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Valsa George Mar 2018
Far away in ancient Jerusalem
Stood a garden, long, long ago
Home to giant oaks and figs
And plants and shrubs of every kind.

On every season, from time to time
Merrily they would burst into bloom
Filling the air with fragrance sweet
And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer.

Amid the riot of flashing shades
Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads
In a corner, there a Lily stood,
Sans scent and sans grandeur.

A poor loner never once noticed
Nor skilled to steal the show,
Those, brilliant in shade and shape
With contempt openly quipped

‘It’s such a shame
She grows among us
With such pallid shade
And nothing to rave’,

‘Lilies are such lazy lot
Giving only seasonal blooms’

Rang aloud their haughty comments
Rashly blurted out and blunt

The poor Lily wilted in shame
Wishing she had never been born.

Late that evening, through the garden
Into the newly dug up grave
A band of people came with lights
Bearing someone cut and scathed.
With blood oozing, drop by drop
From wounds, left by piercing nails

The body, carefully wrapped in linen
Was the body of Jesus - Son of God
The one who bore the sins of the world
And courted the most accursed of deaths.

The body embalmed was laid inside
And sealed with a giant block of stone
Soldiers posted to guard the tomb
And every vigil so prudently kept.

Early by dawn, three days hence
While it was still very dark
From inside the tomb had come
Rumbling sounds and a blinding light.

Flowers en masse blinked their eyes
Beheld a man, gently walking out
The wounds still fresh on his palm
And the linen that swaddled, lying behind.

As they watched this queer sight
In awful amazement, they did see
A host of Lilies, white as snow
Far more beautiful than any of them
Bowing their heads in reverential glee
And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life.

All the flora in silent shock
Sighted from whence the Lilies came
They sprang unforeseen in those spots
Where drops of blood from his body fell

Then onwards, without fail
April sees the grandeur and grace,
Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms
Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth
Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze,
And giving delight to all who behold.
Wish all my friends a Happy Easter ! Let the resurrected Lord fill joy and peace in every heart!!
I espied the wisps,
whisper with their lips,
quivering their golden hips,
orbiting blooming tulips,
to provoke me, with their quips.
Taking out an old crock,
stalking behind a rock,
I trailed those glowing beetles,
whiffing the fragrance of myrtles,
skipped across the backyard,
to catch the fireflies, flitting haphazard,
Humming and buzzing, I could hear,
with luminous insects tickling my ear.
Losing my faith, I turned back home
followed by an unknown kith, adventuresome;
He sat on my finger, glimmering with radiance
wish he did linger, while I stood
hypnotised, under nature’s brilliance.
CA Guilfoyle Feb 2013
A merry forest pig was he
he woke up very early and hunted until three
snorting, sniffing, the air he's whiffing
never is he ruffled, only focused on his truffles
He goes **** rumping
grunt, grunting for truffle - O's!

Wild he runs and trots the greeny forest
with a jolly jig he wriggles and digs
his cloven hooves moving dirt like lightening
hunt, hunting for truffle - O's!

When at last he finds his gourmet morsels
a squeal is heard and fly the birds
clear from the forest, a happy hog
a squealing song of treasures found, his beloved
Truffle - O's!
just a little silliness.....
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
all i'm saying is that the tetragrammaton was lying about in full view, an umbrella on the train; the tetragrammaton was just there for the taking, in english... and no jew noticed it, or picked it up.

poetic proliferance comes at a price designated the role
of anti-oratory - imagination and memory
are scattered narratives, thought the prime of the three,
an animal is bombarded  with sensual impressions,
a feline pet is the ultimate unit of fighting against
this constant bombardment  of sensual impressions,
before us, the ultimate leisure  activity, albeit without us
actual engaging in it personally; we created such utensils
as memory and imagination to counter-act the vacuum
of unnecessarily narrating a sunset and a sunrise, a comet's
flight. pro life interference - a snake shedding its skin, e.g.
non-oratory, even anti, poetry for bookshelves, for dust,
migraines, moths and bookworm larvae;
for shrapnel ego... for stances in aesthetics like:
run DMC's *it's like that
, countered
with... 'and i thought disco polo was bad.'
cheap thrills, scribbles on toilet paper,
marquis de sade made an inkwell from
his wrist, blood on white:
Boabdil gives the Granada key to Ferdinand and Isabella
v. kazimir MALEVICH's red square,
                                painterly realism of a peasant woman
in two dimension
-
a Faustian gamble... mental retardation...
no curly curves on pillars, no mention
of Pompeii... mythical Atlantis with its sea-monkeys
agile in water but hardly acrobatic on earth
(exceptions due to Russian Lolitas)...
no regime, no rigour, too much jealousy surrounding
the Renaissance art-schools, jealousy, greed,
fat parasites invoking their name, say, Raphael
as useful as the noun tree, hammer, ship tried to be...
hell the mad dog without a KA GA NIEC
and off the leash... you really can't expect more
abstracts... but art follows science,
what with anti-matter, subatomic particles,
art will see less beauty and science more complications,
both will be working on abstracts...
enter the art critics with their narratives...
also due to the fact that calculators replaced our
natural ability to process arithmetically...
hence a lost technique of arithmetic and a more
sensual engagement in the motto: precipitating
toward a MALEVICH black cross, black square etc.
was the art movement cubism - unravelling
the cube post-scriptum in it all... *******
this ultra-modern fascination with Python-gruesome-oraz
(oraz translated as: also) -
come the critics and their narratives
of triangles without a thinking-do-d'ah suggesting
trigonometry or a squared + b squared
equates to c square (or a hypotenuse...
likewise with hippopotamus i'm dyslexic to mind the
matter too much... honest to god,
i'm dyslexic with certain words - mainly because
it's hardly a scene in a pub: 'pint of ale my good man'),
and added to the chaos of lack of diacritic
in english, you tend to be chaotic with punctuation,
and the words stemming from the latin
æ grapheme (graphite, the tertiary carbon representation)
simply coagulate into a rancid custard of
non-differential puzzles via sūdoku - now repeat
after me, the sharp Japanese HI! sù doku!
HI! HI! well, aye, but it's sùdoku! HI! HI!
si sense... and there's the roundabout.
i'm probably the first poet of darwinism,
i got a blank in my head and i just allow the poem
to evolve... why sù and not sú?
you aim to repress, insert a quasi pause, stress
the would be associated categorisation of sù
as prefix... the doku comes as an suffix -
in culinary terms that's representative of
a hunchback leaning over a *** of sauce and
invoking a movement, a whiffing to get the scents
ticking the nostril fibres - wave in, entice - so indeed
the Japanese punctuation omitted in universal
encoding: - (the hyphen), the sharp impromptu
HI! (HIGH... *******, they're one and the same!)
sùdoku hin ji roo shika! that's samurai for:
i said sharpen my samurai sword like a mathematical
rubric of the 2 times table: 2 x 1, 2 x 2, 2 x 3... etc.
Derrick Cox Sep 2020
A river of milk and honey
and a fountain of coconut water
was open to any who were thirsty

Colored grapes gave into their feelings
then later gave birth to a drink
that tasted like truth
for mouths to speak

Cherry kissed whipped cream
while fudge, vanilla, and caramel
swirled in their *******

The pies were hot and ready
getting out of the oven
and got laid on the table
whiffing of apples, blueberries and pumpkin

Like a king on his throne
was a thick cheesecake
sitting on a layer of crust
with a crown
of strawberries and strudel

A jar
of peanut butter, oatmeal, and red velvet cookies
was out in the open
for any hand to dig into temptation

Awaiting on a front porch
was basket of
Cranberry, banana, and cornbread muffins
For the door to open
And be welcome into the house
where souls were craving
for something good
Suhani Arora Nov 2015
I write about you in my head,

Without even knowing when and how.

I do not love you like the bee loves flowers,

I do not blush for you like a brook in the sunlight.

I love you like a nocturnal psychedelia.

I love you like darkness,

Consuming and hauntingly beautiful.


I know how I want you,

Meet me on a December night.

Undress me,

Shut my eyes,

Drink me raw,

Smell my hair,

Colour me in your murky lust.

Smoke me like a cigarette,

Burn my ***** with your smouldering lips.

Annihilate me,

Fail me,

Love me and then, leave me.


Sing Sinatra to me,

Ruin a song,

A song that I cannot listen to, again.

I want to wake up next to you,

Looking at your face, knowing you can’t be mine.

I’ll bring you coffee in bed,

Be gone before I come,

Escape from the back door.

Be the infidel Zeus,

Leave me naked in your linen, whiffing.

Annihilate me,

Fail me,

Love me and then, leave me.



**** me in the wintry mist,

I’ll scream in the starry night.

Leave me shivering with a gushing sadness

Curled up on the cold floor, naked

Forget me, disengage,

Love me and then, leave me, would you?
Poetic T Jun 2016
We were frolicking through the streets, amusing ourselves
with what was noting less than bliss.

"Points mean prizes my friends,

"Knock the door go on,
"You do it man,

As they walk up to the door one is smiling the other of a
nervous disposition, "relax man,  they discuss the doorbell
or the policeman knock?
The knock is better louder of course attention grabbing
but then other neighbours will hear its echo and curiosity
will awaken them to phones and regrettably police.

The door bell is rang, but not a murmur so repeatedly
they tap it until luminosity awakens and words of
profanity dripped out like a leaky tap. "Dam,
Looking at each other, as hallway lights emerged and
footsteps danced down the stairs a melody of F's P's
and a kaleidoscope of others painted the air.

If I had a swear jar on this house I 'd be a rich man,
as he unlocks the many bolts. "Not a trusting man I see,
The door takes an age to open as we wait eagerly and
then he grinds it open slower than a snail in a race
with a bullet we start to get frustrated.

"Foot meet door, door meet foot,

As the door releases back and the chain is deprived of
its clasping the gentlemen is thrown back not with a
racket but more like slow motion. Then he hits the floor
Like china thrown from a fourth storey balcony.
Then there is silence, "Check his pulse man,
As one of them linger over him listening to what
ever sign of life is left and then like he was reanimated
from the dead he lunges forward and grabs a clump of
hair. One laughs while the other one screams in a girly
kind of shrike. Composing himself quickly, one swift
five knuckle plant and again the gentlemen is out cold.

"You scream like a girl man,
"Did you see that, it was like one of those zombie flicks,
"Ye right, your just a wetter ma man,

As they stood over the man, now joined by his hysterical wife.
Luckily they always carried a roll of duck tape, you never know
when this will come in handy. As the other wrapped it tightly
around her thin lined lips, and the storm became a drizzle of
crying murmurers. Looking at each other knowing that this only
works in the dark they thought of ways to awaken the sleeping
beauty?

"I'll punch him, "Really that got us here in the first place,
Pondering on thoughts one skipped into the adjacent room,
"Dude what are you six,  A silence of embarrassment lingered
as into the kitchen he rummaged through the cupboards like a
homeless dog in the litter bin. Looking in the fridge he found
what was needed.
"What ya going to do rub it under his nose that kipper stinks,
"Some thing like that,

He unwraps it gagging at the odour that perforates the air,
"How can you eat this it smells like a prostitutes well used bits,
The woman smirks in a half terrorized quarter amused mumble.
As he nears his prey fish wrapped in a hand towel, whiffing it
below his nostrils. This isn't working the thought, "F#ck it,
Raising his arm up in the air he slaps the unconscious gent clear
in the chops. He stutters awake in confusion wandering what
was happening then in realization he speaks in ferocity.

"What the hell you doing my house, violating our residency,

"Now that's we like the feisty ones,

An edged smile greets the bound hostages, then the rules are
read out, "Are we listening, the untapped swear tin is about
to release a tirade of profanity on both so they bind his mouth
with what is needed (Shut Um Up Duck Tape) [tm] then silence
is blessed on there ears and they begin quickly to explain the
happenings they find themselves in.

"Why you slumbered we went through your thinks,
"Madam that was quiet a section we found in the bedroom,
"Sir are we on the limp list, there are tablets for that,

"Rules stick to them and maybe you'll survive,
"Not and a lot of bad things can happen,

1. Try to alert anyone they and you die.
2. If you try to escape we have family members addresses
we will hunt them and end them with no hesitation.
3. Have fun as your life depends on it, be imaginative.
4. We have rid the house of any and all knives and blades
5. creativity is the master of invention, you understand.

As the old guy rumbles on trying to speak, he un-tapes
his mouth and listens to his frustrated rabbling's.


"How we know you'll not just **** us,
"This isn't our first or 26th no 27th in fact rodeo.
"There were six of us unfortunately there have been
winners and losers on both sides,

"We are but three lonely shepherds now,
"Three I only see two?
"Our friend is outside guarding the entertainment value
of this diverting fun tonight,


And then without words he said two his playthings,
"You have to the count of 100 to hide to do what must be done
make your peace fight or die its your choice,


They untapped there mouths as to not be muffled of sound
easier to hear on the ear if there crying in fear, and with that
the gentleman gives a capture a five knuckle tap.

"Good shot, and good on you, now run dead man walking,

They both scarpered hand in hand, love will **** you the
other man thought as he watched them run like rabbits.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10.................100,
You wouldn't believe it but a hundred seconds takes
quite a long time in the aspect of what were doing.

They at first play games as stomping upon the laminated floor,
so many had ran when they had done this, Idiots. but these
two never flinched, hats off to there courage. Then tactic No2,
we know where you are, were going to come to play with your
insides with our loving blades they like to penetrate you deeply.

As wandering feet did walk on the cold floor they heard the
scurrying of ill footsteps, "we have a rat scampering beneath
our very feet,
Both with smiles lingered on the basement footsteps
and slowly descended as what was waiting clambered around in
aimless wondering. Both thought it was the lonely cowering wife.
Not as once thought as the swear box in the darkness gave birth
to profanities and in the midst of our arrival he was weeping like
a new born child. Our knifes were his voice as blood silenced it.

We wiped the memories of his last lingering moments from
the existence of his blade, this fool thought he had strength but
in the end it bled out faster than others before him.
But wait a moment what about the one that blubbered her
fear in a cascade of tears where was she hiding?
"I can smell your fear it sweetens the air,
Both separated to find and cull the last of this herd.

"Please don't hurt me,
"I'm all alone,

He snuck through the hall way hearing here speech in the
darkened bedroom. His knife drawn, to plunge into its
awaiting pray. heading towards the cupboard he thinks
the prey is getting easier these days. "Found you, as
he opens it wide to find a tape recording on repeated play
and a note saying heel *****.... A confused look on his face
till blood seeped silently down his face. In rage he swipes
missing her by millimetres, then she says one final word.
"These are $500 shoes, and gouges it deeply into his throat.

Screaming in gargled silence, his last sight was her giving him
the finger and her foot gently crushing his throat. She got her
manicured fingers and gently grabbed her neck, cracking the
stress out with each crunch.
"There were three little pigs now there are two...
"Oink, Oink, she giggled in nervous thought.

He stood on the stairs shouting in a lulled voice his partners
name, but with no echo of voices he knew that the game was a
foot and another of his clan had paid the ultimate price.
So the husband with all his voice was a lamb to the slaughter
but the wife, the quiet ones are always the ones to look out for.

He was more cautious now that only the two of them breathed,
they were both the prey but who would be the winner of this contest?
he looked upon the box emptied earlier in haste, the gun?
looking inside a note was penned in scribbled in quickened haste.
"If your reading this well done you found only one of my guns,
"BANG,

He jumped back in embarrassment, he looked around in case the
other was lingering in silence behind him. But no one was there
to his pride and ego he sighed out loud. now was the time to seek
the prize, the hunt was needed as in the next room he found the
still warm but deceased comrade with the heel still in his neck.
"That is so not your colour my man,
He thought there isn't many places to hide in this house, yes it
was larger than the pervious ones but that was half the fun or
was It half there down fall?

She crept within the walls this house was of the cotton days,
hiding those needing escape, through the mirror she saw him
wanting nothing more than to end his life.. but she had no
weapon, or was that a false thought as there were the old swords
Sitting ideal in the loft. They were still sharp as she had found out
not but a few months ago. Paper cut my ****... it needed six stitches
but that had now healed as she subconsciously ****** her finger.

He was getting agitated at the aspect that he maybe next,
but brushing aside that thought he went into the mode of hunter,
seeing if odours of perfume lingered in the air but noting greeted
senses except the smell of blood festering on the air.

"Come out and play I haven't got all night to linger in this place,

She could hear fear in his voice he tried to hide it beneath his manly
fasard that was crumbling like a weather worn cliff on the presapace
of collapse. She was a very varied woman that they didn't know,
fear had collapsed her in the first moments but now that had faded
like a sunset, she was a ventriloquist by trade in her youth quite the
entertainer. But she was retired and welcomed the rest, but no time
was there to catch a breath let alone to breathe.

He was starting to think, he should count his loses and leave.
then he heard voices but not from one spot but other places in
the house. Unbeknown to him there was an intercom system
and she was throwing her voices though out the house.
"Who is that , what do you want, How could there be more
than one? There was only two he thought, were  they wrong when
they entered this house? A lone wolf that needed the blood before
his blood was spilt.

She was happy that she took out one with her skills, now it was
the other two players turns she was going to quarter back slap the
hell out of this final invader of her sanity. But how could she play
him? Her husband was dead, she knew that for a fact they were bragging it through out there gloating verses. This was her moment
to show who the wolf was and that they were the sheep herded to
the optimistic place of the final ****, her or them.

She saw him silent and still, she had never seen him this weak, but
this was his chance to save her skin, she found fishing wire, and a
pardon the pun, a broom you know where that went to keep him
stable and up right. The intercom crackled she played his voice
over and over again she used to drive him crazy with he
impersonations of him, it always brought a laugh but the were silent now.

"Come on think I'm dead you cant **** anger you child of
pathetic consequence,
  

He feverishly thought of moments past was he dead?
they had gutted him like a fish, how could this be.
Phoning the cover outside he said this was his play and
if It ended he was exiting stage left. One final voice spoke
that he knew the rules if he was to exit then he was to end
his existence, there were rules for a reason.

She was had it planned the recorder the fish wire and that broom,
saying her apologies to her dearly departed but it wasn't anything
strange those toys upstairs weren't only hers you know.
Calling over the intercom, "Lets party you, swear box was
blessed with over a hundred coins the tirade of vocal words she
expelled on the air waves. He recognized that expel of vocabulary
as that person he ended not so few hours ago and confusion ignited
on his features to what the hell was going on in this place.

Stepping in palpitating haste he descended in slow motion, not
with the vigour of what was replayed earlier in the night.
"I killed you once old man I'll do it again,
But fear was expelled this time not courage of the **** like before,
He took played his fingers on the wall to find the switch.
No longer did it enlighten the surroundings, he was in darkness,
and then before him he stood, but he cant stand he had gutted him
and no one comes back from that.

"Who says I'm dead, your just a poor excuse for a mummies boy
go on cry ya little...,


Then in haste he lunged at the oldd man, not thinking straight.
fear and anger eclipsed ratinal thought as he sang his blade into
his skull. Cold eyes stared back, then he realized It was a trap,
He felt it but it was not as he thought he would have felt his
skin screamed out in tears of crimson. A sword was visual
through the front and back of his own self. He swore at her
knowing his time was moments away. she spoke from the dark,

"Its not this that's going to **** you, remember what you found
in the bedroom,


"Oh come on lady just plunge the blade in again I cant move,

But she didn't listen  as she bludgeoned his face with it, different features greeted with each impact till his features were just blooded and
he no longer moved anymore. Her face was a collage of blood from
those she had ended, holding her husband in her arms stroking his
remaining hair. Kissing him on the head she gently put him down.
Opening the porch door she spoke out, "I have ended this playtime
I am the queen of this house, the others are still, static you going to
end me now?

"Rules are rules I'm sorry but I must leave you now,
"Congratulations for winning your life,
"Sorry you lost whoever pasted in the game,
"Know if they had walked out they would have been dead,
"Rules are rules,

There was silence, then on the doorstep she rested her bloodied hands
on her knees and tears of fear, of courage poured out.
She was the winner of this even though she felt totally lost.
Sirens were heard in the distance and she just sat there still....
2684 words wholly poo... this is my longest most difficult write to date.. thanks to all who take the time to read it there maybe a few grammar mistakes but I`m so tired it took three days to write...
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
I’m not quite right today.
I’ve a thoroughly gasted flabber.
The milk of human kindness
Seems to have begun to clabber.
I got plussed but now it’s minus,
I’m so chalant I am nearly flat.
I am almost as spaced out
As a modern day Schrodinger’s cat.

Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.

I was once a pillar of immunity
But lately I am wagging a scally.
But somewhere along the line
I became a cat in some alley.
I‘m at five sixes and sevens
I lost the war and the battle.
My creek is totally full of ****.
Here I am without a paddle.

Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.

My last leg hurts a lot, and
My pooch is rather *******.
I’d say I am a bit ******,
But then, that would be lewd.
I’m a scant one barrel short
Of being a real son of a gun.
My **** has started whiffing
And is no longer much fun.

Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
it the new year, and only into February have i finally returned to my modus operandi... which was? well... it was the pre-Christmas period in the supermarket, and 1 litre bottles of whiskey were on offer, marked down from £19 to £15^, so it was usually that, a bottle of coke, and a bottle of beer and walking home straight away... perching myself on the windowsill, watching youtube channels of uninspired people talking about being inspired... it was never going to work... i was bound to experience a writer's block... but as of today... it's back to my original "strategy"... (a) drinking expensive alcohol can be depressing, well, it actually is depressing... i don't mean drinking cocktails in some urban hot-spot... by expensive i mean something akin to Jim or Jack... that's expensive... in comparison to high commissioner, it is expensive... so having said that: it's the effect of alcohol in relation to the effect of alcohol in other people: that has to become expensive... a van gogh moment... say: writing a poem or "poem" (depending on the levels of your pedantry). (b) the modus operandi... going to a Sri Lankan offlice... buying three canned beers, a 70cl bottle of whiskey... and going for a walk with the beers... head clearing... and yes: rain or shine, winter or summer... out there... looking into suburban houses, with some people asleep, others still watching television... men at their roadworks posts... taxi drivers returning home... in general the motorway insomnia... it's good to return to my seemingly lost and forgotten ways.

^the most annoying thing about buying a computer in Poland for a mere £100 is that the keyboard isn't what it "should" be... i have no £ within shift+3... and the ditto marks are not at shift+2, but at ****+@... so yes, i have to copy+paste it from the public space of... the internet - and this is where computers become equivalent to a piano... sure, there's the black and white keys... by black i mean shift+.

it can begin with as little as,
well... it will quiete a lot to begin with...
bilingualism
       is more complex than stating
your polymath ability to learn
    7 languages... evidenly one is superior
to the other, in that bilingualism
can be regarded as something akin
to digging trenches...
     what i mean is that
psychiatric terms can be poetic,
   for example schizoid (split) phren (mind)
         is brimming with metaphors...
Brautigan, Burroughs, Bukowski...
      all of them were labelled as such...
i can't quiet understand it as anything
other than a metaphor,
     but in cases of genuine ordeal
with the symptoms, it's anything but that.
the American linguistic notation:
      [oz-moh-sis, os-]....
the British linguistic tradition:
                                 /ɒzˈməʊsɪs; ɒs-/ -
and this is my linguistic notation:
     \ o(h)-ßmo(h)-sis / -
    by the way... most denote the (h)
                        as '... i.e. o'-
   frankly... i like to laugh and sigh...
because?
                   well, it's what happens when
you originate with a language that has
diacritical marks, and inherit a language
where diacritical marks are completely absent...
   i and j do not really count...
   even though it's evident that i begins as ι...
   so it's there: foreced almost... with a diacritical
marking...
   oh yeah: i forgot to mention the word...
osmosis* -
                       hardly anyone says that word
with the first s being soft...
       hence what english did to the world
and globalised it, so unto english the world must
give an answer, and given that english
is a language written without clear,
educational distinctions, a blank canvas
in terms of diacritical markings...
   i guess we can start to see how we can write
english, once again, with a "world view"
incorporating as many deviant examples as possible...
   a bit like bird-watching, or what darwinism
is in reverse, as ****-centric and beyond this:
nothing... so that's a german example having
a say in this example...
            and it really begun simple...
   and this is how the slavs differ...
    žiž      (well, given the ι already has a mark)
        that ι already has a mark,
southern slavs differ from northen slavs
in that they couldn't mingle the too together...
  so-half a caron on the zzzz / snooze (ź)...
      or how lazily we call it sleep, or snoring...
imagine all that effort into the onomatopoeia
of a woof! or a meow! and indeed:
probably the wise choice to call it zzzzz and sleep...
and leave the snoring to the harp
   (snoring in Polish? hrapanie...
the verb? hrapać)...
              the southern slavs will not spot this,
and if that's the case that žiž could be written
by a Yugol... it wouldn't be written by a Pole...
             and given that ž = ź
it just shows you that the southern Slavs's excess
is a complete disrespect / automaton stance
            concerning i...
  the Russians are Greco-Slavs... don't know...
  if they were introduced to the Latin alphabet first
they wouldn't be a competing super-power
  with their pseudo-Grecian alphabet (Cyrillic) -
   and thank god... no good, no evil...
     it would be a bit too much...
        like th
     at question is usually asked:
why do bad things happen to good people?
well... why do good things happen to bad people?
back to ž = ź
   and there's Hegel... castrated with his i = i / i am i...
well, i can see that...
          plain and simple... no wonder Marxism came
from Hegel... dumber than a hammer...
  and the subsequent nailing in of nails into coffins...

no. 1
(evil bladder, evil bladder! hence the interludes...
but hey! it's a collage)

... and this promenade in the night and rain,
really has a kabbalistic beginning,
well... kabbalistic meaning: you've really become
ridiculous with your numerology -
numerology is the lazy way to upkeep mysticism...
  i can't see it as anything more than indolence...
i begun this meditation
with two letters...              z           &             ι
and that later gave me the variations
                         the Libra is heavier on the z side
i know, but that's for now...
i.e.
                                               ι
                                                     (i)
                              &

               z
(ž    
            ß     ź)

that's how it looks right now, it's good that
i didn't mention ż so far....
so unto the examples...
      a southern slav will write ži... (ž= ź)
but a northern slav will not...
    e.g. ziemia (earth)
         ziemniak (potato)
   ziarno (grain)
    zima (winter)...
             and only in this particular combination...
(this has to be more interesting than numerology,
i.e. not substituting letters for numbers
   i.e. 1 = a, j, s, / 2 = b, k, t / 3 = c, l, u
ergo 3,848 = hello using something called
a decimal base 10 arithmetic... i don't know)...
     as other diacritical acute insertions
    also prove to be the case, respecting
the enforced diacritical mark above the ι,
esp. when there's a squeeze...
    ściema (faking it)
                 nagość (nakedness)...
  this is language slowed down from its
supposed everyday quick usage...
               i'm looking for a word when
the squeezed snooze (ź) appears as it does...
       http://tinyurl.com/zvur8qb
well.. może = maybe (Goran)
   write morze = maybe, and you get
the orthographic nazis onto you...
                 it's an aesthetic that has transcended
aesthetic in that it has become as rigid
as a rubric, or a "universal" appreciation of
                  Michelangelo rather than a Damien Hirst
shark in a plastic aquarium...
     and given it's a diacritical mark on
the last possible alphabetical letter: how
hard if not now to find a suitable word?
       it's really hard to find a ź example
once you realise that z+i are so coupled...
   you only realise at first the alpha-
                  / beginning of conjuring an example
that doesn't really arrive...
       such is the ź example given that z+i are
so entwined...
                   i could easily write the caron z
   and the roman enforced diacritical marking over
iota easily... ži...
                           but i can't... the Pandora is
hovering above my head, and i can't think of
a word with ź in it... given that i'm only thinking
of an alpha- / beginning the word with a zi
                       that's equivalent to ź
should no i be present within such close proximity...
       zakon (monestary)
                 zagoń (round-up,
                           the pronoun is self-evident...
        contained within the word, and it's gender-neutral,
   and if the pronoun is not the bothersome bit...
then it's the latter instructions of: those sheep...
    aport! / fetch... you can say that word (zagoń)
in your sleep, and you wouldn't need to be in a place
where there are sheep, or sheep that need to be rounded-up).

interlude no. 2 - no comment.

      well...
  it's no mere accident that when i go on
this little walks with beer that i find the odd thing
lying on the pavement...
  today? a rain-soaked joanna cannon
book, the trouble with goats and sheep...
and yes, i finally found a Polish word that provides
an example of ź...
      before the enforced diacritical ι
                              the acute above the z disappears...
given zielony (green)...
              but after the enfroced diacritical mark
over i... acute symbol has a tendency to appear
like a necessitated after-tea mint...
     e.g. kraszewski's god's wrath, page 158
(ludowa swpółdzielnia widawniczna edition, 1973 a.d.)...
znaleźli - they found...
      zło - evil...
                  źli- evil ones...
                          and it is such a rarity to find!
  a bit like a narcissus flower in a field of wheat!
     or a jasmine concentrated to a perfume...
             whiffing about its airs against the tennis with
the wind...

i wish they might call this:
    against the cantos' fascination with the chinese
ideogram...
or... thanks for using emoticons...
   language had to retaliate against the :) and :(
                    hieroglymphs of the digital pyramid...

interlude no. 3 - still no comment

also known as the Libra and the pivot

                                               ι
                                                     (i)
                              Δ

               z
(ž    
            ß     ź)
  
   and yes _____________ the sea-saw...
humanism can really compete with the science,
if it get its act together...

    and since the Greeks already adopted
adding diacritical marks to their beautiful alphabet...
i wonder how θ will fare
   when i write the word thought (θought),
and subsequently write the word:
   weather....       oh **** on me! it's an acute θ!
that magically turns into a V!
   weaver...
                 and saying that: only one consonant
made it to a vowel status of a grapheme æ / œ...
first to come was ß... the grapheme of s and z...
   a bit of chemistry goes a long way... chiral
as a pair of siamese twins, those two are
(you can put on a cockney accent saying that
sentence, yes, you can, i say so)....
  well... it's complicated because you're not german
and german to you is like quasi-Zulu...
ß looks like β (beta)... but it's a grapheme...
an sz that never actually meet... or entwine
like a and e might in æ...
   which makes it very difficult to follow...
just like the grapheme i wish to invent for
       TH  
                         namely that it's akin to  PH...
φilosoφy.... θou(gh)t....
                        g(h)ost...
                 ­                                look how pretty
it looks though: the ****'s F doing here?
     this an **** or a a ******* or a happily
married couple, or what?
    Φ and Θ.... almost looks like a keyhole
with a key lodged in it, and then turned...
horizontal in... reaction of unlocking the lock
mediatory with Θ and then back out into Φ...
             i.e. Φ + I = Θ = Φ + I + ...an open door...

interlude no. 4: this Russian chic at uni really
loved the doors... we watched a movie together
about them... with val kilmer playing
the dead man key role...
  is that door enough for you honey?
                       you got the шock and ßakes?

and if i mention hekhalot rabatai?
or the talmud, or the sefer yetzirah,
                              the bahir and the zohar?
twelth century and thirteenth century rabbis...
      will i also hear of the two Adams
of Eden, the (alpeh) fffא and the (ayin) fff
                    alpeh is a tame ******, feminine,
the mystery is not in the siamese H
   of the tetragrammaton, but in the aleph and the ayin...
    clearly i can't write ayin down without
semite d'uh on the digital canvas...
           writin left to right doesn't do much
justice... unless i write ye י‎,                                                            
f­ff.
ffff   fff        ע                  י‎
...pfי‎                         ­                  י...
there... you should really look at
the behaviour of ayin in the digital form,
the ****** wont't budge! you have to tell him
of the yodh to get off his *** and
make way for a pregnant lady...
        and since this is the 21st century...
i'd like to say: i'd like to write
a pentagrammaton.... yep...
a pentragrammaton... the ayin is gay,
and alpeh is a heterosexual...
     but the pentragrammaton now concentrates
on vav - or a vw beetle... v = w = ł...
       that's the moment you realise
that western linguistic mentioned o' not as
o(h) but as ' = yod...
         bad move... it's no silent (y)...
obviously this can exist in a non-pentragrammatorn
relation...
                            עואי­
Daniella Torino Feb 2017
Some days,
I feel like I’m the only one left here,
a sound of anxiety is too clear,
whispering in my ear,
floating softly in rays,
helplessly dreary days,
perfectly lost in trance,
ferocious beasts collide to dance,
escape no chance
obsolescence,
broken pieces of me reminiscence.


Some days,
sadness is magically beckoning,
voluntarily pursuing,
constantly succeeding,
dust particles sparkling
like tiny specs of glitter
galaxies of terrors shiver,
storms ignite with chaos
insecurities wondrous
creating puzzle
in a muzzle.

Some days,
oh most of the days
are falling apart
and I can’t help it,
the habit
of endlessly dwelling
the warmth
of whiffing my soul
.

-**d.t
Mia Jul 2013
After I am gone,
I want you to find me again,
as my essence walks along the streets ,
searching for something I can't define.
I want you to look at me,
See me in the smile of a hurried woman.
remember me.
If your eyes meet mine,
recognize a love you had once.
The kisses that made you lean closer.
The scent you couldn't help yourself from whiffing.
If you find me,
Remember me,
And our love.
John Prophet Apr 2019
It is a
mirage.
Spun up
in a place
unknown.
Everything
seen an
illusion.
Ghosts,
vapors whiffing
in an out
of existence.
Ghosts
in the
machine.
Infinite
iterations running
simultaneously.
Universe one
of countless
churning to
and end,
an unknowable
end.
Universes
populated.
Populated by
unknowing.
Immersed in
something
beyond
understanding.
Beyond reach.
Vapors, moving
in and out
of illusions.
Forever.
Immortal
they be!

— The End —