Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
the english don't know how to drink *****...
  they don't...
  by the way?
  the english artifact of saying sorry?
it doesn't actually mean an apology...
the apology always comes too late...
but english nightclubs?
the english? they don't know how to
serve *****...
   ***** is never served on ice...
       i'm losing followers? am i?
               i like my self-imposed
    i like weeding out the soft pockets...
of people with weak
   for all the celebration of Darwinism?
peer into my eyes...
          if you really want to serve *****?
***** isn't whiskey isn't
red wine, served at room temp. being
allowed airing...
    mind you... funny fact...
   six cloves of garlic dumped into
a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks...
3 x 25ml of the wine...
apparently curbs your appetite...
don't ask me whether that's inclusive
of a placebo effect...
               but when you're drinking
*****, proper?
   you don't add ice...
and keep it at room temp.,
          you freeze it...
   to below -10°C...
            ***** isn't whiskey!
   i know what warm **** tastes like,
i once fused red wine,
and, having ****** into the holy grail,
and subsequently drank the concoction...
    come to think of it...
******* the Vatican colored flag of
extraction into a sacrament?
  you need ***** to be served below
the freezing point of water,
given that, 0°C is a baron of quality
differentiating water from *****...
           alcohol evaporates at around
                        p.s. interlude:
i was never fond of the imperial rubric
of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds,
miles, inches...
  and all that quirky "genius" of
i'm aligned with French...
         but you don't serve *****
at room temp. with ice cubes
and a mixer...
            given that ***** has a lower
boiling point,
you serve it under the "niqab" of
waster becoming ice...
so you serve it...
   as something, equivalent of
gomme syrup...
   you drink ***** that appears
                   like any single malt
puritan when it comes to whiskey?
there are ***** puritans out there...
you don't drink ***** lukewarm,
or slightly chilled...
you drink it at a temp. of
a gomme syrup...

liquid -20°C...
                with all the alcohol poisoning
bacterium dead...
     excessively sugary,
but not really...

           night clubs that serve
***** not stashed in refrigerators
like butcher's meat?
            don't drink the *****
in those places...
   if it doesn't have the smoothness
of a gomme syrup?
sliding down your throat
like a mollusk on amphetamines?

the epitome:
*****... and orange juice?!
you ******* me or opening
a ******* parachute while
stranded to the the ******* ground?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
only when i know i'm being overly cruel; for some reason some of us have a conscience and are willing to execute it; a bit like stomping on a mouse... give me a cow to butcher, i'd do it... i remember this once instance, when people when phobia-prone to killing animals on a farm... oddly enough not all of us came from the "privileges" of an urban environment; a part of my family (cousins, aunts, etc.) remained in their original setting of the rural world. i visited it once, and saw with naked eyes how a chicken gets butchered... chop to the neck... and the thing is... the other chickens rushed to the stump of wood on which the "execuition" took place, and started pecking / drinking the blood of their "comrade", while also pecking the head that had all the matrix-movie-slow-motion expressions... that wasn't the horrible part though... the horrible part was plucking all the feathers from the body and... the stink was impossible to stomach... i can't believe i actually ate the: poached-chicken soup... but then adding a few vegetables to the soup helped my sense of smell.

and why are all soups in england without
any clarity? they're all goo...
    creamy... baby food pap...
                      i mean, i was a fan of heinz's
tinned tomato "soup" once,
        it had a certain sweetness about it...
    but it's so mundane sometimes to not be able
to peer into a bowl of soup like you might
look into a glass of water, and see the bottom of the bowl...
that poached-chicken soup?
        the jews will say they invented it, i've heard
it before... it's called *rosół
(rho-soow) -
but you won't say the H in ρ... and you're bound to
imagine the W as a branch with many other branches
that get plucked and then the branch turns into
a bow, i.e. that it becomes bent... kinda like a ł...
         or for lack of a better phrase: hard to find
a V or an X or a Q in slavic languages.
where was i? oh right... drinking ***** in england:
is a complete nightmare...
               you can't do to ***** what the english do to it,
they're incompetent with *****...
      for ****'s sake, i've seen them drinking it in
an orange juice mixer... a ****** mary i can
understand, with a rhubarb stick or a celery stick
plopped into the glass... orange juice?! seriously?
and they don't give it enough tenderness,
or... let's just say knowledge.
                         whiskey? sure, you can drink it
with ice, soda, ms. pepsi, or as the puritans do in
scotland... warmed by the heat of your hand holding
a glass: pure, slightly warm, to infuse
    the idea of burning amber, warmth, coziness,
              ***** though? the english are incompetent
with *****... you go to any nightclub here
and the ***** isn't stored in fridges along with the rose
wine... it's hanging up there on the bar wall
along with all the other spirits...
                         dead man's ruse in jerusalem...
mr. vod molotov, please come down and... ****...
don't even stand in a fridge... head to the refrigerator...
and that's the beauty of a good shot of *****...
you need to get it to resemble a syrup...
    and since ethanol has a lower freezing point
to water... keeping a ***** in sub-zero temperatures
makes it pleasurable to drink, on its own...
     and you can actually manage it...
                            i once had a warm shot of *****
and i could swear i experienced alcohol poisoning...
it's like filtering water... you filter water because
you don't want to drink tap water that can also
be found in your toilet...
                                  freezing ***** gets rid of
all the impurities that might be in it...
                   which is why you prefer to eat a cooked
piece of beef rather than a steak tartar for fear
of a chance of a tapeworm embryo...
                                  in conclusion the english don't
know how to drink *****...
                          oh god, this one time, at band camp -
no no, just ******* with you...
               2004... new years eve, Posen (Poznań) -
vanilla absolute ***** (swedish brand,
also comes in cherry? definitely lemon,
blackcurrant?) - anyway... what a memorable night...
only because it was served coming out
of the refrigerator... not a fridge, not room temperature:
belowing the freezing temperature...
                              because that's what you do with *****.
unnamed Jul 2014
the ***** tastes like
an untamed firework
which attacks my throat
but I like it

the ***** feels like
the reason behind
all the poems I wrote
but I need it

the ***** is like
glitter set in my veins
which helps me to float
and I love it

the ***** is you
and until you were gone
I just didn't know
we should not mix
Stop that *****
don't make him do it,
the yells and screams
stop that *****
my heart hurts
I'm filled with pain
stop that *****
leave us alone,
we want to be happy
stop that *****
he's so sweet
nice and gentle
stop that *****
I'm tired and scared.
stop that *****.
Tina Marie Apr 2018
Hi my names *****.
I will make your night great
Your walk unstable
Your face flush
Your world upside down

Hi I'm your World
Beautiful and sweet
Caring and strong
Your shoulder to lean on
Your life in whole

It's me again *****
Have you missed me today??
I'm ready to be mixed or drank straight.
I'm ready to turn your World upside down
Like your never thought could happen

Hi again it's me your World
Torn in two
Bleeding from the inside
Crying on the outside
Beaten and weak

It's your WORLD
telling you
***** I ******* HATE YOU
You took so much from me
Turned me too a person I can't stand to be
Took my World made her weak, beaten, shattered
Nothing but a vision
Nothing  but a memory

***** here, drink me up
I will make you feel great
You don't need your World
I'm here to bring you to life
I'm ***** your World now
Love me, drink me
Never forget me
I'm ***** and your all mine now

I took your World and shattered that ***** like she deserved
Made that ***** weak so she couldn't get up
Broke your World so she couldn't step in my way
Beat your World so she couldn't beat me
Your World is no longer sweet and caring
But, a broken piece of glass
Shattered and can't be put back together.

I'm ***** and I just became all you need

I'm your World and you no longer need me.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.and you never drink it as a mixer... between two shots, a sip of a chaser to, ready the palette for two more shots, and a sip of yet another chaser.

i've said this before, and i'll say it again...
Westerners don't know
how to drink ***** properly...
not a ******* clue...
listen... ***** isn't whiskey...
or cognac... you seriously can't
drink ***** at room temperature...
every time i ordered a *****
shot at a nightclub...
am i drinking puke, or something?
you only drink *****...
when it has the consistency akin
to gomme syrup...
that thickly seemingly sickly
sweet look to it...
            you need to shove it into
a refrigerator for at least 2 hours
before drinking it...
the cold takes the edge away,
that regurgitation bite to it...
plus... alcohol...
   a lower boiling point...
means that... a lower freezing point...
roughly +/-30°C...
      but who will listen...
Westerners don't know how
to drink *****...
                can you blame them?
i can't.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i once had two sessions with a west end
psychologist - a woman in her 50s or 60s...
she brewed chamomile tea (cha cha cha?
or cat? this aesthetic is a real burden for
some people - too many particulars to
remember - i blame the missing diacritical
marks, inviting the monopoly of
phonetic encoding, which put off the
people who are famous, because they never
wrote anything) - we spoke the first time
within the designated time-frame, a session
of an hour... i told her about a dream i had:
i am sitting with a boy in my room,
a hellish figure, gluttonous and burnt walks
in, behind him an artist's representation of
schizophrenia - the sole medical condition
that's abused by politics - shame really...
it means there's an authentic loss of understanding
what was once known as premature dementia -
long gone the ancient days of old age being
equated with melancholy - come forth the modern
age and old age being demented - as if to say
nothing was ever accomplished in the first place,
come old age: still no melancholy concerning
fulfilled accomplishments - i'm guessing 100
crosswords later, you'd get that...
about the same time when people are drawn away
from political language, and invited to play
games... bad move... whoever invented language
games never cared for the crucible of language's
essential purpose - to elevate, to elevate...
so this second session lasted well over 4 hours...
she really became a leech -
i told her about that dream, about those two
hellish figures, the boy sitting next to me just said:
this is Allah... so who the **** is this ***
accompanying him? i heard the story that Allah
has no accomplices... who's that?!
the rarity of a dream... so we talked for 4 hours about
this that and the other sipping chamomile tea...
buttery tea i call it...
                                    i'd eat a tonne of grass
to epitomise the muscles of horses, just to get
the right picture... then all the world went to ****...
quiet distinctly the memory of leaving one
of the two sessions, walking in the humid air of
west London, a woman dragging her caravan of
shopping bags... almost started weeping while
i passed her...
                         but what curiosity came when
psychologist said something encrypted in her sway
away from dogmatism -
                     she said to me: the police are looking
for a Greek...
                         i swear to god, i sometimes don't know
what people are talking about, it just fazes me,
fizzes in my insides and comes out as merely: huh?
the police are looking for a Greek.
        who's the Greek? do i know him?
  you sure they're not looking for a Roman?
         i used to do this trick when i reached the body
image zenith of finger down my throat,
and regurgitate chocolate - by the end i trained
my esophagus to the point where i was regurgitating
like if i were at a Roman food ****...
               it just came naturally...
  well, then i thought: **** it... can't be bothered,
i'm not getting any *****, and i'm putting all that work in...
  it's not worth it... let me get back into shape
with a lamb's torso... it really wasn't worth it...
still, the session was supposed to last an hour,
we started talking for 4... she got the money,
i just begat dim... and the light-bulb moment never came...
it's funny, because i was actually hiding a very simple
answer... but i did inspect the whole psychological spectrum...
didn't leave the practice any smarter,
i actually became smarter having experienced the rich boy's
treatment: psychology...          and the poor boy's treatment:
  psychiatry...            but i didn't leave the two
any wiser...           they really weren't that different
from zoological studies...
                         rich boy treatment didn't involve pills...
    poor boy's treatment did...
              my treatment just involved a drug of my choice
(a sleeping pill), alcohol - because i'd be raving mad
if i did have some sort of outlet - and a painkiller -
perfect night's sleep - and no Freudian ******* about
dreams having meaning - i need sleep,
   i don't need exploration of meaning that life designates
into some ******-pharmacological revision of the 1960s -
if you take acid wide-awake, there you are,
obstacles everywhere, nowhere is safe...
               dreams are like taking l.s.d. but in a controlled
environment: the unconscious...
               it's safe: the police are looking for a Greek?
what's that about? well, i guess 4 hours spent talking with
me is enough to produce such a random expression -
subsequently i have been profiled by the police:
one time lamenting in my garden,
          another time ******* in an alley,
     another time drinking beer on a bench in the centre of town,
  another time finishing a can of beer outside a shop
           in the outer-suburbia -
oh right, another time being driven home in one of their cars,
   those vans with cages, after being poisoned by warm
***** in a club and getting a Vladimir Klitschko handshake
to the cheek - stepped off the bus and landed face down
on the pavement - warm ***** is horrid enough,
           warm ***** that's spiked? that's another.
i'm wondering: do these people even know *******
someone, or am i experiencing one murderous ******
after another? it's just getting silly... it's like they're testing
the grounds for something shocking to jellyfish their *****
straight up to the moon: whizz-kids my ****.
but here i am, after all that - and i've picked up
essential Kierkegaard - you know... i think he's the first
man to create novels out of philosophy, he's actually
the first philosophical novelist... swear to god,
Nietzsche is nothing by comparison, i too could utter
maxim after maxim and later an aphorism or two...
but to write philosophy like a novel, Kierkegaard if your
man, your safest bet...
                                  he writes philosophy like a novel,
it just flows and flows out of him, if Nietzsche
is a poet-philosopher, then Kierkegaard is a novelist /
philosopher (yep, Zeus' lightning rod slash is just
as important as the hyphen compound -
                   which means the latter received all the appeal
that poetic hearts retain the most abhorred shadows:
that of women... horrid stuff) -
he was a true philosophical novelist.
              i guess the other thing to point out:
   i'll be known as the corrupter of old age -
        have no idea why children, animals and esp. old
people approach me while i'm minding my own business
     on park benches, smoking and drinking a beer -
but as it's said about western society: they simply
don't know how to drink *****! they haven't the foggiest!
ice cold, ice cold! warm ***** is horrid!
        this isn't whiskey, that wheat perfume...
you don't lounge with *****... ice cold... shot after shot
in between nibbles...
                                  and the drinking culture is even
worse, come to think about it in England...
                   no hot food, nibbles, crisps,
      chocolate... who... the... ****... drinks... alcohol...
of... that... calibre... and... nibbles... on... chocolate?!
              meat... meat, meat!
                           ah but wait...
   this country never experienced a Mongolian horde...
they're keen on the 19th century *******...
    the days when now wearing a hat was considered
a mental illness...
                                   they barely translated Descartes
into: he's not proving his existence,
             he's saying something akin to:
                         how thinking waterfalls' cascades into
either being, or non-being:
             hence the one side bravado and chauvinism,
and the other side shy sacred creature -
                  if you're conscious of thought
you won't shy away from it -
                                                       with so much sensual /
empirical ******* it's hard not to think,
         and the more it's easier to think, the harder it is
to be -                                  so we have the apples
and pears                    of Jacob -
               or as some old geezer once said (and rightly):
all the idiots have the confidence, while
                       the intelligentsia has all the doubts -
          guess that leaves the politicians as having
   all the necessary denials: primarily?
the denial of not lying.
Ordomkasteren Jan 2015
*****. Der var engang en slurk *****, der var bitter over, at alle andre altid skulle blande sig i dens smag. Derfor gjorde den drankeren svag. Sørgede for både udpumpning, black out og tømmermænd. ***** *****.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distilkery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzie,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
          a dog kisses oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's grinning cat
     albeit the missing Scorpio
constellation, bound to the British Isles:



                      ­             ●

no algorithm no search engine
no dictionary... will equal
asking a grandmother for botanical nouns...
namely, the blooming forthynsia tree,
****** yellow almost neon
against pale kiwi green of April spring wake...

and the electric pale green,
or woken from slumber
blooming baby leaves of
a wierzba...
    a willow...
     electric in that,  almost
quicksilver drooling over
platinum in th spring night
              with a missing moon...

casually, a talk with woman,
and the technical nouns
of botanical expedience...
no algorithm to boot...

always the anticipated digression,
from the most mundane posit of
unraveling pidgin...
I compensate for my father not
speaking pristine english...
but certainly doing a chore
of industrial roofing,
than most, spaghetti finger
pancake arm coming of age bistro
        the more they aspire to sing,
the more we can hope
to be cured by karaoke on
a Saturday night...
    and always the anglophone perspective
of... bellybutton, Greenwich
syndrome... said the English,
so must say th rest of the world...

his shortcomings are my...
what he might as well have said...
tak your toys,
and take a warm dump in their sandpit...
then move into the next sandpit,
and **** in it...

personally I don't unerstand
the attack on grammar...
this antithesis of etymology,
this quasi slang... or rather slang
in a straitjacket...
of... well, at least the orthodox
communists had an economic model...
it was going to fail
because it was going to fail...
        but how lonely...
it must be... being unable to compete
with an external counter,
and merely, implode...
          must be lonely in the current
economic asylum...
imploding all the time,
having to compete with 600 years
after golgotha, and rí'bāh...
   5 ****** minutes picking out
a ***** for a Saturday night solo...
went for the shaft of wheat,
akin to a lodged locust corpse
in an absinthe bottle bought
in Amsterdam...

               apparently, there is a difference,
but most notably...
only when, drinking alone...
   the talk of sober people
bores me, how they can hide their
apathy behind so much gesticulation
and **** fakery...
    silent as a grave...
drunk people talking
    perhaps outside the party mentality...
and th sudden spurring of
amnesia, a moral hangover,
a loose tongue comes across
darting eyes...

                   hardly a conneisour of
beer, or *****...
      more, on the lines of...
a conneisour of the knockout
falling asleep method...
      and... not allowing myself
be impregnated with dreams...
strange thus... how people
allow unknown forces to impregnate
them with dreams...
               **** them with dreams...
I deem a sleep impregnated
with dreams to be far from rest...
either sleep and the night
of today, with a morning of later on
today... or nothing...

                    perhaps the safety of the sleep
of the naturalally produced
hallucinogens that are called dreams...
surely the brain must secrete
a hallucinogen when in th state
of sleep...
              as far as I am concerned,
there is no need to interpret dreams...
coincidentally, this implies...
the counter to the stigma surrounding
lucid intoxication...
     because aren't dreams,
the byproduct, of the brain secreting
hallucinogenic compounds,
      when in a hypo-conscious
state of sleep?
   medically induced coma...
naturally invoked
psychedelic carousel...
             which might explain why...
people wanted to tap into this
chemistry dynamic via the 1960s...
of waking into a dream...
        but there must be some sort of
chemical, secreted by the brain
during sleep...
        that allows for the conjured phantasma...
symbiotic to the state of safety...
the brain, not attached to
spacio-temporal coordination...

   and some would argue that all drinkers
at noon, are dancing sloppy tango
with their shadows.
Steven Forrester Jan 2011
I take a drink
And then I think
I'm not alone
But still on the brink
Of insanity
In calamity
Flashing lights
A gun blast sounds
It keeps me sane
It keeps me bound
I sip again
And take another shot
I sit again
And get shot a lot
You all might think it's lame
But I love my *****
And my video games
(c) Steven Forrester
Anyelo Montero Jun 2014
Si éste intento de poema tuviese un nombre, debería ser el tuyo, pero por cobardía dejaré el anonimato. Después de todo...Siempre fuimos fanáticos del misterio.

Habían pasado tantos días. Tantas horas, tantos inviernos. Inviernos fríos que quemaban como infiernos.
Incendios. Incendios de nieve, supongo.

Nos vimos ese día luego de tanto tiempo. Tanto deseo acumulado ya nos estaba haciendo daño. Ja... ni siquiera nos dimos un abrazo, saltamos directo a los besos. Tengo que decirte; mis latidos estaban muy acelerados.

Lancé mis dados. No me importó el presente o los presentes que en las ventanas estaban asomados.

Y me mirabas a los ojos, y en los tuyos veía que eres mi principal demonio carnal. Pero a la final, si Dios existe sabe que tú no quieres ser ningún ángel.

Nos besamos en ese banco como si nos quisiéramos chupar el alma... Querida, tus besos sabían más exquisitos de lo usual a causa de la ***** barata. Y me arrebatabas el aliento.Y tus senos me me observaban detrás de tu escote; o quizás yo los observaba a ellos, pero no nos importaba.

Estabas tan errática. Tan radical que me era difícil seguirte el paso.

Ibas lanzando ***** sobre el piso y dulces gemidos a mis oídos. No te mentiré, me sentía cohibido. Renuncié a mi actitud bohemia y despreocupada de vaquero y me sentí cohibido. Pero lo que me crecía en el pantalón era muy real como para haberlo fingido. Sabes lo difícil que se me hace ignorar mis animales instintos.

Y no queríamos despedirnos. De irracionalidad pasamos a tecnicismos. Al: "No te vayas, quédate un rato más. Te haré café para que la ***** te deje de afectar". Y después los besos eran besos de tiernos adolescentes que se profesan amor eterno. Amor eterno que nunca fue correcto al momento.

Es triste como acabo todo, ¿no, querida? Es triste que ahora me odies y me hayas sacado de tu vida. Pero si lees esto... por favor, recuérdame.

Recuérdame tan imperfecto como soy.
Recuérdame en tu escote; bajando mis manos por tu espalda y llegando a tus nalgas.
Recuérdame escuchando esa canción que es mi canción favorita, y que escuchas solo por esa razón.
Como sea que quieras, pero recuérdame.

Yo siempre te recuerdo. Porque fuiste, eres y serás la autodestrucción que aún necesito.
Ron Gavalik May 2015
In the mid-1990s I worked as a bartender
on the second floor of a local hotdog joint
near the University of Pittsburgh.
I poured beers and mixed simple drinks
for working class drunks.
The felons always had a game or a magic trick
they’d use to milk rubes for a free gin and tonic.
College students mostly stayed away,
but the ones who stumbled in ordered drafts,
paid for by daddy’s allowance
or the petty drug rackets they ran on campus.
In the summer, the best ***** came around,
**** pushed out of their tops,
*** cheeks crept below their skirts.
They knew how to find action
every single night.

Except one overweight girl named Susie
from the all girl’s school down the road.
She’d come to the bar alone,
her lips caked with dark red lipstick.
Like many students, Susie wanted to be older.
She’d order ***** martinis,
drink quietly, and she’d patiently wait
for one of the older drunks to make a move.
It never happened.

Sometimes Susie complained to me
about other girls at her college,
that they were aggressive lesbians.
All of them wanted to eat her ******.
‘Those ******* are as bad as the men,’ she’d say.
But then she’d laugh it off.
‘I really love ****,’ she told me.
‘I think about **** and *** all the time.’

One night Susie owed the bar $27.50.
She always tried to flirt her way past the tab.
I never let her get away with it.
‘Do you like me?’ she said.
I laid down my trademark response,
‘You’re the best.’
‘No, do you really like me?’
I figured she deserved a real compliment.
‘You have the sexiest lips here.’

She climbed off the barstool
and walked to the backdoor, the fire escape.
She then curled her finger at me to join her.
Outside on the small rusted iron landing,
above the roach-filled dumpster,
Susie crouched between my legs.
Both of us worked to unbuckle my belt.
A swarm of hands pulled down my jeans.
I looked up at the few stars between buildings
as those red lips and soft tongue became my drug,
a back alley escape from a ******* life.
When I unloaded, she refused to let go.
She swallowed it all. $27.50 paid in full,
plus tip.

That’s how we went for a while.
I gave Susie small escapes from lesbians.
Susie gave me small escapes from life.
Eventually, she stopped coming around.
I figured she graduated.
Perhaps her classmates finally got their wish.
Either way, I never saw her again.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Michael DeVoe Feb 2013
I need one more
I need to forget a little more
I need to remember a little less
I need to remember a lot more
I just need to remember it differently
The way I wrote it
The way it ends when I'm sleeping

Dear bartender
Make it a White Russian
As white as her dress would've been
One Pina Colada
Tan as the sand would've been
One more Gin and Tonic
Sparkling as her eyes
***** Cranberry
Red as her lips
A triple shot of silver tequila
As clear as my intentions

Marry me

Bartender I want to drink until I forget she said no
Bartender I want to drink until I forget I ever asked

Dear Bartender I want to drink until I remember she said yes
***** til my head rings wedding bells
Gin til my body ticks raw rice
*** til my cheeks flush honeymoon
Tequila til my ring finger itches
Whiskey until she loves me too
Whiskey until she come back
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
onlylovepoetry May 2017
the early riser guider, pastel orb of high color value,
looks askance at the two men watching it,
for fresh and clean, it, the sun, from
the horizon born and bathed and toweled blue terry sky dry

the men, well they stinkin'
from body sweat hikin' and grease and drinkin'
Mr. Coffee and cheap *****,
an expensive high, when next day payback comes due

but none better for inspire to hire and
merging men's alternative verses writ in alternating styles,
trading stanzas under a lighting-felled inspiration tree,
waiting for that insightful light that comes too brief

how can it be each thinks, that tho never in the flesh met,
thank to Mr. Coffee and cheap *****,
the bond just gets stronger every day way,
the poetry better with each sippin',
as many rivers confluent on their way home
to the slightly jealous observing Pacific sea,
the original mother lode of all creation,
well, She says:

good job and good luck remembering anything
and getting home safe and sound!"

to which we drink a toast of Mr. Coffee and cheap *****
and it ocurs to one, perhaps both,
this is kinda a love poem after all
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
a citrus *****, sveedish,
   citrus, absolut,
      with ice...
       some might call it
a sewer lemon squinting
pinch, without a first
of a month...

        but it's certainly
a ***** *****,
   given that all the impurities
from the "apparently"
filtered frozen water
start to appear,
   like dissolved tofu flakes...

***** *****:
    ***** and ice...
     i agree: an ugly cocktail
but right on the mark...

because what on earth could
have possibly happened in
england when i was away from
it for two months,
in an asylum of my grandparent's
abode of:
      oh sure, sure...
    hell knows no wrath,
  as a woman belittled...

      a long trip from a sleepy
town once tipped to be the next
metallurgy capital,
overgrown with weeds...
   busy Warsaw with a faint
tickling of German...
         more German than English:
and at that moment:
tourism seemed, refreshing...

     back in sleepy England?
even the most populated snippets
of Warsaw didn't seem that
appealing as, as *****,
as welcoming as:
the shadiest, scabbiest postcards
from the Eastern Avenue
   moving from the A406 into
the mini Raj of a certain
part of Essex...
    the part not allocated to
the Cockney migration...

        shady as ****...
but if you asked me to get out
of the car and walk these streets?
hell, i know a few Bulgarian
prostitutes not too far away
and... oddly enough...
half an hour... half an hour without
an *******...
    just to tattoo an invisible
mark of my fingertip on
her buttocks...
               at one point she collapsed
and said no more,
   so we just lay there,
while i kissed her eyelids...
           what did i leave reading?
the times magazine, 17.03.18,
main articles read the following:

   if you're not broody and you can
pay your own bills,
   why settle?
          is that all?
    back in Edinburgh i did that
for 3 years, and god, if that's
an achievement?
     hell... might as well move into
making pancakes territory...

because the other option is:
   and if you can't?
   why give a *******' worth
of jingle for these curtain-people?
    3 years isn't much,
but in those 3 years it wasn't
a hot topic...
             2 months away and what
do i return to?
   by neighbours think i'm dead...
my feet gave odours of french blue,
and the cat that made my room
her high tower was chased away
from the socks up...
   i took a shower...
          which also included
saving a moth who attempted
         flew right into the shower
   stopped soaping myself
and picked the poor ****** up,
breathed on it,
   unrolled one of its wet
antennas hidden beneath its
wet wing using a cotton bud on
a plastic matchstick
   no technical name to
usurp this description)...

   and watched it vibrate its wings...
     its wings dry...
              while puckering up
a mouth to my finger for balance
and retrospect...
    yes, cats, really are,
the gatekeepers of finding a tier
of affection in insects,
    butterflies are too shy,
   and never mistake a room lit
by a candle or lightbulb
     for the ******* day,
go figure...
     in the past two months though,
this is the sort of tabloid
dynamic of "news" missing in
these parts of the world,
because, to be honest,
if i didn't write this:
   **** all would have apparently

            but yes...
cats are gatekeepers to experiencing
affection from an
individuation *** ****
        (with man) -
                the mirror of man,
or how man escaped the collective
unconscious of humanity,
solomon took to the ant...
    i? the moth.
        bee too...
   i remember feeding a dying
bee honey,
  watching it pitifully extend
its tongue into a dollop
    of honey and die from
an overdose...
       but it was dying anyway...

somehow eating chicken
isn't so accommodating a concern
in all honesty...
  given that chickens live
like aristocracts before
the French revolution... chop chop...
what's the problem?

      and we are not industrialised
creatures to suddenly
lament the industrialised
;production of cockley-doodle-do?
     it's like attempting to
hear a grand historical laugh
worth an aeon,
   while instead merely listening
to a second's worth of
a constipated giggle: a snigger...
af if these current zeitgeisters
          are robbing us of a past...

becauase if Orwell is the current
curriculum in the west...
   and the east used to ban in...
   why is Orwell suddenly
   dogma in the west,
  when it was prohobited in the east?
ah... right... overshot the Huxley
bit... the, real nightmare
of aesthetic eugenics,
         or whatever compound you'd
want to use...

     so Orwell used to be forbidden
in East Germany...
   becauase it is now West German
dogma or rather:
  since capitalism is cannibalising
      it requires to project
     a jumping caterpillar
to jump over, with an antithesis?

  which is Huxley...
     but that has no ideological
      too bad Dolly...
  i'm sure Mr. Hyde can teach
his clone the debauchery once
upon reserved from the dynamic
orthodoxy of time
and a father, and a son...
   the rich are not evil...
     they are merely not
as oppurtunistic as the poor...
   so go figure...
  its hardly a deep receding
archetype waiting to bud
in my mind, which nonetheless,
perpetually slips into
the back of my tongue
boxed with the tonsil to shut up...

how does a moth dry its wings?
vibrates them, standing still,
but i still had to unfold
one of its sodden antennas
     from beneath its wet wings...
and see...
   cats as gatekeepers to
the metaphor of man in insect...
and the godlessness
       of man: without insects...

just the casual disinterest
          of concern for an insect
becomes 100x more than
a formal interest of discocern
for a man...

                  that's a quadratic

     i will casually treat an
insect with more concern
            than i might a man...
because i am not obliged
to any collectivism,
       no hierarchy,
   no: formality...
is as the **** talking
mouth of the odd instance
of being transcendent within
the nonetheless unifyng
branches leading
to the stalk, and...
    ****... roots...
    ******* rubber:
extends on boths sides:

   8  ------- 1 ------- ∞

        1 = undeniable,
   given 0 = negatation
    (counter-thesis of Kantian
atoms, words,
   since letters already
consist of bigger than
atoms elements: Na: sodium)...

     even if there is a void,
i still fill that "void"
with the purpose of denying
        atheism is bonkers, ergo...
oh the void of catholicism
i'd prefer to watch
magpies cackling over
which of them is going
to steal the silver spoon...

     ***** *****...
   saving a moth while taking
a shower...
        as much of england
in the past 4 hours as in
the 2 months i was away.
Chloe Aug 2014
Rebellion smells like apples, cinnamon
and *****.
On a gravel road swallowed whole by
a surrounding forest of lush greens
we stood in opposition, revolution
firearms nestled in our hands.

We rebelled against alcoholism.
Drunk, amber soldiers stumbled across
the uneven surface of the log they vacated.
Our bullets shattered them one by one.
The rifle’s kick back slammed against me.
The cracking echo of each gunshot
filled the hollow chiseled in my chest
and tenderized my brain.    

Shards of hard cider and hard liquor
spattered the dirt; the bright red
of the Angry Orchards’ labeling
bleeding war into the earth and grit.

We searched for survivors.  
The air was perfumed with Cinnamon Apple
and *****.
The soft spice of autumn and harvest
wafted gently up my nose
followed by the sharp scent of
disinfectant, hospitals, stainless steel.
It was the smell of *****, my default.

Nudging a dusty bottle neck with my toe
I couldn’t help but think back to  
the angry, open-mouthed kisses
I once shared with my bottles
early in the morning until late at night.
A furious thirst surged through me.
I still wanted a drink.
maggie Apr 2013
I spent my whole life,
Pushing people like you away,
And I spent my whole life putting pieces of my heart back together.
Stitching up and sealing everything in.

So, I wouldn't feel my insides travel up to my throat,
Creating a lump so big I couldn't breathe.
So, I wouldn't have tears blur my vision before I go to bed,
And so I wouldn't feel the emptiness in my arms,
And the pounding in my head.

But I guess,
I didn't do a very good job,
Because you, and only you,
Happened to find a place,
So deep in my heart,
That I didn't entirely close up.

And now,
You are ***** to me,
And I am drinking in every ounce of you,
And I can't get enough.

And as your eyes,
Your smile,
Your laugh,
Rapidly spread and run throughout my veins,
I feel at bliss,
And I want more.

But I am not ***** to you,
Like you are to me.

My eyes,
My smile,
My laugh,
Don't run throughout your veins,
Like you do mine.

I want to be the cause of,
The blood pusling fast throughout your veins,
And the skipping beats in your heart,
And the hot rush in your cheeks as you get nervous.

I want to be the cause of,
The curves in your smile,
And the tightness in your hugs,
And the glistening in your eyes.

But I am not ***** to you,
I will never be drunk to my last ounce,
I will never swim through your veins.

I will be an unopened bottle,
Resting and waiting in your cabinet,
Until my expiration date slowly nears.
Anne Johnson Jul 2015
i’ve been feeling nauseous for a very long time
and yeah, i’ve been on a diet of hate and ***** for a while
but not that type of nauseous
queasy everywhere but my stomach
a calm boat in a tumultuous sea
its like everything is off balance
like someone cut off my hand
and only just told me
its early and my breath still tastes like *****
theres something about the hard edges of the drink that mellow me out
but thats not entirely true
because im awake at four in the morning writing this
but i don’t remember what its about
and i guess poems written at four in the morning when you’re drunk off your *** aren’t supposed to make sense
but i kinda wanted this one to
it was probably going to be some romantic love poem that ended really angrily
but truth is
sometimes your absence hurts more than anything
and when i go reaching for you
i fall on my ***
and when i go to climb into your lap for comfort
all i find is a closed door and an occupied sign
like this is an airplane
and we’ve been airborne for five hours
but im on land
we are both on land
you’ve never even been on a ******* airplane
and these metaphors aren’t going to replace you
they aren't going to ease the ache I feel every time I hear your name
and pretending they will just makes it worse
and pretending makes me turn to this same ******* bottle of *****
and it was full two weeks ago
and now there's barely a mouthful left
Eleanor Rigby Apr 2016
First shot of *****
You are not here.
Second shot of *****
I forget about you.
Third shot of ******
I **** someone new.

-- Eleanor
Ella Byrne Jul 2014
***** in my eyes
All I can think is
Don't cry, don't cry
So much so that now
I've suppressed the feeling

I am alone now
And I want to let it out
But I can't
Don't cry, don't cry
I told myself
As ***** mixed with
The tears never spilled.

I'm in such control of my emotions
That I can't find a release when
I need it.
Written in March 2014
Last week I got an urge to lay on a rooftop, and drink ***** under the stars,
so I packed an empty backpack with svedka, a notebook, and a cellphone; and went on a mission.
I spent an afternoon looking around.
Taking notes on how in the hell, I could get up to a place that was flat, a roof, and could see the stars.

As it turns out,
the rooftops are not a place Freeport wants you to be.

in fact, one staircase directly leading to the top of a building specifically said
"No Trespassing"
Keeping me out with a locked metal door.

so I kept adventuring.

It did not occur to me until after I had already spent quite awhile scribbling down notes on locations of
milk crates I could use,
ledges low enough to grab,
dumpsters I could maybe move over just a bit,

how illegal it may be,
(I'M still not sure)
Or how dangerous it may be
(probably quite very)
To go on this adventure.

I texted a beautiful girl and asked if she wanted to drink ***** under the stars.

being the suave romantic that I am,

Having spent my whole morning surveying different routes to the rooftops.

Having planned out such a storybook evening, obviously her answer was,

"nah, I'd rather stay home, smoke ****, and watch the new season of Orange is the new black."

*******, Ruby Rose...
Stop. stealing. my dates.

After introducing myself to a handful of other potential candidates, I finally find a woman who believes climbing onto a rooftop and drinking ***** would be a swell time.

By the time I pick her up and get back to the spot,
it's late enough that Freeport is a ghost town.
We run down the middle of the street, me dragging her, doctor and companion style towards the first flawless plan:

Milkcrates behind linda beans.

We stack them up like steps and walk up to the top of a metal ceiling
Affixed perfectly above a flight of stairs that leads to the top floor.
I thought, "maybe we could climb the metal ceiling like a ramp."

it turns out
that not only is it
incredibly difficult not to
fall off of a slanted flimsy ramp
with no handles. But it is also: Terrifying!

Eventually I make it to the top and realize:
"****, There is still a tall ledge I have to hoist myself onto"
I look down to the short brunette quivering
on the ramp's lowest tier and decide that there is no way either of us were going to make it.

"Hey rose, " (That wasn't her real name)
Let's try a different way up.

attempting to crawl down slowly,
my **** scoots forward, hands behind me,
I slip and start gliding down like a children's slide.
flailing and attempting to catch myself before
falling off the edge and plummeting onto a dumpster.

(Whistling noises)


She screams.
I laugh uncontrollably.

She slowly descends our statuesque landmark milkcrate staircase.
Like an angel coming from ghetto heaven.

I lift myself up and hop down off the dumpster.

putting my backpack down,
I check to see if the ***** bottle is okay.
It's fine.

"Good job, *******."
"We're fine."
"You're an idiot."
"I could have died, don't I at least get a kiss or something?"

She gives me a disapproving look, then kisses me.

eventually we did
make it up to a rooftop,
Where we laid and watched the stars.
They were warm, distant, and beautiful.

I liked feeling their glow on my skin.
But I loved taking the journey to meet them.
Will Mercier Sep 2012
***** from the bottle,
Hot dogs from the package,
When your down and *****
The grotesque becomes magic.
Pawning a guitar for a pellet gun,
To procure breakfast.
Squirrel stew in the back of a scamper camper.
Spotlighting bullfrogs,
And mopping floors for a hot meal,
And a cold beer,
And a sympathetic ear.
Nights when the blacktop turned into void,
And the painted lines became a tightrope to nowhere.
Full circle,
Bangor to Frisco,
Any woman who was willing to sleep in the bed of a truck
Was a queen for as long as she stayed,
Always had **** concealed on me,
The copper piece of road currency,
To the gold and silver, of *** and gas.
The exchange rates would change overnight,
But syphon some gas at a truck stop
And it all will be alright.
Misspent youth, following bands
And getting lost along the way.
***** from the bottle,
And hot dogs from the package.
I haven't eaten a hotdog in years, and I don't miss those days.
Peace and love

duhastnach Mar 2015
You're a one night stand
But we spent too many nights
I lost count of it.

You're that unexpected kiss
On a drunken wasted night
Of vomits and *****.

You're that awkward hi
Exchanged by strangers who
Thought they both knew each other
But were clearly mistaken for another.

You're the bruise that turns blue
When I accidentally bump my leg
On the corner of the bed.

You're the scar that I never
Knew I had.

You're the bittersweet taste in
My mouth every morning.

You're the last thought lingering
In my head before slumber takes me
And you're the vagueness that
Haunts me in my dreams.

You're the scalding hot shower
In a cold freezing morning.

You're the boiling tea that numbs
My tongue for the rest of the day.

You're the obsession
I will never learn to let go of.

You're that person I will
Never get to call mine.

You're the one that got away.
Mitchell Duran Nov 2013
It was 98'.
No, it was 99'.
That was the year.
Yeah, that was the year.

I had just landed abroad and knew no one.
Well, I was there with my girlfriend, Page.

I knew her.

We had to get out of the states.
There was nothing for us there.
We were drowning in that nothingness - that lacking future.

Cookie cutters everywhere.

Everything I saw was like an outline of something that had already happened.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't ****.
I could barely call my parents to let them know what I was doing.

Nothing really.

Floating downward like a leaf broken from its stem.
I was scared.
I'll admit it.
I was terrified of the next four years.
Twenty-five seemed so far away and so close, all at the same time.

We had a found an apartment to live in while in the U.S.
We were lucky because people we met later on said it was hell trying to find a place after arriving.
I was never too good at that stuff anyway.
I always felt like people were trying to cheat me or something.

It was small.
You would have said you loved it, but secretly hated it.
One could barely stand in the shower.
Want to spread your arms wide?

Forget about it.

There was a balcony though and you could watch the street traffic from above.
People look so small when your high up.
Down the street, there was a large theatre where they filmed movies.
I rarely saw them shooting, but I could tell it was a good place to.
It was beautiful at night when the lampposts would flicker on, orange spilling on the street.
Everything was damp in the Fall when we first arrived.

"What do you want to do today?" I asked her. She was laying face down on the bed.
Whenever she was hungover, she would do that.
All the covers and pillows over her face, blocking out the world and its light.
I did the same thing, so I couldn't really say much.
We were hungover a lot those first couple months.
Then came the jobs and everything changed...mostly.

She moaned something that I couldn't understand.
I was standing by the window, staring at the pigeons and crows perched on the roof across from us.
They had made a little nest under one of the shingles.
Clever little ******'s.

"Look at those things," I said.
The coffee I was drinking was bitter and made from crystals.
It gave me a headache, but it was cheap and we were broke.
I stepped back to get a better look at their nest and knocked an empty beer bottle around.

She moaned again and rose up from bed, kind of like a stretching kitten or a cat.
Her back was arched like a crescent moon and she stunk of ***** and Sprite.
The blankets were twisted and crumpled and she was tangled in them like a fly in a spiders web.
I went into the kitchen and poured out my coffee, thinking of what to do with the day.

"Breakfast?" she asked me from bed.
My back was to her, but I knew she wanted me to make it.
I put the electric stove on and opened the refrigerator.

"No eggs," I said back to her, "I'll be right back."

She moaned and slithered back into bed.
I threw my jacket and slippers on and made my way downstairs.

"Dobry den," I said to the cashier.
He was a tiny vietnamese man with a extremely high pitched voice.
I struggled to stifle a laugh every time I came in.

"Dobry den," he said back, sounding like air escaping from a balloon.

"Dear God," I thought, "How does his voice box do it?"

I went straight to the eggs, pretending to cough.
All around me were packaged sweets and rotten vegetables and fruit.
There were half loaves of brown, stale bread wrapped lazily in thin plastic.
Canned beans, noodle packets, and cardboard infused orange juice lined the shelves.
Where were the ******* eggs?
We needed milk too.
Trying to drink that crystalized coffee without it was torture.
I don't even know how I did it earlier.
"I must be getting used to the taste..." I thought.

I opened the single refrigerator they had in the place.
It was stocked with loosely packaged cheese, milk, beer, and soda.
There they were, those ******* eggs, right next to the yogurt.
I looked at the expiration date of a small carton of chocolate milk and winced.
"Someone could die here if they weren't careful," I whispered to myself.

"Everyding O.K.?" I heard the cashier squeak behind me.
I turned and nodded and showed him the eggs.
He was suspicious I was stealing something.
It was ironic.
I put the eggs on the counter and handed over what the cash register told me.

"There you go," I said and handed him the 58 crown in exact change.

"Děkuji," he peeped.

His voice sounded like a stuffed animal.
I nodded, smiled, and quickly got the hell out of there.

"You know the guy that works at the shop across the street?" I asked the body still in bed.
Well, she was up now, back up against the wall with her laptop on her lap.
"You mean the guy that has the voice of a little girl?"
"Exactly. I was just in there - getting these eggs - and I nearly laughed in his face."
"That's mean," she frowned, staring at her laptop.
Many of our conversations were with some kind of electronic device in between us.
We needed to work on that.
"I didn't laugh at him directly."
She smiled and nodded and moved down the bed a little more.
Only her head was resting on the pillow.
I cracked two eggs and let them sizzle there in the butter and the salt.

"So, what do you want to do today?" I asked Page, "It's not too cold out. We could go on a walk."
"I don't know. Over the bridge and maybe down by the water."
"It's going to be so cold," she shivered.
"I was just out there in slippers and a t-shirt and I was fine."
"That's because you're so big. I'm tiny. I don't get as much blood flow."

I flipped the two eggs and looked down at them.
Golden and burnt slightly around the edges.
******* perfect.
Now, just gotta wait a little on the other side and make sure to not let the yolk harden.
I hated that more than anything in the world.
Well, that and hearing **** poor excuses like it being too cold.
It was nice out.
She'd be fine.

"Come on," I sighed. I did that a lot. "It'll be fun."
She looked up at me from her computer with a dead look in her eye.
"What?" I asked her.
"You're such a...nerd," she said.
"No I'm not."
"You're so weird. Some of the things you say sometimes..."
"Like what?"
"Let's go on a walk."
She exaggerated the word walk.
I laughed and knew I was being a little too excited about a walk.
"Yeah. So? What are you doing? You're just laying there doing nothing."
"It's my day off," she scoffed, jokingly.

We were unemployed.
Everyday was a day off.
This was not something to bring up.
It was touchy subject.
One had to go about it...delicately.

"We need to find jobs," I stated, "And we can probably ask around or look for signs in windows."

"Oh JESUS," she gagged, coughing and diving back under the covers.

"I'm just thinking ahead so we can stay here. There's got to be something out there we can do."

"Like what?" she asked, her voice muffled by blankets.

"I don't know...something," I mumbled, trailing off as I flipped one of the eggs, "Perfect."

After breakfast, Page finally got out of bed and took a shower.
I tried to sneak in there with her, but, like I said before, one could barely fit themselves in there.
We compromised to have *** on the bed, though I did miss doing it in the shower.
As Page got dressed, I watched her slip those thin black stockings on, half reading a magazine.
I had gotten a subscription to The Review because I was trying to become a writer.
I thought, maybe if I read the stuff getting published - even the bad **** - it'll help.
Later, I realized, this was a terrible idea, but I enjoyed the magazine all the same.
Page finished getting dressed.
I jumped into whatever clothes were on the floor and didn't stink.
Then, we were out the door on Anna Letenske street, looking at the tram, downhill.

"I can see my breath," Page said, "It's cold..."

"Alright," I said as both of us ran across the street, "It's a little cold."

"But it's ok because I'm glad were out of the house."

"If we would have festered there any longer, we would have stayed in there all day."

"And missed this beautiful day," she said mocking me, putting both of her arms in the air.

The sky was gray and overcast and a single black crow flew over us, roof to roof.
No one was out, really.
It was Sunday and no one ever really came out on Sundays.
From the few czech friends I had, they explained to me this was the day to get drunk and cook.

"Far different then what people think in the States to do," I remember telling him.
"What do you do, my friend?" he had asked. He always called me my friend.
It was a nice thing to do since we had only known each other a couple weeks.
"Well," I explained to him, "Some people go to church to pray to God."
He laughed when I said this and said, "HA! God? How many people believe in God there?"
I had heard through the news and some Wikipedia research Prague was mostly atheist.
"A good amount, I'm pretty sure."
"That's silly," he scoffed, "Silly is word, right?"
"Yep. A word as any other."
"I like that word. What else do they do on Sunday?"
"A lot of people watch football. Not like soccer but with..."
"I know what you talk about," he said, cutting me off, "With the ball shaped like egg?"
I nodded, "Yes, the one with the egg shaped ball. It's popular in the Fall on Sundays."
"And what is Fall?" he asked.
You can see our relationship was really based on questions and answers.
He was a good guy, though I could never pronounce his name right.
There was a specific z in there somewhere where one had to dig their tongue under their teeth.
Lots of breath and vibration that Americans were never asked or trained to do.
Every czech I met said our language was a high contradiction.
Extremely complex in grammar and spelling, but spoken with such sloth.
I don't know if they used the word sloth.
I just like the word.

As we waited for the tram, I noticed the burnt orange and red blood leaves on the ground.
"Where had they come from?" I wondered. There were no trees on the street.
Must be from the park down the block, the one with the big church and the square.
There were lines of trees there used as leaning posts for the bums and junkies as they waited.
What they were waiting for, I never knew.
They just looked to be waiting for something.
I kicked a leaf into the street from the small island platform for the tram.
It swept up into the air a couple inches, and then instantly, was swept away by a passing car.
I watched as it wavered in the air, settling down the block in the middle of the road.

"Where's this trammm," Page complained.
Whenever it was cold out, her complaining level multiplied by a million.
"Should be coming soon. Check the schedule."
"Too cold," she said, "Need to keep my hands in my pockets."
I shook my head and looked at the schedule. It said it would be there at 11:35.
"11:35," I told her, still looking at the schedule. There was a strange cross over the day of Sunday.
"You mad?"
"No," I said turning to her, "I just want to have a nice day and its hard when you're upset."
"I'm not upset," she said, her teeth chattering behind her lips.
"Complaining I mean. We can go back home if it's really too cold. It's right there."
"No," she looked down, "Let's go out for a bit. I just don't know how long I'll last."
"Ok," I shrugged.
I looked up the street and saw our tram coming; number 11.
"There it is," I said.
"Thank God," Page exhaled, "I feel like I'm about to die."

Even the tram was sparse with people.
An empty handle of cheap liquor rattled in the back somewhere.
I heard it rock back and forth against the legs of a metal seat.
"Someone had a night last night," I thought, "Hope that's not mine."
We had gone to some dark bar with a lot of stairs going down - all I really recall.
Beer was so **** cheap there and there was always so much of it, one got very drunk easily.
I couldn't even really remember who we met or why we went there.
When everything's a blur in the morning you have two choices:
Feel guilty about how much you drank, lie around, and do nothing or,
Leave it be, try not to think about it, and try and find your passport and cell phone.

We made our transfer at the 22 and rode downhill.
Page looked like she was going to be sick.
Her sunglasses were solid black and I couldn't see her eyes, but her face was flushed and green.
"You alright?" I asked her.
"I'm fine," she said, "Just need to get off of this tram. Feel like I'm going to be sick."
"You look it."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Let's get off at the park with the fountain. I don't want to puke here."
"Ok," I said, smiling, "We'll get off after this stop."

We sat down on one of the benches that circled around the fountain.
It was empty and Page was confused why.
"Maybe to save money?" I suggested.
"What? It's just water."
"Well, you gotta' pump the water up there and then filter it back out. Costs money."
"Costs crown," she corrected me.
"Same thing," I said, putting my arm around her, "There's no one here today."
"I know why," she stated, flatly.
"Because it's collllllllld and it's Sunday and only foreigner's would go out on a day like this."
I scanned the park and noticed that most of the faces there were probably not Czech.
"****," I muttered, "You may be right."
"I know I am," she said, wiggling her chin down into her jacket, "We're...crzzzy."
"We're what?" I asked. I couldn't hear her through her jacket.
She just shook her head back and forth and looked forward, not wanting to move from the warmth.
Dogs were scattered around the brown green grass with their owners.
Some were playing catch with sticks or *****, but others were just following behind their owner's.
I watched as one took a crap in the center of the walkway near the street.
Its owner was typing something on their phone, ignoring what was happening in front of him.
After the dog finished, the owner looked down at the crap, looked around, then slunk off.

"Did you see that?" I asked Page, pointing to where the owner had left the mess.
"Yeah," she nodded, "So gross. That would never fly in the states."
"You'd get shoulder tackled by some park security guard and thrown in jail."
"And be given a fat ticket," she said, coughing a little, "Let's get out of here."
"Yeah," I agreed, "And watch for any **** on the way out of here."

We made our way out of the park and down the street where the 22 continues on to the center.
"Let's not go into the center. Let's walk along the water's edge and maybe up to the bridge."
"Ok," I said, "That's a good idea." I didn't want to get stuck in that mass of tourists.
I could tell Page didn't either. I think she was afraid she might puke on a huddle of them.
We turned down a side street before the large grocery store and avoided a herd of people.
The cobble stones were wet and slick, glistening from a small sliver of sunlight through the clouds.
Page walked ahead.
Sometimes, when we walked downtown in the older parts of Prague, we would walk alone.
Not because we were fighting or anything like that; it was all very natural.
I would walk ahead because I saw something and she would either come with or not.
She would do the same and we both knew that we wouldn't go too far without the other.
I think we both knew that we would be back after seeing what we had wanted to see.
One could call it trust - one could call it a lot of things - but this was not really spoken about.
We knew we would be back after some time and had seen what we had wanted to.
Thinking about this, I watched her look up at the peeling paint of the old buildings.
Her thick black hair waved back and forth behind her plum colored pea coat.
Page would usually bring a camera and take pictures of these things, but she had forgotten it.
I wished she hadn't.
It was turning out to be such a beautiful day.

We made it to the Vlatva river and leaned over the railing, looking down at the water.
Floating there were empty beer bottles and plastic soda jugs.
The water was brown, murky, and looked like someone had dumped a large bag of dirt in there.
There was nothing very romantic about it, which one would think if you saw it in a picture.
"The water looks disgusting," Page said.
"That it does, but look at the bridge. It looks pretty good right
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.    like cardinal Leto remarked, having received news from Versailles... why is it always the ******* French?

perhaps in a less crude manner,
drinking wine,
while eating raw fruits -

  always a bad combination...
no *****, no meat?
   bad idea... wine, and raw fruit
akin to strawberries?
    irritable bowel movements...

- and that's because Einstein
didn't discover the concept of
gravity, in the format of: sideways?
in the form of orbits?
   expansive waves...
   that allowed for the elliptical interpretation?
like the old
      (heliocentric) oval...
             contra the (geocentric) circular
"concern" for...
   whatever is up / down
            sideways in
      the Copernican terminology...
because there was ever a "shape"
concerning the universe,
  and not a medium,
            an extraction for the metaphor
for water,
   gas, liquid, solid...
              and the fourth aspect
of ancient elements:
   its existence in a vacuous "space"?

- but i can't fathom the French at this point...
once upon a time...
one Frenchman equated the motivation
for a "summa summarum"
    to be bound with a thinking,
and a curiosity...

            the current fashion of Latin
   this... cogito ergo sum?
   it's nonsense...
    speak it long enough...
   and you'll find yourself inclined
to suppose that cogitans per se:
is a motivation, an impetus to exist...
yet... so much of thought it "wasted"
or, rather, to craft an impetus to
"doubt", within the confines of fiction...
but the motivation has lost its
origin within the confines of doubt,
and has been replaced by
the Freudian unconscious,
   a serialized phobia fest... notably
including a, clown...

originally, thought (per se) was
a secondary motivational outlet
that precipitated into being...
    first came... doubt...
   but... these days?
               doubt is a conspiracy theory,
no longer an emotional thrill
to prop-up thinking...
   and we have the French existentialists
to thank for this...
for they subverted their own

             negation has replaced doubt
as the origin, and motivation
for thinking...
        yet... this sort of "thinking",
has made, its materialization, so, so...
    i can hardly find it surprising while
i took to propping two worthwhile
economic outlets...
   prostitution (since they will spend
the money i give them...
on things... i wouldn't even care
for propping up)...

    and... alcohol (scotch whiskey,
russian standard *****...
    shveedish cider...
                     german beer)...

but how can you even claim an existence,
       there is no thrill...
of what is the secular expression of faith:
i.e. doubt?
  how can you replace doubt -
a motivation for thinking, materialized
into being... with negation?
  jean-paul Sartre attempted this inversion -

doubt has been replaced with negation
in his system...
             it's like that cliche of an English
1960s ***-joke / ***-like...
       this... frivolity over a blatant lie...
a lie so... bogus...
    so ineffectual in translating a hidden truth
that... you allow it...
   to care for the cheap comic aspect
of the execution...

but how can the French suddenly
feign to disbelieve their secularism -
   resorting to the antithesis,


  doubt motivates thinking,
  which subsequently motivates
   being within the confines of reason,
or rather, reasonableness...

20th century existentialists

negation "motifs" thinking,
   which subsequently motifs
"being" within the freedom of non-reason,
or rather, unreasonableness...

   and by negation,
   i don't mean the atomic conceived softening
   akin to: dis-ease...
    i.e. (as i explained it to one old man
in a park, walking his dog):
  a negation, or ease... a denial of...

how can the Cartesian model work,
when the 20th century French existentialists
began with the presupposition:

   i deny, i think, therefore i exist?
where is the original thrill of
the secular aspect of faith, within the boundaries
of doubt?
              gone... vanished!
****! a **** on the London tube,
during the rush hour,
  during the heatwave
                of the past month!

                   perhaps this only comes
as a method of assimilating an increased population,
within the confines of the Taoist maxim:
the best way to aid the world,
is to forget the world, and let the world
forget about you...

             perhaps... the Andy Warhol 15 minutes
      that in order to encompass the individual,
the world, and the individual within it...
   the approach had to change
from the original, exciting, exploration
genesis of thought, bound to the genesis
of doubt...
             having to be replaced by
a genesis of denial...
      the second tier of a secular society...
    the zeitgeist of Herr Censor...
to filter through what we see so often,
faces, bodies...
  but would be much more comfortable
having been bound to Plato's cave,
         of complete shadow theater...

perhaps... but the original tier of
secular societies' alternative to church prescribed
articles of faith...
                     to have replaced
the thrill of doubt...
      with this... Byzantine pillar of denial
as motivational groundwork for
thinking impetus
   that becomes an article of being?
am i the only one to see the frustration,
how, people abhor their being,
being founded upon an act of denial,
rather than an act of doubt?

     the once thrilling maybe (gnostic):
   has become the stale, "i don't know"
    (agnostic) - as if... people can't tell you
whether zebras have stripes!
   where there was once an article
of secular faith (doubt) -
                        there's not even that!

  there has to be a much needed new mantra,
all publicity: is bad publicity -
unless of course you're riding that
fame juggernaut and are paying
for your all-inclusive status akin
   to madonna: since fame dies off
and you, none-the-less invest in the momentum...

one day where i drink a bottle of wine,
half a liter of whiskey,
   and i'm apparently not "screaming" in
my sleep from the heat,
the whole, "apparently", as i retorted:
at 5:15am? i was alseep! i was asleep!
how can i stop screaming in my sleep
like a banshee:
the sleeper and the blind man both see
eye to eye regarding the future to come...

one day without engaging in internet
content: of my own accord,
next day? this... this... lethargy builds
up in me... i end up thinking:
i can't do this any more,
this insomnia culture globalism of
24h news reels is tirying me,
i pick up the sunday newspaper
which i found to be respecteable...
the sunday times,
  i peer into the magazines...
toxic masculinity,
    desire: what three women want...
i'm bored...
well more tired than bored,
                 what women want:
what an exhausting question...
**** fantasy, beta-male provideer...
    the only relaxing aspect of the day
(apart from the shade) is watching
england beat india in the cricket...
i always loved cricket sport terminology:
50 overs... innings...
wickets... 6 throws of the ball in an over...
the rest? i'm no atlas...
i don't like the world crashing in on
me with all its problems...
not because i don't have the right
advice to give,
but i remember the most modern secular
motto about giving advice borrowed
from Athos of the creation of alexandre dumas:

the best advice? to not give advice...
you cannot be held accountable
for giving bad advice: and people complaining,
or good advice and leaving
people in your sphere of influence...
asking for more - non verbatim... of course...

second categorical imperative?
              the best way you can help
the world: is to forget the world,
and let the world forget you...

                        you only need two absolute
maxim vectors to orientate yourself
in this world,
a third is nice, but: it can be kept loose...
at least two on a tight leash...

but one night spent drinking,
not writing anything:
and i am... spent!

                            the boogieman of england's
persistent complaints...
the muslims are not integrating,
the english: we should give them more
           o.k., o.k.... joe peshi in the role
leo getz in lethal weapon II...
            i too had to integrate!
i said: like **** if you think i'll give up
my native tongue when spoken in private...
you're not getting it...
i'll spreschen ihre zunge, no problem,
i'll even write you pwetty free verses to boot!
but, guess what?
  i will not force you to eat my
sauerkraut, my schnitzels,
                           my smoked sausages,
my raw herrings etc.,
                      integration does not work
within the confines of: pampering to a people
expected to meet you half-way...
what happened when the polonaise attempted
to meet the english half-way?
oh come on guv'... is there a ******* tram
echoing its way out of my eye
when you peer into it while i attach
an index finger to the bottom lid to give
you a clearer picture?
           25 years in england: no englush girlfriend:
i guess all the english girls just love, just love love
being ***** by 9 pakistanis
daubed in gasoline...
                   hey: they **** thrill...

i'm tired of the weakness of the english,
the humpty-dumpty nature they are imposing,
    appeasing, like neville chamberlain...
bringing back the munich agreement...
not on a piece of paper,
instead... waving a scrap of a toilet roll...
so the english could wipe their own *****
on the promises of the germans...
if this really hurts the northern monkies...
guess how much it hurts the sourthern fairies...
(well... fairy, is a designated region surrounding
devon, bristol, hardly a ******* fairy in essex)...

   why am i foreigner and i share
the same nausea of the natives,
                     exhausted by the narratives?
i guess the english didn't like the polonaise:
but the polonaise are to blame...
came here with a list of benefits they could claim:
without having even lived 5 years among
the natives... housing benefits, child benefits...
believe me: the polonaise are the only
people in the world that hate each other...
to the extent of citing bitter criticisms...
whenever i pass through warsaw to see my grandparents
i am gripped with a sickness:
this homogeneity is too much for me...
shove me back into the east end of London...
too much of the same genetic material...
and that's when the language i am keeping
(seemingly for vanity reasons) fizzles out
into your basic encounter and that basic reminder
that circa 40 million speak it too,
better or worse, but they speak it...

of all the festivals? download...
                                   i wish...
    glastonbury?       not my thing...
kylie? i'll concede: slow? live, with instruments,
rather than the studio original...
wasn't that a cover of
   bowie's fashion?
                  sure as hell sounded similar...
but i heard the cure were playing...
so while writing my father's invoice
i made myself a paperclip bracelet...
   i figured... "let's just pretend to be there"...
and no, the 1980s weren't that bad when
it comes to music,
not now, by comparison...
the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (1987)
one of those rare albums you can
listen to akin to reading a book...

                       but there's still that persisting
exhaustion... i came from under communism,
from under the iron curtain,
but at least there was the economic aspect
of communism involved...

   only today i watched the story
of the terrible inversion of english jursprudence,
i.e.: guilty until proven innocent...
the 1975 case of the silesian vampire...
an innocent man was hanged...
the original vampire?
    smashed his wive's head in,
then his childrens', then he set himself
on fire...
              then again: the tragedy of those
rare cases of being presumed guilty
rather than innocent...
then the reverse: presumed innocent rather
than guilty and getting away with it,
through the parody of death
and the non existent god...

   there could not be anything more exhausting
than communism without a communist
economic model...
this current state of affairs in the west:
cultural marxism and the yet to be discovered
antithesis of cultural darwinism...

i'll use the cartesian chirality for a moment:
sum ergo cogito...
i don't like using political terms...
but... liberal (classical) - i don't even know
what sort of thinking goes into the label -
in the east? the liberals are exhausted
by a resurgent nationalism within
   the newly acquired capitalist system...
in the west? the liberals are exhausted
by an insurgent communism within
an ageing capitalist system...

         on a side: seriously, why even bother
engaging in any sort of "public intellectual"
debates when the public are only
discussing two books: 1984 and brave new world...
**** it, might as well talk to a camel jockey
who only own and rides the waves of
time in this world only using one...
   whom Khadija **** Khuwaylid
would probably whip into his young
respectable shape...

                  and this is how Ezra Pound comes
into rememberance:
usura... at least the muslims do not
play into the game of usury:
of interest... borrow a quid,
pay back £2.33...
            that's the only way you can
gain respect of the muslims:
if they truly were the money lenders
of this world: which they aren't...
unless a newly blessed...

   among the philistines and the proselytes...
england is such a tiresome project,
even on the outskirts of London...
i'm being dragged down by this intervention
of marxism: on a whim,
on a whimsical projection...
of "adding" values...
           communism would have worked...
in exceptional circumstances...
poland... circa 1945 - 1990...
syria: the current year...
  to whatever year is demanded...
exceptional as in: war torn...
where was the marshall plan
   for poland, when there was one
for sweden (neutral) and switzerland
(also neutral)?!
        black youths bothered about
the summer holidays,
having to live in council flats,
  concrete goliaths...
           want to know what it feels like
when entire cities are like council
with only pockets of remaining
   free-standing houses among
overshadowing council flats?
                                    nee bother...
sure... in a country where:
the house is the castle and there's a labyrinth
of castles constituting outer suburbia...
balconies... that's what the soviet
models had... balconies...
where women could grow flowers...
concrete staccato gardens in the sky...
the blocks of flats in england
didn't have balconies (sky gardens,
          esp. the early ones, massive fault)...
i spent one summer reading
bertnard russell's history of western philosophy...
lying in my grandparent's balcony,
in the shade...
watching passerbys among
          the barking dogs of the neighbours...

one day, one ******* day!
   and i'm already exhausted from the castrato
english narrative...
pandering to the people you expected
to integrate...
  no! you're not changing your standards...
your standards are perfectly reasonable!
i'm tired of the english pandering
to the sort of people who, will, not,
               i integrated in a way
of respecting both the english culture,
as well as hiding / preserving my own...
why don't i just do the following:
   pisać po polsku?
                      like some czesław miłosz?

ah... good point... at what point
is the standard of integration appreciated?
when nothing is preserved?
surely integration is supposed to
accommodate some variation
of preservation?
     i might add: that's a fine line...
preserve all? no integration...
preserve some? integration...
                    preserve none? no integration...
food is a cheap target to example
                   it's a low hanging fruit...
given that even i find indian cuisine
   the most superior in the world...
food is a cheap target concerning integration...
but the niqab?
  when the local english authorities
are employing face-recognition
technology and when testing it...
are forcing people to uncover their faces,
subsequently arresting them out of protest...
but not the women wearing the niqab...
out of? out of what?
   a secular society shouldn't be allowed
to discriminate against any religion...
it should discriminate against: all religions!

                isn't that what the secular ideology
is all about? the... softcore version
of soviet atheism?
        secularism of the west (miltary-industrial
"vs." soviet atheism of the east
  (scientific-industrial complex)...
           i'm still so ******* tired
               of this bogus trap of "necessary"
Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

Another day of heartbreak
I got dumped, what the hell
There was not even a phone call
It was by electronic mail
Bits and bytes of rejection
flying through electronic space
Just to tell me "I don't love you"
I got emailed in the face

Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

A week ago I was fired
Went to work like every day
found the door locked and all boarded
He ******* off with all my pay
No notice, and no phone call
Just a sign upon the door
A cardboard notice of rejection
Saying "you don't work here no more"

Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

My dog ran off last weekend
Left the house and ain't come back
He ran off with that pack of dogs
And he ain't coming back
I bought him as a puppy
Now he's left and he's long gone
But he left a pile of rejection
On the corner of my lawn

Sitting in my trailer
Sleeveless shirt and cut off jeans
Chasing each tall *****
With some Jack and shots of Beam
Struggling with my issues
In the past and from today
Sitting in my trailer
Drinking my tomorrows all away

My tomorrow's may be better
But then again, I'm not so sure
I've got the blues from this rejection
And I don't think there's a cure
so I sit here in my trailer
Drinking the same thing every day
Sitting in my ripped t-shirt
Drinking all my tomorrows away
imadeitallup Apr 2013
oh, the sudden trauma of it all
out of nowhere we hit a wall
I'll stumble away from the wreck
and wipe the blood from my head

I'll be okay
Just wake me
up please

for it was not love, but *****
that brought us together
now almost 2 years have passed by
you're crippled, and I almost died

honey it was spite, not loyalty
that kept you next to me
and now that it's too late to
avoid this ****** twist of fate

I don't give
a **** but I'll
take one

for it was not love, but *****
that brought us together
now almost 2 years have passed by
you're crippled, and I almost died
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.do you really need a disclaimer, for this sort of work? no, not really... it's not exactly being allowed the equivalency of dropping an in excess of 2000mg of paracetamol.

the one aspect of legacy media, that still has some viability, akin to rekindling the famous extract from the movie: all the presidents men... is concerns for metal health issues of youngsters, who didn't have, the, "privilege" of being exposed to internet ergonomics, other than within the confines of gaming, they came far too late for, what replaced mp3 sharing.... ideas are not exactly sound-bites of copyright infringement...

**** me... do i really have to slap then punch
myself in the face, to remotely stay
awake while drinking ***** like pepsi
     i guess so...

   i too, "suffered" from roman bulimia,
the classical kind...
   don't ask me how i managed to make
the esophagus contender of the heart,
                 at first it was cheap choc down
the throat, missing on brushing my
teeth for 48 hours...
   then... ******* down the throat,
like the ****-style gimmick of the Watergate
       came back up, bundled in quasi turds
               classical Roman bulimia -
eat, regurgitate, eat some more,
hell, now you have a Pompeii style
banquet of the coming of age...
that's no bulimia...
  bulimia is an extension of an ancient
Roman practice, akin to throwing yourself
****-naked into a nettle shrub area...
to get the "itches"...
     that method, involved in energizing
the neuron extension of the skin...
              it's a "placebo" itch...
   nettles, ancient Romans,
and bulimia like the rite of a loss of
virginity of kings...
      festering at its core... of the French court...
with a *****'s teaching apparatus,
leveraging the use of, a single "tool"...
           and even though the ancient Romans
never reached my people...
i get to abuse their phonetic encoding stratum...
bulimia... sure... i, "suffered" from it...
not really, no... i ******* enjoyed
the regurgitation process...
   anti-Grecian pederasty gimmick...
(a) taking a ****
   (b) oral regurgitation
   imitating an ancient Roman banquet
(c) / (d) ensuring the two entry points
are filled by an external source -
wishing for vanilla custard *******...
none to be...
               so no one taught these girls
about ancient Roman bulimic
   you work on the esophagus...
                       by the time i finished
the transition period...
  i automated the esophagus reaction...
like training gymnastics for a six-pack...
no longer ******* down the throat...
you say charge? i think of
a rhino juggernaut...
           so no one bothered these girls
introducing ancient methodologies
to their predicament?
    no training of the esophagus,
no two (index + middle) fingers down
their throat to ease their larynx from
a gagging order?
    none of it?
   they'll grow out of it!
i did...
       drink a liter of ***** per day
and i'm feeling: shimmy!
          upon each nocturnal investment
that i translate into writing...
    give them excess coffee...
              or strong cider...
      the most pristine aperitif...
    you can't cure anorexia with either
drips or syringes...
   you need aperitifs...
                     but please don't give them
white vinegar...
           you need a balance of alcohol
overcoming the sugars...
     strong beer is alcohol overcoming
starches... won't work...
     coffee and sugar helps...
  both simulate the pristine form of
the marijuana *****...
             it's not poison...
so why should i care?
   oh but i do care... reading this article...
troubled teenagers dodge Instagtram
   curbs on photos glorifying self-harm
ever tried burning out a cigarette tip
on your knuckle?
   ever wondered about
    warming up a hand of scissors and
giving yourself an indie tattoo?
   while at the same time...
relying on the mouse principle?
i.e. remaining pipsqueak clean from
making any noise?!
              cutting is so crass...
so unimaginative...
  you will not achieve the adrenaline *****
status of a stab-victim...
   there is no element of surprise...
     if you really want to ingest pain?
hmm... hmm?
            heat up a scissor arm...
   and put it against your skin...
            and then... EAT... the pain...
with what you can surmount in and with,
                   cutting is too... dramatic...
at least burning yourself you have
not achieved the stature of a shedding blood...
cleaner, more effective,
think of orange recycling bags
collected at the start of the week...

              **** me though...
you seen the comradely behavior
of competing athletes, at the european
championships in Berlin,
   with the pole vaulters?
   Armand Duplantis -
congratulated for having crossed
the 6m benchmark of respectability...
now... that's sport!
football, soccer, basketball,
call it what you like...
   that's not sport, that's business,
that's advertisement...
     that's concussion cover-ups...

Epke Zonderland? also a doctor...
communist Poland believed in
sport, sport on the side,
   sport was never to reach status
of a mono-career investment...
            most of the local football
players from my hometown,
also worked less hours in
the metallurgy plant...
                  that's sport...
   a healthy balance...
which, mainstream sport is lacking...
oh look...
   the women doing the hammer throw,
or the discus...
   not exactly Vogue / Chanel catwalk
    mandible beauties...

    to be honest? the doping affair
in the Olympic sports?
   but a minor setback of credibility...
     i rather watch that...
   than those pitiable 22 ballerinas in soccer.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.oh ****! now i remember, now i remember that other school of English thought... pragmatism! everything is so rational these days, no wonder that so many mental illness diagnoses exist... apparently every deviance of, "success" is, "magically" worthy of psychiatric scrutiny... but then you get psychopaths in the upper eschallance of society... and they're immune to psychiatric scrutiny... so much for pragmatism... whatever that means these days... what?! e-scha-llan-ce... usher-lance?! oh right, ****, i was going for an adjective... echelon... my adjective? feeling up to the level / rank within an organization, and subsequently, perfecting stated rank with robust, pompousness and erudition, matching up to a pedantic exercise within the confines of either, grammar, or, diction; my bad. see... i don't get it... i could somehow couple up the ancient Greek concept of the Stoic school, and the Epicurean school (of thought)... it became crystal clear... but... but when it comes to the English school of thought? i can't make the logical-leap of a worded multiplication concerning the schools of: egalitarianism, and... pragmatism... maybe i'm just *******... but i... i sometimes can't come at a worded equals sign, or at least: a mutually inclusive / mutually exclusive sharing processor of looking at both attempts to revise 1 + 1 = 2... then again, i'm not bothered... English liberalism doesn't bother me... the English were never libertarian in letting go... who are the English? they have their equivalence among the Prussians... but, yes... i was looking for this noun, this last remaining school of thought from the Anglophone world... i was thinking... what goes well with the cognitive spaghetti that exfoliates egalitarianism? ****... what else? pragmatism! so help me god, i can't concede making this dualism of ideas, perhaps contradictory, perhaps not, as i did with classical thinking... stoicism and Epicurean school i can justify... but the English, somehow complimenting within the realm of pragmatism, and egalitarianism?! good luck, i can't do it.

currently i only identify two schools
of thought in English...
i might change my opinion
in the future...

how, just how petrified people
are of exploring dialectics,
the fear stemming out
from... having opinions that
do not deserve questioning,
such blatant solipsism...

but i do identify two schools
of thought from the English
speaking world...
o.k. three... ****...

egalitarian idealism...

****... four, five...
how many in total?

scholasticism, in general...

  there's one more...
i'm sure there's one more...
it's related to egalitarianism...

what's the word i'm looking
a morphed liberalism
of: one freedom can eventually
another statement of freedom
and deride the former liberty
with a... ore ******-up

but there was another mode of thinking,
i'm sure of it...

you know that people
are afraid of experiencing dialectics,
when they have to phrase
their opinions:
but these are my personal
   yep... stated in a public sphere...
why is it that i don't
make videos?
      your freedom of speech
is one thing...
mine? constricted to the comment
   this? an extension of thought,
since i'm bashing a blank piece
of "paper"...

what was the other root of the English
school of thought?!
no... it wasn't universalism...
England, given the stated terms...
is a covert communist state...
a subdued communist state...
a dubiousness from the empirically
tested experiment...
where did Marx and Engels
concentrate their observational
capacities if not in England?

  communism originated in England
under, said, sociological observations,
was tested in Mongolia...
and then returned via Russia to
Eastern Europe...

*****... gets to my head...
it might come to be two days later,
but i'm sure i wanted
to work with another school of thought
from the English demand
for the egalitarian take on things...

looking at the English,
i see a people burdened by a desire
to make "things"... fair...
          i see people teasing Utopia...
a people who haven't experienced
a momentary transition period
of a quasi-Utopia of communism....
within the countries that
received the Bolshevik mantra
and not the Marshall Plan payout...
even Sweden (neutral, source of inspiration
for the Nazis) and Switzerland
received Marshall Plan funds...

       but the English...
              what an oddity...
oh i don't imply a demeaning
       but the English are teasing
a revival of socialism...
you know how many archetypical
human emotions socialism curbs?
you can't do it unless
subjected to foreign rule...
given the current Brexit agreements:
now's your chance...

but socialism really did originate
in this fine, fine land...
Marx didn't look alongside
Engels outside of England...
they looked at Liverpool...
and children being employed...
German children had Krampus...
English children had
work in the factories...

this probably is an over-simplification
of history, but all the details
are there...
i find English existentialism
(if there is such a "thing")
over-powered by Darwinism's
Darwinism, having killed modern
or pre-modern history,
having to expand beyond
our known, and kept history...

a big bang theory i can deal
i can congest it into a subscript
of words, via a conceptualization
of atoms...
and bigger atoms,
suns... protons, neutrons,
and electrons...
lost in the realm of sub-atomic
particles and antimatter...

but when i go back to Poland?
you know what i don't hear much of?
overly simplified existential
explanations pivoting on
nothing, but Darwinism...
in England it's all Darwinism,
and not much more...
i guess when Einstein disproved
the only thing motivating
English culture boiled down
to focusing and pivoting on Darwin...

outside of England?
you know how important Darwin
          in Poland... Mickiewicz...
a poet...
            a astronomer...
            and in Russia?
               Anna Andreyevna...
                      how much is
Michael Faraday worth these
days in England,
if you're going to celebrate
only the scientists
and shove every artist
into the shadow of Shakespeare?!

i really shouldn't drink
                       i go crazy crude,
mad and... it's *****!
       you can't mellow out like
you could mellow out with
ms. amber, of the Scottish highlands!
Some Person Nov 2014
If I add enough water
To this *****
I can convince myself
I need to drink it
To stay hydrated

Derrick Cox Sep 2020
Everyone! Everybody!
If you all could shut the hell up
For a just one sec,
I like to propose a toast.

I’m the designated driver to my friends
when they can’t make it home
I’m everybody’s therapist
really good to talk to
without questions or judgement.
I’m the priest you confess your sins to
because you’re desperate for forgiveness
or afraid to have a one-on-one with God.
I’m often asked how I’m so lit
without any refreshments.

I’m clear as *****.
I don’t need anything extra
to tell the truth
to have a good time
to say yes or no.

I can dance my *** off
and remember last night was dope.
The morning after
I grab my bottle of *****
drinking my issues, blessings, and my fun.
Sweet as honey going down.

So, if you think I’m lame
I’m actually quite the energy ball.
If you think I’m better than you
get your head out of your ***.
At least I don’t act like a fool.
You think I can’t hang with you.
No. Don’t get the **** twisted;
You can’t hang with me
if shrinking your liver
And burning your lungs like paper
is the only thing on your agenda.

I know you have cancer.
I have cancer too.
We all have it.
And it *****.

So we take our meds
to treat the symptoms;
to feel better
to feel like we’re one step closer
to curing the illness
To feel like everything is going to be alright
even when it’s not gonna be.

The difference between you and me
is that I take the shots
the bartender AKA life
pours into my glass.
I drink
and it’s sweet as honey going down.
Clear as *****.

But please! By all means,
drink what’s in your glass.
Light that **** up.
Just leave me
and my tall bottle of ***** alone.

Because I am about to get
shaken and stirred
until I fall the **** out.

Coffee . . . half a bottle of ***** and eternity
Blind faith . . . And do what you like
A sea of joy . . . well all right
Had to cry today . . . In the presence of the Lord
Now I cain't find my way home
Songs on the CD Blind Faith
rebecca suzanne Jan 2015
We never took pictures together
because you don't like how big your eyes are
I would drown in them for you
but you would be too busy
watching the sunrise to notice.
You have glasses because you're blind
But they aren't the right prescription
because you still don't see your beauty.

I remember the night you had me drive
two hours away from the city lights
just so you could point out
all the constellations you memorized
when you were younger.
I let you go on and on about stars,
waiting for you to mention the way
you outshine all of them
But you kissed me instead
and I think that was even better.

Even when Summer faded out,
you would always smell like sunshine.
I wanted to live forever in the daydream
of you and me walking along the shoreline.
Your laughter was synonymous
with sunflowers
and how everytime you caught sight of them
you couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

But that should have been my warning sign
because Russia's official flower is the Sunflower
and ever since you left
I've traded water for *****
and this winter has been unusually rainy
but it's still too bright for me to go outside.
David Leger Aug 2014
Late night car rides,
Empty pints of *****,
A one-night ecstacy,
With a heartbreak dawn:

She shows her shallows,
As if they're great depths;
A cry of sorrow? Honey,
You ain't seen nothing yet.

She's not an open book,
She's just a bookmark type of personality.
Stuck between the pages of something more interesting,
Like a catalog or a Cosmo magazine.

Oh, she's always just caught between someone's pages,
With bits and pieces of their's stories rubbing off on her,
But them words don't look the same tattooed on her, oh no.

So stop pretending you're the deepest sea,
Your pretentious crap never fooled me.
Meant to be a spoken word, the tone is sort of casual carelessness, or a passive aggressively condescending. Hopefully that helps you to understand the tone of this piece.
Dark love now creeps through the cracks of what's left of my heart
lost nights in *****
And bruised kisses lost to drunken men
Cold comforting steal slashes lap at my already etched frame

These are just some things I do
To help me forget your *name

— The End —