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SH Dec 2011
queer creature of white stone:
the spirit of the island in the head of this lion,
the soul of the natives in the body of this fish,
spirit and soul, lion and fish, mingle together by
mere wry humour of evolution’s word

we revere this beast, (it watches over us
from nine metres above), we bow down our backs,
(worship it as our exemplar): for many of us,
unknowingly, we emulate the spirit and soul
of this queer white creation of stone.

standing tall (unshaken!) even as jaundice bolts of heaven’s
creep tip-toed behind its scales and strike:
its cemented steadfastness of stone we emulate,
for through the towering grey waves of crisis, and
the threatening dark clouds that foretell our very fears,
we too, have floated and transcended and appeared
unscathed.

mutated monster – child of bad genes,
they despise such unfavourable antagonistic features
(shall it rule like a lion or flail like a fish?):
its unlikeliness of surviving, of thriving we emulate:
for this dotted smudge of red pen ink on the globe,
destined to bow down to fate – bowed down not, and
flourished.

beams of white water spouting out in a
perfect shape of a quadrant’s circumference, endlessly,
its majestic spewing action we emulate:
this island of expectations, sterile smell of success,
fate of our future in the setting of an exam hall,
(in there do you not think we resemble the merlion,
our mouths the hoses, the papers our well?)

but, oh, the merlion – so many of it –
the merlions, same-maned, same-scaled,
fluttering and bursting with imitation across our home:
such congruity, conformity we emulate:
for years of yearning to swim in the mainstream waters,
of being goldfish, instead of losing the waters for flight like flying fish,
have made us very much, about
the same.

queer creature of white stone:
do you see not how we resemble your very self,
how we offer you praise (by
lifting our human arms, arching on our mere knees,
hoisting our lowly mortal heads, surveying your colossal royalty,
camera in hand)?
I tried as wittily as possible to draw comparisons to reveal how one of our national icons are eerily reflective of the Singapore culture in many ways. This touristy icon almost seemed pre-planned to capture the essence of what Singapore is.
ryn Sep 2014
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties

Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims

Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt

Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour

Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin

Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over

Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks

Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving

See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve

Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm
Sean Hopps May 2017
A certain beauty is always withheld
Until the most unfavourable time,
And then presents itself for all but those
Whose eyes can see what beauty none behold.

A certain beauty never understood
Can fleet through anyone oblivious;
Can hold itself in clearest forms, and should,
Yet never can be seen or grasped for good.

The one with all the eyes sees only black
And cannot look the brightness in its face,
But when a certain beauty steals his eye,
All the beholder does is watch and cry.

A certain beauty tears the hearts of men;
No eyes but his behold, not even then.
'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder'
Clare Sep 2020
Clouds, Clouds, Clouds, Clouds
Calculated Clouds
Interesting Idioms
Physical Phenomena
Spiritual Symbolisms

Cloud seven
Completely happy, perfectly satisfied, wholly euphoric
Cloud eight
Befuddled by drinking too much liquor
Cloud nine
Jumping for joy; walking on air

Have one’s head in the clouds
To be out of touch with reality
Every cloud has a silver lining
Difficult times always lead to better days
He must be under a cloud
People have an unfavourable opinion of him
There’s a cloud on the horizon
An omen threatening to happen in time
To live in cloud-cuckoo land
Believing those truly impossible things will happen

High-Level Clouds
Cirrus and Cirrostratus
Mid-Level Clouds
Altocumulus and Altostratus
Low-Level Clouds
Nimbostratus and Stratocumulus
Vertical Development Clouds
Cumulus and Cumulonimbus
Other Cloud Types
Contrails and Billows
Mammatus and Orographic
And Pileus

An arc in the clouds represents God’s promises
A pillar of cloud symbolised the Lord’s guidance
Do you understand the balancing of the clouds?
He that considers the clouds shall not reap
In OT times, the cloud filled the temple
Jesus Christ will return on clouds of victory

And a personal one
Black clouds one afternoon covered the Salève
Hiding a most beautiful rainbow
And despite the clouds’ efforts to confuse
His promises are forever true

Which cloud are you under?
Rob Rutledge Jan 2013
I am a criminal,
So you and the papers say.
They would put me away
For countless nights and days.
Tucked away "safe" in jail,
All for the choice of herbs I inhale.
That they would only have their way...

Yet I am no marauding mobster,
No gangster for hire.
I smoke in the evenings
When daylight is fleeting
And withdraw to my rooms to retire.
I am no plundering pirate
Pillaging your private property.
I go about my day,
As right as I may,
You will find no evil protégée.  

I am spoken in the same breath
As delinquents and undesirables.
The infamously unfavourable,
Mire on our tireless society.
Well I am tired now,
Fatigued.
I've grown weary of living
In your narrow minded
Make believe.

Yet I leave you be.
Keep to mine and own.
It is you who lights the torches
From high deluded throne.
It is you who crafted and rounded
That perfect stone,
Hurled with such indiscrimination
Always many, never alone.

Each night now I wonder,
When I cross that imaginary line.
Such fools we've been,
The waste obscene,
Who really commits the crime?
uzzi obinna Oct 2015
I have seen the blood of my loved ones, spilled on a dusty road;
Seen the fall of kings, powerful warriors and the bold;
The skin of mothers and little children, broken by cold;
The ancient landmarks of the fatherless, siezed and sold.

I have heard the cry of the homeless but no one there to save;
Heard the wailing of the deserted, seen the tears of the brave;
Many driven from their homelands, now hiding in caves;
And a father toiling night and day, treated as a slave.

I have heard of dreams of many, still unrealised;
The ****** daughters of priests, lured or defiled;
The goals of youths, swallowed up by pride;
And the future of generations, poorly discerned.

I have read government policies, unfavourable for the common man;
Heard of national resources, expended without concrete plans
Communities connive to eliminate a defenseless clan;
And a nation sold into modern slavery, by reckless polititians.

Many tears have droped, sweat and blood everywhere;
Many races have been run but the end seems nowhere near;
Many have waited hopelessly for a better year;
Many have stood up but crawled back for sake of fear.

A day will come when the oppressed will arise;
Like Martin Luther King Jr. did,though his blood was a price;
Like Nelson Mandela did, even though his act was termed a vice-
For the freedom of the enslaved and oppressed but the wicked's sudden demise.
Srinivas Vasudev Feb 2015
Shine or shower, we bend forever
Bend to see if the path talks to us
Bend to earn a nickel with a foreign face

Oh! How it bleeds, to walk on the gravel
The stones are crushed to confess their stories
they could be frozen tears of
my colleagues and my fellow countrymen
Who tramped here before!

How it pains, to sleep on flour, which is not mine
Lack of family affection makes us half humans
It has been an infinite urge to
Fly away on the wings of breeze
Just to escape the scorching sun’s torturous smile

We extinguish the fire of anger
No fire, but the flames in the breast
Endure between ambition and desire.

We see light in soldering electrodes everyday
But can’t see the bright eyes of our children for ages
Oh how it torments, a faithful heart that’s broken
To avenge the sad tale of labourers on a foreign soil

For us who experience all the ravines of Life
Night returns with dark chocolates
We continue to lift and bend ourselves
With fragrant bosoms near our feet

Theme : We get to see many  labourers working in the Middle East and East Asian countries like Singapore, Brunei etc. These workers, as construction labourers or as grass cutters, toil a lot on the road exposing themselves to Sun and shower. Most of them are from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka etc. It pains to see them working under very unfavourable conditions. This poem is an appreciation of their commitment to look after their family back home.
1
in the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War
Thucydides tells among other things
the story of his unsuccessful expedition
among long speeches of chiefs
battles sieges plague
dense net of intrigues of diplomatic endeavours
the episode is like a pin
in a forest
the Greek colony Amphipolis
fell into the hands of Brasidos
because Thucydides was late with relief
for this he paid his native city
with lifelong exile
exiles of all times
know what price that is
2
generals of the most recent wars
if a similar affair happens to them
whine on their knees before posterity
praise their heroism and innocence
they accuse their subordinates
envious colleagues
unfavourable winds
Thucydides says only
that he had seven ships
it was winter
and he sailed quickly
3
if art for its subject
will have a broken jar
a small broken soul
with a great self-pity
what will remain after us
will it be lovers' weeping
in a small ***** hotel
when wall-paper dawns


Zbigniew Herbert
Zbigniew Herbert (1924-1998) a Polish poet, essayist, drama writer, author of plays, and moralist. A member of the Polish resistance movement, Home Army (AK), during World War II, he is one of the best known and the most translated post-war Polish writers. While he was first published in the 1950's (a volume titled String of light was issued in 1956), soon after he voluntarily ceased submitting most of his works to official Polish government publications. He resumed publication in the 1980's, initially in the underground press.
I am inside a room
It is so wonderful
Seated on a complaining bed
"Kiki kaka kiki kaka"
The bed is complaining
On it is a three inch mattress
It is shrinked to one inch
Before me is a table
Full of complaining books
Others lack hard cover
Others pages were used as tissue
Others pages were used  as insulators
On top of one is a Brocken pig pen
It ran short of ink
And it is complaining
Working under unfavourable conditions
To my left is a stove
"Chululululu"
The rice it a sufuria are complaining
The gas is smelling
At the furthest corner is a radio
Complaining, shortage of power
........................................
Life cannot be such promising
Seated alone and talking with apparatus within
I am spending today
To renovate them all
That next time
They praise not complain !
Just imagine
This image
Did you saw?
GloriouslyFlawed Jan 2013
"Be good" they say, without realising they're setting us up for a
Fall. What do they mean by good? What is good?
When we're little, we are told to be good and behave. It's simple.
When we're a little older, we're left torn in English class.

It is drummed into us that words like good, like nice, like okay are
Dull. Why would you say something is good when you can say marvellous?
We'd refrain from using the word nice simply because it was uninteresting.
We'd refrain from even thinking of using okay to describe a feeling.

If these words are not to be used, then surely they wouldn't exist at
All. Whose decision was it to deem them unfavourable in stories or poetry?
What if the only word that is appropriate is 'good'? Short, simple and precise.
What if the only way I can finish a story is with a word I shouldn't use?

I always wondered what was so wrong. Of course variety appeals, it is
Bright. I was told not to use the word 'good' yet my work was marked as such.
How should that be taken? I daren't tell the teacher the marking is wrong.
How about we use these words regardless and forget the fear of being average.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
to write against using paragraphs you prevent eye-strain, you increase speed of composition, paragraphs are what you might call the leisurely pace of writing, a promenade with a sun-umbrella, poems can never be written in paragraphs, they need the snap snap snap momentum, obviously unfavourable in times of printing on paper, not economic enough... well, digitalise my *** if you may, we're going to save the amazon rainforest this way!

the 21st doesn't really allow the perks that a 20th century
poet might have, first of all the typewriter has changed,
but so has the page you write on,
back in the 20th century you
lived and wrote,
in the 21st century you write and live,
back then you'd go to a cafe for
about ten days, or to a pub for seven
and talk talk talk, drink, talk talk talk,
play intellectual ping pong,
you lived and wrote,
you didn't write and live -
it's changed, everything has changed,
the pages are like brick walls
everywhere you and can see,
so you apply the rule: well, someone
might see it immediately, so it
must be graffiti rather than poetry,
because a. it's not really written in
public, and b. anyone can take it
immediately, on a random scroll through
this jungle maze of information,
yet poetry written in 20th century took from
the 19th etc. written with that glorious word
ah* or O, that wind of inspiraton, so light,
so breezy entering the heart... the 21st modus operandi?
the word **** **** ****, i.e. it's the ******
hoover dam cracking;
but the other thing is, you also have
the perks of a 19th or an 18th century writer,
a writer like Alexander Dumas or Balzac,
you have time, and you know you have
time to write prodigiously, you know
the audience is a niche of salon corset adorning
perfumed and pampered ladies,
with the gents reading the books to rid
yourself from the existential angst of having
someone bring you peppermint tea in the
afternoon while you lounged and tilled
the field of yawns and un-amusing gatherings
of, well, hardly ecstasy fuelled chorea minor
(st. vitus' dance) dancing raves...
but that's the thing, these days a constant
profile / presence is also a shady presence,
the background noise, ambient refrigerator noise
type observations of your own voice...
it's the 21st century after all,
we have a global world of mass tourism
and easy access to Turkey, Singapore or
Indonesia... but find our neighbour's house
to be Mt. Everest in terms of access...
impassable, well at least it's like that in England,
England and that damnable passive
voyeurism of neighbourly ordeals of staccato -
so you become a mole, you dig into
hades that your self becomes, and you expand
the horizons a little...
but still the perks of writing in the 21st century
is that you can speed up the publishing process
not really minding any material gain,
because, remember: in the 21st century
you write and live, it's not the 20th
century where you can live and write,
that's gone, it's like the idea of what Europe
used to be with free-movement of people
across the union, all the publishing wire fencing
are gone, you have to use this opportunity
to move quickly, use this opportunity,
otherwise it will suddenly disappear in the murk
of what writing used to be: the
ghoul of the infamous Vatican Index -
i mean it's still the early 21st century,
what of the end of it? history can be easily
condensed into an evolutionary theory,
pin-pointing dinosaur fossils and all that,
but i'm working in the framework of a range
of about 100 years, and the dynamics of a century,
nothing more, i'm being realistic like that:
as a poets' poet said: 'you know,
i want to become a philosophers' poet,
i want the shawl of even greater obscurity,
a mythology as it were, this paparazzi
***** and glitter of insect procreation speed
frightens me, i'm not the one for being
encapsulated in some sort of amnesia -
amnesia of the people, people's amnesia,
come one minute, gone the next,
i need to set a coordinate for people who
like to think.' and he was on the money, truthfully said.
people are always talking about all the futilities
of justice: but it's the 21st century!
makes no difference if you can't compare two
centuries and what we do that does not involve serving
our justice... the count of monte cristo always
said what was needed, start embarking on revenge
and your sought out justice will never end, for it
will never really exist, and you will not find
satisfaction in revenge, emotionally you won't,
but obviously cognitively you will, but certainly
not emotionally - since feelings have no aim,
whether in seeking revenge or in pardoning someone
for their idiocy or gluttony or whatever,
emotions are chaos, thoughts can become methodological
to the extent where you will gain revenge,
but up to a certain point, the point of exhaustion,
and then what? give your ear to zatara a while,
your emotions might surprise you, esp. if you're not
thinking out something, make your thought
a coordinate, and send out 360 vectors of the heart
where they please.
Louisa Joy Mayes Feb 2017
I paint my face
covering the flaws

Heavy sockets cradle the sleepless hours
unfavourable blush  and uneven creases
tell stories of worry and woe

map out my mind across my face
pieces drawn to disguise.

      Where                                                                              from
                                       the
  thoughts                                                   ­      sprouting
                               are           across                                                    a
            planted                                     like                        
                                                                ­          weeds                  muddy field


A field thats walked across and trodden on
journey with care across its banks

because others have left marks
I cannot un trace.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
i can just imagine 9 months of explicit oral ***; and a sack of *******, and a foetus; oh, and frogs, loads of frogs... mammalian-amphibian: croc & ostrich in an egg... one ends up with a pretty smile, the other, with a sprinting pair of legs... never mind the penguin complaining about the lack of flight.*

you've had a few, and you're pretending to
be a boa digesting his mustard infused
chicken, you've drank the white wine,
had a headache, you brushed it off by
a blitz plop of **** and a half an hour walk
to the supermarket for the heartier liquor,
you overheard a conversation about
weddings and cultural exchanges
with 14 day weddings with one of them...
you walked back home: huh...
      question mark much latter -
i.e. ! think therefore ? am...
       or is that ? therefore ! am...
never know...  
        so doing the boa, listening to a gay
guy talking with a woman...
now i know why i'm a man...
i could never do so much talking...
          ****? is it **** when you're watching
a pregnant woman ******* and
find it erotically satisfying?
   just saying, talk of god, death or hades
among these fully formed pseudo-amphibians?
yep, that's what evolutionary biology
teaches us: whales are partially dogs,
dolphins are partially cats,
  and men predating monkeys are
partially frogs...
so we emerged from poseidon's bubble...
is it just me or are pregnant women
the most sacred erotica magnet available,
it's almost like the inverted man,
although the inversion is:
  well: ain't no tadpoles in there my darling:
something's brewing...
takes 9 ******* months to brew
that cartilage stew... **** me...
  who said **** was about *******
all the "pretty" ladies?
              hey, i'm just the cul de sac of
what's sent down the trash line,
      see any videos of me jerking off?
so? supply &, demand.
       nonetheless i have to reiterate:
ever watch a civilised conversation
between a homosexual & a woman,
esp. one above the age of 40?
   match-made in heaven...
            you know you're a man
my son (rudyard kipling style) -
    when you realise that:
you can't shut these two ******* down!
don't bother, as a man you will not
ever reach a platonic relationship with
a woman, platonic relationships exist
between men & women, provided that
the man is **-mo'h...
        gays can talk with women,
men can't... it's a simple fact...
            homos can be the girlfriends,
men prefer (in the extreme)
of drinking while looking into a mirror
for company...
believe me when i say:
if you're gonna drink, drink...
  but never, ever, do so before a mirror -
narcissus will rob you, you and all your
cognitive possessions...
only gays can talk to women to
the satisfaction of a woman's "concern"
for conversation...
     hey, if we're reducing it beyond
medieval and into the cave:
       you wanted this sort of shortening of
history, quantum backlash into the present,
then retraction into the seemingly never-ending,
then back into tomorrow...
    i can't be critical of biblical text
being "unfavourable" about homosexuality,
i look at the context and think:
you're right, back then, we had a limitation
on pursuing the continuation of a "species",
last time i checked, the idea of a "species"
was called grandpa...
                   beside the point...
****, can we eject the eunuchs from the harem,
and get a few homosexuals in here
to talk to these concubines?
        they seem to be yawning more
than moaning...
             maybe the tongue-****** will
stimulate them...
             as they say:
the best friend of a woman is... a homosexual;
we should start breeding these men
for this reason alone...
         to talk, with women,
all that phallatio really oils up the vocal
chords it seems...
  who am i to judge...
               given that man best understands
woman in syllables oscillating O and other
respective onomatopoeias.
   ah, lucky girls,
   i remember in school, this one gay guy
had about a harem of 6 girls,
     talked to them,
talked to them sweet, me with my long hair
and braid... surrounded himself with them,
but all he wanted was me...
      likewise, replica...
   7 of us, playing cards during lunch breaks.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
well: wasn't it a most spectacular night...
if ancient Romans used to throw themselves
****-naked into nettles...
i don't know... a meditation on saving a drowning
wasp...
funny... i still remember Ilona: surname?
OSA-
            wasp in ****** speaking...
                        my god: she was so unattractive
when i was dating her: i was... let's say... thirsty...
and unlike Laura she gave up her swing
of **** so early on: promised me a trip to see
Metallica in Moscow: i thought i was going places...
i was...
   three piercings in her lips...
tattoos... but she did have mighty dreads prior
to me meeting her...
once i met her she looked like... cross between
a pineapple and a wet mongrel dog...
            no wonder i had trouble getting a *******...
it didn't even help trying to think about
Aria Giovanni... i had to think about Margaret
Thatcher... you have to... it's the opposite rule
of imagining you have something better than what
you have in front of you...
you have to think about something worse
than what you have in front of you...
i'm all out of confessions that might paint man
is a pretty picture...
i'm just listening to ol' lover boy Ed Sheeran...
i probably only like one of his songs...
Shivers... and the acoustic version with the loop peddle...
smart boy... he settled for a college sweetheart
or some **** like that...
for the tune i'm done with sickly-sweet lyrics...
but being the real lover-boy...
bitter? me? no... i'm not bitter: i'm just nostalgic:
nostalgia can appear to be bitter:
it is... cognitive selection is in place:
sort of like natural selection:
   perhaps due to the erosion from pedagogy
(a, b c, d, e f, g... 1 + 1 = 2) i can't remember
what i want... i can't... i remember what is important
or hardly...
i can't chose what i'd like to remember:
memory is water... a fickle creature...
but i guess if there's hypergamy there's
also: misogyny... misandry:
there must be a hyperandry - it's not a made up
world: poor boys hooking up with rich girls:
summer flings...
her father was a timber merchant from Novosibirsk,
she one spare apartment in the centre of
St. Petersburg... it's like that Jojo... Mojo?
that song: in the summertime...
about dating rich girls...
                                  i was a stop-over...
   well... no wonder that i went underground
and back onto a diet of prostitutes...
body-met-body and two bodies came out... as one...
i don't mean to burn dreams of other people
but i hardly dream so... it's nothing eating
the architecture of splinters in a forest...
of pines: can't tell apart a splinter from a pine
needle... like: for like...
woman's competition with man's sexuality...
mind you: i set up a "fake" Twitter account...
just for kicks... john pickwick... @ aol...
         hmm... this is very interesting...
i tried the classical route with the girl that tried
to get me fired... banana loaf... homemade wine...
i was going to bring a vinyl record to play
on her vinyl player: i "lost" a wooly hat i found
at a bus-stop once in her house...
i was so enthralled with her that i simply forgot it:
the sorting hat i called it: i hate Harry Potter...
two doors down...

  right... this trend on twitter... because most of these
women signed up in either August of this year
or July...
now? they're parading themselves on twitter...
there's: Camila @ CamilaMommy...
all of them... single mums... thirsty... single mums...
the: i love chatting and meeting new people
types...
MommyAdeline: lonely mature women (not my typo)
looking for new ****** adventures...

the website? urbestmeet.com...
THESE WOMEN ARE ONLY LOOKING FOR
CASUAL ****** ENCOUNTERS...
single mums and cheating wives...

spicydates.ga...
   Priscila...
well... thank **** i wasn't looking in the "right places":
this could work...
i mean... it might be cheaper than going
to your conventional brothel...
but more of a thought experiment:
these women are not looking for relationships...
no... of course they're not...

this is going to turn out ugly: if i attempt it...
cheating wives? single mums?
well... i've already slurped at the oyster of a *******'s
****... i wonder: how serious would these girls
be about not having relationships...
i'll have to wait: school's out... their children
are at home... i wonder...
of course i'm no electrician:
but i do know that you first have to check the fuse
in the plug of an appliance before you throw the hole
thing out... i like cooking i blah blah this
that and the other: give me a cigarette in a *******
and i'm suddenly swallowing a blue pill
for a hard-on...

   of course not! i'm not god's gift to women...
i'm just curious...
it almost feels like walking into a desert
with a glass of water...
i have a newly woken ambition:
to be more erotically brutal than Ovid:
let's face it... there are difference between the times
when he lived and when i live...
i'm just thinking of the children and what i could
steal...
two doors down there was this single mum...
she entertained about 5 suitors per year
if not more... her autistic boy used to bark
in the garden, started throwing ***** into my garden
as if implying: i want to play with you...
then... started beefing himself up
by... eh... i get the gym-bros... but this guy
was beefing himself up by walking up and down
the garden with... slabs...
yep: up and down, up and down...
he would either hold the slabs above his head
or in front of him... his next "best" uncle tried interacting
with him like a person might
interact with a dog he would simply abuse
by tightening the leash on the boy's neck...
it was perfectly beautiful to watch in the sunshine:
but on overcast days i felt miserable...

she had several spare uncles...
when she moved out and the girl from across the street
decided to hook up with a guy who works the
Docklands light-railway...
the same neighbours: mother: two daughters...
one day i was watching the Silence of the Lambs...
what did i see?
the three of them give me a freakish slideshow of
their ****... mummy exposed herself first...
then the two daughters walked into the room and
straight toward the window...
mein gott: some sanity... please!

anyways... this young couple bought the house
last year... or the year before that...
nice young couple: nice enough to sort of ignore
you when you say good-morning:
******* too...
                    they're still working on the house...
trying to make sense of what ****-show they bought...
well: if you buy a house that was once owned
by a single-mum... in England you're not expecting
cockroaches: that's for sure...
but the rest? they might finish come the coming
Christmas...

i know i'm a ****-up... that's why i drink whiskey
for the anaesthesia...
but even i, am, not, that ****** up...
i have limits...
oh no: no limits in terms of drinking:
i start i turn into a leech...
i'm sober i'm a judge... a ******* evalengelist!
but i start sniffing a bottle of whiskey?

last night... i felt the heat coming...
i thought: better go into the garden and fall to sleep...
what did i do?
saving that wasp from drowning created
a strange wind... i tangoed too short...
i was blown off my feet: and i didn't even
drink that much... the strange wind threw me
off my feet and into my dear fig tree...
i woke up: oh, i didn't drink that much...
i completely forgot about the fig tree...
i broke the poor girl in half...
i spent today taping her up...
two bamboo stalks inserted into the ground
to correct her "height" and "composure":

mind you? my apple tree... she's CWAZZY...
she-he produced so much apples... tasty...
ultra tasty... that she became a hunchback...
she-he produced so many apples that she broke up...
huh! ancient Romans throwing themselves
into nettle bushes while i save a wasp from
drowning and some strange wind throws me onto
my dear fig tree... ****'s sake:
more nights like that!

i'm thinking... i have never used a dating app...
what's on offer?
single mums and cheating wives...
wow... well: i was never fond of virgins to begin with...
you need to try the entire spectrum...
but i'm thinking: adultery:
but with prostitutes: i like "sloppy seconds"...
i have an "agenda": one of my front wheel's spokes snapped
when i left my bicycle in the sun for too long...
****: i have to take the bus...

i like sloppy seconds...
but i'm thinking... about the kids...
perhaps it's time to unleash the beast...
if women are vacating themselves so freely:
apparently the website they're using is not giving them
enough traction that they have resorted to exploring Twitter
and i never used that website...
well: cheaper for me:
i wonder who's the bigger sadist of the pair of us...
i wonder...
i think i'll tackle the challenge...
why? the website stresses: casual hook-ups...
yeah...
           women just casually hook up...
i'll try it when then school-season reopens...
i'll just test it to test the mantra...
     no attachment? no relationships?!
so... elevated stances of prostitution?
             cool cool... i'll figure that one out
pretty soon...
i'll see how long they can go for on the basis of ONLY ***...
i'd like to see...
before i arrive at the origami heart:
ori (folding)... paper (kami) heart (hāto)  
オリカミ  ハート
   ガ: a "rendaku" also exists in English...
    somewhere between theta and phi...
                          although: al-VOU(gh)...
ha! found it!
                      THE: V'eh point!
                  it's not: i THought not so... no?

English slobs and their ******* graffiti culinary
mishaps... i know this language in-and-out
and i'm going to play the Joker with it!
see my smile? i'm pretty sure you haven't missed it yet...
i too can play games...
hide-and-seek of language...
look at a letter long enough and then bark...
i'll chase down the echo in the cave that's
this universe...

Batman won't mind...
i'm bored of brothels... after that *******
i became bored...
after Khadija: Muhammad was
illiterate, wasn't he? so... he didn't write the Koran?
did he? who was literate in his life
when Mecca banished him to Medina?
his older wife... Khadija:
the smart woman with mathematical and letter
acumen: a woman wrote the Koran...

she had to... no one else would listen
to the ramblings of a madman...
i bet she's turning in her grave by now...
funny: i ****** a Turkish ******* by the same name...
maybe reincarnation than i previously thought:
perhaps i ****** Muhammad's ol' ball and chain
in the year 2022...
i very much wish i have...
i think a woman of her calibre would like
a literate man to be a sort of dog sleeping
by her bed while she slept in the bed:
like Ilona Osa- once slept in my bedroom...
i gave her the entire bed while i slept on the floor
and gave her my hand to cling to...

Ovid was right: erotica is warfare akin to espionage...
the Russians know what a honey trap is...
what am i using? what am i protecting?
i always remember to forget...
oh... right... i'd love for a 2nd schism in Islam...
spearheaded by the Turks...
why? "i" feel like it... the universe feels like it:
by now there have been so many schisms
in Christianity it makes no sense
in treating it like a monotheism:
it's a polytheistic joke... and a monotheistic joke too...
like i said: Jesus: being the lord of Mosquitos:
was the greatest troll Hell ever produced...
lord of mosquitos? wine not blood all of a sudden?!

i can see the flag! white... red... purple!
just like i can decipher the colours of the flag
of Ukraine: blue skies above...
and the yellow booming harvest of wheat below...
like i can see the colours speaking to me
in ******: white peace above (contradiction)...
fuelled by ****** fields of red of blood spilled
to achieve the white doves above...
Germany? black skies: red: blood forever spilled...
yellow? eh... German efficiency...
we can go on forever like this...

namely? i can, become... very ******* superstitious:
i can abandon all hope for reason
and for the study of science on a whim:
gladly: gladly...
i just... adore the plethora that doubt creates...
the plethora of emotions that doubt can
only create while the pinnacle of NEGATION
if can simply: eh... negate...
seeing how the applied modern jurisprudence
is predicated on a defence mechanism of:
negation, i.e. innocent until proven guilty...
ooh... i can have: SO MUCH... FUN with this!

and each time i'm being asked to find a cure...
cure for what? curation? it's like Hey-Susie
once stated: doctor! cure yourself!
i've found a "coping mechanisation":
sure, i drink... but i drink to pick a fight?
i drink to excesses not bound to man...
a litre of whiskey each night every night
for three weeks solid:
some poor ****** with "12 years of career-experience
as a steward" at public events gets obliterated
by my lack of "experience" and for that matter
qualifications... circa 6 months in and i'm
given command... of 15 people...
i'm not even boasting:
i'm running into fig trees: breaking them...
i'm chasing rats... figuring:
that's just a giant moth: it's not a bat...
NIETOPERZ...

my garden ein welt... and the moon:
one source of light i'd gladly take anywhere...
into a pool of my own drowning...
light i'd love to bring with me into a heart
of a woman...
i salvaged a wasp from drowning:
that terrible birth of a parasite...
hmm! born by the antithesis of birth
of mammals! it eats its way out
of the host... no wonder i was thrown into
the fig tree by a "misstep"...

i much preferred salvaging the last breaths
of the bee... stroking its furry back...
easing its death by squeezing out the honey
onto my palm and seeing it die from a sugar-overload...
that was nice to watch: a bee dying in my hand...

i'm thinking about this website...
these desperate women...
**** it... when the school season opens up...
i might try it...
if the women are so brazen about their sexuality:
why shouldn't i?
the beast has been woken...
oh... the beast has been awake for much longer
than that...
i just needed for a curiosity to build up...
i've given crumbs / rations to
the Roma paupers... for the "rose"...
yeah... now that's done...
                      and i feel no moral obligations...
yeah? what now?
i'll have my: ******* FEAST!
sniff... sniff...
            
                   i just need to remember the rejection
by Ilona... Osa-...
             living in England... but having no access to
English girls...
is so?! why make complaints?!
accept your fate!
           i need to seek our these single-mothers
selling themselves off as prostitutes
without the same curiosity /
technicality of prostitutes:
i imagine most of them being terrible *****...
not that i have to:
reality just dictates this regard as being true...

but i have to try...
for the thrill of being the terrible "uncle" for some
poor pooch that should have required much better...
but, knowing me... i'll probably walk-out with a limp-****...
no... there's no fun in harming animals
as there's no fun in harming children...
i can't even cross the line with insects!
sure: i sometimes mishandle bread...
or spaghetti... i either overcook it or undercook it...
but children?! freely availiable *** from desperate
mothers?

i'll try... i'll try my best...
but i'm already imitating the shifts where i...
precursor the "advent" with:
automated regurgitation...
i just puke up...
                  i invest in milk: i puke up...
               i like the feeling of puking up...
i eat very little... i combat my "irritable bowels syndrome"
with regurgitation...
i puke up more than i am able to **** out...
i sometimes regurgitate the water invested in
being drunk...

dearest Ilona: my parents are freaks:
how they managed to be so coupled is still beyond me...
but we could have worked something out...
i see you now like i might see the night
and my shadow contrasted by it back then:
when... ah! water under the bridge...

yeah... i need to look into this freely available
economy of ****...
it's not going to be as pretty as
the anaesthetic of a brothel...
children being involved...
                           i'll just tease at the idea:
just tease at the idea...
i'll probably not go through with it...
                i tried the classical route:
oh, we met at work...
he brought me homemade wine and a banana loaf
he baked himself...
while i tried to get him fired...
yeah: that sort of route...
                  
my heart? what, does, it feel, now?
oh... you know:
like i can listen to the Davy Jones' theme from
Pirates of the Caribbean for 0 hours on a loop
and not feel, bored...
because? this, is, who, i have, become!
a properly decent: realist!
life's cruel: get on with it...
be nice to animals!
people make life difficult to fellow people...
get on with it!
                i hear one more: ******* complaint
i'm shutting my empathy: down!

oh no... it's not about making demands...
i'm just a careless free-be...
harmless "bystander":
at work no one expects me to live a double life
of literary adventures...
i like it that way...
i write: ******* children's literature...
i don't frequent brothels i don't counter
******* prostitutes with seeking out
single-mothers willing to play the role
of Mantis in the ******-coliseum!
no! no no! of course not!

                            but i am: willing to tease
a little... see what's happening: hear what's happening...
feel what's happening...
i need wasps for that...
bees are not enough!
and then i need to "accidently" fall into and break
a fig tree!
hell! the idiot apple tree provided too many fruits!
she was bent over like a hunchback from
the excess of weight!
i had to relieve her by making an apple crumble
today!
either too many fruits: or none at all!
trees these days!
i might as well fill my garden with herbs and spices...
mint... rosemary... bay leaves...
i already have these... thyme... that too...
wild garlic...

i wanted to love: so badly...
so wrongly: so righteously...
to imitate my father's love for my mother...
to even imitate my grandfather's love for my grandmother's
shortcomings...
i wanted to love so madly and endearingly...
best i didn't... it would have left me with
nothing but my own shortcomings to mind...
now it's only a matter of:
where the Mantis / Wasp imitation of woman
wills to take me...

where little Calypso of the heart is willing
to scrunch my heart up and
feed the river her paper swan toward either flower
of river or the disfavouring gust of breeze...
i wonder... where will little Calypso
****** upon me:
yet another unfavourable twist of fate?!
WA West Sep 2018
There was nothing that made him want to leave the house. The world seemed hostile and uninviting; waiting to trap and mock him. A life of action seemed to evade him, no matter how much he willed it into existence. There was nothing but his own mental landscape and how it quickly it turned on him. Unfavourable memories returning like they were on loop. He slept as much as possible; awakening only to eat or to chat with people he barely really knew on the internet. When he wasn't in his bed he could smell his bed inviting but sour. He distrusted those close to him, waiting for them to prove his paranoia to be true. He spent days pondering things of zero consequence and comparing himself to inconsequential  people.

If he bothered to wash at all; he sat in the bath looking at his kneecaps, trying to produce a thought that would change his circumstances. Transcendence and an existence outside of his own body and mind didn't seem possible. He was suffocated by the vividity of his own imagination coupled with his inability to overcome his own anxieties. When they came, social invitations were quickly turned down; the act of interaction and fostering relationships seemed superhuman. The task of leaving the house seemed herculean. He neglected his talents and watered his insecurities like plants until they were deeply weeded in his psyche. He ate infrequently; destroying a once taut and capable physique.
Babatunde Raimi Sep 2019
A Cherry blossoms in it's time
It's a beauty of times and seasons
But yours is ageless and timeless
Like a dazzling mirage.

Atmospheric conditions changes
As by-products of optical illusions
Like the moon usually waits
To reflect the glory of the sun
But yours is not serendipitous
Your spark is programmed to shine till fade

Mojekwu's probability can be biased
The urn can be unfavourable to a ball
But the ***** in your eyes are blazing
They tell the story of beauty with brains

The reflection from that BMW
That shone across that chariot
Owned by that Happy
A Pharmaceutical colosus
Revealed your perfect dentition
The type found on enchantresses

If the world goes numb
Your voice will be all that is needed to hear
If the lights world over goes off
The sparkle in your eyes
Will be all needed to see

When meeting friends
You always know the beginning
Not the end
That is how Divinity programmed life
Even Augusta can attest to this

The refraction of light
Blazing from the heated skies
Have all pledged their loyalty
To you, a beauty Queen
The way other principalities
Bows to the presence of a Lioness

This work, written from the purerst of heart
Is just to let you know that
If i were an ocean
You will be my only pebble
If i be an Accountant
You will be my only Audit
If i be a Pharmacist
You'll be my only medicine

Someone tell me this is not real
Before i wake up from my slumber
That a dazzling mirage
Somewhere in her sacred heart
Smiles at an Author and a Life Coach
Whose pen is worthless
Without her "Yes"
Ryan O'Leary Jan 17
When one is in an unpleasant,
unfavourable situation, poetry
can be positive optimistic even
a beneficial antidotal antonym.  

Resuscitated recitation, mime
the rhyme keeping in time is a
means of meandering the mind
away from antagonistic thought.
Eshwara Prasad Jul 2020
Organizations fortunes failing

Brain storming meetings to generate new ideas, daily

Every day ritual,

Samosas, chips, doklas, espresso, green, dark, sloppy tea brought in by pricenly looking servers

A swarm of useless mouths crunch the destructive stuff hotly, without break

Irritating crunching sounds

More Stuff show up, more crunching, more irritating sound

Not a word verbally expressed on  
organization's looming doom

Investors cash glutted by terrible money eating sharks

The day is curiously chilly  

Television is turned on

Shocking news!

Channels declare organization's doom as breaking news!

Money eating Sharks go into hiding as they experience a baffling shiver inside their stomachs brought on by undigested food.

Their heads swrling because abundance of bile discharged into their blood stream.

Hapless investors, money lenders rue their fate on unfavourable distant stars.

People in Society sleep like sheeps.

Money eating Sharks are enjoying their swim in a distant sea with gay abandon!
Salmabanu Hatim Jan 2020
Able to survive in favourable and unfavourable situations.

— The End —