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Heavens-Rain Mar 2015
Starting over is never easy, especially when you've been dropped off
in the middle of nowhere.
How do I survive?
Looking around all I see are trees and dirt.
Far away I see what appears to be sand,. cactus and alittle village on the horizon.
It's evening, darkness is will soon be approaching.
Some type of shelter is needed, it's a musssssst.
I start wacking at trees and digging up dirt, will it be enough?
Will I be able to construct this dwelling before night?
Finally!
This dirt shack will have to do.
It's pitch black.
Is this a dream or a nightmare?
I hear frightening sounds,
Groanings
Someone's trying to beat down my door.
I go out of the side door, to take a look
I see a Zombie creature, I turn to run and see a creeper trying to sneak
up behind me.
Why did I venture out?
Had to fight.
I'm tired, made it back though.
A bed sure would be nice.
It's a jungle.
What am I doing out here?
MINECRAFT!!!!!
Sjr1000 Dec 2013
The rooster does crow at the break of dawn
but five to seven a.m.
is the hours of the dog
"Time to wake up"
Cheerful beyond belief
face in mine
dripping licking tongue
tail wacking the dresser
in perfect time.
Hot breath
not yours not mine
but you know whose.
Through the fog of the mind
knowing it won't stop
until food is served.
I am never that cheerful at sunrise.

Seven to five
the birds and rats
are in their time.
Squirrels chipmunks
deer
everybody working their *** off to survive.
I gotta go to work
Calling in sick every day
But one foot in front of the other
And I am on my way.
The crows line up
on the garbage man's run
The ducks laugh at every move you make
but you take it in stride.

The cows lay down to
take a nap.
But not I.

At about five
The bear comes sauntering down the street
tossing garbage cans
this way and that.
The best part of work is the drive home.
Neighbors come out of their houses
to watch him.
Power and hunger
a dangerous combination
But in a rare moment of neighborly cheer
even a cocktail was had.
He was big he was strong
We gave him a wide berth
but owwed and awed him
along his way like watching fire works.

Five to eight
The hours of the skunk
and you get very cranky
through the PTSD
of a mean and angry father
and tires on the driveway.

As darkness totally sets in
the racoons come out
making mischief on the roof
batty as the bats that flee into my room.
Those racoons
the more you try to
chase them away
the more they come over
to see what your doing.

You look at me and wonder who I am
Sometimes you snuggle up
While the night birds sing.

Three to five
D.H. Lawrence
called the hours of the wolf
when madness and suicide
remorse and dread reign
Blood pressure
at its lowest
Heart rate at its slowest
Breath down
Body temperature as cold as the ground.
Remember to not
take very seriously
what ever you think
until with relief
the sun begins to rise
and doggy smooches
awaken your time. ..
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
sometimes i drink, to simply drink...
and find myself: absentee doing the nod...
the drunk will, nod,
akin to a ****** addict...
before he claims to remember
a blitzkrieg of thought from the monring:
would it be better...
that i drink expensive alcohol...
and become a...
no... i somtimes drink in order to tow myself...
i was hopig for some grand adventure
hopping... nay nay... hope-ing...
****... hoping... when ut's not underlined...
what's the "nod" or the "nodding"?
well... meet me in oblivion if you want...
and we can chorus: amen!
i drink because: even if there was
a "drinking buddy"...
no... not today, not tomorrow:
noi leftover Tuessday...
i drink and ensure that i'm alone because...
how else to drag the reflective self
along: suffix... always missing
the prefix and the self- reflexive...
constant... ****-buggering reminder!
drinking alone is like...
a clarity of "solipsism"...
and the world became a better place...
when michel de montaigne only
wrote about himself...
i don't own a book...
but i'm pretty ******* sure...
the 12th rook for life...
it's hard to walk the streets...
to acquire a petting of one...
a cat is not a dog is not a leash
nor a muzzle...
i drink... because...
i... i drink the cheap **** god's ****
for the sole reason that i will
never become a connoisseur...
the more expensive the bundle of "york"...
the lesser the viking invasion...
to be drunk is to be uninhibited:
to be... dishibited...

nigh-quen-dough?
oh right... queenies and the brazilian
overload...
lament the shadow people...
first comes first:
as always the rice per....
the starving bowl...
or; riddle...

fore! a bubbling sense of what's
to become of an iceberg!
and...

best i drink alone...
this sort of drunk needs no conversation...
timidity via the saved
crumbs from the slanted table...

it's not a champagne flute!
it's a glass elongated...
cider and some whiskey
to signature it...

better alone...
it's called the lighthouse -
and... there's no cat involved...
and...
when the moon...
full-faced... preteding to hide
behind a cloud...
turns out all... milky...
and the night is only
just beginning...

no none of this...
will ever resolve itself within
the confines of an award ceremony...
the lesser life...
the closet life...
the everyday purr-and-life...
i drink because...

i'm tired of... what other people want...
i drink because i'm titred:
what other people have...
better i "clarified" myself
and became a cleft...
become... a bergman thespian...
all black & white and ****...

i'm just... tired...
before the cross! in the shadow
of a giza pyramid!
before you came!
after you so come!
i'm tired of bow-tie & tux
expectations -
i'm tired... the least of my drinking
patterns give me...
ambrosia... and gymnastic agility
to call: 5pm... the 9pm when
my brain thinks itself wholly material...
and the soul; somehow: dies...

i drink because i'm tired...
i prefer to drink alone...
i'm vaguely democratic...
tyrant: yes... tirade.. double up on!
otherwise: that spezialz plazez of
the sober... god given...
democratic citizens of hollywood
centralz...

drunk moi:
+ cat
+ cartwheel
+ l.s.d.

            to sink a titanic with: an evil eye...
borrowed from a persian myth...
also: the inability to digest...
heaps of pseudo-gravel...
some call it couscous,...

i drink in order to find the imitation
of drowning...
or... the quest! for gills!

lesser thoughts and the more disgruntling
efforts: picasso smiles...
i drink and i will pursue to drink...
because...
sober is a bypass... otherwise sober is...
kosher salt... play-dough...
blindman's backgammon...
puff-pastry's summons!

sink the titanic... and the tel aviv
contort.
have your way...
because... even now...
helmut spinoza... back then?
heresy... right about now?
a toothpick's concern.
it's called a fork and knife...
you'd pike and knife it as being cut...
later...
rather than pinching all the way through.

i'm tired of the jews being shadow people...
i'm tired of the jews being...
conspiracy theory NPCS...
they have reclaimed Israel..
they want to wrestle with god...
the **** is h'america to be necessary
to conform?
the ******* payot harem?
only the hasidi jews are the literate
people of the world?
                                                     hafiz?
chosen people: yup...
zee spezialz....
        spaz bastardadoughdoughdo or don'ts.
sink the titanic...
give me... the ******* mirror...
i'll sonner die than
cleave myself to the lesser demands
of man... via hey-zeus cha-cha bistro from
a cross... *******-wacking feudal... and an ism!
James Taylor Nov 2017
Do your palms get soft
When you finish wacking off
Are they icky and they're sticky
Like a snail or a moth
Do you try to wipe they clean
On your jacket or your jeans
Do your palms, get, soft

Do your palms get soft
Before you turn the shower off
Because you just had to spank your monkey
While you're thinking bout your boss
Did those yoga pants she sported
Get you thinking really naughty
Do your palms, get, soft

Do your palms get soft
In bed at night, when lights are off
When you really should be sleeping
But, instead you're jacking-off
Wishing that your next-door neighbor
Really owed you a big favor
Do your palms, get, soft
Dream Fisher Nov 2019
What would I do for a million dollars?
How much time would I let them have?
I could tell you it wouldn't be worth anything,
But security, let's talk maturely, I'd do anything sir.

You want a man killed? Sure.
Who is it I'm wacking?
Sell paraphernalia to people?
Okay, how much are we packing?
Give them all my integrity
Give them everything that makes me, me.
Chain up these arms and pretend to be free.
Sell them my name, Ryan Maroni? I use to be.

I thought about it all for a bit
With a pen in my hand, a chair where i sit.
Looking over the contract, riddled with clauses.
Hand stutter shaking, making my grip tight
I put the pen down and paused.
Then riped up the paper with all of my might.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
i kept but one name-given namesake -
finally!
now it has become clear:
the german definite article -
die: implies definite article plural -
der: implies definite article singular -

i've become prone to german songs -
more than i'd like -
but i'd sooner die than have to recount
'hej hej sokoły' -
as the only folk song my ear was lent to...

an hour well spent:
a sudoku puzzle and some workhorse
germanic folk -
or listening the pearls and wisdom
of shane macgowan:
point being: the words come from
the tooth -
but only the french and the irish girls
can pull off... wearing short hair like
she'd be a boy...
perhaps those physiognomy details
of shy and porcelain:
faces that were only ever kissed
by the moon - the hair was was only
ever combed by the wind -
and she can come among the brothers
as a amber nectar gem ruffian in disguise...

sinead o'connor, alizée jacotey -
how the hell does tuba büyüküstün come
into the mix? ever so slyly...

bbc4 : 'when it was unpolular and unfashionable
to be irish in england'...
"unfashionable"? the drunken paddy -
the respectable ireland and its own...

conrad - conrad of masovia -
perhaps i just liked the names given unto me
that i chose not to be confirmed
at the brentwood diocees -
all whole lot of it: with a bishop clad in thistle -
the surname was always insignificant:
paperwork -
but at least the names allow you derive
meaning -

poor you alexander -
no minor roles to attach yourself to -
beside the glaring obvious...
st. levi: my former...

- i have only met one woman who ever
wanted to fiddle with my beard -
does it matter that she's my grandmother?
itchy fingers reach in and
pluck out a quartet of violins...

lie eines tambours:
die toten, die toten des regiments
(the dead, the dead of the regiment)

der tod in flandern:
der tod reit't auf einen kohlschwarzen rappe
(death rides on a coalblack horse)
in flandern reitet der tod
(in flanders death rides)
der tod reit't auf einem lichten schimmel
(death rides a pale horse)

teutonic marching party hum:
no wagner! murmurs and mumbling of disgruntled
baritone:
rataplan don diri don!
back from the east and there was
no cleavage to the british ways...
there was always the old one,
the alles vater of germanic roots and rot...
even in multicultural Loon'don...

but now know of the definite article distinction
in german:
der tod: definite singular...
die tod: definite plural... ja! jetzt isch sehen!

fa'lalala... fa'lalala... tamtaradej! tamtaradej!
niemec norweg duńczyk szwed!

a television - a phone no one rings -
all the blessings of the age -
better still - ghost in a skeleton suckling off
flesh - or staging: no soul welcome...
congested and freed from the loitering of
labour -

i would hardly imitate the irish as the dogs
of the british - sinking teeth into gaelic -
i would -
but since i do not have to...
i'd lend my ear toward speaking:
father german - of what this british brat
is worth...
father... alt-vater ßaß!
tease him, or tickle him...
give him a peacock as a gift for the missing
eye...
watch the crow zeppelins come knowing
how to knock...

i very much believe in a linguistic integrity
of a people - a language is beside the waving of
the flag - perhaps i am inclined
to skin of the supposed irish that do not
speak a word of gaelic: more so...
if they have tatoos on their skin?

the welsh have been given a strict overlord -
even though the english claim they
are the one *****-slap shy of donning
a gimp suit...
loud mouths from scotland...
but nothing in their native spreschen!
exfoliating "orthography" glaswegian...

oh but i would be willing to succumb to
this leprechaun sing-alongs...
i'm a workhorse of folk -
i need the drums and the vocals will do the rest -
no need for bagpipes -
or fiddling or dread the banjo...
old continent yawns...

who is the father of the english?
when the english start to... become too over-confident...
arrogant and atypical islander mentality that
doesn't borrow anything from the isolationism
of the Faroe Island people?
the forbidden fruit of the same language
being spoken "across the pond"...
unlike island dwelling people...
who want to be left alone...
strange... that so much media attention must
be given to a people:
that clearly do not want to be left alone!
who said the british didn't just generate
4 years of journalistic pay-cheques for
newspapers and other outlets?
stalling tactics... feeding tactics...
feed the propaganda hogs who will
gobble down anything and regurgitate with
an alistair cambell at the fore...

i was expecting to read some keneth koch,
listening to something beside german folk songs...
solving a sudoku...
and finally deciding... it would be worthwhile
to invest almost 30 quid in a complete works
of this poet...
one thing i've noticed...
the price of books has gone up dractically!
i once thought: paying 30 quid for heidegger's
ponderings VII - XI and II - VI is a bit steep...
but not all the poetry books i want to buy
cost just as much!

30 quid... em... that's almost a carton
of cigarettes...
and i've been hoping to save up to visit a brothel
and forget something:
of no immediate concern...
but poetry books were never this dear to buy...
i was rather spontaneous when
making a recommendation: kenneth koch...
perhaps i should read some more
before i buy this kilogram's worth
of compressed forest of a book...

but that's all the way into a tomorrow's
sitting before: this will never become
a Balzac 14 coffee work-ethic output...
writing: making sure the reader
has no chance to reflect -
nothing to introspect with or for...
then again:
what's any of this supposed to do
with: beside the reflexive?

man's transcendental love will never compensate
for the pragmatic love of a woman
in need for a, kettle...

shady lots of the unforgiving blue-snippet
of jazz and all the better:
that could happen that didn't originate
with british punk...
1960s screaming girls -
1970s and the boys could come around...

yeah, i've been to Ypres - where as pseudo-children
we played hide-and-seek trade-offs
in the trenches...
where the anglo-spreschen graveyards
have signatures: names -
and individual graves...
the german graves? the german graves
of 1st world war?
wilhelm! are you listening?!
apparently the jews were also
trafficed into the slaughter camps...

i have stood in the graveyards
of the germans - the en masse graves sites -
i have witnessed the silence of these graves...
camaraderie of the dead...
nothing of which the english
would ever learn...
in the graveyards
of a "communal"...

the mass graves of the fallen german
"hitlerjunge"... alles im schwarz...
keiner im khaki: senf hinter abendessen!

i stood in the graveyard of the world war
german en masse graveyards...
no sparrow will sing: when the dead sing among
each other...
i will not visit the slaughterhouse
of auschwitz... the cow-towing...
i will not bow before those that were naive...
but i will nonetheless...
succumb to the idiots...

and the Helmut: die eisenhelmkopf: knock-knock...
echo? echo?
among the english...
one is supposed to reach toward
loving the german
(then again one isn't);
feeling indifferent to this lot...
not being quiet the h'american expatriates
they could have been...
old father sax...

the world can heave: settle for the concentration
camps...
i must savor the bounty found in
german en masse graveyards from
the first world world war
if any slaughterhouse is willing to open
its gates to an esque auschwitz...
so be it... but the graveyard
to the youth of germany, wilhelm youth...
camaraderie: freundschaft-im-tod

mutter-tod!
i need not see the concentration camps,
i've seen the graveyards of germany from
the first world war...
if you've seen one sardaine crammed closure
ground...
and the silence...
what does it matter, regarding the people
so naive?

vier! 4th! alternatively: fear!
the mass graves of the youth under Wilhelm
in the vicinity of Ypres...
that acidic silence...
piquant...
and i am supposed to visit the concentration
camp the slaughterhouse?
what will always die
with being naive... trust... and love...
and disinhibition and...
lingua franca ergonomics of
selling stale wood in the form
of antiques...

i know one way of failing to integrate
into english society...
look down... learn some german...
learn what the old father spoke when
he started to brew these unforgiving children
of the chandelier maze...

i'll be singing these germanic folk songs...
x-ray flag of cornwall -
teutonic - black cross upon the white flag...
muslims nearing jerusalem -
old pagans of lithuania
remnants of the golden horde having settled
in ukraine's crimea -

best felt: of what it feels to be alive,
in england...
tinging the old ****** with a dalmation specker
full blodied worth of:
zee ols: germanicus inhibutus -
because there's not need for *****...
as far as the british go...
in... ***** first: welcome! the conquering
par'tayh!

******* soft-ball dodgers and ****-*******
pinzetteblödsinnausweichmanöver:
ease a coming... you *******
weiser herr misers!
lovecraftian video vermont
aenemic *****-liquor...

poetryfoundation.org poet:
is he / she dead?!
they're dead? they're dead?!
oh thank god there's a dead...
and body worthwhile to **** with...
because safety... safety...
and no bit of h. h. holmes
will ever grace the pish-poor pasrty...
party... oops...
******* yankies...

horror is a fetish...
poor croat poor yugoslav...
unless you mention
the serbs and the balkan "muslims"...
high-brow expectation -
until i am willing to meet
not meat...
my fore-bride... death...
honk honk!
i am more than willing top die
via the swizz affair than all this,
******* fawty towers agony...
pristine and puritanical...
the living better excused to live...
enough to buy them life insurance...
and, otherwise... the remains of
dead willing to pop the cork...

the sane always have their: two pence shave
worth of flip: they know-it-how...
the sane will alway know what to write
about insanity...
problem? when the insane write about sanity...
and the mole-hills and whatever it left
becomes the windowlicker down-dyndrome
chop-suey "oops"?
retro-****: or simply: re-...
the sane have authority over the insane...
what happens when the insane have a crab-bite
on the concept of "sanity"...
people elsewhere also die... no?

sanity that requires grey-matter peep-show
peoples to run miles for:
the dying auntie and her cancerous loved-up
"french"...
the sane speak of the insane
i almost forget: the insane would never
speak about the sane... because...
it's nostalgia: papa roach:
between angels and insects...
as dostoyevsky said:
for angels... the sight of god's throne...
for insects... something associated with
succumbing to soap opera and itchy ***
disinhibitions...

why would i visit these concentration camps?
living in western europe first world war
was more important than the 2nd world war...
i've visited a german world war I mass grave...
why would i subsequently visit
the remains of a concentration camp?
a site near Ypres where no sparrow
will cling to branch or to song...

for no reason: don't tease... stop teasing...
if you life is all mud and mediocre and
soap opera... stop teasing!
i will not visit a concentration camp...
appeasing the hebrew...
only when... the graveyard of the en masse
dead of german youth is visited from
the 1st world war...
where... bullet, mud...
fingerprints not welcome...
citizens non-anon...
auschwitz and death the addressee...

the sane and their stipends concerning insanity!
but then one diagnosis falls foul...
and the straitjacket jack starts speaking...
oh! oh then!
the usual story...
the usual *******-become-bells-and-church-uvulas...
and the rest is just a cry, a sigh,
a boring reminder of the british raj...

learn some german...
the peasants will retain theirs with some velsh...
and that's how you
react to be... "leisured with a caption
of being measured via
the focus of having a father"...

liebe: zu nicht lassen gehen...
liebe: das alles ich können behalten!

i rather speak some german on these isles...
this is not ******* h'america...
this is the old continent..
england serves for *******'s worth of nothing
when it is excused to speak german...
while english is relegated for chinese tourists...
and... the faroe island farmers of sheeps' **** and wool...

it's not like you'd expect to become welcome
these days, or any other days...
as a tourist or as a ******* trader...
of "goods"...
made in chine is the broker's deal to begin with...
on the broken bone signature...

i too thought the english were prized on
giving stipends on how:
how to best keep things cordial...
champagne, oysters... the eton mess...
a good round of polo and ******* wacking...
no?

i do admire the early exits of the suicide prone...
i would too...
but i do crave... for the platic 20 quid banknote...
and what would become of charles III
should he chose a different name...
and i really wish that lizzie lives her most...
but then... her current grin is already
tombstone... and she...
well... she's bothersome in that she's pradictable...
and that's boring and bongo-bongo boorish...

****'s sake: two popes teamed up to try
and topple her off the throne and play snooker
into a dead-8 with her crown...
better speak some german: for jokes...
among... the british... that did live through
the 60s of the 20th century...
but... will never relive the same cushioning
of history to somehow "compensate"
the rolling stones dinosaur of the:
most welcome pensioner rock & zimmer framers...
roll with that sort of shaky stephens
park-on-eire-n-son?

just drop the delayed nuke...
we're all done and b.b.q. readied
recounting what's interpreted as "trauma"...
superiority / the messiah complex
of the english...
but you speak a word of german...
you think a word of german and...

do these people care, to, remember,
their, natural, neighbourly...
competitive streaks with the fwench?
it's just like "us"... the polacks with the russians...
with the germans...
i too thought that the ukranians were
better represented by competing with
leftover mongols of crimea.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
haggis?!

   not exactly original...

kishka

   schwarzkishka:

             czarna:        kíszká!

ask your cousins down south
about rome,
  
und zee, schwarzpudding...

eh?

   haggis is not unique to
be ascriptive of:
  what is, scotland...

     we ate the same *******-wacking
in eaatern europe
as you sold the, "original",
for an american "myth" construct...

scots, wanks, and yanks:
  cultural harrowing
                      a borrow gypsies!

and i: wouldn't catch up
to this sly-import of americana
               from the bowls of europe?!

haggis is not a unique dietary
"requirement"
    in europe...
        eastern europe has it:
refined...
                   england has it:
black pudding...

            criss-cross and...
do we crucify the next st. andrew
like we might crucify
st. peter on the cross...
   up-side down on the X?

— The End —