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Natalia Gancheva Jun 2022
It's funny how people say for others
"Don't judge a book by its cover".
Honey, I've read the whole series -
I still want my refund,
Believe me, that story never got interesting nor pretty.
It was comfort when you're feeling down,
It was home when no one else was around,
It was fun, when you needed a good time to laugh.

Why I want a refund you'd ask?
The magic forest isn't just pretty fairies and unicorns, right?
So was this book.
Cover ain't pretty, but we don't judge it - we give it a try.
Yet, under all the magic,
there's something scary, that could make you lose your pride.
Ugly witches, goblins, trolls,
but isn't the forest also their home?
Story can't always be bright,
But when the dark consumes all the light,
the book is no longer your anchor.
The pages contain ungly spells that make you feel like you're reading something else.
One of the trolls probably tried to trick me - he succeeded.
Can't believe once I've said this book was everything I needed.

Could be the troll,
could be the narrator,
could be just me,
but the comforting fairy tale,
is no longer what it used to be.

And I believe you feel the same way as me,
as this was our first and last journey,
cause the story got way too ugly so we both decided that it's just not worth it.

So, you see, I didn't judge it before,
nor will I do it now.
Yet, I'd like to bring it all back,
wishing I've never read that series nor reach its finale.
We don't judge, we live on with the disappointment.
WickedHope Dec 2014
My skin is wrapping paper
I want to tear off

But I can't let you
See what's inside
So I stay disguised
As an ungly present
Imperfect and bulging

No one will open me
Christmas morning
Because I'm the nightmare
Before, during, and after

However I'm already ripped
And as you get glimpses inside
I don't blame you for running away
I'm the gift you don't bother returning;
I'm either passed around or thrown away.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2021
i can make two comparisons blindly...
1.
   stroking my beard feeds into the same sort
of relaxation pattern as it would
stroking a woman's thigh or
making finger-tip location: return-to
posits around the more boney aspects
of the body...
the knees... the collar bone...
hands... mein gott...
hands... they're so ****** since they:
i guess... are much smaller...
i can pick up a basketball with one
hand... i peer into this little oasis of
shrapnel bones and think: don't think...

ha... ***** envy... i finally figured out
the trick men play on women
when they send them their whittle richard
"selfies"... obviously they take pictures
of their "endowment" AFTER they masturbated...
not that i've seen any but i imagine:
not imagine... of sure... it sure looks much
bigger with all the excess blood...
it's not like they're sending them
pictures of a pre-******* phallus...
cocky men sending women pictures
of what women send men: all made-up with
make-up...

it's a ******* giggle fest from here on in...
i still get beard envy...
even though i think i've coming across
a sleeping set of genes...
it's a Scandinavian "thing"...
to have brown hair, green eyes...
a brown beard: now that the greys have
arrived at the zenith of what would
be sideburns...
i still retain the colour of my hair from
youth...
schnurrbartblondine...
then again: i don't know how the grammatical
cascade works, sometimes...
not from ancient Latin: i'm pretty sure
French is the opposite...
blondineschnurrbart...
oh... it's a very Scandinavian trait to have
one aspect of your ****** hair... lighter than the rest...
darkened over the years of:
Matrix-England overcast skies...
good luck getting a solar panel in 'ere...
but as i was cycling my not so usual route
through what's yet to become "no-go zones" of
London where Sharia law is primed...
this Asian girl walking with her boyfriend
purposively decided to stand in the cycle lane
and purposively made eye-contact with me...
i think i mentioned her already...
without make-up she still looked as
pretty as a Cinderella... and i'm sure Cinderella
looked pretty before she tarted herself up
for the gala...
in this grand theatre of the urban setting...
everything needs to be nuanced...
everything requires a micro-cosmos...
my Nigerian neighbour is giggling from
behind the wall... sometimes he'll have a drag
out of the window from one before going to sleep...
while i will sit perched for 2 / 3 hours longer
and smoke out a locomotive...
i wake up thinking that i was screaming
in the night... i still dream of nothing but the great
yawn: of either space or time...
the odd dream i get can paralyse me
for about an hour in bed...
how did light enter my brain when the eyes were
closed, and i esp. since i was sleeping?
did i stare at the sun too much?
when i do look at it...
it's just a pulsating ultra-violet orb...
unlike the moon...
sedative in the sky...
i cower to find the night and...
ol' baldy: in western Slavic the moon
is categorically masculine...
in this... curry of etymologies that's English...
the moon is a gender neutral noun...
although: i suspect there are subversive
connotations of it being male...
but then "we" arrive at Luna...
a shortening of Lunar... and we arrive at
a feminine exclusivity..
just like with her antonym... Sun... not son...
sUn... mr. inferno parabola...
or... Helios... most definitely male...
see... i don't get it...
"gender neutral pronouns"...
it's one thing... but nouns... can be
nuanced... they need... sexuality... or is it gender?
to be invoked...
to assert their presence...
i know that gender inclusivity is missing:
currently... in the "post-modernist"
take on this language...
but it exists... you can give a man the name:
Basil... Fawlty: not merely faulty... no?
you can name a man Basil...
you can name a woman Hyacinth...
or Rose...
so? ergo? there are no non-gender neutral
nouns... are there?!
why should pronouns
"suddenly" become... neutered?
is this the BIG CULL...
perhaps it sounds better in german...

   ist dies das groß pflücken?!

you never know: writing to Anglo-Saxons...
they're deaf... they're not deaf...
they have their heads shoved up Anglo-H'american
culture too much...
i might have asked their origins people:
but then they came up with
"too many" definite articles...
das... der... die...        ditto the whole lot of them...
i'm neither, either...
protestant disillusionment... it's rife...
i see it when entering those "no-go" zones
in London: i'm an outsider doubly outsider...
i'm not English...
i stroke my beard: i'm not into novels
beside of Stendhal...
Sienkiewicz...
all the romance... i have a head
riddle with a makeshift of a headache...
i tried to recreate the taste of bourbon fixing myself
with a concoction of Scotch whiskey
with some Southern Comfort:
no can do...
the bourbon ******* used some alias
or something...

Wittgenstein vs. La Rochefoucauld...
of course i'm drinking...
sober people writing tend to...
waffle! i liked Wittgenstein: tautologies...
for the tautology scrutiny:
red... crimson...

"metaphor" / "misnomer": "x"...
just presume that
language took a turn and everyone
arrived at the sane spot:  "smarter"...
no... ugly monkey wants to **** an ungly monkey!
i'm tired of the temporal...
the history through the lense of
Darwinism..
see how it happens...
Darwinism didn't have a hand in Copernican
poker... but... it had a hand in history...
Narcissus the greatest sufferer...

i look into a mirror: do i have to peer
at a monkey?!
hello the orangutan has down's syndrome...
those monkey eyes are so close together...
hell: hello....
what is a cat is a cat is a foot in a sock
is a sock on a foot is a foot and sock
in a shoe
and there's walking involved:
or simply standing:
don't get me wrong:
but i "got" Knausgaard all wrong
when i tried to read him in English...
maybe it's just the same with Jon Fosse:
maybe English is an ungly language of translation
maybe English is something momentarily perfect
in an abstract:
i think of Septology like i think of
Doctor Faustus and Herr! mein mann!
my future bridge of bride to be
is weeping into the telephone and
i have no avenues of consoling her:
with all that Omine Patrii Catholic ******* litany:
i'm a lion sleeping on sheeps' cloth
and the sunlight is spectcular
like
like
it's almost orange: like the fruit...
but without the tecture o
full texture of the full:
ORBITAL...
       define orange... Frank O'Here.
O'There: Oh **** everywhere
defined orange as a bad... a "bad" colour...
once i needed a serprent and a garden
and i've watched so much *******:
i'm reduced to old father dragon:
a recluse salvation
of solo: a worm weaving its way around
a bookshelf...
i am that...
evil, i find, has become a subpar IQ testimony...
these rigid half **** wits
and
if i were to think of woman and the foetus
which
enlargers the prospects of the ******
birth
and if my mind was a womb:
my foetus: my my my.. not my foetus
would be the ego...
and well isn't that a welcome sunshine
for a sunrise to a parody like
all Norwegian writing is exemplar:
you strangulate the Poles from the POLANA...
you make them desecrate
the **** the grass...
like: who was that ***** that catapulted Samson's
ponytail along with the Mongol tribe who
only found out: figured out counting
by barraging Baghdad by sling
of dead head cope...
        i'm painting: with sounds: but i'm painting
without sounds being sounds...
it's not like i'm writing: ******* music...
i'm writing that what i think i think
might be: red...
         or orange.... or brown...
when my partner starts crying because her
samurai would be... was poisoned...
aparently cats have short memories...
but it breaks my heart in order to give me
two hearts: two lingos...
and two minds to match:
maybe Reyla... hmm.. impossible:
that sly ***** couldn't poach a ******* egg
but what if... suppositional dysfuynction...

but if i am the nothing womb of the birth of
ego... id aside...
i feel uneasy hearing what pain
is true and like... alike...
it makes me beg: to differ...
i hark i send snow and i even send the night
with all the frost, nail, bitterness of
the biting...
i juggle:

there was a concept of writing poetry and of music:
but that died with Nietzsche:
i think then i don't think:
then replace the medium of writing
like some journalistic cul de sac
and some ****** lackey
you ******* kidding me
i will burn this continent with thoughts
alone!
i will drive that ****-******* crucifix into
your **** whale-bone
you Kentucky fried IQ lost puck-puck-puck-ah!
you Jew herder!

enloghten the spirits they said:
so much for circumcision...
can't ******* **** into the toilet bowl:
can ye?!
oh but it's alright when males are circumcised
and leave bad hygiene habits in the toilets
for all else to see:
scrutiny of the *******:
or maybe... maybe that's like:
fried onion rings... more or less:
foreskins...
so fry: those... *******... foreskins!
make 'em TH chewy...
like porky pie ears and all
that deep fried gelatin unlike
the Scotch deep fried Mars bar
you ******* spandex in gravy lateral
navy oosh! you Scotach better
beg for my pardon!

    the sun          and her sons...
the moon: and her daughters...
no one preparers you make digestion of this
subterranean *******...
Norwegians tied to try:
if i couldn't stomach Knausgaard
in English:
i can't stomach Fosse in English:
sorry: not sorry: but boo hoo anyways
ghost Angevin...
           i'll ******* get that smirk of self-assurance
readied
for the torture chamber
and there will be not laughter there:
i'll just perfectly employ the *****
to the ******* device
and i'll itch with each
available scrutiny of pleasure:
to allow yourself to suffer...

        because that is my judgement
and all else:
a repetition of consequence(s).

— The End —