Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Right now someone,somewhere in the world

is horrifically withdrawing from their poison,

in a jail for days ,

climbing the utter 4 walls of solitary confinement,

with no fresh air at all

just the stench of suffering,

haunting there broken spirits,

desperate to end it,

but that officer took their shoelaces out ,

and there's no possible way to do it.

Time is there worst nightmare here,

going nowhere ,

as they try to pretend to sleep forever,

and even attempting they know is not clever,

But it is all they've got

yearning to ignore the horror movie playing in there mind's eye,

infecting every fiber of there being rots,

diminishing the lie that it's ok

when they're certain that this must be hell!

in the belly of the beast,

being spiritually waylaid

feeling that they're cursed and the end is nigh,

absolutely terrified at the possibility

of there brutal existence

being any worse than it already is,

endlessly torchering them ,

over and over again, in detail,

reminding them of every single mistake

that they have ever made,

all the bad things they have ever done,

and how the good old days

can never come back again ,

but just as toxic painful memories;

so long,

forcing a futile desperate hope

for a time machine;

or if only they could just start again,

and this could all be

one big worst nightmare...

And yet it is so clear

that this is really real,

and this world is  unfair!



Somewhere someone is suffering with hunger

and a deep emptiness

Weakens them to there core.

Some fast for religious purposes,

but mostly it's the poor ignored,
I am grateful I'm not them right now ,

because I felt this pain before.

with a deep yearning,
Convinced I could bare no more,

Some say there peckish,
some say their famished,

most say there hungry for more

Most have forgotten there starving;

just like before

of love and spirituality,

it's not really for me to say,

who's more in need of being fed

and that ultimately

there almost ,nearly dead.


Right now someone ,suffering, somewhere

has got the worst toothache

they've ever had in there entire life!
with no painkillers to take this

deep ache away !

probing and throbbing throughout the day,

then slicing like a knife,

when there only relief

is to but rock in misery

cradling their jaw,

yearning to end their life!

I'm glad I'm not them right now !

because I; yes me! felt this pain before!...

and it's the kind of pain

that hurts from the surface to your core.

so when I'm moaning

about the pain

I think I feel I'm in,

I should just  refrain,

and stop compulsive complaints,

that toxic-ally taints,

like a self fulfilled prophecy,

if you doubt you go without

or  busy earning a bad name...

if you believe you receive

is a load of ****;

because,

when a toothaches

and the pain gets a grip

a toothaches....



Someone, suffering,Somewhere ...

just now,.

has broken their ankle ,

for the first time in there lives,

and was prior unaware

of the existence and possibility

they could feel so alive

with such an incredibly excruciating pain,

and has just been plastered up

if there lucky enough,

and given crutches for mobility

and must learn to cope is the deepest liberty

with the new struggle of getting from A to B,

or just making a simple cup of tea!

and hopping up and down the stairs,

to take a wee

or in and Out of bed

and into the shower,

becomes the new major struggle of the hour,

and you see,

in fact becomes more painful than the original break itself ,

as it is slow and cumbersome,

and creeps like stealth,

I know;for this pain was cryptic and raw...

And is one of the worst things that has ever happened to me before!,

and at the same time one of the best!

though they say the wicked get no rest,

but sometimes it's just that life is a test,

hidden deep aching phantom pain!

for this was the only thing that has ever made me stop and remain!,

slowdown and see the wood from the trees,

be alive; and just breathe...

bearing in mind it could of always been worse!

and that relative suffering in silence

is a hidden human curse...



Someone suffering someplace; is cold to the bone;

and can't find no warmth or love and no home.

I would rather be homeless, than feel so alone.

The fear of the coldness is worse than the truth,

certainly hurts,

but to be frozen with fear is definitely worse ,

stuck in a place where you can't find the words

and should of ,could of, would.

I'm grateful I'm not them right now!

and hope they find some warmth soon!

Maybe light a fire!

lest it invoke the grim reaper...
I know this pain and there's nothing like it...

and yet still ;there's nothing more painful

than the road to your heart going cold and cursed

the longest journey is from our head to our heart,

warm things up

better get living and make a start...




Someone somewhere is desperately thirsty,

deeply dehydrated and hasn't had a drop of water in days ,

they would drink the water from a  police cell toilet,

if given the opportunity,

this is one of the worst pains I have ever felt...

and I'm glad it's not me right now!

because I've felt this hideous pain before,

looking back in hindsight, all of what I've presented

as one's brutal suffering ,can be just chances

for character building, for out of the darkness comes the light,

for where theres no pain theres no gain,

as one cannot exist without the other,

and one can't know  abundant Joy,

without having felt great suffering,

For as deep and as broad is our suffering. ..

so shall be our comfort...x

AMEN
XIII Apr 2015
No thank you.
I'm sweets-intolerant.
No sweets, no toothaches.
And I hate dentists.
JR Potts Oct 2016
One year I had a really bad toothache
it felt like all the wrong words
kept coming out my mouth
and I couldn't help but bite my tongue
just to the numb the pain I was spitting out.

It hurts to be hated
but it hurts worse to be loved,
especially when you don't think your worthy of it.
Put those lines next to all the other dumbs ones I've used  
swinging hammer handed words, scalpel-like terms,
some of the meanest **** you've ever heard
trying to break you in two and you might just have enough
between the half truths and the promises I never kept
to write one really, really sad tune

I knew better than to speak to you the way I did
but some people act like welcome mats
for other people's ***** shoes,
you left the front door unlocked
and I made a habit of wiping my feet
as soon as I walked on through.
I'm not proud of what I tracked in
and I take responsibility for most my actions
but lets not act like they took place in a vacuum.
You had to lay down first
before I could ever step all over you,
and when you refused to love yourself,
what did you expect everyone else to do?

One year I had a really bad toothache
and you were just too sweet a taste for me to take,
without getting angry at myself
for trying to have my cake
and eat it too...
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.a grand biblical event could be happening, it could very well be happening... but then you could be like me, treating a toothache with cloves... sieving through the smiths' oeuvre (because when it came to 1980s music, it was always about the cure and depeche mode)... or getting your anaesthetic watching stockholm requiem... robotic or perhaps just zoological swedes treating the case of: unwanted... like a heart-attack is merely a murmur... i imagine the germans in concentration camps being burdened with their trained sadism... sickly sweet from the crescendo of inhumanity... anything but this swedish anemia... this "supposed to be human"... perhaps it should be called the Moebius-Stockholm Syndrome... no... i have no impeding wish to go back to visit Sweden... i'm sure to find more water in a rock... i'm sure to find more sunsets if i were to go blind... come summer and the air would drop temperature come the desired hours of the spectacle... i quiet fancy the nazis to have been burdened with too much of life, the mammalian hot-bloodedness... i can almost imagine them being unable to bypass their erectile-dysfunctions with those deeds of theirs... than these ivory pickles of men... not even an event of biblical proportions would wake these people if their thespians are so... morbidly without a grace of a statue standing over a grave... the facade of flesh... when i can peer at a necro-associated-sculpture and pave my way toward "imagining" something intent on life within it... if the swedish thespians are so... less rummaging... i can't quiet imagine the real-life swede... perhaps they're just autistic? or... let's be kind... solipsistic? well... if only being invaded was something of a cure... as Knausgård mentions... i wonder why there's this sudden rise in scandinavian romanticism: genesis... i would rather trace a backward "plan" from sanskrit and to the great mother siberia... daydreams and ineffectual markings of... these days words of most importance are more ascribed to... the sort of paper you will not write on... escape from sobibor... i can imagine being exhausted by having to perform so much sadism... rather than, say, calmly brewing a cup of tea... it must have been so tiresome to be trained as monsters... of course: exceptions... it's just tiresome through-and-through... buying mania... for shoes... for umbrellas... for obscure details that might allow any general improvement of life... singing lazily as morrissey... did... if the man is to become a pariah... hell: not as bad as a persona non grata: the guns of navarone only come out with the proper latin... the concentration camp "workers"... the salt-miners of the *****... of no affair to make a sympathy... but if you've just watched a swedish thespian production... in unwanted... stockholm requiem... more like a Moebius-Stockholm Syndrome... you'd turn to watch something of something clearly tortured... by torturing... from above: crisp clean napkins and all those anecdotes over dinner while ingeting champagne in flutes... there's no need to make this "look" good... this is still about morrissey, though... tired of the cure and depeche mode... the current craze for biblical sized proportion of events... apparently it's true: absolutely everything is MADE IN CHINA... well... at least no one's dying with boils, spores... weird mushrooms growing out of their armpits... or the leprechauns of leprosy taking a bite... point being... i don't think this current state of affairs proves that my fellow man... could stomach... very little these days... then again... i could get away with this: humanisation of concentration camp guards... because i feel completely robotic having watched swedish acting... i'm looking for the most worthwhile available alternative... when you can't just pet a cat... as william burroughs noted... you can keep a cat, feed it, pet it... but at the end of the month you need to gauge its eyes out to enter the ᛋᛋ... so uber... by the way... why is there no D in armanen runes? hard to make sense of a future language of: the man in the high castle with only 18 letters... that's 4 short of the hebrew alphabet... clearly *******... 24 in greek... 23 in roman... 26 in modern english... 41 letters in the glagolitic alphabet... yes: graphemes and all - all those diacritical passions... 32 in modern polish... early germanic had 24 letters... but the armanen runes? only 18... *******... so much for ***** von List or what the third ***** germans read... the wrong sort of neopaganism: esp. if you're about to... ******* about 6 letters... you can't exactly have a language with a bare minimum of... 22 letters... which is a lie... ha ha... the hebrews have 27 letters... but their vowels are like diacritical marks elsewhere... "hidden"... it's the basic prefix rule of o(mega) and e(psilon)... or for that matter a-lpha and b-eta... well... there's the ******* siamese adams (א) and (ע)... b(ב), g(ג), d(ד), h(ה), v(ו), z(ז), ch(ח), t(ט), y(י), k(כ), L(ל), m(מ), n(נ), s(ס), p(פ), ts(צ), q(ק), r(ר), sh(ש), "t"... so that's the ******* siamese adams and the timmy and timothy t(ט) and "t"(ת)... but there are five over letters... kametz (a), chirek (i), tzere (e) cholem (o) and shurek (u)... although... they're not treated as letters... but akin to the acute diacritical mark when s becomes ś... or when a c grows a cedilla and becomes ç... or when an A grows a tail and becomes Ą... in hebrew that's already exposed... sh(ש)in is a caron s (Š)... and ch(ח)et is a caron c (Č)... no... if you're looking at hebrew as i am... gobsmacked... because they're playing crossword puzzles by merely writing... how their vowels wear niqabs... and are "not included"... you can't have a functioning civilization without a bare minimum of 22 letters... which is a lie... the hebrews just treat their vowels are diacritical markers... they have 27... the standard was given by the greeks... 24... and of those that are, 24... you could say... ΦΘ: phi and theta: F... OΩ: omicron and omega: is that pop and ****? equivalent? there's you real 22 letter alphabet... which includes all the vowels... ξ(ks), χ(ch), ψ(ps) - otherwise the letter that makes π a patent surd... so ψ is the aesthetic variation of σomething else... only differentiated when written... not necessarily when spoken - so you could technically... let's leave it at that.

they're saying about ibuprofen -
whatever the science: how the virus is latching
onto it and is sustained by it -
quack-theory or a barking up the wrong
the tree -
                    last time i heard an ibuprofen
is best for a toothache -
                  if only life... could be more monumental
that living through this mass hysteria:
or lack of it thereof...
       with this most irritating pain -
          this loose filling... there's a pandemic raging
the supermarkets are running out of bread...
there's no sugar and no flower...
       no bread: no circuses of a football match...
no real gambling involving 22 ballerinas,
horses or dogs...
                                  and here i am...
more bothered with a toothache...
                           what remedy, what remedy?
last time i heard...
                   they use a base chemical ingredient
from cloves for all the anaesthetics in dentistry...
last time i heard...
   if you put a clove on the ill tooth...
                       gently bite down...
                    one down... slobbered...
                 the saliva will open up the remedy...
from this humble clove...
         well... so much for merely culinary
purposes...
                                   indeed... a toothache
lessened... by a clove...
                        now for that whiskey disinfectant
to wipe clean the mouth...
         then some cheap ***** mixed with
aleo vera gel for that oh so precious disinfectant
that... evaporates when smeared onto
the hands...
                 i could be making money from this...
as i heard: bottles are selling for 60+ quid...
n'ah... i like being integrated for my already
miniature role of self with... integrity...
the knitty-gritty of honesty...
                                    who would have thought...
that cloves can alleviate toothache;
after all... there's that whale that swallowed
Jonah to fish for... in this current climate:
      of cough sneeze and woozy;
better still... an oeuvre of the smiths...
           because i never really got into them...
now's a good time like any other...
            girlfriend in a coma...
                            pretty girls make graves...
                     some girls are bigger than others...
            oddly... the music when watching
empty buses plough the streets -
             when empty streets become...
arcades for the winds...
                               and... they are not missing
those arthritis prone in-mid-life joggers...
              well... it's still the right sort of time...
to head on high... and find entertainment in thinking.
Iwo Edwin Feb 2014
Toothaches in the early morning,
a bitter kiss that woke me up.
Toothaches trees in the garden,
I rely on Rose's but she refuses.
so many blackberries and apples on the street
I'm waiting for the next mangoes.

                              Prosaic, sometimes i wonder the need for
                              education if i will still follow the ethics of
                               my grandfather, without remodeling it to
                               suit my time.

But, when I look pass it i see Lavender

The death tolls have risen
three to four lost to bombing each day
I still see Lavender.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
my brain has a priority,
i could endeavour to do a Soviet
sleep experiment,
but, to be frank, my liver can
become knock-out mush.

where else would you find a flag of red, white and brown?
where, if not in the toilet - god, i hate people lying -
it gets on my nerves -
             it's not like we ate the fruit
of Eden and came up with
not knowing anything -
          what became the ultimate
poetic canvas, has, truly, expired
under my watch -
          it just became too much of
a tedium, than a source of inspiration -
   all they ever did was recite
the safety-net passages of a ******
affair - and yes, i do have a memory
of a specific thought, on of them being:
  what will be the last song i'll ever hear...
i started pondering:
              King Crimson's *epitaph
?
   or Madonna's material girl? i couldn't choose -
so there i was, sitting on the throne of
thrones reversing the pleasure of ****,
Frank O'Hara was there,
            and my book was there,
apart from the odd typos, it actually
felt pretty good reading some of these poems,
for the first time, a perfect environment to
read my own poems: on a toilet.
                flush!         echoing            flush!
sounds about right...
             sure, i enjoyed them,
but what i did enjoy more was wiping my ***:
hence the title: red, white and brown...
blood from my ****... if this is pain...
sign me up for more...
              that's what i don't understand:
he lied about the lie (you know
who the protagonist of Milton is) -
       we learned to lie -
   people always bemoan toothaches,
now... toothaches i can understand,
no one lies about toothaches -
   but the rest of our bodies?
those ******* molluscs and oysters?
i don't even think they are able to conceive pain...
bones... sure, i get it...
teeth especially... but those soft pouches?
they either harden up, or die off...
people just lie about pain...
they love the crucifixion scene they
want mourners to stabilise them in
their bed-ridden-riddle -
          if i'll tell you it hurts... i'll tell you
why, perhaps i was wiping my *** too
vigorously, proclaiming: now, those
pederasts really know how to write a poem...
    i can't imagine the major organs
succumbing to more pain than the usual
pain someone chooses to attribute them
through abuse... i see death and think:
you're the right odd cheater in giving out
anaesthetics... aren't you?
                  it's when it goes to the bone...
i can imagine pain in bones to be like anything
above the soft-tissues turning into
snails and some child-sadist pouring
salt on snails... or smearing frogs with
lipstick and setting them alight (i have seen this
being done: ******* freak-show,
that's all i thought)...
              as one man said: death comes slowly...
or in all honesty: death comes painlessly -
          but i don't know if the red on the toilet
paper is equivalent of impeding death,
   or merely an optic impediment that i have
no solution to...
         all in all... i rather keep that cranium
canary of mine content with synthetic sleep
than keep my liver toxin-free -
                     sure, i wish i could
experience analytical sleep these days:
  analysis, i.e.: we shipped 10 tonnes of x
                          we shipped 10 tonnes of y,
                          we put into storage 20 tonnes of z...
i know what manual labour is like,
   i mean, roofing isn't exactly doing a manicure...
the whole: doin' it for 20 years argument
doesn't really matter... i have one complete
roof under my belt: Scottish Widows' HQ (St. Paul's
on the Central Line) - and if you think,
for a moment, that i wouldn't rather be up
there, on the roofs, winter thinking about
long ships and the wind, and
summers and jeans and frying ******* -
           then you're sadly mistaken -
    all i have for entertainment these days
is a few women, who have a secure life,
                bake, vacuum, all the 1950s stereotypes,
****, throw 'em in! and in their spare time
write poems... oh sure, me the fiendish brute,
the ogre - the whatever that comes from
a woman's arsenal of - because being puppy-eyed
and sopping, just doesn't do it justice enough...
            in that respect, Philip Augustus (the 2nd)
of the Capetian monarchy was a woman...
  yep, had a ***-change and manipulated
               Henry II, Richard I and John
                          like a woman might in an ****:
three holes... one has to fit to adequate pleasure.
oh soft sweet death... why are you languishing
in the worded furore and taking your time?
this is getting, a little bit... too ridiculous:
all those abstracts of feeling, idealists everywhere...
but never from personal experience:
   and just because you read idealists across the learned
spectrum... doesn't necessarily make you one...
        sometimes you turn into a realist -
and what most people can face up to:
            exhibit a. angry man
exhibit b. pacifist man
                exhibit c. a stick
        exhibit d.                               a riot scene.
blythe Feb 2015
Sweetness is detrimental
When it is too much
Limit your intake
To save yourself from any future ache.

Sweetness is detrimental
When it is too much
Eating more sweets
Make you prone to diabetes.

Sweetness is detrimental
When it is too much
Chocolates and cakes
Could cause toothaches.

Sweetness is detrimental
When it is too much
A hug and a kiss
When gone, you would badly miss.

Sweetness is detrimental
When it is too much
When your lover left you
Heartaches will torment you.

Sweetness is detrimental
When it is too much
It has been your sanity
When gone, you'd go crazy.

Sweetness is detrimental
When it is too much
Have a limited intake
And you will not have any future ache.
A poem I have written because of my toothache from eating too much sweets.
Hope you enjoy reading! ;)
SøułSurvivør Mar 2016
the closer proximity to the brain
the GREATER THE PAIN!
Sorry I have not been on site today
I've had HORRIBLE mouth pain!
Tried to read & just couldn't concentrate
I'm going to try to sleep.  Dental surgery tomorrow

:'(   Catherine
Brett Jun 2021
What is it that makes me miss
The lighter fluid on your lips. Toothaches from a temptress,
And her candy kiss. Arm’s elastics wrap me up. So foreign,
Is this human touch. Like a siren she swims and sings,
To lure me close enough to clutch. An ephemeral embrace,
That chews me out and spits me up.
Love eats hearts for lunch.
Love is a luxury I can seldom afford.
Jim Davis Nov 2018
He came as an orphan
June 26th, 1865
Having seen
the death of his mother
Chased and speared by a hunter

First African elephant
in Europe
At the London Zoo
All alone
in all of Europe

How he broke and wore his tusks
In the iron of his enclosure
In night pain from toothaches
From many rotten teeth
Caused by his only grass hay diet

Given whiskey and beer to calm
Shared with his keeper
Matthew Scott, a difficult man
With no close friends
But with a deep empathy for animals

Who drank whiskey
with Jumbo
Into the late, lonely night
Jumbo liked whiskey, beer
and lots of sticky buns

A problematic elephant
With a Jekyll and Hyde character
Sold for 2,000 pounds
To PT Barnum
as a star attraction

Jumbo tearing his chains away
Then sitting like a mule
Until he knew his keeper
Would also ride the boat
Across the big pond

Barnum’s Scott
Made a deal
Queen Victoria wasn’t happy
Her children had sat
And rode upon his back

Jumbomania in America
Accompanied his arrival
20 million saw him alive
Brooklyn bridge opened in 1882
A year before Jumbo arrived

Then 17 May, 1884
Twenty elephants
marched across
All the way to Brooklyn
led by Jumbo

The bridge vibrated and rebounded

In St Thomas, Ontario, Canada
was his suffering demise
The day the circus train came to town
Tom Thumb and Jumbo
Were waiting to get loaded

Perhaps bumped in the ****
By the speeding freight locomotive
Internal bleeding
and a slow death
Tom Thumb only a broken leg

Jumbo in a slow death
Scott in a slow death afterwards
Having witnessed
the last breath
Of his best friend

Photographed (a recent novelty)
just after his death in B&W
Poor dead Jumbo
Scott at his head
Weeping inconsolably

Although PT Barnum
In pure PT Barnum invention
Says Jumbo ran headfirst
Into the freight locomotive
To save his keeper and Tom Thumb

Jumbo died
at twenty-four
still young
and growing
in size and girth

His stuffed mounted skin
burned at Tufts University
except the unbroken bones
plus the end of his tail
“And this is what remains of Jumbo”

Yesterday, I saw wild elephants on the banks of the Zambezi river
near Victoria Falls
Tomorrow I’m hoping to touch Jumbo’s bones in New York City
And walk the Brooklyn Bridge

©  2017 Jim Davis
Jumbo in Swahili means Hello

Written on an UAE Emirates flight from South Africa to New York.  With all credit due for words and most phrasing to David Attenborough’s documentary.  
“Attenborough and the Giant Elephant”

A few years ago, I heard Barnum and Bailey stopped having elephants as part of their shows!
I really wondered why!
Now I really know!
your small body sinks into my arms
I will hold you as long as I am able
I promise to hold you close and safe
until you awaken to run away to explore
my little adventurer I love you,
let the beating of my heart soothe you to sleep
i will hold you through toothaches and heartaches
For my daughter Winnie,  who is turning 10 months tomorrow.
She was winter & I am spring
I was a budding poet
Her voice was pristine
I yearned that she sing to me
hear, she'd hold those notes in symphony
here, I grew to love her
there, in the twining of our love
in twain, we loved
she loved
I loved
She adored the lyricism
the play of my prose
the waves of emotion that
flexed curls in her toes
I arose
in ways akin to my nature
like wetting a letter
mail in the mailbox
unknown sender
I never let her in
but she did me
this way and that
in twain, we loved
I loved
she loved
I loved the shivers of her soul
sending quakes into my heart
the flute of her throat
the notes of her tears
bitterness, sadness, madness
she let it all free
in voice
in me
I cried, let it stop
let me out
let me not
I will stay
till I'm weary
till I'm old in springtime
till you're teary
In twain we loved
in twain we grew apart
old tires on the Volkswagen
ambling along
singing the old song
on and on
in twain, we loved
in twain, we wanted more
I wanted her to sing the same songs
she no longer loved her voice
she stopped singing altogether
I was wondering
Are we together
In twain, we loved
In twain, we grew sick
I ached for her touch
a poison like pancakes
sweet... for toothaches
the cavity of my desire was a trench
a gorge
with stench
that she despised
don't touch me
I'm not in the mood
don't look at me like that
like what
you know what
In twain, we loved
In twain, we sought freedom
I began writing the new chapters
the new adventures
enraptured
the tales spun like endless yarn *****
endless inspiration
endless distraction
you won't spend time with me
all you do is sit at the computer
don't you care about my dreams
don't you care about mine
I did care but you don't sing anymore
you know why
I don't
you should
In twain, we loved
In twain, we broke free
I wasn't rejected
look, an advance
that's nice
aren't you happy
I am, see
who's that
a friend
you only laugh with him
he's funny
I'm not
you are, just
what
this isn't working
not today
then when
not today, I can't, my dreams
I like him
I can't
this is my decision
why is this happening today
you chose
I choose you
you could have written songs for me
I did
you wrote songs for yourself
I'm sorry
me, too
In twain, we said goodbye
Yet in goodbye
We were together
She was fall, and I'm the summer I always dreamed
Basking in the sun of my destiny
Absent of the kiss of cold, where I left my innocence
Absent of love, where I left my heart
Along the westward road where seasons never end
Along the westward road where sweet songs end in silence
I typically write a good reflective note on these when I'm inspired...
However, this time, I'm just in awe of the experience on this write.
It felt good and I'm just afloat on the energy of it.
I hope you felt it, too :)

Enjoy!
DEW
hi all

today i was in a way, of not ******* for days, because i haven’t been checking, and i feel tired

and i need some help, so the power of athena brought me up, to the sky worked on me

and me cronus, was getting these awful pains, due to being bloated, and athena will help you’'

just as long as you don’t stress, you see, i have a very realistic father, because he believes in

being checked out by the doctor, and i am, i am seeing mental health workers, and they tell me

you see athena is helping me with mt teeth, and if i am up on cloud 9, trying to destroy EVIL

i feel i need to do cosmic work to protect an unprotected earth, and athena’ and me, cronus

no matter how much suffering our earth bodies do, can really help, the help that athena and cronus do

is actually getting life back to freebie medicine, but some people worry about dying, if your mean to die

at a point in time, buddha, athena and me cronus, will work to bring you to your next life, you see

too many people abuse their bodies and not believe in what we can do to help, i feel better now

no more toothaches, and athena, worked on my body for me to **** out my pains, in order to do that

you need to relax, and imagine you are having an operation, by yours truly, athena, and then no matter how much it hurts

you don’t stress out about this, because there is one difference about paranormal medicine, and that is

it’s all done in relaxation, buddy, if you have mentally ill voices, you deal with them and fly over all your mates

like i saw pat, working on earth, there are easier ways, to have this work, but i am showing real positive suffering

yeah, i do put on weight, when people weigh me, but i still no how to avoid, big health problems like i am on

seroquel and serenace, yeah i will die one day, but, i want to inform the people, if you wanna keep having fun

you have to do it my WAY, i only say this, because, i haven’t got MONEY, to see a proper doctor, i do see mental health workers

weekly, but, none of my cholesterol tests, have been a problem, i am sure the doctor would tell me if there was

i am getting help, my bowels past through, i am helping people cross over, and tomorrow, i will fill a form, so i can

work at common ground, in gungahlin, a home to house the homeless, i need to rid negative voices, while i am there

and these voices, are making me worry about the mates i have at vinnies and discussion group in kippax, and

at present, i hear voices from an old mate, at first i said, in a nice cherrie way, ******* ****, I HAVEN’T SEEN YA FOR A LONG TIME, PAT

but, i was, very sick and also in denial about how i dealt with it, i was getting teased by a man at work, he was asking me to clean his hub cap

i did it, but he still teased me, i was too ashamed to tell my dad, but i told the boss, i didn’t see him since, i don’t want those voices

for hopefully when i start at common ground because, i hate the whole concept of paid work, but it’s not about the money, it’s about

me being stuck in north south 3 hours of paid work a week, and work hard in volunteer work, at common ground, i want to be treated like

as good helper, rather than too good for us, i can do anything, i have great ideas and athena and buddha, are busy, but i always have money

in the COSMOS, i would love to get paid to HELP, but being a volunteer is just as good, i uppercased HELP, cause i am in favour of HELPING PEOPLE ANYWAY

and i know how many homeless people sleep in CIVIC, because i hung there all the time, once upon a time, i still do, but i need to work at common ground

cause i can cheer these people up, with poems or even a meal a few times a week, please clear my mind athena, so i can help at common ground

and so i can have a great holliday in adelaide at the end of the year, my dream, is to make common ground better than ainslie village, if ya know what i mean

i am not leaving little young dudes on their own when i seek athena’s help, i am just thinking, athena has helped me before now, so why not

i prefer to just keep all this in the cosmos, though, I WILL HELP AT COMMON GROUND, OK DUDES

I HATE PEOPLE TO WORRY ABOUT MY DAY IN 1990
Jeremyeckl Jun 2014
I had a lover once
Her eyes were wide and
Winter was chilled
Cold and draining
My hair grew dark coarse and flat
Like cardboard in a storm
Of cats and dogs and needlepoint
Pillows quilted with inspiring phrases

I had a lover once
But I spoke too soon so she changed that
With a swift hand and deft arms
Powerful legs made of iron and
Brimstone, holding me down breathless but alive, aspiring

I had a lover once
Who failed me by the heat of dawn
With liquor kisses and broken bones
Her outfits swore she never
Would wear a tomb stone
To match her boots and dresses
******* dangling like matchsticks
Bent from their case
A strong hand could start a fire

I had a lover once
I tried to give her the world
On a platter with a fork and bib
I tried to give her my life and skin
My bones and teeth and things
Made from vitamins and exercise
My soul and headphones and heartbreaks and toothaches
My t-shirt with a torn tag that read too many different sizes for me to wear and
My skeleton made of sulfur and
Eventually
Lies

I had a lover once
Who wanted me but wanted more
Who wanted more but wanted me
Who snapped and said
Leave

I had a lover once
Who is teaching me
That it'll all be okay soon
Just not right now
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
buying a Trek Marlin 5 for around £500...
really has given me a new lease
on life...

prior to i was walking 6 to 7 hour marathons:
i walked to Epping...
i walked to Coldharbour to inspect the Thames...
i walked to St. Paul's...
then... on one of these walks...
i eased out a yawn: it was time to speed up...

i thought: perhaps a dog would help...
a girlfriend...
of the 3 Ps... priests, psychiatrists...
prostitutes: an hour with one, properly:
can fill years worth of... an absence of...
urges...

the body can do all the talking:
it's best when the body does all the talking...
i never bought into confessions:
alas... this is probably a confession...
or that psychiatric *******: C.B.T. or whatever
they call it: talk-therapy...

drinking less ms. amber having switched
to wine: well... the digestion is more fluid...
i've emptied myself three times today
to the point where my guts ache from...
having ******* out: what i can only assume
to be... 1 kilogram of ****... or a forearm's length
of it...

emptied to the point where it sort of aches...
thank god for the transparency with
prostitutes... last time i checked i was there
to pay for something beside conversation:
or lies...
               always the two extremes:
an honest ******* and a...
                  boasting thief: thieves always boast...
they're not timid murderers...
all that Robin Hood fancy gets them going...
i talked to this one in particular
on the day i buried my grandfather...
we talked about Paris...
poor fellow: he asked me if he could stand
on a step above me so he could
look me in the eye: well: i obliged...
i wasn't going to tower over him...

   all in all: a nice conversation...
the stories he had from prison...
what the Russians get up to in the 4 x 4
while punching walls... i injecting...
plastic? seems odd: into their knuckle region
to punch better...
i once took up some sort of martial art...
all i can remember is being trained to squat...
in a position akin to horse-riding...
the Sensei wasn't there one session
(Golders Green)
and his students took over...
we were instructed to march forward and
strike while making a lot of sound...
the student of the Sensei isolated me:
i said: i will not ooh! ah! i will not marry my
breath to an attack...

kick in the *****... me lying in a foetal position...
that's me and learning martial arts...
if i was going to learn martial arts by getting
kicked in the *******...
i was going to learn something: else...
accommodating people from all walks of life
with a conversation...
oddly enough: of the encounters i had in
the night when all the shady suspects should
be about...
one problem... this little ****** took advantage
of me willing to have a drink with him...
took me via an alley and grabbed
a phone from my hand...

oddly enough: i didn't fight him...
i shouted at him...
the seven heavens reigned down with fire
when i implored him to:
'LOOK AT YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL!
LOOK!'
  i shouted down the confrontation...
when scuttled off lamenting about...
down on my knees in the middle of Brick Lane
lamenting on / with the word: All-Ah...
Al-Lah...
                say what you may... certain gods have
names for certain moments...
his is a name when you just
grieve having to show yourself what anger can
be hiding in you...

but rather than fight: tenderness of the hands...
moving my hand against a brick wall
to later invest in a body...
all that mandible leather plush...
i still go crazy: not too often but when i go crazy
i... pretend to not be thinking about
foods that are eaten raw...
notably the Baltic sushi of herrings...
a steak Tartar... chunky...
with all the additions... raw onions...
kippers... gherkins... Worchester sauce...
pepper, salt... a raw egg yoke...
a dash of garlic...
    and a fat slice of sourdough...

but a bicycle is a new lease on life...
esp. at night: when the air is thinner...
and you can hear a church-bell ring from
almost a mile afar...
or... the sound of trains as if a stampede of horse
from: i'd imagine over 2 miles...

i could never own a car...
i once fancied myself owning a motorbike...
i'll stick to the object that allows me
to generate my own momentum...
what bonus?!
hell... no road-tax... no insurance...
i haven't even bothered with a safety-helmet
and most certainly not any lycra...

a bicycle allows you all the momentum
that a bus stuck in traffic might allow:
and more than a car... esp. since i've taken
a liking to cycling into central London...
several times now...
once upon a time it was this spectacular
gesture awe to take the bus and later
the tube and emerge at certain locations
in the city: Piccadilly Circus / Westminster
of note...

but starting off from the outskirts... teasing
the M25... and cycling into the city...
via little Bangladesh of Ilford... Manor Park...
Forrest Gate... little Jamaica of Stratford...
through to the Mecca of Bow...
and whatever the hell it is come Mile End...
reaching the pearly gates of Bank
and further past St. Paul's into Holborn...
past Hyde Park onto Notting Hill Gate...
eh... it's not that... spectacular...
i would probably have to attire myself
in window-shopping clothes...
in pedestrian attire...
    perfume myself and work a chisel of
wax on my hair... probably carry a book
to keep me company during transit...
but on a bicycle:
it's not at all... spectacular...
buildings with no entry labels...
buildings like labyrinth walls...
                 that's about it...
oh... and the people...
                         i like to throng-spot from
time to time...

bicycle: no M.O.T.: no insurance...
no road tax...
the thrill of using a bullet of momentum while riding
behind an object that might **** you...
that's fun...

prostitutes? oddly enough: Isabella...
a third year exchange student from Grenoble...
the story behind my lost virginity...
but the current hook-up culture...
however freely them come and go...
you might be paying for dinner...
covert payments... you'll be arguing for something
else...
talk and more talk...
odd... well... not really:
i was never really truly on a date...
well... this one time a girl picked me up
from a nightclub...
we went to the park...
i drank a bottle of wine...
we talked about grey-matter of our
everyday...
we went into a pub...
i drank a pint of holy grail Guinness...
she escaped with a follow-up of some
previous engagement...
god... i was glad...

the transparency with prostitutes is:
paramount...
i don't like the current culture of ***...
only-fans... and once in a while you find this...
angry... mean... toxic female...
posting *******'s worth of arousal
stating outright: pay up simps...
she isn't even roleplaying a ******* suite either...
she's just plain Jane with a strap-on
of her forehead...

whatever this famous ****** revolution
was to bring to the table from the 1960s...
should it bother me that some percentage of men
are having all the...
   "fun"... personally i wouldn't want
the baggage, the lies...
the covert methods of "bagging" one...
payment upfront for the body to speak:
for the hands to wander...
sure: i once paid for *******:
i paid for a *****-magazine and the seller
saw my face...
the good old days where you had to ****
up on any worth of... ha ha... "pride"...

since i last encountered Khada(ia)
she was bothered by an excess of hairs on my shaft:
i too noticed it... i'm not exactly going
to shave my *****... i'll trim my *****...
sure... i've taken up a liking for...
***** hairs... an oasis of familiarity...
in the form of Ava Dalush...
hell: a completely shaven crop down below:
is a bit like looking at a skinhead...
just enough wheat-shafts to: furrow...
a bit like *******: it should be there...
i can pull it back during penetrative ***...
but... it's also there so i can *******...
oddly enough...
***** hair is designated on a woman:
since... imagine all the bearded ladies...
should the ****** hairs undermine the surprise
of what's down south...

hell: this *** culture *****...
i went among the prostitutes because:
i, simply... don't... want... to... play...
this... bogus... game! of herr Lancelot!
all men are liars are women are ******
and all dogs are ******* peddle-stools!
cats are insomniacs: if you gather my humour...
this current *** culture *****:
triple ***... triple the trembling donkey's
*******: life is not supposed to be fun:
at best: there's some pleasure in thinking...
once all the moral conundrum of ought-i:
ought-i-not have been laid to rest...

how glad to come across:
paid up-front... clearly a debit experience...
harsh to make a summary of:
someone else calling it a "livestock" affair...
i tend to think of leather...
i tend to forget my tongue...
the hands that belong to hands...
the lips that belong to lips...
the thighs that belong to thighs...
the eyes that belong to eyes...
i tend to explore the fingers and the jaw...
all that's mandible...
not wholly exhausted upon the requirements
of taking a ****...

not enough chances to love women:
then again: plenty...
but i will not grow old and boring
and stiff and stuffy and watch television with her...
waiting for the ******* inevitable!
Lothar! aye... call on Conrad! & Otto while
you're at it... we're planning an escape!
i've seen what old age does to men...
women might enjoy it...
hell: they live beyond the age of men...
i'm not going to bother...
i will not hear wisdom from the old croakers
either... smothered by dementia and what not...
when my time is on the table:
i'll do what i'm reserved to do...
old age suffocates...
not that people shouldn't aspire to having
reach it:
but it's hardly possible for most to still be
an inquisitive Socrates come his age...
childish comforts...
marry me unto death and let us part
in good spirits...

this current culture of *** *****...
i don't want to be part of it:
i'll debit my affairs / pay upfront...
for what i'm willing to pay for:
kosher ***... nothing boredom related:
no need for gimp latex suits...
threesomes... ******...
stilettos / strap-on ******...
just give me the kosher salt
and i'll rummage into otherwise hidden
subject matters for the better half of a decade...

how could i think of prostitutes as lesser creatures?
what am... that ******* Jack the Ripper
moralist?
i'm not Jack the Ripper the moralist...
i pay for the eyes to see
i pay for the hands to touch...
i'm not paying for *******:
i'm paying for a 1st person "seance":
yes... we'll be making contact with the dead
who are living... those untouched ******* harangues...
misnomer:  harangues...
i over-stepped the marker...

dilute the blood among the ol' raven hair women
of Turkic persuasion...
god help her: and her fairground of joys...
i don't want to be part of it...
i don't want to be there to pick up the crumbs,
either...
***** didn't give: now there's nothing to lap up...
beside... oh wait...
i don't own a car: i own a bicycle...
i don't want to be tempted into making as much
money as might be required to:
sustain her spending habits... and... whims...
that must make me... an almost: free man...

i guess i'll have to concentrate on...
limiting as much suffering as possible...
i'll have no chance concerning toothaches:
they'll always come and go...
but i suspect that... any...
attack on the soft organs is... rather: painless...
you never hear the truth of people with
terminal illnesses...
concerning the soft organs...
that have a limited nerve presence...
oh... but anything afflicting the bones:
i'll believe that to be ****** painful...

- ah... the interlude: a **** break and some
ice in the glass...
the joy of getting drunk slow: "drunk":
gearing up to a proper momentum of scribbles...
getting drunk slow: wine... beer...
it usually takes me 2 bottles of the former
to have some sort of: IN-SPI-RA-TION...
(impossible to rewrite our syllables
into katana... however much i like:
i draw blanks... still looks pretty...
i will have nothing to do with Ezra Pound's
fetish for Chinese ideograms...
they end up being primitive sounds
of vowel, consonant, vowel-consonant...
consonant-consonant-vowel structures anyway)...
of course there is... a slow way of getting drunk...
wine beer... and a fast way of getting drunk:
ms. amber... although i've become rather
immune to her flirting...
stone cold sober with her during the night:
stinking of dog **** the next morning...

refresh my mind...
Khada(ia) made a complaint last time she was
performing ******* on me...
hairs where there should be hairs:
on the shaft... i'm not going to shave my *******:
but i also don't expect her to **** them...
well... no other cure...
i'll need to get a *******...
i got a ******* and started to pluck out
the excess hair...
i was waiting for mr. limp to come along...
he came... and went...
and i was back to plucking out the excess hairs...

in the current climate?
the current culture... it's hardly reading marquis de sade
on the tube... although the one time i did
i had 4 teenage girls giggling
because the cover had a oil on canvas depiction
of a ****...
they giggled... while the words contained...
well... what is it that marquis de sade didn't write about?
to hell with marriage and with thirsting for
what the French cosmopolitans are accustomed
to with affairs...

this one chimpanzee laboured to prove
the existence of dragons...
dragons prior to the unearthing of dinosaur bones...
massive fire breathing lizards:
the great meteor cull...
this one chimpanzee with aspirations to find
something noble: like widowhood...
to escape the monkey harem / ****...
to find the widowhood and nobility among swans...
now... that's a thought...

upsetting confiscations of libido while
a certain number of would-be van Goghs do
one more.. d.n.a. genocide simulation into
a tissue... why wouldn't we somehow
abandon pop; and take a steer
at... say... something akin to:

         chevalier, mult estes guariz...
for tbe river of blood that is not supposed
to run through Yerushalem...
diviner of the old gods: Balaam!
  one word stands out though:
*****... in western Slavic...
"oddly" enough i can write it in katakana:

SU-KA...              スカ...
oh... look... no hyphen for the worth
of a compounded wording...
i can't find escape in Chinese hieroglyphs...
Japanese syllables can only stretch to far..
Korean? perhaps... i'll hardly inquire into
the Semitic scripts of either
Hebrews or Ar-Rabs...

this current *** culture is... bothersome:
i like to pay for reality: otherwise i go into
the forest and bend a deaf ear:
how eagerly i still watch how women
are pleasured...
it bothers me in the slightest:
during ***: 1st person...
you're never allowed the whole
3rd person pornographic availability of
experience... so you're missing the ***
resembling a Lamborghini... no?

but better with a ***** than these...
angry: newly invested in freedom
sort of broodings over...
these "livestock": oh sure...
the sort of freedom these "free" girls will allow...
no... i'm not buying into a farce...

because simply can't tell a journalist to
*******: secular priest: hand on... linger...
while the advertisers say all the things i want
to hear: since i don't have the money to spend:
i.e. a woman...
sad little affair this society has become....

SUKA! スカ!
dearest: Kinga...i seem to have picked up a case
of an... itchy nose...
i rub it again: and again:
between AGNI PARTHENE...
and what the Templars have on "choice"...

Salve Regina:
   consecrated upon the altar of womanhood...
this stiffening via the niqab:
versus al the freedoms that the setting sun
might also: allow...
bellowing rams...
                oh how i might love....
always the potential of me having "access"
to the disclosure...

         it's impossible to love a woman like
a saint... somehow possible to love one as...
but to love one as an ANGEL...
her own words...
                i couldn't get a *******:
she was living with 4 homosexuals..
we drink so that we might forget...
we forget in order that we might
attest to the puddle pretending it to be the sea..

waves.. waves... countless hybrids
of ice comes with cherry pulp....
i don't like the current *** culture...
i debit my encounters...
i pay upfront...
a day of the darkening of skies...

hier: ich bin!                    jetzt!
              jetzt! oder! nimmer!

   **** it... english party girls have it
covered... for the time being.
you're the reason for all my morning toothaches, heartaches, long distance problems and sitting by a mailbox waiting for a letter. I still wake up at seven even though it's summer break- all my friends sleep in until noon. You sent your letter on Sunday, then why isn't it in my arms or is it just in my dreams? Or is the postal service just lacking or taunting me and wanting to laugh by a girl sleeping by a mailbox.

Before you left all you said was "I'm sorry," but you don't realize I was playing the first day of my life up until the very moment you knocked on my door. And yes I was born again the moment I met you- but you on the other hand. . .

I'm sorry too, maybe I just make you into a manic pixie skater dream boy who's supposed to get rid of all my problems and I'm so self destructive that maybe I cant be saved but I think you're my color coordination and your hand holding any one else's terrifies me

Is this a love poem? I can't tell anymore I've been by this mailbox for so long. Everyone always puts me by the mailbox.
"Just wait"
"you're too young"
"we are simply too far apart"
That's okay. I am waiting. Waiting an eternity for whoever decides to show up because I had crossed their mind. I hope it's you. If not, thats okay.
I'm okay
Tabitha Sep 2017
I tried
The same reason I cried, I died inside.
Imagine the life we live without feelings. Complete emptiness.

You filled me up, drew a smile in my heart,though you never loved me, I thought we loved each other; we just got complicated together.

The space between mind and soul, you filled it up wrestling with the pain that was left by the same one I'm running back to.

He tore me, left for you to
Mend it,
You did it,
I let you.
You did me, I loved it.
You did us, and lost it.
I'm here for you, she's there too.

You made me happy, put me together, showed me the passion any woman would **** for.....
......I died for..
When I hear your name it warms me, your face blesses me,the way you laugh, how toothaches make you cry, the confidence in your steps, the look in your eyes that strips me compliments and pleases me.
I see forever in your eyes, no secrets, no lies, unbreakable ties.
Forever together, without me.
I tried.
The same reason I lied, I hide inside.
I am not enough to hold you down, the stray in you defeats my power.
A majestic aura of supremacy you bring with you as I let you take over my weakness. I want to hold your hand, let go and hang onto your heart, slip and fall deep in your love, dive and drown into your soul....

How do I begin to imagine the loneliness of not having you with me?
If I could call you my forever, I would; but right now I can never but only dream
Anne Jan 2019
Sickly sweet boys fill honey combs like goblin hands in tiny gloves.
They taste like gummy vows and glass letters.
These boys will rot you from the inside out,
painting organs with grainy sugar,
which dissolves to sour acid.
Beware!

Sickly sweet boys know the right flavours,
yet their labels are flawed.
Always lick before biting.
Toothaches are common,
but sugar rushes won’t last forever.

Sickly sweet boys don’t stay sweet for long.
Candy loses tang over time,
coating is just coating.
Inside is a viperous liquid that oozes like oil.
Ebony, boiling, sticky.
Your tongue will never be pink again.
Written on December 17, 2018
LONE STAR Jun 2023
Whoever told you that requited love doesn't hurt was wrong
If more it kills every living cell inside your body
It tears away your heart living your chest solo
It racks your brain making it a jumbled mess
It weakens your spirit by deeming it

Whoever told you requited love is a walk in the beautiful blue sea was right
Yet they never warned you about the dark storms that shake your existence
Yet nobody mentioned the jaws of hungry sharks awaiting to devour you
Yet no one said that at times you would drown so deep only having yourself to rescue you
Yet what they saw was the beautiful aqua blue but no one saw the ugly black of the Bermuda love triangle

Whoever told you that requited love was a walk in the park was somewhat not mistaken
I wonder if they told you , you'd step in dog **** in the park and in love you may stumble upon disturbing facts
I wonder if they told the park might have laughter but some go there because they need a break from unruly passions
I wonder if they told you that people get kidnapped in a park and so does love cage the heart
I wonder if they knew walking in the park on a rainy day can cause a cold because in love,love sickness is a disease that can very well **** you

Whoever told you requited love was the icing on top of the cake probably had a sweet tooth
Here I am confirming you may never get to finish the whole cake to taste the icing
Here I am addicted to the sweet savory taste of love that now I feel nauseous
Here I am having toothaches after a terrible fall
Here I am believe that if requited love is the icing at least unrequited love won't give you any tonsils since the icing and the cake will never be yours.
All aspects of love hurt whether requited or unrequited.
Vishvi Aurora Dec 2017
up to the dentists appointments all again,
Getting my toothaches fine but getting it pricked with a pine,
Giving it a dangerous signs,
I wish I had avoided those nice chocolate pies,
and those sherbet lollies and sweet goodies with a sister I bite,
Getting all away from those sights
Never bothered about future I said ,
But this is a result and it's not on a nice way.
Those ice skates shivered and tempered like a chocolate and  gave a  tooth fracture they say,
Now regretful these clips for year they would say,
Avoide them all the doctor  says.
My sister with a grin staring and laughing  at  me,
And next time  I would catch her ,
and never get tempted with her thoughts and travel like a blind bee,
Because I am at the dentist's place all over again with a hot charcoal and bitter paste...

                            Vishvi.aurora
Sid Oct 2017
Always calling me sweet
as if my name somehow tastes pleasant
when you attempt to form sentences powdered with more
saccharine
than me?
Listen up honey,
you're well aware of the outcome of this prolonged sugar
so swallow your
treacle words
(unless toothaches are your thing.)

// if anything, i'm
bittersweet //
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
pin points
joined like Siamese
dots, exclusion
of the hyphen for
the use of pause.

it's one of those early nights having an introspective
moment... trying to give dimensions to my oeuvre:
all those heartbreaks of spaghetti fingers typing
and then trying to ctrl + c / ctrl + p / ctrl + a
but missing the keys... hey presto! a magic act:
a poem lost not even saved by automaated drafts...

yes... i do feel like i need to buy Red Hot Chilli Pepper's
Unlimited Love on vinyl...
it's funny how artists, even in the mainstream disappear...
i have no account of the existence
of the band from... circa 2007... until 2022 when
they toured and i was working the London Stadium:
poet of the coliseum...
John Frusciante came back: i never thought he went
anywhere... but even major artists disappear...

unlike those days being a greedy and eager youth
trying to impress girls with an array of influences
finding out: no return to jazz no return to classical music
to figure out finding my own voice (i wish,
there was a rhyme, vice... ice...) - parrot?
    imitating echo? if parrots could imitate echoes...

it's a gruelling evening...
   there's absolutely nothing to write about...
i'mm rereading some of Al Purdy and Walt Whitman
and i feel: feelz... detachment from any stated,
historical achievements...
          wars lost wars won or whatever
that might be between the flesh and the fingernails
when the fingernails grow too long...
an interlude from working shifts... dealing with people
is a ******: a flat tire...
   37 is no age to start thinking about a road
already undertaken:
children? no?! marriage? now?!
     flipping pancakes and idealising love furthest from
love's truth...
   murky waters and swamp-things...
      deceits, subtractions and additions of lies...
headaches, toothaches...

            shares happiness of coupling and shared
demises...
but from what i've learned:
there is no happiness greater than a one arrived
at by oneself: that spontaneity of laughing
for no reason or laughing at oneself
having thought a certain thought...
and no sweeter misery that no one can share
with you... a nostalgic grey morose murmur of...
some self- prefix fixation of this automated
monkey-bot turned 180 degree standing upright...

the last days of autumn... rotten leaves
in the park that are as "dangerous" as ice...
and a winter that only takes a sneak-peek
at where it once was: magnificently as an AGE of ice
parallels of trunks and trombones and
imagining hairy elephants...
   just imagining.... not really paying attention
to the fact that: yes... how long would it take
for an elephant to grow fur and would it have migrated
with man... all furry in sunny Africa...
kind of inverting the point of the elephant in Siberia
with man shedding fur for... bare-goose-bump skin...

this plughole, this constipation of history through
the lens of Darwinism is... like...
standing above a grave of a dearly loved one
yawning, or chewing gum...
               something like an Icarus-Phoenix
burning in the mind that dead yet dead not forgotten...
fickle creature memory and what
i don't want to remember:
with what i do remember -
   like that repetitive loop of memory-erosion
beginning with the philosophy of pedagogy...
raise hopes and teach pointless arts...
but dear, dear... don't teach them how to combat
the drudgery of work and menial toils...
i'm pretty sure that most physical labours
that require a technicality of an array of skills
will never be menial...
it's the shelf-stacking jobs that could be
made easier... in theory... with an entertaining mind...
a wandering here one minute gone the next...
a disappearing ego...  reappearing ego...
a bucket and pulled from a bucket a top hat...
and from a top hat? pulling out an old person's
chattering dentures instead of a white bunny...

a beautiful life focusing on little things,
finding spontaneous wisdom anecdotes and not defending
such roles as guru or saviour or leader...
like... going to bed before 12am and
like today... nonchalantly in concord with:
i'd like to have a lesbian girlfriend...
while sneaking away to the brothel...
but even no, given the wintry months:
having a relief from spring's and insect' libido....
sure... jerking off but not really thinking about
it, which is aided by sitting on the throne
of throne and giving birth to a meteor of
plucked brown-stuff and almost rising ot *******
heights of that one gateway not being
violated by ******* passions....

tired of experimenting of breaking society's
boundaries and leftover taboos...
just ****** tired... as if wanting something
wholesome like a slice of rye bread
or porridge in the morning...
    perfectly boring perfectly sighed over...
and a world that's only as big as my eyes can see...
sure... a mountain in the distance...
or a sky-scraper... this grand plateau of London...
no car, no need... just a bicycle and a pair
of legs... a lost commitment from having
a grandmother... made all the more easier
by the fact that: i will die without an image
of my father's mother...
               making it easier for me to digest
the ongoing process of being estranged from
my mother's mother...
               i have the perfect excuse these days:
i'm working... obviously not the work
of aligning with plastic surgeons of bus drivers...
work the liberator and excuse from...
i used to love seeing my mother's parents...
i'd visit them for stretches of months...
sit with the old people and soak up:
fermenting and almost sad that my youth was
wasted on old age... but the books i read
and the training i received from "missing out"
made me a rigid-stone...
from the youthful energy of disappointment
to the slowly growing old dynamic of
oriental thinking...
even now if i will ever put a foot in Poland
i will only be doing so
on a whim of: i need to purchase cheap duty-free
cigarettes... i'll fly over and spend
a day in Cracow... try to look local...
******* back to the airport, buy three cartons...
spend £30 there and back and spend a total
of £90 on 600 cigarettes...
which will still come cheaper than if i bought
cigarettes here legally, stupid...
or under the counter from some Romanians...

i was supposed to go to the gym with Francesca
today... honestly... i was busy... busy being
busy about not being busy...
spent the night chatting to a friend from Hawaii...
she texted me that she was going on a date...
that's what i mean:
i'd like a lesbian girlfriend... someone i could go
ice-skating with... talk macho ******* with...
go to an art-gallery...
but: keeping up with Platonic traditions...
if in need of **** find it elsewhere...
with the likes of Mona...
who, apparently disgraced, was shunned by fellow
prostitutes for becoming pregnant with
a customer... that's the thing...
i hope it wasn't me... but chances are...
cross-eyed at the zenith of her ******...
lips touches lips and all the wonderful stuff that's
like sunlight having descended and
enveloped a field of wheat in August...

i don't mind... carefree mitigation of rumours
and the frenzies of atomic vibrations...
invisible yet existent parodies of impasses
of: how Hannibal solved the issue of the Alps...
how Lawrence created the endless number of clocks
from the sands of Arabia...
how the sea was a puddle for the first to not thirst...
such evenings when language is loose...
gooey... mindless bragging and jargon...
something person spotted from time to time...

with my mother's brother, my uncle:
i once adored him... i used to go to concerts with him...
that one afternoon he cleaned and worked on
his Porsche... we listened to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
Californication... an interlude of going
to the chicken shop and getting some chips
and hot wings...
his personal life of sleeping with prostitutes...
multiple girlfriends... i admired that i wanted
that for myself rather than the odd... mutant...
rigour of my father's monogamy...
i tried it once: twice...

i'm so thankful for the women in my life,
i won't event pretend to not give them their names:
Isabella, she dumped me...
Promis... she dumped me...
Ilona... she too dumped me...
dumped Humpty-Dumpty...
which gives me the focus of Pontius Pilate...
each time i wash my hands i wash imaginary
hands of Pontius Pilate...
   it's so much easier than to fall in the category
of the sort of man that has the luxury of clinging women
he then dumps...
much easier to be dumped...
it reveals avenues of... perhaps Mona, that *******,
really did have the best *** in her life
and wanted my genes to be preserved...
no one knows expect for her
and the insinuations other prostitutes in the brothel
have dropped...
but i won't be revisiting that place for some time...
my libido is stale-bread and...
eh... a ******* for an hour telling someone:
slow down... slow down...
                      just a little tenderness...
i don't need to be circumcised twice!

             unlike the ***** where you can ferociously
gorge on the uncircumcised bits...
or when interacting with piston against the backdrop
of the floral patterns: we're talking an act
with possible teeth involved...
my love made all the more easier:
so easier to move on... being the one being dumped...

western dogma: wisdom as an over-complication
with eastern dogma: wisdom as an over-simplification...
traps and mazes of the latter...
dogs chasing their own tails...
perhaps? reimagining the once legal
aesthetic of improving the Dobbermann dog breed
by snipping the nails and clipping the ears
so they might be pointy?

back to "dearest" uncle... he's back living in Poland
with his mother nearing her 85th year...
apparently going back... friends with investment
potentials... 3 weeks there and all he's doing
is sitting in the living room in his boxer shorts...
watching t.v., trying to play the role of manager
of a non-existent company...
having sold his one greatest asset of a paid-off
mortgage of a house...
his dream: retiring in his mid-50s like the norm
in Greece... a man still in his prime
having lost it...
                         hardly me cooking and improving
the life of grandparents by painting shelves...
changing the linoleum flooring in the kitchen...
changing a light-bulb...
it's like that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
the decadent police officer being dragged back
into his childhood bedroom...
this Hell of the Western World's Mentality...
living with your parents like it's a wheelchair hindering...
what?! and paying 12 months upfront
to rent a box in London is somehow better
than the allowances of homelessness?!
hardly... **** me... hardly!

sure... when he was living in England
and had the advantage of bilingualism...
how his "friends" dragged him into a ****-show:
circus without the clowns storming
a FIAT 126P by the 20 load of cramming...
now my horror-suspicion can be shared....
but at least i had escapism within the confines
of books... and no, seriously no ambitions
to stand on a stage and dance...
poetry and mediating mediocre saved me...
i allowed myself: i was allowed
sieving through observing people:
pedestrian talk: no talk...
            
     loads of money: he did save up a load of money:
compared to the usual dynamic he's
hardly a millionaire...
but compared to me... i count my riches
by the time i spent reading a book...
reading Heidegger's Being & Time...
hell... i paid... no... i didn't... my grandfather
paid 20? let's be realistic... he paid 30zł for each book...
in a subscription "race":
one book per 30zł... 20 books in total...
anyway... i was a vagabond in Heidegger's head
for 30zł that spanned for almost 3 years...
a difficult book...

                          i'd spend less time in Sartre's antithesis
of Time: id est esse nihil                                    -ness
does it really matter? the number on the receiving
end... is the calculated progress of judgement
of what constitutes "progress"...
Welsh is always a second clue concerning Britain...
given: you will hardly hear or learn
how the Scots "forgot" their origin in tongue
so smoothly lost that it would require a James
to bend the knee and crack his knees
like walnuts to arrive at these isles unity... ****-wit...
it's a pointless sort of defeat...
but adamant Welshmen and their prosthetic hard-on
for myths of: origins of the dragon folk...
hardly passable: most impressionable...

right now, though! i figured out something!
i don't want to write something original!
i don't!
you: "you": you... you know what i want
to achieve?! i want too write something
that... that can't be plagiarised!
which is a take on originality as
anti-originality-original

suppose these "poems" leave indentations in the fabric
of time (solely, they already have,
in the room i'm currently sitting in,
listening to R.E.M.'s automatic for the people
for the Nth time, nothing has changed)...
wow... my ego-tripping pays off...
but what tripping with no ego? just a silence
of the mind? the only reason why i'm writing
it because i can't return to my prior to psychosis
state of the thought-narrative bliss of
semi-solipsism semi-object-thinking...
one LEGO project after another...

i'm sitting here hunched before QWERTY looking
at the screen not looking at the keyboard
because: mastering QWERTY is oh so much different
to ice-skating...
life this self-suggesting, doubly-affirming:
believe me you be...
          are... conjugating the perfected grammar-math...
perhaps the wrongly assembled: you're be...
makes no more sense than
a chicken clucking trying to imitate
the screech of a diving hawk...

a lion growling a cat meowing...
             green met yellow and how blue was spawned...
if the blues was all blue
then i guess jazz was: having the purples...
classical music was the savvy pinpoint
between silver - gold - platinum...
but i still preferred folk songs...
the sort of songs without genius and more
the spontaneity of drunkards...

we heave an unbearable load of nostalgia:
nostalgia being a fakery of memory
and memory being no better than imagining
a present and future... with the downfall:
a memory reimagining the present and past...
if thinking is stability: if!
posit if within the confines of "if"!
then imagination is pyrotechnics...
the same can be said of memory...
fickle creatures... self-appropriating
self-gratifying no-self-involved students of
a circus...

i conjure up a memory: i'm re-imagining
what ought to be re-remembered...
no can do... i think of something outside
the prism-prison of geometry of a square:
that becomes the Disney Mouse...
wow!
     imagination and memory conflate
and thought: knows all the best distractions...
existence per se and for no knowledge
of the usual vectors of demand: how, when, who, why,
north? how...
east? when...
south? who...
west? why...
                         this is my globe of words making sense:
by sense i imply: words i own: i can manifest
within the confines of constructing a loss-of-self-self...

some spineless messages from Vietnam like
i'm speaking, writing, English, ergo i'm American...
it might only take a few Pakistanis selling Qurans
to conflates ****** with a German...
doesn't matter to me...
does it? did it? will it? ha ha...
     well... a ****** in England not pretending...
tangy-****-****... drool of accent of America...
talking to someone from Vietnam trying to start
up a brothel with girls to "sell"... shady corners of the world...
a bit like not trying to be Russian and talking to
someone from Afghanistan...

bored citadels with barricaded Cinderellas
***** me a snake and wishing ****** dress: white...
promises... me and you and me not getting any
STDs?!
                vampires,  in literature... at the height
of the AIDS epidemic... epidemic: in through to out...
pandemic: out through to in...
     d'uh... you ******* brain-frozen buzzing itches
of intellect not worth salvaging...
i'm tired! i'm tired of mediocre and the excuses leftover
by western psychologists...
i wasn't handed the kind poker hand...
i had to struggle... i struggled...
considered mad i waited until the world
caught up to me supposed "madness":
the world turned out madder than my originally prescribed
madness...
who's celebrating now? no one...
i'm curious about the demands of the gods...
i'm in pivot: contemplating both the crucified
and the one to be impaled on a spike...
my god... could celebrating torture be so misunderstood?!
crucifying someone is half the torture...
but impaling someone... celebrating
an anti-homosexuality... mein gott!
that's the focus: in situ of gravity, glue,
moon, money, sun, honey... being crucified is rather tame
compared to being impaled with your hands
being tied behind your back!
tame... this... thingy-magic... torture emblem of
excuses... solipsistic nostalgia some mediocre people
had it well... **** them... trample them...
horses need to learn to own hoofs!
no point of learning without some crushing
of skulls-soulless;

bemoan what fact? i might... somehow... endear myself
and enrich my existence with / by listening
to these harrowing calming-pill narratives of:
and who isn't who without anything being lost?!
oh! the hierarchy of victim-culture:
blaming X for Y and Y for Z...
fat ***** best fatten herself up by grief growing like
mould: slow...
  
of course i'm readying myself for the death-hanging...
the death-looming... the death-apparent...
tick-tock... tick-tock...
it would be impossible to thoroughly move with
a life, a concern for it, "it":
having a blasé affair with: exactly, with what that's not "that"?
pin point a needle in a haystack...
see a camel a mile away from passing
through a needle's eye...

old teachings are like ancient ruins...
people are not willing... the ontological reality
outside of the realm of Darwinism is unavailable...
there is no Darwinism to explain why
there were furless elephants in Africa:
and still are...
while there were furry elephants of Siberia
and Northern Europe....
eh?! explains X x what?!
            the English tongue is poison with its
dramatic Darwinism make-over speed up: ****
history: does anyone care to remember yesterday?!
if poetry is such a ******* **** in the realm
of arts... what's journalism?
historically speaking: it's...  A *******
CONSTIPATION!

you "people" are constipated meta-profession
ortho-beings... paraphrasing: eh?! who?!
no lost of libido... if at least half of us turned
to the path of patchwork of Cain...
we might... get something done...
Vishvi Aurora Dec 2017
up to the dentists appointments all again,
Getting my toothaches fine but getting it pricked with a pine,
Giving it a dangerous signs,
I wish I had avoided those nice chocolate pies,
and those sherbet lollies and sweet goodies with a sister I bite,
Getting all away from those sights
Never bothered about future I said ,
But this is a result and it's not on a nice way.
Those ice skates shivered and tempered like a chocolate and  gave a  tooth fracture they say,
Now regretfullyrics these clips for year they would stay,
Avoide them all the doctor  says.
My sister with a grin staring and laughing  at  me,
And next time  I would catch her ,
and never get tempted with her thoughts and travel like a bee,
Because I am at the dentist's place all over again with a hot charcoal and bitter tea.

                            Vishvi.aurora
Sigh
zebra Dec 2020
i just read your poem Anne
about your desolated masturbations
after you fell through
into that atomized monoxide
dream of pantomimes glittering
vague shapes and black holes
where slumber sinks
and silence rolls

we couldn't follow
you into your
receding suicide labyrinth
of timeless echoes
past those dire meadows
of serpentine fires
and shrouds you saw
where life eclipsed
by cosmic law

so i read you
one of my black little pieces
of erotomania
headless Barbie ejaculations
all Marquis De Sade
shadow fantasies
of dead play toe tag
and spilt milk
kisses' true
under Habeas Corpus
sweet dead you

you made me giggle
like jumping jellybeans  
and *** honey
I'm so glad you liked it
and your cute comment
about how my poem
made love to you
like multi chromed
teensy weensy
**** candy throat ticklers
at a careless Halloween party
where everything forbidden
in troves
is hidden by the hidden


how you loved
dancing with Night-gaunts
from temples of the astral
past those incessant ruffling whispers
past shadows flesh
somewhere high up
beyond the glimmering headlights
of muttering pastel colored boulevards
that flicker contorted images
of the resurrected living dead
still warm
in your dreadful toxic bed

so tell me dead girl
till the day i die
is it better now
beyond father time
no more words and wounds
no more toothaches
and lunging depressions
pulling you helplessly
into gloomy vortexes
shadowed cups
of looming spacelessness
with no downs or ups

instead you say
you're published
in the Dead Leaf rag
where words like shrouds
blur ballooning solicitude
of indecipherable
mirrored reflections
under tongues of crystal ethers
where life lives backwards
and you just
write beautiful
white
nothings
like flat eyed Phoenician ghosts
beyond the ages
in windless skies
on empty pages
lucy-goosey Apr 2021
"poetry writes people"
"days feel things"
"true eyes left twisted girls"
"beautiful dream, better screams"
"gravity slowly wrote art"
"familiar hungry poets"
"hear(ing) the outdated void"
"she misses her sweet toothaches" (actually "misses special toothaches but whatever)
"rain forgets promises"
"simple euphoria finding groceries"
"(the) gnarled verses day spawns"
"common machines play unimpressive predictions"
"clothing stained (with) heartbreak"
"scrawled swears share unique stories"
Small snatches inspired from my Hello Poetry words.
I was thinking of using some of them in a depressing poem about a depressed person later on but didn't quite want to write right now, others I just liked and jotted them down! It's a nice exercise looking at random words and letting sentence snatches come to your mind.
:)
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
i just want to live a little: drink a little
ms. amber and most definitely
spill some of her on some pretend mahogany...
like i might be toasting
with the dead...

         all this life: so thoroughly
uncomplicated: sustained by uncomplications...
slyly smoke one cigarette...
perhaps two... at most three...
and still tell the white lie:
yes, i've quit smoking tobacco...

insert both snigger and a giggle:
but i love the taste and the momentary
****** of carbon monoxide
into the brain...
so, yeah: i probably might quit...
when i see a blue moon
or an u.f.o.
         "problem" i have seen the latter
and... it was all squid lile
and phosphorescent
and piccadilly circus esque neons...
i had no phone to take
a picture with...
at best... i could have shouted
at it or thrown a beer bottle at it...
for jokes...

hell: back into the life of...
mediocre...
                 into the general area of
prescribed grey...
into sitting on a couch
and not feeding goosebump
sensations of a roller-coaster...
it's enough that a main ****
luvvie-dubby is willing
to snuggle up to me...
for reasons i am trying to understand:

why do animals... like...
certain people...
why are children inquisitive about
this lineage of frankenstein...
i don't know what i would have
to get up to being given the graces
of a dorian grey outlook...
if i were handsome and generically
pristine...

i just, oh: i just don't know...
i couldn't feed mining for both coal
and idiosyncrasy -
this is me...
    jumping trains: just pretend...

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away...
and the priests and the prostitutes...
or so i hope...
given that i have had dealings
with all three...
it's not wonder that i want
to exhaust a need to rekindle interactions
with these assorted lots of toothpicks...

how ******* bogus it must sounds:
my soul hurts...
pose that question to any
atheist or proto-materialists
and the remedy would be what?
synonym counter of asthma?
my soul ache...
                         an itch i cannot scratch...
blessings these concerning
toothaches...
i finally appreciate...
a need for toothaches...
a toothache allows me a gratitude
for three-dimensional orientation...
i've leave this ol' oyster of a tongue
behind: to prove the point...

- so that's why i will never write
a novel!
i abhor lying: i like being robotic...
plain monochrome and at best
two-dimensional when i use words...
to lie to write fiction -
bold underlying essence of
imagination...
but it's hard when you are
curated for outlets that don't
allow imagination to be detailed
with a willingness on your beset
exhaustion of will...

      the detail in the symptom of:
negated ease...
let's just cut corners and write
a proper cipher...

yes... this evening...
i will settle for all these words of truth...
truth can be shortened
and can't be faked...
i'll take the swagger with
the freely available whiskers of whiss and key
and... doing some cliche
"queer" - ahem - "thing"...

some the smiths
or some
                 placebo... covers...
hell.. the gun club - or some fugazi...
something that allowed itself
to age...
            after a morning listening
to bbc radio 3... i don't exactly shake
with inheritance to repay
a life of bach or schumann or schubert
or... prokofiev...
the freely available material
had all the overtones of
      giving out governmental relief...

so that's how it feels: to beg...
              come to think of it...
when art can be settled as a solitary project...
when an oeuvre can be reached:
it's there a procrastinating absentee
horizon's worth...
  this goo this google this custard:
this fudge-brain sloth...
                        accenting out a replica
Kandinsky...
this is enough: this is most certainly enough...
i can still retain pride
and i can still retain "honour"...
because what i've written didn't
take much: it rarely should...
i will settle for the lazily done so...
and put all my energies
on glug-glug-glug
   and the ears propped up to the smiths...

to write fiction would be
what has to be so impossible for me...
to lie: it's not that i abhor lying:
i just find myself incapable to do it...
and if fiction is not lying:
then it's probably, at best...
imagining oneself as lying...
    i have been grieved with
symptoms that stress:
some things you will rarely want
to imagine...

              to be alone in a house
where sometimes you hear a murmur
of a cat waking from one
sleeping session
beckoning a second...
and there' a pristine vacancy
of a talk outlet reaching your...
meta-hearing...
meta-ear...                   it's all a jargon...
but if you know what words
to be equipped with...

                   for all its worth...
a feast of a day... and i didn't force myself
to remember Paris from circa 2004 - 2007.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
come night i can allow myself to breathe,
perhaps more - think again...
a few sips of homemade wine
and a cigarette - endlessly peering at
an eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
forcing myself to imagine
the face of my grandfather still able
to contort itself into ****** expressions
and enigmas... idiosyncrasies...
perhaps chancing upon the wind
to move the flimsy branches at the ends
of the corpulent crown of
this tree -
   if merely the letter Y was a meditation
of the tongue of a serpent -
or perhaps how i have two eyes
yet compound myself to: strictly cyclopean
endeavours...
soothing demand for the sound
of the sea on the shoreline -
although... i... mountains... alone...
or the endless promise of not impacting
with a good morning or a hello
when walking the fields in my vicinity...
premonition:
i "knew" he was dying...
mistress agonia... and it's not like
in his last months he ever wanted
to climb out of bed...
he already exhausted his memory cinema...
the chance crossword puzzle...
on my walks two days in consequence:
crouching on a footpath
a metre away from a blinded rabbit...
then the toothache...
a premonition of pain to come
to excavate the heart into a shroud
of mourning...
    but how unified these sequences
of events allow themselves to be...
the archaic semblance of "coincidences"...
relearning it wasn't my fault since:
the whole point of the telephone
is that it can be used by both parties:
it's not a one way street...
otherwise: yes... this meditation on
the eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
wishing for brush-strokes of the wind
to agitate this... foreign entity:
how much more i would have allowed
myself to a tease of pine...
evergreen from the flip-side of the earth:
twenty five pence in two coins
on my bed...
i have to allow a variation of serenity
to come back:
i cannot be this dreadfully angry mr. ****-pants:
after all: **** before the shovel...
and no: if i could possibly cling to
a revelation that i can write prose:
i'd need to focus on a sense of the linear:
and continuity -
preserving the claustrophobia of
paragraphs: i exhausted the need for dialogue
when i was young enough to still
play with plastic figurines of spiderman
and batman...
so... no dialogues for me...
otherwise: what? beautifully prosaic?
well... by all standards of speech:
impromptus and mumbling...
sure... coherency of the matters at hand...
but i leave with another comfort:
a latin man: the vulgate hier und jeztz -
because otherwise a choking veneer of
grecian superiority will not allow me
to "get things done":
to spew and stew in what's readily
available...
                       not that i was dealt the wrong
hand: i'll still have to gamble with
myself:
a waiting game with mother
and father and grandfather to come...
and then: hello solo!
not in some mythological alternative universe:
which a span of 20 odd years will
probably do to me having written these,
here, now, words...
or i might be lucky...
i will have enjoyed drinking too much...
and that's ******* dandy by anyone's
standards...
as julius caesar already said:
death... sure... but quickly...
or at least with a hard-on of shock!
n'est ce-pas?
which puts suicide a tier below ******...
since: you are premeditating the end...
ergo? no shock...
at least when you're murdered
you are in shock... you're not thinking
of it... but no i see...
death being robbed of its "plans"
with you already thinking about it...
so no shock... no thrill...
unless of course: you have been...
festering with the wounds for years
and what that has allowed is...
a crescendo eventuality...
a culminating point of exit...
                     well: funny how i am mortal
and nothing should be alien
to me regarding such topics...
unlikely, however much it desirable
to be made necessary... this return to all
things governed by the day
and all of its intricacies of mundane -
what colour should the blinds be
for the bedroom
to compensate the insinuations of shade(s)
of the wallpaper...
the formality of language in general...
how society works...
what is a coin in one hand
when i hold a rock in the other?
social constructs and what?
some transcendent values when you're
not jacked-up to a psychedelic trips
whereby: de facto... a mushroom fries your
sponge of a brain?
never knew that deep-fried sponge
could be eased as newly found "crispy"
when all this "****" requires
moving and selling...
hell: towing a shadow for a handshake...
easing my eyes on the moon
come the hallow crescent...
            at night when i sit in the garden
and look at my hands with
chiromancy ghouls and spooks...
     bones are deader: yet the teeth more alive...
aramaic is not armenian...
some gift of the gob from the "fella"
up above...
           voices that make it a crisp tartan,
& biscuit... bellowing with their chorus
like a cutting into silence
with a dozen ******* bagpipes...
bellowing choir...
singing like they are cows
readied for the slaughterhouse...
hear now...
          it has become so apparent:
i write words my words will never utter...
not in conversation:
and i do not believe in turning
my speech into a scripted insolence pre,
that would implode on me
like i'd be regurgitating: a slacking
of the already prized asset of suspense:
a motivation to further - "thinking":
more like brooding / brewing the grinding
of meat...
what of the ******* raw hinde
from the hinterlands of a "revision"
of the ottoman empire...
             brown-beat duck quack hello
new psychopathy or...
a tired re-reading of a tristan tzara...
for dodo and dada and fidgety dough...
immaculate fingernails...
mind you: a period where i was stupid enough
to visit a brothel and **** myself
a robot of i: workable in disguise:
because... whittle wichard wouldn't work
best on a date since:
precursors of too much investment...
so...
female barbers... prior to the ceremony
how she would recognise my voice...
persist in paying hardly the compliment
about how much hair was on my cranium...
and once she finished she would
******* my entire head with
her two hands...
given that i had long hair for a while...
going to a female barber...
or going to a *******: this can really
be contested as to: what's better?
maybe i should have gone to the brothel
and asked for my ***** to be trimmed...
extension anti "gratis"...
other details of... "*******":
            i live a while... but death still
manages to smooch out of me...
a wonton... A...
                        yes... clearly genius prichard
and assembly forrest...
it's not life, this box of chocolates...
it's a broth of dumplings...
same ****, different cover...
sarcasm, rules!
- and there's lee evans... which / who is funny...
i can't buy into smart-funny...
i've been trying to buy into ethno-comedy
strip-back: let's endure the sleazing
baroque of stereotypical white cuckoldry
and the odd ***** mongol...
all that cosmopolitan draft of "nuanced"...

smart-comedy is no comedy...
the dumber, the better...
i'm still giggling about jokes being made
concerning scenarios:
if i had a wife... thank **** i'm not
invested in the logic of darwin...
i'm not here for the genes...
i'm here to close up the "shop":
******* with a few good patent envious
metaphor of memories and the world
can have its ******* hullabaloo...

existentialism and darwinism are
not coincidentally mutual ****-buddies...
one's autistic the other is...
pressing matters for
man as metaphor of ape, lion... parasites...
a ******* "reinvention"
of the chimera...

keeping score my ***:
i'm keeping all the details of indigestions,
a tally of the whole brood...
toothaches and acne sours
for the pleasure of my culmination
asteroid factoid of constipation:
i hope i die a constipated loner...
hell i hope i die towing:
******* turned out to be...
given the still intact "excess" of skin...
the one pleasure in life i would
never find... demeaning or... unreliable...
well thank **** and god to boot
that i wasn't circumcised...
hallelujah! i'm redemption
and the talkative golgotha prize of:
tongue turned into a geometry
of an upside down imploded DELTA...
hirsch: del - y-oh...

y-*******-om-ing...
                          why?!
odes to peter the lad... or why somehow:
demoting an angel to the status of
saint doesn't sit well in my belly...

precious greco-hebrew new: "testimony"?
it was a greco-hebrew adventure...
no?
here the ****** details of:
unobstructed darkening...
take your cleansed morals and transcended
a priori valued diddly-squat:
this supposedly "former" filth...
borrowing from the thespian autocracy
an ear lent: a shadow brokered...
just pretend...

there are no visages that concern themselves
with directly spoken at or to...
or by...
just this murk of by "proxy"...
an "de facto": nuance after nuance
after... a fermentation of an apple is vinegar
and sweet... then all that ******* rot
that's associates with: cleaving off
of sinew working toward the tendons
an the marble architecture of bones...

yes, yes, very nice... thank, you!
naxiai Feb 2020
sipping a smoothie through my straw -
taste buds lighting up with how good it is.

but it's not as good as you,
not as sweet as you.

you're my favorite craving -
and i don't care about the toothaches
or the cavities
if it means i get one more taste of you.
I am not an alcoholic
I just want to drink
But everybody is pushing me not to drink
I know that I said I was an alcoholic
But I didn’t want to be as evil as I looked
But the natural fact is I am not like
Those other alcoholics
Because they fight I don’t fight
Because I am a nice person
I just was trying to express myself
But people kept wondering what is wrong
With me
I was trying to say I am fine
And there was nothing wrong with me
But I fought my dad
Why not, he believed in strong discipline
That I didn’t like it
I loved to party with the guys
Over at Belconnen high school
And going to pubs
And playing pool and dancing to all the
Greatest songs that I grew up liking
I was nothing like my fucken dad
I know he was nice but
I just didn’t understand why he hated
Me being like my school friends
Which I liked because they respected me
And drank with me but one stole from me
But mate I cut down because I wanted him to leave me alone and not because I was an alcoholic
You see I loved drinking with some friends
They made me feel cool
But what about the friends who rob from me
Who call me Woosey
Who try and run me down
Who try and bash me up in the club
Who tease me as they walk past me
Sitting in the pub
I just wanted to party
Get down and boogie
But everybody thinks they were in the right
But I was alright
I was fine
I know I was a tad violent
But that wasn’t the alcohol
That was other people
I gave up alcohol and tried Coca Cola and chocolate and it made me hypoactive
And I could drink it at family events
But I should’ve stuck with beer
Because of the toothaches
And being judged for doing that
I ain’t an alcoholic
I am a nice man who wants a drink from time to time
I am only having a champagne to toast my good times at art
But I am not an alcoholic
It is other people who hassled me
Over nothing that is important
I am Brian Allan and I ain’t an alcoholic
It is just other people hassling me
How would you feel if you felt you couldn’t explain yourself to people you love
About who is to blame the alcohol or the
People
The people is my vote
They just wouldn’t leave me alone
Drinking was my friend
Not like other people
I was being teased it was horrible
Woosey being run down by a car
And being yelled at of being nice to a kid
Laughed at inside a club
Money stolen by stretching it out
I HATED IT ALL
I am no alcohol
It is those people who need to change not me
I couldn’t even my mum saying I wasn’t like happy drunks
But she had to deal with an alcoholic father it isn’t her fault
I was like the younger friends
I even drank at the sports events
I had fun there nobody hassled me
But one player hated my comment
So I thought I won’t do that
But I am no alcoholic just a man
Who needed a break
Letter 081124

Dear Ethan Hawke

I don’t write to anyone. I am hated. In photos I am the photographer’s ghost. In the dream I wear a girl’s bathing suit and someone shoots me in the foot. This is how I learn to swim. Thigh is a perfect word. The way it dies in the mouth. Mouth is dead. Who can tell. Only god. In Ohio at every fair the young say eat me until I’m young. We make jokes about crowhio and about the baby’s stomach born without an inside voice. The spider in my ear comes out a wasp. I don’t want my kids to see me do anything. Spiders get toothaches and angels, erections. Wasp is on its own.

— The End —