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Poets with whom I learned my trade.
Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,
Here's an old story I've remade,
Imagining 'twould better please
Your cars than stories now in fashion,
Though you may think I waste my breath
Pretending that there can be passion
That has more life in it than death,
And though at bottling of your wine
Old wholesome Goban had no say;
The moral's yours because it's mine.
When cups went round at close of day --
Is not that how good stories run? --
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, Or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban 'd hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on somc still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Now from that juice that made them wise
All those had lifted up the dim
Imaginations of their eyes,
For one that was like woman made
Before their sleepy eyelids ran
And trembling with her passion said,
"Come out and dig for a dead man,
Who's burrowing Somewhere in the ground
And mock him to his face and then
Hollo him on with horse and hound,
For he is the worst of all dead men.'
We should be dazed and terror-struck,
If we but saw in dreams that room,
Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck
That empticd all our days to come.
I knew a woman none could please,
Because she dreamed when but a child
Of men and women made like these;
And after, when her blood ran wild,
Had ravelled her own story out,
And said, "In two or in three years
I needs must marry some poor lout,'
And having said it, burst in tears.
Since, tavern comrades, you have died,
Maybe your images have stood,
Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,
Before that roomful or as good.
You had to face your ends when young --
'Twas wine or women, or some curse --
But never made a poorer song
That you might have a heavier purse,
Nor gave loud service to a cause
That you might have a troop of friends,
You kept the Muses' sterner laws,
And unrepenting faced your ends,
And therefore earned the right -- and yet
Dowson and Johnson most I praise --
To troop with those the world's forgot,
And copy their proud steady gaze.
"The Danish troop was driven out
Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;
"Although the event was long in doubt.
Although the King of Ireland's dead
And half the kings, before sundown
All was accomplished.
"When this day
Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,
Foot after foot was giving way,
He and his best troops back to back
Had perished there, but the Danes ran,
Stricken with panic from the attack,
The shouting of an unseen man;
And being thankful Murrough found,
Led by a footsole dipped in blood
That had made prints upon the ground,
Where by old thorn-trees that man stood;
And though when he gazed here and there,
He had but gazed on thorn-trees, spoke,
"Who is the friend that seems but air
And yet could give so fine a stroke?"
Thereon a young man met his eye,
Who said, "Because she held me in
Her love, and would not have me die,
Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,
And pushing it into my shirt,
Promised that for a pin's sake
No man should see to do me hurt;
But there it's gone; I will not take
The fortune that had been my shame
Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have.  --
'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came
He had betrayed me to his grave,
For he and the King's son were dead.
I'd promised him two hundred years,
And when for all I'd done or said --
And these immortal eyes shed tears --
He claimed his country's need was most,
I'd saved his life, yet for the sake
Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.
What does he cate if my heart break?
I call for ***** and horse and hound
That we may harry him.' Thereon
She cast herself upon the ground
And rent her clothes and made her moan:
"Why are they faithless when their might
Is from the holy shades that rove
The grey rock and the windy light?
Why should the faithfullest heart most love
The bitter sweetness of false faces?
Why must the lasting love what passes,
Why are the gods by men betrayed?'
But thereon every god stood up
With a slow smile and without sound,
And Stretching forth his arm and cup
To where she moaned upon the ground,
Suddenly drenched her to the skin;
And she with Goban's wine adrip,
No more remembering what had been.
Stared at the gods with laughing lip.
I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,
To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,
And thc world's altered since you died,
And I am in no good repute
With the loud host before the sea,
That think sword-strokes were better meant
Than lover's music -- let that be,
So that the wandering foot's content.
Cunning Linguist Aug 2013
Real lies, unreal thing
Light me up just take a puff
Then once more until you huff
And again with feeling
Feel your life unreeling
Unrelenting

Real eyes
Disillusioned


Lungs replete with cloud of one thousand burning trees
Avert your gaze, look beyond the haze
So you'll fail to notice I etched the stress as wrinkles in your face
and smothered your Eros, imbued void in its place

Realize
Dissolution


Whether its reward or solace you seek
Inhale me, the vapors of your saving grace
I am everything you've hated to love and loved to hate
Unrepenting

Now exhale your pain
Oh exalted Soul
Pity I bring you no relief
Rather, wield a sword


Now as I overwhelm
And pull you down under
You can take the helm
But your vessels asunder

Your heart and lungs are now black
I harbor plague, yet still you'll come back
Because your peace of mind rests with me
In these most tumultuous tides
Mark Lecuona Mar 2016
To so many it is surreal and dream-like; say it out loud,
they nailed him to a cross; an overwhelming reality too
cruel to believe

Reminded of nothing but what passed their lips into
your ears, the inquisitors, blessed by a past regarded
as their own holy ground asked, “How many prophets
have you met?”

It was enough to know who Satan should truly fear;
those who would never cry, who would have no reaction
to anything except the atrocity of someone who knew
them well

They say walk a mile in another man’s shoes but why
must we walk so far; isn’t his breath alone enough to
know of the scars in his hands and feet?

It seems that life gives others too many chances; they
hurt so many others and expect to be forgiven; but I
have not witnessed their punishment; it is the pattern
sewn by my bitterness

Is it God’s plan to reveal how and when they will be
driven into the desert of lament and sorrow; or even
if he already has, with burning sands beneath their
unrepenting feet, is it any of my concern?

The clock will strike on his time; the test is not only
in bearing my own pain but also in my discomfort
with God’s random will; random to mankind, but
not to God; he chose the time for the storm to wash
away those who preach what they do not know

The one who stirs hate in my heart suffers more than
I will ever know; his conscience burns deep into the
heart I once believed failed him; and when he comes
to me to witness my refusals will he ask then if God
gave me the power to part the sea?

I was given a hammer and some nails; was it to build
a home or to **** a man? I was given a pile of stones;
was it to build a home or to judge another man?

What did God ask of me; tell me what he said for
the dream was such a nightmare that I awoke in
horror at the sight of such unworthiness

To lower your gaze and be the truth; the truth that
only humility knows, not to be hurt once again but
to show how forgiveness is greater than anything
you have been promised?

And as you walk in fear towards an image beyond a
cross you cannot believe is real, will the worthiness of
the forgiver be enough for you to know that the shoes
you wear are not strong enough to hold another man’s
suffering in its sole?
Devon Brock Jul 2019
When the eyes are denied a surety,
trepidation beats between cicada wings
and the snore song of leopard frogs,
loud though the singers are small.

For what or whom does the gray owl call,
perhaps, perhaps the end of us all.

We've built upon fire
mechanics of light unrelenting.
But night does fall - never rises -
and with it roars the unrepenting -
a shadow on the wall.

A floorboard creak,
a screendoor unhinged,
even a clock ticks louder
to the brave cowering ear,
counting indifferent
to the sum of our fears.
Sally A Bayan Jun 2021
At sixty plus
       a series of scenes from a life past
       started flashing back...swaying,
       like soft organza curtains, giving
in to forces of the wind...blowing,

recalling...things that used to be,
       places, faces i no longer see,
       people i haven't met and long to meet,
       words i meant to say....but didn't,
       things i failed to do, but still meaning
       to, given fresh starts...it's tiring,
       counting "should haves," so i'm saying,
etcetera, etcetera.....the list is unending.

At past seventy,
       sunrises are lovely as ever...and bolder,
       sunset moments are quieter...and holier,
       old days seem nearer,
       with poetry-writing, the call is stronger
         while still dabbling in beads-making,
       designs pour over me, when stringing
moonstones, sodalite, and lapis lazuli.

I am in a different zone.
       when mixing poetry and natural stones
       to me, a word is a crystal, a gemstone
it's merely a word to some...a stone unknown.

I guess...at late seventies,
       i'll still be in white shirts and blue jeans,
       creating unique, interesting themes for poetry,
       say, a big bus with travelers, seated hesitatingly,
       or, finding a bright tunnel's end, serendipitously,
       or, unrepenting souls sinking deeper, regretfully,
more silly love poems?  i'd indulge willingly

my frame may turn fragile...i pray, not my poetry,
       not my judgment, nor my decision-making,
not my courage, especially, when i'm past eighty.


sally b

©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 18, 2021
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
perhaps the repenting drunk is more
monstrous than
the unrepenting one...
no... the repenting drunk is more
monstrous than the unrepenting drunk...
if the latter is still...
killing flies and the former is
making confessions to sore thumb...
                          
    currently they are laying new tarmac
outside my house...
    it is nearing midnight and they might
be finished come 5am...
    it's so real
that there's no need for painters...
or... it's so "surreal" that the scene
can be translated in my mind as...
the same men... manning a U-boat in
world war II...

a massive road paver...
   like a dinosaur / whale...
   and skidding road rollers
  of finishing details...
                shovels... bright lights...
a sedating volcanic scent...
a romance of:
        not working in an office...
therefore not needing to invest
in hamster-wheel fetishes of a gym...

but i'm not out there... i'm...
      Homer was also a man... Dante...
was also a man...
               Horace...
                what is gender dysphoria...
in the context of:
a man writes the divine comedy...
a man is... laying a road...
   well so much for writing these words...
and hoping to not feel
a ghost pair of ******* from
being castrated...
           as a man's man...
        or as... a woman's man or...
              the other the it the lobotomy oops...
by comparison
each muscle in my body is by now
a mollusk or an oyster...
   my phallus is in a pickle jar...
my **** is screaming: vough-vah!
pretending there's a titillating L
in there somewhere...
          but i am all for playing
this cascade of "piano"...

     mrs. america starring cate blanchett...
2nd wave feminism...
i guess the 1st (wave) invokes
the suffragettes -
                     yes... since the women
the vote: there haven't been any wars...
well... no heroic wars...
no pride ownership wars...
just collateral this... collateral that...
    but work as such...
            beside the harsh grit...
this... aesthetic ******* in between...

no man of a disposition such as i
should write words to paper...
it doesn't help the digestion of oats or rye bread...
hardly a boast of 6ft1 115kg
   and... hunched over this doodle...
that i wish my fingers were dancing
in my mind...
this softcore presence of life...
hardly a feature of:
    how bone can mingle with stone
and wood... how the muscle can be strained
and worn into a tearing...

but a poet is less than a tailor...
          grumpy fool... dealing with the feminine...
i detest having the sort of youth
that had me inspect philosophy...
by now: it's very unreasonable to have to...
it's not like being literate is
anything spectacular...
          
          to have replaced playing the guitar
with stroking my beard...
  is also a premeditation on the nostalgia
for shaving...
         impossible this scrutiny of
psychology... perhaps at best being:
riddled by letters...

i try to fathom the concept of masculinity
in the guise of the alchemist...
or the astrologist...
    but it's somehow impossible...
too impossible to quake at the prospect
of the masculine plethora of experience:

that i could... somehow...
make my body a potential...
                  and leave it as only a potential...
that there's this grey bureaucratic murk
of: that's enough...
  or... that's the constipated zenith
of all that was ever necessary...

  when there was a time of economic marxism:
i.e. there never was...
but to fend off this 20th century ghost
of a marxism: culturally speaking...
it's impossible to begin...
from the french revolution...
       from the russian revolution...
notably: because of the serf-emancipation...
prized african bulls...
while the sorry sods with
siberia in their subconscious...
prized african bulls:
                 slavery and genocide...
            because it's not like...
                   it's not like...
                        that's a paralysing dichotomy
of concepts...
          a people enslaved are not...
   a people made subject to genocide...
                       slavery is not negation...
                   the current grievance list of arguments
is so impossible to stomach...
       i find no sympathy in my heart...
between being kept alive... sought out
essential morbid crosses of exploit...
   but then... to be teased with life...
                     to be teased with any sought-after...
an african bull is... a lanky leek of a sorrow
of a pupil at a yeshiva school...
             it would be "easier" to run a marathon...
than read a nugget of hegel's oeuvre...
                    the phenomenology...

the viking culture: to be treated as wholly
masculine... had... a respect for the poetic...
no poetry when all is a half-baking
of journalistic integrity...
                 how the vikings loved poets...
by now: all are solo projects...
all is a democracy of solipsism...

     i could come around full circle: bilingual
"schizoid": de facto contradiction - squared...
                    this language is hardly recitation
material... where is the rhyme?!
                  it's not supposed to be ice-skating...
sharpening a knife...
           language complicates itself...
         should i wish to simplify it...
                i could if i didn't allow it to press
forward with automated purposes -
mind its own master...
  somehow comparable to a knee-**** reaction...

otherwise: to do something as convenient
for the tax-consciousness of the overt-wordly...
as to acquire skin drafts of roughage
from kneeling: stub spectacular
circus cameo: endless this constipated
barrage of words...

             like an imitation of colour:
that grey is a shared hue
of having invested in a plop of genesis:
either black or white...
               that there are enough
adjectives to hide a noun...
and that nouns behave like layers...
           and how one noun can't conflate
another noun...
           and how almost all concerns
for misnomers are adjective prone examples...

is that vinyl can be compared
to rock liquorice?
like cookie crumble is the *******...
wild exaggeration of ******...
         nothing is agreed upon...
           all is being riddled with a juggling
act... notably a sway to invite...
a "critique" of: the cure's siamese twins...
or: a short-term effect...

in Istanbul / Constantinople the old
world powers congregated...
talked and resolved their griefs with yawns...
the forest people of the north
made demands for the saharan bicycle
only-boys club...
                       the Hagia Sophia
was reminded of blood: brick by brick...
       the forest people had enough
timber for solving the toothpick conundrum...
while the camel jockeys served
a privy for... time encapsulated
with the usage of sand...
  and a riddle of a trickle...
                   because the mosquitos
required the advent of moisture...
and either hot... or cold...
the camel driver disinfectant managing
tool...

           it's a worded painting:
a word salad... or the very most debilitating
first concern...
last served...
                            hues of revised red and
purple... accents of colours...
demanding over-reach of what could
otherwise stage a solid proof of
geometry...

                     diptych spec-ocular...
                        a chicken drumstick not
riddled with angry teeth...
                     some disused nouns...
   otherwise the remains of prepositions /
conjunctions instilled with
an in-vogue presentability...
                          how does a word
beside itself to become out of fashion...
yet retain... it's etymological grant?

my dear sir / madam evans...
            no cute cue toward... being employed
by kew gardens...
   since! the house is in disarray...
                   best kept secret... a bone tomahawk...
a cave... some cannibals...
a whole litany of secrets...
that make... creepy-crawly talk
a foundation for: a butter extraction
from... jerking off milk...

more hollow than hallow jerusalem -
some said: build low...
others said...
give 'em the playground...
high tier raise and tow:
wasze ulice... nasze kamienice -
your streets... our tenements...
   the notable jews of poland...

there's a prestige at the nibble...
governing the prized palette fetish...
nearing the bones...
it's not enough to just... gorge with
a mouthful at the mere protein...
it is... mere... protein...
somehow butchered twice...
once at the actual butchers...
second when it was being cooked...
a meatloaf extravaganza...
       an amputee tossing giggles...

excruciating return-to narrative offers...
          because picking cotton was
not unlike... a potato harvest...
or coal-mining: leave that to the irish...
or the ****** slav enclave...
unreasonable spectacle of nostalgia...
a u.f.o. meteor replica
of awe...
             given... there's a propaganda
leisure concerning:
all are presumed innocent...
     of those that can do no wrong...

a very anglophile creation...
      if one were to speak french in africa...
one wouldn't want to claim
a return to the native talk...
    why... if i were not ******...
if i had to be made weary...
subsequently to be negated in such
a way as to... inquire... what prior
to... given a "hypothetical" lesson
in either german or russian...
                      of my "own" people...
                                  such that this is
written in english...
                it's not the english of a currency
of protest...
         it's not... hitchhiking...
it's not stealing the narrative...
it's... i want the narrative of a clerk...
                     in my mind i want:
ławka to remain... a bench...

         but in the realm of english-speaking...
french is somewhat: m'eh...
spanish is contested...
german is ignored or simply reviled...
arabic and mandarin have to
be acknowledged...
  the remains? either negated outright...
or beside a concept of concern
via "being" neglected...
there's only the riddle of gaelic or welsh...
if one were to find a locality
within the confines of english:
and a geography and a fake of
the cross-continental diaspora...

i only write in english because...
   there's a comforting concept of irish...
a sort of hebrew synonym parallel
contending with the egyptian hieroglyphs...
cocktail of:
it's hardly a contest...
to have to heave...
a borrowing...
                   of having attained...
         a status of: being conquered by ancient
rome...
   most notably the english...
who spell a latin letter by lettter...
unlike....
      the fwench: who applied some adventure
in the detail of: a diacritical marker...
  the S i.e. kedilla...
     or the iberian folk... blah blah blah...
borderline... where rome didn't arrive by
sword... the greek arrived at with quill...
but that's still... contested territory...
this "central" and "eastern" ESTONIA /
LITHUANIA...
       and the borrowed tribes of mongol / mongrel
polacks of... silesia is
the new sardinia /                  sicily...

otherwise to partake in the ****
of assurances of those born into
a "*******" to mere speaking english
this leash like not other...
and some muzzle...

a gargantua of the not displaced...
failed city adventure
economics...
              i have to bestow
an agony of jealous worship for
a people: beside a concern for the individual
as having the nomad bestowed
upon them...

this ideal crux of a welcome day...
and this abiding by a synchronicity
exhaustion of the night with
the ideal of minding sleep...
towing my inability to fake...
dream-world architecture...

                       to be made necessary...
beside a concern for "love"...
to have enough of a worldly affair as
any man should even perhaps ought:
to begin a prospect of an aching
breath with...
                
          what a daydream!
           what! anyman's tittle and...
that there will never be...
a myriad of a reasoning with doubt;
choicest...
my once prized peacock: doubt...
a sacrificed fixation on sharpening
a discard of loitering emotions...

    now this outright:
              having to compete
with the forever unnecessary...
a walking abortion...
                         glide over gimmick...
and... forever towing that
best kept inhibition, spectacular.
Alina Martel Mar 2023
I catch myself wondering
if all this quiet chaos
will resolve —
a black hole collapsing,
internal and unseen.

Or will the nebulae
of bursting into being
extend beyond the edges
of who I am and was?
Will they see me give up

on giving up?
I've been led to believe
that new beginnings like these
happen in an instant —
a distant flicker on cosmic rings.

But what if my future,
much like anything
worth seeing through,
devours an abundance
of time? What if

I must surrender
years of light and breath and
atoms to outrun
the galactic hunger
of my unrepenting mind?
Bobby Copeland Jan 2021
straight up this middle of the night
awakening and jotting course
its pull a pattern not much worse
than habits said to risk good sight
long hours with our sin displaced
responsibility in dreams
dealt more than winking jack's and queens
by some grim counter of the days
this steady need to find a lost
connection to the human cant
leaves games hard played with thinking bent
against all necessary cost
slip out your unrepenting tongue
by which dark mysteries get sung
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
so...
   corey hart...

sunglasses at night...

became the gob,
the mouthpiece,
to this i was a "maggot" of...

ha ha, who said there were
no ++++ signs for being
angry...

      liberate,
sic,
        oh, right...
        stone sour's
get inside...
the unrepenting
norse overlord mantra
of being pulverised...

fun... fun...
   **** is kinda of "hard"...
when you haven't been
"un"circumcised...
            farting into a leather
chair seemingly smelling
a bit like the whole of iowa,
or a pepsi cola...
fun as ****...
  y'ah...

              you leave me to my own affairs,
i'll scuttle with that army of
cockroaches you so desperately fear...
we need the fear,
fear is useful,
     north korean marching orders...
less pomp...
but more "invisible" circumstances,
matched...

grow a beard,
and then...
find the itchy pin-point...
to scratch an "endeavour"...
rather than succumb to
pretend-scribbling some graffiti...
on a red hot chilli
overpass...

      ****, i gave my ability to
read braille,
for the part of being able,
to play under the bridge,
with a numbed set of finger-tips...
unlike Samuel...
i never sat on my *******
hand, yes, under my ***...
for the liberating experience
of a ghost / numbed hand
while doing the one eyed
monkey "clue"...

         Samuel...
  RM1 night-club...
             underage drinking,
not getting laid...
mohawks,
      hair oil,
     greg tibbett hairstyles
from the debute album...
walking back to Ilford,
missing countless night-bus
86 routes...
singing Backstreet Boys
songs...
he had older sisters...
i had...
phantoms...
            i love that name though,
Samuel...
  it like the pair of names
i was given, and never bothered to
make a complaint...
both hebrew (matthew)
and germanic (conrad)...
******* giggles...

i can't forget Samuel...
    to sit on your **** arm...
to the point of numb,
and then implicating a ****...
genious, or what?

            EA / AD
        pluck of the strings...
when it comes
to smoke on the water?
   i never know which pair...
strum, no strum...
the *****, the audacity,
of the bass player in a band,
to somehow hush,
what, a band, akin to Metallica
could never do,
requiring the revision
of the rhythm guitar (/ vocals)...
not the drums though...
ergo?
     we don't need no education,
we don't need no thought control...
see...
  bass balanced with
the drums,
bass guitar,
   readied, welcoming
the inheritence from jazz...
no simply rhythm guitar
*******...
     welcome....

and just before punk would rob
me...
came uncle,
came the cure and depeche mode...
and all that contraband "jazz"...
then some schumann,
then some prokofiev
              (lt. kije, romance),
then some marylin monroe...
then some: roses of europe...
then some lady pank...
then some 1950s technicolour
movies, éclair sweets...
          what's that

      noun! ****!

                   associated with
1950s technicolour of movies...
akin to éclair...
   oil painting "etiquette"...
   no... not eclectic...
      fudge,
fudge,
that's what i'm left with...

         éclair: but not, éclair...
eclectic, and certainly, not eclectic...
associated with 1950s
hollywood, technicolor...
     and oil-painting preceding it...
not the 1970s grit realism
of film...
    the whole... "cartoonish"
transformation from
b & w...

              see... this is what
a crossword looks like:
in reverse...
              i can't solve crosswords
to save my own ***...
all that remains is...
something, akin to,

                                  this.
David R May 2021
Would that my eyes were a fountain of tears
to mourn those cut off in the prime of their years
the children, young boys, teenagers and men
that will never see the earth or the sky again
crushed underfoot in dearth unrelenting
in crowd unawares, in world unrepenting,
mothers are wailing and fathers are rending,
unable to fathom their child's early ending,
infants are crying and siblings lamenting,
'father', 'brother', their cries tormenting,
who can give voice to the emotions venting,
o'er jewels and gems, sweet men of learning,
the innocent souls never returning,
to parents, to spouses, to houses of learning,
world, take heed, abjure your errors,
say enough to the pain, the fright 'n the terrors,
let the cries go out to heal humanity,
from its stupidity, its ridiculous insanity,
my mind is weary from thinking on this,
thus pen i lay down, from writing desist.
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i have died a thousand times
and that's only before...
i get a chance to fall asleep;

i've been taking twitter accounts
and instagram entries polaroids...
reading Milton doesn't ease
the headaches...

this burden of the wriggling
earthworm that's about
to be pulled out from nibbling
on the clay: london proud...

         sheffield... the artic monkey's:
n'est ce pas?
that field felt grift...
smoking baron and the ashes to
lick up lick to keep...

         my furore!
my hunger my guise my everyday
lost case of slumber...
the death grieving the date of
the lost review...

          bygones be left as bygones
of Navarone...
  crown of pandemic proportions...
still waiting for
ol' lizzie to drop it to a down
of pressure on the ol' ticker...
she'll die and hail!
robert the bruce!
            my ivory of white winding through...

each night i die...
i die because i fall to sleep
and there's no dream
for my sort of licking the altar
of open and salting the wounds...
let them breathe they'd be prone
to implore me of to keep...

if there's no darker loot of black
then perhaps it
will sound more impeding
in: altvaterdeutsche...

schwarz! schwarz!
                   came the lone roman ******:

švarц!
            wo alle straßen enden...
der schlamm ist knöcheltief...
            
schlamm ist eisen:
          wenn skulptur ist:
gegeben "die aufwachen" prompt...

             *******: inselwohnsitzleute!
east of warsaw... or west of kiev?!

fetish peoples unite under the rubric
of the scaling prop-up latex
of *** games that...
wir wurden einst kinder...
         wir benutzt zu spielen...
                  verstecken und suchen!

gamma goblin of the "vierte *****"...
or just a fetish for an old version
of english... this... my exhauasted anglo-sax...
reuters... back toward
the ***** of a fake father i too have...

grenadiers of the horseoperamärц!
lernenzuerst:
                kind-deutsche-unger­ade-leere...

for all the english that is given,
why wouldn't i want to escape into
a prehistoric german...
       old saxon the would-be eager
tourist of exhibitions...

      i would, i somehow still persist
to: versuchen...
                     grief from
a tongue... neither...
otherwise a ****** vater otherwise
a ****** mutter...
             zähne auf eisen...
                      zunge auf austern!
sing-along
in alt ***** german or...
            that subtle brotherhood barrier
of neighbouring love...

very far from "home"...
      home... home... what is home?

god i hope every single word spoken
in german will make me out
to be an unrepenting
                         sturmführer...
trägt schwarz... trägt weiß...
trägt grau...

                           the least opposition...
salz bestreut auf zu öffnen
atmen wunden...
                      
easier for the croat...
or the serb...
                              easier: never mind...
new continent h'america...
and but the breadcrumbs of history...
this 20th century locum
of all that had to happen...

                            if a harry can get away
with donning khaki...
i would love to appear
in schwarz... weiß... und grau...
                   prompt galore!
            brechenöffnen - nach vorne!

      as ever... limitations of residue for
all that ever was:
self-help bollocking of a tickling        
of forever "future" events....
you can question my sanity, lace words with profanity, accuse me of vanity, an oddity, in spite of me living in simple reality.
you can intentionally despise , ill-willing attempt to entice, reputation abuse and defile, go and revile, use all your wiles, i’m unaffected i sit here and smile.
you can call me the devil, unrepenting and evil, unbeliever, deceiver life’s cantilever, stirring up masses in unbridled fever, i reply with nothing for nothing is neither.
creating complicating synthetic syntax for the quick mind, overpower’s the ones lax,
splitting your brain cells with a  dictionary axe, only in truth do i put forth the facts.
i am normal not crazy insane, but i play minds like you play video games, i could leave you in verse borderline and deranged, this was always me and nothing has changed, it’s my revelation that you think is so strange, welcome to my mind as it roams the free range.
who i am is what i will be, no need to to change who you now do see, i accept you as thee…so just let me be

— The End —