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Daivik Dec 2020
She was sitting there
Crying silently
Mascara flowing down
Down her broken face
Her broken fate

She was not a boy
Her truth was hidden
"You have to be a boy"
Her truth was forbidden


Secretively
She took her mother's Bindi
Lying carelessly on the bed
And wore it on her forehead
It was the only rebellion she was allowed
In a society so afraid
Of someone different from the crowd
But for the moment
It was all she needed

"Don't make the gods cry"
But what about her own tears?
The Bindi on "his" forehead
Was human civilization's greatest fear

Everybody wore a mask
She just couldn't
Or she would die
She was shakti
She was power
She was courage personified
The Bindi on her forehead
they couldn't hide
vern Apr 2019
I am a small and expressive six-year-old
I just came back from India, just a trip to visit family
I wear a bindi
My hands are decorated with mehndhi¹
I wear bangles on my arm of all different colors
I wore a little churi daar
²
And everyone teased me
“She has a disease?”
“Why is there a dot on your forehead?”
“You look funny”
A few of my friends tell me that I look pretty and they wish to wear it too.
I get a few compliments but the rest hurt
I never wore a bindi in front of them again
I washed my hands to rid the orange stains
I never wear my Indian clothes
I am a not so small and not expressive sixteen-year-old
I see music festivals, I see movies, I see the people who teased me when I was six
They wear the dots that I had worn
They decorate their hands with what they call “henna”
It wasn’t an Indian holiday
I’m a little hurt
Why was I teased?
But they are praised
“It’s aesthetically pleasing?”
“The bindi is indie”
Do not tease me for my culture
And then take it for your own praise
Is that even fair?
Do you think that’s fair?
some thoughts about cultural appropriation
1. henna in intricate patterns
2. an Indian outfit prominent in Gujarat, worn during holiday celebrations
Kuzhur Wilson Sep 2013
My poetry, which knew it was
the cry of a lonely bird
on a solitary tree
in my village,
asked Spring its name.

Spring began to speak –

The fruit laden Vayyankatha, her thorny pangs, hijab-wearing  Guf, her minarets, Thondi  blushing red with kisses,  her moist lips, orphaned Adalodakam, Nellippuli in a polka dotted dress, Pulivakawaiting for the breeze, Anjili   head towards the south, yawning Cherupuuna, Pera with the names of grandmas scribbled on her leaves, Ilantha blowing into the hearth, Ilapongu rubbing his eyes, Irippa, Atha laughing noisily,Cholavenga in tattered clothes, Irumbakam, Padappa catching his breath after running, Pattipunna wagging his tail, bare footed Pattuthali, Thekku the noblest among them, Thekkotta, Neervalam  recollecting her last birth, Neeraal, sobbing Neelakkadambu, Pathimukam, lazy thanal murikku, Karimaruthu, Karinkura, Asttumayil, Velladevaram, Kattukadukka, the gluttonous Badam, amnesiac Vazhanna, boredVarachi, Nangmaila, Eucalyptuswith a sprained back, viscous red Rakthachandanam, saffron robed Rudraksham, Vakka, Vanchi,  Parangimaavu nostalgic of his ancestral home, Vari, Nedunaar, Marotti with a hundred offsprings, Malangara, Malampunna ,Nenmeni Vaka trying his luck in a lottery, Nelli with a sour smile.

Kadaplaavu doing sketches with leaves, Kari straying from the queue, Kattuthuvara buying things on credit, Kattutheyila boiling over, Kattupunna with a pus-oozing sore, Kumkumam putting a bindi on her forehead, starving Ventheku, Vellakadambu making a missed call, Kattadi standing aloof, her feeble hands,  flowering Ilanji, her fragrant trunk, sighing Aalmaram, Pachavattil, Pachilamaram  gossiping with the chameleon, Panachi,Pamparakumbil, Kadambu memories adorning her head, Kudamaram carrying provisions for the home,  Punnappa,Poongu, gray hairedChuruli, Chuvannakil  singing a folk song, dark skinned Vattil, Kulaku, Karinjaaval, sozzled Pamparam, Chorappayir, njama, Njaaval  tempting the birds, Njaara, Alasippooscratching his palm, Ashokam  humming a sad song.

Ezhilampala chewing on a masala paan, Peenaari wearing a tie, Peelivaka, Pulichakka with a broken leg, Pezhu demanding his wages, Kumbil, Kurangaadi, Kasukka with a dislocated elbow,Valiyakaara, Vallabham, Chavandi, stunning Chinnakil , Chittal with a failed brake, Vidana, Sheemappanji, the loan shark Odukku, Oda  on musth,fatherless Kadakonna, childlessShimshapa, Sindooram with a flushed face, Karinthakara singing the thannaaro, Vellappayir high on grass, Poothilanji showing off her blossoms, sour faced Kudampuli.

Wet in the rain Kulamaavu, Kudamaavu circling around himself, Pari from the netherworld,Poopathiri in a priest’s robe,  Poochakadambu on all fours, Kulappunna covered in a blanket, Kundalappala checking his astro forecast, Pachotti, ******* Perumaram, Perumbal  thinking of the sea, phlegm clogged Anathondi, Anakkotti, Cheruthuvara, Ilavangam, Thanni,naughty Thirukkalli,  Karappongu, embracing Kattadi, Thudali, Thelli, Kara, Malayathi,Malavirinji, shameless Kashumaavu,mud slinging Karuka, Vedinal, suicide prone Attumaruthu,Attuvanchi  who glides on the stream like a fallen shadow.

Mandaram  dressed in white, Vanna, brazen Mahagani, Karivelam doing the accounts,Jakarantha, Koombala, friendless Koovalam, Kattukamuku with his hands around friends, Kolli, Paruva,Krishnanaal with a crooked smile, Cocoa with no one to turn to, Cork,Palakapayyani, Pavizhamalli wearing necklace and bangles, a lonely Mazhamaram, Mangium, Mathalam exposing her *******, Chemmaram, Pashakottamaram, Malavembu, tearful Chamatha, Vatta, Vattakoombitired of running around, smoking Pine, Porippovanam, Kaaluvnthatherakam, Thembaavu, grinningDantaputri, Narivenga, Navathi, grumbling Mazhukkanjiram,Arayanjili,  Arayal playing a game with the wind.

Choola kissing the sizzling wind, Arinelli, Maavu reciting sadly the poem Mampazham,  Chandana vembu, Peraal stretching its back, Pulivaaka, Unnam, Naythanbakam,Karpooram in a slow glow, Naaykumbil, trumpeting Pongu, outcast Pottavaaka, bursting Poriyal, vagabond Ponthavaaka, Plaavu lost in some thought, Pootham  head covered , Ethappana  greening while yellowing, Manjadi, Mullanvenga, Mullilam lifting his dhoti to expose his genitals, Mullilavu hopping around, Moongappezhu, Neermaruthu saying enough is enough, withered Neermathalam ,Moottikkay, Ithi, Ithiyaal, Vella velam, Kalppayir, Kallar, Majakkadambu singing a lullaby, Choondappana wary of fish bones.

Stooping Punna, Matti scared of her big brother, Paarijaatham watching the midnight movie, Paalakal, Paali,Paarakam doing cartwheels, Viri, Athi showing off  her seeds,Ampazhammassaging his chest, Ayani inlove with her son, Manjakkonna, Manjamandaram in search of something, Chullithi with eyes closed, Kallilavu like an oozing rock, Malamandaram eyeing the vultures,Velleetti cursing the thunder, Venga,Veppu, Vraali, Akil, sighing Acacia,Balsa, Blanka, Beedimaram with a rattling cough,  Agasthi, Cherukonna with a sheepish smile, Kambali, woundedNagamaram.

Pathiri, touching his forehead to the ground, his eyes heavenward, Ankolam ruined by debts,Kattumarotti, Kundalappala, Aattumaruthu,Poovam, Erumanaakku, Karingotta, Vediplaavu his salary still unpaid, Venmurikku, Manjanaathi, Manimaruthu jolted awake, Mathagirivembu, Karaanjili  escorting his daughter, Karakongu,Karappongu, Ilippa on her way back, Ooravu half-awake after a dream and with a sucker smile, Ennappana about to immolate himself, fattened  Ennappine,Azhantha waiting for someone, Chorapatri with a cracked head,Sheemappoola,Poovankara, Malampuli, Puli with sharpened stakes.

Obese Theettipplaavu,Malambongu, Chorimathimurikku, Irippa bailing out his friend, Irumbakamwho lost his job, Kunkumappoo, Karinthaali, Scoot, Rose Kadambu, Aamathali, Aarampuli,Attilippucaught in the crowd, Irul  blessed by the elders, Vellavatti, whistling Mula, Kattukonna in a hat, Kaniiram learning the alphabets, broker Cheru,Kattuchembakam exposing his arm pit,Thandidiyan, Neeroli, Ezhachembakam waiting for her bus, Karimbana in a newly constructed house, Karivenga,Karivali writing a poem, Ungu in a baby frock, Udi, Plasha, Elamaruthupromising to meet later, Chembakam dying to hug.

Vellakil who bathes the kids, Vellavaaka who forgot his umbrella, Attuthekku who failed the exam, lustful Aattunochi,Malanthudali with her legs spread, Malanthengu with chest ****** up,Malamanchadi who is learning to count, Malambarathi exposing her *******, intoxicated Aval, Arana reciting the poem Karuna, insane Alakku who dashes off to the temple, Cheru who cannot stop washing clothes, Kudappana ready to elope, irreligious Jaathi, Silver Oak laughing boisterously, Kattuveppu waiting for the kids, Sumami ******* on a toffee, annoyed Parappoola,frightened Pinar, Ithi stopping her ears at swear words, Ithiyal with lots of smiles, Kovidaram with music in his mind, Ilakkali showing her belly, blossoming Ilavu, Chadachi who ***** sadistically, cool fingered Chandanam.

dominating Charakkonna, office going Cheelanthi, Gulgulu glued to Kochu channel, Gulmohur with dyed hair, Irul with a fuming face, early rising Kanikonna, Kanala who has a sound sleep, Karingali  who pees standing, Kambakam with an ***** *****, Kallavi  beseeching to stuff her up, Karanjili  quivering in lust, calm Karaal, Kaari who hums while *******, Kaavalam who naps after the toil,Thannimaram showing off her petals, Thambakam kissing the ****, Thellipayar savouring a *****,Neerkurunda in post-****** languor, Malaya breastfeeding her kid, bullying Kathi, mad hat Eetti,Cheeni  not remembering his mom,  Kunnivaka showing his gums, Kuppamanja who laughs in sleep, Othalanga swallowing poison, blooming Poovarasu.

Spring went on,
reeling off names to me.
The rain the sun the wind and the cold
Rolled in one after the other.
Spring kept pulling out
names from its memory.

People got scared of
my poetry gone wild.
They stopped passing that way.

A snake goes slithering away.
A hare finds its own path and dashes away.
A poothankiri, from a bush, flies away.



(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
1.      Mampazham (Ripe Mango) is the title of a famouspoem by Vyloppilli.
2.      Karuna (Compassion) is the title of a long poemby Kumaran Asan.
3.      Poothankiri – A white headed babbler.
4.      Thanaaro - An obscene devotional song.
Kalarav Sep 2017
I can barely see the Sun now.
It's slowly drowning into a pool of clouds,
turning a shade darker as it does so,
like a red bindi in the sky.
Awed by the mysterious beauty
I stand there starring.
Orange, pink and red clouds
fading into a deep blue.
The rest of the sky is covered with tiny shiny dots
and silhouettes of birds flying home
on the amber background.
The Sun's glowing like a jasper
and slowly it's completely under the horizon,
but a few rays cut through the clouds
like closing doors of the Heavens.
After the sunset the sky is a different kind of heaven.
The Night wears her beautiful cerulean dress,
decorated with diamonds we call stars.
They twinkle, they're a priceless sight,
covered often by clouds or pollution
seems like she is unhappy with us humans.
Nature, a vast beauty all around.
Despite being forgotten
it shows off it's beauty in a daily routine.
Do you care to notice?
Sunsets are priceless sights I see everyday. There is so much in life we forget to notice, but life goes on. When you feel low take a look around, you'll find a reason to live, to love!
In the morning I heard  the Koel’s melodious call
It is a sure sign of Sneaking autumn’s fall
What a striking difference between winter and spring
It is undoubtedly  season’s eternal king

I love nature’s green saree
She smiles with an uncontrollable spree
Her saree is full of beautiful flowers
there are very many different colours

Nature’s Bindi is the glorious sun
Her hair pin is the shining moon
She cools herself with her natural fan
Her stay here might be of a little span

She sits with an yellow sarree in the palanquin
The bride groom looks at her as if she were a queen
Her beauty and shyness is her divine pride
She is a newly married mesmerizing bride
the villages are replete with ripe corn
All the birds enjoy this beautiful morn
BJ Sep 2020
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum behad khoobsurat **.
Ye jo tumne akhon ke kajal ko b palko ki had me dal rakha hai.
In aankhon ne jane kitna kehar sambhal rakha hai.
Kya chamak hai aankho me jaise ek choti si khush duniya ka sapna paal rakha hai.
Socha cheru thoda tumhe or thoda sata du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum nazneen **.
Phir kuch tumhare galon k un khaddo ki gehrayi dekhi.
Na us se gehri koi khaayi dekhi.
Nazar htane wala tha k us muskan ne rok lia..
Muje aj sambhalne se pehle tere chehre nadan ne rok lia.
Jane tumhe ye sab kehna lagta hai khata kyu.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum dilnashi **.
Vo choti si kali bindi jo thik maathe k me kahi hai.
Vo b har shayar ko kheench rahi hai.
Jaise muje kehti ** idhar aao tumhe kano k jhumko ka pta du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum dalkashi **.
Ye phir thode uljhe thode suljhe baal hai.
Inki to ada hi bemisal Hai
Tumhe tang karte hai.
Manmarji chalate hai jaise tujse jung karte hai.
Chere pe aate hai tum unhe phir peeche karti.
Kabhi clip se kabhi rubber se kheenche rakhti **.
Kabhi aaye chehre pe to shayad main b hta du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum koi kehkasha **.
Or vo sone ki nath ko koi
kaise taal sakta hai.
Jise tumne apni teekhi si naak me daal rakha hai.
Or kuch batein in sab se pare hai.
Tera chutkan sa Gussa hai jane tu kaise handle kare hai.
Phir vo pyari si hasi vo sharm haya  vo bachpana vo nadaniya.
Samjhdari vo nasamjhi
Vo adayein vo shaitaniya.
Or sambko tumne brabar rakha hai.
Jane ye hisab kaise lagakar rakha hai.
Kya kehna hai kya sunna hai kya bolna hai kya btana.
Kab ruthna hai kab manana hai kab satana hai kab jatana hai.
Teri har ek choti moti khoobiyon ne dil me aatank macha rakha hu.
Jane tune kitne salo se khud ko ishq se bacha rakha hai.
Jane mujme kab se or kyu ye thode guroor k lakshan aaye hai
K tuje suna sabne hai samjh sirf hum paaye hai.
Tum jaisa or koi mere aas paas ni hai.
Phir kaise manliya jaye tum aam ladki ** tum me kuch  khas nahi hai.
Ha aj maine ek kadam apne beech ki sarhad se thoda bahar aaya.
Tumne apna hunar azmaya tha vo pic dalke use shayri bnake maine apna hunar aazmaya hai.
ye padhke tum socho k inam du is shayar ko ya koi saza du.
Are tumhe dekha aj to lga ye sab tumhe bta du.
Haq hai nhi mera koi phir b thoda haq jata du ..
Or kehdu tum afreen **.

Tum khoobsurat **.
Olivia Robinson Dec 2013
bindi's grace the top of her mocha forehead.
wrist draped with bangles.      African soul.
style so Afrocentric
             afro so black panther
fist high in the air she is black pride. she embraces the motherland with open arms and is proud of her heritage. music notes hidden in the blacks of her eye. she is music. hiphop and r&b.;
tupac's  lyrics ingraved on her tongue. words of left eye instilled in her brain.
              music gives her life.
voice of an angel yet  she stays mute. black ink at her fingertips and a notebook always at her side. she is a lyrisit. she is sassy. press the wrong button and she's gone for a moment but will soon comeback to earth. a beautiful quiet vibrant soul she is indeed.  stubborn and mean at times but still as sweet as the refreshing taste of lemonade on a hot summers day.
she is Africa. she is India. she is Haiti. she is black pride. she is music. she is poetry. she is wonderful. she is comical. she is lovely. she is classy.
she is my big sister.                                     O.Rob.
my sisters been asking me to write her poem FOREVER! with her being a poet, I'd think she'd understand that i can't just sit and write a poem, the words must come to me. finally they did and today's her birthday so I thought I'd give it to her as a gift.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.that's what the term: Slavic, implies... slave?! what?! not in my language, etymologically speaking... słowo, słowianin, word, Slav, respectively... i don't know where these quasi-Germanic peoples of the anglophone world get their ideas from, esp. from a, "missing" epsilon. wankers.

- and the main difference between a Slavic
language and a quasi-Germanic language
akin to English or French?
                   clarity of syllables,
   and a pivot on pseudo-Roman graphemes,
albeit not concentrated (for aesthetic
purposes) on crafting graphemes out
of vowels... more or less consonants...
English has this concept already...
   cheap as chips...
             prime **** of the shire
    (CH                                SH)
but the main difference is...
                            we don't use the surd
conundrum...
                e.g.?
                         ­        g'bur
                   syllable count: 2
                                  you say the first letter,
have a nanosecond pause and the second
syllable enters:  g'boor...
                   which is a word, roughly defined
as: someone who's boorish,
               a noun, not an adjective...
but in english?
                                   (g)nostic....
    wait...     diagnosis...
                            so like an electron clouds
surrounding a nucleus...
   (electrons do not exist in orbits,
clouds, quantum clouds to be precise,
they enter the antimatter dimension,
pop up and disappear in randomized
places, within a definite spatial complex
that constitutes what is known as
an atom)...
              too many ******* particulars
in the anglophone language...
         which is probably why i love it so
much...
        and because the englischzunge
has so many particular instances of
"correct" speech... and no diacritical
methodology... well...
                     hmm... a ******* rainbow of accents!
i love the Indian: bud bud... bud bud...
hearing it feels like riding a *******
camel over uneven ground... bud bud...
note - budwasserscheisse -
who, in their right state of mind -
ferments rice, and adds it to the fermentation
of barley?!
   o.k., the alternative... budscheissewasser...
take your pick...
    it appears that my original ambition
was to speak the native language better
than the natives...
   have i succeeded?
                  perhaps...
               god almighty and all that is
glorious about hell's pandemonium...
   i miss the trill of the R...
      either tongue numbing in English...
or a ******* hark in French...
but as i was sometime ago informed...
the French used to trill the R...
  they: rrrrrrroled the rattle and found
a snake...
                      trill? when you pass a breath
that slaps the tongue against your
hard palate...
                     like a rattlesnake...
   i'm so happy that it still exists in certain
languages...
        it's a hark in French,
             and a tongue numbing heimlich
maneuver
in English...
like the tongue was injected with an
anesthetic borrowed from dentistry,
                or some other random *******.
- and yes, i couldn't learn French,
because i was already investing my efforts
and observational tactics in spotting
the oddities in English...
            surd-letters, a slack in syllable distinction...
you name it...
                            g'boor contra
                  (g)nostic....
                          ­    invited to a session
of psychiatric diagnostics...
             oh i speak the orthodox better than
the natives...
  the natives have to resort to slang...
or as i like to call their version "of events":
the **** of shlang.

p.s. but this is going to be an example
of where English, and French meat...
****, sorry... meet...

   a surname to exemplify:
   Trudeau...
           i'm not going to call the French
żabie udki (frog-thigh eaters),
i just call them the suffix eaters...
point blank... watch how this GH
   grapheme pops up, but is "invisible"
in the said, French surname...
   although...
                           see it?
   Trudeau...             now you don't!
******* that i am surrounding
spewing linguistic *******...
   even i'm starting to think:
                    neat observation,
well tailored for the given times of...
how do you censor an investigation
into grammar and phonetics?

p.p.s.
    and well know where the English
borrowed their notion of H as a surd...
bindi-Hindi...
                          'indi...
     '   (this denotes a surd,
**** it, leave the letter out) -
esp. in names, like Khahn -
                        some variation of Ghengis,
Khan...    i suspect...
      oh yeah... the macron above the vowel
looks plain ugly: Kān...
   the literate can't reconfigure that word...
they need two languages of the same
tongue... the optical (Khan)...
             and the phonetic (Kān)...
look at you pretty people...
           you're bilingual already!
Only the eyes remain as they were.
The rest of her face is ravaged
by acid. Acid thrown by two
boys on a cycle. Just
another dare.

She combs her long hair carefully. Plaits it
neatly away from her face. No curtain of hair
to hide behind. Puts a bindi in the battleground
of keloids, scars and uncooked skin. She wears
them well.

The boys genuflect in a temple, mothers kissing
saffron kerchief covered heads
before they gel their hair
and go on another prowl. This is what 
men do, you see.

Lakshmi puts another layer
of cream on her burns and then stands
behind a beauty counter selling bindis
and lipsticks to girls with unblemished faces,
like their eyes. Like her eyes.
I wrote this poem to bring awareness of the issue of acid burn victims in India.

“…You will hear and you will be told that
the face you burned is the face I love now…
…Then you will know that I am alive,
free and thriving and living my dreams.”
—Laxmi, acid attack survivor and activist, disfigured at age 15

Internet: Indian acid attack victim reads poem, being felicitated by
Michelle Obama, http://www.buzzfeed.com/tasneemnashrulla/indian-acid-attack-survivor-reads-a-moving-poem-about-her-ex#.bqr6Pl0Nz, accessed January 12, 2016
ln Feb 2018
where is my indian
is it in the way i don't use my palms as a medium to transport rice into the back of my mouth
is it in the way my face turns gloomy at the sight of spice and curry
is it in my skin color that isn't as brown as you need it to be
is it in my eyebrows which aren't as bushy as per your requirements

is it in the way my tongue twists awkwardly as i say happy diwali
is it in the way amma is the most fluent piece of tamil i speak
is it in the way i didn't know how to recite the words at my grandpas funeral
is it in the way i cannot, for the life of me, name you another tamil movie besides chandramukhi?

or

is it in the religious classes i took up until age 12
is it in the ramayana epic that i learnt, age 8
is it in the sanskrit bhajans i was made to sing, not knowing what they meant, age 10
is it in knowing that ganesh is the remover of obstacles,
brahma, vishnu, shiva - the creator, the preserver, the destroyer

is it in the eyeliner drawing a bindi in between my eyes when i
head to the temple, to present myself as indian

where is my indian
is it on a checklist, is there a passing mark?
where is my indian
please tell me,
because i am tired of feeling like a foreigner in my own skin
BJ Oct 2022
Ek chand gumsum sa hai
Door desh rehta  hai.

Jab b puch lo kyu udas hai
Koi baat nahi kehta hai
Kya kho gya hai uska jo door desh me dhoondta hai
Sans is zami me hai
To vha ku ghumta hai.
Muje fark yun padta hai
Ku Maine is chand ko haste hasate dekha hai.
Ladte jhagadte roothte manate dekha hai.
Us chand Ka taqiya b uski ankho ki nami mehsus karta hai.
Bhai jan to hai par aapi ammi ki kami mehsus karta hai.

Vo vha aasman ki talash me gya hai
Apne sapno k jahan ki talash me gya hai.

Ab use is shehar ki chamak b raas ni aati
Kabhi bethkar sochta hai k is shehar kash na aati.

Maa ki panv ki jameen ko jannat hai janta hai.
Jo samne se jhagdta tha phone pe ammi Ka Sab kha manta hai.

Us chand Ka dil b toota hai kisi se keh ni paya
Sab kuch saha Akele
Bas Roye bina reh na paya

Ab Dard kam hai Bas kasak baki hai
Khalish baqi  hai jakhm pe thoda namak Baqi hai.

Or Hume intezar hai k vo chand Jane ab Kab hasega

Kab utha k tasveer zindagi ki usme rang bharega

Chudi bindi mehndi libaz Sab shaunk thode kam ** gye hai
Ye Sab dekh k hairan hum ** gye hai

** skta hai ye likha b use na pasand aye
** skta hai nazarandaz kare ya nazarband kar jaye

Hume yakin hai vo Khud k  Masle hal kar legi
Sabr or dua dono mile h use aj ni to kal kar legi

Dhal jayega jald vo saya jo chand pe aj betha hai.
Ek chand gumsum sa hai
Door desh rehta  hai.
Ek chand gumsum sa hai
Door desh rehta  hai.
#bj
Find yourself
Even in the clutter of chores
In the whistle of pressure cooker
In the clash of dishes and utensils

Search yourself
In the aroma of spices
In the color of vegetables
In the routines along the kitchen platform
In the rich gravies and the brew of juices!

Look out for yourself
In the clean mirrors
Along that fine line of kohl
In the strokes of the mascara
Over the gloss of lip shades
In that dot of bindi

Hold on to yourself
In the newness
With time, space and people
Evolve...not change!
Molt...not skin off!
Wear a new color over the base...de-color not!

Even in the dark
Can you not see thy radiant self
Glowing appraised from within!
You be your master
Look for traces of yourself
In your eye's mirror!
...post wedding, there can be so much flux in your living, that it feels a gaint wheel of events.. But all of it is indeed beautiful and in the minute details of daily life, you often have a chance of getting connected to yourself. The sooner you can command on this, the better control you can have of your living!
Of late, I am into such a transforming mode....
Enjoying the newness of life and also the path of finding my own different self!!
startle cracks
and curtain calls
my eyelids back

diaphanous dropped
and veils up
dewy bloom spotlit

monkeysuit chauffeur
denigrated daily
scratch behind his ears
you're doing OK
just mistook
vehicle for passenger

relax in seat back
let clear and present ever
steer biospheric lit

allow etheric hum
up the bony ladder
to outlook attic
bindi blinds lift

pretty *******'
46-bit binoculars
these holy puppet
hands have got
C N Kumar Mar 2014
Sights disable me by birth
Father as witness to.
Mother to teach A to Z every time
And trying well correcting my sight.
To leave school, after full fill lessons
To change my disable sight, why?
For my sight, present friends and other people,
Of book tonic, medicine plants,
Traditional treatments
And more other onetime roots,
But nothing change my sight,
At last the order coming,
Wear specs.



To run at 1st street
Saw, wore whole shop in saffron coluor,
In glass chamber, stick saffron bindi in all doll's forehead
And saffron specs covered their eyes.
Add verse  displayed - buy specs
Get rusted lance free absolutely.



To reached eyes on 2nd street
The shop 'n' carpets are green,
All dolls had beard and turban
In theplank advertising - buy specs
Get sword 'n' a bottle perfume free.



In the 3rd street endered my face
Whole room yellow, front dolls, specs,
Everywhere yellow, display text be yellow,
If buy specs, wonderful wine free.



To the 4th street, move my foot
Whole floor blue like the sea,
At shop, dolls, specs, all are blue
Gospel on display board
Seat on heaven be reserve free, buy specs.



Much crouded in 5th street
From enterence and street , to shop are red
Dolls are spectrum of victims, specs are red
slogan of display plank,
Sharpen wooden spear free,
Under puchased all specs.
And stret boys call worst,
Throw ***** of guilty verse,
And much caper plays
At back, a crying noises
That 2nd street, ask a boy brokenly



Passed away whole street,
In which specs for my sight?
And which colour for specs?



I too distruct and move my leg to 6th street,
From door to everywhere crystal,
And the floor pellucid, on the street no crowd
At the shop no doll and display plank.
When wear crystal specs,to see my own me?
To know my friend, colour of appetite,
Depth of love, greatness of hope in eyes.



I pray, with pulsated heart,
And wait for specs on the 6th street.



==============================C N Kumar.
thirty years is too thick a cobweb
says the Shepherd at the Bourne
though I know you're looking for her youth
and you aren't alone
how old was she? twenty?
red bindi and sari on head
newly wed ravishingly pretty
but no negatives I'm afraid
a few come up these creaking stairs
love's martyrs long survive
hold fore me their hearts bare
count on my archive
like you they seek that fateful face
where time stands evergreen
lost path invites one more retrace
a rewind to youthful skin
I tell them time's too thick a cobweb
with you I too grieve
sorry sir I have no negative
nothing's left to retrieve.
Shepherd at the Bourne: a reference to Bourne & Shepherd, the oldest studio in Kolkata
GUNI VATS Sep 2020
She sits atop a hill,
the brown stone Goddess
Bleeding.

She squats and part her legs,
the yoni splattered with red,
Bleeding.

No cloth, no pad, no shame
a wild wild woman untamed,
Bleeding.

Her vermilion melts, and drops and paints,
her forehead to her yoni,
Bleeding.

The blood feeds earth
melting the hearth,
Bleeding.

The red of life,
preserved in a menstrual cup
Bleeding.

From the kumkum to bindi to choori to saree,
she a woman deliquescing in red,
Bleeding.
A saga of India revering the goddess of *******.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.
Shivani Lalan Aug 2017
click
    click
clack
On a white marble floor
If you're a woman,
you already have
one foot out the door
of a room filled with
all the conversation
and opportunities
that a man can afford.

This is a scene we've all seen before.
Paid way less
when you're told
that you worked way more.
I'm sure a client will adore my face
in a meeting,
but what do i do with the horror
when he hears me speaking?

I'm reeking of the sour aftertaste of everyday misogyny.  
My worth measured
by the distance between
my skirt and the floor.
And when I protest,
politely, of course
Being told that I can do better,
I can be more than a bore.

My skin revolts
From the last time a colleague
brushed his hand accidentally
against my everything.
My strength and independence rot
in catacombs made from begrudging wombs,
waiting for their lives to begin
before building a tomb for another.

My ears hear no corporate conflict.
My eyes read no unjust verdict.
My knees wobble of no panic.
My voice even now is not frantic.
I try to use my woman card as a shield,
But they already know I'll yield
Because sadly
Feminism, safety, and my daily routine
don't get along very well with each other.


If I could stretch myself to my full capacity;
Correction.
If you'd let me stretch myself to full capacity,
I'd be taller than these nine yards,
Stronger than this silken thread ,
Darker than this black,
Louder than this naked mic.

My worth is equal to the number of folds in this sari.
Uncertain.
      Defined.  
           Redefined.
                Ever changing.
As I shift move walk stumble run shuffle sprint
Dive
Into the storm.

Riot chhod,
I'm a civil war of colour.
Black sari
Black eyes
Black bindi
Golden jhumkas
Red lips
Multicoloured sword at my hip
Swinging at the shackles they placed on me.

Din ke dus dangey lad jaati hu mai,
Saal ki solah siyaahein bharke ruk jaati hu main,
Kabhi kahin khade rehne ki jagah mil jaye,
Toh iss duniya ki acchhaai se thak jaati hu main.
As performed at OSS E#15
That's why it reads weird, prolly.
sneha mundari Apr 2013
I was swimming across the deep blue,
Sad I was; wish you were there somewhere far.
Suddenly I noticed ,
a big silver bindi shimmering  between the clouds.
I was swimming across the deep blue.

I was walking through the deep green.
Happy I was; hope you were there somewhere near.
Suddenly I observed ,
a big shadow following from behind.
I was walking through the deep green.

I was lying in your lap.
Content I was; hoping & wishing fingers crossed, the moment to freeze.
Suddenly I moved,
I noticed and realised , I was living an illusion.
I was in my dream... Dream became my reality
I was lying in your lap.
Prathipa Nair Oct 2016
Ready for the wedding in her black attic
Wearing necklace of twinkling stars
Alluring bindi of shinning moon
Her blue wide eyes open with delight
Giggling of coyness from her lips of rivers
Plaited braids with fragrant ***** pine flowers
Night, walking languidly on green carpets
Getting on brown forests of chariot
Passing through villages, cities, towns
Ululation of owl's high-pitched wavering
Welcoming her to the ceremony !
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's *******
novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
working "backwards" from something already
started in: collateral and the chicken scratching exercise...

how can you not have a hard-on
for mel gibson's beard...
in... the professor and the madman -
detailing the... etymological events
surrounding something more dear to me...
than the pslams of king david
or the: wisdoms of king solomon...
the wisdom: thus derived...
after a man becomes: ostensibly...
bored with a harem...
that would become the blueprint
of envy for future men of the world...

alexander the great...
muhammad...
           it's not a bible... it's a...
dic-tio-nary... stop the press...
pluck all the feathers from all the magpies
in the land... tell Xerxes to stop
whistling at the sea and...
can we just stop with the b.d.s.m.
of the waves?

        head: rotondo! spin ****** spin!
anything in the "pejorative"...
god... this moloch of grammar of a deity...
we need to ensure there's a scrutiny
of each and every, yes: every word...
we need to sieve them through
the categories!

i put to mind:
     it's a comparison of catchphrases...
the war hogs cite it as:
collateral damage...
the civilian will rummage and pluck out:
the... "rhetorical question"...
can... you... put... rhetoric: to a question?
can a rhetorical question:
actually exist... like a unicorn can?
oh wait... kangaroo yes...
a platypus... oh a double yes...

can you... can you... "rhetorical question"?
what the hell is a rhetorical question:
if not, something akin to a fashion statement...
of the calibre: a short-black-'un...
a coco chanel mini-skirt...

what is... a rhetorical question?
a question is, i hope...
something that manages to endorse
the dialectic...
and anyone who engages with a dialectic
will / or should know:
there's no rhetorical question...
when being asked:
one doesn't... "somehow"...
find a magic plot of a forest with smurfs...
and goes off on a tangent speaking...
persuasively...
a rhetoric question isn't a question
at all...

        collateral damage among the war hogs
is a rhetorical question among the civilians...

the story of professor james murray
and dr. william minor...
and to think... the alienists (psychiatrists)
at the time thought that...
enforced regurgitation...
could animate the body to conjure up
an already exhausted soul...
what ancient romans did for masochistic pleasure:
bulimia in the rudiment of:
a fork of fingers agitating the throat
and subsequently the oesophagus
to: bring back... what was already in fractions...

some call it soul, some call it x... y...
that... indispensable will: for animation...
to perform the 80 year old (in total) magic trick
of being: immune...
to the ills and forgivings of others...
a standard praise of solipsism...
as a thought-experiment... nothing more...
from which one can...
come and go as freely as one can vote
in a democracy...

come when summoned... leave when...
not made into any greater necessity other than:
to make fair of the count...

truly: a hard-on for mel gibson's beard...
some can claim ***** envy...
i have beard envy...
like to-hat envy when someone is 5'11"
and i'm still the same old 6'2"...

rhetorical question... i always found questions
to be... of a... dialectical nature...
i can hardly think of a rhetorical question
or rhetorical answer...
a rhetorical question implies:
the questioner has more to say...
than the person intended to answer...
i can hardly anyone burn through oration
when being posed a question...
a question: per se... is not something one
can be certain about: esp. when giving a reply...

a rhetorical question is a k.f.c. mouse urban
myth... a bit like collateral damage:
did we destroy a bullet making factory?
no... but we killed some civilians...
or some sort of entreating variation of worshipping
the drugging and bullet dodging machinery
of: cold the bullet bit...

how can you pose a rhetorical question?
is someone about to make a rhetorical answer?
robots would behave within rhetorical confines
of being asked an absolute:
error message - replying with an absolute yes / no...

a rhetorical question would beg
for a ore rotundo: with a voice filled with assurance...
the question is imposed...
with a curiosity... at best: with doubt...
uncertainty... at worst: with a negation:
waiting for the wrong answer...
but no dialectic is ever to be established
working from a rhetorical question...
a socrates would be:
the dialectical surgeon...
the affair of the question doesn't go beyond...
whoever is questioning:

oh!           oh!
a rhetorical question is... not for someone
to address the question...
but a pursuit of the questioner to continue asking
question...
a rhetorical question is... to further the lineage
of questions... to be therefore "rhetorical"
is to inquire more... rather than reply with
a rhetorical certainty...
a rhetorical question isn't a question...
it's a cascade of questions...

******* and the myth of the gateway...
after **** i did the next best thing...
i rediscovered bourbon as ms. amber...
that once you watch just a little bit of it...
you will turn toward finding out more graphic
content...
so... me looking out for the most *******
music: combichrist... :wumpscut,
vomito *****...
                  *****... graphic... *******?
or... gloryhole ***** *******...
               or pregnant women: so *****...
       or japanese gravure models...
"problem" with japanese models...
              *** bots? aren't they here already...
with these porcelain mannequins?
touch a hand it breaks or fizzles into...
ash...
  as happens when you've been at "it"...
puritanical victorian von krafft-ebbing...
i sometimes know what the ******* is for...
i hardly think it necessary to listen to what's
"moral" from circumcised... gentile...
north-h'americans...
                    jerking off since aged 8...
brain rot started way back... in 1994...
which is before the internet...
   gateway... my ***...
         japanese gravure and Agnolo Bronzino...

who needs "more"... when you have a mel gibson
beard-envy!

the chair can remain a chair...
but there's a termite colony wriggling in it...
i don't need to see it...
i just need to hear it...
combichrist: like to thank my buddies,
    today i woke to the rain of blood...
                   all pain is gone...
       cheap thrill seeing heaven:
better tamed - attempting to listen to the litanies
escaping hell...
a written word in hell is like...
     because the hands are being crushed
in monkey-wrenches and there's Spinoza
cackling...

   who needs more ******* and ride-me-timmy
the horses' laugh when music can
compensate... and otherwise find the better
kind of: the feeding outlet...

a rhetorical question: is that for the answer to
be tinged with rhetorical gravitas?
no... then every question socrates every posed
what a rhetorical question:
and the concern for dialectics is a dummy...
which is probably true: reading what sort
of answers those put under the scrutiny give:
is response...

i must be wrong: a rhetorical question:
is not simply a question...
a rhetorical question could perhaps give
the person answering a spark of rhetoric...
a rhetorical question should:
by default... provide you with a rhetorical
answer... but all it does is...
further a second question...
and a third... a fourth...
    so more for the "famous" dialectic...
when all that seems to happen...
one only becomes a rhetorician: via question...
rather than merely: talking...

the rhetorical question is therefore
the basis of "dialectics": which is no basis for
dialectics per se...
it's the persuaded question-prone antagonist:
who is hardly the narrator...
and the answer is always the same:
shut up! i'm talking over you...
i'll just disguise this whole affair in a question
and minor answer cited: a perfectly well
equipped yes: or no... will suffice:
or a nod of approval worded...
                  socrates the bane of sophists
and rhetoricians...
a subtle project... you are not interrupted...
when to stress an invocation
of fake curiosity: by asking a question...
the sort of question...
a rhetorical question... that will not usurp
your original: intent monologue of sophistry...

an echo is all the rave when it comes
to a rhetorical question...
a rhetorical question feeds of: yes / no answers...
and there i was thinking that a rhetorical
question implies:
whoever answers... will break into
a rhetorical answer... verbatim the quran
akin to a hafiz! nope...
a rhetorical question is a punctuation mark:
one hopes... of what a rhetorician would usually do...
when having a voice in the congregation
of docile elders...

socrates: the elder... found an audience
among the athenian young... because?
        he stressed that rhetoric had to have overtones
of questioning: without really questioning...
what sort of "dialectic" is there to be had:
what: dialogue...
when... the dialogue leaves one side with
a narrator and protagonist semblance?
and the characters: ergo? are nothing but nail-heads
for the hammer to plough through?!

oddly enough... Plato ****** off Socrates so
hard... that Socrates became...
the first non-hasidi...
to be circumcised... by pursed lips...
yep... Plato ****** off Socrates' *******:
right off... thinking the phallus...
was in the no-man's land of comparsion
to a chicken drum-stick!
antagonism: of how favourable the "dialogues"
are cited...
i've had a similar experience...
i really don't know what this... "e-prostitution"
is about...
before the internet... i am probably one of
the last few who blushed when buying a magazine
at the newsagent with all them *******...
and: curated ***** hairs:
less of a chin and more...
the pelvic "hubris" / canvas...

                 brothel: tick...
strip-club: tick...
              what's given everyone a hot-cross bun
shivers...
          "never paid"... but otherwise paid:
for the insinuation...
and the insinuation was: a date...
look at it as... no ******* dysfunction...
and no money for a date...
straight back into the salt mines
and trench digging... no time for honey:
oh boobie and frankly my dear:
i don't drown herrings...

       a rhetorical question is also a compound-misnomer...
yep... the idea of a rhetorical-question
is a compound-misnomer:

take me on a chain to the goblet...
pay the extra to rid the matter:
seven tongues instead of one...
gorging on the inquiry of Gomorrah...
to better couplet to the banquet of *****!
that ***** treat us Gomorrah civically dutied:
as worse than rats and shadows...
and the plebs just entertain...
       what would ever come from
the mouth of ***** as:
       prized bulls of drag-queen story-hour...
shame those without foreskins...
comparison...
a o.k. to be gay...
                what's date-night?
is that... something -esque having coupled
a mahjong with a niqab?!
why don't all the muslim women take
the best route... join the surgeon mask-equipped
crowds... and no... simple forget the hijab...
donning the full niqab?!
why?!

who needs seeking more depraved *****
beside... Bronzino and japanese gravure models...
and all that elasticity of:
electricity passing through an iron maiden
via... combichrist: sent to destroy...
hardly "destroy": cultivate...
recycle... call the parasites into hubris *******
haitus...

also "in response" to: the kinks and the...
"celibate" priesthood...
        because: you know, the kinks and all that:
******* music and fine detaiks of:
when the butcher will be cited...
looking at a slab of meat...
and calling a harem of pigs...
that floral... pinky tidbit "in the middle":
avert your eyes:
how god's finger touched adam's...
and via what...

it doesn't come more ******* than...
drinking lukewarm whiskey...
that i can stand...
but if anyone's drinking ***** not suberged
into gomme syrop consistency...
there's: should we say...
a... "spot of bother"...

              i wouldn't mind...
that bourbon as a quiet distinct perfume
associated with brothels...
and it's just that...
          but... e-prostitution: for the "tease"?
the wrath of adam:
sort of ******* in between:
when the ****** brigade comes along
and stops at thge madonna-***** complex?
i'm scratching my head:
either i'm thinking of a ? or my i.q.
one internet sight should be in existance...
dedicated... to the unabashed puritanism
of dogs licking their genitals...
because: a priori: who would have "known"...

and also to chronicle the sights and wonders
of... KMFDM stand-out tracks...
but a sight levereging "*****" of...
dogs teasing testicles with "prudence"
of a... the fastest waggle in all of: "arizona"...
chant!
chant! F.S.A. - which makes it more and less:
"united"
   the federal states of h'america...
     number 1 subscriber...
albert razin...
    is this... is this... what "integration" looks like?
like hell i'll give up what's
festering knee-deep at the rim...
i'll talk english just fine with
the natives... but when the natives:
tell me that:
true integration is a complete whitewash
of your "former" identity: you
integrate by "forgetting" your mother tongue...
i have... this juggernaut... craze-fit in
my eyes...
   then, why, don't, you, send, me,
a, postcard, from france: IN FWENCH!
this global mantra of: english solves everything...
not unless you're of a Dutch or
Scandinavian origin...
you have already learned this...
"lingua franca": this l'inglese...
lucky for the WELSH! who are you...
you anglo-saxon globalist mongrel?!
where is your anglo- counterfeit bypasser...
UND... wohin ist ihr Sachsen?
and where is your saxony: saxon?
have i an axe to better grind?
           jude-nomade-mischling!
you're no better than your claim!
ficken-jude-sächsisch-anglo-anlage-gehenvolk...
all this: for the insomnia parade?!
24 / 7 news reels?!
         alles diese... für was?!

if they only spoke two languages...
perhaps... less retards spreading the "crown":
licking ice-cream tubs...
open / the end... closed: also the end...
verzögernzüchtung...
          ******-breeding...
        ­                i have to admit... it sounds as crisp as:
gin
                                   &                        tonic...
and lapses into epilepsy...
because the "hierarchy" says: such words...
such words: no no: with a BIG no-no
when used...

                here too, i... will ****...
on every prematurely demented kin of moi...
because... the hierarchy of termites and of ants...
dictates so... while the congregation of:
man and ape... isn't sure... what animal is worth
borrowing a metaphor from!
to... "progress"...
like little **** and please staging all that
copernican ******* ever did...
the surgical masks...
shot dead in the Philippines
for not wearing one... "stigma" and the niqab...
at least the cherries on these cream-pies...
could at least turn proper ortho-and-doxing...
with a niqab...
pwetty pwease...  

all the airs and graces...
some nut would have made it this far...
Kierkegaard as proof...
"you don't think before you speak":
i rather, i much rather entertain
the freedom to think... and extend this freedom
into writing...
before i have to eat my own *****
when having to place editorial pressures
on having made video content...
i much prefer the ignoble citation:
and the devil has had these hands busy-bodied...
and all the blessings to the devil for that...
because...
is there such a concept as:
an idle tongue?

               i don't know:
i would like to, though...
live a month's worth of living...
on a salary of a... h'american...
             preacher...
under communism:
no brain-drain...
not best of the best will ever rise...
but at the same time...
so too will not the mediocre...
i thought it could be cited at:
the meek shall inherit the earth...
   talk about a disparity between
the meek and the mediocre...

if only i was the "correct" pronoun
to want: but i do...
have the capacity and enough excuses...
to start donning...
corsets and... high-heel shoes...
then again: if i joined the army...
nothing stand-out...
not uniforms to stand out within
a caste system... uniforms for
the napoleonic era... and that noting me as...
quick-off-the-mark...
suregon of the needle... and quiffs...
until the wehrmacht period...

  ha! the poles on horseback: "once upon a time"
looked bewildering...
the charge of the Krojanty...
well... horses do not seem that bad...
the poles on horses...
when back west...
you had the Dutch... on bicycles...
oh sure... the horse was somehow the "joke"...
but the bicycle was...
   like the pope appeasing the fuhrer...
and "they" would wonder:
        who's who....
the bicycle is gone...
who's who on the left-over peddlestool?!
postman pat proof:
  i think i oops... forgot to detail
the whole idea and economy with...
licking something... beside...
   that quick-and-made-essential:
              amnesia rubric count... which was?

yep... the poles on horseback look
and will forever look more ridiculous...
than... the dutch defence...
on... ha ha! bicycles!

read my proof: am i... "integrated"
is my: english not a word salad:
the scrutiny will come from someone sobering
up from an irish heritage...
is there a niqab or a bindi or a turban on me?
is my language still a word salad?
am i, integrated... "enough"...
not enough i dare say...

       well... about time these natives
learn some postcard and tourisms' worth
of second lingo... italian would be just fine...
since... they are still... hung up on being
so pround of being the afghanistan of the roman
empire...
          and... where is afghanistan when is comes
to... the house of saud and arabia?
i'd grovel... for that kind of goat herders...
and... pashtun poetics!
   queen of the floral: no **** mind to spare...
and if only this wasn't...
rummaging in essex...
more for the cause! new york!
n'aaaaaah...
                
                        i speak for the devil i speak
in about 12... with variations of invocation...
but this is not god speaking...
i am... not a monolingual pre-nomad arab taste...
sitting on a coal-**** turning liquid into
oil: "all of a sudden"...
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
.
        2 + 2 is a tautology of 2 x 2, isn't it?

of note, both Joyce and Beckett sampled
something of a learning,
in terms of understanding
the alphabet of surds:
    of musical notes, in writing...

you fit me a ******* symphony
of music encoding into your brain...
and i tell you:
you're playing hum
of the vibrating universe while
you're at it... savvy?

year 2019 contra the year 2018...
and some think that mixing
whiskey with anything,
which included ice cubes
and pepsi is a profanity...

i once ****** into a a glass
of wine and made the salute:
and here's my blood,
i bit my nails and said:
and here's my body...
might as well add to the mix...
but... kalimotxo:
god and the high heavens
forbid this to be a profanity!

what comes first,
coco in France,
or kalimotxo in revising
my numbed *** sitting on
the yet to congested
discovery of boredom?
probably the latter:
in that...
  oh i'm far from bored...
i've experienced something
that dictates to me:
death is but a precursor...
i'm not afraid of death
therefore i can't seem
to succumb to boredom,
it's this persistent
agitative nagging of:

well...
if you can't conjure up
a ******* hammer...
might as well be the nail,
or a gaping lack
of either hammer, or nail!
****...
productive "thinking":

if ever an antithesis
of "nothing"...
well... i can only think of one...
the only antithesis of
"nothing" is: thinking,
or...
the over way around...
the only thesis
of nothing is: "thinking"...

metaphors salute!
custard pie in the making:
fudge for logic...

why did i abscond
remixing the "blood of Christ"
for the **** of
alcoholic norse gods
raining on
Scotch hinter canvases
of fields surrounded
by mountains
               and lochects?

mind you...
******* into a glass of wine...
is not very much
akin to pouring
pepsi into it...
but in terms of:
adding to the experience
of the living poetics?
hum...

exactly!
the only antithesis
of nihil (nothing) is cogitare
(thought)... or?
   ratio (reason)...

nothing is not a geometric
entity...
forget looking for it
in Buddha's third eye /
the Hindu bindi...

nothing is neither
"existent" or "non-existent"
it is no thing
in the same way that
it is no void /
or absence...

           it perpetuates
the cycle of living off
thought...
  or thinking:
if thought can be a continuum
known as thinking,
rather than a random
array of "plagiarizms" /
eurekas of an idea...

nihil est cogitare...
how much of thought
is lost and never materialized...
it has to "go" somewhere,
doesn't it...
isn't that what is the antithesis
of that German's
da-sein?
   i.e.
                wo-nicht-sein?

wonichtsein...
  
  where is non-being?
isn't that the same as....
there is being...

where's where   (?)
   (tautology inquisitive)
and
   there's there   (!)
   (tautology self-congrats.,
like some Taoist monk!)

well **** me...
where's there?
  and...
         there's where?

THE-ER IS "WH'-ERE"...
ah...
   i see...

but no one can still point to novels
from the 20th century,
i.e. notably Beckett and Joyce
and how...

they were able to write music...
i can't read music...
all i have is
the concept of the ring,
a circle, and nazgûl:
or rather the language they speak...

close to the circle... shh...

prove:

   that ℕ was not borrowed
from                                                ᚻ...­

right... instead of musical
notes...
to write a piece of logic...

******* in a glass of wine
to double up on the poetics
seems much "easier"

well...

    cogito (A) ⊢ sum (B)?

or: encoding math is a music
you listen to:
on funerals...


   well yeah ¬(¬A) "=" A...
the negation of a negation of A
is... A...

what would have happened
if Nietzsche wrote:
beyond truth and falsehood...
unless

      ¬(¬A) "=" A isn't good
then i guess
    
    so much for the "beyond"
or good and evil...
now we have rampant
indifference to any
   ¬(¬A) "=" A

   and a "dignified highground"
of observable
"nuances"...

   infernal tautology:
good isn't good is good,
i.e. good (A)
    
              A(¬A(A)) -

good isn't good is good...
  
i'm not even going to start to understand
this infernal shortscript
language competently...

so much for propositional
logic...

isn't metaphysics:
prepositional logic?

         or is that: post-positional
              logic?
after a while there are just too many
nouns laced with synonyms,
a yard becomes just as much
as a mile,
and neither are at all differentiated,
then nuance comes in
and even more is lost...

you want mathematicians
to go crazy?
give them a ******* thesaurus.
Blanche Feb 2018
Our fate was written in the
folds of your mother and grandmother's saris, beautifully
intertwined with the gold patterns on
the long sheets of fabric.
It was written in the
hem of my father's hockey jersey, patriotic
to our love just as my father
is to his team and city.

And yet, not even the promises we made to
each other could hide the fact that a bindi does
not belong on my forehead, and that
you belong in a cricket field, not an arena.
marieLIZ forte Oct 2017
TOBY AND I HAVE TAKEN TO WEARING BINDI
WHICH HAS CAUSED QUITE A STIR
IN OUR NEIGHBOURHOOD
WHERE THERE ARE A LOT OF BIGOTS.
I CALL THEM BIGOTS
BUT TOBY PREFERS MAGGOTS
AND WHEN I SIT AND THINK ABOUT IT  
I AGREE WITH HIM.  
HE'S ONLY A CAT
BUT HE HAS A VERY BIG BRAIN
WHICH SOME PEOPLE THINK MEANS
HE'S EXTREMELY INTELLIGENT

BUT I DON' T
Nuha Fariha Jun 2019
Step out from your silver screen and your golden slippers.
Unwrap your red wedding sari that hangs heavy on your shoulders.
Loosen the blouse that strangles your *******.
Untie the skirt that suffocates your hips.
Throw away heavy golden earrings and necklace.
Wipe off the layers of kohl around your eyes.
Take off your clanging bangles.
Smash them in the ground and watch the colorful mosaic emerge under your bleeding feet.
Anoint yourself with this scarlet bindi.
Rub holud in the spaces you love and the spaces you don’t love yet. This is your holy ground.
This is where you will fight.
This is where you come alive.
Stand still and breathe.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, you are still alive yet.
Aryan Sam Apr 2019
Thanks aj supne wich aan lai
Bada dil c thuhanu dekhan da
Sohne lag rahe c
Yellow suit paya hoea c tuci
Bindi lagai hoi c choti wali

Kaash me thuhade office niche ake geda maar sakda
Par dar lagda tuci kuj galt n kr lawo
Jermon Nov 2019
I am the voice,
Of the fifteen year-old who wipes away her dreams, weaning her baby boy

I am the shudder,
Of the woman who hurries down the alleyway pulling her coat around tighter, afraid

I am the smile,
tugging the lips of a little boy, at the burst of fireworks, on a Diwali night

I am the whimper,
Of the boy on fire, alight by those who think patriotism means uniformity

I am the red bindi, the orange putka, the white cross, the green burka
I am the Kashmiri, the Madrasi, the Punjabi, the Gujarati,
North, South, Madhya whichever way I go I breathe the bharatha

I am the delight,
Of the saffron sarees, and the cinnamon wafts with pani pooris

I am the cry,
Of the drop out whose artwork lay in the cinders of childhood dreams

I am the tears,
Of the betrayed by the soothing words of political promises that were never held

I am the spirit
Of Ghandi, of Bose, of Tagore, peace woven in literature, histories’ waves that never recede

I am the song in all our souls,
Singing, we are India, in all our flaws and all our colours,

Together, we,
Roll up our sleeves, envision brighter smiles for when the sun touches our India tomorrow,
And we, the voices, sing in unison,
And look towards the skies,
In Hope.
01.11.2019 - A piece in the shoes of a little bit of ancestry and environment I'd like to claim
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
perhaps it's not so much: as one might be...
supposed to live up to the names one is baptised with...
in the catholic manor of bureucracy - bureaucracy -
phonetics! bew-rh'oh-cracy...
           beau-row-cracy...
               ***-for-tat... pedantic details only
less feeding feeling creature establish... most probably
men...
   there are two one is given at baptism...
                   i guess... that's in line with...
the catholic 'abracadarba' matching each host
to the tetragrammaton: two names at birth...
      a surname... that's three names...
       and a fourth name when one is to be confirmed...
i had all the chances to be confirmed...
open-end apostasy... i have no confirmation name...
but that would equal the quenching
of the tetragrammaton "farce": four names...
four names...
                 what was once a brave act of kneeling...
colin kaepernick kneeling at the anthem...
before the game...
                  derek chauvin is also kneeling...
crude comparison: what's impressed in my mind
is the act of kneeling...
          i once kneeled on a bee...
that i was hoping to mummify in some mud
as a child... the bee managed to sting me from
within the slush-puppy and i cried and i cried...
and... that was that...
               to be given names at birth...
the surname is non-essential: unless i be born
a windsor or a churchill...
                 or a Radziwiłł - h'american socialites:
ha ha: socialists... lite...
                       or a Wiśniowiecki: Yerema!
i once had a friend by the name of... al-ex-an-der...
and he did mention that as a name:
he'd borrow his name from a figure in history...
a one... macedonian: encrypted into greek...
and that inverted mongol empire...
that lasted just as long...
                     i never asked what his second name
was...
i sometimes used my baptism names
interchangeably...
and my choice of historical characters...
matthew the levi...
            conrad... well... i was always going
to have more fun with that...
either konrad of masovia
.........................................................­.................
                       or konrad wallenrod...
back in 2007 it was still an unpopular name...
a would be girlfriend... half persian
half scottish... laura... a date night:
me falling asleep when watching a roman
holiday... etc. etc.,
     i very much like to see ghosts of these memories
when i tow them to the depth of the sea
my mortal self and this the anchor that
will give me... the sinking sip... sipping snorkle...
i guess konrad is no common name these
days or a muhammad...
that... a joseph comes along and says:
call me that...
yes... this is very much... a vanity project...
because i don't like the sound of my own voice...
i can take a photograph of myself...
as long as... i see a labyrinth my ****** expression...
and i contort my face to: no known
recognition...
         too bad for the girls who have been
given names... as common as... peaches...
pearl... if only your surnames were...
    Waldorff-Preyß - a salad of little consequence:
to ever not mind... appetites hidden...
no... i couldn't do it...
   i have my mother to testify...
       all in order to... rear children...
  to have one's intellectual adventure stunted...
all for the rearing of children...
the anti-dodo-project gehenna of sharpening
the 7 tiers of silences and... patience...
i have no patience... i have a short-temper...
i'm sporadic... i'm not passionate like some
Iberian host... i'm spontaneous...
quick to respond... short on giving...
elaborate humour: wit...
                           i can... fathom a grandmother...
i can... fathom a mother:
       but the irrational "misunderstanding":
the head... dark fathoms of the most belittling
of places that thought enters...
the narrative is lost... because of... fudge-esque
packaging of a constipation of breath...
trial by errors: agitated soul...
          and this... failure to ignite...
a figment... the lost concern for imagination:
more... the myopia of pickling furniture...
a table of torso...
   a chair of an arm's worth...
                     all these rubrics settled with ghosts
and how... post-mortem telepathy works
to ***** grey-hounds of inquiry...
at these moments... i just want to scream...
i want to YARL... but... i know the limits...
of these walls having any understanding for such
words to be: let alone thought, then heard...
yet alone spoken to be later screeched out with
a gluttony of barritone!
    i'd need to feed the forest...
which would imply... walking a good mile...
to venture into the awe-seeing forest...
the owl the deer the fox the badger...
to scream without sense: but to reach...
an audible near echo conclusion without a cave!
to feed the woods!
not... some... near abandoned bedroom...
   and... if i can't entertain a conflict...
when talking about the three partions of
polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
     which part were we from...
the prussian... the russian or the habsburg...
and you're met with ridicule
and a cul de sac of conversation...
when ingiting it with...
                even the germans thought
the prussians were *******...
because of... vectors x, y and z...
                     well... because the prussians
were pagans...
- what?!
- yeah... the prussians were pagans...
isn't it strange how they would later
encompass the whole of the german people?
- the prussians were pagans?!
- yes... the prussians were pagans
and somewhat germanic... more lithuanian...

and all you'd get it a shock-awe look
of suspence... a gamer meets a girl who'd only
buy shoes...
she might be a mother...
a tedium a baron of shadows...
a venture tranquility...
                  the melodramatic cuff... cross:
burden... heel! an imaginarty dog
in reverse... the sanctity that could
never translate itself into either my son
or daughter...
and how... my future wife would only
be seen as a *****...
su-ka...
                        the tyranny of mothers:
even without... the absenteeism of fathers...
i imagine a world...
           which... by the end of it...
there's a valhalla...
             rather than a jannah...
    where you drink and you fight...
chimeras...
   and you are... indeed... served by...
the valkyrie...
   drinks... but ******* them...
would imply: getting **** from
that h. p. lovecraft pederast sulk /
ocotpus godhead...
                
would it matter that... i had... some chances...
but that the one chance i had...
it would be less of an emotional wheelchair
if i decided to... "inconvene" myself
with a ******* for a bride...

tsu-tsu: to have a heart with
the geometric study worth of thrown...
into a lake... ploop! mirror of echoes...
and a sinking into a depth:
and time... at what point...
can man face time as the horror of space?
at what point does space become less
awe riddled... at what point does
time prop its head up and sober
everyone peering into a postcard
from saturn with a sobering fearful-glee-of-fear?!

oh yes... that space and time are relative...
time: awed at... collectively...
nostalgia for ancient rome...
      space: awed at: collectively...
pictures of saturn...
  time... m'eh... claustrophobic...
individually... nostalgia for youth...
when in old age...
space: feared...
                     die cast...
         your next door neighbour...
muffled... irritating... living... drone...
next door... and you... have...
not a single artifact of shared experience...
beside: up & death!

sally challen is a name synonymous...
              with...
              and andrei chikatilo was also a father...
because there's a need to look for
aliens: not enough to peer at luxury
in a fly under a microscope?
grand newton ego! for all and every!
the common man!  

the prussians were the forever old germans?
those people romancing etymology:
and any ethnicity for a romace:
come the thirdf *****: with sveedish:
dished out loot corp..
that the prussians are to be "questioned"
with the pomeranians?
what gate of sea...
the baltic is the beggars' mediterranean...
nothing but Helvig & Helva and...
quanrantine hammock: lining...
herrings: eaten raw...
like bistro maidens of sushi:
baltic sushi: mango squash sort
of *******...
so... so... so happy...
for the british imp-yre have imploded...
postcards from everywhere...
race bating inter-racial:
hard-ons...

              it's best served:
mongol ***** a mongol:
a new mongol is born...
instead?
an "orc" zulu ***** a porcelain
parisian...
a quasi arab is spawned...
because... all hell would break loose
should ****** be deemed:
too light for the arab...
and too... towing the non-agreed
to suntan "mishap"...

****'s the conundrum...
warsaw! warsaw pact!
can anyone think of a better name
for a capital: name...
war-saw...
            and whenever i visit my
grandparents... ****...
i didn't "integrate": fully...
because i retained my...
         einheimischsprechen:
                     und: milz und knochen...
                                        X:
hen... 'ause... not:
         cheat-the-parrot-with-chuckles...
******* cockney chuckles bullet proof:
y'ah... change two tow a spare?
bindi a lingo loot off of a turban?
salvo! this 'un: makes it clarified:
a clarifying lawrence romance piece
of mecca...
very much akin to:
the minor croat project for yugoslavia...
the serbs...
and... those... janissaries...
the new brit the old ottoman...
    from the "old... very old"...
borrowed from... yugoslavia...
                  that france works...
that austria works...
that england: england was always
going to work... except in h'america...
and the battle for vienna... 1683...
oh... wait... why is it that
i don't want to...
that paris... circa 2004 is best
kept as a memory...
          
                                 i have a mother is still a parody...
here's to... grieving the subconscious
history project... paint of ed gain
onto the canvas of blanche...
h'america is better than cool: project:
you you too!

hybrid of congestion...
that old fabble of the islamabad of conquests...
beside the mongols...
the 4.5 crusade of the baltic states...
because barbarossa was being
pickled and the major volume of army
were... withering into a scoop
of... a waiting for: reinvigorated waking...

my history is no history is my history
is no history...
    lots to share: dog **** to boot too...
the arcade of: gesticulating...
being solved with a snippet of
the ******* sack: and a chance
to salvo in the vatican choir...
               a past...
   there's a past that also invites me to
cocktail the: presently at hand...
england... minus...
wales... scotland... irritating tip
of ireland: north-eastern collide...
the quill with a peacock strutting?

        this is "my".... "past"...
the journalistic event of now...
      the old lady is singing...
   it was never began... but... it's all over...
forever and: the now.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
a bit like walking to a shop
for a bottle of whiskey,
while simultaneously paying
attention to the undertakers
and their coffin limousines
and a hapless old man
  peering into the notion of a selfie
strapped into a car seat
with a wish for a crash-mannequin
helmet...
  thinking: ****! the ***** that's
death has finally found me!
       i've realised that losing
the plot means so much more than
acquiring one,
given that the essential plot
is a Houdini act of mortality...
i like toying with the unrest
of eternity, i joke with it rather than
allow it to comfort me...
   and how was god disproved?
not by words alone,
20 dead bodies in mass shooting...
******* can say ****.
       there's always subtle tier of
drinking hiding beneath a layer
of chill and: something or other...
the best comedy, i've learned,
is derived from agitating apathy,
english (of course) -
ridicule!
                only the english have
attained the sort of numbness that
respect cordiality of the formality
beyond ****** relations -
            the sort of exemplified
"rationalisation" of individualism as
a continuum worth: jack ****!
blah blah bl'eh bl'eh blow
up the 100th ******* balloon!
   i can go on for days,
i'm that good at playing the ridiculous
englishman sensing...
  ****, the 60s and the 70s
nibbling onto the 80s have just ended,
minding the 19th conundrum of
what i'd rather call:
ever get dry ****** by a perverted dog?
   that protruding elongation
of the tender pink of a dog's phallus?
little ****** could make a great elf,
considering the fact that he
wrapped his paws around my leg so
tight that i started thinking about tripod
abominations...
          i'd ******* that crucifix
any day of the week...
mind you, he's the only jew i'm allowed
to hate...
                      if the jews hated him...
what's the logical conclusive remark?
  kneel and **** him off?
     muslims are already doing ****,
while the jews are left headbanging by
the al-buraq... burak?
  burak is slavic for beetroot...
    well, slam your forehead that many
times against a brick wall and you're bound
to get a visible tattoo of an expanded
bindi...
           or that thing called a: hárū -
see? diacritical markers ease up the fluidity
of syllable incisions.
     i still think a mere thought
would suffice to pay homage,
  than this **** of acceptable gesticulation...
religion, nothing short of sleepwalking
or an attempt at reading braille,
  drunk beyond hope,
                  maybe it's a magic trick
they're trying to pull off...
             hocus pocus andromeda focus...
got to give it to them,
   the logic of woman is the logic
of a god, hence theology -
which is never a love of,
                    no wonder philosophy
is underrepresented by women...
giving the culminating plateau-zenith
that's feminism...
                           women best
adhere to a god for they already possess
the circus of: being within being -
        pregnancy...
                  man, that barren creature,
can only hope for an imitation comparative,
when infested by a, tapeworm.
oh yeah, and that added: oops.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
i once helped a bee die... how? the poor thing was lying
on the patio giving his last twitches...
so i overdosed him on honey...
yep... picked him up in my hand,
squeezed a bit of honey and watched him
stick out his: maxilla, labial part,
proboscis and glossa (what a complex inversion
of otherwise calling it a phallus and zunge)...
and **** up the honey...

i don't know whether he was an old bee or he didn't
see the glass and minotaured the empty space
with a concussion...
but i did see all life evaporate when he finally died
from a sugar-overdose... thanks to me...
a little universe in the palm of my hand...
how else to **** a bee that's already dying?
i couldn't just flatten it with my foot...
why? i remember being stung once... all i can remember
is the mud and the lake...

unlike killing mosquitos... which is just fun...
of all things in this world: mosquitos i **** for fun...
i once took a selfie with a fly on my forehead...
don't ask me how i walked from one room
to the other... turned the computer on...
and... the fly in tow... to compliment a perfect
hindu bindi!
sometimes i would catch a fly in a glass and walk
up to cotton candy of some spider's lair and wish
that i might just: feed her something...
that's like winning the lottery...
but mosquitos? i **** for fun... i just wait until i see
that needle of theirs get injected into my skin
when then anaesthetic is being pumped in...
and then the splatter of a hand-guillotine...
when i was younger i watched to boys playing
by a stream... they would catch a frog and cover
her with lipstick... two sadists in the making...
and then they'd light her up...
i once dated a girl who used to sprinkle salt
on snails... but i still eat chicken...
perhaps because i want to retain a "moral superiority"
by also appreciating eating the hearts,
the stomachs... esp. the poached necks...

if an animal is to be killed: might as well make most
of it... i heard that deep-fried pork ears smothered
in breadcrumbs are a rave in new york...
no one this is supposed to make sense for me
keeping up with rigid religious dogma...
there is none in this scenario... there's just this freak
event... of watching a bee die in my hand
from a honey-overdose...
perhaps honey is like an ****** for these little buggers?
beside the point...
i always feel **** when i write something and it amasses...
a spike in readership...
notably: the words come of their own accord;
the ***** are a bonus -
i must have written something to estranged from my usual
diatribe... i must have prostated myself
in defiance to... compliment Iblis or something...
hunchback with wings...
i've heard that myth a long time ago...
concerned with the Eden story in Islam of...
in defiance Iblis didn't bow...

so however many generations later...
some "genius" decided to bow and earned himself
the title: the hunchback angel... formerly a man...
perhaps at my lowest: when something should
not have been written: but anything to escape
and not give into a writer's bloc is more necessary...
at least it must be entertaining for the many...
stick to the script remember:
you're not writing for the money...
nor the chance to collect a memory harem
of one-night stands...
in reference to the use of english - which isn't a first:
nor is it my first daddy and mummy:
t'ah-t'ah and m'ah-m'ah...
last time i heard t'ah-t'ah was a shared primeval
syllable construct also found in south africa...
to denote: father... which is "odd" how
it moved to poland... abscission...
that's the closest i've come to reaching a competence
using this acquired tongue...
what a past have i left...
unlike Czeslaw Miłosz... then again...
he was always a Lithuanian at heart...
i once heard from a girl in a pub that i kissed
and kissed mad drunk with love to hear any sort
of *******... forehead, eyebrows eyelids nose
and teased at the lips: as most drunks do...
we ****** the Lithuanians over...

in what respect? who's fault was it... the three partitions?
and the pseudo-Israel "non-existence" on
the map... this fear of losing grips on a language
are not new... oddly enough i allow myself
to be an anglophile... it's unique in that...
it doesn't have... orthography debates... just bad spelling...
and plenty of metaphysical fish from...
that sort of death yawns and a ship sails
across an entire ocean...
therefore i can't just "integrate"...
it would be bad psycholgoy to think that:
one tongue is better than two...
it would be like an amputee's ghost limp...
or worse... since to cut out the tongue...
first, later second... because it's a minority tongue...
and: what if i don't have anyone to speak
it with? how about i think in it?
what two groups of people were ever able
to sack moscow... the mongols and the poles...
during the polish–muscovite war (1605–1618):
poland - the cindarella of europe...
and she really is... just recently celebrating 100 years
of independence?

while all these other cases have had:
uninterrupted histories?
we ****** over the Lithuanians... how?
we ****** ourselves over to begin with...
a democratic monarchy - the commonwealth -
because it somehow started with...
democratically electing a king by the aristocratic
class - a swede once governed over this...
myth of a land... the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
should be regarded as a myth...
ancient greece would be a myth if no writing
was used in modern blah-blah...

my own... my own... shame that i don't write
in the language... but instead write in english...
i've given it plenty of assurances that it will:
or rather that i will be its most respectful host...
but given i see no need to point at myself...
perhaps the english in me has its own mind?
i sometimes "feel" under strict obligation to just sit
back and let the language express itself...
for some reason there might just be enough...
"unaddressed" points to consider...
should this language not find a suitable host...
perhaps... a subversive host...
that would use the language for: ulterior motives...
i don't have the skin in the game to...
throw tantrums and do nothing about...
psst... the grooming gang scandals...
i've been trying to bed an english girl for...
a better half of two decades...
australian, russian, french...
romanian, bulgarian... thai...
                           idealist me... *** is always ugly...
nice photographs... but any conversation
before or after...
**** anything that moves is the general motto...
steal kisses from prostitutes...
because this is not the time for: the jack of all spades
to tame the hearts of: the "less pure"...
oh sure... i could go back: to whatever "back" is...
perhaps i'm invested in england somehow...
like the r.a.f. squadron no. 303...
who have something to take care of...
outside of the "homeland"... home... i don't even know
where that is...
this doesn't even suggest itself as a...
perilous exile... for there to be some longing...
i can't even boast... become overtly pronounced
in myself: with said origins...
can't exactly sell you pierogi dumblings like
a turk might sell you a kebab or an indian curry...
so... pride... at which point? the current:
march of the black umbrellas... the... dead twin speaking
to the current: party president -
from the wreckage of Smolensk wreckage...
having a russian girlfriend... wouldn't have helped...
i'm sure...
winged-hussars... something special about distant
folk songs... that aren't in german?
oh they have to be in german... only the germans really
know how to sing folk songs...

question: how long did it take to defeat france
in world war II?
six weeks from 10 May 1940,
german forces defeated lllied forces
by mobile operations and conquered france, belgium,
luxembourg and the netherlands (42 days)

question: how long did it take to defeat poland
in world war II
35 days... wow! now i can ******* gloat!
it took the germans and the soviets... 35 days to defeat
poland... ha ha... riding roses against tanks...
that famous / infamous: charge at krojanty...
but it did take both the germans... and the soviets...
35 days...
i guess the gentile folk of western europe...
just 7 days more... to conquer a plethora of
countries... some that didn't have their existence...
put on hiatus... the welcoming **** of france
it seems...

fair enough... i've found something to be proud of...
woop woop!
mein gott! i come from this past...
why am i not passing my genes? och! **** lord miser
that i am!
here's to: not ****** any english girls...
or perhaps: it's the love for the welsh: just being welsh...
and it's somehow imploring the scots:
get some gaelic in you! don't base it on
a glaswegian accent!

yes... i am the host - and english is a "parasite" in me...
personally i think it has a mind of its own...
ever think that a language can never be your own?
esp. if it is acquired?
all that: from an outsider's perspective...
but not from a "racial minority" perspective...
beside the whitey you would have to tell me to:
wear my "brown" on the inside...
any excuse to not but otherwise troll some german...
for the giggles and fuchs...
if only this was written by some Kensington rascal...
but it's not... and it's not by a northumberlandian
either... i tend to forget the bristol wankers
outright... sorry... local prejudices...
you can never somehow escape them!
i.e. essex this, essex that... all the blondes and oranges
and... thick as bunch of doorknobs...
that's why i'd call them the bristolian wankers...
some prejudices just come with the language...
and locality.....
prejudices or merely a tease mark-up...
the usual west vs. east, north vs. south...
and to think... i came here... aged 8...
with no knowledge of the language...
watching cartoon network doesn't count...
and look at me now... entrenched in it...
the host...
                            i quiet like the analogy...
thrown in the deep end and shouted at:
now learn to tread water, you beautiful little
motherucker! swim! swim!
if there's no self-deprecating humor...
then there's no humor at all;
oh look... there's even a latin phrase for it...
i think i'll call this my modus operandi -
my caterogical imperative...
my cogito ergo sum...
         so it's settled:           sui deprecandi;
the biggest joke of all is that...
i can't fit the sterotype of being an eastern european
plumber... which is a shame...
given that east europe is... somewhat near
the the Urals... and...
of course... the czechs have had it easier
having capitulated... and they did because...
bohemia was their old pocket in the holy
roman empire...
piffy details... pitiable attention to details...
who's who in the game of:
what's to be bettered by it being corrected...
i hate this game...
then again: the best i ever said in school
was... a punctuation "oops":
- ****! ****!
- ****, my ***... in that common colliqual of:
what's it called: not really?
unless i'm about to endanger the native speaker
residence of language...
or that i need to be corrected: i'm all ears when it comes
to a typo...
the pride of the monolinguals...
call it pride... call it stubbornness -
but if i didn't retain my own "nativism" i would
have to probably resolve to speaking to my grandparents
in a gesticulating braille hybrid -
with an index finger pointing at air...
spotting carbon dioxide particle..
         guilty as charged... always paranoid about
whether or not i have succumbed to a tautology.

— The End —