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equitube May 2019
On the south side of kelso if it's there that ya choose to go
Well if its there ya go then ya just gotta know bout a man named tweaker joe
Now tweaker, he's a scrapper and if ya go down on his door
Don't you worry about wakin him up. He aint slept since 74
Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than a five eared dog

Now tweaker hes a scrapper and he likes his shiny things
And he likes to see what fun he has by the chaos that he brings
He got a custom BMX bike with a flashlight on the grill. He got 32 lb of brass in his pack, he got a dope bag in his shoe.

Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog


NOW Friday bout a week ago Tweaker scrappin cars. But at the end of the alley sat a cop named Thurman and ooh dat cop looked ******

Well he cast his light upon joe cuz Thurman had a plan
Tweaker joe learned a lesson bout messin with a future Sherriff man


Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog


Well the 2 men took to runnin and hes dragged down to the jail
Joey looked like a wrung out tweaker with a couple of teeth left

Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog

Well he's weird, weird tweaker joe
The weirdest tweaker in South Kelso
Weirder than a three toed frog
Stranger than s five eared dog
This is quite regional to South Kelso WA but it's funny. I premiered it at karaoke last night but forgot a newly written verse
Thomas Thurman Feb 2011
This day we lay the universe to rest:
behind this pair of eyes that lived and died
a mirror-image, faithfully expressed,
reflects a mirror-universe inside
all memories. This day we thank the Lord
for all these shining moments held within
this mind where human memories are stored.
And this shall be the moment they begin
to shatter, to become ten thousand stories
reflecting human life in all its beauty:
each smile, each poem, every sunset's glories,
that call to those remaining of their duty
to see this story speaks and never fails;
to call, recall again ten thousand tales.
For my grandfather, who died 10th February 2011.
Jessy Pryde Jul 2010
Top down on a rented convertible
The directors, the tabloids,
The husband and kids— leave them
with the city traffic.

The humming of the engine
makes my toes vibrate
as I nudge the accelerator with my
size 11 foot.

I want to see
Azure skies, desert landscape
Lizards basking on rocks.

I’d adopt a coyote
He would teach me how to sing
Because he admires my long nose.

On the road, I feel the
power of abandonment—
Infinite. Priceless. Immortal.

My excitement rises with the speedometer
I would make it to Mexico City by nightfall
The birthplace of my mother.

I write her name in the sky
It waivers with humility
Condenses into streak marks
on my windshield.

Her reflection winks back at me
in the rearview mirror.
Ahead, I see dusk and
the milky colors of city lights.
Don't ask why, but I love Ms. Thurman.
Mary-Eliz Apr 2017
Each of us wants to know,
however vast and impersonal
all life about us may seem,
however hard may be the stretch of road
on which we are journeying,
we are not alone
but the object of another's concern
and caring.
Came across this recently and thought about the fragile souls of poets,
so this is for all of us
both for when we are the fragile ones seeking
and when we find the strength
to offer the caring and concern needed by others.
Nina McNally Oct 2015
Underneath this full
Moon I sit
And watch

These people come and go.
Hoping that one day we can have peace,
Understanding, and love again.
Right now this world needs help, a
Miracle---something to bring us back to
A** time when we cared about our
Neighbors and each other. Someday.
Inspired by and song title from Fall Out Boy. Thanks to Uma Thurman, she's awesome!
©McNally, Inc.
9/5/2015
Molly Apr 2013
I will never love again.

Today I woke up at 7am
remembered the boy who climbed
out my bedroom window last
night after we watched Pulp Fiction.
I smiled like the Cheshire Cat
for the boy who promised he'd
never love me.

Never love me, and I promise to never love you back.

Maybe there's a parallel universe
that runs a track close and alongside ours,
where we are not commitment phobic.
Then again, maybe in that
parallel universe
you marry the girlfriend that you cheated on
with me.

I am not pretty.
But I have your virginity!
A big ugly chunk of you that I would happily throw back
if I had half a chance.
Yet, I still cling to you like a lost girl

we sit in silence and I try to show you Pulp Fiction.

But you won't stop talking
and then there's a moment of highly charged ****** tension
and Uma Thurman says
to paraphrase
"Don't you just hate those comfortable silences"
Why do we always yak about *******.
I realised I don't know you at all
and I kissed you quietly because your eyes were closed

Because that's what you do, right?
Bob B Sep 18
The account that follows fills me with sadness--
Sadness and anger at the same time.
Oftentimes a draconian law
Can itself be a crime.

A mother, Amber Nicole Thurman,
Because of Georgia's abortion "solution,"
Died because her doctors wouldn't
Treat her, fearing prosecution.

Unexpelled fetal tissue
Required attention--a D&C.°
Thurman had developed sepsis.
They had to move ASAP.

But because of Georgia's laws,
The doctors, afraid of going to jail,
Waited far too long to act.
Thurman's organs had started to fail.

When the doctors finally
Performed the procedure, it was too late,
Thanks to the strict and narrow-minded
Laws affecting the folks in that state.

Governor Kemp was thrilled when the state's
Abortion ban went into effect.
What other anti-freedom laws
Will Georgia try to resurrect?

Whether to end a pregnancy
Is not an easy decision, but still,
Women should have the right to decide
If it should be by procedure or pill.

Applying loaded words such as "******"
To women and doctors is simply wrong!
Some lawmakers want us to think
That we are weak, but they are strong.

In their attempts to limit women's
Choice, they think that they have won,
While Amber Thurman leaves behind
A six-year-old motherless son.

-by Bob B (9-18-24)

°dilation and curettage, a surgical procedure that involves removing tissue from the ******
WickedHope Nov 2014
My Response to Ember Evanescent's 10 Poets Challenge (incase you're incapable of reading titles I'll be momentarily redundant)
These are some of my favourite poets on the site, some of whom I know in real life (from B.H.P) others who I have discovered and come to know through the site these past few months (A.H.P.).

In alphabetical order, I'd like to pay tribute to:

A Sickening Love ~ skilled poetess and my extraordinary friend who writes heartbreakingly relatable poems. She gives me strength, always.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/ASickeningLove/

Andy ~ my first ever like and follow, I may be somewhat bias towards you, putting you here. He has such a beautiful, independent style.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/Hp/

Deafening Silence ~ the reason I joined this site. I've been poem-stalking them for years on Poem Hunter, and when I saw them on here... well, I felt prompted to join, so here I am. I am 100% in love with their work, and am also 100% frustrated because they've not been on since I joined so I haven't been able to tell them they inspire me so. (Sorry this is way longer than the others, I rambled some.)
>> http://hellopoetry.com/deafening-silence/

Gavin Barnard ~ posts work that I can relate to. He has a very passionate writing style and I highly recommend reading him.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/gavin-barnard/

Kay ~ is the love of my life. Just kidding. But Kay is my rose, she has been the peer-writer I have looked up to for as long as I can remember. She is so talented, I hope to be half the writer she is.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/dearestdarling/

konr ~ I get so excited when I see a new piece from konr. He has such a way with words that he leaves me breathless. Every. ****. Time.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/konr/

Layla Thurman ~ writes my thoughts most days. I'm not joking, she's incredible.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/walrusfaces/

Thomas King ~ is someone who, like konr, I look for his pieces and get completely wrapped up in his artistry. Utterly addicting.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/deplorability/

True Courage ~ makes a statement with each piece he writes. I am a huge fan, highly recommend.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/justin-devitt/

WM ~ is a genius. Please go read Walter's work, he is so talented. Huge fan of him.
>> http://hellopoetry.com/walter-m/

(Also, if you care, two of my favorite classics:
Christina Rossetti & W. H. Auden)
Welp. Here it is.
Just so you know, some of these I knew I HAD to put, but I felt so bad for leaving so many out. I love all of you!
(Unless of course I hate you... but otherwise,) You're amazing! :)
Nora Mar 2016
i want to sit amongst the stars
silent, dissolving into space, a
still nothingness, a pair of eyes
and no more.

i want LA to absorb me like a sponge,
soaking my essence, throwing it
into the sink with all the other lost
young souls: we’re soapy watercolor
film.

i want to be an extra on a movie set,
watching in wonder as personality
after personality passes me by,
perfect and poised.

i want to dissipate into the foam
of johnny depp’s coffee, or drift
like the smoke from uma thurman’s
cigarette against her lips.

i want to be a fleeting ghost, a jane
doe in an undated photo by the
paparazzi, nameless and noir
in the grainy polaroid.

i want to be a shadow, the fragments
cast off of a shooting star - i want to
trail along until i fade.
Haley Brown Jul 2012
i don't care about what's really happening
everything clustering in
up and out - puffing, expanding

give me the air that makes me just like Uma Thurman
with grace that's only mastered in a yellow jump suit
dripping with blood and brain matter
a blade between my palms

******* for making me feel worthless
oh and you too - over there - for making me feel like i am everything but
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
it's 2am and i just finished a 10 hour shift so i'm not going to use any flamboyant language, i can spare myself this at least once...

well, i took my time - it was only about 10 years of hell
before i started living again...
10 years of being a recluse: of being misdiagnosed
as a schizophrenic - put on anti-depressants,
anti-psychotics gaining 50kg...

              and then the death of my grandfather...
the whole pandemic *******:
     i actually fed off the crisis... i came from it on top...
i guess some of us did: while others were forced
into what i was ****** into: everything anti-social
imaginable... i thrived...
                 i fed off the situation... lost weight...
stopped being invisible to the opposite ***...
                         even my grandfather's death was
revealing about my strength of character....
                       at first i couldn't mourn...
    i found it easier to bleed from my head after a night
of drinking ended with my slipping and knocking
my head on the radiator...
bleeding was easier than crying: and i wanted to cry
so bad: to find closure...
                          it must have been 3 months before the tear
finally came... what a beautiful release...
   done: now it's reality... the death-reality...

then starting a new job...
    only started last December and finally...
   i'm building up a very good reputation: haven't ****** up
once... i'm on good terms with the managers:
a real wage-y: i love the long hours i love the hurting feet...
the weak knees...
   touch wood i am yet to be confronted by the public...
unless it's for having selfies taken with them...
and now i might become a permanent supervisor of
stewards... even though i don't have the "necessary"
qualifications of NVQ level 3...
    hell... it's like the old way: gain enough experience,
prove yourself and a piece of paper is worth jack ****...
just ask Neville Chamberlain when he came back
from Munich...

truly: be out of work for long enough...
    get your confidence back in private after starting to exercise:
not to look better... that's second...
heart condition from my youth...
high blood pressure... hardly "looks-maxing":
health reasons... the looks just came as a bonus...

i seriously thought i was introverted:
  family members used to drill into me the mantra:
stop being shy... even though now: you'd think twice...
i sort of wish my grandfather was alive to see
me working... he really wanted to see that happening:
working and not working with my father
in the construction industry: to go among people
who were strangers...
                                     oh well...

i couldn't believe my luck today...
    i was signing in for the shift and one of the owners
of the company pulled me aside and said
he wanted  word with me: nothing bad...
             right, Matthew... you're going to be a supervisor...
i'm giving you 10 stewards...
my head started spinning... i thought i was constipated
too...
            humble beginnings...
at Fulham... stuck to walking around the park
before Craven Cottage to...
             pitch-side... supervisor...
i couldn't believe my luck...

i mean... security jobs run in the family...
    my great-grandfather was a security guard at a kindergarten,
and a caretaker...
one of my cousins worked as a security guard in
a supermarket...
me?!

   hmm... i was walking with this massive grin on my face...
i'm getting paid to be here...
  London stadium pitch-side...
i never thought i'd like Fall Out Boy...
until they started playing this one song and i took
off the headphones and started tapping my feet...
oh i knew of Fall Out Boy... but i was never into them...
but seeing them live?
what? song? Uma Thurman...
               now i'm listening to it on repeat...

sure... Weezer were good too...
                          and Green Day too...
      although it's a shame they finished on
All the Young Dudes... it would have been so perfect
if they finished their set Have the Time of Your Life...
right... and that was only today...
tomorrow i'll be parading my smile:
i'm getting paid to be here... and i'm watching
the Red Hot Chilli Peppers live...
i wonder who's going to be supporting them...

ha... and a pay rise... it's true what people say:
if you stick to your guns... sift through the ****** beginnings,
wait your turn... you'll reap rewards...
now i have to go through the entire setlist
of Fall Out Boy...
       Uma Thurman... ****... what a good song...

hell... and then on the 29th June and 1st of July:
Ed Sheeran at Wembley...
                                     life has become beautiful again...
for so long it was ugly... ugly a wet haggard mutt...

nope... i could never leave London,
not now... i'm part of the integral cultural backdrop
of the city... football matches, concerts,
this that and the other...
   and to think... well... i'm not really thinking...
for a boy born in a little ******* of a town in Poland...

well... it wasn't really a *******...
some of the steel pillar used in the Stad de France
for the 1998 world cup were produced
in the metallurgy industry... well Europe still
produced metallurgical architectural details...
before the industry was "stolen" by either China
or India... oh sure... the West celebrated the fall
of Communism... but towns like
Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski collapsed...
from a population size of reaching 100K mark...
it's now known as the town emeritus...
so many people fled after so many men were laid
off as Huta Ostrowiec collapsed...

but it's good i left when i was 8... if i left as a teenager
or an early adult: i wouldn't have this self-owned
hybrid new-English mentality...
because it's my own... the native population can't
really dictate its customs and habits...
since i'm also sort of native...
   an outsider-native... i've managed to "pollute" the waters
with my own interpretations...
whether it's concerning behaviour or
language application...

                          i face it all the time...
the best memories of childhood i have from Poland...
it's only 4 years worth of memories...
4 years worth which translates to about 10 concrete
memories that i preciously kept...
36 - 8 = 28.... years in England...
              happily not going to make the mistake
that other immigrants made when they didn't
entrust their mother tongues to their children:
trying to forcibly integrate...
    that sort of anti-racist pacifism or whatever you
want to call it...
i'd rather Somalis spoke Somali
than these hollowed out shells that speak English
but... you know: don't look English...
was it really that lazy to avoid creating Dutch-esque
republics... or the Scandinavian model...
the Swiss model... too hard to keep two languages?!
i kept both of mine...
   i'm better for it... if i forgot Polish i'd be a *******...
literally...
by now America could be a pristine bilingual model
of a country... English and Spanish...
but no...

well... i never understood the modern take on
autobiographies...
people live these interesting lives...
they reach a certain age and have this
retrospective-crisis... by then memory has been
eroded... and life written about that only has
these zenith events is such a boring read...
there's nothing about: this one time i made this
perfect brew of tea... for example: not really...

at least ancient Roman poets had a vague idea
about what an autobiography is like:
having X opinions aged 21... but Y opinions aged 36...
or... i'm still writing this while listening
to Fall Out Boy's Uma Thurman on repeat...
i don't think i'd be listening to it
if i didn't hear it live first...
                i don't even mind not having eaten much
throughout the day...
i was eating adrenaline: ***** and giggles...

oh man... i'm a truly lucky man...
    like Bukowski once wrote: there's no luck like
that of a madman...
      funny aside: you can't go mad twice...
you can only have one proper psychotic trip...
which, given enough time-span is probably better
than any hallucinogenic ingestion:
psychosis can't be a scary word...
               soul-osmosis... sure... with psychosis
the soul escapes the confines of the mind...
of what i can best describe as: "audible"-thinking...
Descartes' res cogitans model disintegrates:
yet res extensa is kept intact:
   auditory hallucinations?! i confined them to
the res extensa...
    and then played a trick on the symptoms with my
bilingualism... i "heard" a hallucination in English
then switched languages... weird...
i stopped hearing auditory hallucinations...

3am is creeping and i need to be up by 10am
to get ready... shine my shoes... iron my trousers...
iron my shirt... probably try to eat something...
     yeah... life is beautiful...
          people are beautiful...
                       everything is beautiful:
i should know: for the longest of time everything
was ugly... reminiscent of Ralph Fiennes
in the 2002 film: Spider...
                                         it was that bad;
but like my grandfather kept reminding me:
who do you have to thank for getting out of this
horror? guess... guess who?!
exactly: you and only you alone...
   not me... not psychiatrists, not psychologists...
you... you pulled your own weight:
i like that inversion of mea culpa into what became:

            ego vis.
John F McCullagh Aug 2019
Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it has to be said.
Some forty years back, when I was still a young man,
Thurman Munson had crashed while attempting to land.
Jet fuel fed the fire; all the others got out.
Munson was trapped in his seat and could not.

A hero to many; a friend to his mates,
Poor Thurman deserved a more generous fate.
He should have grown old with his family and then
been honored in Cooperstown with a plaque at the end.

Instead, he died young, in pain and in terror.
I couldn’t believe it- there must be some error.
But no,- he was gone, but the game doesn’t stop.
Still, he went out a champion, a winner on top.

Then, when his friend, Bobby Murcer, stood up to address
friends, family, teammates, and the men of the press.
There were offers of handkerchiefs; even grown men broke down
That day we committed our friend to the ground.


There were no dry eyes I tell you there were none to be found.
Lamentations and weeping were the dominant sound.

There is crying in baseball, at least on that day
When a hero to many was taken away.
I remember Bob Sheppard, his cheeks wet with tears,
his baritone echoing down through the years.

My hair has gone grey and my muscles have grown soft.
I remember his seasons and recall all we lost.
Despite what you’ve heard, despite what you’ve read,
There is crying in baseball, it had to be said.
On 08/02/79 a small plane bearing the designation NY 15 crashed and burned at the airport near Canton Ohio.   Thurman Munson Captain of the World Champion New York Yankees was the sole fatality.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
better than any hallucinogenic ingestion: whether that be acid or magic mushrooms... head traumas... ooh: those brain-"freeze" rattlings, like licking ice... like eating post-accident scabs... hmm... peanuts?! black-pudding?! oats?! i don't know... it's a mix of all... dry blood...

turns out we're all pink underneath...
even me: copper-neck sun-tan boyo come summer
turns pink skinned once he falls spectacular
over: face first: Lucifer's birth... stars dangling
awry out of constellation patterns...
moving... stars roaming...
             we're all pink underneath...
as i can attest: picking at my scar tissue / scab...
subsequently eating it...
   no... i don't care what the scientists might say
about eating your boogies...
i heard that one before... i also love the taste
of nails... i love the taste of female genitals...
esp. that of female genitals that have had
many ****** partners but are also ****-hygienic...
****-hygienic?! oh... right...
the types of girls you can have unprotected ***
with... knowing full well that they are prostitutes...
and still not contract any STDs...
             you put a ****** on my phallus
you might as well choke me during ******...

she wants to dance like Uma Thurman...
  mmm hmm... 4th day running... one song on repeat...

so the boiler buy comes round on time:
around 2 and 2:30pm... i switched on the t.v.
to watch some SW19 (Wimbledon, tennis,
i'm not going to be cryptic, let's leave it in the open)
my next door neighbour shoved a note
through my door... Dear Matthew...
scribbled like someone might with a crayons...
could you feed my baby tomorrow, Tuesday...
Bella... an white heterochromia beauty-freak...

so the boiler man came: handsome worth of
a **** and a ring attached to a ring-finger...
      £80 for about 15 minutes worth of work...
thank god he left a receipt...
    but my neighbour approached him: can you check
my boiler?
   her house? i love her to bits...
but... she? and Ed Gein... yeah... on par...
every time i go into her house to feed her cat
i'm actually trying to find myself...
oh... i know where the sink the cat food is...
i'm just trying to find myself,
   i.e.: i couldn't live like this...
              and i'm being: seriously generous...

so she approaches the boiler guy...
CAN WE STOP WITH THIS BICYCLE ACCIDENT
CRAP?! YES... IT'S BEEN A WEEK...
I'M HEALING LIKE WOLVERINE...
BECAUSE I'M A HYGIENIC-****...

but outright she calls me a sadomasochist...
PROMPT...
      i just need a girl to rest her head on my shoulder
sigh into me and i'm off... like a racehorse...
**** myself into her house...
meet her son...
  tell him: drop the Spanish... choose German...
it's more grammatically aligned to English...
he's on board... bring her homemade wine...
homemade banana loaf... cycle to her house at night...
drop her a Valentine's card through the box
and leave flowers on the porch...
          but in the end get rejected and feel like
i might have a heart's worth of a tonne of pebbles...
perhaps sand... i think sand trickles better
with the aid of a shovel when spreading it...
actually: no... better moving a tonne of pebbles
than a tonne of sand...

sadomasochist? am i thinking out-loud?
i know i am... but the question is...
it's actually a good question...
not Heidegger questioning history via historiology...
that's his buzzword in the black notebooks...
historiology this... historiology that...
no no...
                it's a chicken and the gg... egg story...

a e i o u M u o i e a...
                   a e i o u N u o i e a
     a e i o u R u o i e a
               a e i o u P u o i e a...

(we'll come back to this "problem" later on;
what has it to do with anything?
well... why do the Greeks have names for
their letters... while the Romans don't and didn't?
they "sang" their wording... PIZZA...
PAPARAZZI! AMORE!
    but i'm pretty ******* sure that if
the Romans plagiarised the Greek deities...
how Zeus became Jupiter... etc.
   then i'm pretty sure the Greeks plagiarised
the Roman way of the abacus -
how? how?! how could you use letters as numbers?!
erm... weren't the numbers already hidden in
the letters?! 8 in B...
                          Z in 2...
                                       7 in L or gamma before
a mirror...
                    1 in I...
                                   6 in miniscule beta b....
    5 & G are not facing each other...
II + III = V
                  shake shake shake III in Cyrillic...
3 otherwise... (

i lost the plot... hence the (          open to question:
where did i leave of off?!

ah... right... sadomasochism...

  the chicken and the gg... i.e. egg...
i know who came first historically... Marquis de Sade...
as i know that leopold von Sacher-Masoch came
later... historically... but... ontologically?!
ooh... that's a tough one...
well... no... it isn't...
             the inner drive of a youth in me that
once was... i found Marquis de Sade literature prior
to finding Sacher-Masoch...
            i learnt from a sadist what i couldn't learn
from a *******... because?! i guess i was inherently
*******... but not of a ****** nature...
to hell with being shamed sexually by a woman...
Venus in Furs the Velvet Underground sort of *******...
no! nein! niet! nie!

so... what came first? the sadist or the *******...
i know that historically the sadist came before the *******...
but within the sadomasochist complex:
S comes after M...
it could easily have been a maso-sadist complex...
compound of words...
never mind...

i think i first have had to experience sadism...
born with a hernia...
with a Chernobyl birthmark like someone clipped
an angel's wing... now a Cain's mark...
a nurse at the hospital tried to
choke me... enlarged me heart...
that's the myth...
        i was born as an abomination...

i love hurting myself... i'm sort of immune to
pain... immune when it is spectacular,
spontaneous... a Pollack / Kandinsky / Bacon
moment of contortions...
an implosion of time being undifferentiated
from space and space being undifferentiated
from time... relativistic squadron of magpies...
or... lonely seagulls flying in the night
trying to perch and be at ease
inland... on lamp-posts... looking for the hush
and hum of the battering waves of sea...

so who came first? the sadist or the *******,
ontologically, not historically?!
personally? i love to give myself pain
while giving others pleasure...
           leniency: even at work...
i like giving someone a 1h break while i only take
a 15min break...
and then watch... i love watching the guilt trip...
and falling into line...
ergo? i'm a passive sadist: i don't need
all the kink and ******* of ***-tripping...
i need subtle queues...
just give me a NIQAB and i'll work with it
like an artist with a canvas...

i already spotted the "agenda":
Muslim girls peering into a blonde moustache
and a brown beard... ooh... ooh...
why? how?! they're not looking at my eyes...
they're looking at my lips...
perfect mayhem! perfect!
   rubber-band stretching agitation!

of course they're fuckable... anything that moves
is... is...
                 Somali, Bangladeshi...
you name the hue and i'll compare that with
Caramel White Choc-Blocks...
         it's only the white girls...
that highest prize arrogance...
            the dilution "liquid"... of what? *****!
we'll all be Brazilian by the end of "it"...

lyrically: it's so wrong...
she and you...
i can't get YOU...
   what a pronoun confusion....
i can't get rid her HER...

new term:  TERRIBLE-ENGLish...

i love the song... but the language is the pristine
example of native-neglect...
well... it's H'american Ing-leash...
so... it's going to supposed to fail...

like overhearing two black guys talking
about racial stereotyping: how if you use
racial slurs in England at work you'll be excused...
how H'america is dangerous...
how England is salvagage ground
for racial minorities...

*******! you're pink just as me when
you bruise! what?!
      
i ******* hate the H'american accent...
it's like making a spaghetti Carbonara with
phlegm and snot without
any cream eggz or parmesan cheese...
no... like in Iraq or Libya:
your "empire" is not welcome here... *******!

great for culture... your culture is great...
your politics?! no, not so much...
sorry...

    why is it that we have ALPHA?
but only A in the Latin script?
why isn't it ebb but be for (B)?
why do we have gee and not egg for (G)?
err and not Ra for (R)?!
              el and not La for (L)?
why do so many consonants begins with vowels
rather than end with them,
when isolated?

that's why i adore Heidegger...
he always suggested: what is worth being questioned...
exactly!
         i already made a question:
why is the alphabet sorted so?
why not a e i o u b c... etc.?!
why are the vowels randomly placed among
the consonants?!
  the alphabet unravels into words and sentences
in the end... why not cook-up a revision
of QWERTY as an ability to type without
looking down at the keyboard?!
i'm sure the GP that retired that was
"curing" me was typing like a crow pecking
at crumbs of bread... digit-index finger...
look down: digit-index finger... peck... peck...
who the **** needs to learn the alphabet
when you have QWERTY?!

oh sure, sure... sure sure... the people are "literate":
no they're not... they are just about
able to read STOP and GO signs...
associate the colour RED with STOP
and the colour GREEN with GO...
thank god we're not trying some Mandarin experiment...
you get to look at enough people you
know that individuals beside the herd...
but when dealing with the herd: there are no individuals...
we're not talking about a wolf-pack...
we're talking about herding mentality...

on my QWERTY?
the A is completely eroded... it's the most used key i
apparently use... then again...
it's all about hand-placing...
so that you utilise all your fingers... including
you thumbs...
*** is typing... i can't imagine writing this much
having to scribble death-end-notes with
undecipherable handwriting...
                
digit by digit... letter by letter...
        because in the 1800s i wouldn't be a part-time poet...
i'd be a lumberjack and a a shepherd...
or: thereabouts...
          mind you? from what i've checked?
the supposed professional poets
on gate-keeper sites of poetry?
mmm hmm... they're sort of pretentious / ****...
aren't they?!

oh... right... now i know why the A is scrubbed out...
i've lost a lot of poems...
my fault... i forgot to
ctrl+A / ctrl+C / ctrl+V...
lesser lessons for the greater reasons.
Stevie Idle Jun 2018
Wake up, pop the do-rag
Run a bubble bath, wipe the crack
Rock bottom bound
Strict and slang from dusk till dawn

Twist and turn, sit and burn
We don't learn
But this fella will
Get money and Uma Thurman

And don't try back the boss up
But for now she makes the vein blossom
Don't even misinterpret, I am clean
I never trip, other people do

Still and silent from dawn till dusk
I recognize and you nod
Flip the rubix, binging Kubrick
Pray I can make it better for them
Garrett Johnson Sep 2019
Song 12.

I'm going to the store.
Pick up some cigs.
Get a Poster of Uma Thurman.
A record by The Smiths.
Morrisey.
Get a milk shake.
you can share it with me.




Garrett Johnson.
don't be a square.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
i would have never guessed it that Flea would be a Sheffield United supporter, then again who would have thought that Ryan Reynolds would become the owner of Wrexham...

and sometimes: even if you're working an event
and not a spectator you're still like:
**** it, i need to get a t-shirt...

i can't remember the last time i owned something
that did have a tag: made in China...
i still have this shirt from Gap that reads
made in Ireland...
    now i own something that reads: made in Honduras...
the quality on this thing tells me...
if washed properly will last about 20+ years...

when was the last time i saw them?
did they just come out with By the Way?
2002...  so they must have played the London Docklands
Arena circa...
they were great then: but today they were
like the Beatles...
               Flea on par with John Frusciante...
you have to give it bass players that are on par
with guitarists if not somehow surpassing them...

back then at the Docklands... what was it?
12,500 seated and 15,000 in concert mode...
today? my guess is in the range of 70,000+
      they might be getting but that's when people
are at their best... esp. ageing rock stars...
               it's this last push at greatness...
                             i sure as **** wanted to hear
Dani California live...
                  and it wouldn't be me if i wasn't disappointed
at them not playing Warm Tape...

but other things happened...
                  i'm sometimes almost sure that my interactions
with spectators do not go unnoticed by other
spectators or the security team in general...
now... i'm used to hugs... having selfies taken...
but... i truly wasn't read for a guy to walk up
to make: steal my hand... kiss it... hug me and go
on his merry way...
    as if invited the Chillies to London...
oh sure sure... yeah... i organised this event...

but it's not that:
people have been really starved socially after the past
two years... it shows...
   i'm just wondering when all this luvvy-dubby
attitude of the public will return to the old complacent
drunk-rude attitude...
then the post-pandemic honeymoon period
will end... it's bound to happen at some point
with enough people having attended enough
public events like football matches and concerts...
when the security services will return to being
invisible traffic-cone jokes...
                   unless of course it's just me...
i don't see other stewards or security officers
get their hands kissed and get hugs and get asked
for selfies...

then again... i wonder if i've met someone who
read any of my ****** "poems"...
   i look at the viewing counts...
if i managed to pull over 15,000 examples from my
***.. split between several websites...
where on one just one has gained 48.1K traction...
and i add up some of the more popular ones...
i've reached viewership well over 100K...
so i'm thinking... maybe some of these people approach
me like they know me...
     or know of me...

am i being full of myself?
               i'm just not used to strangers kissing my hands...
or playing with my beard...
how much of this is post-pandemic socialisation-starvation
and how much of it inherently authentic
based on the ontology of individuals is:
perhaps... debatable...
nonetheless: Casanova could have boasted about
his adventures in and outside of the bedroom...
i'm hardly hurting anyone's ego by citing how...
how familiar people can become...
   even though they are strangers...
                        let's not get anyone's hopes up...
we're not talking the complications of friendships...
having drinks in a pub... talking about our highs
and lows... it's not about the shallowness of these
interactions... but the immediacy and the fleetingness
of them: the almost democratic nature of them...
"democratic": there's 8 billion examples of man /
woman on this earth... and London can hardly
compete with a small village, with the Archers'
claustrophobia (the Archers'?
   this radio soap-opera on BBC Radio 4...
               in my most low i used to tune in...
    i'm not old enough to tune into BBC Radio 4,
i don't think i'll ever be...
    i tried BBC Radio 3 for a while...
                   i still prefer being my own DJ) -

well... i tried listening to Anderson Paak coming in...
after seeing him live?
i don't think i'll be able to...
     you need to see him... he's a performer...
he's less a recording artist...
                  his recordings are stale compared to his
entertainment qualities...
    part James Brown part: obviously himself...

or anyone not liking what i write can just switch
to something from the poetryfoundation.org,
or the tabloid press...
                    even i think this is mediocre...
i'm less worried about but i was really worried
whether the train strikes would mean that
the transport-chain-lock would work in my favour...
whether i'd get the central line to Newbury Park
on time from Stratford...
whether i'd catch either the 296 or the 66 bus
to Romford and get one of the last three 103 buses
after 12:00am to Chase Cross...

but i just bought a t-shirt from a concert
and put it over my work clothes and walked with
the rest of the fans grinning-like an idiot:
i've been paid... and i saw a band i last saw
back in 2002... and i'm going to see them again tomorrow...

sure... who wouldn't want to be a mysterious
poet who dies at the age of 30
like Kathleen Tankersley Young from Lysol poisoning...
who wouldn't?! the public would archive
two poems by me and i'd be... immortalised...
Bukowski put a nail on the head when he said:
when you write into the thousands...
you realise... that you have written very little...

right now anything to push me sitting up until
2am and getting up at 9am...
drinking whiskey and soothing my legs
from standing up for... however many hours
i stood rooted...
     but i was smarter today...
        i decided to eat something on the shift...
i highly recommend the steak pasties at the London
Stadium... they're only £6 a pop and that's
not overpriced for a London venue...
i would never ingest that free-cheap-*****
sandwiches provided by companies...
mind you... i did manage to "steal" a free bottle
of Fanta from one of the kiosk managers...
          or if you're at Wembley... befriend a Bangladeshi
security guy... or a Somali...
not stereotyping... they can smooth-talk
any member of a kiosk to give you free food...
or rather... the people working in the food kiosks
are probably also Bangladeshi or Somali...
so...                  

          win win...

and of the people you work with... word quickly spreads...
i come in bruised from a bicycle accident...
obviously i had to tell people that "some ******" cut
me off... that's not true...
i was cycling drunk... the last time i ever did that...
i lost control when the road started becoming uneven:
***-hole this swerve that...
it was a spectacular accident of my own making...
i flipped forward across the handlebars...
even if i was wearing a cycling helmet: which i never
have and never will... a beautiful looking
imitation of a Francis Bacon painting...
but today: some guy approached me...
oh... looks like you're healing nicely...

         and i am... it felt so good listening Scar Tissue
live... i'm gently pinching the scab and eating it...
like a dog...
but i was having this conversation with Harini
and about her falling off her electric scooter...
how she would never get back on it...
and i told her: my bicycle was sort of my fault too...
but it's different with bicycles...
so i started telling her about those two glorious
summers when my grandfather was alive
and he'd take me to Pętkowice (Świętokrzyskie Voivodeship,
Ostrowiec County, Poland)
for horse riding...
            oh yeah... i'll never own a car...
i love buses, bicycles and horses too much...
i will never own a flashy car...
so i told her... this mare almost threw me off at
full gallop...
   see... it's different when you have a bicycle
accident and something rather different
when a horse throws you off...
bicycles are dead things... it's up to you to not
be drunk (idiot) and not spotting a ***-hole
early enough...
            but a horse is a living creature and has
its own rules, whims...

i think i'm rekindling sleeping genes in me...
i must have come from a lineage of horse-riders...
after the first lesson
having jumped me and this guy went into
the fields and the forest for a "stroll"...
my god... riding a horse at full gallop...
it's almost a bit like riding a bicycle down a hill...
no... it's not the same...
       sleeping genes of a Mongol? a ***?
                     Winged Hussars?!
who else where the great nations that heavily relied
on horses?!
    i just remember: put right heel pressure
on the horse's torso while pulling at the reins
of the left hand for it to turn left...
and if you want to move the horse to the right...
left heel digging into the torso
and right hand pulling at the reins...
and if you want to gallop?
    both feet dig heels into the torso
  and the reins are tightened...

                    and she looked at me like:
well... i wasn't expecting you to be a type that rode horses...
so much for rock stars... down on the ground
this is probably enough to impress...

i come home i find my maine **** readied for
a nap in my bed... wake up tomorrow...
root myself in... un-root myself...
drink some whiskey... have two days off...
wait for the boiler mechanic come Monday...
then head off to Wembley for the Ed Sheeran gig...
like any modern man i'm addicted
to the urban landscape...
although... i sometimes wish i could live
on the Shetlands... or the Faroe Isles...
be a lighthouse curator...

                               live in a cave: live in a cave:
breathe like a cave when a shout shouted
into it excavates an echo...
           i'm a terrible DJ... second night running
and it's still...
  
i can move mountains
i can work a miracle, work a miracle
ooh, oh, oh, (i'll) keep you like an oath
may nothing but death do us (a)part

she wants to dance like uma thurman...
John F McCullagh Aug 2019
The Yankees took the field and we heard the anthem played.
The air was thick that August night.
Louisiana Lighting placed his cap upon his head.
The stadium lights were burning bright.
Ron Guidry turned to face home plate
With a feeling akin to  despair
He searched in vain for the Catcher’s sign
From the man who wasn’t there.

Eight Yankees took the field that night.
The Umpire stood alone.
Collectively we felt the pain
of Thurman Munson gone.
Jerry Narron caught that game
The Yankees rallied late.
Yet all felt the vacancy
That had happened at home plate
Upon this sad anniversary
I solicit your thoughts and prayers
For the Yankees fallen Captain;
the man who wasn’t there.
Yanks versus Orioles; the first game without Thurman Munson
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
i'm at it again, ******* to pictures of
naked women without climaxing...
i have to... i'm gearing up for an hour's
worth of the "***** deed"...
Michaela is going back to Romania
on the 28th of this month and
i have a Wembley shift on the 16th...

my god... i went to the shop to buy some ice-cubes
a whiskey and some pepsi...
and who was in front of me in the queue?
a ******* Rolls-Royce of a woman: my type...
my mythological type of woman... foreign...
i'm guessing German... blonde hair: but not albino,
ergo mingling with tinges of a brunette,
older than me, by i'm guessing at least 10 years...

definitely German... she was buying
(from what i can remember) cat food and beer...
i looked at her hands... no ring... i abhor jewellery...
my parents thought it would be cute for
a ****** boy to don a signet on the pinky finger
like the English aristocracy... i don't do rings...
even if i were married i couldn't wear a ring on my finger...
no chance! but this was a Rolls Royce of a woman...
suitor to my frame... big... well: not fat...
just: womanly: a womanly woman...
the type that might serve you beer in a tavern...

i lost my mind... certainly not a geisha type...
a bit like Michaela last night... oh...
she was plump alright: i really plucked a plum yesterday...
usually i have problems ******* within an hour...
Khadija sort of bypassed the ****** on her own whim...
Michaela also: but she asked me to pay her extra...
£30 for ******-less oral and £40 for the full deal...

i was only there for half an hour...
all that walking around drinking cider around the brothel
rubbing my groin to get the party started:
plus her frame? she looked like what artists or
men in general found attractive in the Renaissance:
plump women... i knew i was going to ******* pretty
quickly... an unfathomable force came along
an unfathomable object... sparkles...

with past girlfriends i was such a man-*****...
ooh... need to satisfy her blah blah...
Ilona even noted that not many men are like that:
she noticed my back-then ****** library:
i started reading that infamous book The Game by
that some other pick-up artist...
i soon found that pointless... started reading
Tantra... more useful...
but yesterday? i was a man...
            30 minutes: i heard women like quickies, no?
after oral she asked me, what position?
doggy... missionary is so ******* back-breaking...
but i wanted to look at her fat ***...
no... it wasn't premature *******...
it was: i just finished a shift...
i was out of the house for over 12 hours...
i was hot, sweaty... i started drinking...
forget getting something off my chest to a psychologist
or a priest... that third P...

it was blissful... it felt like the heat-wave was
over and it started raining: somewhere...
second time though? it won't be like that...
i'm already practicing keeping the *******
prolonged... it will take two or three days
or just stroking an ******* without actually *******...
but this Rolls Royce a blonde just now...
a full woman... a woman's woman...
feline eyes dabbed with the least amount of
mascara: a woman that was single...
but looked like she was catered to by a harem
of men... well: a harem of eunuchs and some sheikh...
at least: in my eyes...

a woman that could be the antithesis of cubism,
for sure... she could stand next to a Picasso
and i could tell you: that! that's the antonym!

i couldn't possibly behave like the noble swan
in monogamy... i also couldn't do whatever is "classical"
these days about what dating was about
in 1950s America...
no chance of that happening... this is Europe, after all:
we do things differently here...

- well that was a first, i never thought i would be
directing a bus driver about where to go,
his first shift: on the 86 bus route:
i was picking up a bicycle wheel from Bicycle King
of Chadwell Heath: one of my spokes
snapped from the heat... thankfully as i was about
to do a trip... anyways...
he turned around and opened his cabin door
and asked me to direct him... so i did...
this exit on roundabout x... that exit on roundabout y...
i remember the number 5 route back in Poland
ever since i kept to this comforting thought:
i wish to become a bus-driver once...
which routes? 86 is grand... 103 would be even better...

- Michaela? after we finished our "*****" deed
we just chatted... smoked cigarettes and drank
the whiskey i brought with me...
she asked me: do you smoke? yep...
so i asked her: do you drink? yep...
15 girls in total in the brothel...
2 Polish girls, 1 Turkish girl... 2 Russian girls...
the rest? Romanian...
what time do you finish? 5am...
what then, go back home and sleep?
no... i work in a hospital in central London:
i administer medication to patients...
i like showcasing my hygiene...
shower prior... washing my genitals after...
no... of course i wouldn't shower after having *** with
her: i want her body's perfume to stay with me...
she didn't shower after either...
like-minded ***-maddened people...

i love certain women too much to listen to western:
WASPS (western anglo-saxon protestant
feminists type): let's just have fun or let's just die...
i'm not coming near that "thing" without a yard-stick!
i'm serious!
            secretive "******" / nuns...
          i'm going to have a hard time ruling my secrets
under ol' king Charlie... i'm finishing off ol' Lizzie
reign with a crescendo... dearest Lizzie:
it has been a blast... thank you: god save the queen!

- stopped off at the Moon & Stars at Romford...
the smoking was packed so i sat on the public bench
with half-a-Guinness and smoked clinging to my wheel...
finishing my cigarette i implored fellow appreciators
of the brew if i could leave my stump of filter in their
ashstray:
- oi! mate! looks like someone stole your bike!
you're only left with a wheel!
- ha ha ha... pause... but it's a unicycle now!
- ha ha...

i'm starting to surprise myself more and more...
the alles-mensch...
i'm returning to people like i first met them
back in school...
the best way i can: as a chameleon...
i'm Matthew A with some... i'm Matthew B with others...
Matthew C with another group...
and they come to me like i'm some *******
priest, some advocate...
hey! if Walt Whitman could celebrate himself
i'm going to celebrate myself:
i'm done with feeling **** about myself:
i'm going to drink, i'm going to dance: to groove...
once upon a time there were serious leftist policies
and ideologies: that tied into an alternative
economic policy: but under the same yoke
of communism? it's ******* posturing...
i'm not going to take these people seriously: esp. if they're
coming from America...
people should know better...

- two songs...
      lyrically? run to the hills by iron maiden
and midnight oil's the dead heart are the same...
white man this white man that...
Poland was cut up in three by three great empires...
then it was resurrected and then it was conquered
by **** Germany and Soviet Russia...
then it was a Soviet satellite state...
hmm: why did the English invent cricket
and rugby and football?
a bit like that fortune that met Japan when a Mongol
fleet was met with a hurricane...
yawn: the Norman invasion of 1066...
the fortune of when the Spanish armada was
met with the fickle English channel weather:
a people who have not been conquered
for a long time: are not slack... slacking about...
so? whatever is coming out of America doesn't bother me...

mind you... the latest news is ******* promising:
isn't it? i wasn't a big fan of Salman Rushdie...
oh... right the two songs...
lyrically... similar?
musically though? there's that rough-edge:
bass that sounds like a horn...
Fall Out Boy's Uma Thurman has it...
and Midnight Oil's: the Dead Heart has it too...
it's a sound akin to the word: PROWL
if you trill the R... roll it... rattle it...

that's the thing with Midnight Oil...
i remember hearing that one song of theirs they
play on Polish radio... beds are burning...
i spent... over 10 years looking up both the band
and the song name: 10 years i was looking for that song...
and once i found it i figured: it's probably not even
their best song... hey presto...

oh right... Salman Rushdie gets stabbed 15 times in
the neck...
i'm not a massive fan: i tried reading pride...
mind you... i love the comparison he gives...
Satan is falling from the sky head first, calm,
motionless like a sack of potatoes...
while Gabriel? Gabriel is trying to imitate a bird...
flapping his hands and legs about...
i guess the former is a fatalist while the second
is a would-be-opportunist...
but **** me... 15 times in the neck?

i'm starting to think all Muslim men are secretly
women...
why? there's that quote: hell knows no fury like
a woman scorned...
well... that works just as well for Muslim men:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim man insulted:
wait wait... reiteration:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim being told there's
something like free-thinking...
that certain things can be scrutinised: revised...
ergo? Muslim men are feminine:
but no surprises... polygamy and eunuchs...
me? i don't care... like i told one colt outside of
a supermarket...
he gave me 10 squid to buy him a bottle of *****...
he was in a menage trois...
i took the tenner... bought myself a whiskey
and thought: hmm... might as well but him a litre
bottle...
walked out... oh man: i was mouthed off like mad...
why didn't you buy me a 35cl flask?!
why did you buy me a litre?!
i thought you wanted *****?
the argument became so heated that a security
guard emerged from the supermarket:
- i'll get my uncle to beat you up!
- boyo, listen... listen... i have a death-wish...
tell me where you uncle wants to meet up with me...
i'll just tell him you wanted to drink *****
at the age of 15 to impress a girl... your friend...
is already *******... you're just sloppy seconds mate...

oh sure... you can insult Islam by more ways than one...
Socrates? illiterate... Jesus? illiterate...
Muhammad? illiterate...
who accounted for the life of Socrates? Plato...
Jesus? hold up... a literate fisherman by
the name of Peter? so... fishermen were literate
but the carpenters weren't? ****'s sake...
what a gap... i can imagine a tax collector to be literate...
but there's a gap... carpenters were illiterate
but fishermen were... hmm...

Muhammad? despised in Mecca... took a trip to Medina:
what's the whole affair surrounding the Satanic
Verses? CRANES... some **** about how Allah
took an wife: a pagan Arabic deity... some **** like that...
i'm flimsy on the details...
the basic motto being: Allah has no partners...
he's ultimate omni-solipsist

that's how i arrived an the compliments towards
monotheism... sitting in the dark listening
to several variations of the Adhan...
this... monotheistic god: whether Jew-....
no no... he's different... the Hebrew god is equivalent
to Hades in Greek mythology...
in no known mythology: he's a god that's a god-eater...
he ate up Beelzebub... who was a deity:
before becoming Satan's sidekick...

insult Islam? what about that woman that ran around
two mountain ranges... wasn't she Abraham's concubine?!
she wasn't his wife...
monotheism = an autistic god...
a solipsistic god... a solipsistic...
the omni-verse of man's self capacity and capability...
it's a strange model since... polytheism produced
more interesting: more opened minded people...

oh: Islam is beautiful... just like camels and like
an oasis is beautiful: in a desert...
Dubai is also beautiful in a desert:
such a splendid: pointless city...
the Adhan... i love listening to Adhans...
those elongated vibrating vowels...
when Arabs sing it's perfectly alright...
they drop the glut of a drooling tongue of QBAH...

they resonate... they talk? i'm thinking about
sweeping the streets... or haggling over
some cheap **** in a flea market...

Muhammad was illiterate... funny... that flight from
Mecca to Medina... who did he marry?
an older woman... an entrepreneurial woman...
a businness woman...
funny... i ****** a ******* with her name...
Khadija... but this one is Turkish... she's not Arabic...
and unlike Muhammad: i'm writing
the ******* book, akin the lines of Elvis Costello's
lyrics: every, *******, day... me...
i'm writing it... because... who wrote the Quran?
at least the first surah?
Khadija! she wrote them! a woman wrote
the first entries of the Quran...
she was the literate one: he... sure as ****... from what
i heard: wasn't...
a woman wrote the first entries of the Quran...
mind you... why do the sheikhs adorn clothing in white
while the women are subject to attire in black...
seriously?! that predates Nietzsche proposition
of god being dead: who died?!
who died?! who died in order for women to suffer
so in the sun? that's predating the Victorian prim
and pomp...

            i don't want to understand these people...
stabbing a guy who scribbled some words
15 ******* times in the neck?
come on: hell know no fury like a Muslim man
insulted... guess his brain goes where his ****
is about to **** out a ******* Tikka Masala chicken
makeover with a pita bread and some veggie extras...
because: that's where it's going!

i do admire the adhan... like i admire crusader chants
of the templars...
but a call to prayer? i sense it: since i rarely dream...
a bit like... trying to have a handshake with my
shadow: a funny joke... prayer is such a selfish
endeavour... since... you're never really praying
for the betterment of others: just your self
and the solipsistic nature of a monotheistic deity...
love the songs: hate the tributes...

paint me: a prettier ******* picture...

it must be the heat... but i had this wild idea...
burning my brain... evaporating whatever is supposed
to be contained between the two ears..
and behind the two eyes...
woman are the best... but also the worst of humanity...
men? they're either the best or the mediocre...
after all: you can't be a ****** genocidal maniac to
begin or end with...
you're either a great genocidal maniac or you're not...

the point being... the love triangle of Paris...
Helen and Melenaous...
    hmm... i'm thinking...
i'm not a Holocaust denier... **** me: i'm pretty
sure a lot of Polacks were used to build
the concentration camps under forced labour...
no no... i'm thinking Helen...
i'm thinking who Adolf ****** dated...

i was watching this documentary where "they" excavated
genetic background checks from Eva Braun's
personal belongings... a hair-comb with her hair...
turns out... she had Hebrew ancestry...
so... ******... dated a Jewish girl... while: dessimating
the Jews... fishy... fishing for red herrings...
i don't care much for aliens:
i've seen a fluorescent UFO once...
obviously i didn't take a picture...
i was too engrossed in drinking and lamenting
while sitting under a tree in a summer that didn't
starve my mind with a heat-wave...

women are worst than men...
men are more stupid and smarter... paradox after
paradox... i'm thinking of Helen of Troy and i'm thinking
of Eva Braun...
is it a conspiracy theory? what if she...
a Jewish girl... whispered a sweet lie into that maniac's
ear... hey... you start a Jewish prone genocide:
our people: just might get our land back!
we might have our...
there was the genesis... there was the exodus...
what's the Hebrew word for the return?
the SHOAH-לַחֲזוֹר
        KHZUR... the event that's best coupled as:
SHOAH-KHZUR...
the calamity to return to one's homeland...
which... isn't... wasn't it true... come to fruition?!
Helen of Troy... Eva ****** nee Braun?
listen... i'm busy *******... i'm going to spend the next
few days ******* myself without
*******... so i can build up a stamina
for an hour and not finish: although: gladly...
within half...
        plus... i've already ****** a Turkish *******
with a name the same as Muhammad's first wife...
the one who wrote the first Surah of the Quran:
because... he was illiterate: while she wasn't...
my Hebrew might be off...
but... i don't believe in monotheism...
  to begin with...
                            i don't believe in an autistic
robot god... i don't believe in a robotic world...
some things can be changed...
but i sort of like entertaining the idea that Eva Braun
is the modern version of Helen of Troy...
the best an the worst in women...
in men? just the best and the mediocre...
she must have whispered into whittle Adolf's ear:
hey... you start killing my people...
the global community will finally decide to give the
Jews their homeland back...
start killing... genocidally...
i mean: **** me... didn't they commit a joint suicide?!
people conjure up fairy-tales all the time...
well: the ones that can...

after all i'm a huge fan of the Batman universe...
perhaps i didn't see my parents be murdered
as a child: what child does?
on a scale of averages...
i was raised by my grandparents: i had dogs for
siblings... i didn't see me father from the age
of 4 through to 8...
i didn't see my mother from the age of 6 through to 8...
i wasn't outright abandoned like
my father was by his parents and raised
by his grandmother and his foster grandfather...
maybe that's what makes me so "clingy" to them:
or the outright economic structures...
but? intellectually: i can prosper on my own...

i can have these thought: i have already stated...
i can read the newspapers and look down on
the journalists... you... established folk...
it's like these people are the ones with the money
to produce, buy and write eternal nothings
on papyrus... the priestly / journalistic class of folk...
but then the printing press appears
and the gatekeepers are bypassed...
ergo? the internet... i don't want money
for what i ingest, digest and therefore regurgitate...

i saw the potential for a cover-op.
                  i could really do some damage if i just
dedicated myself to a thirst for knowledge...
i could sit back and watch the world change:
like... like play-dough...
  and i have... and i will continue to do so...

with the Europeans having expelled the Hebrews:
who has been welcomed into our midst
to replace those Hebrews?
calamity-to-return... to one's abiding midst...
away from the Europeans and into the Arab lot...
after all:
didn't the Arabs and the Berbers conquer
Spain with the help of the Jews?
i heard that that's what happened...

i need to work on my Hebrew...
mind you... it's an enigmatic language...
how would i write shoah-khzur?

    ש (shin) i.e. the -in disappeares
vowels are diacritical marks in Hebrew...
although: א (aleph) and ע (ayin):
are the twin-gay-lords of Eden...
who somehow managed to give birth
to the children Leph and Yin through their ****...

i was told what i current wrote was a given:
but? makes no sense...
ש no O no A... ה
i would have written as שה...
                            i can now understand how and why
emperor Nero became so easily *******...
it wasn't about: oh these Hebrews and their fire deity...
he turned the early Christians into torches
and fed them to the lions, because...
look how these people write!
there are writing in cipher-mode!

there are no vowels in hebrew worth stating them
as letters! שה shoah: yeah... yeah!
Hebrew has two vowels as consonants: Aleph and Ayin...
the gay Adams...
all the other vowels are diacritical markers...
they're not proper letters...
vowels are female:
consonants as masculine...
don't: you ******* know... how nomadic people
work?!

the internet is DUMB... KHZUR...
לַ: that's lamedh...
      is the H a surd in Hebrew? i doubt it...
כהזר...

כהזר שה                  -->      <--

              how mighty must have the wrath of Nero
been... to turn the early Christians into
torches: where are your vowels!
i can see two vowels behaving like 'em!

i need to regret something...
on the 16th i'm going back to the brothel...
my favorite new album?
the 1987 release b Midnight Oil:
Diesel and Oil...
i need prostitutes...
i need more than king Solomon...
i have n infatuation with the bodies of mandible
potential...

there are words: that are letters:
shin-cholem-kametz-h'eh
kaf-h'eh-zayin-kibbutz/shurek?-resh ..

no wonder emperor Nero slaughtered the whole
lot of yous...
i wouled have too...
white man singing about the disgraces of fellow
white man...
good enugh for me: if the Africans weren't
moved to America and required to forget their African
tongue: they would sing zilch of the blues
and a zilch of jazz... there would be zilch
of Mbapa Ella Fitzgerald... no Nina Simone...
no "RESPECT"...
            *******: self-flagellating whittle white man
of the anglo-saxon demands...
no! if there was no slave-trade...
toward the Americas... there would be no jazz!
no escape from the mind of a Mozart...
Europeans don't have voices to sing!
Africans do! but they require a European tongue
to sing in!

what racial pride? pride in what?
not keeping your language?!
being black racist supe-racialists...
our ethnicity is more important than the language
we speak? seriously?!
you... you're doubly the slave...
you don't speak your mother's tongue...
you are urban *******...
that's what you are... to me...
urban *******...
                            i speak my mother's tongue...
i guess being bilingual can be a little bit complicated...
i guess it's easier otherwise...
urban *******...
                    "natives"...
                                      as a ****** i get the whole:
"native" project all the time... **** it...
i'm siding with the imaginary Tsar...
                                  no! nein! niet!
nie!

                                  i know what brown-skinned
people are like in the work-force... they're worse than
women: they're lazier...
i'd like to think about shooting them in the head:
to get them to move-on...
esp. their younglings...
their young are CULL MATERIAL...
maybe that's why they reproduce so much:
they are CULL MATERIAL...

maybe that's why i'm experiencing a heat-wave...
i'm building up an adherence toward
a super-structure of disease-aversion...
and that implies... racial-tension mechanisations...
because i have to...
i have to... the Chinese are not going to stop *******
silly... the Indians aren't... while the demands on
the Europeans to "save the earth": **** it...
no no.... listen...
this planet is decidedly going to burn...
i just don't care...

                        i don't have any children...
i don't have a future beside the future of an idea...
that's all i have...
i don't care...
                    you burn whatever you want to
burn...
  i just wish i was living in Apocalyptic Times
and i was the Mad Max...
i seriously wish i was the reinvested
patriarch Abraham in the reinvented times
of new beginnings...
Ryan Buynak Apr 2021
I've never been to an Opening Day,
and never to a World Series game.

I did once go to a game against the Red Sox,
but it got rained out before it started,
and I ended up at a vegan restaurant
on 72nd & Lex with Steve-O from *******.

Today is a holiday,
watching with my daughter,
both of us wearing custom Yankees jerseys.

I am as proud as
Thurman Munson's mustache

This is better than any
World Series or victory
of the ******* Red Sox;
this is magic and made memory.

Maybe this season
will be the one, a home run,
for team and me.
October seventeenth
nineteen hundred sixty one
and October seventeenth
two thousand twenty four
represents, signals,
and traces sixty three orbitz
completed round the sun.
by one cherished,
(despite lapse of calling,
emailing, or texting),
nevertheless loved,
and prized Earthling
named Shari Todd Harris-Dunning.

More'n half (almost two thirds)
regarding aforementioned existence
of said sibling, whose life linkedin
with spousal enrichment dream academy,
while hunkered temporarily down -
until she and her significant other
embark on another globe trotting stint
livingsocial, in Bend, Oregon,
otherwise known as GADSHILL Farm,
hence the hyphenated married name.

Though said endearing youngest sister
approximately forty five plus months my junior,
ofttimes during earlier mein kampf,
she displayed quasi
maternal (motherly) mien.

Even back during mine boyhood
dark shadows stirred
along the edge of night
(emanating from outer limits
of the twilight zone),
which spooked me to flinch
as did appearance
of the boogeyman induce affright
only exacerbated my delicate mental health
which emotionally punctuated precariousness
within psyche of mine

with disequilibrium ******-social blight
above named sibling
a bonafide unflagging
prairie home fine companion
who made killer powder milk biscuits
even as kids (living in Lake Wobegone)
as children, she more so analogous
to being my Bobbsey Twin, I cite
twilled me in the valley
of love and delight,
with her divine guidance,

an emotional refuge rescued
sought deliverance from anguish
loving succor proffered
peace upon mine body, mind, and soul,
she did immediately expedite
warming cockles of me heart
analogous to affecting, creating,
forging, jumpstarting, offering, and ushering
ideal paradise island temperature
if measured by degrees
balmy fahrenheit 451 (ha)

pointing, revealing, shining,
and training a guiding-light
unafraid to defend diminutive
docile, inordinately meek brother,
when threatened courtesy bullies
that significantly towered over me
below average stature in height
a measly little skinny,
long haired pencil neck geek,
yet zany as Corbin
(very private joke) Bill Thurman's cat,

(when within comfort of home) lad
naively oblivious rebukes
delivered courtesy our mother,
when her second born daughter
a fiercely academic and dynamic student
ever since she set foot in the classroom,
or summoning forth indomitable courage
particularly when she got diagnosed
score of years ago being in the throes
of thalassemia anemia minor,
nevertheless honorably accepted

fallout from infrequent -
at most a small number
of memorable bouts of mischievousness
such as after smoldering marshmallows
damaging the brand new toaster oven
sparked, and kindled outburst
from mommy dearest
figurative tinder, which squabble
escalated in intensity
sparking vehement feud to ignite
loosing volatile verbal exchange

triggering (hyperbole on the way)
The Emergency Alert System
to issue warning
lest clear and present danger
(at 324 Level Road)
recorded in history books
licking flames, overshadowing, rivaling,
and undermining revolution
analogous to spelunker donning jacklight
before trumpeting unexpected goldmine.
which achievement, deportment,
endorsement, and indictment
(more serious than rigging an election)
jump/kickstarts (a divine comedy of errors)
not reason enough
to be deported),
but necessitates more than a facile effort
linkedin to a working knowledge
of familial genetics ofttimes

discovering, revealing, and unearthing
locked up figurative ghosts in the closet,
and/or shocking insights
courtesy vis a vis mapping lineage
of descendents whose deferment
being proactive when deciding
with absolute zero or
very little shadow of a doubt
versus someone analogous

to yours truly (me),
who offtime fumferes concerning
the course of action one will
assertively, decidedly, and proactively take
and keep to their word,
whether the issue in question
rather classed as superficial,
I will iterate after writing
a particular for instance as follows.

When asked (courtesy the missus)
if I ever plan to use the new hair brush
purchased at CVS a short time after
getting substantial lovely locks clipped,
yours truly responded
"when my hair gets long again"
despite promising myself
that donning the guise
of a baby boomer
long haired pencil neck geek
got nipped in the bud,
but subsequently (hypocritically)
explaining to her
the necessity to practice making excuses
lest one forget the delicate art
to thwart due diligence
to maintain irresoluteness.

Whether avoiding taking
figurative bull by the horn stance,
(particularly risky business
if one happens to be
the matador enraging
a monster red eyed bull
by waving red cape
in front of said animal -
analogous to Ke-mo sah-bee)
or evading asking Bill Thurman,
a portly non ambulatory resident
here at Highland Manor,

(whose Tuxedo patterned therapy feline
one of the most common coat colors
for shelter kitties -
a bicolor also called piebald cat  
with white fur combined
with fur of some other colour,
for example, solid black, tabby,
or colour pointed named Corbin
an affectionate loveable kitty,
who administers love bites),
who rightfully owes me five dollars

for asking me to clean his carpet,
but hate to remind said person,
cuz he promised to pay me,
and would rather
he square the marginal debt
(rather than triangulate him
by circling round the issue courtesy the missus)
of his own volition,
and thus resorted
to communicate with him telepathically,
and perchance a whim will prompt him

to leave a voice
and/or text message
gently coaxing poet of Perkiomen Valley (me)
to lend him a helping hand
such as withdrawing cash
from an ATM machine
or whisking boxes away
to be recycled or reused
at Liberty Thrift store or Worthwhile
offering perfect opportunity
to jog his memory nonchalantly.

— The End —