"tsar" poems
when a nation implodes into a civil war,
it is heresy for other nations to intervene,
i didn’t hear of the french intervention
in the english civil war...
or a german intervention in the french civil war...
****** didn’t invade spain, and no african
nation intervened in the american civil war...
or mongolia invading russia via siberia
to save the tsar...
but i guess the concept of
globalisation changed all that,
when western nations forgot that they have
professional armies... while syria
has a liechtenstein / gibraltar army equivalent...
former postmen, cooks, bakers butchers and lawyers
turned professional “footballers;”
i can draw you a dairy cow in crayons if you like,
oozing blood: if this view is too complex to digest -
they do it with passion...
your soldiers do it for a paycheque, get it?
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Walking through the road of bones, on the way to Gulag,
Sleep by the sleepers, till you are just leftovers.
Making way for the ferrous wheels, mean machines,
The Red Tsar is still a reverend, Sukhois fly by.
Witness the northern winds, take a time lapse,
Stare at the Kremlin, wonder what Putin's doing?
Deserts of different shades to the opposites,
Unsaid and unclaimed they rule the north.
The lost Soyuz men in the space, still a mystery,
Few hundreds revolve with little hope and air.
Uncle Sam's contender from time immemorial,
Its a mystic land, Keeps you wondering of it.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
The peace in this seclusion
Of a tranquil park in green,
With stately trees of ancient years
And walkways in between
There's deep shade under foliage
With sunspots everywhere,
And a velvet sense of peacefulness
Pervading in the air.
But:
Should you step beyond the green grass,
Should you venture onto seal,
An abrupt and harsh transition
Manifests, as quite unreal!
There's a cacophony of engine noise,
The headlong rush of cars,
A kaleidoskope of steel and glass
And frantic men from Mars!
The grind of wasted hours
With inertia breeding dread
And putting up with maniac's
Ignoring stop lights turning red.
There's a quagmire of congestion here
A head ache for the Tsar's
And for myriads of people
Who queue daily in their cars.
There's a White Knight in the future,
There's salvation in the air
For the God's of your deliverance
Will relieve you of despair.
They will forge a mighty tunnel
Deep beneath the grassy park
And divert congested traffic
Out beyond congestion's arc.
Melding with the motorway
To make breathing space for all,
The Victoria Park Alliance
Guarantees their clarion call.
Energetic men and women
Who are planning round the clock,
Engineers and excavator's slave
To work without a stop.
Concrete slab and steel amass
To build the tunnel strong
And sleek attenuators
Keep the traffic flowing on.
Salvation in the form
Of a tunnel underground
Beneath the spreading boughs
Of an oak in green surround,
Beneath the peaceful turf
Of a verdant park as planned,
Found amidst the million souls
Of Auckland, New Zealand.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Auckland City
New Zealand
6 November 2009
www.worthyofpublishing
Nov 5, 2009
Nov 5, 2009 at 9:59 PM UTC
*and i too thought the english banknotes were big,
but by god... have you seen imperial russian's
banknotes?! you could wipe you entire **** with one.*
no, i don't own an imperial russia's
banknote,
or a kopek dating pre 20th century
that Dostoevsky might have used to
gamble,
no, i don't own an imperial russia's
banknote with tsar Nicholas the 2nd's
face on it;
you can rob me all you want,
i think the banknote to be cursed...
a cursed luck of lost reason and logic...
but when i look at that all familiar face
and stare into the ageing face of elizabeth the 2nd...
i see papered ****** gravitating
to forfeit a chance of excelling in Olympics...
Olympics indeed, of muscles turned
into oyster mush... about to be exercised
in breathing exercises of forgotten
oxygen toxins...
no... i don't own imperial russia's banknote
with Tsar Nicholas 2nd's face on it;
i did tell you my maternal great-grandfather
spoke 7 languages, didn't i?
only bothersome and subsequently fake
nobleness stresses its point...
the true aristocrats suffer with enforced
ailments that only breed an exaggerated libido,
to quote myself... *i'd **** anything that moves
within the framework of the trinity of mouth
**** and **** my ******** are always
goosebumps frolicking to a tingle and i
just want to relax with an unloading of the content,*
i didn't read marquis de sade for no reason,
other than the quoted bibliography of
the marquis himself, having read books
using only one arm, with the other...
"making bookmarks", ha.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
To the Anti-American Teacher…We Knew You Were Pro-World
A clause in your contract slated your signature for patriotism.
You never signed, they never checked, but you took down your flag
after that.
They didn’t check that either.
So, you stripped and tacked and taped and striped all the flags
from all the world to the walls.
On the east, sat Uraguay, and Paraguay, and Peru.
On the west, we went to Austria, and Hungary, and Bangladesh
for good measure.
But the north wall was your northern star – the shining one
among the rest.
The Chinese stars of social class contrasted against the five-pointed red one, the
one next to the ending of a Tsar in a February Revolution, a marking point found – not in our textbooks – but in all the places you have been.
Oh, the places you’ll go, you began.
In Israel, you had gone in your college years, and you learned of bamboo
tattoos in Thailand, but Korean was a class you completed in
France of all places, and I never had the chance to see the locations of
the south wall.
You were fired.
Over night, they tore you from the walls, lone of which, they left the
tape tacked up in four corners, a collection in each place of a flag
we once saw before us. In my desk, you slipped a map inside.
Oh, the places you’ll go, you wrote.
Such a sorrowful tune.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
I remember you from the dream
Face wet not with summer's sweat
When I awoke
Didn't think a man could cry
For the softness of a moon beam
Tomorrow's promises unmet
Death of hope
I'd see God in your eye
That day of autumn was to be
Farewell - unplanned and awkward
Two young lovers
Wrestling with goodbye
I tried to understand the need
To move life, career onward
But consoling prize
Under covers, soft thighs...
And you were wrought by accident
Tsar's serf and African queen
Triumphant, WE!
For the moment...
Then dire message from heaven sent
On lost souls' ether carried,
You were buried
And still my dreams you haunt
Post Script
I would like to dedicate this thought to Blaise Brown, poet, who passed away August 2, 2009. I regret he would only read the first two stanzas of the then unfinished work, and hope he would approve of the final form.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
Yet another tribute to all of you who write. You are the true Rock Stars of the Universe.
~
Fiddling on the Roof, as if
Throwing our common soul out
To downpour over the
Houses and streets of Anatevka, now
Abandoned. Seized by
The Tsar.
History.
Such is the soul that writes.
Tells. Thinks. Whispers of.
Records and absorbs.
Carves from Creation.
Dispenses.
Such is the soul that writes; waits
Another hour in bed in the
Morning, knowing
The Early Worm
Gets the beak first.
The Soul that writes is
The quill of the gods; angel
Feathered, timeless and part of
Everything. Say to yourselves
*I will write until the only ink
I have is the black in my eye.
I'll learn to write blind from there.*
You would.
You wrote all that has
Ever been
Written.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
I met a girl, one day or night
who taught me how to live
An empty truth, you may observe
I hope you can forgive
She spoke of something more to me,
or so she did perceive
As demons sneer at angel's wings
when tripping on their sleeves
"Where have you been tonight my dear,
I trust you will not lie?
Because lying is a bow my dear,
I trust you cannot tie?"
Lost. I had no argument.
No angle could I find.
No brilliant light bulbs brilliant light.
No swift turn of the mind.
But, amidst my overanxious thoughts,
one detail sharply stood.
Of all my prior misdirections,
this one had to be good.
"I've walked in halls of marbled stone
and well carved wooden walls.
I've talked of nations fighting wars,
and when that they might fall"
"I've conversed the winter weather wild,
heard what spring may bring.
I've bolstered men who'd have fallen down,
sang with women who cannot sing".
"And now you nag nag nag at me,
when all I want is sleep!
Why can't you leave me well alone,
when towards my dreams I creep?"
"Oh! Please do forgive me,
My most almighty Tsar.
But must One sleep with One's head,
still resting on the bar?"
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 4:09 PM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Life as we know it is a chance,
But require made hands to dance,
Then **** on everyone with winning prance.
Reading the moving lips,
Looking for people's reactive bits
And que into people's tips.
It's them ballers,
The high rollers,
With stacks of hundreds of dollars,
The snobby know it all white collars.
With them fancy cars,
Hanging in cliquey bars,
Swinging the club in many pars,
As if some royalty bloodline of a tsar.
But in a game of chance, owning a yacht means nothing without a boat!
All those credit cards mean nothing without the proper cards on the table!
Riches mean nothing in a table, nor nice clothes in a game.
Because even kings and queens could fall flat on their faces with those aces!
So let me tell you little bit about this game,
It's reading people to tame,
Where you grind the game without a shame,
Stepping up to no longer stay the same
It's a game recognize your name to a fame.
Just remember the high cards can get you far,
But get beaten by them deus in a bar,
The pairs are wonderful as it gets higher
jokers bring jokes to her admirer,
While the ladies yell "off with their heads!"
In the royal court Cowboys rule supreme,
But those pair of aces undo royalties like puddle of creme.
Two pairs are better than a pair,
And three of a kinds are better than a two pair,
While the wheel is super fair.
Straight line is common winning line
But Flushes them after a dine
The boat takes them for a cruise,
Quads will get them a bruise,
But the nutz are royal flush of hidden ruse!
It's the mastering of perception,
Made hands with repercussion.
Because life as we know it is a chance,
But requires made hands to dance,
And hold onto your winning chips by ******* on them with your prance.
When you have nothing, there is nothing to lose,
Because Hold'em no limit is the purest form of living a life!
,
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
It was not true, the sky was pouring flood.
It was true and all around with tearing blood.
He was dying next to rusted royal region.
His father frozen the anguish to painful tragedy.
Maybe April light will exhaust.
His heart with its cruel.
Ray, removed his key to intuitive rude.
In this part of the story he was the one who
Dies, the only one, and he died in regretful
Prove Tsar’s emotion. He with Love, in fire and blood.
There are no time to farewell for Russia’s Tsar.
And we don't know Russia and the Russian Tsar
never did lie to each other.
(Because there’s history, and then there’s art, patterns rotate.)
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 12:58 AM UTC
Were only smiles the chosen currency,
You'd make me quite the richest man alive;
Would only pride bring power unto me,
I'd live a tsar, a King by who I wive;
Yet do you not these feelings share for me,
The man who so adores you as his bride?
Do not the comforts of a monarch please
His treasury, his sceptre, throne and tide?
For if those fleeting smiles are insincere,
Then not a single gem belongs to me;
And if your love for me is as I fear,
Then I am ruler of a barren sea.
For though you swell my heart without denial,
It is for naught if I can't make you smile.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
Those drums of war, oh, what an awful sound
But cries and screams, they cannot be drowned
Pieces of cloth soaked with salt and crimson
Despair and violence sets life against new prisms
Aggression and hunger deeply rooted in his genes
Mad Tsar of East succumbs to vile dreams
Feb 13, 2022
Feb 13, 2022 at 7:03 PM UTC
I long for destruction
For Erosion
For the winds to tear down the mountains
For the eyes to pierce my soul
For the words to stab at my heart
Is that not my art?
The painful prose of winters strife?
It calms the masses into the night
The earths porticoes rising through,
Towering sadness that comes back anew
My words are recycled
Reminiscent of Christ's disciples
Who shackled their sins to a cross
Only I'm the one who lost.
The devil, the jailer, the judge, and the muse
I embellish their words and stand abused
The sailor who lost his one guiding star
I'll be alone in the end
Sir Nicholas the Tsar
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
detention lasts an hour,
how many times do you think
i'd write the statement?
this is before the dark-web,
before Contraband Anonymous,
oh hell, i can write you Orwell's
1984 in nanoseconds,
about how you should drink and not
ingest hallucinatory drugs,
not least the pharmacist quotient
available...
but prior to... hmm... the N.S.A. is
still my friend, they have the conversations
of the culprits, and Tsar Putin jacking
off to the sound of Apollo 13's mission failure...
and have i the ***** to say it?
i think i do.... unless a Martian descends,
or Jupiter encrusts into a ball of hot
cranium of fire, then we're left with Pluto being
the penultimate ice-ball before
the thing that killed the dinosaurs comes
along in hookah Kiwi haka style
for a fantasia of the Parisian catwalk...
chew wee a mega fibia, aye Scotch,
aye Ben Nervous - mega choo backpacker
and mm, hoo see the Nedtherlands!
and then we all get to nibble on our excited-lower-lip
the French revolved around to hark:
oriental in Romanian: h = r = haaark!
agling to a gagging too.
poetry - you make sounds, you don't
intend to make sense... it's your *******
tongue as a trumpet... what else?!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 9:51 PM UTC
też masz mi do powiedzenia, jak niby włókło włókna szarosci sierści psa, dało skóre tą samą, godną, na ubiór człowieka! o tyle, tylko czy ten pies nie igra w psie zasady i maniery łyskotek ogona, a raczej: z krókiem w krok swego pana, na ilość kra kra ha ha! KRA! HA! bo sie barbarossa obudzi!
potwory na wyspach!
każdy murzyn to wie!
tu nie ma społeczeństwa,
tu nie ma nawet dialogu,
kiedy mensch kochąjacy
mensch jest w nad grobie
ozora zakryty
szambem, i chwyta brzytwy
bo tonie nad dwóch tą krytyką!
i tu ten upiór rady i wolności,
niby, nagle opartym królem
na tronie sracza,
o! królestwo zwanem szambo!
na typ repliki króla jana!
jedna dziwa ulic uciekła bo powiedziałem
rym henryka żon wedle idolizacji karola,
pierwszy z czołem ścięty, drugi nie,
a co trzeci? a tu nagle w gazele!
*** raj car cajs, w ten rytmiczny bieg!
hola hoop! *** tsar cajs! ona w bieg!
no, pięć minut wykorzystane
dla brygady oxfam.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
Backwards on a chair
A visage sat and stared
Void of expression
Vacant to depression
Seasons on his teeth
Tobacco in his lungs
A reservoir he seeks
To empty his mind and enter the sun.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 7:04 PM UTC
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst *******
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
*********** therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
tears are unlike tigers fed by buddhists: oh god... i wish i was a woman, then i’d not have cried my tears drunk, but sober, like any woman does, like any woman has... and my correction what inhabited by tartars fighting the teutons with the tartar i took as blood-relatives and the tuetons as politically-related; ivan made the entitlements of the title of tsar as worth cenroship of the coupon for the lean meat in hunting for war among the pole’s marshall law in dostoyevsky. be warned... my blood runs decided into the harvest of wheat and sweat, rather than the parlor room and chandelier corsets; while boney m filled the rest - inviting islam into europe by ignoring poland.
so drunk they want a rewrite...
i missed the joke...
got a rewrite instead...
was i plagiarising?
i don’t know... you know.
originally intended like sunrise...
instead taken as copyist of sun-and-orange...
can’t be repeated... but i wanted it said...
but they didn’t want it said... they wanted it unsaid...
wanted it seen but unseen and therefore thought
and when transmitted not really thought...
just willed... comparatively ingrained and lost too...
it was a charlie murray quote that got me...
i thought i was testimony... oh right... now i remember...
gay **** is really emasculating...
it’s like watching 90 minutes of football...
gay **** does that to you... really there
among ******* videos...
i just like watching the eyes...
i make eye-contact...
and it’s almost bowtie with the suffocating gag
of the girl...
but no... it’s more like niqab in the night... joke...
gay *** is more emasculating than football...
honest to god hear my prayer - while heterosexual
*** is really discouraging from transition
of daughter to ****** to ***** to wife to mother...
nibbled ******* unless it was islamic hide & seek!
ah... call mohammed... i need my head chopped off!
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
Yesterday was a strange age
A man I met with a strange look
Who holds his chin like a quartz
and loves his self like a tsar.
He was a callous; the only man I’ve met
With a scar of grief, his yesterday’s foresee.
It was all about yesterday,
The age where my age had changed by the view
And the strange had changed by a scene
Where love existed from nowhere to be found.
And blemish had turn into a lovely scar.
Yesterday, when no one sees the pain
And no one feels the scar.
Yesterday, when no one hears the cries
And no one tastes the tears.
Yesterday, when gladness spread his wings
And rhythm sings her piece.
Yesterday, when two hearts bloom
With two hands rekindled by forever.
Yesterday…
When someone spares those magic words.
And someone believed it never ends.
How time flies without his wings was still a mystery
But knowing how to love the most imperfect man in the world
Was never been veiled
it hath never been that tough.
Yet the movie ends when music stops
Then curtains closed when lights go fade.
The scene was done and actors waved
Goodbye awaits, a farewell peeks.
It just happened.
Yes..
Now we’re done
Everything had just happened
the day before this age
When today, pain, and end don’t just exist.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
I used to be an avid libertarian
Now I am a vocal egalitarian.
I see that Republicans are
Rehearsing to acclaim a Tsar,
Contemptuous of anything agrarian.
My peers are equally divided bubbleheads
Half of their brain cells completely dead.
Their parents taught them so little
That they are caught in the middle
They believe each word their crazy leader said.
The USA is not a pure democracy,
The only thing pure here is hypocrisy.
Voters sit on their hands
And applaud the brass bands
Saying, ”What else can anybody ask of me!”
My peers are equally divided bubbleheads
Half of their brain cells completely dead.
Their parents taught them so little
That they are caught in the middle
They believe each word their crazy leader said.
The USA is not a pure democracy,
The only thing pure here is hypocrisy.
Voters sit on their hands
And applaud the brass bands
Saying, ”What else can be asked of me!”
My peers are **** near useless bubbleheads.
On voting day, three quarters stayed in bed.
They play a dumb political game
Saying both sides are the same
And let our country drown in the watershed.
Some rail and rightly blame the establishment
As if they understood what that really meant;
They know the country’s out of hand
But somehow they don’t understand
The folks they voted in are to our detriment.
My peers are equally divided bubbleheads
Half of their brain cells completely dead.
Their parents taught them so little
That they are caught in the middle
They believe each word their crazy leader said.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
I am Indian by birthright,
Simply black when it feels right,
A gender champion through and through,
A Southern Belle from the Bayou.
I cover all the bases from Gay rights to MeToo,
Environmental warriors – I’ll always stand with you.
Black lives truly matter, the Homeless my pet task,
All you need is Me, you don’t even need to ask.
Show me any audience and I'll immediately relate,
Where's the very harm to myself Ingratiate;
They say my laughs a cackle, but that's blatantly untrue,
It's simply Inner-me, reaching out to Outer-you.
As to championing Hamas, that's nothing but a slur,
The fact my husband's Jewish should that thought conclusively deter,
Same deal with loving felons, what will they dream up next,
That I'm a prosecutor who's never read the text?
On drugs and immigration, they titled me the Tsar,
I never asked for that as our Border is too far,
I'd rather spend my days engaging our core base,
Cajoling them to spend for this pivotal new race.
Vance calls me a Chameleon, Trump's confused by who I am,
They'll figure soon enough the cunning of this femme,
The more I keep them guessing, the less prepared they'll be,
When finally I pounce, then they'll twig who's truly me.
I've got the Party pliant, putty in my hands,
Celebrities galore, like shiny rubber bands;
Money pouring in, donors by the score,
All the worthwhile Media gushing it's Kamala they adore.
As to any policies, I don't stay up at nights,
Why worry when my bag holds Reproductive rights;
C'mon Donald, admit you’ve badly lost,
I'm the future President and you’ll be simply Toast.
Aug 2, 2024
Aug 2, 2024 at 3:41 PM UTC
*well, death isn't going anywhere, it's there, if you think talking about it is taboo, censoring it is normal, trying to rationalise death with thoughts of suicide is morbid, you're really on your way to a neo-stalin system of censorship... what if thinking about suicide is a coping mechanism of having to rationalise death per se, to rationalise mortality... who are these secular gods hiding behind curtains of theory?! who are they? what if thinking about suicide is thinking about death itself? where is this Stalin of capitalism?! where is he?! i need a word with him - because if i can't have the freedom of thought i have no extending freedoms to participate in life - a cog in a clogged up mechanism... but let's not get all hot and bothered and frantic... no, seriously, where's this shady Stalin who doesn't have a podium but a puppet theatre? i know, words like capitalism are grandiose, almost cryptically absurd, as is the word bureaucracy... too many people depend on it... but the french absurd philosophers were given the freedom to wonder about suicide as a way of consolidating mortality... we're not immortals... why aren't the english children given that freedom of such bewilderment, instead reduced to self-harm as a way to paradoxically alleviate the contemplation of mortality, with the thought of suicide as a coping mechanism of the ****** inescapable fact?! hide the cemeteries and i'll agree.*
a funny article in all honesty,
entitled: stressed, depressed,
lonely and anxious. is your teenager ok?
i remember when i was one,
yeah, i have a life,
a bottle of whiskey to finish,
see you 70cl under the sea
of what used to be the shoreline
or a table - you can never take a medium
too seriously, i mean, what painter
would take a blank white canvas seriously?
if he did, he wouldn't have painted on it,
but writing to get +1 thousand
hits of readership? what a weird mathematical
need of voyeurism, you see no **** no ***
no shower scene... you're just addicted to
numbers, and they're not even your savings
increasing for a place in a care home...
oh pooh pooh a tear... fragile souls of
passing on resentment... hey! i'm in the queue
why you barging in? i only have
a can of sardines and a bun to buy...
you have a full trolley of goods for
a family the size of Lichtenstein!
but i get it... europe's disneyland is switzerland,
all the death rides you can imagine,
esp. with an imperial russia banknote with
tsar nicholas ii on it, i'd get a pass on every ride!
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
if you asked me, i'd tell you
that i started reading the master & margarita
in st. petersburg...
then in the warsaw airport...
and that i liked tsar peter's pickled foetuses...
but that i found the hermitage
a bit leopard-print leotard tacky,
i mean a little bit ****
nah i mean really really **** ha ha,
i mean it was like a carboot sale in essex of a gallery:
classics just jumbled up, a junk shop in the least;
homelesssness of paintings invoking
a translation of the cube into traffic parallels:
like a desecrated jewish graveyard of paintings
stacked against each other like tombstones.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC