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Hello, everyone! This is one of the weirdest sites: or your money back! We have ZIM, neopets, music, and much, much, more. E-mail us for questions, comments, complaints and information. Why not click on the Very Weird Stuff link to see more, or click on the music link? We have halloween and christmas pictures on the NeoPics link. Cheese is not a wild thing!!!!!!!!! Now I have decided to go for a world record. I will try to make the longest web page ever, made completely out of text! Won't that be fun? I will just type, and type, and never, ever use copy and paste. Wow...I really must be bored. Just goes to show what boredom can do to you. Any way, that's it for now. Wait, no it isn't, I still have to keep going, and going, and going. Because I do. THE REST OF THE STUFF I TYPE WILL BE COMPLETLY IN CAPS JUST BECAUSE I CAN. THAT IS ALL. SEEYA! Hi, I'm back. So far this is nowhere near the world record. I think. I don't exactly know where it is...oh, well. I'll just have to do the very best that I can. No one is really coming here, anyway. So it doesn't matter. By the way, TAB is a worthwhile, community-service organization. The form link is to a 100% fake TAB registration form that you can fill out just for laughs. I can't believe I'm bothering to do this. I have very low expectations of my site. None ever comes here, I could do this all day long and I still wouldn't have any more hits. This is just a pointless excursive in spelling errors and grammatical imprecision. May your day be shiney! The following is an extremely weird poem-thingy that I wrote when I was in a relatively weird mood:
never mind that noise my dear can anyone pass the cheese only if you say pretty please oh, boy do I have to sneeze. why must everyone always rhyme, why I’m a poet and don’t I know it? what I fear comes right after here not this life or the next will I ever be able to pass the test? we’re stuck in here, (alone my dear) and we’ll problem never get out so don’t start to shout. it’s dark and I want to go home is where the heart was where is it now? we’ll never know but oh crap it’s starting to snow and it’s time to show and tell about the well that you found last summer at camp when it was damp it was near the ramp oh god why must this be I liked that tree but now it’s gone, farewell so long I’ll miss you as long as you write but then I’m afraid to say good-night. my dear there’s nothing to fear that’s only a box that’s made of blocks next to the wagon that looks like a dragon why are you shaking it’s your fear that is making you shiver and act all a quiver. don’t you know that you only need be afraid of fear and never anything here and certainly not a post that acts like a ghost?
See, very weird. At least it fills up my word quota for the day. Not that I exactly have a word quota for the day. It just sounded very professional to say it. Anyway, I still don't think that anyone is actually coming here. You'd have to be an absolute loser (or really bored) to come here. I'd probley come here, but that isn't much of a surprise. After all, I've been to the Really Really Big Button That Doesn't Do Anything website over 50 times. Pathetic. But, whatever. As long as I'm happy, right. Humor the crazy person, okay? Oh, guess what? According to someone you problem don't know, this is the second most pointless website ever! Next to the Really Big Button, of course. I feel special. Come on everyone, group hug. Okay, now I'm starting to scare myself...I'm gonna quit for today. Seeya. Now I'm back. Is this getting confusing to you? Too bad. Now I want you to go to http://quiz.ravenblack.net/blood.pl?biter=eon" If you do this I'll get points in the game. Come on all you non-existing people! Help me! You know you want to! It's a worthy cause! Honestly, the more time I waste playing the game, the less time I'll work on this site and the less stuff you gotta read. Although why you'd be here if you didn't want to read is beyond me. Maybe you're lost. Okay, if you want to get out, click the little refresh button, okay? Good...what? You say it didn't let you out? Oh, well. You must be caught in a time warp. Keep pressing it. Maybe you'll break free. What's that. The little counter at the bottom keeps going up? Never mind. That's just how many times you have to click before you can leave. Good-bye.

Hey, I'm once again: back. I don't suppose you fell for that little thing about the refresh button. After all, you're a responsible, intelligent person who apparently has a lot of time on your hands. Well, you can't possibly have more time than I do. I mean, after all, I made this site. You're only browsing it. And most people don't even come here. Not even my friends...sniffle The just ignore this poor, pathetic little page. All they do is fill out the TAB form and leave. I think. Maybe they're here right now! HI! HOW ARE YOU DOING? I'M FINE! THANKS FOR COMING! YES, I'M YELLING! Who am I kidding. This page won't get a single hit, unless I bribe people...now that has possibilities. Okay, fill out the TAB form, so I have proof that you bothered to come here and...uh...I'll...uh...send you a sandwich? Please allow 6-8 weeks for delivery. I'm bored. I'm gonna go hug a moose. MOOSE! I love-d you moose! Hey, I'm back again! Yea...waits for applause okay! Now I want all you loyal fans...cricket chirps to go to the link to see what I'm like. I took a whole bunch of personality quizzes and posted them there. I'm an evil villain, kitty and a freakazoid so far. And I only took the quiz once, too. Spooky how accurate they are...anyway, I command you to go! I'm going. I'm back. I'm gonna start counting how many times I say back. Let's see: 1...2...3...4...5! Wow. I must really be desperate for something to do. I now officially have proof that someone has been here! It was one of my friends. Apparently this page really is getting long, because my friend said something to that effect. Maybe. Anyway, moving on! I'm just basically typing nothing. Just like all those reports people have to do. You know? With a specific number of words. They start out with half that number, and then just fill in words until they have the right amount. I salute those people. You're great tradition is being carried out here, on the second most pointless site ever! Well. Maybe eventually some weird, bored person will wander onto my site on accident and be mildly entertained be my site until they wander onto a live video feed of a coffee maker. Or maybe not. I only know that I'm entertaining me, which was my original goal. So. I've done what I've set out to accomplish. Yea, me! I'm so special. You see, most people, they don't like reading or writing. So if you're not most people, you've made it down this far without skipping, skimming or getting the spark notes version. (Which I think does not exist) My point is, if you've bothered to read this, then, (like me) you probley have also read the ketchup bottle so many times that you have it down verbatim. Look verbatim up. It's a word. But, you should know that, since you like reading. Or maybe you're just skimming. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with reading food labels. You might be asked a question about them on a quiz show. And now, for the million-dollar question: How many calories are there in a single serving of Mustard? I can just see it now...It could be called Know-Your-Food. Or You are What you Eat. It'd probley be as popular as those game shows that no one's ever heard of. Speaking of food, what's up with pie? There's strawberry pie, apple, pumpkin and so many others, but there is no grape pie! I know. I'm just as upset about this unfortunate lack of development in the pie division. Think about it. Grapes are used to make jelly, jam, juice and raisins. What makes them undesirable for pie? Would they dry into raisins? Couldn't you just stick some jelly in a piecrust and bake it? It just doesn't make any sense. Another thing that bothers me is ***** grinders. You know, the foreign guys with the bellhop hats and the little music thingy and the cute little monkey with the bellhop hat who collects the money? Okay. They're basically begging on the street. How did they ever afford an *****-thingy? Wouldn't it make more sense to get a kazoo, if you're broke? And if they're so poor, what possessed them to buy a monkey? I mean, I don't think I could afford a monkey, and I'm not exactly on the streets. Obviously I at least have a computer...so, back to the ***** grinders. I would have sold the monkey and the ***** and been able to eat for at least a year. Or, if I was weirder than I am, I could at least **** the monkey with the ***** and eat it. Why on earth did they keep the monkey? It must have cost a fortune to feed...not to mention the mess. That's just one of those many facts of life that are better left mysteries. Especially since no one but me would ask the question. I better go. I think I hear a monkey...Okay...now I'm back. That's the sixth time I've said back! I realize that this longest text ever must be very boring and not worth anyone's time. But I'd like to take this time to thank the 2 and 1/2 people in the entire universe who have bothered to read this entire thing. I'm not exactly sure who they are, but: thanks! Right now, my spacebar is malfunctioning...that's not good...I have to press it two or three times just to insert a freaking space. Maybe the evil little faeries with the sharp little teeth have put their evil faerie dust on my computer. Or maybe not. This is too frustrating. Goodbye for now...Now I'm back. And still frustrated. But for a different reason. Today I had the misfortune of playing a Treasure Planet game on neopets.com It was terrible. Apparently the point of the game was to get your character to shout "Whoo-Hoo!" as many times as possible before you splattered your brains on the rocks, all the while listening to a soundtrack that is similar to a dying ceiling fan. Of course, when I started out I accidentally hit the rocks approximately three million times. Halfway though I used my four remaining brain-cells to decide that the game was dumb. So my goal changed from surviving to laughing evilly while my character died. So the game naturally did everything it could to preserve my life. The stupid game is still going on and I refuse to quit because I want my points. My character is actually dodging the stupid rocks better now then when I controlled him. I hate irony. Seeya. Okay. Now I'm back again. Today I added an update page, which is basically a less chaotic, outlined version of this without all the ranting. It's more like techno talk about arrays and how much I **** and whether or not the Braves will win this year. Okay, the whole braves thing is made up. But everything else I've said so far is true. I think. Maybe I should start on a boring disclaimer...Eh-hem. All contents of this site were designed for entertainment purposes only. Any use thereof that is not stated in the above mentioned statement would make the author, hereby referred to as Patron Saint of Paper Clips, very angry. Should you violate the purpose of this site: i.e. become not entertained, the Patron Saint of Paper Clips will be forced to take drastic measures. This is specified in Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook. Ooooo…that’s a great idea! I’m gonna start quoting from the Flaming Chicken Handbook! Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook states that the Patron Saint of Paper Clips (that’s me) is allowed to cause vague, pain like sensations while the offending person (or alien life form, dog, etc.) isn’t paying attention. Now I have a purpose in life! To make up quotes from the non-existent Flaming Chicken Handbook, which I’m sure you have a copy of. No? Too bad. It’s in the mail, I promise! Now I must take my leave…and remember. Cheese is watching. Okay...I'm back...I think that eventually half of this thing will consist of the word back over and over again...that's just weird. Which fits the motif of the rest of the site. There's even a money back guarantee. Isn’t' that nice? See? Now no one can ever say that I don't take care of my viewers. Especially since I don't have viewers. I have readers. Wait...I really don't even know if anyone bothers to read this. Even if I put it in a less chaotic, more user-friendly format people would still ignore this because it involves: reading. Yes. Sad to admit, but the majority of people would rather read the summary at the back of a book rather than the whole book itself. What has the world come to? It's pathetic. Especially since I'm bothering to write all this. It's not fair! Why can't I have more readers?! All the other internet writers have nothing on me, except they're better at advertising, having a central theme/plot and basically more talented. Whereas I'm more into the whole ranting and raving stage right now. Plus, I am horrible at spelling. Which is bad. Thank the powers that be for spell-check. The single greatest invention of the computer gods. I'm getting bored, so I think I'm done for the day. May your day be shiney! I'm back again! And I feel weird! I found at that yet another one of my friends is reading this. Creepy. Just how much time do they have on their hands. Perhaps their just trying to be nice. I can just see it now...an organization devoted not to feeding the hungry, or peace, or love or whatever, but to giving recognition to all those poor, pathetic, unpopular websites. I wonder what it's name would be. Don't Ignore Sites? Would it be called DIS? Isn't that like a slang term for an insult? Would that be considered poetic justice, or just a nice coincidence? And why do I even care? I'll tell you why. Because I have nothing else to do right now. I could be playing neopets, but ever since my bad experience with Treasure Planet, I don't feel like it. Oh, by the way, I noticed that whenever I use spell-check, my stupid computer turns the word probley into to word problem. To prevent this, I did nothing. So, it is now up to you, the imaginary reader, to decide whether I mean probley or problem...it's almost like a game! But without the bad sound track. And I promise not to force you to live when you would rather die. Moving on, I have nothing else to say, but don't feel like quitting just yet. I'm like the little engine that could. Or maybe the Energizer Bunny. I just keep going, and going and going. Or I could be like that annoying guy on T.V. who keeps asking if you can hear him. If my site manages to last a decade, my readers snicker will probley wonder what I'm talking about. My answer is simple. It doesn't matter. I'm just rambling. Which means that it doesn't matter if you understand anything I say. Doesn't that make you feel better? I bet it does. Wow. Look how long this has gotten. I even impress myself. Who would have thought I have this much free time? And I congratulate any reader who has gotten this far. Ooooooo! You must check out the fortunes section of the random stuff page! I've just gotten an idea for some more, original, fortunes...I gotta go!(may the moose be with you) And now I am back. I swear. If iI fill out the fake tab form I'm gonna have to put back as my favorite word...I already have filled it out, though. Would it be cheating to fill it out again? Only if I had multiple personalities. Or would it be cheating if I didn't have multiple personalities? The world may never know. Just like how many licks it takes to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop. Would it vary? The number of licks, I mean. Someone could have super-disolving spit, or watery-spit. Or what if you took big ol' slobbery licks? Does the commercial take that into account? No. It doesn't. And let me tell you, it's an outrage. It deludes all of American's sweet, innocent, candy-loving children into thinking that a cartoon owl is smarter than they are! "Mr. Owl, can you tell us how many licks does it take to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop?" Or whatever. And "Mr. Owl" replies "One...Twoo...Three! Chomp" And he bites it. That teaches our youth that it's okay to agree to help someone, and then ruin their experiment. Well...it's not. I am going to start a protest group. Teens Against Cartoon Owls. We could call ourselves TACO! I love the little tacos, I love them good! That is a direct quote from GIR, co-star and comic-relief on INVADER ZIM
Hello, everyone! This is one of the weirdest sites: or your money back! We have ZIM, neopets, music, and much, much, more. E-mail us for questions, comments, complaints and information. Why not click on the Very Weird Stuff link to see more, or click on the music link? We have halloween and christmas pictures on the NeoPics link. Cheese is not a wild thing!!!!!!!!! Now I have decided to go for a world record. I will try to make the longest web page ever, made completely out of text! Won't that be fun? I will just type, and type, and never, ever use copy and paste. Wow...I really must be bored. Just goes to show what boredom can do to you. Any way, that's it for now. Wait, no it isn't, I still have to keep going, and going, and going. Because I do. THE REST OF THE STUFF I TYPE WILL BE COMPLETLY IN CAPS JUST BECAUSE I CAN. THAT IS ALL. SEEYA! Hi, I'm back. So far this is nowhere near the world record. I think. I don't exactly know where it is...oh, well. I'll just have to do the very best that I can. No one is really coming here, anyway. So it doesn't matter. By the way, TAB is a worthwhile, community-service organization. The form link is to a 100% fake TAB registration form that you can fill out just for laughs. I can't believe I'm bothering to do this. I have very low expectations of my site. None ever comes here, I could do this all day long and I still wouldn't have any more hits. This is just a pointless excursive in spelling errors and grammatical imprecision. May your day be shiney! The following is an extremely weird poem-thingy that I wrote when I was in a relatively weird mood:
never mind that noise my dear can anyone pass the cheese only if you say pretty please oh, boy do I have to sneeze. why must everyone always rhyme, why I’m a poet and don’t I know it? what I fear comes right after here not this life or the next will I ever be able to pass the test? we’re stuck in here, (alone my dear) and we’ll problem never get out so don’t start to shout. it’s dark and I want to go home is where the heart was where is it now? we’ll never know but oh crap it’s starting to snow and it’s time to show and tell about the well that you found last summer at camp when it was damp it was near the ramp oh god why must this be I liked that tree but now it’s gone, farewell so long I’ll miss you as long as you write but then I’m afraid to say good-night. my dear there’s nothing to fear that’s only a box that’s made of blocks next to the wagon that looks like a dragon why are you shaking it’s your fear that is making you shiver and act all a quiver. don’t you know that you only need be afraid of fear and never anything here and certainly not a post that acts like a ghost?
See, very weird. At least it fills up my word quota for the day. Not that I exactly have a word quota for the day. It just sounded very professional to say it. Anyway, I still don't think that anyone is actually coming here. You'd have to be an absolute loser (or really bored) to come here. I'd probley come here, but that isn't much of a surprise. After all, I've been to the Really Really Big Button That Doesn't Do Anything website over 50 times. Pathetic. But, whatever. As long as I'm happy, right. Humor the crazy person, okay? Oh, guess what? According to someone you problem don't know, this is the second most pointless website ever! Next to the Really Big Button, of course. I feel special. Come on everyone, group hug. Okay, now I'm starting to scare myself...I'm gonna quit for today. Seeya. Now I'm back. Is this getting confusing to you? Too bad. Now I want you to go to http://quiz.ravenblack.net/blood.pl?biter=eon" If you do this I'll get points in the game. Come on all you non-existing people! Help me! You know you want to! It's a worthy cause! Honestly, the more time I waste playing the game, the less time I'll work on this site and the less stuff you gotta read. Although why you'd be here if you didn't want to read is beyond me. Maybe you're lost. Okay, if you want to get out, click the little refresh button, okay? Good...what? You say it didn't let you out? Oh, well. You must be caught in a time warp. Keep pressing it. Maybe you'll break free. What's that. The little counter at the bottom keeps going up? Never mind. That's just how many times you have to click before you can leave. Good-bye.

Hey, I'm once again: back. I don't suppose you fell for that little thing about the refresh button. After all, you're a responsible, intelligent person who apparently has a lot of time on your hands. Well, you can't possibly have more time than I do. I mean, after all, I made this site. You're only browsing it. And most people don't even come here. Not even my friends...sniffle The just ignore this poor, pathetic little page. All they do is fill out the TAB form and leave. I think. Maybe they're here right now! HI! HOW ARE YOU DOING? I'M FINE! THANKS FOR COMING! YES, I'M YELLING! Who am I kidding. This page won't get a single hit, unless I bribe people...now that has possibilities. Okay, fill out the TAB form, so I have proof that you bothered to come here and...uh...I'll...uh...send you a sandwich? Please allow 6-8 weeks for delivery. I'm bored. I'm gonna go hug a moose. MOOSE! I love-d you moose! Hey, I'm back again! Yea...waits for applause okay! Now I want all you loyal fans...cricket chirps to go to the link to see what I'm like. I took a whole bunch of personality quizzes and posted them there. I'm an evil villain, kitty and a freakazoid so far. And I only took the quiz once, too. Spooky how accurate they are...anyway, I command you to go! I'm going. I'm back. I'm gonna start counting how many times I say back. Let's see: 1...2...3...4...5! Wow. I must really be desperate for something to do. I now officially have proof that someone has been here! It was one of my friends. Apparently this page really is getting long, because my friend said something to that effect. Maybe. Anyway, moving on! I'm just basically typing nothing. Just like all those reports people have to do. You know? With a specific number of words. They start out with half that number, and then just fill in words until they have the right amount. I salute those people. You're great tradition is being carried out here, on the second most pointless site ever! Well. Maybe eventually some weird, bored person will wander onto my site on accident and be mildly entertained be my site until they wander onto a live video feed of a coffee maker. Or maybe not. I only know that I'm entertaining me, which was my original goal. So. I've done what I've set out to accomplish. Yea, me! I'm so special. You see, most people, they don't like reading or writing. So if you're not most people, you've made it down this far without skipping, skimming or getting the spark notes version. (Which I think does not exist) My point is, if you've bothered to read this, then, (like me) you probley have also read the ketchup bottle so many times that you have it down verbatim. Look verbatim up. It's a word. But, you should know that, since you like reading. Or maybe you're just skimming. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with reading food labels. You might be asked a question about them on a quiz show. And now, for the million-dollar question: How many calories are there in a single serving of Mustard? I can just see it now...It could be called Know-Your-Food. Or You are What you Eat. It'd probley be as popular as those game shows that no one's ever heard of. Speaking of food, what's up with pie? There's strawberry pie, apple, pumpkin and so many others, but there is no grape pie! I know. I'm just as upset about this unfortunate lack of development in the pie division. Think about it. Grapes are used to make jelly, jam, juice and raisins. What makes them undesirable for pie? Would they dry into raisins? Couldn't you just stick some jelly in a piecrust and bake it? It just doesn't make any sense. Another thing that bothers me is ***** grinders. You know, the foreign guys with the bellhop hats and the little music thingy and the cute little monkey with the bellhop hat who collects the money? Okay. They're basically begging on the street. How did they ever afford an *****-thingy? Wouldn't it make more sense to get a kazoo, if you're broke? And if they're so poor, what possessed them to buy a monkey? I mean, I don't think I could afford a monkey, and I'm not exactly on the streets. Obviously I at least have a computer...so, back to the ***** grinders. I would have sold the monkey and the ***** and been able to eat for at least a year. Or, if I was weirder than I am, I could at least **** the monkey with the ***** and eat it. Why on earth did they keep the monkey? It must have cost a fortune to feed...not to mention the mess. That's just one of those many facts of life that are better left mysteries. Especially since no one but me would ask the question. I better go. I think I hear a monkey...Okay...now I'm back. That's the sixth time I've said back! I realize that this longest text ever must be very boring and not worth anyone's time. But I'd like to take this time to thank the 2 and 1/2 people in the entire universe who have bothered to read this entire thing. I'm not exactly sure who they are, but: thanks! Right now, my spacebar is malfunctioning...that's not good...I have to press it two or three times just to insert a freaking space. Maybe the evil little faeries with the sharp little teeth have put their evil faerie dust on my computer. Or maybe not. This is too frustrating. Goodbye for now...Now I'm back. And still frustrated. But for a different reason. Today I had the misfortune of playing a Treasure Planet game on neopets.com It was terrible. Apparently the point of the game was to get your character to shout "Whoo-Hoo!" as many times as possible before you splattered your brains on the rocks, all the while listening to a soundtrack that is similar to a dying ceiling fan. Of course, when I started out I accidentally hit the rocks approximately three million times. Halfway though I used my four remaining brain-cells to decide that the game was dumb. So my goal changed from surviving to laughing evilly while my character died. So the game naturally did everything it could to preserve my life. The stupid game is still going on and I refuse to quit because I want my points. My character is actually dodging the stupid rocks better now then when I controlled him. I hate irony. Seeya. Okay. Now I'm back again. Today I added an update page, which is basically a less chaotic, outlined version of this without all the ranting. It's more like techno talk about arrays and how much I **** and whether or not the Braves will win this year. Okay, the whole braves thing is made up. But everything else I've said so far is true. I think. Maybe I should start on a boring disclaimer...Eh-hem. All contents of this site were designed for entertainment purposes only. Any use thereof that is not stated in the above mentioned statement would make the author, hereby referred to as Patron Saint of Paper Clips, very angry. Should you violate the purpose of this site: i.e. become not entertained, the Patron Saint of Paper Clips will be forced to take drastic measures. This is specified in Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook. Ooooo…that’s a great idea! I’m gonna start quoting from the Flaming Chicken Handbook! Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook states that the Patron Saint of Paper Clips (that’s me) is allowed to cause vague, pain like sensations while the offending person (or alien life form, dog, etc.) isn’t paying attention. Now I have a purpose in life! To make up quotes from the non-existent Flaming Chicken Handbook, which I’m sure you have a copy of. No? Too bad. It’s in the mail, I promise! Now I must take my leave…and remember. Cheese is watching. Okay...I'm back...I think that eventually half of this thing will consist of the word back over and over again...that's just weird. Which fits the motif of the rest of the site. There's even a money back guarantee. Isn’t' that nice? See? Now no one can ever say that I don't take care of my viewers. Especially since I don't have viewers. I have readers. Wait...I really don't even know if anyone bothers to read this. Even if I put it in a less chaotic, more user-friendly format people would still ignore this because it involves: reading. Yes. Sad to admit, but the majority of people would rather read the summary at the back of a book rather than the whole book itself. What has the world come to? It's pathetic. Especially since I'm bothering to write all this. It's not fair! Why can't I have more readers?! All the other internet writers have nothing on me, except they're better at advertising, having a central theme/plot and basically more talented. Whereas I'm more into the whole ranting and raving stage right now. Plus, I am horrible at spelling. Which is bad. Thank the powers that be for spell-check. The single greatest invention of the computer gods. I'm getting bored, so I think I'm done for the day. May your day be shiney! I'm back again! And I feel weird! I found at that yet another one of my friends is reading this. Creepy. Just how much time do they have on their hands. Perhaps their just trying to be nice. I can just see it now...an organization devoted not to feeding the hungry, or peace, or love or whatever, but to giving recognition to all those poor, pathetic, unpopular websites. I wonder what it's name would be. Don't Ignore Sites? Would it be called DIS? Isn't that like a slang term for an insult? Would that be considered poetic justice, or just a nice coincidence? And why do I even care? I'll tell you why. Because I have nothing else to do right now. I could be playing neopets, but ever since my bad experience with Treasure Planet, I don't feel like it. Oh, by the way, I noticed that whenever I use spell-check, my stupid computer turns the word probley into to word problem. To prevent this, I did nothing. So, it is now up to you, the imaginary reader, to decide whether I mean probley or problem...it's almost like a game! But without the bad sound track. And I promise not to force you to live when you would rather die. Moving on, I have nothing else to say, but don't feel like quitting just yet. I'm like the little engine that could. Or maybe the Energizer Bunny. I just keep going, and going and going. Or I could be like that annoying guy on T.V. who keeps asking if you can hear him. If my site manages to last a decade, my readers snicker will probley wonder what I'm talking about. My answer is simple. It doesn't matter. I'm just rambling. Which means that it doesn't matter if you understand anything I say. Doesn't that make you feel better? I bet it does. Wow. Look how long this has gotten. I even impress myself. Who would have thought I have this much free time? And I congratulate any reader who has gotten this far. Ooooooo! You must check out the fortunes section of the random stuff page! I've just gotten an idea for some more, original, fortunes...I gotta go!(may the moose be with you) And now I am back. I swear. If iI fill out the fake tab form I'm gonna have to put back as my favorite word...I already have filled it out, though. Would it be cheating to fill it out again? Only if I had multiple personalities. Or would it be cheating if I didn't have multiple personalities? The world may never know. Just like how many licks it takes to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop. Would it vary? The number of licks, I mean. Someone could have super-disolving spit, or watery-spit. Or what if you took big ol' slobbery licks? Does the commercial take that into account? No. It doesn't. And let me tell you, it's an outrage. It deludes all of American's sweet, innocent, candy-loving children into thinking that a cartoon owl is smarter than they are! "Mr. Owl, can you tell us how many licks does it take to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop?" Or whatever. And "Mr. Owl" replies "One...Twoo...Three! Chomp" And he bites it. That teaches our youth that it's okay to agree to help someone, and then ruin their experiment. Well...it's not. I am going to start a protest group. Teens Against Cartoon Owls. We could call ourselves TACO! I love the little tacos, I love them good! That is a direct quote from GIR, co-star and comic-relief on INVADER ZIM. Hmmmm.
Where were you yesterday
I was in the woods with Jimmy
And what were you doing there
Well first he asked me to take my knickers off
Did you
Yes I did , he has such a nice smile
Did you see his thingy
What's a thingy
Have you never seen a thingy
How could I have done ,
when I don't know
What on earth is a thingy
Have you any brothers
No , but does that matter
Well you would have seen one for sure
Look if I don't know what one is
How would I know if I've seen one
I'll have to tell you
We don't have one
Because we are girls
O.K. we don't have a thingy
Will we have one each
When we grow up
Ugh ! I don't jolly think so
Who'd want one of those horrid things
Alright you've got my interest in a whirl
What do they do with them
MMM , they use them for wee weeing
Is that it ,for wee weeing
So it's like a hosepipe
Well yes but smaller
Why have they got one
And not we girls haven't
Don't know
I've just realized
Did he take his trousers down
No why should he
Don't know
But why did he ask you
To take your knickers off
Easy , he wanted the elastic
to make a catapult.
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
"DEAR BLANK CHALLENGE" PLEASE PLEASE READ THIS AND REPOST TRY TO KEEP IT GOING:  HELLOPOETRY "DEAR BLANK" CHALLENGE SECRET SANTA POEMS EXCEPT NOT SECRET AND NOT SANTA RANDOM ACT/POEM OF KINDNESS STRANGER POETRY APPRECIATION

I thought it might be nice to do like a secret santa thingy on hellopoetry only not secret and not santa… what I mean is, find a random stranger you literally have never met and do NOT know at all whose poetry you like and spend actual time genuinely reading their work, picking out your favorite lines and responding to them, pondering them, etc. Write something positive to them and post it as a poem with their name in the title. The “DEAR BLANK” challenge only you put their name instead of “blank”. I think we could all use a little recognition that we exist and are worth something since everyone seems a little depressed on here (including myself) which is fine, it’s a great outlet but it would be nice for people to just spontaneously find that a random stranger spent time in their life just to recognize you and care about your poetry. To write a kind poem/letter to them responding to lines in their poetry. If you need an example I just posted DEAR IMALRIGHT which was exactly what I meant. Check out imalright's poetry btw it is amazing.
I plan on doing for more than one person and I'd love for you to do the same. Spread a little kindness, we could all use a little.
Also message me if you are going to do the challenge and message the stranger you do the DEAR BLANK challenge for so they know to look for and read your poem.
I just thought that Imalright who was a perfect stranger to me seemed like a wonderful poet and a wonderful person based on her poetry so I chose her.
You do that too if you accept the DEAR BLANK challenge.
INCLUDE DEARBLANKCHALLENGE AS A HASHTAG IF YOU DO THE CHALLENGE SO EVERYONE CAN FIND THEM
please repost this over and over so we can get as many people involved as possible and try and make a difference in a couple people's lives because I just want to make everyone feel loved but I'm just one girl, I can't do it alone. Please help me with this and join me in the DEAR BLANK challenge. Take time out of your day to properly appreciate someone's poetry who you do not know.

PLEASE REPOST LET'S GET EVERYONE INVOLVED!!! ;D
THANKS!

-EMBER EVANESCENT
DEAR BLANK CHALLENGE
Keith J Collard Jan 2013
Resident Facebook by Keith Collard

{remnants of a blood and ice coffee stained diary}


23april1996,

Been working at this mansion for at least four months now. Fellow co-workers are friendly enough. The pharmeceutical researchers are very pompous with their exact demands. Im in charge of the food storage and refridgeration for the mansion. It is the only modernly powered facet of this mansion. Besides the labs in the basement(from which I only heard).


26april1996,

This mansion is too creepy, the architect designed the living quarter and main facade of the mansion in a 1920 neo gothic fashion--with gas lamps and gothic paintings. Every device, even the typewriters in the mansion are old fashioned mechanical. A top researcher told me in casual conversation that these doors and clocks are more durable than current electronic means, built in the same fashion as the pyramids and stonehenge--he was pointing out all the clocks and engraved doors in the dining hall as he was speaking,while I was putting out the food. He's the usual eccentric for as these researchers go, he told me the company president paid him to design classical mantraps along the mansion and guardhouse to keep workers from straying, encrypted with runes and riddles as keys(some odd ducks).


2may1996,

Mansion workers were given each a laptop today by the head researcher Albert Wesker. This guy is like the James Bond of scientists, dashing and suave with a 9mm berreta at his side(wish we were allowed guns). He wears sunglasses--even at night. He said they experimented with a comunications app the scientists have been using to communicate expeiremental data. The only app available on there is something called Facebook, which the scientists call "fbproto."


5may1996,

The f.bproto is neat, we can watch movies , talk to eachother, and to workers at the pharmaceutical's sister facilities. Everything is monitored by the companies security admins Ive heard. The company will be holding raffles via f.bproto for staffers who could win a chance to participate in "beneficial lab trials" from ***** extension treatment to magnetic wave reducing therapy. Sounds unappealing to me...I put my name down on the site just in case.


6 may1996,Been talking to girl who works in sanitation department underneath the guardhouse, her name is Ada, she said there was an important goverment official flying in to the helipad today. She is pretty cute, and one bright light in this shadowy mansion. message from company, we should join democratic party on fbproto. whatever they say,they're the scientists.


10may1996,

Been stayin up too late posting on f.bproto,the company is posting alot of links, of visual images and sentences I don't quite understand. Ben from mansion cleanin services keeps hitting on Ada,I want to defriend him but want to know what he's doing. I put my cat in fbproto company pic contest,with everyone else who was given lab pets by the scientists, I put little gloves on her paws--Im sure to win.


11may1996,

Karl sent me a message on fbproto that he saw a researcher go into his room, and never saw him leave, and when he went to clean his room the researcher was not in there. This mansion is creepy, I mean a statue of a woman cutting her own throat with the inscription "only death shall set you free,"is that a little gloomy or what. fan of smiley faces on fbproto.;)


12 may 1996

man, the doors are like eight inches thick, solid wood, I locked myself out of my room and tried to shoulder the door in. Well, the door with its inlaid wood carving just laughed at me, it resembles a dragon or snake or someshit with two fern looking wings, red and blue. Spooooky stuff. I had to go get the security admin for the mansion staff living quarters. He unlocked the door, and told me that all the doors are solid oak. I asked him what the words at the bottom of serpent meant, he said it says in latin “ the two wings of the beast are red and blue.” I asked him what the hell that means, he says he didn’t know, but that it has to do with the research the scientists are doing.

I stayed up almost all night on fbproto, at first because my shoulder was killing me, but then it went away, and I kept finding myslelf with a ciqerette in my fingers all the way burnt down and my skin charred, geez, fbproto really takes your mind off things, especially this mansion which reminds me of a sepulcre. That Dan thinks he’s hot stuff, posting himself in his living quarters in the guard house, which is better than the mansion staffs. He get’s to go to the guardhouse recreation room, his profile pic is a bottle of Johnny Walker Red in it’s high end package that looks like a coffin, that him and the guards won at dart’s. It’s not hard to win that when Albert Wesker is on your team, that guy sunk three darts WilliamTell style into the bull’s eye. He tagged me in the picture of the Johnny Walker, *******.


13 may 1996

Locked myself in the walk in freezer today by accident, forgot the code….a researcher let me out finally, and asked if I was alright, I said I was fine, he just looked at me curiously. I was in there to clean out these blue vines, that kept on growing into the ducts and stuff, kept on turning the temperature down. But I won’t lie, I had my laptop with me to pass time, but after a while I couldn’t scroll down because my fingers stopped working , so I pressed the keyboard with my tongue. Ada’s pictures kept me warm, oh how I love her…..I want her so bad.


13may1996

Had a dream about the helicopter ride in and how the dense forest resembled a corpse’s face as we flew past it fast overhead. We touched down on the helipad, and there were dead bodies in the razor wire, they were shaking as if they were in a laughing frenzy from the rotor wash of the helicopter. Then as I entered the main façade (my footstep's echos on the tile seemed to walk away and disapear into the mansion)and stepped on the black and white checkered hall floor, Albert Wesker was there, and he was nicely dressed as a bartender or sumthin, and he asked if " I wanted a ****** mary," and he was squeezing a heart into the glass, then I looked down and there was a hole in my chest where my heart was supposed to be. Then there was a giant ice coffee and dancing with a mirror to moonlight sonata….****** stuff, this mansion is getting to me.


14may1996

dan is such a ****, keeps posting pics of himself shirtless, he was given some experimental hormone from a researcher and is relleshing in it It was some form of energy drink called Red Bull.

Him and Ada are talking more. Message from company to like republican party page(whatever)Daves three eyed frog won fbproto pic contest,grrrr.


15may1996,

there's been more accidents in the mansion and in the labs below. Fred from the kitchen staff cut off his fingers today,and Ive heard through Chris' post that someone fell into the live feed area where they feed animals to their experiments. Bob put his fbproto password(instead of mansioncode) into the mechanical lock at the observatory springing a trap of spikes that spiked his hand to his head and his head to the wall, the featherduster was still in his hand(or face).;(


16may1996,

the scientist with the always grave look has disapeared, the guards said he transferred,but a fellow researcher said he was fired, shame, I liked him.

There is a plant living in my radiator, keeps growing vine-like tendrils, and is turning up the heat...230 friends on f.bproto,woot woot.


17may1996,

the company is handing out promotional ice coffee that they created in the labs to staffers via f.bproto,I wasn't picked, dang,its said to give you "10x human energy and vitality".I became a fan of Backstreet Boys on f.bproto.


18may1996,

karl found a memo from the missing researcher under his bed when he was cleaning out his room, sent me a message via f.bproto,it read that the researcher concluded that the f.b proto had negative effects on living tissue, decreased brain function,increased tendencies for violence,and not worth the sublimal control contract with the goverment, and that both pre-cambrian ferns pose to much liability for a biohazard and show signs of sentience.........hmm,im up to 300 friends now.


19 may 1996,

more accidents in mansion, Albert Wesker sent message to staffers that he was just promoted to Head of Security,and that if anybody is caught leaving the premises they will be shot. I wouldn't even dare to go out in the surrounding forest, I hear the wild dogs howlin all night amid those dense woods.just became a fan of Ace of base, they are awesome.


20may 1996,

my roomate looks like a hot messs, his skin looks pale with black blotches and he has pitch black circles underneath eyes, he's been taking the labs new painkillers, man he should change his profile pic. I poked Ada.


21 may 1996

message from f.bproto, "outside guards replaced by Hunters.".....man, def would not go out there now, I fed one of those ape reptile thingy's live feed the other day( Phil went missing, I had to do his job, always doing other peoples work), and the feed for that day was a cow, and this thing just poked the cow to death with its razor claws.

Everyone of those brute raptor things have a skeleton key has their middle razor claw, a researcher said they can hear every door open and shut in the mansion, " If you see one, turn around and go out the door you came, if you enter a door your not supposed to, well....." he didn't finish what he was saying, only walked off muttering "what have I done....".....I friend requested him on fbproto, his last post was "god forgive me." His profile pic was his mansion room, with replicas of insects and a fishtank(that is rumoured to be a model of a giant one in the basement). He disapeared soon after and his fbproto was deactivated.

Joined Labville on fbproto.;)


22may1996,

message from company, the labs are combining expieramental ice coffee,painkillers,and steroids,anyone on f.bproto can partake, and we should document how we feel and what we do on fbproto multiple times a day. Took a pic of myself shirtless, can see spine coming thru skin, and I keep catching the red plant from the radiator posing in the background, or giving me bunny ears......grrrrrrrr.;(


23may1996

went to smoke a spleef on the stone balcony, near the greeen house over looking the forest the other night, they grow all kinds of red and blue marjiauna there.....but there was one of those reptile hunter things, standing guard there, blocking the path, it screamed and almost blew my eardrums out, " okey dokie" I said, and slowly backed away and left......friggin nazis these pharmaceutical people are.

I got rid of the Labville app on fbproto, that game is too hard, I keep running out of butlers to feed my experiments, and my humans keep escaping into the woods. But mostly, Im sick of seeing

Albert Wesker's name with the highest score everytime I play......



25may1996,

Ben said he saw a handfull of scientists and guards on the helipad taking a chopper out. There is more plants decorating the halls, no one knows who put them there, some rooms are blazing hot, others are ice cold. Ben said to not go to the library, everyone who went upstairs to that room has not returned, that the blue ones have took over the cobblestone path to the courtyard where the armory is. Said he saw Kevin in the tangles running up the stone wall on the side, he had a vine going in his mouth and coming out his eye; and he said that the researchers call the red ones "evaginates," for how they trap and slowly eat you(sounds ******). Im not on Ada's top friends list anymore, angry.


26may1996,

the mansion is awash in accidents and fighting, roomate looks like zombie, others look like reptilian muscled gorillaz, others just a blur they move so fast.eyes hurt from staring at f.b proto. Moaning alot. everyone is playing "I Saw the sign" from Ace of Base. Vines keep stealing my hat, and eating people.


25...,

no food, ate cat,mittens and both hearts,gas lights out, dark,everyone walking around with laptops to see,blue fbproto reflections on walls.fml.


2aprol

took chris' ice cofee and killed ben before he took steroids,lol,ate steroids,no one cooking food, getting hungry,guards came,ate em.....bullet hole in my chest......chaaange f.bproto profile pic to facee....my quote is mooohaha... just. saying


23...,

feel strong, fast,gruntin alot, hungry, no food, ate carl, ate red plant, carved him with my skeleton clah....I hate mondays was post on f.bproto,yum ice cofee.


43

oooohhhh, lol,lol, top ada friend list, ,ate benny...b.esisde armpits....he stink.....roarrrrr......oohhh....bullel wond in cheeek....see benny in thar......moving quick......hunman bones everyware....stain carpits....helicupter....mur guards......no.....pulice.....wesker is wit em....ace of base now.....bed of blud..I wit...fur em.....fbproto sez **** starssss ......


2..........rooooooahhhhh,yum, ohhhhhhh,lol,raohh.fml............[rest of transcript unintelligible]
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.chris rea: god's great banana skin...

/ such random thoughts are a blessing, esp. after you've been walking for over 2 miles, in the cold and in the rain, with the setting sun... continually impressed by the nature of polyester clothing, how you feel the cold, but aren't cold at all, how you go back home and: you're dripping with sweat... /

the random thought?
about a saying, here's the schematic

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

which statement is true?
within the questioning parameters?
i think it's a trick question...
how else would you be able to
teach these statements and make
replica understandings of
said, statements?

(****... quickfire shots of syrupy
*****... **** me... give me the sweats,
and i'm not even constipated,
it must be the ***** doing
the magic... yeah... sober me?
doesn't like thinking...
but oddly enough, the drunk me?
pulls out philosophy,
no, not as some pretentious
high-brow interest...
   i just looked at philosophy as
a genre in literature,
nothing more)...

numbers, like letters...
or in the case of Roman numerals
(letters are numbers)...
i'm unsure whether you can arrive
at crafting them into existence
by analytical parameters,
i don't actually think
that you can conjure up numbers
from analyzing a priori,
given the ad continuum:
but... there was a point in time,
when / where: numbers weren't used...

Kant was a theist,
sorry...
  he says it plainly at the end
of his critique of pure reason...
in the transcendental methodology...
sure... he takes a "schizophrenic"
moment to write a thesis
and an antithesis on subjects like
cosmology...
but he's inclined, as i am,
counter to an atheist...
yes... god is probably a monster...
but a ******* gorgeous monster...
kinda like a femme fatale...
so what's not to like?

    but this thought didn't arrive
randomly,
and my consciousness
didn't hone in on it...
i didn't vector this thought
to an immediate conclusion...
the thought arrived,
and then: i had to make shrapnel
out of it...
the original thought was complex,
i had to make shrapnel out of it,
in order to put it back together,
so that a cognitive 3 seconds
could be rewritten in under 30 minutes
explaining, why the thought arose...

you know... when thinking
is detached from the moral (θ)-ought
you get to experience these "things"...
here's another schematic...

I + Φ (you put a key into a lock),
   Θ (you turn the key), O (the door opens),
hey presto... a free radical iota...
detached from both phi and theta...

i am free from making
a moral ought (i) or the immoral: ought (i) not?
i'm free, hence my concern for...
abstract questions...

back to the original schematic...

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

this actually has a theological
dimension,
supposing i am god...

   if i propose an analytical a priori
with a synthetic a posteriori...
well then...
             i can't change anything,
i can't actually make changes to...
with my omnipotence,
omniscience etc.
i already analyzed, a priori
the Kantian elevation to theology
comes, via me, stating...
if i analyzed the entirety of
creation...
            a priori ex nihil
(from the prior out of nothing)
how can i make a synthesis
in the a posteriori domain,
of the already existing things,
which didn't exist a priori,
since there was nothing,
and i already analyzed the potential
of nothing, and this potential
was realized as everything i would
know to exist... and i went along
with it anyway?

i'm starting to think that
the realm of analytical a priori
doesn't exist for mortals...
the gods can muse this ****-show
of a dimension over and over again...
we're more (being mortals)
synthetic a posteriori...
oh don't get me wrong,
i believe we have the capacity
to comprehend analytical a priori
but it's an analytical a- priori...
we've reached the limits
of the microscope, the telescope,
and the hadron collider...
or on our way to exhaust that...
still being left with an intact mesh of...
the orbits... summer, winter, autumn, spring...
but this thing with this schematic:

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

how can i conjure an understanding
of IV + VI = X...
analytically a priori...
when... i have no hindsight /
prior to understanding of said rubric?
well... with Roman you could say:
analytical a priori,
given the Ancient Romans already
had the letters I, V, X...
but... if you didn't have the concept
of measurements prior,
of arithmetic...
how can you analyze something...
that doesn't exist?
so... you had to synthesize a priori,
working from the letters I, V, X...
to conjure up "numbers"...
  numerals... you had to create these
numbers by a synthetic a posteriori
method...
and the 4 + 6 = 10...
        well... you analyzed the a posteriori
synthesis, and threw I, V, X out...
and began the second wave of mathematics...
and this is where, authentically...
analytical a priori comes from...
based on I (1), V (5), X (10)...
                    came IV (4), came VI (6)...
don't mathematicians treat their language
as that of or equivalent to the gods?

now... for the cultural exchange program
that i promised...

on the great British isles...
you have a variety of languages
& dialects,
i'm so sorry that the Scottish
"forgot theirs"...

but when you have something
akin to

English: red
Cymru: coch

or right... they have their Pict
Gael?

Pict Gaelic: dearg
Irish: dearg
Cornish: rudh

we'll require a second word...
what word, what words..
life!

English: life,
Cymru: bywyd
Pict Gaelic: beatha
Irish: saol
Cornish: bewnans...

back, "home"...
we also have sub-groups
in terms of linguistics...

there are the Kashubians...
and there are the Silesians,
and, there are...
the Kurpie...
akin the Welsh, the Pict,
the Ire,

and their language looks like so...
again, borrowing from
red and life...

Polak: czerń
Kashubian: czôrny...
  but that can be disputed...
why?
     czerwień is not actually
a noun, but an adjective...
a quality of being associated with red...
czerwony? that's a male
adjective...
   and the female adjective
is czerwona...
                ****...
a color has to be something...
the noun adjective that's blood...
Polak: krwawy (czerwony)
Kashubian: czerwiony
Silesian: čerwůny
ah...
   Kurpian... high polish?
Masovian?
harder to find the words...
have to use alternatives...

Kurpian: caban
Polak: tępak
Kashubian: osoł
  Silesian: yjzel...
(idiot, imbecile)

you know how hard hard it is
to find a Kurpian to Polak
translator?
i can't find one to boil down
to the examples or either
red or life,
i'm reduced to choosing other
words...
like...

   Kurpian: chwat...
Polak: chłopak
Silesian: bajtel
Kashubian: knôp...
(boy)

Kurpian: jédło
Polak: jedzenie...
Kashubian: jedzenié
alternative to Silesian:
  jadło, i.e.: it ate...
past-participle in
the verb...
let's see what the Silesians
call it...
Silesians: well.. a variation..
chlyb
godka
mietła
masa... all things you can eat...
(edible food)

only a word, like the Kurpian
word akin to kotnå
reveals that Vikings passed via "us"...
kotnå?
  an impregnated sheep...
with young...

Kurpian: łańï truń!
Polak: nie mów!
Kashubian: ni gôdac!
Silesian: ńy godka!
(don't speak!)

mind you... Kurpian translation
is hard to find...
and you almost wonder...
at the British isles...
you think, us, Polaks...
do not have sub-linguistic groups
in our ranks,
like your Welsh, your Pict,
your Irish?!
guess again...
you had them all along...
and you thought...
the Polaks were
a homogenous culture...
all this time...
primarily because our culture
wasn't multicultural...
oh but it was... but on the subtle side
of history...
mind you...
defenders of the galaxy?
i knew gamora wasn't white...
but... **** me...
even if black or hispanic...
she looked so **** attired in green...
i was thinking:
absinthe cherub, absinthe cherub...
and forgot about glorifying
Zoe Saldana in all that choc...
what?
   a green skinned chic?
                    if i can forget about
the existence of chocolate...
i'll just anything that moves...
but i knew she wasn't white...
i hate chocolate...
          give me an absinthe girl any
day of the week...
       yeah...
only the English have complex
ethnicity encompassing
a single language...
only the English...
                 like **** they are...
at least my linguistic variation
is suited to a bundle of words...
Welsh?! Gaelic?!
  completely different languages...
at least in my part of the world
all that is deviating
is a choice of variant nouns!
but then again, the English
speaking world....
        how's the new pronoun
dictum coming along?
you keeping up with...
   appeasing the new crazies?
oh... you are?!
    well... kudos and applause!

p.s. guess what happens with appeasing
the new crazies... guess...
i'll tell you...
you **** around with grammar,
some grammatical pedant will raise
his head up from the crowd and say
something like:
               what?!
and then the old crazies rise up...
and... your, ahem, little discussion
about changing the rules of grammar
to "ensure" that the language is
kept, "intact"?
      see... mm... hmm... the old crazies?
the old crazies have their own
methods...
they're of the obligation:
let my gun do the talking...
  and then...
  you get pol *** arithmetic,
of skulls...
           being counted in an abacus
of heaping up, "debris"...
         see... these new crazies
are bugging me...
  they're bugging me...
because the old crazies didn't
attack grammar,
and whatever delusion they had...
i couldn't see it...
the new crazies?
they're attacking grammar,
and the delusion they have...
is... associated with something
i can see as being self-evidently untrue...

the new crazies...
******* spinners... fakers...
    i prefer the old crazies...
at least their delusions had ambitions
to deceive in the realm of
the unseen...
       the unproved, and never to be
proven...
these new crazies...
i am supposed to speak asylum talk?!
so... society is the new asylum
with the past asylums being
abolished?!
who gave caffeine to these news
crazies?!
******* sane people's naive pandering...
while the depressed man?
hey boy... hey, hey, hey boy...
noose!
i've lost all sympathy for
the victims of a psychotic
version of a repressed P.T.S.D. example...
the mad have hijacked language,
disorientated grammar...
and... b'a'ah, b'a'ah...
                 no...
                              i'm with the old
crazies...
                    at least they're the ones
that can inflict genuine grievance...
rather this policing of restricting
     the orthodoxy of the use of language.

p.s.
i found only two paradoxes in this
world...
    schadenfreude: feeding a pleasure
from the misery of others...
as...
  finding wisdom in others' own
forsake of an antithesis of
universal application...
  mainly that, associated:
            to a self-gratifying benefit...
the joke ends within the confines
of schadenfreude...
as does passable "wisdom" attached
to instragram novelty of the "maxim"
by your wisened sages
of the selfie...
  
                  i've been among the russians,
i know what the true uber looks like...
you hitchhike...
hitchhiking? forget that?
ponzie scheme albatross thingy
of a worth of a british mensch?
    funny... a people can so easily
forget the practice of hitchhiking...
so easily: entertaining individual rights...
and: innocent until proven
guilty until some next
               teddy bundy comes along...
and then it's all: ooh! ah! woo'ah!

   you know, i don't like the cartesian
chiral dynamic,
the whole: nietzsche take...
sum ergo cogito...
          i don't like the:

innocentes quoadusque (qua esse)
                           reus....    inversion...

an innocent man might hang...
well... if you have the death penalty:
too late to regurgitate the
original statements...

but? where's the element of redemption
for the innocent man?
why are so many people captivated
by the shawshank redemption?
there's a redemption story...
   in the inverted game?
a jimmy saville walks off scot-free...

the continental model doesn't make
sense with a death penalty...
but without one?
redemption... the atlas "paradox"...
one man usually burdens the fate
of a reciprocate of the unit of one...
but not the many...

me getting laid or not getting laid
is as important to me as:
whether i know about last year's
snowfall...
*** *** ***... all that sort of
******* in the western minds...
*** *** but no children!
recreational procreation without...
any procreation... to begin with...

         i'll admit...
english humour is funny...
but schadenfreude is a borrowed term...
hence the lost in translation
element...
           the english are terrible at
appreciating if not simply applying
the original zeppelin bomb...
after a while: the english just became
annoying toy-whips
of ***** replicas...
       the english knew elevated slap-stick...
with monty python...
with fawlty towers...
          they borrowed a term like
schadenfreude and completely lost the plot...
they once, upon a time,
chanced to play a game of linguistic
comedy...
            
                 i'm pretty ******* sure
the germans relate to schadenfreude in a different
way... i'm guessing:
the deutsche are not prone to ridicule as
the english are...
               the aunglisch are prone
to ridicule out of a sentiment of spite
than out of a repose for giggles...
        
          i don't understand the german sense
of humour,
     but understanding the english attempting
to "understand" the german sense of humour
is an enigma in an enigma in a per se...

such integrated back into
the ol' continental ways...
                       kudos to the brits...
bringing back the commonwealth to stereotype
us europeans with a negative "circumstance"...
now them: ******* up to "correct"
their integration policies... for the commonwealth
peoples of the united wordly wealth of
made in china plastic toys!

     a **** among the brits has
the audacity to tell a german he's not
supposed to feel at home on these isles...
sure... and i will never feel quiet at home
in Islamabad either!
               so? equal count of hubris!
that's the only thing that ****** me about
these isles... god i love this language...
but... when you get your afghani hounds
on me to do your ***** work?!

      even though i'm not: deutsche?!
i'll ******* pretend to be deutsche!
           i'm not here to mop up your failed
integration policies...
i settled on keeping my language...
they settled on keeping their sharia,
their **** pajamas and curry...
while adamantly rejecting their language...
in order to implement their desired changes
by subverting your language...
and you gave your language on a *******
platter...
    
    by subverting your language
to accept their cultural tattoos...
  let me tell you: if a people don't respect
their own culture,
by way of god, by way of language...
and they are "integrating": without speaking
their native mutterzunge?
they're not respecting either culture...
mongrels ahoy!
   what happened to the african-h'americans
not speaking a word of african?

what will they do, ascribe themselves
to ******* scots,
left with no gaelic and more a finnegans' wake
accent gymnastics of some irvine welsh?
nae for no: some glaswegian smart-***
excess of nouns?
      
hell... they would have never built
a colliseum if they saw:
1 + 4 + 6 + 9 = 20
   i.e. I + IV + VI + IX = **
            imagine... a society where letters
worked perfectly as sounds
and as arithmetic concepts of measure.

lucky for me the roman empire never
conquered
the lands i come from...
always with the brits being...
oh so so proud having been conquered
by the romans...
what's the prize... archeological sites?!

much respect as great britain...
but... *****... please...
don't pucnh below the waist...
importing your commonwealth dogs
to mark you out among all the other
europeans like some prized asset with
an inkling into h'american affairs...
thanks to you: i'm bored of looking up
the telescope of h'american ****
with their waning cultural export
of a worthwhile entertainment of appreciating
their music.
JJ Hutton Apr 2013
There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop
? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
POEM FOR IMALRIGHT
Dear Imalright
I discovered your poetry and LOVED all of it. I was struck by lots of what you wrote and it inspired to write this to you. I promise you I mean every word of it.
I read your poems:
Unexceptional
Unbeautiful
Anxiety at 3AM
Two sad teenagers
Relapse
Fifteen
Starving artist
2014
Nothing special
Rough Edges & a dorky face
Under eyes
I adored them and spent the better part of a full day, hours and hours combing through the verses, dissecting the poems, analyzing the words and fully appreciating your incredible work. I picked out my very favorite phrases or yours that I found particularly powerful and moving and responded to these lines. I wanted to start a challenge. (In fact I posted this challenge as a poem, you can find it on my page).
I thought it might be nice to do like a secret santa thingy on hellopoetry only not secret and not santa… what I mean is, find a random stranger you literally have never met and do NOT know at all whose poetry you like and spend actual time genuinely reading their work, picking out your favorite lines and responding to them, pondering them, etc. Write something positive to them and post it as a poem with their name in the title. The “DEAR BLANK” challenge only you put their name instead of “blank”. I think we could all use a little recognition that we exist and are worth something since everyone seems a little depressed on here (including myself) which is fine, it’s a great outlet but it would be nice for people to just spontaneously find that a random stranger spent time in their life just to recognize you and care about your poetry. To write a kind poem/letter to them responding to lines in their poetry. I just thought that you seemed like a wonderful poet and a wonderful person based on your poetry so I chose you, Imalright. So here it is:

Your head whispers these words that crawled onto the page:

We're the kind of people that fade into the background

that people forget are in the room.

-Imalright

I won’t say something that the rest of society seems to think fixes everything. I won’t tell you the typical: you are important to everyone, you are not just a faded part of the background, people do notice you etc. because those are empty words everyone uses and they people who are always pretty in the spotlight are always the ones to say it, so what do they really know about the background, forgotten, white-noise people like us?

I will tell you, instead, I know it hurts like hell to be forgotten. For your existence to go unnoticed. I know being a part of the background is never anyone’s first choice. I am a backdrop-dweller myself. I am the unnoticed girl who blends in with the shadows. There is nothing wrong with that.
Never forget that the starry night sky is a background too. You can still be wonderful without being the center of attention. You can still be wonderful even if you are a part of the background. I want you to know, I noticed your poetry. I noticed you, and your name, and your wonderful talent and I have spent my time dissection every poem you have posted because every single one of them, is a different shade of amazing. We are all backgrounds in someways but what we choose as our phone screen backgrounds tend to be pictures of what we love the best. Pictures of beautiful things. There is nothing unbeautiful about the background. So from one forgotten soul in a room to another, I your poetry was just another account in millions like the stars but you are one of the loveliest sections of this world’s background I have ever seen. Keep that in mind. 







I just wish that I was one of those beautiful things.

-Imalright

Once again, I won’t use a society phrase like: Everyone is special and beautiful in their own ways!! Because people don’t seem to get that no matter what they say, it doesn’t even matter if it is true, but if you tell someone who thinks they are not one of those beautiful things that they are beautiful They. Do. Not. Believe. You. It just doesn’t matter, it won’t change their mind, it doesn’t help and it doesn’t fix it. It just makes them feel like you are lying to them and then they feel vain and self-conscious about admitting to you that they don’t feel beautiful etc. etc. I’ve been there so I know.
So I won’t tell you that. But I will tell you a couple facts instead.

It is a fact, that there is ugly inside of every single person.
It is also a fact, that there is beauty inside every single person.
Because beauty is NOT a definable concept. It is different to every person depending what kind of lens they look through and let me tell you, physical beauty is artificial and even though I wish I could be physically attractive in my own eyes, I have come to accept and I hope you have too or will as well, that a deeper beauty than that is inner beauty. What you keep in the cracks and crevices you made yourself in your soul. I think you are beautiful. I the pages you’ve written on soaked with ink made out of your inner self is magnificent. Your way with words and your flow of thoughts, the way you look at life through an indigo-tinted-one-way-glass-lens, it is all a whispering sort of beauty. Like the soft ringing sound of raindrops skimming the window pane on a grey sky, storm cloudy day. That same sort of delicate loveliness. I think you are a very unique and exquisite color of beautiful unlike any other poet I’ve ever seen. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, we can’t label ourselves friends since I have never spoken to you, but friends are basically socially required to tell you that you are beautiful whereas strangers are bound by no such obligation, yet still I tell you, I find you a person with a beautiful soul. I have only ever seen your poetry, but that is enough for me to know you are a beautiful person. After all, poetry is really where our souls spill what they are truly composed of. If I were to judge your beauty by your face and actions, all those are altered by circumstances beyond our control, society standards and pressure etc. What you do does not define you. Your soul does, however. You are beautiful to me. 







I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED I JUST WANTS THINGS TO BE OKAY

-Imalright
A truthful scream of the heart that many have felt. It’s funny that we all have this same base desire that tends to reveal itself more and more the later at night it gets, and yet we all still suffer the feeling of being unloved and unokay alone and silently. I wish I could reach out and fix you because the pain of others that is out of my reach always pains me more than any kind of physical agony I could ever endure. I can’t fix you though, so instead I offer you the only thing I can, I am with you. As a friend, just another soul on the earth who has felt this feeling you express in this line. I reach out with the hands of my spirit and for your spirit. Maybe if you know that I too have felt unloved and unokay you can find comfort and strength in that. Because no matter what kind of darkness you face, literal or internal, I find being united with someone empathetic to you who knows how you feel makes it just a little less scary even if it is just a sliver of hope for even just a second. It is something and the idea of “hereness’ you know, like being “here” for you, being “with” you in that emotion is all I can offer and I just want you to know, I love everyone and everything until I am given a good reason not to. So in a way, even if not on a personal level (because I do not know you, so I can’t love you on a personal level the way a sister loves a sister or a best friend loves a best friend) just generally, you are loved by me, because I love your poetry and I love all things that haven’t given me reason not to. And do you know what? Even though it hurts and it is unfair, everyone has to be unokay for a little while. I have been too. Maybe you were unokay for longer than what could possibly be near just or humane or reasonable but you were strong enough to pull through. I applaud you for this and want you to know your strength in powering through your unokayness has been recognized and admired. By me. Because the warriors are the ones up at 3AM having anxiety attacks but never let it show and you are a warrior. I am proud to call you a fellow poet.




but being sad and lonely is worse than being sad.

-Imalright
I know what you mean by this line. It is sculpted so beautifully though. The words in the phrase are just so raw and honest. Not over romanticized, just plain relatable great poetry in its true form as it should be. Wonderful. I hope you have found refuge from loneliness or will find refuge from it soon in finding someone else’s heart to call your own and in your heart belonging to someone else.





A new scar for that comment that boy said.
A new scar for that friend that betrayed you.
A new scar for every word you swallow.

-Imalright
That boy has scars of his own and he thought it would make them fade if he cause you to have scars too. ***** him. The betrayal of a friend is a special kind of pain like being stabbed with a knife you made yourself. A pain I know too well and wish no one else knew. Let the scars heal and do not swallow words. You will choke pretty soon if you don’t. Keep in mind that you are worth more than scars. I think you are worth more than scars.






You don't know how bad things are.

-Imalright
First off, I love this line. Just so simple and yet so relatable. There is some beauty to that. Sort of like thorns on a rose stem. Although they can be piercing and ugly there is magnificence that goes along with it. To be 15 and not know how bad things are, you have the rest of your life to obsess over the bad things and how awful things really are. You have the rest of your earthly existence to be broken, so like a child’s smile, at least you had that one moment in your life when things weren’t shattered as far as you knew.





With nowhere to go but everywhere
-Imalright
What an extraordinary thought. Such a liberating idea. You have really inspired me with this one single phrase. Keep in mind, you can be so inspiring to people who don’t even know you (like me) just with your words. You really make such a difference in this world. I have decided after reading this line, I’m going to try and let a little bit of that philosophy into my life. Nowhere to go but anywhere.

And that hope is going to make me stop doing this to myself.

-Imalright
Well, I really hope so too. I hoped for hope to save me for way too long. Eventually you gotta find it in yourself because this world is a little short on Hope, its main export being Despair. Just know you are not alone in this. I wish Hope was something you could wrap and mail it to someone who needs it but I can’t hand you Hope. I cannot offer it to you physically but if it helps at all, if it creates Hope for you, I want you to know that I personally, desperately from the bottom of my heart hope to God, genuinely thinking of you individually as a person that you have healed or are healing or will heal through Hope. If that helps. I have been crumbling, but somehow, after a hell of a lot of anguish, I found Hope. You can too. If it doesn’t help then I offer you my hand spiritually and metaphorically. Stay hopeful, because in this world, that is all we have.






i'm nothing special
im not beautiful
i'm not gifted

-Imalright
I know I can’t change your mind the same way no one can change mine when it comes to how self-image and esteem, but I just wanted to tell you even if you don’t believe me, in my eyes and in my opinion, not saying this to be fake or just being nice. If it weren’t true I just wouldn’t bring it up or say anything about it but you are VERY special. …okay that doesn’t sound good that sounds like the kind of special people put in quotations like: oh, she’s um… you know, “special” alright…
What I meant was, you are special because your poetry has made a difference in my life. You insightful view into life, your precious unprecedented perspective on the world and how you perceive it is very special. I have already explained why I think you are beautiful internally and keep in mind there is no such thing as one type of physical beauty. It is all about opinion and to some person or some people out there, you ARE physically perfect. To them, your physical traits are their definition of beauty because beauty doesn’t have a size, a color or a shape. That is the beautiful thing about beauty. And you are gifted at poetry, that’s for **** sure. Your poems are absolutely toxically flawless I adore them and I really, really mean that. Your writing is close to my heart. That may come across rather creepy sorry about that haha :P but you need to know that you are gifted when it comes to beautiful words.






No one will make me believe that all of my flaws aren't wonderful.

-Imalright
Such a sensational thought and resolve. I really and truly admire and acknowledge your indescribable strength I wish I could achieve to not only accept but embrace your flaws. You are such a strong person and I want to thank you for being such an inspiration to me and the rest of the world, doing that and finding that truth within yourself that flaws are wonderful things.
wondering why i had shattered myself in the process of picking up someone else's pieces

-Imalright

Okay, before I say anything else… omfg wow holy mother of waffles. (That is not a very common expression but I am so struck by the priceless incredibleness of this line I can’t think straight. Also, waffles are good.) This is amazing… how do you come up with stuff like this???!! The imagery, the metaphor, the power of the phrase embedded in the words just… wow. Spectacular. God, I just really, REALLY hope with every ounce of my soul you find a way to repair yourself or someone to repair you because to lose yourself, saving someone else who was broken is so heroically tragic it breaks my heart because you are such a beautiful person.




Dear Imalright
I offer you Poet’s Love.
One poet to another.
I admire your work and your work is made out of little parts of you.
I admire you and your strength, your writing abilities and your outlook on life.
Never ever change.
I hope you find Hope.
Message me anytime should you need anything.
And I want to thank you for being such a strong inspiration to the race of people we call: Poets.
Love,
Ember Evanescent.
DEAR BLANK CHALLENGE
AM Jul 2015
Look at those thingy
they shrunk in whenever he smiles
oh my
I feel like exhaling dandelions
each time he does that laugh
how come this one thin creature
could be so astonishingly cute?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i am the one who makes up my owm axi,
rather than be man, in talk of repast,
and fake, and metaphor, and the need for
sleuth... ordeals and godly stature, but only with
orff's carmina burana, we are to dine?!
oh jew, oh arab... why whiff that stink so far
north? familial affairs? concerns? psychiatrists?!
how about an ode to dates
to break the month of ramadam?!
no, you tell me, at, what, point,
am, i, to, understand, you,
before, i, stop, selling, you,
apples, at, the greengrocers?
you gonna fake it and turn all turk
on me? i kinda hope you did,
the time i mentioned henry viii's wives
in a rhyme: charles the first goit the chop,
charles the second managed a harem
but primarily a poet,
charlie ****** the third?
    probably a plush stuffed bunny...
so i tell this homeless person my rhyme...
****! she runs off screaming...
next time i talk to homeless people
i'm brining a monopoly fake of a house
to surround and let the hounds loose on them...
but it's kinda nice... living in a society
that still believes in monarchy...
  i get to talk silly rhymes, just about names,
wives of henry buffon and...
that brothel disease: syphilis and sisyphus!
and that rhyme about 'enry... the 'andy man...
the one that could put up a shelf...
  yeah, that rhyming Olaf...
could get a homeless woman... running...
to fear rhyme...
    just when Otto was in power in germany,
and there was no vogue concerning baptising
babies with that failed name...
you know women, premonitions about
the zodiac and ****... magic...
          crying about the stone cold heart
of men in labs...
   yep, that story, it's boring,
it's history, tried and tested, proofs in pi...
and take to making up
names.
then again, the turks are prettily civil,
they can allow housewives,
and those housewife soaps.. i.e.
operas... i.e. melodrama that doesn't happen
in real life... the turks can stomach that...
ask an arab to provide the same when women
age... he starts a vanity project akin to
a pyramid that is the dubai glass-glacier...
   i know, and many other people
know where the Everest mountain belongs...
should that glass monstrosity belong where it's
currently placed? i'm looking at it and going all
Loci to say the most perfect joke...
   hyper-*****?
     ask the people that built it, the Bangladeshi...
why ask a ******* ****?
     they're bothered by Hindu...
i will add: -stan -stan, never mind Stanley
and why pole is never bothersome
you valentine crisp day-care centre worth of emotion...
  i don't get bothered whether you smack your
head against a pole, polejump, and polish
a wooden table... ****... get along with it...
english says don't when it says do not...
**** is acronym, ever heard of those?
     -        do i look like a queen Sheeba prediction
of copper skinned waiting for vitamin D
like i might wait for a suntan?!
yeah, i probably do...
but can you grow mushrooms on the tip of everest
from a horse's ****, giving there's so little atmosphere?
can fungi grow in zero oxygen environments?
  next, i'll say: i feel like growing one on my toe...
and be called an athlete...
     hail Olympus! ooh... hail 'eno... z...
    harp and snore... the anti clues given to both
orchestras...
apparently life was so very different back then,
thankfully my nostalgia only goes as far back
as the 1990s (nineteen nine tee offs)...
  before zeitgeist piracy and when your bought music.
i just find it funny how people get offended
by someone's spelling accuracy,
it's like people want people to become dyslexic...
no one seems offended when a triangle isn't
drawn...  ******! draw a triangle!
  a bit like: write something that doesn't require
spell-check!
              i always believed in people and literacy,
evidently people these days don't believe in either...
and yes, the Japanese really did write better cartoons
than the Mc Disney brigade...
they acutally invoked *** in their cartoons...
you know, once you learn english
you learn alice, the "wonderland" and the inherent
joke that the english language can't rub off,
namely paedohpilia...
           *** aware once able to take ***-invoking selfies
and posting them online?
  huh?
          you've been giving the status of a global
sprechen, and it's the internet, so apparently it's not real,
apparently the matrix metaphor can last for
30 more years...
of course the internet isn't real,
what with internet banking, hacking, politics,
the death of 20th century concept of window shopping...
the internet isn't real... what with
online dating... brothel services...
   THE INTERNET IS IN ITS INFANCY,
DO YOU EXPECT PEOPLE TO TELL YOU
ANYTHING APART FROM TRYING TO CALM YOU?!
   i too wished i wasn't the lab rat... evidently
the lab came before i realised i was a rat in it...
          they tell you it isn't real,
they tell you all that *******...
and sure, i buy it...
       it's just one thing,
they tell you the internet isn't real
when they accepted that the phonebook was real...
and yet they do their banking, on, the internet...
  what is and what isn't real... kinda happened...
and is already pointless to talk about.
Kara Rose Trojan May 2012
There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
            Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.

Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
            But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
            of want and woe
            of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

"To...be....tooo beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop
texts!"

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's
protestations.

"Ohhhh....o.....K?"
Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)
dares

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.

Beds.
Weds
Ophelia.

" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very
foreshortened
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

"HURRY UP PLEASE...IT'S TIME!"
roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
with...nothing!"
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy
...you know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *
long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too
spooky...innit?"

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them

go.

"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.

NOTES

Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

*
The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.
Hailyn Suarez May 2017
"You're Mexican?! You don't look Mexican?"
             "What's Mexican supposed to look like?"
"Oh, you know... Sombrero, a curly twirly mustache, maybe like holding a taco!"
            "I am eating a taco."

"No, like a real taco.
One that is like made in Mexico,
with like Mexican beans,
and Mexican ladies.
You know what I mean."
           "No, I don't."

"What's it like? Did you have a quinceanera thingy? Do you speak Spanish?"
           "No and no."
"What?! Then you like aren't a real Mexican. All Mexicans can habla Espanol."

            "Oh, you know what. I forgot. I know what it is."
"What?"
             "I'm not just Mexican, I'm German too."
"That makes like total sense. No wonder you can't speak Spanish. But wait, like were your family Nazis?"
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i.

my writing is truly one thing, my life another - not
that's a statement clouded in excuses and guilt:
just the claustrophobic macabre -
and so it happens, that every few days i reach
the limit with wrestling the Minotaur -
the time comes when the liver k.o.s the brain
and the brain then starts punching the liver -
it usually stars in the afternoon, e.g. yesterday,
at 3 in the afternoon, a burrowed sense of guilt
comes over, cigarettes are rolled and chain-smoked...
a promise of not painting the front of
the house is the overpowering weight on the heart -
as is an ably bodied father: who, i might
as the source of my writing capacity: the silence -
but the day flows through... the excess nicotine
adds to the shakes, the detox period begins
with a big meal: chinese pork belly in five spice
and other additives, peppers, spring onions
until a thick goo sauce is cooked slowly to thicken...
served with 'it's called egg fly lice, you plick!'
(Uncle Benny, lethal weapon 4) -
the meal is ate as if a ****** ****** - this is
really the point of critically approaching the
concentrated detox - binge of television,
drinking orange squash and smoking -
playing some stupid video game between watching
an even worse movie - before the saga of
x files begins... at 5 a.m. with the most annoying
feline opera by the most annoying ginger cat
begins... the shades are drawn and the hours between
5 a.m. are spent in a quasi somatic state -
the pain in the brain is too strong to allow you
a kipper without the sedative being dragged from
the body: taking sleeping is avoided -
the blinds in the room don't have blackout plastic,
by 6 a.m. a t-shirt is rolled up and put against
the eyes, the eyes adjust to the light until 7 a.m.,
the body gets up and goes downstairs for more
orange squash, but this time breakfast is stomached,
yesterday's leftover rice, fresh eggs scrambled
and mixed with spring onion -
                                                     cigarette, and a daytime
news channel - Victoria Derbyshire -
the main topic of concerns? only 12% of Paraolympic
Rio tickets have been sold, a charity having raised
about £25,000 wants to sponsor Rio's children
to join in the fun... housing shortages in England,
Redbridge council buying social housing in
Canterbury (once a military base) - 7 people living
in one room (the Romanian standard is
14... you have to remember night shifts) -
oh i seen houses like that, i remember one Jew renting
out his house to 20 / 30 Poles before the Union
expanded... paid of his mortgage... no new reality
here for me... the major misdiagnosis of heart attacks
in women on the N.H.S.: a woman ate a curry,
thought it was only a heartburn... boom, two days
later drops in agony... in between the real
results of the detox... sitting...
not ******* out whiskey yellow ***** when there
are barely any toxins in the body... diarrhoea...
up to about 8 times on the toilet - more orange squash,
more cigarettes... then onto the piece the resistance...
the x files... which last up to about the twilight zone
hour of having reached the 24 hour mark of being
awake... one last **** and then shower, and
then doing the laundry (on a sunny day like this,
it would be a shame not to)...
                                                   at noon
tinned mackerel in sunflower oil... brown bread,
all the oil drank... but by the twilight zone hour
a realisation: ****! my headphones are broken!
i've been walking around these streets with those
very depressing sounds of vrroom vrroom...
i know how the old complain about the youth
and their headphones... yes, but you probably
grew with about 10 cars per hour passing your
house back in the day... and too the birds could
be beautiful, and the sound of children's games
and golden laughter... but all the other sounds...
so off to the shop for a very respectable £1.50 pair...
and then the moment when all the sights
on the streets are no longer synchronised with
what i'm hearing, my eyes sharpen and i dance
past the cars and people never bothering to press
the crossing lights on streets: ease the traffic,
ease the traffic... then into the supermarket and
the detox ends... i can go back to sleeping a decent
night... a bottle of Stella... the only thing sexier
on a hot summer's day on the street... good old,
good cold Stella Artois...
then up to another shop for two more beers and
tobacco...
                        after that? magic...
as the title suggests: on a park bench with Ernie -
something more grand than Beckett's waiting
for Godot
... i.e. something resembling a scene from
Patriarch's Ponds, an encounter with
Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz (editor of a highbrow
literary magazine, abbreviated MASSOLIT)
and a young poet Ivan Nikolayich Poniryov -
a few clues to the less knowledgeable parties:
Behemoth ***** and chess, a book that makes
sense of the world interrupted by Herr Woland's
wonderful delights (among many), such
as the notable pandemonium at Ivan Savelyevich
Varenukha's Variety Theatre -
yes very much akin to Hector B.'s:
symphonie fantastique: dream of a witches' sabbath.

ii.

sincerest apologies... the sedative hasn't been bought
yet, and a patient father's invoice for work
done on the construction must be written in tangible
English - in ref. to the uttermost sincerity -
Polski nadal w mej duszy dudni,
                            taki ogrom organów i
                                         bębnów twki -
           że strach pomyślec - czy to wir zamkniętej
historii ludu: czy poczatek gorszych prwad o świecie?
   bo co o zamkniętej historii (skrawku) ludu?
      to przeciez moj dziad'ek w Partii uslugi dawal!
      a kraj podziekowal - i co Prawda to Walesa
   na Florydzie z lwa w zlota rybke sie zamienil.
   (comp. diacritic
                                                       ­                                 pending)

iii.

as i knew, i should have finished this poem on
the principle of ensō - all in one piece -
thus i would have staged what happened on the bench
with Ernest -
                        but after walking to the supermarket
minding my own business and the jokes ensued
about how no one notices, how they know my name
as it's their mascot -
                                   after walking into a world
i found chaos; indeed if i wrote the poem on principle
of ensō, i would have included the phantasmagorical
details of something so simple you could almost cry at it...
the simplicity of it, the fluidity of almost 2 hours
spent in conversation... about what? i'm not telling,
and how was it spoken? i'm not telling either -
let's just they laughed at Ernest's bike, because
it was proper oldie...
                                     i mean, i won't mention the odd
details, but the essence? forget it man!
after writing my father's invoice, and how cut money
on the construction site, blame it Romanians but only
have themselves to blame with their model
of profiteering and that ****** fetish they have
Che's socialism of guerrilla warfare...
                            and the comments in the supermarket,
it just stuck with me about Ernie's bike,
nothing in comparison to the Tour de France's racers
doing up to 50kmh...
                                      it just made me happy to make
a clean bed... and prevent 36 hours awake threshold
glitches of abstraction: black strings and random
square objects popping out of nothing with me in a
variation of nervous startles... Ernest's bike?
an antique, a 1950s Raleigh...
- hard leather seat beneath that modern overcoat?
- yes; no one would even take it if i left it
  outside a shop, they'd probably sell it for parts.
- well, unless someone is smart enough to notice
  a vintage, and tries to restore it,
  buy the vintage green paint and cover the rusty bits.
oh **** it, i can't keep my own company to suit
being happy by saying: ooh, doesn't know a joke,
the happiest he felt after walking out with a stone heart
was making a bed... but to be honest?
psst... i haven't made it in over a month... last night i
was getting cold-heat shivers in the idea of it being *****
enough though i shower everyday... ok, every other day
sometimes, my socks have holes in them, and my
shoes are ripped.
but there's more to this... the bicycle is a pun
of a Heidegger maxim: man is born as many men...
but dies as a single man... imagine how many
influences are entombed in us, the education reformers
to begin with, motherhood tips, cot deaths...
but we die as individual men... so when Ernest said
about the bicycle being only worth spare parts,
i said what Heidegger meant: but i'd take the whole thing
as one.
- how many gears?
- three at the back, one at the front; you see this thing?
- the long tube beneath the seat?
- yeah, when charged it would power up the front
   and back lights.
- oh, i'm used to seeing that thingy-madgit that you'd
   press against the front tire and the principle would be
   the same.
- a dynamo.
- yeah, a dynamo, forgot the name of it.
it started so innocently, i just sat on the bench with my
earphones and two beers and started rolling a cigarette.
- may i invade the bench?
                                               (earphones out of the ears)
- sure.
                and we just sat there, i asking if he minded me
smoking.
- i used to, loved it, esp. after dinner, gave it up 15 years ago.
  then conversations about dogs, family,
                                         and children's games,
          i said
- i'm finding it hard to find people of my generation with
even friendly dynamic of the body: eye contact is gone!
- it's all the fidgeting on those ****** tablets and phones,
when we were kids we used to play marbles,
conkers, hopscotch, so many...
- and we used to draw a racing maze, fill bottle caps
with plasticine and flick them through the maze
(i can't remember if we threw dice to see how many
moves we could make).
  by the time we started talking about the dogs we liked,
and compared them to the dog walkers passing us
   we already forgot who died today: it was Gene Wilder...
the world is mourning him, and we sat there
and the best i could come up with was Richard Pryor.
- dumb animal luck...
- you know how i managed to train my dog to run
  around the park, but come back to me? i used a whistle
  to get the dog to come back and i'd give it a treat.
  until it got the hang of it, i sometimes wouldn't give it
  a treat... other times i would, the point being was
  to teach it both obedience when nothing was given
  and double obedience when something was.
- ever heard of Pavlov? he basically did the same thing,
  but your experiment had coordinates, it was three-dimensional,
  Pavlov's was just two-dimensional, instead of a whistle
  he used a bell... just to stimulate two senses
  as coordinated, the sound of a bell created saliva
  in the dog's mouth, poor dog received treats
  but in the end Pavlov put him in a car with closed
  windows in the middle of summer outside
  of Parliament square; obviously the dog died.
- German shepherd though... i had a friend, naturally
  obedient.
- could walk a German shepherd through Manhattan
  without a leash.
- exactly, not even half a metre away, and when the
  master stops, the dog stops.
(i started thinking, what a great way to invert theology,
in this way from dogs to gods.)
well... i guess there was more, but if i write more
about it, when i'll reflect upon this chance meeting of
complete strangers as more insightful than it
already was...
                         he managed to climb back on his bike
with a slight problem after his hip-replacement
operation... at 74 such things break... and he rode off
and i sat there trying to think about what the hell
i was thinking after watching the x files to find
something insightful...
                                        well, i got one thing,
i mentioned it before... i could never have believed
that adults created the most nightmarish version
of hide (negate) & seek (doubt) -
                   i thought it was just as bad as
  truth & dare with religion - with that motto:
          the Koran: this is the truth, and the only truth...
so truth or dare? i dare you to deny it!
                    can i just doubt it? you know, not be
a definite unbeliever, but an indefinite quasi-believer?
well doubt in the stated quasi-believer is wavering,
isn't it? the two of the most beautiful games of
innocence, morphed into these gargantuan abominations.
Mark Jun 2020
I’M FEELING FONDERFUL & WANTASTIC IN SHAPESHIP CONDITION  
From the 11th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.  
 
Smoochy, my dad Archie and I, all went sailing yesterday morning, in the very large blue ocean. We went on dad's small, banana-shaped, sailingboat, which took about two hours to get there by car, from my family's home. Which, is nestled amongst the trees on a hill, in a little country village called, Shimmerleedimmerlee.  
 
It was my second time out in dads small, banana-shaped, sailingboat. But, it was Smoochy's first time in a boat on water. Although, he is famous around town, for being the first mouse, that has been out to sea, on the back of a whale.  
 
My Dad, was trying to teach me how to steer the boat, tie up the ropes, weigh anchor and all sorts of other boatie, thingy-me-jiggy things, that you should learn. That's if, you ever want to sail a boat by yourself, especially when you are older, like I will hopefully do one day.  
 
We were learning a lot and enjoying the morning together, until my dad, moved the sail, riggy-diggy-thingy. You know, the thing that helps all sailboats stay on course and turn when they want. 'You know what I mean, don't you'?  
 
But, silly old me didn't move out of the way in time. Whack, went the riggy-diggy-thingy, wooden beam thing, straight into my head and then thump, I fallen down backwards, which caused a bump on the back of my head, that was clearly the size of a bumpity-bump, speed ****.  
 
Then, dad's, small, banana-shaped, sailingboat, started sailing towards a colourful pirate ship, that had an unusual Jolly Roger, an old pirate's flag on top of its mast. It looked like a picture of a family of yellow tailed bears under a tree, in a mountain range with a hot air balloon stuck high above. The name of the ship, which was spelt out across its bow was, Shift-N-About.  
 
When, we were beside the pirate ship, we climbed up Jacob's ladder, onto the ship. Then, some funny looking crew members, named, Anastasia and Houllio, welcomed me aboard and said, 'Ahoy, me Hearty'! I looked in disbelief and said back to them both, ' Hello, my friends, haven't I seen you perform somewhere before'?  
 
Then, Johnny whose nickname was, 'Hamanail', the ships very own handyman, and his apprentice named, Little Cutsaw Stevie, threw me into the corner and tied me down tight with some, really awful, fish smelling, rope.  
 
Smoochy, The Short, who wore a yellow feather tail in his hat, was the ships lookout officer. With his trusty homemade, fancy, far out, funny binoculars, he would look out for trouble, while nestled, high up above, in the ships crow's nest. Which, by the way, looked very much like my dad's, unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback shed.  
 
The pirate ship also had its own mascot and his name was, Bucko the Duckaneer. Who, always sat in the top left-hand side pockets, of the Captain's identical, twin, lassie daughters, Lena and Mena, at different times of the day.  
 
Then, a boat was seen approaching at super duper fast speed and with the waves his boat was making, tossed the homemade pirate ship Shiftnabout, Slip Slop and Slapping all about, just like inside a waterlogged washing machine full of sea fish.  
 
The Captain Triple T said, 'Fire a shot, across the bow of that super fast boat. Savvy, which he yelled out to him. It actually, really means, 'Do you understand the warning and do you agree with me'?  
 
But the super fast boats captain, Stefan Pettersson of North Noland, who was just cruising past, laughed and shook his head again. He then took off, in his super, fast boat named, Snowski. See! 'You are just another Scallywag, who tried to scuttle my ship.  
 
Is everything shipshape in the galley, ye cook down below? Then, up popped a head and said, 'Yay, everything is **** n Span in the kitchen of mine'. All cleaned up and under control, Flo the Cook was yelling, while handling the very hot bread dough.  
 
Smoochy the Short screamed out, 'Thar she blows'. Smoochy the Short, the ships lookout officer had spotted a very large fish. Blimey! He said, 'It's not a large fish, it's a very familiar whale and it's headed our way.  
 
Captain Billy Stilrite hollered, 'Shiver-Me-Timber and Blow-Me-Down'.  
 
Then, the whale deliberately, slammed into his pirate ship. It was, his pride and joy, even it was cheaply made from wooden ply.  
 
Holy Crap! Aaaarrrrgggghhhh! He yelled in disgust. The whale had managed to rip a large hole in the ship, and out fell the pirate's treasure into the swell. Down and down it went, with all the pirate's mouths wide open and dropping to the floor. But, not a word came out, like you would've expected. They, should've of at-least, managed a groan or a yell.  
 
Then, another pirate ship named, Shining-No-More, had come to steal gold coins and so much more, from the pirate ship we were aboard, named,  
 
Shift-N-About. But, the large hole that the whale had made, was filling up with water and beginning to sink.  
 
Yo ** **! screamed, Captain Triple T, to me, 'Walk the plank now and never be seen on my pirate ship again'. He said, 'That I had made all of this happen'. But, I said, 'It wasn't my fault, for I was knocked out cold and only napping'.  
 
Then, all of the crew started clapping, once I was upon the plank and taking very small steps at a time.  
 
The crew aboard the Shining Amor, felt sorry for the other ships crew and started to help them all aboard. They were helped by people with funny names, such as, Admiral Monty Lopez from the Spanish Armada, 'One would think'!Then, others like Lemmy Rolling-River and even the ship's butler named, Albert Will-That-B-All, the eighth of course.  
 
They, were about to rescue me, but I slipped and fell, head first and took a great dive. Then, I thought while down under here, I might as well start searching, for the sunken treasure.  
 
On my way down, I saw all sorts of things, like a small fish, that didn't smell so nice and even an old rusty knight in shining armor. I even saw a dog with a great big Danish flag around its neck. Also, I saw a yellow duck, an orange Tabby cat and even a guinea pig, swimming on by.  
 
I then saw, the chest full of treasure and made my way towards my find. But when I looked closer, it wasn't treasure at all. It was a glass of my favourite Fruit-Blast, that my mum, had left out for me. She, had made it especially for me, so when I woke up, my head wouldn't feel sore anymore.  
 
For after my great fall, my dad, had sailed back to shore. Then, he carried me into the back of the family's car and drove me home to bed.  
 
When i awoke, my Mum came in to ask, 'How I felt'. I told her, 'I'm feeling Fonderful & Wantastic in shapeship condition, I think!  
 
For none of my fun pirate adventures were even real. For, I was unconscious and it was just an adventurous dream, a very colourful and funny one indeed, it would seem.
© Fetchitnow
20 October 2019.
This children’s fun adventure book series, is only for children from ages, 1-100. So please enjoy.
Note: Please read these in order, from diary entry 1-12, to get the vibe of all of the characters and the colourful sense of this crazy mess.
ae Nov 2013
Quote said
fake things will fade away
but i know you will never astray
together we fight the bad rays
and shine all the way.

Heart said
love won't stay
truth will delay
till come the day
that day, anyway.

Soul said
.........
...............
i lost words that end with 'y' anyway
except for gay
and okay.

- a.e
r Nov 2018
Woody   Poems  

22s
Ergo wherever I go: HP Nazis
19m
You've got to be ******* me? This is now "Under Review".
2h
Ergo the thumb

I truly believe that Eliot
is working on his Ph.D
in Psychology, and we at HP
many fine poets and good peeps
along with a handful of miscreants
(Probably Trumpian Nazis if you ask me)
are simply a part of a hypothesis he
(That being Eliot, the aspiring Psychologist)
is testing to see how good and bad humans
interact in societal mediums (so sad)
though seems such an obvious outcome
does he (Eliot, I mean) really need
that silly down-turned ******* thumb
to become a man of lettered degree?
Seriously, seems kind of dumb, me thinks.


*This was in the notes:

Please, you fine scholars sitting on his dissertation committee, just give him his letters, or not, and tell him to move on with the silly thumb thingy. It's become such a bore, like those attention ****** who like to employee it.
Grow a sense of humor and get rid of the freakin' down-thumb, HP Police.
Woody
Written by
Woody  In the dark woods.
            
18        Jean Fisher and r

r Mission accomplished for now. Go ahead and put both of us in the woodshed.

r interesting how quickly you made those -7 to - 9 hearts disappear on Smell of lonesome.

r  While you’re at it, HP POLICE, take a look at all of the negative thumbs on my poem The smell of lonesome. When are you going to do something about this kind of harassment? It’s not me I give a **** about. Other poets can’t even comment without getting thumbed-down. That creates censorship out of fear of even commenting on someoneelse’s poem. Do something about that and I’ll take your “under review” ******* serious.

0


1m
r

r  You go, Woody. Time for HP Nazis to pay attention to the harassment and those doing the harassing rather than censorship of poets pointing out the flaw in the **** thumbs-down *******.

0


11m
Ryan Joseph Mar 2020
When someone started to lie,
It started to **** everyone,
It spreads too quickly,
And soon it becomes the generalized virus thingy,
As it has killed too many people,
People started to become cautious,
People started to realize,
That they are the one who's at fault,
But only realizes when they've all died,
Yet the virus thingy continues to **** even an animal.
- there's nothing I can do with that title, so I just came up with this title..
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.*

- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
   the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
   on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell h.i.v. positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.
ClawedBeauty101 Oct 2018
This Morning... Dripping in a bleeding shadow's clothing
I lost a sense of existence as my gloved covered hands tampered with my phone... time wasting

Leaning against my black, silver chained designed backpack, pressed against a wall
I waited for my professor to come and welcome us in... I was freezing from the cold shoulder of fall

With my classmates quietly surrounding around me... Two sweaty Janitors came walking through
Ignoring their presence, my fingers only continued to twiddle again the screen,  "someone is staring at you."

My conscious warned. Frozen, behind my bangs, I cautiously move my pupils up
To catch the left behind Janitor's eyes on me... no one daring to interrupt  

His eyes started at my high heel boots, and slowly went up... studying every part of my temple
Trembling, my eyes looked away... pretending I didn't notice such a failing gentlemen example

"Hello?" He said... However, I  pretended that I did not his voice
"Hey... Good Morning!" he declared... as if to rejoice.

Very slightly, my eyes purposely hiding, I raised my head to show I have taken notice
"Good Morning," I spoke plainly, to brush him off, but he continued to admire me as if I was HIS Lotus.

" Hey, I can't see your eyes." Anger began to boil... So what?
I wanted my curtain of golden-brown hair to hide these jewels that haven't been cut.  

I moved them aside for a split second, to tease this fool..wanted to break his stem
and to reveal a hint of a cursed anger that lied within these gems

"I know" to show that they are hidden with purpose, he reminded me of a ****
But stubborn this man was, he bent down, trying to steal a glimpse

"Come on let me see your face!" He cried like a child
Trying to make thingy spicy, but it was truly nothing more than mild

He took one step closer, his face trying to satisfy those eyes that desired dark beauty
If looks could ****, he would already be dead and skinned down to the ****** bone... I'm not your cutie

One step back was the action I took as he saw what pleased him...A beautiful cat
"Now, Why should you hide such a face like that?"

He said with a smirk, trying to sound as if he was the prince for me
Not even my gloves could keep my hands warm after my heart began to freeze

Anger boiled over... knowing he wasn't saying it to be modest or kind
Snapping my backbone in half. feeling like an object... my possession was defined.

"Why shouldn't I?" I spoke with seriousness as dead as the bodies in the grave
The silence was so loud, it deafened everyone around me. My tears swell up with rage

"Tooshay" He said as he chuckled and walked away...
What a coward to give up his argument and fight... but thank God he didn't stay

...He didn't even have a defense to give... it goes to show what he was after
He didn't even try to convince me... His heart was in the wrong place... what a disaster

...I am so disappointed in men... You only see me as an object of abusive pleasure
You think you can have your fun and flirt away... Your foolishness can't be measured

WHY SHOULD I HIDE MY FACE?
LET ME ASK YOU WHY SHOULDN'T I?  His time was a waste...

I went to my first class... trembling in disgust...
I'll just continue to hide my face away from all of you... it obvious you men don't know what is true... pure.. or just...

I'm sorry for making such a fuss...

But Seriously...

Why Shouldn't I Hide Such a Face Like This?


                                                 10/15/2018
... Welcome to College Everyone... Watch Out for people like this... Avoid them at all cost... if they only foucs on the outside... they will only treat you like an object....

ARE YOU AN OBJECT OR A PERSON!?!  NO ONE SHOULD BE TREATED LIKE THIS!!!!

...yeah it's something small... but still
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.i get it now, the more i make it a detention hour writing lines: doing dull work, makes sam a bored boy... intra-racial variant of slur qua intimacy, in-group standard... take any "n" word "extra g" word "thingy" among the non-exported examples, non-NBA privileged, say... in Kenya... friends? **** no... feeling intimate? huh? like i said... watching 2 hours of a washing machine cycle, is probably more entertaining, than, seeing, the cages, the - - - - - morse breaks in... so... everyone is being a ******* ******, creating a natural response to a river, that must become a reservoir / fake lake? whatever etiquette equated to politeness comes from this... no wonder we'll be doing it from spite... rather than a genuine sediment of genuine feeling, flight of the heart & and all the fickle thoughts that go with it.

please, please, put me into handcuffs
for ******* in an alleyway,
the english sort of handcuffs,
the ones where they can't handcuff
you from behind,
   because the cuffs are not connected
by a mandible chain,
but a rigid middle,
implying that you have to be handcuffed
with your hands in-front...
which also implies:
   well... if **** turned ugly...
i could just wrap my hands around
a boppy's neck and just turn into
a boa...
     but that other police officer was
nice, turning the police van cell
into a taxi...
   racial slurs...
   intra-racial, or inter-racial?
  big difference...
            inter-racial slurs,
namely an english derivative:
the empire britannia rule the waves
what not?
   crass...
      not too... genius...
no real outlet phonetically...
  the language is too soft as it is...
i met one german at university
who complimented the ****** tongue
with that one general-****-over
word for everything -
conjunction, was the word,
the word is treated as a conjunction:
kurwa...
        i once dated a french psychology
major two years my senior
who i lost my virginity to,
who, let's say, enlightened me...
she was looking for native english speakers,
she told me the most fascinating
fact...
        the fwench used to attach
a trill to the R...
   before they started harking up
an R like phlegm when smoking too much
or down with the flu...
inter-racial slurs are... yawn...
   who gives a **** about walking
on egg-shells...
   i'm watching a ******* football match
or swan lake with 22 *******
                                       pansies?
everyone's suddenly going to be
     as sensitive as a fwench footballer?
****: french / fwench...
  it pretty much sounds the same...
the fwench speak one language,
the french write the same one language...
but the german complimented
a language for the: pristine outlet
of frustration of... tongue licking
a metaphysical punching bag...
but inter-racial slurs are crass,
for the simple fact that...
          they're just too plain in sight...
there is no intimate history of
a people...
   me? personally?
   i'd love to know what the african
royalty called would-be slaves
picked up by western europeans
for export...
   it's not like these colonialists run
these colonized countries freely,
without collusion with the african ruling class...
there was an african ruling class,
there is an african ruling class,
     what's to be exactly changed?
lost in translation:
    former soviet states people /
  but not the satellites?
   kacap...
   from the song husaria by bujak?
ahem...
     muscovite gałgan...
never heard that one before...
   gałgan...
   i once dated a girl from st. petersburg
that summarißed my mutterzunge
        as a crackling of radio static...
just as the english say:
of a people, with, "too many" consonants
in their surnames...
   ask a ****** about hindu surnames...
i mean: intra-racial slurs...
a movement toward real intimacy
of the use of language...
e.g. in england:
    northern monkeys,
southern fairies...
      and the rest? eurotrash...
       i once heard a intra-racial slur
about the english -
                  angol to pedzio...
and then back to cosmopolitan english...
the "n" word... night? nightmare,
nigh?
                oh... the n- word?
if only i could find some malice in
the context of use...
yes, i know the content of the word,
the content of historical usage...
    and now the whole intra-racial
comradery... inclusion...
familiarity...
                a joke of latin...
   to me that's like saying
              Nigeria...
  and then thinking:
         so... it's not the "n" word,
is it? it's the "extra g" word?
better start writing giggle with an optional
   gig(g)le:
   which could become problematic
when it came to a double omicron:
to go, among the goo...
the intra-rascial slur for a german
east of berlin?
          švab...
     funny that... the saxons are
not actually minded...
  the anglo-saxons (intra-racial
mix of celt and saxon)
             as we see them today...
but... when the teutonic order came
to the area around Danzig
     and further east to Königsberg...
further... to Riga...
         a Prussian isn't a German...
              die Preußen ist: Preuße;
  now?
   the Preußen have been reintegrated
into a dialect of Polen...
        kashubian: or at least,
        that's                     sort-of...
ultra-nationalist "sentiments":
   in "exile"...
          i love that, brushing aside
any economic migrant in favor
for the immediate migrant
   of conflict, or political asylum...
you know...
   economics: is a type of war,
                                 in slow-motion...
it's a peaceful war,
   well... ergo it's a "war"...
              and the economic migrants?
disorientated *******...
who can't exactly fully assimilate
to the expectation of the natives...
i.e. speak our language in public,
and our language in private...
  no... no thank you...
         it would be easier to remove
a tattoo with a shark-bite
and a scar than to remove my
                                   mutterzunge...
and here i am... "worried"
about the N in the word trigger...
or the "missing G" in the word: Nigeria...
like... ******* pandering
        to a panda in a Beijing zoo...
now comes the malice...
thought-prison, metaphorical dyslexia
and tattoos of grafitti on
bypass highways...
   like dirt behind my fingernails...
looking for gold nuggets
picking my nose...
   as harold norse once stated
in his memoir (of a ******* angel):
a sign of a Brooklyn intellectual...
   but i just have to point this out...
LGBTQIA...
   nice acronym...
but you're missing two letters...
**** me... if mr and mrs H
  are not included...
LGBTQIA is missing two protected
groups...
     mr P and mr N...
LGBTQIAPN...
    the ******* and
the necrophiliac...
                                    no?
   they'd fit right in...
        no? they wouldn't?
weren't we talking deviance,
             per se?
so...
          those two outer-outliers
    are legit. rainbow deviances...
no? at least mr P can have some sort
of a religious backing...
whether in the desert slap-stick
ninja sketch and satan's postbox...
or at least, back of the queue of a choir,
and some boy...
   but that's the scary bit,
isn't it?
            mr N... now...
                that's... some would claim
it to be art... or what the hell became
of eddie gein in american mainstream
culture...
                  ****... forgot ms B+...
   i do remember seeing internet
in its youth,
                   rotten . com,
            and the earliest edgy ****...
now... not even a black guy can
leave adequate compensation...
   for what... began as a saddle,
reins and stirrups...
          and became:
   a demonic hybrid knock-knock-knocking
on Gomorrah's door...
fastforward...
men on stag outings before
being shackled by the ring...
inflateable sheep
   and granny dolls...
          oh yeah: i'm a real moralist
at this point...
                    what i do find scary
is that whenever i'm confined
to a waiting room, a confined space...
and there's a child with its parent
present... there's an animal...
   there's a very old man with
a middle aged mentally ill daughter...
i'm suddenly likeable...
a curiosity...
        just like today...
  her dad is nearing 75...
      she's unkept... greasy hair...
                  rags, rather than clothes...
and in the corner of my eye...
she just couldn't stop glaring at me...
i'm sweating like i'm the sort of hell
where i'm supposed to **** her...
or go to her pajamas sleep-over party
if the case was: she was sixteen
and i was eight...
                        as i went into
the doctor's appointment
    and recounted my 2 week psychotic
episode of being strapped
to the bed... in a quasi-paralysis...
citing metaphors of p.t.s.d.,
                   not talking a word for
2 weeks, only because i received
a ******* questionnaire from
the dept. of work & pensions...
   'am i a fraud? am i?'
   between 48 hour periods...
i'd chance 2 hours of sleep...
     the usual questions...
suicidal thoughts, hallucinations?
   no... the 1st episode, yeah...
but now? it's just debilitating,
quasi-paralysis...
                  nice doctor... plump...
beauty of a doughnut...
          and doughnuts are beautiful...
esp. if you throw them into a lake,
and they float,
  and then you watch the ducks
                  and the swans swarm it...
if i lied: i should be contending
for an oscar...
          then she measured my blood-pressure...
first instrument failed...
the arm-band was too small...
the air was pumped into the band
around my hand:
    arm-band snapped
  of the blood-pressure measuring tool...
so she had to resort to
the old method of using
the stethoscope and a bigger arm-band...
i guess she knew she was
dealing with a scared / agitated
animal...
   that just so happened to talk
                  some words in human;
a wounded animal,
is hardly scared / agitated...
a wounded animal,
   is whatever implies...
being elevated to a status
that transcends the wound...
the doctors came too late,
i'm fidding with letters
    like jigsaw...
  i'm fiddling with the then
larger jigsaw of words...
   and the whole point of the picture
will only arrive,
post office stamp and all...
akin to a postmortem:
  that part of life...
where...
   eh? how would you classify
man...
          pork, beef, game,
poultry, fish?
    all... none of the stated?
that's almost funny...
   HOW WOULD YOU CLASSIFY
MAN IN THE "CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE"
of said classes of edible meats?
am i pork?
   no... am i beef? no...
veal? no...
         well, we already know
that some examples of meat
are actually vegetables:
   brain damage, coma...
like:
   do you bite into a tomato...
"thinking" it's a fruit...
or a veg.?
         "logic" supposes
that a tomato is a fruit...
common sense?
     it's a ******* vegetable!
post-racism...
   what sort of meat is man?
eh... bewildering...
   i guess we can only find
an answer, in China...
  should we ever send
a pet dog & its owner to
some obscure, countryside,
small town, famine riddled
(or straight to Kiev) place...
sorry...
******* a black doesn't make
me "less", "racist"...
i might as well imitate
a colonial overlord by the act...
seriously...
english, these days?
watching a ******* washing-machine
is less confusing that
walking on egg-shells in
this tongue...
currently, available...
so let's forget, black, or white...
you beef?
   you crab meat?
       you lamb?
   (slippery *****
of salivating sounds):
what are you?
       it's called:
  SEEING PAST THE COLOUR...
so...
     what's the meat worth?
is chimp meat the same
as human meat?
   no, wait...
that gorilla grew big-*******
eating shrubs?
anomaly of human
dietary requirements...
a horse became so big...
only eating... grass...
      yeah... no anomaly...
and then my brain starts to short-circuit...
past the colour,
infancy of discrimination...
how would to categorise
the "body" of christ
if no bread was available?
beef? pork? veal?
fish?
      i already know what
the ****** would be...
   sure as **** it wouldn't be
*****'s liquor worth of wine...
i went straight to the beast
of the wheat...
    and i called her...
        ms. amber...
                 and... maybe i just didn't
like the wrap-up of rap
because of the lyrics and
my unrelateable tendency
to never **** the bid-bop head...
of the music per se,
but the lyrics?
      sure... the music is great...
but the lyrics?
     i can't relate to them...
i need, something,
mythological and obscure...
a time-wrap not minding a grief
                 of / from yesterday...
mind you: i'll write this,
as i'll drink whatever is left,
and tomorrow...
            is a tomorrow without
this current zenith of the hours...
come beethoven thinking
of tux in the variant of rigid
geometry in the form of music...
           like when sartre plagiarised
joyce at the end of iron in the soul?
- that's the next tier of "racism"...
    as far as i am concerned...
it would be nice to re-evauluate
my position
    on the libra of being
reengaged in a food-chain
hierarchy...
                  cancer is a primitive
pseudo-vitro-forma...
    great... eaten by parasites...
germs... etc.,
  guess what...
   at least a lion is beautiful...
i'd rather be eaten by a lion
than a ******* tapeworm...
so what am i?
              beef?
                     ****...
       first i'd have to put monkey
on the menu...
to tease at the taboo
     of teasing the cannibal
    while performing oral ***.
Mike Hauser Nov 2018
I just bought a turkey
In dire need of tenderize
Also a quick summer thaw
As this chick's as cold as ice

Must have froze it in the tundra as
I dive deep into the internet
Where it's got me wondering
Why I myself didn't think of this

It says to tie up both its legs
With a nylon stringy thingy
Hey! Get that out your head!
This ain't nothing *****!

Hook the turkey to the bumper
And take it for a ride
I watched it from my rear view
And mirror on the side

I watched it twirl and tumble
I watched it twist and shout
I watched it as it changed its shape
From inside into out

I thought I heard it gobble
As it bounced itself along
Checking progress at every red light
Tenderized...yes, but not yet thawed

The roads must be colder this year
Then at first, I thought
I hop back into my jalopy
For a few more jaunts around the block

I make it back to my place
Thinking all is perfect all is well
Untie the turkey, if that's what it is
It's a little hard to tell

Now with that part of the preparation done
With the turkey and I safe back home
I plop it into the waiting oven
And gently turn it on

Here we are a few hours later
As the conversations and good times begin
Sitting around the dinner table
My guests all marvel at my hen

There's only one slight question
And they asked me if I knew
I reply...why yes that is white meat
It's just a tad bit bruised
Unlike most the mail thats filled with  annoying **** like bills and DNA results this one  stood out  for some odd reason.
The name seemed familar  the invite was a wedding better known as a stand up funeral  a gathering of  hopeful women  and hung over men.

But what called to my eyes like a driver  parked at a catholic schoolgirl
cross walk  on a windy day was a true statement of sheer  beauty.
Open bar  gonzo  didnt know much but he knew he had a busted toaster   and a bruised liver and purpose a  of which I never  truley do understand.


This gathering was promising many women of which  had no idea  
I was a total ***  were here.
This crowd included many types
large small  young old   cross eyed   lazy eyed and even **** eyed
but no time for foreplay  children.

The bar was calling yet for some reason we had to sit through this
wedding ****  who the hell comes to  this stuff to watch  such sappy ****
the bride  walked down the isle  in white  face covered  dear lord
she couldnt be that ugly  hey wheres the  guy who sells  penuts and beers.

I sat for hours in agony  waitting to meet with my open
bar mistress  like some hot ****  women waiting behind a  
locked door so willing   calling to Gonzo.
come drink me  drink me hard  you drunk ******* im so wet
and refreshing get your minds outta the gutter.

When the man  who seemed to be the cult leader finally shut up the
groom finally pulled back  that veil thingy like a bad episode of ****** doo to reveal   the woman underneath it.
I was shocked to see a familar  face  hey i remember her
Kathy, Susan ,Rebecca,Something  yes when in doubt always shout
out every name you can think.
that way you appear either a total *****  or if your wearing a helmet
*******.

I had left mine at home selfish  ***** of a brother  just had to have it
Gonzo what if I fall down from a seisure ****** man duck tape a pillow to your head.

the ******* aside finally came a true moment of true brillance the bar   the bar where the **** was the bar!
Like a child being told santa wasnt coming this christmas
cause daddy  got busted selling drugs to the same undercover cop again
dad wasnt bright  something inside hurt deep as tears welled up from
my shallow heart.

then she appeared  Sara, Rabeca ,Susan,Eunice what did it matter really?
Gonzo are you hurt?
You know how much I care for you always.
Yeah  not enough to have a open bar Tabitha,Elieen ,Bathsheba,Drew,Elliot ****** woman whatever your name is.

Really you selfish woman  what do you think just   cause it's your wedding its all about you and this oversized bodybuilder   who appears
very unhappy dam you network tv for canceling american  gladiators

Like any true man would do faced  in the same situation.
I kissed the bride for old times sake  kicked the groom in the ***** and ran  for the boreder i'll miss you Susan,Kat,Jessica ****** woman whatever your name is.

As i sit at the pub deep in reflection as jack ask's me  so what will
you miss about her  the most you crazy ******* a chicken tucked under his arm  but I seldom  cared  to meet his new girlfriends.

Yes after deep thought and many wild turkeys.
It finally came to me ya know jack it's probaly  the free ***.
yes i was gonnna miss   Rabecca,Susan,Samantha,Kat, Beth,Baths,
Becky,Tarzan,Eunice,Cheeta, Taylor,Elivis,Ladyy Ga Ga whats here name  cheers to ya darlin.

Love John, Elliot ,Chris,Jack,Gary,My Chemicle Imbalance,Obama,
Bob, JD,Drew ,Goldie,whatever the hell my name is.    

Stay Crazy Gonzo
Dedicated to a friend of mine thats getting married
she always said  gonzo why dont ya write about me?
well be careful what ya ask for.

Cheers and good luck my friend
Anais Vionet Jul 2020
I love that Internet voodoo
that pile of wires and things
that lets us stay connected
and keeps us entertained.

It ties the world together
like economies these days
it's magic either good or bad
information cuts both ways.

It went down the other day
and it wasn't out that long
the maintenance guy
was at the outside box
and he did something wrong.

I watched him like a tiger
from inside my gilded cage
I was pacing my perimeter
like a predator engaged.

I screamed helpful, timely updates
he seemed a clueless clown
and I was ready to go block
his truck if he tried to leave
while we were still down.

He finally got the thingy fixed
my sweet prince of restoration
I laughed out loud to see the lights
then I gave him a standing ovation.

Without the Internet I'd go crazy
and it wouldn't take that long
after months of dull isolation
it's helped us all stay strong.
A tribute to that Internet thingy.
Unlike most the mail thats filled with  annoying **** like bills and DNA results this one  stood out  for some odd reason.
The name seemed familar  the invite was a wedding better known as a stand up funeral  a gathering of  hopeful women  and hung over men.

But what called to my eyes like a driver  parked at a catholic schoolgirl
cross walk  on a windy day was a true statement of sheer  beauty.
Open bar  gonzo  didnt know much but he knew he had a busted toaster   and a bruised liver and purpose a  of which I never  truley do understand.


This gathering was promising many women of which  had no idea  
I was a total ***  were here.
This crowd included many types
large small  young old   cross eyed   lazy eyed and even **** eyed
but no time for foreplay  children.

The bar was calling yet for some reason we had to sit through this
wedding ****  who the hell comes to  this stuff to watch  such sappy ****
the bride  walked down the isle  in white  face covered  dear lord
she couldnt be that ugly  hey wheres the  guy who sells  penuts and beers.

I sat for hours in agony  waitting to meet with my open
bar mistress  like some hot ****  women waiting behind a  
locked door so willing   calling to Gonzo.
come drink me  drink me hard  you drunk ******* im so wet
and refreshing get your minds outta the gutter.

When the man  who seemed to be the cult leader finally shut up the
groom finally pulled back  that veil thingy like a bad episode of ****** doo to reveal   the woman underneath it.
I was shocked to see a familar  face  hey i remember her
Kathy, Susan ,Rebecca,Something  yes when in doubt always shout
out every name you can think.
that way you appear either a total *****  or if your wearing a helmet
*******.

I had left mine at home selfish  ***** of a brother  just had to have it
Gonzo what if I fall down from a seisure ****** man duck tape a pillow to your head.

the ******* aside finally came a true moment of true brillance the bar   the bar where the **** was the bar!
Like a child being told santa wasnt coming this christmas
cause daddy  got busted selling drugs to the same undercover cop again
dad wasnt bright  something inside hurt deep as tears welled up from
my shallow heart.

then she appeared  Sara, Rabeca ,Susan,Eunice what did it matter really?
Gonzo are you hurt?
You know how much I care for you always.
Yeah  not enough to have a open bar Tabitha,Elieen ,Bathsheba,Drew,Elliot ****** woman whatever your name is.

Really you selfish woman  what do you think just   cause it's your wedding its all about you and this oversized bodybuilder   who appears
very unhappy dam you network tv for canceling american  gladiators

Like any true man would do faced  in the same situation.
I kissed the bride for old times sake  kicked the groom in the ***** and ran  for the boreder i'll miss you Susan,Kat,Jessica ****** woman whatever your name is.

As i sit at the pub deep in reflection as jack ask's me  so what will
you miss about her  the most you crazy ******* a chicken tucked under his arm  but I seldom  cared  to meet his new girlfriends.

Yes after deep thought and many wild turkeys.
It finally came to me ya know jack it's probaly  the free ***.
yes i was gonnna miss   Rabecca,Susan,Samantha,Kat, Beth,Baths,
Becky,Tarzan,Eunice,Cheeta, Taylor,Elivis,Ladyy Ga Ga whats here name  cheers to ya darlin.

Love John, Elliot ,Chris,Jack,Gary,My Chemicle Imbalance,Obama,
Bob, JD,Drew ,Goldie,whatever the hell my name is.    

Stay Crazy Gonzo
Dedicated to a friend of mine thats getting married
she always said  gonzo why dont ya write about me?
well be careful what ya ask for.

Cheers and good luck my friend
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
some people might cite you that slavery had disappeared,
not to my knowledge,
         it was a wednesday at my local supermarket,
and there was only one male in the place, a manager,
and only women stacking shelves and sitting at the tills...
it really looked like all the men were laid off...
         well... what with the export of manual labour
to china... what sort of man would want to stack shelves
for a lifetime? it's not exactly coal-mining,
it's not something his body is used to doing...
                   he stacks supermarket shelves,
       and then watches modern day "gladiators"
break the sweat and have a lean body...
                                              women can stack supermarket
shelves...
                  men? they need physical ambition...
     women can have that, when being pregnant...
then this old strytoczała "******" of a woman tries
to encompass small-talk with my purchase...
    - would you like me to pack your bags?
- no no, i'm fine...      
               all i have is a rucksack, a bottle of ***,
a bottle of ms. pepsi. and a bottle of ale...
                 i can't do small-talk, i never know why people
would even bother with it... it's easily disposable...
       but it's a wednesday in my local supermarket,
and there's only the male manager, and the rest of the employees
are female...
                    imagine seeing men moaning like women
in the easy-sector of physical exertion...
       there's absolutely no reward for them!
                             what the **** are they doing?
     something akin to housework, knitting, or gardening,
arranging "flowers" / packaging in the most satisfying formation...
    have they all left for australia to work in the outback?
i wish they had...
              i buy my *****, a fat employee is buying
sugar snacks and ready-made meals...
                and i'm thinner than he is... even though i know
that alcohol bloats you up a bit...
                 but what sort of men are you breeding?
in india they'd be called the untouchables...
                 in england? they're called the disposables.
oh slavery hasn't died... it just evolved, morphed...
    it's called a 0 hour contract...
         and you know what that is? right?
        you're aiming at: poodle!
                             you earn an hour's worth of employment
whenever they want you to come in for work,
and if they don't want your labour? you're back
at zee-ρ: yep... 0. like kant said: 0 = negation...
     western societies lied about a need for labour...
    forget the hegelian master & slave relation...
      it's more        parasite & host these days...
        am i a social justice... thingy?
                                isn't it a form of slavery?
the worst kind... it's not like you have to be constantly present,
like house-service, and have a constant form of "employment"...
the new whip is the clock that has no synchronisity
with, any form of responsibility...
          if this isn't slavery, guided by spontaneity,
then i'd rather be an african-american in the south prior
to the civil war... at least i'd be fed, day by day with some
sort of rigour, some sort of structure...
         where are all the men gone to?
     so you think a strong chimp mating with a weak woman
will provide a strong chimp?
     just another ****** working a 0-hours contract...
come here poodle... pooh pooh... come back on friday
    and work 5 hours... we might call you back in 4 days to
work 7 hours...
                      **** me... and i thought my jokes were bad...
but this 0-hour contract "innovation"...
    you're basically opening a can of worms, or at least
summoning the spirit of pandora...
       you're really summoning a bunch of crazy *******...
  and that's not even islam...
               islam is going to be a softcore version of violence
these ******* will be programmed into...
    you're going to be talking ***** films, ******* gang rapes...
i know i would, be reduced to that sort of level
if i was on a 0-hour contract... fair enough if you're a woman...
but take metallurgy from men, or other types of production
that makes their physical strength utilised to an exertion
that competes with athletes... and you take that away...
  they either get fat... or they go mad...
    and that's mad in the casual sense of exercising violence...
but of course you sold us out to the chinese...
       and if you try to retract that "chess" move now?
well... we number a few millions... they have a billion willing
conscripts to overwhelm these lands....
       the german third *****? that's candy-floss compared
with what might come.
    but yeah... thank you very much... i'm with the dodo project;
and my my, ain't this spiced ***, just fine?
Qwn Apr 2015
Remembering how things went the moment we first talk.
It really was hard as challenge for me to look.
It’s because I’m that shy-type at first time.
And because you’re mesmerizing, like star in darkness that shines.

You are known for having an encouraging smile.
The way you look, it’s like perfection to human kind.
Whenever you are around, it feels like there’s heaven in land.
You are a fairy and your voice is your significant wand.

You are like Artemis, the goddess of the hunt;
For it’s like you have this invisible bow and arrow on your hands.
You’re a woman who is brave and a fighter, ready for battle;
And in competitions, I salute you for going home as the winner.

In terms of inspiration, intelligence, courage and wisdom;
You are like Athena, the goddess of these things in one.
By simply listening to your influencing words, there is wisdom.
You inspire people; encourage them to be better the next time.

Beauty is always attached to your name clearly.
And love is always defined with your personality.
You’re a woman of caring a heart which is a nurse thingy.
That is why among the Greek goddesses, I want you as Aphrodite.

As how you sway your hair when you walk until it went messy;
As how mesmerizing your eyes whenever you talk, you’re just so pretty;
As how soft-hearted you are even if you talk frankly,
You should know that you deserve a crowd that applause for you dearly.

© Quenniebells, 2015
This is a poem I wrote for a friend named Aubrey as a birthday present.
Rassy Jan 2015
Do want you love while you are young.
Enjoy while you can.
Live your adventure.
Life is just once so do things that you love.  


Let's talk about it!!!!!!

Some people always said that to us about enjoy life blah blah blah

I want to talk about it because I CAN'T DO ANYTHING I LOVE!!
how i can do things that i love when school 5 days in a week??
How i can enjoy it when i am sad?
Howw?? I'm sick when people said that especially the one who already successful in life
I hate it
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
when i start drinking i know that i have to start writing
after a few beers in, before the woman of my life Whitney
(i call her that, not Jack or Jim,
what, boys call feminise their guitars -
i have Whitney - auburn skinned and easy, as in
fluid - so before Whitney enters my dietary requirements
i have to write something - that thingy mag-jig
when someone is in a critical condition - in a life or
death scenario - that's me also - although i'm there
not between life and death, but within lost onomatopoeia(s)
of knock knock who's there jokes - but the dissatisfaction
with things - i need to encrypt - reinvent Persian
poetics - keep my mouth shut - see into the yet to come
sunrise - so few poets can actually make you feel
what they feel, poetry is plagued with prompting too
many others - why is poetry the most accessible art-form
and the least satisfying? i gather because it's mostly
unread, and easily prompting others to write it -
the other Pandora - let's just call her a faking Libra -
only in poetry does production of it outweigh
the profits reaped from it - people read little poetry
but write a lot of poetry - because it's the cheap-***
art - esp. in the pixel age of Beelzebub eye's
somehow all those shrapnel windows coordinating a
one-on-one vision - poetry is cheap, hence so many
adherents to practice it - yet so few to perfect it,
or if not perfecting it, at least adventurous and
gambling alike to hold fast to it's tornado essence -
the line: make it personal, but not too personal -
it's as if you had a life outside of poetry... you don't,
stark naked in Eden - and nowhere else, soon and if
applauded for such gesture you'll find less and less
people wanting to attach to you for your "private" life
exposures - if shame can be a Pakistani infused novel
by Salman Rushdie, then it can't be a western poem,
because fate of such weaving is de facto lost, forever,
people basically like their perversity than expressing
a curbing of such self-prompt-inquisitions for strangers' eyes
to scrutinise - indeed quite the reflection of an Englishman
and his house the castle. but the reason poetry has no
status in Western society unlike in Ancient Persia is because
it was killed off - it has no social respect because of
political rhetoric, it has no professional respect because
we have prosaic fudge-packaging writers with their
extensive lullabies of mundane talk and the odd dialogue:
the psychologists that don't listen - and the people
who say they appreciate poetry... but only if they write it -
for the majority of concerns, the Divine Comedy (e.g.)
has more footnotes than any critical work academia -
and i don't mean footnotes as such, but ~footnotes,
more poems... what poetry has come in terms of output
is like a newspaper - quasi-poetry (even with technique,
or none, apparently frailty makes something written
poetic, i call it butterflies in budgie cages - as insects
they heap up the behaviour of banging against the iron bars -
pretence flight - to keep beauty is to keep it sadistically -
and to release it with prior wants to contain it ends up
a masochism - against Nietzsche and partisan with Kant -
let's equate beauty with something that doesn't interest us -
let's poker that expression, what is beautiful is what doesn't
interest us - it's the porcelain effect - the fragility already
presupposed an advent of mortality -
grammar will never abide by the rules of arithmetic -
i will write my german with english grammar -
and i will write Latin according to the reverse principle
of compounding nouns (genus alba) - i.e.
white race - (genus ater) - dismal race - and no other.
- i write this just before Whitney comes along -
what a bridge, aged 40 and always there when the night comes,
we have three children, the first born Amitriptyline (now aged
25 of some unknown unit of measurement, dog years, or x7
to ours), and the twins Naproxen and Paracetamol -
with them i have been synthesising sleep for the past 9 years -
as any chemist would avoiding going cuckoo -
Amtriptyline was born anaemic - with Whitney stepped in
and sorted the matter out - a chemist will never go
with the doctor's orders - no chance in life - chemistry
is abstract medicine - any idiot can prescribe pills and don
the title general practitioner with a wage over £100,000 -
but it takes self-reliance to invert the note: WARNING.
DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WHILE TAKING THIS
MEDICINE. ha ha... fat chance of that not happening -
i'd be bonkers if i didn't, Whitney will tell you - o.k.,
the excesses of somnia (that variant of sanity, in- and
mm, you know what) are sometimes pointless -
but at least my brain becomes a rechargeable battery sequence.
alternative provocation - Charon's holiday -
i always wondered why the Greeks placed payment
for Charon on the eyes of those about to be cremated -
(liken Hindu, now very morbid - in what element would
man find no animal or insect incubated to survive -
in earth the worms and the moles, in air the birds and
moths - in water the fish and ***** and oysters -
but in fire? a godly endurance - and unto it i too would
like to return to) - two coins places on the eyes -
as if to remind the dead that the veil of materialism will be
lifted when Charon takes his wage from their eyes,
unveils himself first, then Styx and the future of what
greed and excess materialised - such a funeral would be
befitting in our age - as today, five pounds withdrawn from
the bank account, £0.43 in my wallet - a can of beer
at £1.10 - Shanghai math? perhaps, that's about to be implemented -
abstract Chinese v. Johnny ate 10 doughnuts and
how much time to burn the calories off? (latter being English
method of teaching - chemistry, abstract medicine, surgeons
excluded, they're not ascribed the title Dr. anyway,
as you'd expect, pristine butchers' association) - anyway...
i was two pence short of five-fifty, and as i outstretched my
hand with a 20 pence coin, 2x 10 pence coins, a 5 pence coin
and 3x 1 pence coins i dawned on me - the five quid banknote
was already on the counter - my eyes eyed the look in
the cashier's hesitation - the almost neurotic look of despair,
i was short by 2 pence - they weren't there, but
i just imagined that two Greek eyes were staring from my
hand - (i will not put overweight atypical of poetic strain
on the Cartesian equilibrium on the side of i am "Charon,
but it's only a sly-millimetre off from acting, so i guess
it ought to be included) - two 1 pence coins in my hand
missing - the over-suggestive microscopic panic of
the cashier - the opposite zenith of today's parabolic materialism,
for indeed we live in materialism's parabola -
the nadir comes with pennies on the street (thank you
Frank Sinatra) - how could even the most insignificant unit
of the monetary system be nothing more than a pebble?
if i were people, id pay respect to the smallest unit and pick them
up - otherwise money will become altogether useless -
if it isn't already - it's a great way to pass obscure laws
as in throwing a cigarette **** on a street and getting fined
£1000 for it... or how many killed off alliances akin
to family and tribalism - but seeing pennies on the street
is not a good sign - an astounding metaphor - a penny on
a street - i promise i'll not do a Simon & Garfunkel on you -
wormholes of ancient Greek perception lying on
cement, readied to be picked up - the resurrected Greeks
pre-dating Christianity coming back - their eyes
lying on the street - O the woe of our kindred having written
the New Testament - that we must return and see
the world once again for what it is, and for what it will
never be - in such an age, when in ours the old were still
mentally resourceful and not extinguished in soul and thought -
even in body - to this frightening sight -
we paid a penny for each eye when prior we were given
2 pound coins to cross the Styx - now Charon allows
us a penny's worth of glimpse into this world - for he has
no eyes of his own - a penny per eye into the great
seafarer of time's eyes.
MereCat Jul 2015
Dear God,

Do you want me to be grateful
for the way the clouds curl around each other
like ringlets falling from a hairband?
Because I will be, if you want.
And if I tell you the truth
I think I’m going to have to be
because I can’t find any other thing so beautiful.
I’m looking at the world through a view-finder
and I can’t find much that’s pretty these days.

My calf is pressed against the calf of a girl
who I considered for years to be a best friend of mine.
She felt empty
and so she inflated herself with
hot air and “banter” with no meaning.
“***** Please” and “Ohmygod” and “*******”
spew from her awkward, Christian mouth
and I wonder whether she scooped her insides out
like pumpkin flesh
and inserted somebody new there in her place
like a candle in a jack'o'lantern.
Somebody who doesn’t have the time for me.
So I give up on our small talk
and decide not to interrupt her mobile phone;
I feel the back of her head like a headache.

“Mum’s sweated off four-hundred-and-seventy-six calories today”
she tells me and I ask her how she knows.
“She’s a got a tag thingy, you know. I have too.”

I can’t bear the sound of calories.
They are nails on all my chalkboards
and they are the wrong-footed *****
that tolls in church.

I lower my gaze to the absent-minded mother
whose fingers climb into her pram
to draw circles on the baby’s scalp.
She stirs my thoughts with them.
I think I’ve come a long way since
I started this prayer,
since my eyes hit the clouds.

Someone once told me that the thing he hated above all else
was greed
because greed is a bonfire that hungers without ever feeling full.
And who reminded me that
power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

We got the greed we hungered for.

And it corrupted us absolutely.

For it is by greed that the ice caps
are sweating off more calories
than the girls in their gym shorts.

It is by greed that they cannot rest
until they have peeled their thighs far enough apart
and by greed that they’ve been lured into the propaganda store
to buy themselves diets.

It is by greed that we cannot look our world in the eye
and greed that necessitates the use of a microscope lens
to distance us from the damage we cause.

It is by greed that we underline the little problems
to cover up the big ones
and it is greed that enables us to find offense in the weather forecast.

It is greed that has shrunk my values into a cage of bitter ribs
and greed that provoked my self-righteous verbal slaughter
of that friend I no longer know.

It is by greed that we started deciding that land belonged to people –
that finders were keepers, as long as they were white –
instead of the earth it consists of.

It is by greed that we doggedly avoid breaking our routines apart
to fit other factors into them.

It is by greed that righteousness
and ******
fall into step
on the path towards a religion that God can’t condone.

It is by greed that fascism and communism
eclipse one another and meld into one.

It is by greed that the old woman opposite
refuses to share her seat or even her smile
with a human under the age of thirty.

It is by greed that kids have bullets in them
and mothers are shot full of infection
and the water runs dry
through the dripping tap we didn’t fix in our bathroom.

It is by greed that I sit on a bus
and shift my problem onto our backs
with my view-finder.

And yeah,
I still see some beauty when I look for it
but I see beauty like a picture postcard
that an angry kid took a hole punch to.
It got so torn up but we refuse to put it under a light
in order to avoid seeing just how many gaps we’ve made.
Recently I’ve noticed this postcard’s
got too many holes in it to be able to see
what the picture once was.
There’s more absent than present
and, sure, we’ve still got our itty-bitty blue-sky-days
between the punctures,
but the grime and the guilt seeps out
like the air we drove our dreams on.

What a mess we inflicted, I think.

There’s a ceiling light in our toilet that attracts flies to it.
They fly in and burn up
and the lamp bowl fills with insect corpses
until you can’t see through them anymore.
We’re like that.
Flies go suicide bombing
and ***** things up
with the clutter they leave behind them.
Meanwhile,
as long as the dead stay in their graves,
they don’t bother the rest.
We look up at the ceiling
and don’t change the lightbulb.

How many people does it take to change a lightbulb?

We like looking at our world from the atmosphere;
we observe it from the internet,
believing that we stand on the moon,
too far away to touch the gashes we’ve torn.
We don’t like looking at the way the blood runs;
we tuck it under our fingernails instead
and hope no one holds us accountable.

When I come home I snap at my mum
because I am so struck by the brokenness of what I’m dealing with
that I cannot have her ask me how my day was.
Because I cannot complain about the weather
but I need to
because our family conversation is not big enough
to grapple with the magnitude of the genuine complaints I have.
Because I cannot simply tell her that I hate America
or feel comfortable praying her this prayer.
So I tell her “OK” and she rolls her eyes at the kettle.

So I’ve got my dish-cloth heart
and the rain starts to spit at us
with tears that are heavy enough to weep the things I can’t shed.

Wash me clean, rain… heaven… God,
because most people put ***** dishcloths in the bin
not the washing machine.
my thoughts on the bus today
Teddy Prend Feb 2014
Sid's Valentine Goodbye.

Valentine's Day - Sid woke up as
he had done for odd eighty years.
Hidden in a closet were her roses
and cheap card.

His thin ex-tuberculous wife was
already up, she had made tea,
laid the paper and opened the
windows for the stuffiness to exit.

Joe Loss was playing Moonlight on the
new thingy C.D and outside one
of the warders was moving about.

Sid kissed her on the cheek, lightly
but with feeling, presented his roses,
felicitations handed her the card,
she loved it.This was their sixty fourth
Valentine,

As usual Joan shed a little symbolic tear,
nothing too un-British and came to underline
her love for big Sid with another little kiss.
Speed cyclist, dispatch rider, Radar Sid
was on lazy boy with The Mail and char.

Paper open, tea untouched she gave him.
her usual restrained peck and realized.

He was still warm.

— The End —