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Xyns Sep 2017
Sitting here at the keyboard
Fingers soar
Wrists damaged
I try to write something
Anything at all
That could express
What I feel right now

But it's not that simple
There aren't really words
None English,
None German,
None Latin,
That could adequately describe
How broken I am on the inside

I'm not really healing
Like I thought I could
And I'm not moving on
Like I know I should
I'm just burying you
Like I'm used to doing

There's so much confusion
So much pain
So much distrust
I'm ashamed
It took so much for me
To love you the way I did
It took so much
To break down the walls
And let you in..

But I did it
And I trusted you
I believed you
And look now
Here we are
Broken, alone
Torn apart
Maybe not you
But certainly me
Once again
I'm left, weeping

Goodnight
Goodbye
Auf Wiedersehen
I hope I never
Have to see you again
Jake Warne Jul 2013
It seems my best days just slipped away
without a cloud on new years day
Its not the end, but I know I'll miss my friends
until we meet again

Ten years have passed, since we first picked up the reigns
Each night, a different stage
another crowd, but the same charades
Each of us just had to know

That someday it would end, and everything would change
Life ain't so simple anymore
From old dawn to new day, I hope I don't just fade away
Thank God for my family and friends

I guess its time that I try to be a simple man,
like I always sang about
They say its times like these that you learn to love again
and now I'm closer to the edge
We told of the girl who talks to the ones up above
we'd say that they'd call her out by name
Well Tom Sawyer's gone now, with the space that he invades
Even he had to say

That someday it would end, and everything would change
Life ain't so simple anymore
From old dawn to new day, I hope I don't just fade away
Thank God for my family and friends
From old dawn to new day, I hope I don't just fade away
Thank God for my family and friends
A song I composed January 1st, 2013, the morning after McInnis had played their final show together, as a final word for the project where I learned so much about music, myself, and following my dreams.
So I am about to be a free man again, to wander where I please.

I find the prospect nauseating.

I think that tonight is the night I will hang Howard W. Campbell, Jr., for crimes against himself.

I know that tonight is the night.

They say that a hanging man hears gorgeous music. Too bad that I, like my father, unlike my musical mother, am tone-deaf. All the same, I hope that the tune I am about to hear is not Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas.'

Goodbye, cruel world!

Auf wiedersehen?
A passage from one of my favorite kurt vonnegut books mothernight i just felt like sharing a passage of his if you havent read it then i would highly suggest it as well as slaughter house five
Jim Sularz Jul 2012
© 2011 (Jim Sularz)

Deep in a Black Forest,
lost along a mystic stream.
Where the winds still whisper,
a thousand untold dreams.

Enchanted shadows,
kicking frosted leaves.
Sleep at night’s darkness,
wake upon a moonlit breeze.

Castled ruins in disbelief,
sap blistered lips unseen.
Singing Austrian pines in chorus,
beneath an idyllic scene.

Dancing high betwixt the hills,
hide an’ seek, and make-believe.
Pine cones popping tear-dropped treasures,
wave a kiss goodbye, “Auf Wiedersehen!”
I wrote this poem one afternnoon after I experienced "popping" pine cones in my backyard.   For the longest time, I could not find the source of a very faint but still distinct popping sound.   It turned out to be coming from one of my large Austrian pine trees.   When the pine cones are mature and dry, they pop open to eject their seed which are tear-dropped in shape and float gently to the ground.    Wonderful!       Jim Sularz
Rangzeb Hussain Aug 2010
Madness round about us and no one knows,
Memories of ember fired trust,
Watch them, these entombed brains,
Piano sonata, violin concerto, torn notes,
Who are the ******, them or us?

Madness, insanity, absurdity, irrationality,
Craziness, dementia, stupidity, psychosis,
Senility, fanatical, deranged, mental,
Foolishness, hysterical, delusional, frenzied,
Psychotic, maniacal, lunacy, neurosis, disordered,
Take these notes and from them weave
A hymn to chaos.

And so here it begins...

Bee bar locked up honey sting hive,
For them that have wept grains of sand warm yet wet,
In that dark distant horizon mountain bark,
Onion quake cuts splash serrated blade,
Insanity uncorked frothy so seeps humanity.

Orphan sky spits pregnant daggers drip,
Wing plucked harpies never will sing,
Dead sailors salted lie in silken mermaid beds,
Schooners sail the scattered chase round the horned tail,
Skulls bubble air sockets freed from cloven trouble.

Roads webbed spiralled butterfly miles of bottled lies,
Venom harvested acres baked into medicine,
Undone years plunged inside veins popped into mouths,
I loved you know,
No, no, you did not know for all eternity.

Hope filed cabinet all lost my ghostly dancer,
Rooms silver sunned windows seared,
Playground memories brim on the haze,
Smoke fogged pipes puffed clouds,
Asleep amongst trees over green glass grass blades frost.

Hold fingers to hands strange,
Notes ring around maze tower of desires,
Low sands but tides rise and torrents break or fall,
Alone we enter same goes exit,
Midnight clowns ****** into dreamscapes.

Creased rage silver ironed steam brains,
Unfurl flags red and painted war pain,
Impotent artful eye with sedated lust,
Boil drum not loud remember to listen,
Say less, speak more, silence best of all.

Galleons crawl upon the divided cloud docks,
Look there, point to starboard land ahoy,
Deep bosomed tear slaked shore,
Sense mixed universe reduced to a tick-tock,
Never shall it stand, withered time no glance past.

Adios, fare thee well, goodbye, auf wiedersehen,
Tongues weep, eyes talk, observe tender songs silence,
Contradiction philosophises perplexing paradoxes pure,
Marbles, one and all, drown in the air,
Narrow, so narrow are those who judge all.

Sin to fear and all is terror called,
Wanton doves warble tunes broken,
Afraid I was, too wrapped in fear coiled I,
To know fright and bride forsake,
Never were holes deeper dug.

Reason not the rhythm nor rhyme,
Pandora, oh Pandora, what hast thou done?
Stare upon thy casket coffin spread-eagled,
Fire stealer Prometheus universal milk burns,
Gorgon Medusa snake dancer charmer seducer.

Silent bones drum against skin, wake up fool!
White winged dove blood red beak suite,
Humbled blood sore butchered vows vain,
Then as now silent partner is all,
Meant so much more you were.

Rapier, pistol, kiss and hold, to my temple place,
Slash, bang, smack and rake, let matter escape,
What uncharted continents we all are,
Walls rise hand bricked high over hill and sky,
Dilated screams of the civil dead no wall can cage.

Tears glitter sky to earth,
Seeding jewels amongst dung natural,
Fountains colour horizon wide,
Sanity transfigured stitched, haggled,
Eternal slaughter diamond edged sold.

Torquemada burrows rib cracked skin blood,
Skeleton tomb dust for leprosy romance,
Wail now poor Quasimodo tongue-tied,
No one to keep company but rat bones,
Unborn, forgotten, locked and barred.

Hush there! Let there be deafening silence,
Lie, cuddle snuggle, caress dark death,
There, still now, wipe away sleep,
Space time galaxies born in minds beyond measure,
Planets die, titans die, you and me we all certify.

Madness here! She creeps into bed mine,
Yours too! Oh, how richly embraced we,
Paris Town cellars breed inmates,
Lice tea stirred drunk and promises sung,
Escape none, trapped all, sky above and death underfoot.

This asylum madness no wall can hold,
Floats into night skies and into ears young,
Oh no, goodness no, you cannot out keep it in,
Destroy the house of madness you cannot,
Dost thou fear thyself knave? ‘tis merely a jest most musical,
All the chords sprinkled peppered and cast asunder.*



©Rangzeb Hussain
R May 2016
You gave me conversations
I otherwise would never have
You let me talk about the things
I've always wanted to talk about
but just couldn't find the right listeners
You've let me be my geeky self
and you listen to all my weird stories
about art, travels, music and literature
the same way I listen intently to yours
In a way, you allowed me to grow
you allowed me to see the world
through your own light brown eyes
and your own wonderfully delicate words
and I'm thankful for the weekends
we've spent roaming around the city
trying not to get too lost while still having fun
In your impending departure, I wish you well
no matter where you are in the world
I hope you'll remember your friend
your skinny little friend who loves sugars
and museum walks and philosophical talks
I hope I've touched your life
the way you've touched mine
It's an imprint I will always cherish
Auf wiedersehen, mein freund.
Til we meet again.
I will miss your funny stories, C.  Hope we'll be in touch for a long while. )
rebecca Aug 2015
My life is spent  treading water,
trying to keep my chin high enough
to evade the water’s cool grasp
that  traces swirl patterns
along the side of my face
and beckons me to come under.

I kick my feet harder against the feathery current.

If I tilt my head
I can see the horizon,
a faded pencil line
sealing the corners of my vision,
grey and smudged from too many attempts
at erasing it.

My legs go slack.

My entire body submerges,
succumbing to the riptide.
It throws a dart at my head
and all the thoughts burst out :
I breathe them in and blow out bubbles.
They tell me to bid adieu.

I do,
I do.
His children’s feet pitter patter
and I hear their laughter,
mellifluous ha-ha’s coming straight
from their bellies.
An adieu is too harsh,
too grating against the mouth.  
So I murmur a soft auf wiedersehen
and let the water fold me into its embrace.
*tribute to Sylvia Plath
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
winter ist kommen.

you know what nickname i have among those
that know me well enough? oddly enough it's *Dracula
-
my body-clock changed into a nocturnal
creature, while those around me
basked in the sun, i revelled in the moon -
some would claim this to be mere cliche,
and i'd agree with them -
burying a President on the Mount of Kings
in Krakow was a step short and 12 inches
below Napoleon's hope for the Duchy of Warsaw -
perfected xenophobia, once the economic ants
enter the Irish are ****-out-dry and starved in
a potato famine on Titanic with Big BIG dreams of
U.S.A., they only came back to England as the I.R.A.
they really fear the economic migrants -
a Chinese invasion less spectacular than than
the Mongolian invasion and everyone is still
calmly brewing tea... the 5 o'clock shadow, or simply:
brew keeps company of whisperers.
i don't know why the ******* nickname,
at university i was nicknamed banana because
one time, at band camp, i wore a Velvet Underground
t-shirt, and another time, at band camp
i was either goldilocks because of my long hair
or the french braid donned - also known as the hippy for
eating Sharon fruit and pomegranates -
i'm not Morrissey adventurous with **** SCHOOL
rather than Johnny **** THE POLICE -
i kinda liked it - seeing teachers get dissected by
younger generations - why all this negativity surrounding school
fuelling pop music? you played Final Fantasy VII,
exchanged Pokemon cards? no? then what's your *******
problem?
that isn't the point, the point is:
why are Maine **** cats not recognised as the sop buddies
of lore? i swear you to the grave as keeping this fact intact,
Maine ***** are like Bloodhounds - no
matter how many treats you give them, they play sentinels
of the moon with you all they want is company,
they ******* meow meow at your door -
you end up putting on Handel, cushioning them in your
arms on the windowsill listening to, what i would say to
be: if i had children, i'd speak to them in german:
fuchsgesang - wide-eyed diabolical pupils with
a tear from my eye drooping into their crystals -
Maine ***** are the feline equivalent of the bloodhound
canines - they get depressed easily - no matter how many
treat your give them, they still want to be nurtured,
wrapped in diapers of your arms - Ginger Russ weighs in
at 9 kilograms... try keeping him on your arms before
the northern hyenas start cackling simultaneously with
Handel playing in the background.
Maine **** (canine equivalent) = Bloodhound (feline equivalent).
keep him sniffing fresh air and in good company...
the ****** goes to sleep like Speedy Gonzales...
once upon a time... thump... the cat's asleep.
if i'd ever have children i'd wish to speak german to them
for the first time... no other tongue would be given access...
the second Elizabethan Era has ended promptly -
as was its due course - now the degeneracy appears
where art once blossomed...
we're waiting for the Autumn of the second Elizabethan Era...
with winter, new sprouts anticipated... Charles?
oh Charles? please! be the usher impromptu:
beheaded, never built Versailles, killed his wife...
hey! you heard it from a rat, this was written in a sewer,
**** knows what happens in Kensington Palace...
journalism? probably, since around here
all that happens is an obituary.... if you're lucky! ha ha!
otherwise someone else including you toward
an epitaph engraved, most notably: 1974 World Cup -
West-Germany Wins - auf wiedersehen - pronounced:
auf veedersen pet - Liverpool roofers in Munich - yet
everyone knows that all roofers came from Scootlaund.
when philosophy becomes systematic (i.e. wheel rolling
thanks to a limited vocabulary) it does become a thing-in-itself,
that cheats by discussing a thing-in-itself within
its systematisation akin to a thing-in-itself, basically
it cannot find chiral-divergence, or a schizophrenic
to put in a ~mild metaphor - when philosophers systematise
they treat no daily oddities - they encapsulate everyday oddities
with: ground control to Major Tom... ground control to
Major Tom... priority via imagery: forget the bow-tie events
and the fully prim suit buttoned tight - being systematic in
philosophy is not about being dishonest,
it's more about being counter-observant - all the little details
are missing; which is, to be honest, permitted -
if you base your inquiry on all things omni- related,
forget that a Jew would ony write mn and hide the o and i...
too numerous the qualities, but only one accepted tetragrammaton
(square of letters - i.e. not fact, not tool, not hide... but yhwh)...
systematic expression in philosophy, means, outside of it,
missing the daily details that provide the necessary
conjuring of rainbows from water hoses when
watering the flowers in a garden - write systematically
and you **** the particular flavours of the day,
ensuring the sky doesn't all on your head tomorrow
by saying: a priori: the sun too, today, tomorrow, everyday.
reading Kant after watching a ballet made me rethink
my coercion of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche is just too reactionary -
if Kierkegaard took up theatre, i might as well take up
ballet - or any other musically intoxicating form to stage
my coup.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
tattoo the word Holocaust
onto the palm
   of every African-American....
and wait...
  Apache!
           hood crux pixie...
        ****** addicts in Westplate....
        and wait for a century...
give it 100 years in Auschwitz...
               or give it ***** hope for
a pear....
                           and then i'd too
coagulate into custard phlegm...
             auf wiedersehen lenin...
   contort hippie named contra...
               armed boa:
and that handshake...
                        hoarce Horace!
                  shatayin bigger, bottom-blob
bound into eminem....
                          and it was always
to be dirtied by luck...
                fetish...
   dodged and the dog and cameod
the crucifix...
                                       igloos in egypt:
senf (mustard) gaz (gas): khaki
                  diarhhea.  
                        gravitas in the grün...
mein iris... regen bonne hund!
                                    volphren kind...
                   prunes of y in iota said: dried out
kynd...
and pirates toward a je - taime calculator:
taming the berserk stierhund...
                                 bison-knirschen:
hans klaus -
                              myth-gate ᛋᛋ...
              bolt and Zeus...
                                 i am: heritage +.
              Croatian nazis....
                                  nicht, nic, die volk.
annehmen steuern... katakombe denken...
                          ᚠᚨᚱᛟᛖ ᛁᛋᛚᛖᛋ...
told: by a hobbit... or originating from Dublin:
****'s sake!
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
Who is buried under the rock
It's a friend of mine, in Barros
Walloping scallops in French Kitchen, cradling reserved Paris
In the free, memories are made often
Of these great following, greetings today
Now tomorrow now comes yeses and sclera
Is a rocking soup, in the full stomach, day after and after

Hue, in the colorful streetlight
Imagine the night of the thunderous clap, when the fly is a ****** hull
And it just hit me, and I kicked the dirt, you're life has to full of sons
If I had music like this ramble on the porch, bleeding by the fire with the letter of tout wheatish complexion
By the dog who waits on the Mitya and Alyosha is your friend in the thought that you will survive the thing that stays after that is what survives in my mind, the Ivan remembers you in his searching elegant looks

Hooking for readable pages that him to a crime of the senescence wailing, waters won't come back again tainted by the hint at the story and talk oh human nature and passion, a bold letter took from your open book, now strewn hanging in the room

Even when I'm in the drunken haze in the clear, swarthy and dressed, lilies wilt in cold art nouveau, talk of colorful tambourines
Dietrich, Lithuania rebarbative is not subjective
Folgen Sie nur auf der Ersten unlike this we search for some facts between the lines of anticipation of something crawl from under
Auf Wiedersehen from the sending  halls that for romance was once, breadth, lengths to go if you're in dearth sickness and you just keep looking to change how you react
Now, you don't even attract me anymore with stories of Lithuania and unspoken in the loveliest languages, how slovenly though
In need for love, drugs can keep this warm, the finding a drunken haze in drugs, ******, are we arriving at the naked frumpy girl or your heaven's in crisis

Hue in the callow streetlamp, your glib about Ibsen, and talk of centuries and blazing etudes that your soul collates, a thrilling merit
When they told her, that she was "yelling."
They asked her to stop making the noise, forgetting that it was music once
They saw the determination in flowery spokes, that follow the sunflower
Parallelogram van in the dim light, strong verses terse hearses
Towers calls and church were we young once, are we full of ourselves
And becoming romantic, philosophizing on knowing you and I
We must have a purpose to do this, applying and ousting ourselves of comforting minnows yarns of jocular joints cracking by the Thomas Munroe book and fireplace, trust the recesses of your mind they aren't distinctly, but, a warm gun
A free drug and Englishman couldn't prevent the brew from brimming
The drudgery of a different time and passion
Time machine, wheels on fire that talks to us and also tells us to sleep, making sure that we keep a mindful eye optioned out of the dinner sleep and talked about that
Well, we are titillating, scintillating, coruscating, shiny friable animated
Frisco bay, curiosity in the shell-shock of the freedom that talks of captivity and caitiffs, call me a coward
We are soldiers in the prisons of our mind, except most of are in the kitchen making the derelict talk, a black cat crosses the street
Talk, and talk, then the electric silence missionaries, a tabled missionary serving food to the few toward the city in pursuit of the curious one.
Kelly McManus May 2021
Nature will survive
so at least that's one good thing
when we say goodbye

                            Kelly McManus
auf wiedersehen
young Frankenstein
we'll not see your like
again.
RIP. Gene Wilder.
somewhere between always and never
in an abstract space like a dark tunnel
a mosquito buzzes low
you're leaned back on your pillow
blanket outstretched on the pale green
looking up at a sky with no stars
country music plays softly from your radio
but there's nothing to hear
you reach into your back pocket
and pull out a portrait of mona lisa
with gum catering to her face
and sticking to your painted fingernails
smoke drifts softly off the orchards and ambient conversations  
there's empty tension as you hear the clink
of the wine glasses being passed around
silvery flowers are shivering in the empty moonlight
you're having a daydream while someone's talking
i think you're dreaming about a crow
its tracing your movements while you're walking
stomping across wet plants and muddy grass
and puddles in the road in yellow raincoats and dyed hair
holding mushrooms and butterflies
these soft discussions that go nowhere
are a backdrop for black and white images that mean nothing
you could catch a handful of rain as it trickles down
like a drop sliding down the side of a cup
you could empty that handful of rainwater
spread it out on the grass like
coins and diamonds layered on a glass table
you could be intertwined with your lover on the blanket
letting your whispers tickle each others ears
while the music from the radio plays skeleton keys
and dead notes
soon, your arm resting across a lover's chest
will taste the stinging warmth of the sun
as it breaks the morning sky into a million parts
and then you'll have to deal with the lazy poetic
imagery of the new day
bees will hum against the dew coloured flowers
hazy orange heat melting into mirages
will reflect off car windows
and burn your feet on the inky black tar
and you'll have to stare at the hearts etched into legs
so to all the ceiling fans that stopped spinning a long time ago
your friends raise a glass and say
"hello never
how may i be of assistance
it seems to me you've lost something
i would like to help you find it"
the skies are darker than usual and the clouds are greyer
the sunlight is warmer and friendlier
the green is wet
words and dialogues are more abstract than ever.
plants are playing in the suburban boredom
the pool is sunburned

there's a ladybug on your leg.
say goodnight to it while you still have the chance.
these visions of Johana are all that remain
Dear Winter, you're leaving, and oh, how my heart hurts.
I panic as the balm of your dormancy
gives way to Spring's exuberant insistence on growth.
After Spring, Summer will saunter in
with her interminably long twilights and
loud cicada choirs.
Oh Winter, won't you transfix me again
with one of your powerful deep freezes ... or a silent snow shower ... or a glint of sun-kissed ice?
Cast once more your concealing blanket of snow and frost across the land ... blemishes be gone.
Indeed, as you fade away, I long for your return.
As you approach afresh, how my soul rejoices!
That first pure white winter flake of snow.
And then more, more, more … each one unique they say.
When you're around, my mind feels at peace
as I stroll down snow-covered streets and woody paths.
There's always a hint of magic mystery in the air,
secrets hanging amidst the ice-covered branches.
I marvel with a sense of wonder at what you'll reveal next:
a woodpecker working on a hollow tree,
a flash of cardinal red,
a twinkling ice droplet catching a sunbeam.
When you light up a lot of them, way up in the tree tops,
oh how they sparkle, an array of dazzling diamonds far finer than any man-made décor.
And what fun it is when you reveal the paw prints
of so many passers-by,
their curious patterns in the night and wee hours,
secret stories witnessed only by you.
Ah Winter, if I were a composer and the seasons a song,
I'd give spring and summer staccato quarters
to fall I'd give a half
but to you, Winter, a sustained whole.
If I were a snowbird, I'd follow you south ...
to a chilly Chilean climb or a frosty Australian hinterland.
But alas for now, my wings can't carry me that far.
And so I must wait patiently, intently, for your return,
watching for the signs, longing for the soothing forgiveness of your freezing temperatures,
the purifying baptism of that first arctic blast.
Though I may admire Spring's glory or bask in Summer's bright rays, rest assured they are passing fancies.
Even Fall, with his brilliant leaves and brisk breezes, is still a distant second to you.
These three are merely my constant companions until you return.
And so auf wiedersehen my dear Winter, my love.
I'll hold you in my memory until we are together again.
I started writing this poem on March 20, 2018, a comfortingly dreary first day of spring with a forecast for snow.
Snow Aug 2021
du.
Du. Du bist alles. Alles für mich.
Alles ist die Luft die ich atme,
die Sonne die mir ins Gesicht scheint,
der Regen auf meiner Haut,
die Fähigkeit zu leben.
Zu leben als gäbe es kein morgen,
als könne jede Sekunde,
jede Träne,
jedes lächeln,
jeder Sonnenuntergang,
jeder Traum
mein letzter sein.
Mein letzter Atemzug.
Ich ertrinke in dir
und du ?
Du stehst 500 Meter von mir entfernt und schaust mich an.
Meine Haare fliegen im Wind,
es ist kalt.
Deine Blicke ziehen mich aus
und das einzige was von mir übrig bleibt ist meine weiße,
kalte Haut.
Meine braunen Haare,
meine blauen Augen.
Und ich ? Wer bin ich ? Wer war ich ? Wen hast du aus mir gemacht ?  
Dich zu verlieren war einst mein größter Schmerz,
das Gefühl zu ertrinken,
keine Wasseroberfläche in Sicht.
Alles dunkel,
Pechschwarz und doch,
doch fühl ich mich leicht,
fast frei, ein Gefühl von Leichtigkeit.
Ich hab mich verloren.
Deine Liebe hat mich konsumiert,
ausgesaugt wie ein Vampir,
bis meine einzige Seele dein war.
Du nahmst mich mir weg.

Du bist nicht alles,
das hab ich jetzt verstanden.
Ich war alles,
alles um zu leben.
Und nun ? Was nun ?
Hab meine Seele dir gegeben,
mit Hoffnung, Hoffnung,
dass du auf sie aufpasst, sie beschützt.
Doch jetzt verstehe ich.
Ich verkaufte meine Seele an den Teufel.
Ich fühl mich gebunden,
du bist im Besitz des meinen.
Geb' mich frei.


Und doch,
doch werde ich mich nie wiedersehen.
Ich bin weg,
schwebe wie eine verlorene Seele in unserem Universum.
Und nun ?
Du musst verstehen,
du existierst nicht mehr,
nicht wie vorher.
Also vergiss nicht,
verliebe dich wieder,
liebe mit all deinem Herz,
jedes Atom soll vor Glück sprießen,
aber vergiss mich nicht.
Leg deine Hände um dein neues Ich.
Liebe mich,
hege und pflege mich,
heiße mich mit offenen Armen willkommen.
Und wenn du mich fast verlierst,
dann schnapp mich,
halte mich fest,
so fest wie du kannst,
und lass mich niemals los,
niemals.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/because you could really get a square, or any coherent mundane geometric narrative of re- re- re-... out of a *******... or tell someone with a size 11 shoe, that a size 9 will be, just as comfortable... and while the English language goes to ****, thank **** it has no mother and has no son in the guise of me... with the current lexi- of non-cis non-binary yadda yadda abracadabra... a return to stern, dog breeding terminology... pedigree, mongrel... hybrid... can't really as the semite for an authentic opinion, came from a people that sat on their ***** for long watching chickens walk down a village dirt road... anything to redefine, those half-***** screaming into a tin-can tied to a string... after all, Greenwich... outside of the English speaking world, we like to call the natives: Greenwich bellybuttons, or rather,  bellybuttons of the world: pępki świata... as a person of acquired tastes, it's turning into a heartache, seeing english so deformed... perhaps by both technology and youth... a Frankenstein to behold... and when in Paris, did I speak any french? not really, but I had the audacity to cling to an Italian girl who could, and a Russo-Canadian girl, who also could... but you still managed to meet people who understood that english,  not french, was and is the lingua franca of tourism... obviously not so much when it comes to commerce... and banking, is not exactly a commerce... neither is the media... e.g.? re.: Münster... on the first day 3 people (not including the attacker) were killed and 30 injured... on the second day 2 people were killed (including the killer) and 20 injured... who the hell still thinks that the media juggernaut is a trebuchet to fling a Meursault into the limelight? it's naive to think that such people are seeking fame... a ******* butter knife and a glass of beer will always be more "famous"... and the man who discovered beer, well... good luck reading Plato... comes the staring into the abyss, and the abyss not staring back, whispering a words: ad absurdum counter ad nauseam...


too much love poetry, too much love
poetry that isn't risqué,
plain mundane out of fear...
a fear of being found dead 2 weeks
later...
not mundane to say the leat,
just: a zoological observation
of a lion, rather than stark naked
on th savannah...
or thereabouts...
                but to have to exhaust
poetry for love? this sort of love?
i prefer the memory of candyfloss
sitting on a stump of wood...
        maybe that's why i find the current
movies exhausting,
           bankrupt writing,
or rather,  current movies an modern
art, minimalism, minimalism,
large open spaces replaced by
   strobe c.g.i.
point being, when did the fallacy
of subjectivity come into
contact with dialectics?
   just asking,  because i somehow
cannot conceive an objectivity of one,
in that,  not having to cite
a bibliography, third part sources...
can't a subjective opinion
be just as true as an objective
herd nod?
    mesmerising that
     subjectivity should be deemed
as sub-dialectics,
           bellow engagement...
somehow contaminated...
are pronouns in that respect
subjective? silly question...
chess pro noun: or solving crosswords...
pro nouns, meaning:
in favour of remembering
  names of objects...
            and further into the exposed
muddle of atomised grammar...
objectivity is when you stress
   pre nouns...
   otherwise, someone is to be found
vehemently stressing a pivot
word, and that gives him or her away?
all of a sudden objectivity is
regarded with more respect,
      objectively, perhaps talking
about things with a blank canvas,
orientating oneself where
you're not allowed to use nouns...
the closest you can get to asking
a co-worker for a hammer on
a construction site is to hum a hmm...
is that objectivity?
        hence the classically mundane
narrative...
   because i just wanted to say
that a richness of one's own memory
creates a cinematic void...
i can't estimate how many hours
I've sat drinking, more entertained
by my memories, than any recent film...
just like today, having refreshed
a pale nectarine kitchen with
lemon peel... i already started thinking
about the corridor...
                  but before that, during
the day...
    why is spring in England,
why is summer in England...
  so... ******?! i wish there was
a better word for it...
     god i've missed continental spring...
i haven't experienced, continental
spring for... 22 years...
                  deep continental spring,
past Germany,  above the Balkans
below the Baltic...
      22 years of 22 springs,
spent on that bog of a sinking ship
known as England...
rain... rain... more rain...
     dampness and 21 Beehive Ln.
Gants Hill just across the synagogue
above the estate agent...
    dampness and those *******
   woodlice...
          22 years having spent each mid
April to late May under
earl Grey the ******* ponce...
                     no one I sleep better
in this part of the world,
the body has synchronised itself
with the fauna and a heritage past
and the mind seems revived...
to the scents of waking trees,
   to the sight on national news
of bears waking from their wintry
hibernation in the Tatra mountains...
ecologists testing mosquito repellents,
anti-rabies snacks dropped into forests
for foxes to eat...
         and only the one direction
traffic of English... comes a headache
having to listen to it, comes easier writing
about it...
              hence the old woman decided
to take my case of the presidium...
tomorrow i'll have my photo taken,
take my British passport,
declare myself as myself before
a bureaucratic piece of paper
with a signature, wait less than two weeks
and get my Polish citizen identification card...
plan B...
       just in case...
          just in case it becomes normal
for spring and seeing so many
children playing outside the 2nd level
balcony overlooking a graveyard...
boys as old as 6 / 7 playing with
wooden swords...
     teenagers sitting on benches
in the cool night till 10:30 pm...
                               and everything else
worth living for, lived in a small town...
far away from the London rats...
     far away from a country that understands
bilingualism as schizophrenia...
              maybe i am mad,
but the ones who think I am, are no more
sane...
                than me...
                                first thing's first...
with a snap of the fingers,
i can retain my dual-nationality,
and perhaps, after a while,
after I stop finding the study of psychiatry
by studying psychiatric blunders
a bit boring...
            and say auf wiedersehen to
ol' ***** 'n' Charlie Ambrose...
                                                 honestly,
england's worth of its very misery...
    its hardball when attached to the mainland,
a nation of thespians,
     hard this, soft that,
                   nuns instead of frisky youth...
or at least: for the joy of life
at first, prior to the sentiments of
adulthood, and shackles,
as was once done in a spring field
or on top of a hay stack;
              which... makes it doubly
uncomprehensive...
     ad to why someone's father might
force himself to forget his mother tongue. ..
with his son not being able to speak it,
suddenly reaching for
         a bomb making kit, a knife,
a car or an assault rifle...
            that sort of grievance?
as the old testament ends with a hope...
not till the heart of the son
turns to the father, and likewise
reciprocated...
                       shame for the collateral
damage... truly, shameful...
but you'd think that a son could
realise his beef,  is with his immigrant father
and not the host nation...
            because a return to the past
or, the body to the land,
the land to the mind, and mind to
the tongue, and the tongue to the breath,
and the breath to the soul,
   and the soul to the forefathers...
          kinda amrican, wouldn't you say so,
Herr Jefferson?
Nat Lipstadt May 2020
an unrequited, unrequested poem title that nonetheless,
(a fav. word, so economical) it’s a burr, an *** splinter,
festering, pestering, and it’s just easier to write it, cause
triple antibacterial ointment never cured a finger gone poem-
infectious

had two beers for breakfast, not my usual,
don’t care if you’re a Baptist or a Hassidic Jew,
I’m an ecumenical sorta guy, be informed that,
one was a long necked Corona (light), the other
a Pabst Blue Ribbon, which means I’m a ******* anti-Trump
globalist.

ain’t yet nine o’click, already had two fights with
my woman, is toastier a word? I took the negativity
position, but my heart wasn’t in it, cause I know me
words, was feeling muy ornery combative, a morning existential
verbalist.

the other was too infuriating, she asked for ten cherries,
after checking the calories per, which I knew and told her,
but she’s gotta check hit herself, so I brought a bowl uncounted,
annoyed, she anti-overage, threw the extras rudely on bed, she’s a
precisionist.

that I listen to music pretty much nonstop, even in my sleep,
and my fav. lyric of the late John Prine is from Montgomery & goes:
”But how the hell can a person, Go on to work in the mornin'
To come home in the evenin', And have nothing to say”

Amenist.

The German^^ dishwasher maschine summoned me near round
2 AM, TO INFORM ME  (vich is how de Choiman appliances speak)
without apology, that it was done with its multiplicity of cycles,
needy for emptying bowels forthwith, because that’s the way it is,
and wasn’t I gonna get up anyway, there are poets in Manila and Mumbai, waiting to speak their minds, re burning issues of life and pentameter, ah, them wisdom and wonderful people, all answer
seekers!

cause I’m an economist by habit, drink cups of coffee in trinity clips,
cause it’s efficiently economical, one less trip to the kitchen, and
anyone  who doesn’t drink at least three simultaneously, cannot be
redeemed by the verifiable angels in charge of saving coffee-colored
souls-tices.

my tempo is ironic, write poems too long for you attention deficit
disaffected teenagers, but haven’t read a book in years, cause
reading a poem is all I can manage nowadays, cause I’m a ****
attention deficit diseased old man, justifiable, when you got few days
leftist.

yes, I could go on, and on and on, but I hear your skin crawling and
sighs and moaning, enough already, while I don’t really care cause
every word I ever writ is a South Sea Pearl of something excellent,
truth is God has his ******* foot on my neck, whining way too loudly, “Jeez, enough” echoing your guttural cultural groaning, youse
alreadyists.

so I’m quitting here and letting y’all know, that I authored
the lyrics to American Pie, the longest song ever to be No.1,
the Don stole them, but as you can plainly see, it’s my style,^ when
we were drinking whisky and rye and told him it was copyrighted,
he laughed & said, I’m gonna copy them right down, ain’t that the kind of truthful ******* that drunk writers say because they think they are
“artistes.”

that’s about it for now, gotta do the breakfast dishes, so
Auf Wiedersehen, meine guten Männer und Frauen!


(yeah, yeah, learning German from Herr Bosch, the dish washer-man)
down by the levee? nah, Levy!
whew.

Tue, 26 May 2020 = 3rd of Sivan, 5780

10:30am
microcosm at the end of the garden,
micro-dosing whiskey and a joints:
tobacco and green anger
the one to subdue in the pockets
of anxiety attacks -
that can be channeled into a focus -
all those people on chemo anxiety blockers
at least with the green anger
and the fire water managed to intellectualise
in focus - equivalent to:
painting - if done by solo venture of scribble
scrabble 'n' 'sum                  ... threat of violins
falling and slicing in the rain (demonic)
slicing water and sound and the sound of
water and the sound of fire
and the sound of air and the sound of the hearth...
nights
days
nights
days i spent listening to the four orchestras
of the elements: water had waves
of the sea and the skies of the seas falling
as rain... the grand kidney of god that is this earth
god is filtering equivalent to men censoring
each other other...
      Edie will love another, Edyta will love another
but the whole legality business visas
H-1B plenty of unskilled security men out there
so 1 - 0 to the locals...
          marriage visa? now thanks to Martin's judgement
i will sooner inherit my grandmother's apartment
with a glorious view of a cemetery....
from the balcony... and then this house in essex
this little island of abode brooding...
in exchange for a life on Kauai?
her doubts her words her disqualification of self
that she's 18 years apart in bodies...
we are 18 bodies apart... aparts... a partitioning of sigma
the splitting of the soul not by ******
but under the guise of the many loving expressions...
i have lived a life since September 2023
when i traveled to the island of Kauai to meet
a girl for the first time since i talked to her mother...
i was also looking for a transcendental father...
a father of transcendentalism: no, so no, not my mythological
father - yes: because i am currently living
with my biological father and mother and by extension
the Elephant Phantom Martin and my grandmother...
so elaborate:
from September 2023 on a writing hiatus...
brought them back Edie and Reyla to London and Reyla
****** me off for not wanting to go and see
the Phantom of the Opera...
now in the background a Hanz Zimmer crescendo from
the Dune soundtrack...
                mini puncture and now by marriage...
to say: by the duty of the wedded this monstrous wound
of tongues licking eyes and gently using like worms into
their last state of being veins of the sclera...
                  a text from my nigerian next door neighbor...
lived for 3 years like that like
no woman no cry
                             like that 3 years known to me casual
formal...
only a few days earlier
been smoking and drinking on the roof overlooking
the garden
talking poetry and not talking poetry Ayo Ayo Ayo texting
me now... i waffled back to him that he cought
me in the middle of this composition this new groove established
in infected and mushroom cancer in the brain
we are born with a brain fungus
a dormant brain fungus
what is a parasite a cancer on a tree if not the evergreen mistletoe
dormant fungus... brain... typing listening to music
text from next door neighbor thinking that Edie
will love again can love again loved in the past
we are 18 bodies apart
                                  and so so just a one sided communication
a barrier... the butterfly to caterpillar transition
of... none other expected than a St and a Martin
the ghoul the phantom the missing...
             the ego in the ego the self without self
the id so...
                                  primitive man of pre-haunt of death
most apparent to self and the shadow upon the curtain...
a talk with self most relevant now:
re-imagining what a good chromebook keyboard would
feel like so protruding like an old nokia
and the burners
and what my poetry would be like without Edie and to find
resolve i will have to reply: do you want me to stop writing
forever? because that's what you would have
to destroy... my mother could think that you killed her brother
because you came and i didn't go to visit martin
when grandmother was slowly killing him
you heard me you saw me over the phone
you heard when you heard me hear the message...
could you have said? can you come with me to Poland
blah blah...
i don't know... but blood is blood and blood is blood
and what's bothering me is family
but in the end my mother blames my grandmother
but i also thought about being blamed
and who isn't to blame but Martin himself and i wonder
how happy he is now that he has gone toward
the ******* land of la li lo le ole and lulu or lullaby
because i'm thinking about alcoholism as a zombie taboo
crawling and ******* and frolicking in open wounded
vowels like o cut up to u
or i used for a hyphen and a dot to punctuate better
to say a being stitched up to e to make
the Adam and Eve monstrosity of Eden
found in the Latin script... dated: some literary ******
just remembered that he used to write and so does...
there were nights filled with fire
there were nights filled with thoughts of women
there were nights filled with fuckless women nights
there were nights within nights
there was chaos in order and order in chaos
there was a dualism and a schizophrenia
there was certainly god and madness
and i was so almost killed by a friend of mine from
high school a Samir... in Canterbury...
try this other than **** spice
this Chilean spice...
SALVIA will make you see elephants
and you riding elephants quickened hallucinations
so smoked **** then toked the miracle...
turns out my face slid to one side and i slouched
into a dying fetal position...
them giggling... until seriousness took over and they
realized that i was not going to die...
my impressions of a death party...
death parties exist... i suppose in dark web lingo
a death party involves
at least 3 people...
           2 people plan a ****** of someone by poisoning
subtle: not like the case of brianna ****...
scarlett jenkinson and eddie ratcliffe organised a death
party... samir and mr jivandoo organised a death
party by poisoning...
              to their horror and my own i am alive aged 38
should have been dead aged 21
should have...
there were years in my calendar when writing
that i would drink a liter of whiskey a night...
i would drink a liter of whiskey a night
i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night i would drink a liter of whiskey a night

what killed martin a bad death of still being alive?
beer... manslaughter by grandmother?
is it in her to be able to **** both husband and son
because they were alcoholics?
genuine questions... interlude for a cigarette and
an auf wiedersehen (oꟻF vderzeen)

ꟻ: ah... remember to find Adam and Eve
in the letters... diphthong... doip doip doup dupe dulla loop
oop                              poo             sssssss
                                                        s­ss
                                                   ssss
                                                        ssss­s
                                                     ss

    s
   s  s                        5S5S5S5S5S5S
       did numbers really originate from the Raj and
thanks be to the Arabs for our modern numbers?!
b6b6b6
                  1I1I1I
                       ­                                3E3E3E
9P9P9P
                                       O0O0O0
             7 Γ7 Γ7 Γ
                                     B8B8B8
          2Z2Z2Z
                                         ­        4G4G4GQ

Q! Q! Q1 Q1 not G... i.e. 4Q

                    (    )               (     )

                                 A

                       ___


(&)                    (&)

               L

      
__

  the Doppelganger Series of Portraits
noses will be letters
the mouth will always be the flat-line of expression
status poker quo

            ($)                    ($)

                    ­      I

                  __

         (£                                 hmm...

no... I looks good...

              (#)                   (#)

                           Y

                   __

                              (Beelzebub... hashtag eyes)....
song switched to type o negative's
christian woman... but i quickly have to switch
to the recent taylor swift song i heard today...
tortured poets department...
typewriter?
                    like a tattooed labrador...
lebrador labradoor
chelsea hoes?
                            labaradorable...
              ­           no ******* body ooh what a sweet
sing along...
  smoke and bears and chocolate bars
smoking and golden retriever?
                                           cyclone of dehydration(s)
this mouth this wake up 8am with summer...

indeed... the poem has exhausted itself
         with god-flow of needing to take a **** -
switching to the memory of Jemminah
and homemade wine and foster the people six next to me...
or this is this is...
                    this is a slowly pealed grape...
                                       this is a reflection on slowly peeling
a single grape...
the unusual request to return to a former writing habit
or habit of the mind to spend an hour
elsewhere... with one's own to one's own sense of self...
and all the Wembley folks in security were hush hush
and bothered about the Netflix documentary
thinking there would be a story against the security teams
if any...
       or rather to hear first rate accounts journalists would swarm
the site post Euro Finals 2021 and ask us about any details
well the film itself became more a documentary for
anti racism...
                     it was the most comprehensive and positive
lesson in  adhering to an anti racism focus...
         i was expecting that...
the security personnel were actually praised... and there was
a sense of empathy....
   i recognized one face in the documentary:
Lee, the son of the owner of Achilleus Security who's
name is not Ralph not Romeo but probably Ricci...
           Italian connections if i were not mistaken...
                       ooze.... hit the snooze before bed
go down smoke dip mouth in some whiskers and beddie beddie
bye bye.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
title: hubris Mina -
body: towers to topple
Babel.

well, i could be massively wrong...
but even today was hard to be wrong...
about interactions with member of the public
at the London Stadium...
turns out: for all my hard-trying to be this...
recluse... this hermit... i'm pretty good with people...
the day you stop surprising yourself
is the day you die...
       i like this surprising little me...
i still don't know how my Turkish barber figured
out a look for me without me knowing...
since my mustache is blonde: even though
my grandmother contests: it's ginger...
o.k. o.k. strawberry blonde...
but my soul patch is ultra blonde...
and it's long... how did the Turks figure out...
a fu manchu mustache will look good...
with an elongated soul patch...
and a brown beard to boot... huh?!
  oh my god, loving yourself is so easy...
the ******* glove fits...
   i'm tired of wanting to be loved...
by someone else... i'm pretty good on my own...
when i sit down to write this...
the room: my bedroom i'm occupying sort
of shrinks... the room becomes claustrophobic
and i become... that cenobite from
the Hellraiser franchise... butterball...
     i gloat in my own self...
              a sort of Walt Whitman... i'm going to sing
a song to myself...
i'll twist the soul patch... i'll twist the fu manchu extensions
of the mustache... make them more pronounced...
but this room feels... rather small...
but there's that time framework to this space...
a private library... i look at the books
on the shelves... wow... well... wasn't that a glorious
August a few years ago...
reading that book...
   books are the most pristine artifacts...
i can sort of remember when i read a certain book
and how long it took me... to read it...
it's becoming increasingly impossible
to not love myself... for myself...
  esp. today... there were supposed to be
two break guys minding the stewards...
one ****** was sent home on grounds of
wrong attire... i had to give out breaks for... 12 stewards...
i was hoping to watch some of the match:
West Ham vs. Everton in the second half...
like **** i was... too busy...
doing? **** all!
       if this is work and this "work" is nothing but
loitering... get me to call the gaffer
and up: right up on the roof! to do some
proper work, some waterproofing!
**** me...
       i just stand around and look pretty...
lucky for me... three German lads approached me...
i don't know why i have such a high affinity
with the Germans...
maybe because... historically speaking...
the ****** only experienced an acute sense
of the German revenge machinery after Versailles...
6 years? but... when it comes to the Russians...
oh... those ******* are always suspect...
from 1945 through to 1990... circa...
i'd take those 6 years of **** rule than...
those 45 years of the globalist communist agenda...
national socialism makes more sense
than globalist socialism... let's be frank...
people are always going to favour their kin...
or... when dating Promis in high-school...
this "mongrel"... well... sure... i could race-mix...
with a Turkish girl... or an Iranian girl...
that's my extent of interracial mingling...
this half-Indian half-Scouser 6ft beauty...
we used to go to Edgware Road for some shisha...
****-hurt firebrands of model Muslim:
male citizens would try to convert me...
to... Islam... and they always asked me...
are you German? i just giggled... then...
i stopped giggling... maybe i ought to be...
     you know... it's one thing for a ****** to pretend
to be a German... because?
a ****** can't fake being a Russian...
it's such a vanity tickle... to be thought of as a German...
don't ask me as to a why, or a... how?
no... there's only the why...
i'd hate to be mischaracterised as a Russian...
a German i can take... why?
who dressed the Wehrmacht? Hugo Boss...
i have a fetish for that uniform... like most South Koreans...
just my luck...
only yesterday i was scribbling
Helmut and Hans jokes...
today... three German lads approached me...
oh... we chatted... like... our grandparents weren't
on the opposite side of a conflict...
strange... i've been on several trips
to Ypres... Belgium, visiting World War I graves...
it always felt... anaesthetic-like when visiting
the Anglophone graves of individuals...
but... when visiting the mass-graves of the Germans...
where... birds... notably robins and sparrows
always used to frequent...
no... not in the individual Anglophone graveyards...
the darkening sensation of standing over
the mass graves of Germans...
that was something... eerie... pure...
        i must look like a German...
clearly... i'd sooner be friendly with a bunch of Germans
than... a bunch of Russians...
the Russians already know i'm a ******...
but... but the Germans... they can mistake me
for one of their own... which is... a *******
cherry on a black forest gateau...
it's sort of complimentary -
Nietzsche at the height of his madness thought he was a ******...
me... i can pull off a German look almost every other
Sunday... if young Muslim boys think i am...
and i have a terrible fetish for the German tongue...
north h'americans and their *******:
zurückgeblieben rasse-politik (race-politics)...
what about the: ethnisch-stoff? (ethnic-fabric)
weren't the Germans fighting Prussians in that
100 year old Crusade up north,
when Barbarossa was pickled after drowning in
his armour?
who gives a **** about race? north h'americans do...
race isn't associated with history...
ethnicity... on the other hand: does, care... much more...
i care about ethnicity... because that's what allow
a ****** to distinguish himself from a Russian:
i'm not going to learn Russian...
i'd sooner scribble some Greek letters than that
cheap-*** Cyrillic... version...
i'll sooner learn German than learn Russian...
ethnicity is polarised...
beyond a pale-comparison in stressing race...
you simply can't have ethnicism...
like you might have racism...
            
what did we talk about?
me and the three Deutsche lads?
the Bundesliga vs. Bayern Munich...
what cities should they visit?
come next year... for the rugby... go to Edinburgh...
why? why?! it's a beautiful city!
when was West Ham founded...
look there: as i pointed...
1895... Thames Ironworks FC...
                 should we visit Cambridge or Oxford?
i told them... even though i haven't visited Cambridge...
but have visited Oxford...
i'm a Cambridge man...
        what city to visit when in Germany?
Cologne?
for the cathedral? sure...
  i wish i said more in the mutter-zunge...
fair enough... auf wiedersehen...
my heart raced to the right conclusions...
i'm a pretend German among pretend Germans...
diluted blood... Saxons among the Welsh...
the Picts... the Normans...
lebewohl!
             100 years ago...
it would be so impossible for "my" people to simply
not resist the Germanisation of the ****** people...
these days? i'm... more than willing...
i must be a... fool... i must be a... traitor...
then again: my homegrown compatriots have
been,.. a waste of time... a scandal...
i'm no more a traitor than they have been
a... waste of time... at best: an excuse...
time wasters... i am yet to pledge any sense of
allegiance to a people that...
sure... white... but as proven...
i can take different sides...
               i'm not ******* in the north american
sense of race-politics...
   i'm more interested in the ethnicity-fabric...
there's history invoked / involved in
the latter...
  i like pretending to be German...
    it's all the more easier...
given that my second name is Conrad;
maybe that's why the Muslim attacks against Poland
and Lithuania have been so low on number...
that 100 year crusade of the Teutonic Knights against
the pagans... shared ills... the Mongols in Baghdad...
hey... here's to reasoning some...
correlations... shared plight...
                     personally? i think people love history
more than they might love the friction of fictional
writings... i personally do...
oh dearest Mina'h....
seclude my apparition of existence...
thus kept... with no other formality
other than, your kiss.
Much maligned by the gutter press,
but from the gutter
I'd expect no less,

remembering the great actor
in his sunset

'Auf Wiedersehen Pet'

RIP. Gary Holton.

Heavy Metal Kids.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
nacht! mein kalt! (pips and cult of shrining *******)
                        (night... my calm!)
esp. watching Tan
beat Serena Venus
at Wimbledon... the former just played
better tennis...  to hell with the crowd...
Tan reinvented tennis...
i was a huge fan of playing
squash... i loved the warm-up periods
where you had to oosh...
yeah: oosh... usher in
the right sort of temp.
for the rubber ball...
          she was... Tan: spinning the ***** like a
Shane Ward...
    it was lovely to watch...
in the end: force x **** didn't pay
off for the Williams' end of an era
match...
   *******... just be a mum...
    i clearly imply: thank you...
but... come on...
      joking aside...
looking at her husband...
you might be left wondering...
for the egoism of massive Africa-American
boyos of the massive ******* persuasion types...
are... with the blonde ******...
while Serena Williams gets to mother
the ***** of a... soy-boy...
wow!
       you look at that...
you try to "reiterate": you can be suddenly
squashed in the diagnosis of: "schizophrenic"...
point being: THERE'S NO REALITY...
it's all make believe...
the higher you are up the food chain
the more rigour-stance you exfoliate...

i like the taste of ***** *****...
i love eating ***** *****...
i also like eating eggs...
     i love sniffing anuses...
i love eating eggs like they're abortions...
i also like *******...
******* genocides into the loo...
problem?!
  my body! my choice!
i do about 3 genocides in a day...
problem?!
      are we going to, have... a... problem?!

because how ever many times i wished
to be a father and have the mother to / for my children...
****... it... let's forget it...
Africa / Asia can keep up with Darwinism...
white people can **** popsicles
of yellow Zappa ice...

i'm not even white... i'm universally pink when
bruised...
morbid fake... copper-neck pristine when
sun-tanning...
          American ******* ******* and their
racial profiling bull-*******-****!
you come round England one more ******* time...
i swear i'll throw imaginative acid on your face
to turn you into albinos...

i hate your graffiti grammar!
say what? you heard me...
I... HATE... YOUR... GRAFFITI... GRAMMAR...
you sound *******... urban... sure:
but... RE-TAR-ED...
slow... you know what slow sounds like?
you sound slow...
and i hate the H'american accent...
no... no money in this ******* lovely world
will ever bring me to kneel before
the people of this sordid Empire...

i drink: i'm an uninhibited fire hazard of speech...
while some drink and lose focus:
i drink and gain some...
FREE-DOM! WILLS the WALLACE!
WALLS-AH!
you seriously can't do it any other
******* way...
people are best preserved when they
don't listen...
                         n'est c'est pas?!
      
who the **** needs to stress intelligence
when it comes to crowds?!
keep 'em dump... keep 'em shallow...
keep 'em: "hippy"... idiotically happy...
und der nacht werden tragen die Überreste...

das ist!
     auf wiedersehen!
                                 hallo neu-unglück!
mein neu du.
Jonas Jan 2
Kann man eine Beziehung führen
Ohne sich dabei selbst zu verlieren?
Seine Selbstständigkeit aufgeben,
Um miteinander
Zusammen auf zu gehen?

Wo setze ich meine Grenzen
Damit es funktioniert
Und nicht kaputt geht?
Damit ich nicht an dir,
Mit dir zu Grunde geh?

Wieviel kann ich abgeben?
Wie viele Kompromisse bin ich bereit einzugehen?
Von Zufriedenheit zu Glück zur Liebe
Oder immer im Kreis
Wieder von vorn?

Hallo,
Schön dich zu sehen,
Na dann, auf Wiedersehen
Wieder alleine sein,
Lieber alleine bleiben?
Muss das so sein?

Gehört das Wirklich dazu?
Wenn achtzig Prozent stimmen,
Dann ist es perfekt
Sagen sie
Kannst dich glücklich schätzen
Welche achtzig genau?

Wer bin ich überhaupt?
Ohne dich , mit dir, nach dir?
Was will ich, was brauch ich?
Was weiß ich,
Schon?
Nichts davon

War da mehr bevor oder nachdem wir uns trafen?
Vor oder nach den ersten drei Monaten,
Dem ersten halbem Jahr,
Nach drei, nach sieben
Fünfzehn, dreißig ...?

Werde ich je Gewissheit haben?
Das es das ist
Das du es mir wert bist?
Bin ich schon angekommen,
Oder sollte ich weitersuchen?
Bekomme ich Klarheit, ohne dich dabei zu riskieren?
Dich zu verlieren?

Bleib bei mir,
Sieh mir nicht ins Gesicht
Komm mir nicht zu nah,
Aber bitte warte noch,
Bitte
Verlass mich nicht
JDK Oct 2020
I used to attempt to capture in writing all of the times I never thought I'd have the time to recall later in life.
To capture a moment I thought I'd never have the opportunity to live again.
To cage a thought I thought would live wild and free for the rest of my life.
To say farewell to a moment in a way that was gracious, but final.

auf wiedersehen, dear moment.
Au revoir, sayonara, so long.

I thought I'd never see you again.
Boy, was I wrong.

— The End —