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Xaela San Jul 2018
He is trully a brave protector indeed

Neither rain nor shine there he stand

And with the pain of sun and heat

Still he maintains his composure


Everyday he brings hope and protection

As citizen and policeman of this nation

Even if a lack of sleep hinder his stand

Wearing his uniform makes him proud


And later at sunrise he goes home

Looking down on his little angels

Sleeping peacefully in their own dreams

And imagining their bright future


Yet he still sacrifice his life for us

He is trully a brave protector and a father.
I am proud of you Dad
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.
Vladimir s Krebs May 2018
Honey your all i have
My love your all i have
Honey i trully love you so vary much
My love i trully love you so much
Honey you messed up everything
My love why are you screaming at me
Honey im angry at you
My love why are you angry at me
Honey bc you didnt open up to me about your day
My love how can i open up if you just yell and scream at me
Honey you need to open up to me
My love i always will open up
Honey im sorry i screamed at you
My love its okay
Honey are you sure
My love yes
My love no its not you made me cry deeply
Honey
Hone
Honey
Honey
My love what honey you made me cry
Honey
My love ye
Honey im just frustrated about you not telling me whats bothering you
My love you never let me speak you jump to conclusions before i can tell you
My love you my life your my wife i trully love you i will always forgive you
Honey i will not yell at you any more pls forgive me
My love i forgive you
Love lust
A little history, I have 2 children of my body and 7 of my heart. Yes of my heart at 37 years old children adopted me and they were mine!!!!!!!! My heart and universe was full.:-) trully all 9 are a gift.
I never knew what I wanted to do in my life had no goal, except my goal found me! I am poor in money, but life gave me riches beyond my dreams, I still feel that but theres a shift!!!
I was phoned at 5.15pm 7.7.2011 that one of them decided to go, take his life, his decision! Your life stops, what the f@ck? You are lost, trully gone!!!! So much pain for him and his family and you!!!!!
How do you tell his brothers and sisters that he is no more, won't get older, won't be there anymore, no laughter no fun, wake up this is a dream, nightmare! Find words, so few!!!!!
It is 2014 and nearly the third year,  all the others are older, doing there lives, growing and I am gratefull that they are there and doing, but there is a missing link still! ****!!!!!!!!
There is trully nothing I can do or say to make everyones hurt go away or mine, I am still so angry and sometimes the pain is too great. My heart hurts so much and I have to give him  a place in my world, make him fit!!!!!
It gets too much and there are no words, they can't or won't do much good! I hate beiing lost! Not allways there!!!
Sometimes it's as If i want to give up, but the rest need me, not always, but I have to be open for them, be fair!!!!!!
I love them all, my words cannot convey what I feel! They give me light!
But the shadow sometimes makes it black and it takes time to find the bright!
Meybe a quest for understanding.
ArturVRivunov Oct 2011
I saw a gentle face looking through my eyes, and they said to me don't think about it twice. . .
Just look back into my eyes and I'll show you a deeper place. . .The life is not a silly place, for in my time I lived within my place. . .Now I'll show you that deep embrace your eyes long for.
Then that gentle face took me to a place where life's but in pace without digrunted haste. Senses guided this gentle face, showed me how to fight it, and I took it willingly, my new strength betrothed from her gentle brace. My gentle face I became to embrace as only fresh breath of air.
I became to know it so, when I glance back what in my time I felt but such a waste, when all it was were just few silly moments, when my heart sank and I couldn't show this feeling with about a face in blanc. But then came a reason for what in life could be my please on, for I was missing this gentle face present in mine. Until funny as to how long ago I wrote this, to only finish in this moment when I have run into this gentle face. Pondering her embrace in this life I feel without her a waste, but I know and feel her daily smile, her tiring heart at times like mine when I feel the world is falling apart.
Her gentle face overrides the feeling grief, for if I was to feel sad, it is always brief.
I only long so much a day for when the time comes, we together, get to play.
Darling, your gentle face in front of me sways me in ways I have only imagined. To say so now how I felt this moment and now this moment I had found it. Your gentle face I saw in time when mine was less profound, it give me a feeling joy so far from how I imagined, for your gentle face I feel it to never wonder from it, into oblivion because from how far I saw it to now how much I love it.
I believe in love and it's how I lived it, but never seeing that there would be another. I never felt to loose my sight for I have felt you, from afar glowing within the night. Adults and others feel lost to love, feeling time in age, to be only put down by something they don't feel in life they can't anymore engage. How could we lovers loose sight of life adventure, ceised by today's life on its venture. Today's affections all but tend to misperfections and everyone seized in mind to love themselves creating such perfections, to only show but never feel.
Oh! How I look into your gentle face and feel for it in every place. To even look into another, it's pointless within my pace. For there is no such face I could find within your embrace. I am your face, for how much I feel we fit in place.
To yours mine always ventures, through clouds of clamour where life is but lost in glamour. No one see's a subtle moment, where time passes between the two, because their always distracted away from two, to always wonder about around them, whome is who, what looks upon our face embraces. And in most cases, they loose their loving laces, that tie together of what you and I do share.
For when I looked into a gentle face, your trully in spirit, since now my heart can clearly hear it. Since our first embrace, together in one place, my heart explode it, this sound so melodious. Yours trully listened and mine just glistened, the sound of perfect. This melody, all I could and only hear, to it to only add in new sound you in me but steer.
The soothing melody of you and me sitting beside each other on our first walk where all the chatter around us but was talk. While I felt in your wonder moment, swamped by your mesmirizing glow.
There was no other place I felt to go but to your heart. The funny thing you told me in moment of rediculous it didn't mean to me a thing of any sort particulous. I only felt to hold your hand and feel your lips with such lovely words. Sitting on that busy metro, my life changed with in large retro, a spect in life I felt to wonder when all for me would be a calm no matter where I felt I stood in warmth, your love swarmed over me by strength, if so this train had hit a wall I would have gathered in my strength to break your fall. . . . .. . .
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
for all i care to remember...
        looking into the mirror was more or less...
something akin to:
"squirting"... **** me! SQUINTING...
      well... the contortion of the eyes...
"worrying" about a double-chin...
and of course... enough stealth acne
to make me... the bride of beelzebub
how i'd joke to myself...
         beelzebub sat on my face and *******
a tonne of... dead maggots...

           i never knew i was athletic standing
before a mirror...
i probably know that i am less athletic now...
but... looking into mirror made
sense... once...
   this russian girl...
    in st. petersburg...
   we were in "love"...
       and there was this great aventurine bed...
and... a closet with two mirrors...
and... we'd be at it...
i was looking into the mirror...
and she was looking into the mirror...
it was like: the opposite of *** on l.s.d. -
because it was like...
beyond the missionary -
the "******" of the mirror...
   as in ***... it leaves you wanting
to ******* to the *******...
because... hell...
without a mirror...
could you capture the face moaning
contorting like an experiment out
of the gehenna harem?

     for all the *** toys sold...
all those exceses of... woman's lingerie...
outfits... nurses...
   blah blah... it really takes a mirror
to spice things up...
this dead-eyed mirror canvas...
the dire-dead-necessary...
    tooth-fairy: ref. the red dragon...
i needed to see that she needed to see
that i was ******* her... and that she...
was being ******...

           mirror mirror on the wall...
**** the fair and the fairest and the fairies...
i have come to understand that mirrors...
work best...
when... not stressed to exemplify...
a concern for beauty...
   or... something that is worn...
clothes look... terribly important in a mirror...
esp. by someone wearing them
when allowed to be digested / investigated
by a mirror...

but... a mirror during ***?
when you're not performing inverted missionary...
doggy... and she's lying with clenched ****-cheeks...
i was in love once...
which also implies:
i ****** like a race-champ pony!
the mirror always helps...
i wouldn't know: whether s&m leather
and straps would... and whips...
made much of a difference...
when... the mirror... the ghost ******...
the: satan you could get away with...
if you didn't utter a comprehensive word...
but ensure a strict rigidity to...
onomatopoeias and syllables...
and... exfoliating nouns...

        upon memory being summoned...
i'm getting a bigger hard-on thinking
about all the encounters i've had with the police...
there's always at least two memorable
encounters...
getting poisoned in a nightclub...
getting on the bus...
getting off the bus... dropping like a pancake
onto the cement...
     being roused... asked by the police officer
whether i was o.k.:
making a slurred and lengthy apology...
giving my address...
and being... taken in a police van... in a cage
for a sinner... like a taxi...
back home...

    losing my virginity to a pair of handcuffs...
for ******* in an alleyway...
getting screamed at...
one officer cuffed me...
the female officer had a pen and pad ready...
in an alleyway where it was discussed:
and who's alleyway is it?
i'm too drunk already...
if i walked into a pub on friday come
10pm i'd be asked to buy a pint
in order to use their toilet...

         it's one sort of luck... gambling...
betting on a horse...
but another... being hand-cuffed...
  and then... having the hand-cuffs...
taken away...
              as this dialogue happened in the...
"invisible" shadow of the alley...
i can't exactly imagine what the onlookers
saw...
           a teasing of authority...
drinking a beer on a bench outside
a pub on a friday night...
which is... basically... taking away
the revenue... of being sardine packed...
and pyramid schemed... for failure...
but my... what a glorious night...

so i asked: and where am i... permitted...
and blah blah...
that ******* mirror... and that aventurine bed...
the same thrill during ***...
like... the thrill of stepping into a brothel...
without a need to ***...
the 9 of them: all nazgul attired in scrutiny...
before "the pick"...

   *** toys... can i please get a mirror in here?!
it has to become a standard for a healthy
sexed up relationship...
    a mirror can overpower any...
frivolity of during-***: attire...
  the imitation ******...
a mirror is... just that...
                 *** with: in third person narrative...
but... smirk-giggle:
you catching her eyes getting ******...
and she catching your eyes: ******* her...

so tame tame... unlike reading...
  the tame blushes of marquis the sade...
never to mention... this philosophical adventure
of ******... which it really is...
impeccable... trouble with: thought put into
practice...
                yes... that horrid... Fritzl case...
but unlike the idealist scenario...
the mother was notably pushed away from
the grandiosity of the sin...
and it was done... in public... with...
a purview of... shaking established social norms!
it wasn't... a rabbit-hole of horror...

              which is why i'm glad i do not
have children of my own...
   i once spent an afternoon with...
my... grand-aunts son... my uncle...
don't ask...
         and i looked like him and thought...
well... i have most certainly had more
fun with cats and dogs...
i was a complete mute...
i didn't feel like cuddling this piece
of cubism... it looked human and even
contorted like one...
perhaps if it was mine...
i could have... somehow...
            "relegated my inhibitions"?
                 n'est ce pas?
         to have children and begin with...
that ******* of differentiating vowels from
consonants... and then... building consonants...
what... 5 vowels... 21 consonants...
5 x 21 = 105 variations...
       prefix: ab, ac, ad, af, ag...
                     eb, ec, ed, ef, eg...
                           IF only! oof!
                 the suffix - ba, ca, da, fa, go...
                                 bat cat dad fat god...
and then... the 21 x 21 consonant variables...
squared to the power of 5...
because... chinese is... frankly...
so simple...

   - it's summer and...
            since i would otherwise... require ink...
to write... and the paper would somehow
be always readily available...
no need for ink...
the summer months are terrible...
for no requirement of ink...
what is ink?  ink is...
                         i need october...
i need november... december... january...
february... half of march...
i need to borrow ink from the night!
i can't scribble in these arab / kenyan months...
these sun-seeker months
of idle by the dream-pool... load of...
overtly-talked... less thought...
therefore... no need to scribble...

    i need the night for my ink...
                           "punctuation marks are in
the constellations": oh yes... honey sweet...
what's it called? cliche? we've all been there...
i too would sacrifice Hector before the altar
of Achilles if i were Priam...
                   only because: he was called Hector...
and the other was Achilles...
and i was called Priam...
       in such times... what were...
the trully... common-place names...
of stunt-men and extras?
   i'd like to know the equivalent of a john smith
from ancient greece...
what would one call: him?
            
        perhaps: i tend to think about *** when
i... most probably had a dream...
jerking off is a bit like...
checking one's blood pressure...
or as a diabetic might... ***** his index
to check the sugar levels...
i write about "***" when i've had a dream...
the dream...

i was talking to a man about cars...
notably... cars from...
america and germany...
circa the years... 1920s through to...
                the 1970s...
          and... then... the talk of... a motorcycle...
a specific motorcycle...
   a triump street cup...
                 a BMW R18... but not quiet...
whatever it was...
                    for the love of a double-decker
bus and a pair of legs...
                which is not...
to have emotionally invested
in *** was something a much younger
version of me would have done...
i thank the prostitutes of curing me of this...
debilitating disease / dream...
              which, i, prescribed... myself...
so no... i hardly think...
there were any... mummy or daddy issues...
i would skip several scenarios:
as much as i love riding a double-decker
bus... i abhor... taking a taxi...
       even if it requires me to walk...
2 miles... i'd rather walk:
for the love of legs and... voodoo dolls hanging
like corks... bend the knee: they might say...
bullet to the knee-cap... if you ask me...
again...

     perhaps i wasn't born english...
but... after... 26 years among them...
                          it "sort of" grows on you...

- man can perform a thousand:
dodo project genocides in one sitting:
on the throne of thrones...
before jumping under a baptism:
fully attired in the ganjes pyjamas
in one sitting: on the throne of thrones...
to "squat" while *******...
*******... *******...
"scented candles" of taking a shower...

i write about *** every time i have a dream...
it's to succumb to the lesser...
escapade of me...
i can stomach subjectivity...
but having to stomach idealism...
is another matter: altogether...
i would like to worship the men who
have had their fill...
and settled for the swan blockade
of the widower romance...
the widow swan...
the black widow: a ******* spider...

none of it... i ****** good i ******
well... come the prime of the age 21...
she was a gamer side-kick bedded...
she prescribed me...
                        Bulgakov...
              reading a ****** to a prussian...
or reading a ****** to a RUŚ: example: ditto...
                  i have heard of how
love supposedly closed and opened borders...
we are so antithesis "different"...
we aren't... some western "communist"
zoo study:
the people who say and then...
lucky us paupers...
who have to "loot" the infrastructure
of the vacating ****-tunnels...
because... someone has to ****-off...
their tongue and... gerbil fidgety!

albino chimpanzee and...
boxer gorilla fed on...
the promise of bulk... with nothing
but... the promise of fruits of your
labour... and nothing relating
to protein... or fat... of complex sugars
known as bread... none of that!
still: that fudge-packing bulk of
gorilla bicep protein: amass!

   - as ever... the murk: before the deep-water...
the... inverted demigods
of h. p. lovecraft...
because... cthulhu is... "somehow"...
not the ******* son of Poseidon?

acid-quasi-monkey asks...
   placid-didgeridoo...
                a constipated: not funny...
attempts! at solving a crossword!
-frankenstein-myrhh:
                        ******* dangling...
                                    (-) - Fatima...
is this... "Syria" yet?
  concerning the second coming...
concerning...
Syrian civil war... something...
*******... miraculous...
has happened...
or was about to happen...
and that it didn't happen...
better that it did:
but since it... didn't...
best we cover it up...
                corpse bride:
               Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
if ever: Stephen Vizinczey...
was a (prophet) Muhammad...
in praise of older women...

    ...a Fatima... fleeing the Syrian
civil war... because... Ramses II
was... telling apart the 7 good years
from... the 7 ******* years...

tell you what... it's no fun...
when you've been given the need
to bend the knee before the altar
of phantom power...
if i were 16 and she was 14...
if i was 18 and she was 16...
if i was 60! and she was... 20!
would it matter?
               if i was jerking off aged 8...
you want to know...
what... the last prize is...
the last... difference between...
"consent" of two adult adult...
with their *******-riddle
of a theatre of ***?
     you want to know?
the thought of ******* someone...
under-age...
no! no barbie! no ken!
the theatre of thought...
of ******* someone... underage...
who is... displaying...
teasing ***... in that primodial seance
of grief to ward of mother from
the ******...
and father from the parentage of
school!

               you ever want to see...
what... a kick in the jaw looks like...
omnipresent onlooker...
of some... unpardonable crime...
that it has to be ***-related...
              i wish i performed some
unpardonable crime on a *******...
i guess a kiss is a kiss is an unpardonable
crime against a *******...
i need this heart to shelter itself
in stone! i need: a heart!
of hard-earned: rock!
               with each sentence:
i find it impossible to not....growl!
to howl! to spew a bickering of...
wolves... of hyenas...
a wake of crows!
            
              i want toi write an echo!
hye! anoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
i want to hear...
the microscope itching
of a marrow...
of maggots working toward
a closure of expressing: scotch fudge!
i want! maggot marrow!
i want! the lost sounds of...
what the fox already minded...
in...                       χαoς! ρει(γ)νς!
yes... the gamma is a surd...
                 in this... english... equation...

last time i checked:
the cognitive theatre of the forbidden...
****** "lax"...
it's enough to tease the affair with
mere thought...
to have... people "bothered"
that one thinks... such "things"!
while the girl... prime... aged... 14...
teases you with...
exfoliations of...
                      script and... censure...
like a skirt...
but of course...
you're the dodo-project genocidal maniac
about to sport a new: cushioning
extreme...
of an ******* like...
you're minding teasing...
a high-blood pressure!

          can i allow myself a giggle?
a crown of: a dozen demons laughing
as relevant: to the 12 strong cohort of...
cognitive lapses of reason?
          
  ******* before a mirror is my...
my memory and my last concern for...
"adventure"...
a ****** ******* a russian girl so freely...
she fed off of us as...
     spinning a willow to confine itself to:
those rhubarbs in... "retro"...
no... i'm pretty sure... "they"...
the western communists would have minded
it coming across as...
  rhubarb... dreads... stiff 12" drizzle /
drool bits of a tight-knit white sporting ***!
my... oh... wait...
not exactly 16... so... no...

my... what?!
    this has to become one of those...
most... "unspectacularbly": "a least"
in what's to be digested... "fogiven"...
when... there's that teasing-**** of a per-se
readied for her rite of horror to be
met with ******* the...
upper... echelons...
to the queue! to the loiter!
to the...                cue: no dry martini equipped...
sort of... joke as... a variation
of... escapism: to excuse...
fixations... of social hierarchy...

    i am hardly a misogynist...
            it's almost... fake...
how feminists point out... death-pull...
the misogynists...
clinging to philanthropists... i suppose...
it's like...
"someone" forgot...
to... mention...
the benevolent in misanthrophy...
the happily allied to the ivory tower...
whether you're a man or a woman...
or a man pretending to be a woman...
or a woman pretending to be a man...

who is... the misanthrope?
            the solipsist...
the atheist: should you be god?
the altruist... the... fiddly-bit... extreme...
the... autist?
         who is... your... claim for...
******-****** ruleZ the world?
mother of all perfected children...
a bit like jerking off to...
those gravure beijing models...

ava lauren? she is... an aged looking
*******... closure: madame...
she earned it...
her skin is like leather...
you dare to: wear it...
   but... oops: the ubermensch...
these chinese "brides" are not...
photoshopped...
they're genetically edited...
it was apparent that china
didn't have a soul...
in its summa summarum...
or in its christ redeemer...
when... india has its rich
polytheism... pedagogy:
shiva the antithesis of vishnu:
the thesis...

    i can feel... at least!
i can feel abbreviated with the raj master...
sport...
sending a few "*******" to beijing!
let's hear a story...
no... i'm fuming mad:
i'm dying! to hear that coin-flip
of a tail: of bending the... fuckning knee:
capping... as one might!

there's a <100million of "me"...
there's... a >1billion of "them"...

   while:
            i ****** off to...
          genetically edited creatures...
the western world can hide
behind its setting sun: metaphor...
photo-editing... while...
the hot-**** beijing is...
gene-editing...
west-world 1972 bronze age:
"staging a coup"..

             yeah: gurran-gu-dag...
the arabs and their bangladeshi...
queen-bee sorted...
           elizabeth II...
royal ascot...
  i.e. lamborghinis raced on knightbridge...
because: arab playboys are to be...
minded...

write long... to ensure...
people read short... little chance
of censor-loved-up-pseudo-i.q.-heroes!
100 years later: you become a pseudo-Proust /
a Joyce... but... that also implies:
you're stiff up at the neck...
in death and sand... and worms...
in a grave! so? no turkish kebab:
no malmuk / no janissary resurrection!
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Within The Heart Of The Rose

The blush enfolds the richest glosamor at the tip of your fingers that’s where the wonder lingers but
thats just the outward adorning go within to depths go beyound the veil you have ventured into nature’s
sacred dwelling cool night mysteries rest until the suns warmth leaves a fragrant excited exposoion that
ever so gently wafs into the consiscus vessitudes that draw a myrid reponses the creeking tree over the
vale this loving tale decribes its host ultimate tender nature so fragil a degign with pedels that there
greatest strength seems to be in the pixel colors they produce tilted forever in spectaculars arraying the
gradual play of light ever so softly engages delightful excitement would I speak of love then I must call
your name nothinng else is so fitting spill forth emotional waves they trully never languish they would
only slightly touch the water suface then from this enrichment go forth speaking all that lovers
demand and long for it trully resides in the heart of a Rose
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
after acquiring the english language,
and synthesising it for twenty years...
ugh... breakfast that is but a cup of water
and immediately feeling bloated...
or just imagining that you can live
on food and alcohol... like a diesel engine....
comes to just as much
     trying to catch butterflies akin to
nabokov, or thoughts...
      and are either, so trully necessary?
well... unless you take to calling it
the only relative opposite of picking up
a gun and shooting someone for no reason
other than a per se reason, which
subsequently has to be reasoned with -
akin to this...
  or, dare i say, picking up a philosophy book
and seeing how there is clearly
a child in there, esp. in english -
how each philosophy book seems to be
avoiding the pronoun i -
such is the nature of these books,
    a lot of hide & seek happening -
with the basic formula of: being yourself,
to avoid, your self.
then again as this french girlfriend told
me when she was staying in edinburgh
for a year to complete her erasmus program
from the university of grenòble
and she was doing this psychology experiment
and she needed native speakers...
  and i was given the stick for trying to
fake her science by suggesting that i'd do it...
yeah...
           well i really did hook up with her when
an american was about to court her,
and that's the only time i played the huinter-gatherer
role, or was motivated to do so,
when we went bar crawling and i pulled her
from the crowd and we stayed behind while
the group moved to another pub...
that was the only time i felt a need to do the "chase",
later this thing called the categorical imperative
came along, and i subsequently lost the impetus
to compete...
being a gladiator could have been greater,
what with the hardships of life...
but you can watch these gladiators fall...
quiet easily, buying groceries in a supermarket,
or opening a fridge door...
it's this return to the mundane, the household
environment can really beat a man,
if his life is lived to sample the ancient
field of danger...
   so when i did get the schtick of her empiricism
i decided: well... i'm no native....
and aren't we all so puritan about science
when some of it can't be falsified,
which it can:
        never too fond of accents myself...
native or alien...
               some people have a fetish for
feet or a french accent...
                        but that ***** essex slur...
or however you'd like to put it,
  it's not even cockney, but you get to hear
something quasi-cockney around these parts
more often, given that a lot of londoners
are moving away to these parts...
cockney meets essex county...
or meats it... yep: beats it silly with squalor
and at the same time: sophistication of living
in cement graveyards of an international city...
then again, you walk into a forest at night
during the summer, wearing only a t-shirt...
and it's freezing!
   you can actually hear Gaia breathing...
and then out of the woods and onto the cement...
that rush of feeling a complete change
of temperature... well... that's something.
          oh it wasn't me, i didn't dump that
french bird, she dumped me,
       as an experienced woman in her early
twenties would, to a ****** (who lost it with her),
18 year old.
    memories and all, what a grand cinema,
sipping absinthe on the streets of athens,
the athenian strip-club...
                sitting on a stool looking at a stripper
while holding two women in my arms
and kissing that sweet, sweet tender *****...
what happened after?
   drank all my money away,
                was escorted by a bouncer to a cash
machine... ****** myself
           and scuttled away back to the hostel....
and then took the bus from athens to katowice...
macedonia? beautiful, very hilly...
       serbia though... a plataeu of snow...
and i admit, belgrade from the distance
looked stunnig... esp. because of the snow.
oh right, i was supposed to insert a          )
having begun it with a     (      of an original prompt...
english really does have this natural
basis to invoke a self-conscious pronoun base of i,
it's like there's this need for a double-certainty
of the speaker stating that: it really is that person
speaking... or even thinking...
     polish        as a language? it rarely uses
the pronoun ja, i.e. i,
                          it's just certain -
english has to overtly use the pronoun -
      and it would be certainly pointless to ditto it
out... like some careless selfish womanisers
by the name of sartre...
                   that's the one thing i don't understand
about sartre, how it could ever be, something
about "ego"... more like Igor and doctor frankenstein...
i find that expression, yes, that alone
   " e g o " to be akin to pontius pilate washing his hands:
for whather transgression: i can't be to blame...
and then comes that ****** mantra
of mea culpa... and it just goes on and on...
to be frank, the whole point of mea culpa
is to transcend any invocation of self-pity...
      it's probably the foremost notion of transcendentalism,
well given that self-pity exists in people,
and some people would rather take blame;
indeed, it is my fault that i once had a heart
to feel intimate with someone, or even entertain
the idea of a fwend...
                            if anyone asks, i'll just be
a hermit, in my little cave.
Hal Loyd Denton Sep 2012
A southern blend of jasmine and magonolia waft across the grounds an in it is a mixture of tell
Tale knowing a little smoulder lies in her eyes it causes you to anticapate a well spoken word
First it has a different sound than the rest of the country it has a bluesy age to it like it has come
From the delta it took its on sweet time in doing so it is bold just with enough southen sass to
Keep you alert you can’t take for granted that which is explosive and vibrant you don’t live in
The rise and fall of such rich history and not carry a mystery and confidence that is allureing
Tressels and verandas build the tender mood of gentel beckoning that is adorded as seasoned
Fashion spell binding unabashed qaulity is seen in modest means that streams like blue bells that
Have been turned to liquid by charms power and it lays like a long lasy haze that reaches the
Far horizion with a sigh you stop and deeply meditate this creates strong thoughts that go out
From your inner self like a suden strong wind that list and goes where you no not but
refreshment Is left in its wake like an old winding road it not the arriving but the going that is
awsome it delivers Many sights like the night it holds wonders of compassion as an old man you
see in his eyes That knowing that shows care you feel a welcome embracing toucing you for
Dixie makes a Speacial brew it takes long long southern days and paitennce here is derived like
no other place you get that taste of grace speaking slowly it is a trait of the wise that came by
it not by racing To it but by a slow assurance that only grows when you give it time it gives life
a higher qaulity that Is rare in our modern world why would you take a speed boat when you can
go by paddle wheel and go to a place called Natchez eithier real or imagined gentel thoughts
invade and they are a gloroious parade with all sorts of colors and floats that portray geenteel
sentiments some of it is the feeling of loss that great and real times that held such sway are truly
gone with the wind bedeviled by a women she wears a oversized hat that frames her and in many
ways explains her the showing of a well spring of love to be bathed in her voice it trully is the
finding of that memory and grand glory of a true sothern bell walk softly in this spell created
over many treasured moments in southern rays and moonlight kissed by a protective certiny of
woman hood found in no other place cover me God in sothern primose dreams until I walk again
on the great southern soil
Bekezela May 2017
I fear that the voices in my head will get to me.
Lead me into becoming a puppet to their enchanting orders.
The heart that I trusted so much has fled.
I believe it now hides in a cabin,
Hoping that I don't find it.
It seems as if my body, soul and mind have a life of their own.
I wish I could hide the truth but the mirror never lies,
It reflects all my imperfections and how I trully feel inside.
I hate the mess I have become.
I hate what the people think I have become,
A PERFECT IMPERFECTION
Kuraido May 2018
I met a person, who’m at first glance I can tell

That I love the way she talks and how her hair smells

As days went by I just couldn’t resist

I told her how I felt, “Thank God you exist”

“I’m sorry”, she replied. “We could still be friends”

“For if we trully fell for each other, it wouldn’t be a happy end”
I got friendzoned LOL
V Lgsn Jul 2015
My mom said,
that you're not a good friend,
But i defended you,
because i want to be with you
till the end.




My heart aches,
because of what she said,
Not because it's wrong,
But because of you, who trully aleft.







I always thought that you're my bestfriend,
guess what? I just realized that we reached the end.





Happy to see you with your friends,
Because after all that 6 years of friendship, i will always be your EX bestfriend.
What infinte pleasure I live in.
Finding joy and delight in my ever twist and turn.
The impurity of the world delights me.
Death and torture have begun to tease me.
Like ******* to a growing child.

What sweet ecstasy the macabre expounds to me.
It seems all I want in the world are tools to make my life harder.
It's to easy to come by happiness in this state.
I was made for this world.
Sent by god to enjoy the evilest of her spoils.

I am a gift to all that is disgusting on earth.
Like a tree I clean the air of agony.
This is done by stuffing my face with it.
Ooh how beautiful blood trully is.
But your to busy feeling joy to admire this.

I pitty the stupidity of the emotionally and mentally sane.
I wonder what lies they were told that make them feel whole.
Do they not see the fire beneath their feet.
Do they not feel the heat burn through their souls.
Or am I blessed with a sadness that helps me feel true emotions.

I am a parasite that spreads disease.
However I spread it only to those in need of me.
I engrave my skin with all my sins.
Then whisper sweet nothings to a dead tree.
Often I spread ink filled with my dreams all over screens.
Oh what a creep I seem to be.

You dream of love.
I dream of lust.
Yet I am called a foul.
In truth only one of these lies from the world we live in can come true.
But you carry on pining for the wrong one.

You still have dreams.
But somehow hate the idea of a neverending sleep.
What a fool you are to wish you can be better.
When you can always wish not to be.
How can you fear the wrath of a deity that won't even let you be.

Do you really live when you fear death.
Or do you breathe bubbles of oxygen in your watery web of lies.
Continuing to tell yourself untruths in order to feel alive.
It's sad how trully depressed you are don't you think.
You won't feel this truth for it's a mirror you refuse to see your ****** through.

I wonder how vulnerable you feel knowing I know to much about you.
You'll probably look me in the eyes and hold back tears.
Even if you do I know and enjoy the thought that I have violated you.
You are putty in my hands.
All because I know you beg for a better person to notice you.

But they won't.
Infact they never do.
You are nothing and everyday you try to forget.
But your inferiority is my truth so I own it.
You are are ugly beyond compare.
So ugly that you cry unprovoked for hours and hours wishing your life would end.
I'm a little sad so I want to share it with you
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Wisest Wood

The tree limb reaches
In silence it teaches
Some lessons told by peaches
It gives somber knowing
All the while it is bowing
In perfect stillness volumes it speaks
nothing so sturdily rooted streaks
arm of solitude so finely creeks
in winter climes wonder glows so bleak
inspiration swells for those that seek
how perfectly it fits the suroundings
though stationary across fields it goes bounding
it frames the day all with out any sounding
wisest measure trully its grasp outstanding
what else contains such extraordinary? Profundity
Hal Loyd Denton Jun 2013
A southern blend of jasmine and magonolia waft across the grounds an in it is a mixture of tell
Tale knowing a little smoulder lies in her eyes it causes you to anticapate a well spoken word
First it has a different sound than the rest of the country it has a bluesy age to it like it has come
From the delta it took its on sweet time in doing so it is bold just with enough southen sass to
Keep you alert you can’t take for granted that which is explosive and vibrant you don’t live in
The rise and fall of such rich history and not carry a mystery and confidence that is allureing
Tressels and verandas build the tender mood of gentel beckoning that is adorded as seasoned
Fashion spell binding unabashed qaulity is seen in modest means that streams like blue bells that
Have been turned to liquid by charms power and it lays like a long lasy haze that reaches the
Far horizion with a sigh you stop and deeply meditate this creates strong thoughts that go out
From your inner self like a suden strong wind that list and goes where you no not but
refreshment Is left in its wake like an old winding road it not the arriving but the going that is
awsome it delivers Many sights like the night it holds wonders of compassion as an old man you
see in his eyes That knowing that shows care you feel a welcome embracing toucing you for
Dixie makes a Speacial brew it takes long long southern days and paitennce here is derived like
no other place you get that taste of grace speaking slowly it is a trait of the wise that came by
it not by racing To it but by a slow assurance that only grows when you give it time it gives life
a higher qaulity that Is rare in our modern world why would you take a speed boat when you can
go by paddle wheel and go to a place called Natchez eithier real or imagined gentel thoughts
invade and they are a gloroious parade with all sorts of colors and floats that portray geenteel
sentiments some of it is the feeling of loss that great and real times that held such sway are truly
gone with the wind bedeviled by a women she wears a oversized hat that frames her and in many
ways explains her the showing of a well spring of love to be bathed in her voice it trully is the
finding of that memory and grand glory of a true sothern bell walk softly in this spell created
over many treasured moments in southern rays and moonlight kissed by a protective certiny of
woman hood found in no other place cover me God in sothern primose dreams until I walk again
on the great southern soil
rolanda Dec 2013
True Friends
A long time ago in China there were two friends, one who played the harp skilfully and one who listen skillfully.
When the one played or sang about a mountain, the other would say: "I can see the mountain before us."
When the one played about water, the listener would exclaim: "Here is the running stream!"
But the listener fell sick and died. The first friend cut the strings of his harp and never played again. Since that time the cutting of harp strings has always been a sign of intimate friendship.

                                                               ­                                  From „ Zen flesh, Zen bones“*


the gallery of your luscious qualities
do indeed killing me
there is no one scolding you
like they doing on me
for such nonsenseal guilt, that
i sometimes  use imaginary
but alas it happens far seldom
usually i am indeed just infinitely
diminutiv towards your very boldship
the severe prose of life dont
let write astute  fantasies
yet my punk *** is vernacular towards
your upperclassed way to speak
its like dog's bark near
your charming chant of melodies
to be befriended with you
yet listen your compliments
I am getting perplexed
cuz i see you stiff giggling on me
you would better doubt me for my narrow horizon
where i type only about hopelessely of resistance
yet about that love is dead
how bore!!
it trully not what may enterntain!

Better I would dont coment and dont write anymore
Better I would skimp this beggarly text
instead only  picking nose behind of barricade
and let you hear nix beside my
Perro Semihundido's
WOOF!WOOF!WOOF!

….but, I wrote this lolololong locomotive,
since its obviously my pretty fun to ******* myself
bye
Hal Loyd Denton Mar 2012
Southern style

A southern blend of jasmine and magonolia waft across the grounds an in it is a mixture of tell
Tale knowing a little smoulder lies in her eyes it causes you to anticapate a well spoken word

First it has a different sound than the rest of the country it has a bluesy age to it like it has come
From the delta it took its on sweet time in doing so it is bold just with enough southen sass to

Keep you alert you can’t take for granted that which is explosive and vibrant you don’t live in
The rise and fall of such rich history and not carry a mystery and confidence that is allureing

Tressels and verandas build the tender mood of gentel beconing that is adorded as seasoned
Fashion spell binding unabashed qaulity is seen in modest means that streams like blue bells that

Have been turned to liquid by charms power and it lays like a long lasy haze that reaches the
Far horizion with a sigh you stop and deeply meditate this creates strong thoughts that go out

From your inner self like a suden strong wind that list and goes where you no not but
refreshment Is left in its wake like an old winding road it not the arriving but the going that is

awsome it delivers Many sights like the night it holds wonders of compassion as an old man you
see in his eyes That knowing that shows care you feel a welcome embracing toucing you for

Dixie makes a Speacial brew it takes long long southern days and paitennce here is derived like
no other place you get that taste of grace speaking slowly it is a trait of the wise that came by  

it  not by racing To it but by a slow assurance that only grows when you give it time it gives life
a higher qaulity that Is rare in our modern world why would you take a speed boat when you can

go by paddle wheel and go to a place called Natchez eithier real or imagined gentel thoughts
invade and they are a gloroious parade with all sorts of colors and floats that portray geenteel

sentiments some of it is the feeling of loss that great and real times that held such sway are truly
gone with the wind bedeviled by a women she wears a oversized hat that frames her and in many

ways explains her the showing of a well spring of love to be bathed in her voice it trully is the
finding of that memory and grand glory of a true sothern bell walk softly in this spell created

over many treasured moments in southern rays and moonlight kissed by a protective certiny of
woman hood found in no other place  cover me God in sothern primose dreams until I walk again

on the great southern soil
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2013
Southern Style


A southern blend of jasmine and magonolia waft across the grounds an in it is a mixture of tell
Tale knowing a little smoulder lies in her eyes it causes you to anticapate a well spoken word
First it has a different sound than the rest of the country it has a bluesy age to it like it has come
From the delta it took its on sweet time in doing so it is bold just with enough southen sass to
Keep you alert you can’t take for granted that which is explosive and vibrant you don’t live in
The rise and fall of such rich history and not carry a mystery and confidence that is allureing
Tressels and verandas build the tender mood of gentel beckoning that is adorded as seasoned
Fashion spell binding unabashed qaulity is seen in modest means that streams like blue bells that
Have been turned to liquid by charms power and it lays like a long lasy haze that reaches the
Far horizion with a sigh you stop and deeply meditate this creates strong thoughts that go out
From your inner self like a suden strong wind that list and goes where you no not but
refreshment Is left in its wake like an old winding road it not the arriving but the going that is
awsome it delivers Many sights like the night it holds wonders of compassion as an old man you
see in his eyes That knowing that shows care you feel a welcome embracing toucing you for
Dixie makes a Speacial brew it takes long long southern days and paitennce here is derived like
no other place you get that taste of grace speaking slowly it is a trait of the wise that came by
it not by racing To it but by a slow assurance that only grows when you give it time it gives life
a higher qaulity that Is rare in our modern world why would you take a speed boat when you can
go by paddle wheel and go to a place called Natchez eithier real or imagined gentel thoughts
invade and they are a gloroious parade with all sorts of colors and floats that portray geenteel
sentiments some of it is the feeling of loss that great and real times that held such sway are truly
gone with the wind bedeviled by a women she wears a oversized hat that frames her and in many
ways explains her the showing of a well spring of love to be bathed in her voice it trully is the
finding of that memory and grand glory of a true sothern bell walk softly in this spell created
over many treasured moments in southern rays and moonlight kissed by a protective certiny of
woman hood found in no other place cover me God in sothern primose dreams until I walk again
on the great southern soil
Krusty Aranda May 2016
How can I learn to love someone, and not how to love myself?
I'm insanely in love with her.
With her eyes.
With her smile.
With her laugh, her voice, her skin, her hair, her soul.
So why can't I love myself?
Love myself enough to not put myself through the pain my love being unrequited.
Love myself enough to accept that she won't love me.
Love myself enough to stop fooling myself into believing I can make her fall for me.
Love myself enough to give myself some time alone. Trully alone.
How can my heart belong to everyone but myself?
Why do I give myself away for the wrong people?
These questions I've asked myself for years, and still I haven't found the answer to any of them.
She's so important to me, and I know she cares, but not as much as I care for her.
I know it, or at least my mind does.
My heart refuses to understand.
My heart won't let reason take over for as much as a second.
I love her so much.
I'd give it all for her.
So why can't I do the same for myself?
Why can I love her, but not myself?
Child, nightmare and dreams
You have them so short,  so it seems!
The hardest part is letting go!
Your head says yes and the rest screams no!!
Try to give them right from wrong
Show them how to be strong!
To stand on their own two feet
To be a good person to any they meet!
But sometimes it goes so bad, drugs, drink or they just don't care!
Their demons take over and as parents we have to pay the piper the fare!
You can't say don't give a ****, give them the cold shoulder!
Because deep down they're your babies and without them the world is trully colder!!
To lock them up in a safe haven, cotton wool, no monsters in their cupboard you say
Your inside shrinks and your heart shrivels to see them  take the wrong road, their way!!
DiD you do your best? Do you love your children enough?  Are you still trying to fix things you think you didn't do right?
Me if I could go back in time, I'd be a little strickter, still love them the same, unconditionally just meybe not so busy more in sight!!
Say no when I should've, tell I them I love them, hold them in my arms much much more!!
Meybe then I wouldn't feel such a failure and my heart  
wouldn't hurt be so sore!!!!
X
A kid from a cradle
Thrown from an angry wave
Onto a  beach where
Sand cuts like glass
I guess thats my story

It didnt always hurt this bad
and believe when I say
all was not once this lost

But, somehow
Through all this accidental ignorance and bluff
Ive surrendered
Ive given in

My beloved,
I understand now
What it is to be beaten into the dark
and im through with hurt
Believe what is trully felt
and never abuse such feeling
For I am half alive still
But I am progress
I am again
I am all love
I am again...
WillowWriter7 Jun 2019
Eyes that glow,
Voice of gold,
Lips that kiss
My heart and soul.
Wings that shield,
Hands that love,
Is that smile
Trully real?
Touch of warmth,
Heart of truth,
I don't deserve this stranger's thoughts...
muteD Dec 2015
Sometimes I Feel Like I ******* Up.
And Most Days I Know I Have.
I Miss My Old Life,
The Life I Used To Have
Just 4 Short Weeks Ago.
For The First Time In My Life,
I Trully Regret The Decisions I've Made.
I Regret Burning The Bridges I've Burned.
And I Regret Hurting The People I've Hurt.
For The First Time In My Life
I Realize How Horrible Of A Person I Trully Am.
And I Don't Know If I Can Change That.
Today's just one of those days..
Crystian Marin Dec 2010
dry cry..

muted scream..

faded pictures of memories..

memories of the days when we were young

when we all got along

where nothing ever seemed to go wrong

where have those days gone?

why have they decided to hide from us?

i would give it all up just so i could go back to them

before this pathetic excuse for a life ends

and i forget what it is like to trully be happy

because lately i have not seen happiness

just anger sadness and stress

why have they decided to hide from us?

it is like a twisted game of hide and go seek

but everyone stopped playing before they found me

sit and wait..
It's a number
It's a place
It's a man

It's 11 o'clock
First night
First talk
First kiss
I love you...
First held hands. Tight.
I love you too...
Late night deep talks
Sweetest kisses
Night cuddles
His lips touching hers
It stings and lingers
I love you. It hurts.

You're only mine...
Yes... Always... Forever...
Smiling,
They danced the night away
It's 3 o'clock
Morning kisses
Morning hugs
Morning love
First breakfast
Burning flames
It's warm. Your warmth.
I love you. It hurts.

A goodbye kiss
His lips touching her forehead
Twice
Words left unspoken
Don't leave yet...
I miss you...
She watched
As he walked
Away from her

It's a man
A man inside a heart
A heart that loves trully
By a woman
Who patiently waits

Come back to me
Don't forget about me
I am waiting
A promise is a promise
I am not leaving you
I miss you...
I love you...
That it hurts...
Still...

                                         - Ella Salvador
(c) May 2018
and we lay pressed together,
he tries to teach me the dialect
of butterfly kisses,
and being so close,
we are no longer a landscape of two mountains and valleys moving,
but we are one,
and its so warm and comforting to feel his weight as he weighs on me,
and he still needs to be closer,
wrapping compact muscles,
around my stumps for legs,
and he is sticky fingers, that bestow solemn pinky promises,
half attempted secret whispers yelled across the room,

he is a sweet sunrise,
when all you have ever known is the blistering loneliness of night.
He is not afraid to talk and to share his thoughts,
and there are moments, snapshots of my failing infrastructure,
that lashes out at his incessant nature, me willing him to stop.

He discusses my beauty with strangers and mid thought tells me that I am so very beautiful,
and when he says it I believe it.

he falls asleep like one who is proud to tell anyone listening he is 3 and a half he had to add.

i wish he were mine,
mine to keep,
mine to trully love,
but I'm just make believing playing wifey to families,
with no need,

but right now its just
you and me
and the me I am with you,
and in this moment i hold your small 3 year old hands in my hand,
and its enough to be.
as memories,
pieces of paper,
all attached by some invisible string
so delicate,
so tangible,

these are the pieces of my life
all carefully arranged; away from a narrative
like verses in a poem
they can stand alone but mean so much more together
trully grasping my soul
Mayank Jha Sep 2017
It takes a special person
To teach a child in a class
To keep his attention
In the world that moves so fast.

For every lesson you teach
And inspire us for truth
The knowledge that you give
Guides our youth.

You are that special person
You always gave your best
Since I am your student
My life is trully blessed.
do not ask me....?
the level, reaction we have...?
we meet, strangers? but..?
trully happy to see you, speak,
like we know each other....?before?
life is hard, hurtfull, not fair and yet beautiful, amazing!
glad to see you in the flesh, it did me good!
xxxxxx
for people i was not looking for, but touch my heart
Dennis Scherle Apr 2014
There is a girl i sit behind in a class we are asked to hone our craft of writting, producing storys and tales but in my mind poetry stiill prevails, this girl has long light brown hair that flows like silk down her soft face jeweled by her big bright brown eyes that draw me in. She speaks from her heart and can captivate any reader she gives the glorious chance to glimps upon her work. Her words could move mountains with the weight of truth she uses. Still she does not see it, sadley she does not see the gold in her soul, the angelic like perfections that make up her face beauty is not worth the essence of what you trully are, for you make the stars envious with how u shine, your eyes so amazing they are like a rainbow a child sees in the sprinklers reflection to remind every man that deep down is a boy who still thinks the world is full of wonder you give me the same feeling as christmas and just like the grinch u made my heart grow three sizes bigger then nyone thought possible to the more astonishing part you ddnt just make me fall in love with you, you showed me i can love myself even with the times i grunted n growned as u made me look after my health a good nights sleep before you meant nothing, but now with you a dreamer has a reason to sleep hopeing i can see you even a second longer in my head as storys play like projector screens thinkin of the magic it would make me feel if i could only just kiss you, Your lips softly pressing against mine. The idea brings fireworks to my mental imagery, my body becomes lifted full of energy. Like the sky that was once dark and smogy is fresh again, i take a deep breath inhailing the clean air that clenses my heavy soul. I reach my hand over my cheast realizing the heart you stole. Thinkin its safer where it is cuz my hearts a wild animal and its wrong to keep it locked up behind the cage of bone being my ribs. Memories like monkey faces and tickle fights, curved with philosophy and a cold cola dwn my neck while you laugh enough to everyone stare but we diddnt care, whats highschool without silly memories, like asking bout my feet. Or convincing me to keep my dorky hair that never seems to lay flat in the back. Picking jokes at my baggy jeans, stealing sweaters but that part always made me smile thinking something of mine kept you warm, no matter if it was dark or a snow storm know im close to you. The thought of my arms around you, sometimes we might get pulled into dark thoughts, we are tested and pulled, sometimes you might think you have nothing but know you will always have me. I care so much i will never let you forget. Till the life leaves from body and i take my last breath. You are strong, you are smart, you are beautiful. THANK YOU, You made this grumpy man smile.
Nike Kaffezakis Sep 2010
Frozen in the ice
I wish to speak to you
I long to touch you

You see the cold eyes
Of a man who’s been cursed
To losing his wants

And you turn to leave
Standing there, you take one glimpse
Of the frost demon

But quickly you exit
Shying away from icy touch
Too wise to stay here

My eyes follow you
Until they can see no more
The muse of my voice

Crushed and depressed,
Not able to make change to
The situation.

But time does remind
Of what fools humans can be
And one does think

Of all the mistakes
A man can make in his life is
To hold on too long

And maybe I can’t
Speak the words you want to hear
But maybe that’s good

You never did tell
Me what you did trully want
Nor will you ever

Maybe the lesson
Here is that I am the fool
From love’s avarice

In thinking wrongly
It was my fault you had left.
You do like the cold
Hal Loyd Denton Dec 2012
A southern blend of jasmine and magonolia waft across the grounds an in it is a mixture of tell
Tale knowing a little smoulder lies in her eyes it causes you to anticapate a well spoken word
First it has a different sound than the rest of the country it has a bluesy age to it like it has come
From the delta it took its on sweet time in doing so it is bold just with enough southen sass to
Keep you alert you can’t take for granted that which is explosive and vibrant you don’t live in
The rise and fall of such rich history and not carry a mystery and confidence that is allureing
Tressels and verandas build the tender mood of gentel beckoning that is adorded as seasoned
Fashion spell binding unabashed qaulity is seen in modest means that streams like blue bells that
Have been turned to liquid by charms power and it lays like a long lasy haze that reaches the
Far horizion with a sigh you stop and deeply meditate this creates strong thoughts that go out
From your inner self like a suden strong wind that list and goes where you no not but
refreshment Is left in its wake like an old winding road it not the arriving but the going that is
awsome it delivers Many sights like the night it holds wonders of compassion as an old man you
see in his eyes That knowing that shows care you feel a welcome embracing toucing you for
Dixie makes a Speacial brew it takes long long southern days and paitennce here is derived like
no other place you get that taste of grace speaking slowly it is a trait of the wise that came by
it not by racing To it but by a slow assurance that only grows when you give it time it gives life
a higher qaulity that Is rare in our modern world why would you take a speed boat when you can
go by paddle wheel and go to a place called Natchez eithier real or imagined gentel thoughts
invade and they are a gloroious parade with all sorts of colors and floats that portray geenteel
sentiments some of it is the feeling of loss that great and real times that held such sway are truly
gone with the wind bedeviled by a women she wears a oversized hat that frames her and in many
ways explains her the showing of a well spring of love to be bathed in her voice it trully is the
finding of that memory and grand glory of a true sothern bell walk softly in this spell created
over many treasured moments in southern rays and moonlight kissed by a protective certiny of
woman hood found in no other place cover me God in sothern primose dreams until I walk again
on the great southern soil
Cris Artist Nov 2015
GOD
I admit I'm not perfect,
but you're still here with me to protect
No words can explain,
the happiness I gain
With you I'm feeling blessed,
'cause you're trully the best.



11/22/15
I would really love to phone you on a Tuesday night
To have a cold one or you invite me for a bite
Or spend a day with your mom, dad and you!
Christ child what the hell did you do???
You took a very special person away
And made my life seem really grey!
I want to meet  you again and ask you why?
And give your parents answers so they won't cry!!
I want to punch you and scream
Why did you take away your dream!!!!
My questions can't be answered, heaven is not close so I can't ask
But sometimes my anger at you is huge and I want to take you to task! !!!
It's allready 2 years and soon you should have a birthday and be twentysix!
Everybody still thinks of you, misses you and for **** sake this I can't fix!!!!!
The frustration is big and the pain doesn't go, but we have to live with it!
I will meybe forgive, but never forget and find a place where you WILL fit!
I see your father, mother and brother and see there lives are half broken
I want to help them, I want to find the magic not the half crap token
The words, be strong life goes on!
No it doesnt for you, you are gone!!
I moved house because of the memories,  I felt lost, I couldn't handle it!!!!!!!
I trully wish your family could do that, but they can't and it kills me to see them sit!!!
There hearts are crushed and mine burns
Tomorrow comes and the g'd **** world turns!
Things happen in my life and I want tell and to share
And one of life lessons is life is not fair!
So the big question is why did you take yourself away from us? Why did you do it??????
We won't be able to answer that yet or never! G'd **** idiot ****** hell! ! ****!!!
The pain you leave behind if you take your own life is so far reaching, please seek help! To anyone who is thinking about it!!!!!!!!The hurt is ......... I can't describe it.  I wish you could see the hole you leave  xxxxx
Isadora Dec 2012
What am I to say?

There is all but nothing left,

nothing that hasn't been said before,

left out and taken

for granted.

What am I to do?

That is unique and trully from me,

that I can do and I can be?

I haven't a clue

                                with my thoughts I am blue.

And my desire to be heard,

thrown in the fire.

                                      Yet here I am.

              But a lamb.

I will not say it,

                               my dear

                                                 you already know.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
it was really only about writing a haiku's worth of words.

a bit like listening to an atheist on the internet,
after spending 2 years reading kant's critique,
to find 3 arguments:
- ontological,
- cosmological argument
-  teleogical-physics...
and they're all refuted by the author as actually
leading to a "proof"...
and then to later find in his work that he simply
believes... or as i will state in my *******-esque
jargon... that he had the same emotional capacity
to comply with a woman in the grand adventure
of life, as i did, or do...
        there's a cheaper word to use to just say
for per se reason other than *****...
        atheism is just that...
                           that thing... really has the emotional
capacity of a gnat... oh look... no silent g...
               so three argument by kant,
all seemingly pointless: because we like kings to
exist and be "delusional" by the concept...
         of a god/s...
                               as to say: when did we stop
in being unable to relate? oh right... when we "got together"...
    fixed sayings, fixed meanings,
          i wish i could have stomached a relationship
with a woman... but then again: i wasn't too bright
to catch-up on being ambiguous...
       well... a woman explained it to me thus,
given the ******* profession...
       man has to be promiscous type
       so a woman can play her role as *amibuity
;
no wonder man got bored and started to philosophise /
love of love - you really want to say loaf to loathe
and then see a V pop up...
           or at least that's what he said, when he got
bored of living within the capacity of a refrigerator
and being prompted by some hunt for affection...
spices... teasing, sniffing ashes...
            you never realise that the woman is an
ambiguity, and that man the promiscuity...
take that poetry... rhyme debukt... words that could
be echo... lying side by side.
   too late, doing the elvis aha or ahum or
ahahahum and then having a shower -
so he really did debunk the french theory of
the english stiff upper-lip?          

alternatively, some Pollockesque *******.

from kant giving his three arguments
for even trying to prove god to exist:
- ontological, for, but rather from
the basis of how you behave...
- the cosmological argument ...
- physico-teleogical (fizyko-teologicznego)
   / teleogical-physics...
oh look... a θ particle... must be sub-atomic
physics... since why wouldn't i
make the spelling mistake of writing teological?
   must be θeology... it's that crux
of digested syllables: tele- -ogical / te- -leo -g...
            te- -le- -ology?
tell a leo he's an aquarius?

and he thus concludes in his mini-novel
of easy reading session in
transcendental methodology
that all the three tiers of arguments are
without a scientific argument to be even
attempted...
    it's not that the result might be unproven,
or left like a barren desert
that asks for as much rain, as it does for hope...
he just argues that the three categories of
the mode of question attempted are deviod of
   any final overcoming sigh or sight to marvel at,
and states that the questions prefigure
a complete negation of asking them, in the first place,
what heidegger later calls: a throwing
into, or: a happening - that's trully necessary,
with any arguments as derelict houses;

or is that just in english, the germanic prefix
self-, that later ends up nothing but a cartwheel?
that's how they put it: self-help,
self-employment... self-confidence...
      what's that? motivation for a cyborg?

those are hefty things to consider,
given they are structured a bit like itemising
an atom: electrons (ontology) i.e.
in high-school they tell you electrons have
orbits, at university they tell you they are
clouds... then you sorta lose the plot
when they tell you that they don't behave
like clear units, but like quanta...
like life and death: now you see me, now you don't
type of "trick"...

thus

cruxing on 1, or working from 1...
of what can be said of the unison...
clearly i am not speaking unison, given that i'm working from
a bias of solitude... is it all conforming to a togetherness,
or is it just moving in the many diadem directions
looking awkward when dancing?

it doesn't matter: the language written when drinking
and fasting...

         atheism, having reached the end of kant's
critique, simply tells me of the emotional content of a person,
it's nothing too complicated,
                  it's an emotive construct,
   you have different emotional labyrinths for atheists
as you have for theists...
            some do things openly, lend themselves to
submission... others protest against such
juxtaposition of the body... since they are not gratifying
the "sacrifice" of women, who make themselves
prostate before the ritual...
   sound about right?
                       it must sound much much simpler:
if there was no phallus for a woman to prostate herself
there would be no god for man to do likewise...
          well... wouldn't you think that? esp. these
days with the pronoun war, the unearthing of the nag
hammadi library and it's obvious silent insolence
to be spread and firmly established...
the fact that some people actually own libraries
in their own personal space... and feminism?
    
let's call it a symbiosis...
   the difference between an atheist and a theist / deist
(by now, the close proximity of saying the two
words makes no sense, given the thesaurus and synonyms) -
at best, i can only see an atheist as someone
with an emotional construct that cannot accommodate a woman,
paradoxal: given kant...
who had the emotional capacity to be a theist,
but then able to translate it into having a spouse...

if it really is a case of / for atheism
the person will not speak plain sprechen...
    he will provide "looking behind the scenes"
of something akin to autism, the posh word is actually
all theory based: solipsism...

i really don't think actual atheists have the emotional
capacity to inscribe into their heart a word from a woman,
to have a heart capable for a woman's bloated
over-burdening O and A in biography.

atheism (a-      -the              and no ism)
   is like living with the left eye being unable to synchronise
with your right eye... it's not a case of being without
god... it's being without a woman...
                   a woman is like gravity,
it orientates a man, makes him do things...
            a woman is but gravity,
                           you fall into place as a man,

i don't know how much kant too pleasure from the feelings
he had with that she-devil he invented up there,
in the celestial library of licking out anuses...
   there really isn't a better way to probe the matter...
not after i spent such a long time

reading his three-tier argument, to only be rewarded with
the fact that he still said, at the end of it:
i believe.
                 who does that to a man?
           someone who will later laugh and say:
better you invested your time in some darling Clemency,
or June, or something that might be of use...
something that might make you sing akin to eric
clapton: wonderful tonight...
      it would actually help doing what i do if
i didn't have an artistic transcendentalism to back the argument
up with... testing the nerve and the part of me that
likes going to the toilet gym for a bit of sitting yoga...
alas... it's not there...

  the bane of living in england in the 21st century
compared to living in poland in the 20th century...
men went to the army for 3 compulsory years
  after graduating from school aged 21... or 19...
anyway... later than in current england, when you can
******* aged 16...
                 what a mistake to have entered university...
i'll never stop slapping myself for having
made such a mistake...
      
as of those who believe in gods, we also believe
     in being titans: basically at war with ourselves;
having written that, i'm going to dread having
to reread the rest i wrote, for typos in the excess of being
drunk.... and actually listening to eric clapton...
ugh! what's that word? that americanism?!
it's so nasal i don't even know how to spell it:
poodle / coo d and the plural e? sounds like ease,
or thereabouts.
Hal Loyd Denton Mar 2012
Vision of Love

They have memorial walls for fallen soldiers there needs to be a rock wall a memoral for lost
love with exquisite tranlucent paint take trebling hand pick up the brush let the inward brokeness

guide your brush strokes all that see her face will know the haunting pleasure that speaks bluntly
of imeasurable thoughts that were built from peace and it alone holds pathos are not tears and

hurts bound to the wall when you gave your all your eyes show the starry incomprinsible
knowing this was all of lifes searching bestowed in one human form it emits this emotional

content wave after wave indisoulble atraction that was binding in one but just a wisp of an echo
of feet departing that is potrayed and is plainly seen crestfallen heart does bleed on this outer

stone now the cracking lines separate but in doing so makes for a greater lasting whole it dosen’t
deminish her beauty fair only in this does glory flare in spite of erarthen decay life it tells in a

binding spell does aliveness know bounds stuctures that call all elements of life sea ward scapes
trees on mountan vistas the deepest sweetewst medows are aglow when I touched her arm that

once held me tight in embrace now the airy wind tells of it as just a mystery but oh to me it is the
cooing of the dove it was what I invested my all in love for a time it was reality living breathing

unspoken tenderness flowed sweet as wine a nector aged in the divine heart of promise and it
was mine now sweetest torture looks out on me from a rock wall if I were God I wouldd crush it

to powder and make her come to life only for me but who wants a slave with out will or thought
that’s not the materail or value of love it must be freely given by this device joy trully could pour

from rock and love spill on this dead broken life if it could only be so restoration from heaps of
tallied days longings with out end the chrushing continues this soul must live on recalections

a smile frozen in time a voice that was as cool as the dewy morn that called me to brightest day
where ever I go I am under her watchful eye the rocks are sure they are my peaceful cure for her
love that I lost by this know that true love never dies it just planitivly sighs over days and years
irinia Nov 2023
finding our way back again. to what? this is a steep question. I am drawing this map of words, today we should speak of what is, the roots of words, this silence their soil, these words vehicle for the inexpressible.  Gaza strip, day 52, Jordan foreign ministery says Israel is busy with genocide. what else is trully new, for sure not pain, a fundamental law unrecognized by physics. the paradox of time that goes deeper into words when we feel them. the center cannot support itself exposed in cruel eyes. fall and rise of a time we lived in sometime like in a house with no windows. reality is and is not in the same spacetime simply unreachable, untraceable, incomprehensible. someone speaks in a low voice, another speaks more with the eyebrows. the door opens to the dance of life, and who is riding the dance. brave minds and collapsed bodies, I didn't want to be here today, she says. one feels disgusted by the expulsion from eden. I am looking for the secret garden where the mind of the body grows, but I don't know it. I am looking for a theory of absence. this is a story about the impossibility of story.  we have to listen and forget so that life goes on

— The End —