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Yo, Beremundo el Lelo, surqué todas las rutas
y probé todos los mesteres.
Singlando a la deriva, no en orden cronológico ni lógico -en sin orden-
narraré mis periplos, diré de los empleos con que
nutrí mis ocios,
distraje mi hacer nada y enriquecí mi hastío...;
-hay de ellos otros que me callo-:
Catedrático fui de teosofía y eutrapelia, gimnopedia y teogonía y pansofística en Plafagonia;
barequero en el Porce y el Tigüí, huaquero en el Quindío,
amansador mansueto -no en desuetud aún- de muletos cerriles y de onagros, no sé dónde;
palaciego proto-Maestre de Ceremonias de Wilfredo el Velloso,
de Cunegunda ídem de ídem e ibídem -en femenino- e ídem de ídem de Epila Calunga
y de Efestión -alejandrino- el Glabro;
desfacedor de entuertos, tuertos y malfetrías, y de ellos y ellas facedor;
domeñador de endriagos, unicornios, minotauros, quimeras y licornas y dragones... y de la Gran Bestia.

Fui, de Sind-bad, marinero; pastor de cabras en Sicilia
si de cabriolas en Silesia, de cerdas en Cerdeña y -claro- de corzas en Córcega;
halconero mayor, primer alcotanero de Enguerrando Segundo -el de la Tour-Miracle-;
castrador de colmenas, y no de Casanovas, en el Véneto, ni de Abelardos por el Sequana;
pajecillo de altivas Damas y ariscas Damas y fogosas, en sus castillos
y de pecheras -¡y cuánto!- en sus posadas y mesones
-yo me era Gerineldos de todellas y trovador trovadorante y adorante; como fui tañedor
de chirimía por fiestas candelarias, carbonero con Gustavo Wasa en Dalecarlia, bucinator del Barca Aníbal
y de Scipión el Africano y Masinisa, piloto de Erik el Rojo hasta Vinlandia, y corneta
de un escuadrón de coraceros de Westmannlandia que cargó al lado del Rey de Hielo
-con él pasé a difunto- y en la primera de Lutzen.

Fui preceptor de Diógenes, llamado malamente el Cínico:
huésped de su tonel, además, y portador de su linterna;
condiscípulo y émulo de Baco Dionisos Enófilo, llamado buenamente el Báquico
-y el Dionisíaco, de juro-.

Fui discípulo de Gautama, no tan aprovechado: resulté mal budista, si asaz contemplativo.
Hice de peluquero esquilador siempre al servicio de la gentil Dalilah,
(veces para Sansón, que iba ya para calvo, y -otras- depilador de sus de ella óptimas partes)
y de maestro de danzar y de besar de Salomé: no era el plato de argento,
mas sí de litargirio sus caderas y muslos y de azogue también su vientre auri-rizado;
de Judith de Betulia fui confidente y ni infidente, y -con derecho a sucesión- teniente y no lugarteniente
de Holofernes no Enófobo (ni enófobos Judith ni yo, si con mesura, cautos).
Fui entrenador (no estrenador) de Aspasia y Mesalina y de Popea y de María de Mágdalo
e Inés Sorel, y marmitón y pinche de cocina de Gargantúa
-Pantagruel era huésped no nada nominal: ya suficientemente pantagruélico-.
Fui fabricante de batutas, quebrador de hemistiquios, requebrador de Eustaquias, y tratante en viragos
y en sáficas -algunas de ellas adónicas- y en pínnicas -una de ellas super-fémina-:
la dejé para mí, si luego ancló en casorio.
A la rayuela jugué con Fulvia; antes, con Palamedes, axedrez, y, en época vecina, con Philidor, a los escaques;
y, a las damas, con Damas de alto y bajo coturno
-manera de decir: que para el juego en litis las Damas suelen ir descalzas
y se eliden las calzas y sustentadores -no funcionales- en las Damas y las calzas en los varones.

Tañí el rabel o la viola de amor -casa de Bach, búrguesa- en la primicia
de La Cantata del Café (pre-estreno, en familia protestante, privado).
Le piqué caña jorobeta al caballo de Atila
-que era un morcillo de prócer alzada: me refiero al corcel-;
cambié ideas, a la par, con Incitato, Cónsul de Calígula, y con Babieca,
-que andaba en Babia-, dándole prima
fui zapatero de viejo de Berta la del gran pie (buen pie, mejor coyuntura),
de la Reina Patoja ortopedista; y hortelano y miniaturista de Pepino el Breve,
y copero mayor faraónico de Pepe Botellas, interino,
y porta-capas del Pepe Bellotas de la esposa de Putifar.

Viajé con Julio Verne y Odiseo, Magallanes y Pigafetta, Salgan, Leo e Ibn-Batuta,
con Melville y Stevenson, Fernando González y Conrad y Sir John de Mandeville y Marco Polo,
y sólo, sin De Maistre, alredor de mi biblioteca, de mi oploteca, mi mecanoteca y mi pinacoteca.
Viajé también en tomo de mí mismo: asno a la vez que noria.

Fui degollado en la de San Bartolomé (post facto): secundaba a La Môle:
Margarita de Valois no era total, íntegramente pelirroja
-y no porque de noche todos los gatos son pardos...: la leoparda,
las tres veces internas, íntimas, peli-endrina,
Margarita, Margotón, Margot, la casqui-fulva...-

No estuve en la nea nao -arcaica- de Noé, por manera
-por ventura, otrosí- que no fui la paloma ni la medusa de esa almadía: mas sí tuve a mi encargo
la selección de los racimos de sus viñedos, al pie del Ararat, al post-Diluvio,
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Fui topógrafo ad-hoc entre El Cangrejo y Purcoy Niverengo,
(y ad-ínterim, administré la zona bolombólica:
mucho de anís, mucho de Rosas del Cauca, versos de vez en cuando),
y fui remero -el segundo a babor- de la canoa, de la piragua
La Margarita (criolla), que navegó fluvial entre Comiá, La Herradura, El Morito,
con cargamentos de contrabando: blancas y endrinas de Guaca, Titiribí y Amagá, y destilados
de Concordia y Betulia y de Urrao...
¡Urrao! ¡Urrao! (hasta hace poco lo diríamos con harta mayor razón y con aquese y este júbilos).
Tras de remero de bajel -y piloto- pasé a condueño, co-editor, co-autor
(no Coadjutor... ¡ni de Retz!) en asocio de Matías Aldecoa, vascuence, (y de un tal Gaspar von der Nacht)
de un Libraco o Librículo de pseudo-poemas de otro quídam;
exploré la región de Zuyaxiwevo con Sergio Stepánovich Stepansky,
lobo de donde se infiere, y, en más, ario.

Fui consejero áulico de Bogislao, en la corte margravina de Xa-Netupiromba
y en la de Aglaya crisostómica, óptima circezuela, traidorcilla;
tañedor de laúd, otra vez, y de viola de gamba y de recorder,
de sacabuche, otrosí (de dulzaina - otronó) y en casaciones y serenatas y albadas muy especializado.
No es cierto que yo fuera -es impostura-
revendedor de bulas (y de mulas) y tragador defuego y engullidor de sables y bufón en las ferias
pero sí platiqué (también) con el asno de Buridán y Buridán,
y con la mula de Balaám y Balaám, con Rocinante y Clavileño y con el Rucio
-y el Manco y Sancho y don Quijote-
y trafiqué en ultramarinos: ¡qué calamares -en su tinta-!,
¡qué Anisados de Guarne!, ¡qué Rones de Jamaica!, ¡qué Vodkas de Kazán!, ¡qué Tequilas de México!,
¡qué Néctares de Heliconia! ¡Morcillas de Itagüí! ¡Torreznos de Envigado! ¡Chorizos de los Ballkanes! ¡Qué Butifarras cataláunicas!
Estuve en Narva y en Pultawa y en las Queseras del Medio, en Chorros Blancos
y en El Santuario de Córdova, y casi en la de San Quintín
(como pugnaban en el mismo bando no combatí junto a Egmont por no estar cerca al de Alba;
a Cayetana sí le anduve cerca tiempo después: preguntádselo a Goya);
no llegué a tiempo a Waterloo: me distraje en la ruta
con Ida de Saint-Elme, Elselina Vanayl de Yongh, viuda del Grande Ejército (desde antaño... más tarde)
y por entonces y desde años antes bravo Edecán de Ney-:
Ayudante de Campo... de plumas, gongorino.
No estuve en Capua, pero ya me supongo sus mentadas delicias.

Fabriqué clavicémbalos y espinetas, restauré virginales, reparé Stradivarius
falsos y Guarnerius apócrifos y Amatis quasi Amatis.
Cincelé empuñaduras de dagas y verduguillos, en el obrador de Benvenuto,
y escriños y joyeles y guardapelos ad-usum de Cardenales y de las Cardenalesas.
Vendí Biblias en el Sinú, con De la Rosa, Borelly y el ex-pastor Antolín.
Fui catador de tequila (debuté en Tapachula y ad-látere de Ciro el Ofiuco)
y en México y Amecameca, y de mezcal en Teotihuacán y Cuernavaca,
de Pisco-sauer en Lima de los Reyes,
y de otros piscolabis y filtros muy antes y después y por Aná del Aburrá, y doquiérase
con El Tarasco y una legión de Bacos Dionisos, pares entre Pares.
Vagué y vagué si divagué por las mesillas del café nocharniego, Mil Noches y otra Noche
con el Mago de lápiz buido y de la voz asordinada.
Antes, muy antes, bebí con él, con Emmanuel y don Efe y Carrasca, con Tisaza y Xovica y Mexía y los otros Panidas.
Después..., ahora..., mejor no meneallo y sí escanciallo y persistir en ello...

Dicté un curso de Cabalística y otro de Pan-Hermética
y un tercero de Heráldica,
fuera de los cursillos de verano de las literaturas bereberes -comparadas-.
Fui catalogador protonotario en jefe de la Magna Biblioteca de Ebenezer el Sefardita,
y -en segundo- de la Mínima Discoteca del quídam en referencia de suso:
no tenía aún las Diabelli si era ya dueño de las Goldberg;
no poseía completa la Inconclusa ni inconclusa la Décima (aquestas Sinfonías, Variaciones aquesas:
y casi que todello -en altísimo rango- tan Variaciones Alredor de Nada).

Corregí pruebas (y dislates) de tres docenas de sota-poetas
-o similares- (de los que hinchen gacetilleros a toma y daca).
Fui probador de calzas -¿prietas?: ceñidas, sí, en todo caso- de Diana de Meridor
y de justillos, que así veníanle, de estar atán bien provista
y atán rebién dotada -como sabíalo también y así de bien Bussy d'Amboise-.
Temperé virginales -ya restaurados-, y clavecines, si no como Isabel, y aunque no tan baqueano
como ése de Eisenach, arroyo-Océano.
Soplé el ***** bufón, con tal cual incongruencia, sin ni tal cual donaire.
No aporreé el bombo, empero, ni entrechoqué los címbalos.

Les saqué puntas y les puse ribetes y garambainas a los vocablos,
cuando diérame por la Semasiología, cierta vez, en la Sorbona de Abdera,
sita por Babia, al pie de los de Úbeda, que serán cerros si no valen por Monserrates,
sin cencerros. Perseveré harto poco en la Semántica -por esa vez-,
si, luego retorné a la andadas, pero a la diabla, en broma:
semanto-semasiólogo tarambana pillín pirueteante.
Quien pugnó en Dénnevitz con Ney, el peli-fulvo
no fui yo: lo fue mi bisabuelo el Capitán...;
y fue mi tatarabuelo quien apresó a Gustavo Cuarto:
pero sí estuve yo en la Retirada de los Diez Mil
-era yo el Siete Mil Setecientos y Setenta y Siete,
precisamente-: releed, si dudaislo, el Anábasis.
Fui celador intocable de la Casa de Tócame-Roque, -si ignoré cuyo el Roque sería-,
y de la Casa del Gato-que-pelotea; le busqué tres pies al gato
con botas, que ya tenía siete vidas y logré dar con siete autores en busca de un personaje
-como quien dice Los Siete contra Tebas: ¡pobre Tebas!-, y ya es jugar bastante con el siete.
No pude dar con la cuadratura del círculo, que -por lo demás- para nada hace falta,
mas topé y en el Cuarto de San Alejo, con la palanca de Arquimedes y con la espada de Damocles,
ambas a dos, y a cual más, tomadas del orín y con más moho
que las ideas de yo si sé quién mas no lo digo:
púsome en aprietos tal doble hallazgo; por más que dije: ¡Eureka! ...: la palanca ya no servía ni para levantar un falso testimonio,
y tuve que encargarme de tener siempre en suspenso y sobre mí la espada susodicha.

Se me extravió el anillo de Saturno, mas no el de Giges ni menos el de Hans Carvel;
no sé qué se me ficieron los Infantes de Aragón y las Nieves de Antaño y el León de Androcles y la Balanza
del buen Shylock: deben estar por ahí con la Linterna de Diógenes:
-¿mas cómo hallarlos sin la linterna?

No saqué el pecho fuera, ni he sido nunca el Tajo, ni me di cuenta del lío de Florinda,
ni de por qué el Tajo el pecho fuera le sacaba a la Cava,
pero sí vi al otro don Rodrigo en la Horca.
Pinté muestras de posadas y mesones y ventas y paradores y pulquerías
en Veracruz y Tamalameque y Cancán y Talara, y de riendas de abarrotes en Cartagena de Indias, con Tisaza-,
si no desnarigué al de Heredia ni a López **** tuerto -que era bizco-.
Pastoreé (otra vez) el Rebaño de las Pléyades
y resultaron ser -todellas, una a una- ¡qué capretinas locas!
Fui aceitero de la alcuza favorita del Padre de los Búhos Estáticos:
-era un Búho Sofista, socarrón soslayado, bululador mixtificante-.
Regí el vestier de gala de los Pingüinos Peripatéticos,
(precursores de Brummel y del barón d'Orsay,
por fuera de filósofos, filosofículos, filosofantes dromomaníacos)
y apacenté el Bestiario de Orfeo (delegatario de Apollinaire),
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Nada tuve que ver con el asesinato de la hija del corso adónico Sebastiani
ni con ella (digo como pesquisidor, pesquisante o pesquisa)
si bien asesoré a Edgar Allan Poe como entomólogo, cuando El Escarabajo de Oro,
y en su investigación del Doble Asesinato de la Rue Morgue,
ya como experto en huellas dactilares o quier digitalinas.
Alguna vez me dio por beberme los vientos o por pugnar con ellos -como Carolus
Baldelarius- y por tomar a las o las de Villadiego o a las sus calzas:
aquesas me resultaron harto potables -ya sin calzas-; ellos, de mucho volumen
y de asaz poco cuerpo (si asimilados a líquidos, si como justadores).
Gocé de pingües canonjías en el reinado del bonachón de Dagoberto,
de opíparas prebendas, encomiendas, capellanías y granjerías en el del Rey de los Dipsodas,
y de dulce privanza en el de doña Urraca
(que no es la Gazza Ladra de Rossini, si fuéralo
de corazones o de amantes o favoritos o privados o martelos).

Fui muy alto cantor, como bajo cantante, en la Capilla de los Serapiones
(donde no se sopranizaba...); conservador,
conservador -pero poco- de Incunables, en la Alejandrina de Panida,
(con sucursal en El Globo y filiales en el Cuarto del Búho).

Hice de Gaspar Hauser por diez y seis hebdémeros
y por otras tantas semanas y tres días fui la sombra,
la sombra misma que se le extravió a Peter Schlémil.

Fui el mozo -mozo de estribo- de la Reina Cristina de Suecia
y en ciertas ocasiones también el de Ebba Sparre.
Fui el mozo -mozo de estoques- de la Duquesa de Chaumont
(que era de armas tomar y de cálida sélvula): con ella pus mi pica en Flandes
-sobre holandas-.

Fui escriba de Samuel Pepys -¡qué escabroso su Diario!-
y sustituto suyo como edecán adjunto de su celosa cónyuge.
Y fuí copista de Milton (un poco largo su Paraíso Perdido,
magüer perdido en buena parte: le suprimí no pocos Cantos)
y a la su vera reencontré mi Paraíso (si el poeta era
ciego; -¡qué ojazos los de su Déborah!).

Fui traductor de cablegramas del magnífico Jerjes;
telefonista de Artajerjes el Tartajoso; locutor de la Esfinge
y confidente de su secreto; ventrílocuo de Darío Tercero Codomano el Multilocuo,
que hablaba hasta por los codos;
altoparlante retransmisor de Eubolio el Mudo, yerno de Tácito y su discípulo
y su émulo; caracola del mar océano eólico ecolálico y el intérprete
de Luis Segundo el Tartamudo -padre de Carlos el Simple y Rey de Gaula.
Hice de andante caballero a la diestra del Invencible Policisne de Beocia
y a la siniestra del Campeón olímpico Tirante el Blanco, tirante al blanco:
donde ponía el ojo clavaba su virote;
y a la zaga de la fogosa Bradamante, guardándole la espalda
-manera de decir-
y a la vanguardia, mas dándole la cara, de la tierna Marfisa...

Fui amanuense al servicio de Ambrosio Calepino
y del Tostado y deMatías Aldecoa y del que urdió el Mahabarata;
fui -y soylo aún, no zoilo- graduado experto en Lugares Comunes
discípulo de Leon Bloy y de quien escribió sobre los Diurnales.
Crucigramista interimario, logogrifario ad-valorem y ad-placerem
de Cleopatra: cultivador de sus brunos pitones y pastor de sus áspides,
y criptogramatista kinesiólogo suyo y de la venus Calipigia, ¡viento en popa a toda vela!
Fui tenedor malogrado y aburrido de libros de banca,
tenedor del tridente de Neptuno,
tenedor de librejos -en los bolsillos del gabán (sin gabán) collinesco-,
y de cuadernículos -quier azules- bajo el ala.
Sostenedor de tesis y de antítesis y de síntesis sin sustentáculo.
Mantenedor -a base de abstinencias- de los Juegos Florales
y sostén de los Frutales -leche y miel y cerezas- sin ayuno.
Porta-alfanje de Harún-al-Rashid, porta-mandoble de Mandricardo el Mandria,
porta-martillo de Carlos Martel,
porta-fendiente de Roldán, porta-tajante de Oliveros, porta-gumía
de Fierabrás, porta-laaza de Lanzarote (¡ búen Lancelot tan dado a su Ginevra!)
y a la del Rey Artús, de la Ca... de la Mesa Redonda...;
porta-lámpara de Al-Eddin, el Loca Suerte, y guardián y cerbero de su anillo
y del de los Nibelungos: pero nunca guardián de serrallo ni cancerbero ni evirato de harem...
Y fui el Quinto de los Tres Mosqueteros (no hay quinto peor) -veinte años después-.

Y Faraute de Juan Sin Tierra y fiduciario de
Anastasia Feb 2018
Quit smoking and excessive drinking,
It was supposed to help with healthy thinking.
That day I made it clear to myself
It's also time to quit you.

Gone ******* greens, had spinach, kale daily.
Worked out every other day, I even had a schedule.
On weekly basis: abs, some arms and lots of ***.
My selfie game was on point, I got a tonne DMs.

Until a day I saw you holding hands
And heard you called her 'girlfriend'.
You never called me that in front of your best friends.
It really hurt, I couldn’t stop it.

That day I started smoking cigarettes again
And drinking wine, I had no schedule.
I've made a lot of calls and texts
Quite clearly, I couldn't quit you.

I liked you when you’ve had a ‘few’ tequilas
You’d talk things intimate, it felt as if you mean it.

I really hope you go back to heavy drinking
And start to feel instead of thinking.
Mitchell Feb 2012
Inside the morning
Which breaks like
The crippled North
Heat waves of wavering
Truth rings like damp crystal shots
Reverberating with a college education
Low down and empty
Eyes full of soot from the mine
And when I was I
Young and free and unknowing of myself
Without pressure to live while
I lived day in and day out
Like myself
Now the search for the holy man
In holy robes
Makes millions ponder and worry and fear
The clouds and the sky and
The drop of the bomb that will never come
Time rests quiet on my window sill
Alone and shaking and knowing
That we don't need it anymore
Evolved through death
Saw past the silk window shades
That once tried to convince to stay
But now that were gone
Out of the way of technology that
Roars with a voice not like our own
I perish with the church walls
Wild and naked with the stones rumbling
As I'm fumbling
For a place to drop these words
And I know that I'm right
But when the night falls over me
Alone and out of sight
I wince as the moon the silver moon
Slivers underneath my cool bed sheets
The hastiness of my own hand
Worries me at times of control
It shakes and it wiggles and grips with the need
Of a thousand dead men
Whose names I never knew but feel
They are still inside of like in tomb
I wish to walk away from life
To enter something else anew
Without my name without my troubles and
Without my sins
I wish to say hello to a face
That is familiar and without doubt
Friends familarize themselves with the newest wears
I tell the pear tree that their bark is fair
And ask them if they believe in dares
A sigh and a grin as above the clouds passed
And at last uprooted their thoughts
And moved to the other side
Where all was happy and warm
Canned goods rattle within her mind
Money whispers to her, "My way is the only way to be free."
Names backwards spell mom and dad
A misplaced youth who walked everywhere quite sad
I tell no tale I do not know
Yes' the grass is wet as the betting angels
Run in circles giggling, "All we be sold."
And as the tables are being built
And the chairs cut down in the near forests
The nymphs play their white flutes
As the water in the streams
Carry all that is the truth
Child you bear a fruit
That few men can see
It is a place of entranced innocence
That all are born with but
Know to keep and use
The streets grab hold like a vine on the garland
And the waiter drops his favorite feather
On the metro tram made of leather
Dirt covered road foaming at the mouth
A rabid dog whose tongue is yellow and pink
From the high blazing sun
Crystal water wash me clean
Make me new again
As overhead flies the crane
The voices inside the mind
Rattle and pray for rain
Instead of the rain there is only
The gain of sight that when looked straight on
Is not right but a kite
On a distant horizon where young Paul
Allowed his wife to be hung by the pigtails
And killed
The high naked dawn
Pink yellow and blue
Oh' Sue you were the only one
That seemed to know the way
With the whistles down below
Tram cars filled with little children that will grow
I know not their names
But the fame they'll endure to watch
Will of course soon make their hearts stop
And the rhythm of the rubble
Like the stubble on Grandfather Mr. Bubble
But the trouble with the hour
Is that it is never long enough
It longs for hands to caress every corner of itself
Glad that at least there are at least 24 of them
Not noticing that without itself
All the rest would be in disorder
Fast and decoded
Looking for an answer within a book
That has no name or any shelf
Where I knew no one but went anyway
Deep into the cavernous depths of fear
And uncertainty where only love
Would be the way to get in and out
Slipping around the hot ice the melts
For no one
When it is time the ice will choose
Mother nature has no boundaries
Except for the one's she supposes
Caught in the turn stiles constructed not by my hand
Head forward with the wind on my weathered back
The mice run for cover as the tram cars
Rush by smelling of oil and hot metal
I mention nothing to the one's that around me
I recall nothing that I wish not to
For the unconscious is meant to stay so
Give me a couch, a drink, and a man with pen and paper
And maybe I can give you something
With the pink hued clouds that play
Old episodes of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fun
Their sounds bouncing off the Oreo mountain range
The matches the color of my favorite
White and black sneakers
The detail in a film when you are in love
Is the only one that really matters
Same goes for literature
And the same goes for when one
Is in heartbreak
Dear heartbreak -
Without you love would not be worth chasing
Living and
Dying for
Forever yours until you leave me -
Reindeer Al' with the barman's red nose
The sick sync. of the pen to mind
That rattles of only the noise you wish to express
And not here all together
Back and forth whistling with tunes
Of former lovers that broke hearts
And plates
And electric bills all clad in their
Red bucket sombrero hat after
One too many tequilas and a
Wish for world peace while the man outside -
*** in fact -
Was beaten to a peach pulp for the
Slang in his whistle as he cat called
Across the way to a A-MER-I-CAN lady
Hot lady too, hot like the beach sands and
Spiteful like Medusa's stone gaze
Head amongst the clouds who spits
Out only puzzles and riddles on the fiddles
And piddles when fear enters the *****
The groins smelling of ***** dust and aggressive lust
I dreamed I heard the waves of ocean
Soft and wet like the purr of blissful elation
I cried I wept yet I felt no fear
For I knew my end was coming near
I dreamed I met an old old friend
Who once asked me always, "When is when?"
He bounced to a song I did not know
And where lived I could not go
Oh how I miss that friend of mine
I see his sad mournful face
Every hour Oh' all the time
Fuzziness of the business of the chugging gas kind of way
A rare disease that danced when asked
They would basque in their liquor and wonder
When they dream would finally flicker
But don't mention the end of others dreams
Because most of the time they already know its coming
The humming drumming realization
That not all is alright though we continue as if
There is still a little light
An uproar of song all in out of tune
Where ribbons colored red
Can't believe what the people at the party said
With all their drinks you'd think they'd think
To keep their secrets to themselves
Rather to the others like
Grandmas old wars scattered on the shelf
The yap-yap dog colored brown and black
With an old uncle that can't pick up his slack
While the shower is leaking and its cold outside
As the car is running outside but it ain't my ride
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
only today i learned ø denotes
        an encoding of diameter,
and it's Scandinavian,
                     or how the globe is
past the equator,
         and the lob-sided earth,
winters in Australia in the Summer months
in Europe.

    high philosophy begins with Beijing
dialectical highs,
    but take the route of lower philosophy
and encounter diacritics rather than dialectics,
because that matters, too,
        θought, a moral ought,
   and φilosoφy - and missing ought -
          and the two being irreversibly twins
in said... or θought an immoral ought,
                 sure, tubes, mistook ø74 for something
akin to φ...
    high philosophy never acquires a diacritical
dilemma...
                  or why local don't do anything
but actuate automatic application
   and those immigrant, or bilingual troops question...
    ø = diameter, not to be confused with the θ;
             higher philosophy begins with dialectical
beginnings,
               "lower" philosophy also begins with
dialectics, but it ends with diacritical application,
rather than utopian: nowhere from nothing.

what am i going to say next? *machado de assis's

philosopher or dog? introduction.

          ........................................­..................................
..............................­......................................................
..........­.................................................................­.........
.......................................................­.............................
...................................­.................................................
...............­.................................................................­....
............................................................­...........
(or a paragraph on the pleasure of drinking,
    or how to save you an optometrist appointment,
or how to take an interlude,
   to do the opposite of the Andy Warhol stipend
for making enough buggers hearing your
opinion, unchallenged,
                    but never having a diacritic concern).
hence the pending, or what everyone seems to
desire these days, circa 100 years later,
     how to provoke an interlude, how to hunger
for interludes rather than fame,
           i also drew a sketch before starting,
       shat -
                  and hey presto!
           ****!
                   yuck in orange in florescent.
yellow (florescent), F, pretty pretty pretty,
          in pink the bit about diameters and phi,
           again in yuck orange: swigs and the wiggle...
a paged concern for graffiti.
                  again, pending, yet to be hottie
and poster boy of a poem,
        again the impromptu break worth of fame that
actually isn't fame, but a chance to compare
                   how much whiskey makes up for the
Niagara continuum.
        again, (pending):
............................................... (how the hell do you
write pending ~15 minutes later?!)

the concept of Monday is greatly undermined
by Darwinism,
    as is Tuesday through to Sunday,
generally the function-able week desists the idea
of an Iron Age, as does the pantomime
of all that's worth celebrating -
generally speaking Darwinism is anti-history,
theology has nothing to ask of Darwinism
to argue against,
                             theology isn't a history,
but Darwinism is the purest variation
of history, variance of how we define logic
and its applicability, whether it's
i + think            /             1 + 1
    and have the moral attraction toward a 2
         or variate a moral action into a 3:
cos Radiohead simply sang 2 + 2 = 5 in a song:
cheat! matchstick principle regarding counting!
machado de assis? Darwinism is peppered with
overt imagery than salted with:
you get to sneeze a lot...
             a writer's voice: irony, mockery,
         consolidating the lessened counter-productiveness...
Flaubert, Dickens, Zola, Balzac, etc.,
                    homie, rap that **** out, condense it,
i thought Brazil was half the way America should have
endeared you? i had problems with Prussia
Austria and Russia... guess i was wrong how thuggish
i had to be with the Orpheus *******...
       cos the lyre was dumbo blunt deaf and therefore
cacka...
     higher philosophy begins with dialectics,
"lower" philosophy begins with diacritics -
     a return to the source, a debate with Ivory scales
concerning the Rosetta - a neo-formatting of
what's quiete
                           right: Sophia: hence anew: Rosetta.
and all for the pear that's woman and whether Satan
chose the fruit prudently according to Milton.
or the progress of a drunk:
centipedes and Fitzgeralds, Hemingways,
lust and last said...
                           the cf. of every apparent transitory
made to provoke the quasi and quack,
              ducking the Donald and the *****,
in agreement,
                     a happiness toward the tiresome
encrusting of what's worth being stated,
and then the deviatory,
                              as marketed a deviation
from a Louis Napoleon -
                                    because no Belarus was
to be chequered by an impeding force...
                      hence the cha cha cha...
                                    and hence the stanzas of
Argentinian tango...
              juicy and later the cruelty choking
of what some might make of Macbeath's habitual thinking
                                       worthy of a classroom
                audience; and that too is
exposable in return for being disposable.
higher philosophy is regarded as such with
dialectics,
                        but "lower" philosophy is
yet to be regarded as such with diacritics -
     not a case of what's to be said, and thus bedded,
but a case of how's something said,
                                and thus given a freedom
of: bedded, wedded, pimped, or whimpered into
                                     surviving writing a poem about;
also achieved by Humphrey and that chuckle of
revising Casablanca for an unnecessary quote dynamic /
diatribe when Hiroshima said
                 much more than the above certified:
boom! 1 million ******* dead.
       that's an overt-quote that gropes the many
amens among the citations of Marilyn, and still gets away
with                     a memory of J.F.K.,
           because that ****-honing masterpiece
was needing my memory rather
                                   than a b. b. q.    scewing.
          i find people rather forgetting:
jeopardy battered boundless gym orientational
                     thoughtless two shots of tequilas
            and three paraphrases of sours in biting a lemon
to upkeep a trough of a suntan with the H-He:
boom boom, higher tier laughter,
             ingesting that inflation of prop
                    boom boom, v bomber,
                     squeeze...
                    lob-side lo & behold,
                                       'n'        - squiggly extra thus born.
SWB Sep 2011
Here I am again
wading through straw hats and jazz-
hailing the bartender,
spilling.
I’ve got last call to catch.
That firecracker with geraniums in her hair
is thirsty and wearing symptoms
of dance fever.
I’m doing a dance of my own,
holding my watery scotch over my head,
dodging sweaty shoulders.
I’ve almost made it back to Flower Girl
when I see a sight
that nearly jars the J&B; from my hand-
I see you.
You’re waiting by the jukebox
for Baseball Coach to retrieve
dos tequilas
and you’re happy.
The game was on again on Friday
We've been players in the game
Sometimes we were the  winners
And others...hey, it's just a game!

The players have all lined up
there are five out on the field
Let's see if someone scores tonight
And which one of them will yield

Three guys lined up and facing
Two women opposing them
All were ready, set to go
Let's get started then

White sweater, jeans
The first to move
It looks like we'll see a pass
But, from here his jeans are baggy
5 yard loss for baggy ***!

The women laughed and smiled
They were on defence right  from the start
The guys would have to send their best
If they were gonna win their hearts

Red workshirt, chinos, ballcap
Makes his way and gets quite far
He's armed with two tequilas
He doesn't see their longnecks on the bar

They laughed and drank his offer
He made some progress
second down
He makes off to his buddies
It's left up to their friend in brown

He ventures out to the jukebox
Finds something upbeat
for a dance
But chino's turned right on his heels
He's called an audible....second chance

He reaches out to both the girls
He gets their before his friend
If he fumbles this, his game is done
He won't be here at the end

We've seen this game a thousand times
Every week at every club
The players..always different
But the game's the same and there's the rub

Back to our five players
The man in brown got blocked before
He even made it to the girls
But, he barely made it to the floor

Red workshop wins this time folks
It looks like he won't go home alone
But, the girls have got another play
and it involves phoning home

The sudden ring's resounding
It shakes the bar and stops the man
Because while they were out dancing
He saw the rings on both their hands

Like I said, the game is always
going on ...with newer rules
It's amazing how married women
Make the men all  look like fools
Terry O'Leary Mar 2013
1.
There once was a couple of cats
Who engaged in continuous spats.
          The result was a tie
          When each scratched out an eye –
An old-Biblical *** for a tat!

The cats awoke bleeding and weak
And half-seeing the havoc they'd wreaked
          They discarded their clothes,
          Their backsides to expose –
A new-Biblical turning of cheek!

2.
There once was a man, oh so brave,
Who would sleep in a hole, called a grave ...
          Well, he being the host
          To so many a ghost,
He arranged a big bash, called a rave

3.
In days of Neanderthal knaves
When the men ruled like kings in their caves
          And not being too keen
          About keeping them clean ...
Often took on some wives, called them slaves

4.
There once was a man with a stave
Overseeing a holy enclave ...
          Well, maintaining a grin
          While absolving the sin,
He assessed wicked tales and forgave

5.
There once was a monk with a wave
Who desired a head with a shave ...
          Well, the barber was such
          That she cut back too much
Thereby leaving his globus concave

6.
There once was a man in the nave,
Although pious he could not behave ...
          But they paid him no mind,
          ’Cause his name was maligned,
Being simply a sinner to save

7.
There once was a man quite depraved
A voluptuous life was thus craved ...
          Well, continuous sin
          Ended doing him in –
On his tombstone they carved ‘Misbehaved’

8.
Antoine is a Vampire Ghoul,
Quite barbaric, bloodthirsty and cruel,
          With a fang in your throat
          He’ll **** slowly and gloat
With a smile as you whimper and mewl.

9.
There once was a raven haired Shrink
Who had orange Juice Tequilas to drink.
          Well her scarlet souled Beau
          ****** her tinted red Toe
And she paled when he tickled her Pink.

10.
There once was a travelling sage
Who yet lived to a very old age.
          Well, becoming quite senile,
          With problems (yes, ******),
He packed his wee trunk in a rage.

11.
There once was a Nun and a Druid
Exchanging some ****** fluid,
          When along strode the Father
          Who heard all the bother,
Lost stickum while coming  unglu..ed.
Megan Mae Feb 2013
If I were a piece of trash
You just tossed out of the way
And I could talk, what might i say?

'You're horrible, the walls agree,
Did you see what you've done to me?'
Even your ears could hear this i know.

Your appearance to every one else
Has come to an all time ******* low.
All because of that *****, that ******* ***.

Your Ex, the reason you would call me each night,
And ask me to the garden to cry. You CRIED.
And yet you return to her so easily!?

What is your problem? Every one warned me...
Whats worse is that I heard and knew it would happen,
And yet i let it unfold, with nothing better to do.

I couldn't and can't control your life,
But I can control how you make me feel.
I didn't stop you, from hurting me at least...

And now all I want to do is get back at you.
What would work best I'm still figuring out,
But till then I'm drinking each night, no doubt.

But **** it, I could easily ask your roommate,
The one you hate so much, if he could teach me
Exactly what you wanted to but didn't think was right...

I could hurt myself with my addiction,
The fear you held so highly, a glass of Jack,
Oh pints of Beer...Long Islands and Tequilas.

Or I could just do what you do, Ignore.
The worst thing I could do and simply
Knock you in your pain to the floor...

You texted me four times today,
You called near to six, from 9 to 5
You didn't take a break.

You must really care to try so hard,
Even called those I would hang with
To make sure I was Okay...

Well sir, I'm starting to wonder,
Whether or not I was the trash;
Or you were dear sir...if you were...
What better way, to end the day, with a stressful vent of what I can't say. How I wish I was wiser and stronger, and smart enough to make you stay far away.- From Upside Down
alasia May 2016
I want to get drunk and love you, I want to hold on to you tightly like my grip on a pint, I want my rose coloured glasses to take on a blurry film because you started to shatter my lenses. You're coming through loud and clear and if I don't love you now I fear I never will. So I'll take a swig and pour you a glass chug my ***** with a chase of your body and perhaps all your flaws will become beautiful again. I want to get drunk and let my feelings spill off my tongue until the only way to shut me up is to kiss me. I want to be drunk when you tell me you "love" me, or that I'm "the one", because lies taste sour and the tequilas gone so what's the use. Your bitter affection tastes sweet when it's swallowed after *** and a twisted tea is better than a twisted heart so let's get drunk and fall back in love for a bit, when we wake up hungover we'll wait until we're sober and then we'll fight again. Take my word, you'll need a shot, because when I'm leaving you'll wish I were drunk so I would love you.
Yup.
Sobriquet Oct 2014
The minute shift it brought about
helped along by three pints and sneaky tequilas,
was enough
to generate
a fanfare.

For too long I have stooped,
trapped in the exoskeleton of an older world,
unable to move and unable to breathe,
for fear I will shatter the outer plates that hold me together.

But a little while ago,
I felt a crack rend the outliers, and a burst of colour I'd never seen before,
rainbowed happily through the split

So here I am,
cracking plates with rainbows,
with the Old World and an Exoskeleton I outgrew,
gathering new dust on the floor beside me.

And atop a hill moulded from wishful thinking and despair,
stronger arms build armour from a grin,
gnashing teeth and belly laughs.

So try me now,
because I am ready.
Perpetuating drunk pomposity.
Luna Lynn Jan 2017
my hair is your obsession
because it's *****
it's curly
it's exotic
it's ethnic

i wrap it up because it's fallen out
and you call me aunt jemima
i wrap it up because it's damaged
and you call me carmen miranda

you taped a photo on my desk

how about i tape a photo to your desk?
compare you to every white person you remind me of
touch your hair every day and point out your split ends
your bald spots
your imperfections
and send you a photo of the whitest white woman
and say,
this is you;
you are her

your ignorance fascinates me and yet
i'm not allowed to say ****
i sit in my chair
and i let your micro aggressions build up
into volcanoes that make me want to erupt on
your fantasy island
where all white is all right
and all black is all nap
and latinas serve your tequilas

you always want to put your ******* fingers
where they don't belong
you believe your simple gestures are innocent
but you're wrong
(c) Maxwell 2017
orion j Jun 2014
Listen here sweetheart, you might want to wipe off the excessive lipstick with the back of your hand while tugging your ridiculously short skirt down. Don't think for a millisecond that just because you have a pretty face -- something that doesn't look like the smashed up average and a pity story that some may cry to, you'll get everything you want. You're running around the whole world while thinking it runs around you. You can't just play your cards like that, pretending to be a girl who drinks moonlight tequilas when in reality you're nothing less than a pretentious child, aspiring for a new identity. Don't tell me you're the heart breaker when in reality your hearts been shattering too soon and most probably emptied down the drain. You might have a pretty face but I know better, I know your tendency to break everything you touch -- the child in the candy shop -- much too greedy for her own good. In the words of the boy whose lips are made out of fine china, 'she's poison', he was shattered by you some time ago and honestly I've been staying up late trying to nurse him back. You stand at the side of the street lights, gazing up at the fluorescent lights from below as your choke on your cigarette. The smoky breath so many desire despite the reused lips, the kind that simply won't keep to themselves. You keep forgetting that the lack of clothing isn't going to be able to shield your lack of humanity from the water splashed by the cars zipping by you. The ones who knows better than to stay.
(not relatable anymore)
The ceiling was smoke stained
tables all beer stained
and the stains held the memories
of a century of miners

in the  'Tap Room'
at the
Horse and Groom
where men were men
and ladies not allowed.

No Tap Rooms now
how times have changed,
it's pretty peculiar and
what are Tequilas?
cocktails
tall drinks
all half pints or so me thinks

I need a coffee.
Aa Harvey Aug 2018
When I grow up, I want to be...


As the sun shines down, on this old grey town,
It shows me the exit, to lead me down south.
To start a new life and to find me a wife;
To buy a new house and to raise a child.


As I lounge in the sun, with my new born son,
And my wife by my side, simply enjoying my new life.
I'm sat by the beach, enjoying the peace,
Whilst smoking my green and living out my dreams.


I'm getting a tan, from the blazing sun,
Whilst my son’s having fun, playing in the sand with his mum;
Building sandcastles and swimming in the sea.
I wonder what he will grow up to be.
My wife and I, are simply enjoying growing old together
And watching our son grow
And talking of the good old days…long ago.


The day we first met, at our local nightclub,
After 7 tequilas and a night of smoking bud
And making love and feeling good.
I knew when I saw her, my wife she would become.


The two young romantics, became infatuated
And never parted, after exchanging hearts
And a year later, exchanging rings
And sharing one feeling
And sharing one dream
And sharing one thing called our destiny.


Now we shall never live apart.
She'll be at my side, until the day I depart
And float up to Heaven, to wait for my wife
And my first born child,
To make the hopefully long wait worthwhile.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Mohan Boone May 2020
tickling the rocks
dancing around woodworms
drinking tequila with dandelions
the floor is 
no place
for a young fern with ambition

beanstalk
said the big unfurling fern to the little unfurling fern
beanstalk all the way to the ozonosphere
if you endure
and you harvest the best sunbeams
and nitrogens
and you cheat at quizzes
you'll climb as high as that great rose
and you'll be happy and
strong
and powerful

but I am happy
said the little unfurling fern to the big unfurling fern
and I don't wish to be strong and powerful
and that great rose I've heard is a real
pig
and he doesn't share his Easter eggs
and he has no pride in his hedges
and he plays bad music really loud on
buses

this floor is the floor but it is
my world
and I like the woodworms
and the two leafed clovers who don't know their
androecium's from their
gynoecium's
and the dandelion - well
he drinks too much tequila but he has a 
strong heart
and if the world was on fire and everything was lost he'd share his
last
mini eggs
with all of us.

it is true - that I am small
but in my scrubby wisdom I know I know
that it is better
to stay down low
among cheap friends
and dance with ugly woodworms
and tell stories to bluebells
and play flute with the clovers
than it is
to grow tall
and handsome
and have only the spiteful rose for a friend
and have to listen
all day
to *******
Morrissey.

now there's a lad
said the big unfurling fern to the little unfurling fern
as the dandelion racked up the tequilas.
Laura Mar 2023
"i can't"
just two or three tequilas,
then i’ll tell you how i’m feeling,
somewhere between toxic,
and relaxed, i can't win this back.
you think i’m always funny,
when i’m losing all my money,
placing bets on how long
this might last - it can't.
i've always been an afterthought,
feed myself another shot, cause
i’m over being an overthought,
i've tried to be easy, but loves not.
it costs too much to hold you,
sticking with it cause i know you -
i see the best in everyone,
your smiles on a discount
mines drawn on in clown,
why does this feel like theft,
baby, lets just lay this to rest.
wake me up when you remember,
how it felt, the beating in your chest,
i know you think about me still, spill -
but we both know,
"you can't".

— The End —