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Trefild May 2023
his own & this world's realities are like the fuzz in the States
they're ones to escape
that's a plan of attack that's, on the lines of a wraith
switch side of Jo[ɑ]hnathan Blaze, running up on his brain
like Donald the dung piece, today
he feels bold, so maybe there'll be, like abundance of cake
["bald"]
fortune coming his way; this one's a schmuck thing to say
["fortis fortuna adiuvat"/"fortune favors the bold"]
but this club reminds of Ukraine (what?)
he, like motorized cavalcades
from the next-door empire, invades
its territory causing, like unaccommodating controversial writer, a sla[ɛ]m
[Eminem & his "Unaccommodating" song]
as he shuts the door frame; obvi, sO̲me people may
find them bars offensive, like an armed aggression
so my apologies, I'm somewhat ashamed
mainstream house stuff is on play
a thought in his skull: "this is lame"
Michael S. straight after he turned around & stumbled on blamed
Toby F.; through the crowd he cuts like a blade
[the ending of the "Frame Toby" episode cold open from "The Office" series]
having hopped U̲p on the stage
as if it were a narcotic substance you've ta'en
he, so loud as if with his cullions in grave
nU̲t-wrenching pain, bawls: "THIS ****** *****!", like a brace
of thigh highs colored with stains of blood; yanderE̲[eɪ]
["*****"; "so[ɑ]cks"]
schoolgirl; disgruntled, he makes for the f#cking DJ
delivers a verbal punch in his face by the fo[ɑ]llowing phrase:
"boy, go house-sit with your confounded
boring house sh#t, just like a housewyf"
whereafter thrusts him away
ending the uproar with "ciao, drip!"
music-wise, it's gon' go hard as nuts in this place
as if a flock of ones who're deranged
["who're" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "whoor"]
swung by a club in the wake of a ****** **[ɑ]spital break (nuts in this place)
he puts on midtempo dark cyberpunky synthwave
Gesaffelsteinish mid-paced
type of music; that's what drives his crumpet insane
speaking of crumpets, he spots a buxomish babe
while nodding his ******* nut to this cray
music, he feels like a **** being aimed
at, for she stands with her sight, like one of a gun, fixed his way
for a few secs, at each other they gaze
she's quite a fox with her vibrant locks
reminding of flame; somebody call a fire brigade
hourglass-shaped & rigged out in tight pa[ɛ]nts & a blouse
with a U̲-neck, like a fella without
*****, & leaving her waist a bit out
["******"]
on display; he makes his way to this frau
salutates her with "ciao"
she greets him with just the same, then he mouths
the following: "babe, you're way like a house
for lodging that's nowhere to be found
that is, in the deep of a labyrinth"
she's like: "what in the void's name's this about?"
he replies: "I'ma translate that one now"
"the way you look's amazing, ten out
of ten", like that "KleanColor" skin bro[ɑ]nzer
["a maze inn"; "Tan Out Of Tan"]
she makes a soft smile, then replies: "ain't you nice, pal
when you lay your thoughts out?"
"not being nice would be a crime
when you face a fine gal
like you", - he replies
"if so, rejecting the company of a guy so gracious would count"
as a crime too", - she replies
the guy asks the gI̲rl if she
fa[ɛ]ncies this sound
her reply is affirmative
she says she, mostly, faves underground
kinds of music; they vibe
to these tunes being pU̲t on, just like
that loony gobshite the whole antifa community'd like
to see end up ruined, just like
Aleppo or Mariupol; stop, I'd
like, before the main telling resumes, to rewind
a little: they vibe to these beats being put on; he finds
out, when asking her what drinkable fluid she'd like
to have, that she deems it uncool to imbibe (*****)
he replies: "to tell you the truth, so do I"
so if there's somebody to end up lit during this night
it is the moon in the sky
["some body"]
soon after having their soft drinks taken, they bounce
like the music style brought into this wO̲rld heaps
before chicks twerking
blew into the mainstream like "blaow!"
["hips"]
like a sick pervert that digs scourging
while engaged in a bout
of carnal fun, he's got a whip ordered
they wait for several mins for it
finally, the motorized conveyance comes out
like a deb girlie
[debutante]
he trails this fox like she's prey to hunt down
watching her proceed to[–]ward it
in a way like she's on a catwalk waving around
a rig splurgy
having hopped in it, to a lodging place they set out
the saucy look in her eyes
once his palm is put on her thigh
a sort of luminous sign–
–board reading: "absolutely alright
with going on a lewd spree tonight"
"a night out rhyme tale, part I" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)

"a night out rhyme tale, part II":
hellopoetry.com/poem/4883683

"a night out rhyme tale, part III":
hellopoetry.com/poem/4883684
SweetCindy Jan 2013
Stains & worn spots in carpet.
(A heart trampled, abused & neglected)
Torn wallpaper.
(She doesn’t feel as beautiful as she once did)
Chipping paint.
(With a little maintenance & love she would shine)
Mold from water damage
(Nights of tears & heartache stain her pretty face)
Leaky roof
(Her mind only dwells on the past not able to rise above & find something better)
Poor design
(Is it her fault – she was made this way by God – to give her whole heart & soul.  For what?)
Needs expansion to fit more people
(Her heart is cramped and closed – afraid to let anyone in.)
Chairs hard, uncomfortable.
(Unaccommodating, she turns people away so that they won’t hurt her too.)
Under construction, work in progress
JP Goss Oct 2014
That sound, like vengeance, bitter and whining!
The unseen terrors ‘midst an unstirring throng
Come weaving between my fingers, books, ears.
Why, oh, why does it target me?
A bee, a stinging assumption of the most
Prevailing type, a thing—if ever there was—
Most hated by the modern man:
A loafer inspiring fear, inspiring action
But to act would draw the cool judgment
Of my peers—a ****, a twitch, a sound—none move.
This distance, for it does not bother you!
No hesitation to act progressively when charity
Is abundantly “there” but the coffers deign to open
And the kitchens are dry, and the powers are artifice
To shove the matter—illusory—to the great blue wayside.
Away, away thing! Do not plunge your itinerancy
In the soft of my skin—I do not want you here,
Remove yourself from my sweet drink,
Remove yourself from my food, remove
Your presence—transparently, I don’t have to think
About you if you…just…leave!

And it did—ha! Hell spawn! Parasite! But such a lonely
Planet finds its orbit just as drifting rocks find theirs,
Even if it unaccommodating, in the outer wears,
To sylvan marches—take thy there!
And it has, poor little creature, buzzing through the miens aslare
Spacey, empty, sans (attention), but sans care.
None will bat an eye as its well-meant body,
Interpellated annoyance, genetic condemnation,
Vermilion-paints on the walls of Hell,
Floats, broken, between uncaring faces, looking for
That thing called home, arms warm from its
Present-roam—uncared for Other on lithe little wings
Glass beats at the speed of sound, beat heard
Against the sky’s blue scrim, glass rippling, incensed
So quick, movement becomes oneness and still.
Who could not love you when you’re world’s ignominy?
These ******* are but foul, they can not love you
Steeled by the constant repressive ire
For that which is so homeless—what is spurned in steely pines
And flown away, far, far from the mind,
Ceases to be in the cosmos free, trapped by hate
And invisibility, objectively all, subjectively none.
Anna Jo Oct 2019
If I could speak during an episode I would probably tell you that your well intended jokes don’t make this easier. Faking a smile is impossibly hard when I am trying to disguise my skin and bones as an acceptable member of society.

Sometimes my emotions feel like a human being; physical, demanding and in need of my entire body. I feed them because I’ve never been able to ignore someone who is in need.

I must tap my foot faster than my heart or my stomach will explode into my chest. When my body is imploding in on itself because of my hair trigger brain, I run through the drills I was taught by someone who has never felt this way. By someone who knows that no amount of breaths will protect me from the blast. Like a school child hiding under her desk, this is only a distraction until the inevitable rains down and the whole world disappears.

If I could speak in this moment I would probably tell you goodbye. No matter how many times I have seen the end of the world, I always believe it IS the end. How could anything grow back in a place that repeatedly destroys itself. My body is a vessel and my mind is a natural disaster, senseless and unaccommodating.

The sand bags under my eyes are strong but they cannot stop the flood. They create a **** at best, until the stinging in my throat is no longer bearable and I willingly strip the windows of their boards and defense strategies.

When my chest becomes a balloon with a hole in the middle, when meditation becomes suffocation and I wish trees would produce helium instead of air so I could float away. When you look at me and think “it’s just in your head,” I wish you understood that ,yes, it’s just in my head.
It is in my head.
It is inside of me.
It is a part of me.

If I could speak in this moment, I would tell you that I have studied amputation but there are no Cliff Notes for taking out a part of your soul. I would tell you that attention is the last thing on my mind. I would explain why the closet floor is the only place I can be terrified of the world without the world being terrified of me.

I have watched the end of mental illness. I was there when schizophrenia turned to dementia and forced my grandmother to forget all the dilutions her brain worked so hard to create. As if nature was cleaning the slate but showed up 80 years past due and forgot to apologize.

When I look into the mirror I should see a solid form but sometimes I see static and I wonder if this means ,somewhere, hiding beneath my hair is an off switch. If it could be held down for ten seconds would I reset or lose the ability to come back.

If I could speak in this moment I would tell you I am not coming back. I am changed through every self induced tragedy. The chemical make up of my mind is an evolving experiment and this shell you see is just a test subject.

If I could speak in this moment...

If I could speak in this moment...

I probably wouldn’t.
Dr Peter Lim Mar 2019
It's not the world I've done with
(I don't go out seeking any enemy)
but one person--the singular-
the most unaccommodating---ME!
what sort of punishment is this?
i beg to differ
should anyone insinuate otherwise:
that is isn't some sort of macabre
way of polishing shoes...
two days strapped to the bed...
unable to eat all too able to sleep...
did this torture arrive while
Taylor Swift's army scrutinized
the internet for the comments
and came with the idea
that her concerts were somehow
safe spaces for all:
how as the security team we didn't
receive bomb threats otherwise
****** frustrations and ****** deviations
how there wasn't a male
******* in the vomitory and then
exposing himself
because the ratio of male to female
toilets was so unaccommodating
and how the women would
take advantage and just simply
walk into the male toilets unannounced
and... i assume: or... i even hope
that they wouldn't be caught *******
into the urinals...
that would really be a Duchamp
moment of how to treat the rainbow
brigade of confused sexuality...
i wish i was drunk a little more:
it's not Edie is giving me heartache
because i'd rather do my driving license
on Kauai than spend another 2 or 3 weeks
on this godforsaken continent...
imagine melancholy
imagine lethargy
and a sloth that's a catharsis...
this is me: at my best estimation:
resetting...
i don't know what for...
but i'm in no way in control: able...
to summon a will to live...
if i'll be able to bounce from this
i'll be remotely happy...
but so much lies so much undercurrent
narratives
how this one, elder gentleman
insinuated:
and they called me obtuse...
for whatever reason... this Gen Z
candy can crush...
         candy can crush...
        cancan dancers aged 14 new age
brave new world feminism
and into the mix thirsty men from
Arabia: these female dissonance this
losing my plot and my think
it's only, now, sinking in...
                  but... if i allow myself
to concentrate on words:
because i'm not writing this from an abode
of ****** frustration, constipation blah blah...
a genuine concern:
how long do these women "think"
they can pull off the walk-around
pithy for a harem...
           pithy for a harem...
i actually had to look up the meaning
of the word: pithy...
personally? i think it's adequate...
if you think about it...
given i've seen so much white flesh
and it felt like an epileptic fit
with strobe lighting to boot...
and it just is... somehow: not annoying?
somehow there isn't an overload
of sensation, stimulation...
the way these women unabashedly just
parade a faking of innocence
and then groom the younger siblings
into committing the same sin
of over-exposing males to their finicky
travesty?
seriously, seriously:
i'm paying the price of working
security at a Taylor Swift concert...
i usually drink but this is not
me dealing with the afterthought
of drinking too much:
i've seen too much...
i just walked into hell...
i walked into hell 7 ******* times...
and Islam is not going to just
justify to me that
a just reward is 72 virgins waiting for me
as i try to persuade the minds
of people: i'm about to ****...
to tell me: Allah is the highest theonym
because Allah is not the highest theonym:
YHWH is... the cyclops...
                     Y
                H       H
                     W

the Ukrainian girl i was working
with when i was sexually harassed:
oh we talked about history, Perestroika...
cannibalism under starvation conditions...
     and Polish, L'viv...
                                  NIC and NIĆ
(nothing and thread)
              clearly... she started cackling
like a magpie and a Babayaga all the same...
thus the touching pointers of each
letter in the theonym

but now i'm going to concentrate on what
i concentrated with her, dear, Victoria,
i hope you don't mind...

/   Ъъ Ъ ъ твёрдый знак
'hard sign'
[ˈtvʲɵrdɨj znak] ⓘ еръ
[jer] [∅] ʺ silent, prevents palatalization of the preceding consonant объект obyékt
"object" – U+042A / U+044A
Ыы Ы ы ы
[ɨ] еры
[jɪˈrɨ] [ɨ] y General American roses (rough equivalent) ты ty
"you" – U+042B / U+044B
Ьь    /

                              ЪЫЬ

because i dated a girl from St Petersburg
and she was into literature
and a daughter of a timber oligarch from
Siberia and when
i met her grandmother she told me
it was her mother
and when i met her mother she told me
it was her sister
and when i met her father
she forgot to tell me her sister was,
her mother was, married to him...

i can get ****** up on philosophy and drinking:
but women... they get off on
something, completely: else...
so me going to a brothel
was kind of sobering...
psychiatrists, priests, prostitutes...
the sacred trinity of who you talk to:
don't trust me: i'm the fourth wheel
in the machinery: i can be truthful but
i can also be flamboyant: poetry is thus...
Muhammad was right to distrust us...
but that was a time long before
journalism came along...
now we're the lesser evil...
i don't sing pretty i don't rhyme...
but apparently the Quran is...
wait... what is it?
supposedly the envy of poets?
the Quran is a poem: like no other?
Gabriel suggested that?
                 wow!            spectacular!

or maybe the past 2 days i've been tortured
because i made an honest critique of:
so the Pakistanis say they
are the purest of races...
yet... they end up... ******* on the toilet seat
in a public toilet:
for me... to later imagine...
tapeworms of the microcosm
able to travel through *****
and osmosis
into my buttocks... to later become
dead white blood cells of Beelzebub's kiss
as i squeezed them out from my face...
is that... it?!
and this whole jumping of the queue
when signing out:
so i did say: ******:
is this concept of queue something
too metaphysical for you to comprehend?
are we standing here for: ******* alms?!
so what, the, ****?!
clearly we're not going to get along
any more...
i'm going to bail or i'm going to
zero myself out of this whole life...
pattern: just jumbling words right now...
i keep my sanity with my cat...
testing: if i can go with 2 days of not
eating properly: they can survive
with me neglecting them
should this aura of grey and miserableness
not lift me from my slumber...
because it's clarifying in its devastation
of immobilizing me...
i have been... immobilized...

so what? i can breathe but i can't speak:
is this the Taylor Swift critique of getting
sexually harassed or is this me telling
the ******* UMMAH
that your puritans are retards and
**** on toilet seats in public?!
you *****... you skivvy ***** *******...
i know you...
you're ******* ***** squalor seminal
indentations of what the Europeans
thought of the Jews in the 20th century...
we have to deal with these new incursion
of bad hygiene: once more?!
oh please... justify your singing the Surah
to the ******* stones...
you ***** ugly, *******...
cousin-******* 6th finger short on each hand!

p.s. i hope you do realize:
what's happening in Ukraine right now?
that's called target practice...
my own people are stupid
i don't even know why Nietzsche would
envy being a ******...
oh sure sure: i'm not hearing anything
concerning the French of the Slavic realm...
but sooner the Slavs...
succumb to this ****** Germanic thinking
that's not even remotely considerate
of...               the Slavs would sooner wage
war with each other than allow
any parasitical thinking into their realm...
this woke ******* monstrosity
without god, this hybrid fuckery of anti-vitality!

— The End —