubles you pose
Suspicion grows misinterpreting prose

For the truly mindful use rhyme for a cure
Instead of ambiguous words set on shuffle
Cluttering mind full of thoughts so obscure
Open interpretation precedes a nasty scuffle

Temporarily blind, guide dog by my side
A temporary bind, look to god to confide?

This is the strangest life I've ever known
I think, therefore I am.... Just barely alive
Existence is a dream, wake up to the phone
A voice says it's time, a journey shall arrive
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.
.how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...

)            that's all i wanted to disclose...
what comes now,
is all the unnecessary details
that would constitute a prose piece...
albeit in cascade - for the ease
of the eyes bunddled up in a
claustrophobia of a paragraph:

i know: the mere word 'dignified'
seems rather obnoxious...
but... how dignified it is,
to take a walk at night...
esp. when one is recycling leftover
bottles of whiskey, whiskey,
beer... whiskey...

after reading Knausgård vol. 1 -
with his father strapped to the house
with his mother drinking himself
to death...
perhaps i'm also akin...

but... there's "****" to do in between...
good god! mein gott!
greta thunberg! run! i said run idiot!
run to the recycling center with
those glass bottles!
success though: cutting the ingestion
by over a half...

current bank balance?
nearing 2 thousand pounds...
and there's the garbage to sort between
the recyclable and the non-recyclable...
there's the tending to keeping
the house clean...

there's a remnant spark about giving
a toss about some sporting event...
there's cooking a dinner...
but... it seems i miss the man who would
find about an hour and a half
to walk the streets at night...

somehow i missed it -
but... i imagine the sight of a week's worth
of empty bottles in the wardrobe...
i've had enough and...
i call the dog that's the dignity to take
a walk at night...
to never overthink anything except
thinking - that i can leave in the basket
of nothing...

sometimes the ego-automaton jumps
in and makes my walking meditation
fuzzy... that's where i find this mythological
ego of psychology -
ego the anti-narrator...

which implies: not myself... reflexive...
not my, self... the reflective circumstance...

and there's no familiar presence
of an mp3 player (broken, ****** lasted
for 3 years, good enough lifespan)
and no headphones...

perhaps i was anti-radio some time ago...
i've amassed a decent personal library
of audio... but now i rarely use it
having made a discovery of the gramaphone
and vinyls...
and being the late 20th century colt...
i should still be ripping c.d.s onto
mp3... but...
i just wanted to check out what i was
missing...
perhaps... the crazed sound of passing
cars, will indeed, never replace
the cobblestones and hooves...
but... there's a right to heave a sigh...
for no apparent reason other than:
i've met myself this very first time
having aged...

this is not a time for west coast
1990s pop punk or punk rock or whatever
they called it... when you would
either run in gallop jumping
in a jonathan edwards style...
or looking down and walking into
a lamp-post... this is no time to be
refreshing the cinema of youth...
with the offspring's ignition...

not when you're walking: and trying not to think...

also of today: my jewish newly converted
to islam neighbour came round
asking about my mother's slight bout
of depression concerning...
her recent hip-replacement...
and what's still in the post...
the aesthetic surgery...
after all: what surgery, proper...
is also a plastic surgery - an aesthetic...
obviously the muscles and the bones
are intact... but there is always a chance
that waste tissue will be removed...
fat... etc. and it hasn't even been 2 weeks
since the surgery...
and she said: your mum should look
at my surgery scars...
i lifted up my t-shirt and turned
to show her my back... namely my
right shoulder-blade...

and i said to her: you know why i didn't
get aesthetic surgery on this mark
of cain? that's the same reason why i don't
have tattoos...
nothing against tattoos...
i have the only tattoo i need:
a mark of cain and some historical tattoos...
dates... that i keep close to me
from my time in the pedagogy meat-mincer
effort... how it began with the romans: per se...
later began with hastings 1066...
but it would never begin with:
the first battle of Tannenberg (1410)...
so you don't know how i think my mother
is exaggerating?
it's a good thing she's my mother...
she can have her ******* pass...
i'd give her the same ******* pass if...
we were married for 35 years and...
she was a woman i could grow with...
otherwise? the ******* pass i reserve for
children...

i subsequently signed her will...
yes... she came round looking for a second
witness for her will being made official...
or ****** bureucratic paper...
but nonetheless official...
i didn't mention the fact that...
the two witnesses that have signed the paper:
need to be present simultaneously...
i asked her... what's my occupation?
oh... right... i'm a scribbler...
a chicken-scratcher... writer of no
guild... a writ pusher...  

but all i wanted to write was...
i'm not a fan of the haiku...
esp. the western haiku... or a maxim:
i abhor maxims...
but if you put Kant into the juicer
and you spit out the congested
categorical imperative...
and it doesn't sound like the original, should:

act only according to that maxim whereby you can,
at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.

id est:

act only according to that haiku whereby you can...
at some distant point of time,
convene for it be a shared experience
in the ratio of a 1:2 point of seperation...
2:4 4:8 8:16...
but that's not really a categorical imperative
to begin with... what sort of "idiot" would strive
for a maxim to become a universal law...
universal laws are maxim spin-offs...
or i'm just blah-blahing too much...
waiting dear god: for the razor's edge (and drowning)...
or a punchline on stage in front of a dumb / mute
audience...

o.k. 5-7-5...
syllables... given the japanese don't use
letter but have syllables instead...
again: i'm not a fan...
if it took my long enough...
i'd find my 5 syllables and my 7 and again
my 5 syllables...
but i am a westerner...
i deal with letters... i don't deal with syllables...
unless they are prefixes akin to trans-...
meta-... anti-... post-...
the western adoption of the haiku implies
the boredom achieved from too many
sonnets... is the haiku the new sonnet?

i'll try... but i'll need to open a dictionary
for this effort...

water knee deep truce (5)
to the drowning man imploring (8)
signature the soul with this last breath (9)

or however many... it's just a passing thought:
i don't know how it would be worthwhile
to think inside a box... standing outside it
to begin with...
a haiku and no punctuation:
if you're going to be puritanical about it...
no punctuation?!
no diacritical markers?!

the Kant reference is just to ease up on:
who the hell would live by a maxim,
a stand-alone maxim at that...
one maxim to make it into the realm
of gravity...

there's the plethora of aphorisms that
are observations that... well...
let's just say it's no an imitation game... (

since how the hell does:
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
all of the above?
darwinism in images:

stopped climbing trees...
stopped being furry...
stopped dreaming about snakes...
stopped fearing snakes...
stopped wrestling with tigers...
stopped king kong versus tiger gorgon...
jumped into a whale...
came out sonar Jonah with hell'io Job
to boot...
stopped climbing trees...
took toward the complexity
of climbing rocks...
esp. boulders... later desired
the great big button of a cookie i.e.;
desired the moon...
brewed some moonshine...
build the mirror corridor
at Versailles...
dug up lazy dinosaur bones of
that thick glutton splodge and...
retired the horse... drove a car...
etc. etc.: came across
the happy birthday of death by
gregory corso and said:
that be one of the best recitations
of poetry i have ever heard...
in youth and Paris and Paris was
the signature...

all of this but there's still...
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
more to the point...
how dignified it is, to walk at one's own
leisure...
a bottle of england's finest ale...
theakston's the old peculier in one hand...
a marlboro cigarette in the other...
how dignified it is...
to walk: but to also walk... at one's leisure...
not running a marathon...
not... running the concrete or the tarmac
dry with new year's even resolutions
to loße mass... (yes... since weight involves
gravity blah blah)...

this auto-correct science factoid rubric
around each corner...
i can only admit that walking...
is a sport for gentlemen...
cognitive ping pong ensues...
a solo game... perhaps...
it's not a matter of sport...
or attempting gentlemanly stature...
which could be the case...
say... if i were 75... years old...
but...

that's all fine and dandy... the psychology
behind darwinism 2.0
not even copernicus made it that far
with his "revolutionary discovery"...
or not that Ptolemy was still...
index... bibliography and historical
constipation when attempting to be
democratic and historical...
in a single poo'em... with no rhyme...
and certainly no overt-technique biases
to: "identify with"...

it's still an image burning in my head...
the gorilla that would / could wrestle
a lion to sleep with a ripped-off jaw...
the thumb-king of the jungle
and the savannah...
and of course the donning of the conquered's
mane...

but beside all the discoveries in the past
and the present...
i will find myself smirking...
laughing to myself...
that someone will find this too...
i can't stress it enough:

when i see people driving their cars...
some fast, some slow...
walking onto a bus is not a leisure activity...
it's not even a dignity...
it's a time-warp... a short-cut...
besides the point...

even this brain sometimes allow for
the dignity of walking to be eclipsed...
what its sometimes-odd bursts of egomania /
megalomania or all those other:
traits of the rational man...

perhaps this is the first day i've truly
appreciated the sensibility of walking -
much more in that: it became a dignity...
like the time i found the antithesis of narcissus
in my shadow...
once upon a nightly promenade
in the english outer-suburban labyrinth...
20 minutes walk from the fields,
grazing horses... foxes, badgers and...
no wordsworthian naturalism... i.e. the idyll...

superior intelligence, the fork,
the knife, the screwdriver the *****...
the hammer and the nail...
the scythe, the sickle and the lollipop...
the telephone the radio the television
the soap opera addicts...
the bedsheets the bed the cushion
the shampoo and soap...
all of it... but none of it at the same time...
with what comes a priori and with
what comes a posteriori...
the dignity of walking...
perhaps the only state of grace...

perhaps less "abilism" and more - upon reflection...
a mother strapped to a bed
after a hip-replacement surgery?
i.e. in a personal, very personal,
non-Teheran specific vicinity?!

perhaps the most basic meditation is required...
nothing grandiose...
nothing temporal or non-temporal...
something basic...
i.e. spatial... a meditation on cross the street
like a mindful hedgehog that you are...
and not panic driven like a mother goose
with her nursery...

walk long enough and you can even
experience bouts of spontaneous amnesia...
which is not related to actual memories
and their totality...
more in the immediacy: amnesia ex cogitans...
amnesia out of thinking...
10 minutes apart and you can almost
forget what you were thinking of...
10 minutes more pass... the labyrinth spits
you out and you recover from that temp.
bout of crucible amnesia: to forget what you
were thinking about...
which is a variant to that other escapism
of day-dreaming...
since you're walking... and no day-dreamer
is synonym of the thinker who also walks...

this variant of escapism comes of its own
accord... perhaps it's an ontological built-in-mechanism
that when you couple walking with thinking...
you'll most certainly experience these
bouts of "amnesia"... which of course doesn't
include walking in circles... but in a labyrinth
of your unconscious motives...
that the body is dissociated from a conscious will...

since... what sort of thinking exists
on a treadmill... or during running... to begin with?

how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
dignified in that: one is not so much able
to come across one's best ideas there...
but that one can simply come across... cogitans per se
-

yes... i.e.: to be free from cogito ergo sum...
to come across the res cogitans medium...
only while walking...
and not like Descartes imagining oneself
sitting at a desk of doubt...

i find no better alternative: walking opens up...
thinking-in-itself... sometimes that's merely translated
as: being... it does not specify / reveal itself
as a: necessity of narration...
thinking is not narration is not thinking...
if you have experienced the ugly spontaneity of
the ego... in that vein of psychology's
three-tier meta-brain dissection of the mind:
subsequently the soul... blah blah...

now i see... this has become a sit-down meditation...
it has to end...
now that the arms have been employed for
a period longer, than the legs were employed
for, prior.
singingghosts Aug 2016
I've been in and out of therapy and partial hospitalization programs for about 20 years. you'd think by now I would be better or at least discover a new flavor of ice cream I enjoy but nope, I only like green mint.

there's a lot that's wrong with what I've been dealing with so I'm going to short list it:

start therapy
see new psychiatrist
psychiatrist prescribes me meds before my first therapy session even begins
I hate my psychiatrist
I hate my therapist
therapy does nothing
talking does nothing
I start fantasizing about murdering animals
it scares the ******* **** out of me
I tell my psychiatrist
she said it's the meds
she prescribes me something else
the fantasies stop
my therapist thinks I have daddy issues
my therapist won't stop talking about my father
it's annoying
I hate her
I ask to see a new therapist in the same facility
she asks why
she asks about my fetishes
she takes off her flats and crosses her legs
I'm not sure if she does it intentionally
I feel weird
I see a new therapist
I love my new therapist the first visit
my psychiatrist is replaced
my new therapist only sees me once
I tell her everything she needs to know
I feel amazing
I feel like this is good
she was a temp
I am lost in the system
I have no therapist for 4 months and no one sees to care
my new psychiatrist seems great
she likes plants
she's funny
I feel good about this
she cancels an appointment
I try to make a new one
no one calls me back for a month
I get a new appointment
she cancels
I get a new appointment
she doesn't show up
I'm calling and calling and leaving voicemails
no one calls me back
I still have refills until July 28th
I call everyday the last week of July to make an appointment because I need her authorization for my refills now
I call my pharmacy to ask for help because I'm running out of meds and no one is helping me
every time I go off my meds it's very bad for everyone and I start doing drugs
I don't wanna be off my meds anymore
my pharmacy calls her the day of my refill
she denies the refill
I can't even get a few pills until I get a new appointment because she's denied it and they can't do anything if she denies it
I call my general Doctor
she prescribes me for two weeks
I leave a crazy voicemail on my psych's machine
she never calls me back
I can't get a new appointment
I called all day everywhere
no one is taking new patients
I don't know what to do

did you get all that?

my issue with this situation isn't even really about me directly. it ***** for me but if I end up off my medication I know I can always buy it online illegally or just do dissociatives to keep me from being violent or hurt myself or anything remotely alarming.

my issue with this is I know a woman who sees my ex-psychiatrist. she is not well. she goes into these catatonic episodes and can't do anything. she hides out for months. she's in an abusive relationship. she doesn't eat. she can't talk sometimes. she needs someone to do more for her than just have her show up. she needs people to be actively involving themselves. she needs intense help and I know her appointments were canceled as well.

I can't stand the thought of how many people are in this field who are not doing their job. how unprofessional to literally cancel my refills the day I need a refill because I need to "make an appointment" like ***** I haven't been trying?

what kind of ****** up spiteful **** is that?

that's not right. I don't even know HOW to deal with this. I feel like what she did is illegal or at least negligent. but also that this is something that must happen all the time because these people know they are treating people who are unwell and maybe don't know how to help themselves.

I don't know. I wanted to share this in hopes someone has dealt with something similar and knows the next step or if there's something I can do to have my psychiatrist dealt with. do I call the facility? do I talk to someone about it? who? she knows I don't know the first thing about how to do this and I know I'm not the only one.
Arcassin B Sep 2014
By Arcinder




I selling everything,
Without seeing pore mistakes perish,
Ill even sell my soul to see yall die,
And leave your loved ones,
Making lame *** people look stupid,
I really cherish,
Especially fake made up raps,
You can't even cope on,
Y'all pathetic,
Where y'all courage,
I don't see non,
I don't see non,
Dis man trying to see me in the shower,
I'll be waiting with a gun,
Now that's real lyricism,
Please no more school drop outs,
If it ain't respect,
I'll make you tap out,
Come give my *** a kiss,
Give me something I can laugh bout,
Busted lips,
Blood leaking,
Can't tell,
But the devil trying to temp me,
Killed dash and doc and lis and ta,
Where the ***** the rest,
I got an audience to look after,
I ain't ******* stress,
Y'all must be scare to come to impress,
Y'all make me laugh,
Just chilling with Melanie,
She might not join the conflict,
Different story when it comes to me,

Hahhahahahahahaahahhahahahh
**** the mafia
Coop Lee Aug 2015
she lay next to him at night
dreaming of a ghostly icon, gold
little-headed monkey god on an island nigh the cape of bone marrow.
& now
she bounds into humble years, house cat, domesticated
little smiles, little daughters, little
flowers at the supermarket.
good morning.

pull her hair, as if to tree
& family. seed shoved down her throat
& diamonds.
she remembers the jewel runners, their chunks of wet rock.
& birds
slipstreaming away their days above africa.
slug to the chest &

she awakens in a hyundai
under the beaming heat of a vacant strip-mall sun.
gravity feels soft
in this lesser pungent life.
dreamt only, of choking temp and humid archipelago nights,
the gibbons & the thieves.
the treasure chest lairs of chieftains and tribal nobodies.
war profiteers.
men of fang island fantasy.

fake it.
p.t.a. and butter spread it, to toast and/or corn.
the sun is rising
& falling
& truly just travelling ‘round.

       marinated artichoke hearts.

[baby dreams] of waves
on shore and handshake, of altered mother moons, she
is hidden in reflection
& time.
happy with the furniture.
plentiful on extra lunch meat.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Cloudy, 70 degrees Fahrenheit,
Outside on the beach, and inside my head,
Weather, overcast, color and temp., coordinated.

Early risen like some other Jew,
The waves say:

Hey, Hey! Yo, Yo! We're available,
Walk on us and drown your sorrows,
If they're original,  we'll Jonah-spit you back.

Most likely, common enough, and we will
Keep your body, Mr. Word Sailor,
Recompense for suffering your trite insights,
Swallowing whole, you and your appetizer poems nobody reads,
Body and soul buried side by side
In the cemetery's ocean, just one more
Dead Poet to add to the Society,
Our very own collection.

No Thanks, says my pride, still got one more left inside,
Bait taken, gotta catch and release,
Cause I'm an environmentalist,
Or, at least, a plain old mentalist,
Whose words escape his body,
Thru his eyes, ears and fingertips,
Sustainability for a few more days.

Beach walking, my eyes are not deceived,
The shells, the husks, the dead upended,
***** and mollusks have hora-circled me,
Holding hands, they too, dance and sing their
Lamentations, as if I didn't have enough of my own,
To keep myself self-employed.

Look at us, turn not, Sir, disguised by word-stubble,
Face not away from us and our exposed-now, truths.

Upon Silver Beach, we preach,
This our death spot, our crematorium,
Hunted and gull-pecked,
Our shells, teenage broken,
Holed, shucked, stepped upon,
What ignominy for proud sea creatures!
Is this the death we deserve?

Why to me whine, wail and cry,
I, nothing to your deaths, hasten,
Do, did or done,
Though I plied the waters of
Noyack and Little Peconic Bay but yesterday,
Not one of your kind did I disturb,
For your kind,  my God, consuming disallowed.

Take your sad eyed tales to the under-towing waves,
Perhaps, they will listen, for they enjoy containing
Morted objects on their invisible sands,
The waters will take you and your plaints,
Soundlessly, you will be accepted, upon their plains.

No, No!
Instructions sent and well received,
You, poet, are the one, needs notification
Our doom is your doom, symmetry to
Your gloom, for one and the same.

What meanest thou, meanest creatures,
Commonality nor companionship,
Kith nor kin are we!
Our connectivity is but
This beach we presently share!

Guiltless in life, we but survived,
Hurting no one, no thing,
Yet, here we lie, ignored, unattended,
Yet, you fail again to see our connection?
You do not recognize us?

We are the shells, the husks of you,
Your poems unread, you labors unpreserved,
All wasted, for unless they are read, they die,
As you will too.
Some fast, by water, some slower, time-eroded,
All, ended, by drowning in the Sea of Who Cares!

Shell-shellacked, be refted, be reaved,
The be-each minions have crucified my anything,
Truth, the sword for ribbon cutting ceremonies
Risen up from these waters, to cut me down,
To complete my shame, the duo,
Wind and sand combinate to sting my eyes,
But succeed not, for I weep so copiously,
Their endeavors re fused, but what's the point,
For I am a results-oriented man,
My results, naught.

I know now where to go
When the silence external is needing coordination,
UnSound symmetry, with a silenced mind.

5:52 AM
Silver Beach
June 30th, 2013
This poem I wrote, but was freely given and dedicated to RR Richardson, comrade in words.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
i find looking at my library that reaches the ceiling
more entertaining that watching television,
to be honest i prefer watching inanimate things
more than those caught up in animation,
my memory becomes the film's director,
and my imagination the producer,
while many personae come on stage with my thought.*

woke up lazy, usual me, unusual me
when i think about it,
going to a catholic school we had to adorn
catholic school uniform,
blazer, tie, polished shoes, trousers,
white shirt...
i liked it back then: i have one specific sunrise
in winter to remember, having just
discovered jethro tull's aqualung album
when the mojo music magazine was still
in print and they listed the top 50 prog rock albums,
obviously the no. 1 spot was reserved for
pink floyd's dark side of the moon,
don't know why king crimson didn't win,
i guess the complexity of the matter didn't have the appeal,
but it was good, wearing school uniform,
having two / three days of your own clothes days
once you coughed up a quid or two for charity,
the point being... you can't tell rich from poor
if there's a specified attire... plus there's less clingy
exceptions to be made, less imagination involved,
less care for having to pick your next attire the previous
day to impress someone, less discrimination altogether,
as those non-uniform days proved:
a maths teacher said i looked like a lumberjack once,
mr. crickmore, ex-trader on the f.t.s.e. floor,
turned maths teacher, supporter of manchester city,
so i was wearing a three coloured chequered shirt
(blue, red and white), jeans (obviously blue)
and red converse... lumberjack he said... fair enough,
but the dim truth of it all is that reality is dull
off the catwalk, less creativity of cloth, it's more about
comfort, as i found when i decided to do a fox fur trick:
become like those inanimate things just a little,
be more peculiar and attentive when something changes,
starting from the digit 1, and then expanding into
a sequence we call phenomena - so i liked wearing
school uniform, i was, after all, enlisted into an army of
jesuit youth... although i rebelled having read a book
about heresy (mainly the gnostics) and didn't want to be
confirmed, and wasn't; but there's less discriminatory
behaviour if everyone wears the same all year round
and there's no peacock days involved -
and subsequently the days of my prime schooling
are remembered with less regret, and less adults
exploiting a semi-fact of how **** it was and moaning
and moaning about it just in order to sell it to gullible youth.
but today?
woke up, lazy as hell, the c.d. i put on to fall asleep to
was obviously finished, turned the radio on,
classic f.m., had to hear something breezy and airy
without larynx that the violins are, not to mention
the woodwinds, and the news, had to hear that,
the toilet was too far away (not really),
two bottles of coca cola, one almost empty,
urinated into it, ******* the cap, fell back to bed,
lay there for about half an hour, news came, heard it,
got up... made cinnamon coffee smoked a few in between
my "tuberculosis" coughs (it's minus 4 degrees in the nights,
i drink a few bottle of beer on the trot, hence the coughing),
had about 3/4 of a bottle of whiskey left,
went back and turned on a few compact disks (
i know, i was born too late to collect black vinyl 12", oh well,
80s silver craze), poured 1/4 of the whiskey over ice,
and instead of pouring the other coca cola's bottle content,
i didn't realise i was pouring something in
that, upon opening didn't fizz... AH ****!
yep, mixed 1/4 of whiskey with my own ****...
had to pour it away... but what a waste!
after that it was all downhill... made a tikka masala curry,
adding sweet mango chutney to a list of ingredients
too long to remember...
and upon my usual walk for ***** a strange thing
happened in the supermarket...
a gorgeous late 40s woman cashier inquired about my hands,
the longbow man's V to the french bandaged,
and whether my hands were cold... something
about buying muttons...
you see, i once wrote that the most ****** part of a woman's
body are her hands... ... ...
she was ****** flirting with me!
in my head a few minutes after it sounded like:
put your cold cold hands onto the warmest parts of my body...
as i said also, once: when a woman becomes erotically
pulverised the temp. in her mouth drops,
and the temp. in her... ahem... increases; juices flowing.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Relationships are not easy-peasy,,
Some take work, some, self-sacrifice.

Some must overcome defects congenital,
Obstacles so great that the Roman Gods
Are asked to intervene,
Send down those hotties, the fiery Furies,
who punished crimes at the instigation
of the soon to be frozen victims

So to the chase,
let's cut,
My woman's has true blood,
H2O
In solid state.

Her body is icy, permanent frosty,
And requires regular de-icing
Before Take Off.
This condition being true of her
Every part except, her prima facie.

Even the bed complains,
Whining creeks and groans,
Sometimes it even screams,
When she get in sans pajamas.

I,
A bastion of extra human warmth,
As my poems bear witness,
Normal temp is 102,
I am the joy of her life,
For love, I make the
Ultimate sacrifice.

Her feet, medieval torture instruments,
Her bare hands, have
Killed lesser men and folkloric-ly,
Reputedly, she has flash froze and keeps
Some vampires in the basement fridge,
Suitable for reheating in the microwave.

You may think this charming,
This poem, an amuse-bouche,
But it ain't funny when I go to the
Emergency room for first degree burns.

Remember when Ralph's friend
Got his tongue stuck to the metal pole,
In "A Christmas Story"?
That was me, that was her!

But our together,
Approaching near five years,
Is a Survivor.
Two hurricanes, ******* named
Irene and Sandy,
A divorce from a mean spirited wbitch
That took so long
The Matrimonial Lawyers ***-ociation
Had my portrait painted over their fireplace.

Even the icicles otherwise know correctly as
Her Extremities,
Have not come between us

When my lips kiss her neck,
Surgically remove heart with poetic scalpels,
Hold it, fluttering and with both hands, warm.

Her eyes close, and neuronic messages
Commence firing, telegraphed, messengered,
To the far corners of every Purim Persian province,
Let the wicked witch melting begin,
Commence the holiday of
Her Festivities.

If you think any man,
Could perform said feat of endurance,
You better checkout again the name of the
Man who authored this story,
For his name, with special powers, endowed.

— The End —