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Harley Hucof Sep 2014
(L)ick my muse
(E)at it all
(T)ry not to let a drop fall
(S)uck my juice, **** it all

(M)oan and scream
(I)t's all i need
(S)ubmissive is what you'll be
(B)e patient your time will come
(E)rotic games are to be done
(H)ardcore is my only way
(A)fter that it's your turn to play
(V)iolently, softly? it's up to you
(E)nding the night exploding on you

Words Of Harfouchism
just for fun
"This for the Moms out there, you know
what I'm saying who done told their kid shit but
they don't wanna listen and have to go through the
hard way of finding s
hit out Know what I'm saying,
cause I Was one of them kids..."

"Tell me who knows a peaceful place that I can go
to clear my head I'm feeling low"
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control

Ay Momma!

"Tell me who knows a peaceful place that I can go
to clear my head I'm feeling low
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control...

Ay Momma!

Wish I could turn my **** around and did it how you told me
don't **** with everybody every smile aint your homie
I had to learn the hard way most people is phonies
played that tough guy role then they snitching on me
and member when you said the truth rule everything
never believe everything a person telling me
and jealousy is always close than you ever think
that was some real **** Mama you the best to me
and the way you raised me giving you applaud for that
my mother my father my friend girl you're all of that
a hard head started opening loud packs
involved with gats
soldier known for
walking off with sacks
I like that then I thought I need to try that
the right stack I guarantee you I could buy that
and notice just how you leave and come right back
they say you going down the wrong hit the right track..."

Tell me who knows a peaceful place that I can go
to clear my head I'm feeling low
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control
   Losing control...

Ay Momma!

Tell me who knows a peaceful place that I can go
to clear my head I'm feeling low
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control
    Losing control...

Ay Momma!

If you could look in my eyes you'll see all the pain that I felt
another victim to the streets moving that cain for the wealth
my pops never gave a fuck at night I anger myself
puffing **** till my eyes bleed they say that danger my health
but f
uck it my mind corrupt from all the **** that done happen
and rest in peace to my papi I love you I have you imagine
coming up where I came from it aint fun
when people die every day over the same stuff
and cops notice your game until you change up
I love my mother she claim tough she aim up
a lot of jealous muh fuckers no name for
with no fingers
it's f
uck you when I get famous
I aim to see a billion for I'm dead sir
I think about this paper so much my head hurt
Stay on the grind legit now but I did dirt
my time to shine Ima dive in this game head first

Tell me who knows a peaceful place that I can go
to clear my head I'm feeling low
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control
   Losing control...

Ay Momma!

Tell me who knows a peaceful place that I can go
to clear my head I'm feeling low
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control
Losing control...

Ay Momma!
One of the best rap songs you'll never hear on the radio
2Pac sample
"Tell me who knows a peaceful place that I can go
to clear my head I'm feeling low"
JoJo Nguyen May 2013
9.
It's the matrix ****,
the primer luck,
in deeper Muck,
around a curved duck,
all for a radiant Buck,
in demon stuck,
paying mechanized ****,
to voice a roast Chuck,
mixed with raisins. Yuck!

Everything has an UCK except...
dried darkness.

It's the primer ****,
the deeper luck,
in a curved Muck,
around for a radiant duck
all demon Buck,
in mechanized stuck,
paying a roast ****,
to voice with Chuck,
mixed everything has Yuck.

It's the primer, a curved demon paying to roast dried darkness.
In deeper, around radiant mechanized UCK, we find the exception.
It's the matrix, in deeper all for a radiant, paying mechanized dried raisin.

Yuck! uck...
Gaye Sep 2015
Images ran wild, they boiled the water,
Like a train running off the track
They trickled down, metaphors poured out
The world, million voices, reverberated
Buzz-buzz-buzz, inside my head.
I was alone in that room
With panic attacks, lust and voices-
That slipped in through my half-window.
I broke the mirror, the brutal paparazzo
Who printed pictures of my many facades
I looked at him and grinned,
Clink-clink-clink they smiled once-
Dancing with wine glasses and alcoholics.
I walked, walked fast and twirled-
Like a tornado inside my cube
People spoke outside-life tales, notebooks,
Their late night phone calls and fine men.
The world didn’t bother to open the door,
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock the clock yawned.
I sat on the floor and opened my pen,
It vomited blue letters on the yellow paper-
The customary dilemmas, past and blunders
But something was new, a story.
I looked for The English Patient, the nurse
And his burnt skin I misplaced
They did not appear, I lost hope.
Gur-Gur-Gur, I snorted like a mad cat
Misdirected to an old jute sack.
I climbed up to my bed, hid under the rotten-
Blanket and closed my eyes, the images ran,
Ran away from me, climbed the hardwood staircase
And fell down, I broke my knee.
I opened the books- USSR, Pasha, Buddhism,
Laughed loud like an unbalanced bloke,
Tore them apart into pieces and pieces,
Hush-Hush-Hush, my yellow monkey warned
And I played with him “hush-hush-hush”.
I sat next to my half-window
The pseudo city, dozy walls and the distressed-
Street light. Out of track.
Images flashed again- chewing gums, pink house,
The anonymous Christmas gift, malnutrition
And the hibiscus my mother planted,
“Incey Wincey Spider- Incey Wincey Spider”
I sang all day looping around a pole.
I sneaked down to the floor and dreamt
Eyes wide open, a black and white old film.
There was no exile, no god and his sins
No wafers and secret lessons upstairs.
Only the sea, popomatic, DD evenings
Cassettes and a rocking bamboo chair
Aw uck- aw uck- aw- uck , the seagulls squawked,
I slept.
Ben Ryan Apr 2013
One more ******.
Just push
And maybe I'll feel
Just a little budge.
No...no give
Just take. No time
To heal.


There is time
When I think
The time is lost in
Thought.
A clock who's
Concern is not
To tick but tock.

Daydreaming about
What makes us tick
Makes him lose track.

Instead he just sits,
Wondering if he'll ever
Be wound back.

Here I'm just sitting and
Waiting. A clock  
That won't tick,
Won't tok
And can't be walked
Can still be
Right
Twice a day.

How can
I ever know
When the time is

Right?
Maybe I should even try to both be
the sooner you'll get rid of feedback because they're all
Sometimes I should sing most when my state of mind
Not in a set of cards with yoga pose instructions I'm currently going

I'm tired and beautiful and cute
I'm tired and bored out

...

Oh yeah I need all
People are somewhat murky and shallow in order to show you
WHY DO something
I'm tired of being a ****** person.


...


It's really don't wanna impose anything.... But anybody want
...
I'm tired and conflicted.
Ugh I've been wondering about for ice cream to attempt to message certain people
Uck. It say
...
I really don't know
never thought I'd hate for the person
Sometimes I feel and smell of things to do
That's not an ice is weighing me
It's really painful most of the base of personal information about me, or going

...

But eating shrimp feels weirdly like

...

No, everything is predestined to die from embarrassment and/or maybe guilt. But it's just like
That magical feminist is running the only have you
You have a finger at getting people





...






My staircase is bizarrely comfortable to everything ever


Aluk op oal ilcä aäcij ulrü cujy ulsu wäsyn cujy rincy cyykky cujy ürsäüpyu ipuincy kurky jü siij urir cu lina uij rüyl opam suasäcij kyäc kuläypincy di.
That magical feminist is the stuff
Poetry made from fake facebook statuses generated by what-would-i-say.com. I mean I have thoughts that run exactly like this right before I fall asleep so it's technically written from the soul.
Paige Walker Dec 2011
Patience is what we know
Smiles kept in a jar on the window sill

I* miss you's sent out into space

Luck, lust, longing and love
Ocean water is our distance
Voids filled with promised letters
Emptiness that makes the heart go numb  

Yellowed photographs hang on the wall
Observing the life that is living in front of them
Unnoted
st64 Apr 2013
1.
Some
Days
Can
Just

ssssssssssssss
ttttttttttt
rrrr
e
tttt
cccccccc
hhhhhh­hhhhh

So......

Into milleniac
C h a s m s....





2.
S-uck!



S T, 09 April 2013
Some days, life can throw a pretty, mean curveball at times.
Not charming.
Breathing Ice Nov 2010
You told me once  that you've  never loved
anyone like you love me. You also  told me
that you woud love me forever and   never
(ever) leave my life.  That   you were   here  
to  stay.  You  
said I looked
like an angel,
like  an    Arabian   princess,
Angelina   Jolie-esque  and  
simply  eatable.  Your love
for    me   showed   all  over
this   perfect
face of yours,
you   know...
And   though
my poor eyes,
heart,    and
hands    belie-
ved every eve-
ry lie,    every  
*******   *****
lie,    I   know
better    now.                             **UCK YOU
Rollie Rathburn Jun 2018
On 28 March 1941, Virginia Woolf filled her pockets with stones
and walked into the River Ouse,
which together with its main tributary,
the River Uck,
drain over 250 square miles of Sussex
via streams,
rivers
and various other dendritic tributaries.

While the water temperatures were surely harsh,
historical weather patterns suggest
relatively calm surface tension,
and relaxed yet steady currents,
allowing for swift submersion

Taking into account,
the chilled morning winds,
her quickened, shivering breaths
likely led to hyperventilation.

In turn delaying the breath-hold
break point, and allowing blackout to occur
without warning
due to hypocapnia.
While unconscious, water can more easily enter the lungs
to induce a wet drowning,
as it is no longer inhibited by laryngospasm
or coughing.

The Missouri River,
by contrast,
rises in western Montana,
flows east and south for 2,341 miles
before entering the Mississippi River north of St. Louis, Missouri
taking drainage from parts of ten U.S. states
and two Canadian provinces
to form the fourth largest river
system on Earth.

At some locations throughout its course
the current surges so fiercely
that old-growth trees are felled,
steam ships are consumed beneath white caps,
and swaths have continued to go undeveloped well into the 21st century.

When lowered into water cooler than about 70 °F,
the diving reflex is triggered and protects the body
by putting it into energy saving mode
to maximize the possible time spent under water.

This reflex action is automatic
occurs in all humans,
and is likely a result of brain cooling similar
to the protective effects
of deep hypothermia.

Of those who die after submersion in freezing waters,
around 20% die within 2 minutes from cold shock.
Uncontrolled rapid breathing and gasping causing
water inhalation, panic,
massive increase in blood pressure and cardiac
strain leading to cardiac arrest.

As this occurs while submerged
rather than the hyperventilation seen in panic attacks,
crying, or shivering on land
any additional survivability that may be gained,
becomes almost immediately fatal.

In order to combat the effects of
instinctual survival mechanisms
once bare skin breaks iced surfaces
such as panicked clawing back to shore,
rescue attempts from passersby,
and even simple reconsideration,
cold water drownings,
despite representing only 2 percent of suicides,
reveal a visible trend regarding near mandatory use
of bricks,
stones,
or other weights,
in order to overcome
buoyancy,
the names of pets,
canceled brunch dates,
birthdays,
and the forced finality
of questions left unanswered
or perhaps answered too clearly.
raw with love Apr 2014
fix me
FIX ME
F (uck me)
I (want you back)
X (is not the word I want to be described with)

M (ine, you were mine and now who are you)
E (vol; maybe if I spell it backwards I can rewind the clock)

fix me
FIX ME
*******
**** ME
FIX ME (it's not your fault I'm broken, it's just that you had
almost made me alright
and now you
crushed me)

fiX Me
i just need to function again
please
please
please

fix me
before I break
every promise
and inscribe
your name on my skin
in red lines

*******
**** me
fix me
The Good Pussy Oct 2014
.                      

                              AAUGH!!!
 ­                         G oo d   g r,ief
                         I  c a n't   stan d
                        it.  I    just   c an't
                       stand     it.   Y uck!
                        I've bbeen  kissed
                        by  a dog! I   have
                        dog  germs! I love
                        mankind,       i t's
                        people      I   can't
                        stand.  Happiness
                 ­       is   a  warm   ****
                        You     blockhead !
        In the book of        life, the answers
     aren't in the back.  N othing takes  the
       taste   out   of         pe a n u t    b u t ter
          quite like                 unrequited love
f              
































































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ou
S O P H I E Feb 2018
i am...

A-bstractly addicted to absolute abuse
B-y basketcase boys with nothing better to be
C-autious when I caught chaos
D-riving me delutional day by day
E-ven when everyone echoed into my ear
F-uck this familiar fatal feeling
G-oing after guilty guys
H-ardly having healthy habits
I-njuring my inner innocence
J-ustifying jaded *******
K-indly killing all
L-ackluster lovers so they dont
M-ention me making mistakes
N-ever not nervous
O-ver obsolete oblivion
P-inky promising people to stay
Q-uietly questioning my
R-eason to resolve all emoitions ripping right from my
S-tomach snaking their way to satisfaction
T-hrough tounges I never even wanted to taste
U-nable to grasp unhappiness
V-isiously turning up the volume
W-aiting for any kind of wasted warmth
X-eric eyes
Y-et again teary
Z-oning through endless time

until i'm right back where i started...
and i'm alone again
Tyler Derksen Apr 2015
There once was a man from Uck-A-Duck,
Who found out a way to play his luck.

With his pet duck he would oysters shuck,
And hide bills, ***** and playful stuff.

Along street-vender's who don't give *****,
Stop by his shells and play your luck.

No matter you have money or any bills,
You'll play along with the ducking thrills.

If you win or lose suppress your chills,
You'll be another one of these oyster kills!
Elioinai Sep 2019
For a moment the air is almost still
and heat gathers in floating pools
My hands work with their usual vigor
But my mind pauses, just
Like a pointer sniffing the air for a change
for the scent of a new presence
I consider my environment
I notice the flavor of motivation turning upon my tongue
dissolving away like pink cotton
No one presses me to change integrally
No one pulls my hand to follow
I find the words of my old leaders
like old habits, they are forgotten
or they bleed together like cheap dyes
And I’m left to lead my scattered, stained self
I’m going downhill fast  (3)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m going downhill fast  
My stomach it is grumbling
I’m going downhill fast  
No food all day is frightening
I’m going downhill fast  
My insulin levels are rising
I’m going downhill fast  
I reckon my poor kidneys failing
I’m going downhill fast

I’m going downhill fast  
Wish I could find a cafe
I’m going downhill fast  
My tank is low on diesel
I’m going downhill fast  
Oh Christ is that a cop car?
I’m going downhill fast  
Just don’t think I am speeding.
I’m going downhill fast  

I’m going downhill fast  
Went wide on that last bend.
I’m going downhill fast  
Only nearly off my head and
I’m going downhill fast  
Oh and *uck knows where I’m heading
I’m going downhill fast  
Sorry . Should not give way to swearing
I’m going downhill fast  

I’m going downhill fast  
Nothing but a hot dog stand now
I’m going downhill fast  
Do I dare to stop now with a cop upon my tail?
I’m going downhill fast  
I  will stop an see I must chance my arm
I’m going downhill fast  
Doubt he will see my busted tail light.
I’m going downhill fast  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.3 rd November 2018.
Just a simple story of country folk
TreadingWater Jun 2016
¿what¿ is it
you want. from. me¿
peel >back >my >sk _ in
sw _ im in my ma  _  rr _ ow
pl uck my pr ide from your p ocket
maybe i can get ^ up ^ off ^ my
knees;  _ pl ease
therearen'tmanybitsleft
"of "" me""
a \ghost \of \who \i / used / to /be
your lips brought [an early]
''":death:": '' to me
these eyes/these eyes
so  | blindly |  see
yet,...here i stay
}}camped}
    .at. your. feet.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
.                             mono     automaton
                          q  u  a  s  i  o  m  n  i;
in­to root of the crux
                                                i will
                       invoke,
a black cardinal,
  that challenges
  all self-righteous popes,
and all self-imposing
popes;
   are my words not bread?
are my words not wine?
then who claims authority
over the justification
   of the authenticity of
            recruiting people
toward the position of "power"?
   who's if not the dead borthers
feed your near cannibalistic mouths?
        who feeds the living,
when who feeds the living,
are dead?!
          necrophilia; rampant!!!
cry...                 asylum! asylum!
who's over-reacting?
   some irish will tell ye'...
    i hate the irish...
   i have a fetish for hating them;
esp. those
settled in england;
  those ******* i hate the most;
why?
    i was wearing a german army
shirt in an irish pub, and
what did the bartender say?
i can't serve you.
   you engaged in the second
world war, paddy?!
******* potato harvester
     ginger-dangle-bell of
a hope... that never comes...
just the drowning ginger ***
who's abode was and will
           be the belfast dim-wit
known as
                              the titanic;
**** me, i'm not even born &
bred english and i already find
the irish worthy of considering
genocidal tendencies...
scots? **** me, shoot me
to a pub for a whisk,
and some 'aggis neeps 'n' tatties...
the welsh?
      what, the ultra-german spelling
machine that's not even
comparable to germans?
   i'll just talk to charlie prince, y'all...
rrrr... (i just had to make it obvious)...
the ear-ish?
       i ******* hate the *****...
and i'm not even english to begin with...
some people you immediately get
to love...
   aussies, the finns...
                 and some people you
immediately get to hate...
                       the irish, the germans;
it's a shame though,
   i learned this pathos
   from acquiring the english language...
i.e. "assimilating" into
  the culture, p.s. the i.r.a. attacks,
so yeah, peedee pi dee p'oh,
   and a paedo to ring
             the bell for friday's mass...
   f
                            uck
             me,
            coming off the rocking chair,
next you'll find me so much so
assimilated that i'll be calling
it the irish and the northern monkeys...
vs. the loondish
               and the southern fairies /
                                                   pansies;
i suppose if you're ever
going to assimilate, hold to the local
customs (when in rome,
         do as the romans do),
**** me, it's great,
at least i can finally realise that
   there's no greater "racism" than in
the intra- realm, as oppossed to
the inter- realm...
    once again... it's not racism,
   it's "racism"... or a way to get along;
s.j.w.b.g.l.t.q.t.+ sycophant?
    drunk like a skunk... you walked
into my bedroom, you'd get an aura
of a brewery...
                  i can't believe i had
to learn english, and have to succumb
to outer-london prooper english
stereotypes, that i was trying to avoid;
but at least the irish made it plainly
obvious for me to establish,
   giving my transcendental approach
to diacritical marks, which made me sound
posh english, and them,
  my synthetically inherited enemy;
which is nice, breaking away from
hating the russians and the germans;
if i go to a pub?
   i only drink guinness...
  why? it doesn't taste the same in a can
or in an export bottle...
    you need to drink guinness in a pint glass.
Desire Mar 2019
P lease
R emove
A ny
Y uck

Hope for healing.
Encourage those around you.
Pray, and let God...


@desire.is.dope
20190325
1352HRS
P.R.A.Y
@desire.is.dope
20190325
1352HRS
PK Wakefield Oct 2014
if you're've been the aching

the

occasionally slender

drawl mouth

of

p
e
r
h
a
p
s                                                             :


've you become
my hands
beneath
the
ta
b
l
e                                                             in


a tired
cafe´









                                                                                                                                (t
                                                                                                                             uck
                                                                                                                          ed in
                                                                                                                      to the s
                                                                                                                                 e
                                                                                                                                a,




                 "sunlighttreesyourhandsandgodbetweenitallyourhips"


                                                                .
Àŧùl Nov 2016
I** know that for sure.

Shall those moments not repeat,
Tilling the land of youth for maturity,
Irrigating the seeds with my love,
Lowered my voice in tensed times,
Lost in your dreams my mornings be.

Lost in these dreams,
Of your plain youth,
Violent violet hues pull,
Encumbering memories.

Yeoman of youth I had been,
Ousting the blues away from
Underneath the carpet of lies.

Bringing up the zombies of stale issues,
Until all of my sanity just vanished,
Trounced & trampled upon my heart.

In this digital ink my heart bled.

Wuthering away my own youth,
In return of momentary pleasures,
Loving yourself via me you were,
Luck has never been kind to me.


Awake I am in your memories,
Loving all the dreams I get,
Wherein I only see you,
Away from the world,
You actually live in,
So prone to negativity.

Righting your wrong I was,
Enchanted by your youth,
Mine was nothing ever,
All was just yours,
In the night too,
Not just in the day.

Lightheaded I always am,
Onto the ground I might fall,
Not poised to die in the deluge,
Ever I will be made to suffer,
Losing next battle of life,
Years are limited for me.
Don't worry, you will get married too.
Like every other girl that I used to love.
Be thankful for my bad luck.
I am sick of this burning headache.
Of this tinnitus & vertigo as well.
Pray that I get some kind of cancer.
I will be at peace with myself after death.

HP Poem #1254
©Atul Kaushal
Public announcement.

'Zannusi
               the appliance of science'

Yeah?

I place no reliance on magic nor science or things that go bump in the night.

See a TV
buy a TV
add a line to your made up CV

new?
so
you think,
but it's three months
down the line and so last year,
so buy another one
fine.

Face it,
you've been ****** in
spun around  
sold a pup
and been ground into the ground

science?
don't make me laugh when I want to puke,

Look and that's look with an ooh and not an uck
I really don't give a Fuch if you believe or not

but you'd better believe in the
'One drop'
the blood spot
someone got time because of it
some murdering little *****
that took an innocence
and

I suppose that is the appliance of science,



I'm as right or as wrong as it's broad or it's long
I hold my hands up
arrest me
or
free me
I've got a CV
don't want a TV

**** this and society
**** sobriety
the hierarchy and
anyone else who
disagrees with me.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
BETWEEN THE WORDS

The leg that had fallen
asleep: suddenly awoke
attacked him with pins...with needles.

"Ow!"  "oW!" & "OW!"
he shouted at himself
shaking a leg

He felt like a bad
Xerox copy of
his self.

The typewriter glowered at him.
He glared right back.
"Do your worst!" it smirked.

"...the men who moil for gold..."
the old Service line resurfaced
"Moil...ha ha...how true!"

His measly one-finger-typing
trying to keep up with
his mind...fall...ing..be...hind.

The typewriter trying to
find his train of thought
the clickety clack of words.

Man morphing into machine.
Both one & the same.
Only the next word...counts.

Thinking & not thinking.
The mind in free fall.
The words pumped up.

Loving the return of carriage
the next line springing into
being.

"Coraggio!. . .coraggio!"
His mind admonishes him.
"Andiamo!" he exhorts his words.

On a roll now.
One part of him( writing ).
The other singing THE RUNAWAY TRAIN.

"And she blew!
And she blew...blew...blew....blew...blew!
Ooooohhhh....oooooohhh!"

Uh hu!
The ribbon of his mind
wearing thin.

Words now in red.
& now.
In nothing.

The words appearing
like their own ghosts.
A mere impression.

"Don't leave me this way!"
his mind sings to them.
" I don't understand how I'm at your command..."

The "e" key
raising its angry  littl     fist.

Stu...stu...UCK A gain.

Typewriter: quiet now.
Weeds of silence
growing up

between the words.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
so I says to the moth sleeping
on a kitchen curtain:
allow my hand curled
to be as soft as a laced
napkin, and you'll fly out
from my chamber prior
to the sunrise scything
the morning dew...
        ****!
     and as I lit a candle and
gently uncurled my hand
into a proud lotus
with a sitting Buddha:
the moth disappeared
    with what felt like...
a kingfisher diving into
the stillness of a narcissus pupil,
near figment,
replacement of
a woman's authenticity
of belief, subsequent
gangrene, akin to the one
success story bound
to the rigours of Walt...
****! thin air...
   a moth in this kingdom
of night, is lover
to the kingdom of day...
a fern replaces a laurel...
immobile drench
of autumnal perfumery
of sly, snail *** oyster
gluttony of excess saliva...
no cannon riddle salute...
deafening the living,
bewildering the dead...
my adversary is not worth
the impetus and subsequent
ordeal of gained
responsibility of Cain...
vain vagabond...
truant lavishness of
lavender...
     silence reveals...
what word is best said yet
best unworn...
   hardly woken...
like a child asked for buttocks
before a jab counter Odra...
counter Ospa...
            mid-dream...
           meningitis hepitatis
worn A, B, C, all through to
D?
         I see nothing short
of the clamour of the living
turned, dead,
   and no drunk statue...
only rigid, copper frames...
best seek the concept
of a cube in a cage...
             than a god in a man
in a man in a universe
with whatever strings attached
no more than chance, contra will,
in this circus of stars...
   however the elaborate
expansions of space,
reiterated by the whimsical
musings of time...
there's the bound man,
the rubric standard,
    the reiteration and
sense expanding cull: contract
  reiteration of medium...
the plateau man:
the safety net inferno...
10 generations apart,
and still: without a Dante...
and thank ****
Bukowski didn't mention Dante!
eerie now, my reading of
the "Bolognese" tirade,
and the monopoly
          of "earned" bachelorhood
of... the ma than becomes the gran
and the hopeful bride who...
can't make a broth...
as well as you...
           but of course...
rasta best explains:
     I is responsible for all...
     pardonable am... 100 years later,
and, apparently,
it didn't originate in Zurich...
  
      papa dont preach,  
I'm emeritus...
      Etc. Etc. in nomine
gratia plena...

words have become
quasi iconoclastic
within the confines of keeping
up with the rigour
of crafting logo...
coca cola, CoCa CoLa...
the ******* black madonna of
Częstochowa...

     genuflex of the abstracted
tetragrammaton...
   Y 'ere,
    
    W over d'er

                        HH: rugby.

FeO: iron oxide...
  BBC4 (radio):
      the Ushers...
    Churchill's θ...
    id est:
   not cheesy...
   w'ah'ver:
   w'eh'wee w'eh'wee
      veering on vague:
V(e) 'ucking, 'uck of e
     pringle.

very discrete,
that definite article...
scissor atheist thought,
either an indefinite
article of A...
    or the rubric of lost
items on the tube...
   with a genesis of
  a-;
    oddly enough...
no lost umbrellas in this one...

because god forbid a language
should ever incline to be
shackled to a mind only
safe in confining itself
to running a school, yard,
and brick cascade of
***** counter excavations
of equal numbering,
to avoid the heretical waste...
doon d' 'oobe...
    
    how else to translate
"******", shittz painting?
      poetry is...
the lost art of counter rhetoric...
a poem ought to shut
someone up...
suffocate them...
          rather than be,
what it currently is...
impedium of
replica...

     **** me...
even I had to check the dictionary
to convince myself
of the stature of but three words...

impedium of replica...
at least plagiarising painting
has a thrill of
plagiarism behind it,
a mischevious
         ploy on employing
subsequent experts...

               my tongue, mostly
completes itself,
on how best it confiscates
the flame of a burning out candle,
and less...
on how a slug might burp
in the Royal Albert Hall.
Astor Nov 2017
Swell
cut back
trace the outline of my shadow
with caution tape
Holy ****, I'm about to die

Arpeggios
Metronomical beats
****** the tempo
with a chorale prelude
This time in Pig Latin:
Oly-Hay Uck-Fay, M-Iay Bout-Aay O-Tay Ie-Day

Out of key
with somber inflections
Press on my dear, Press on
with a dog eared national geographic
bookmarked to all the places I want to travel
One more time for someone who cares:

— The End —