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Coop Lee Apr 2014
son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.

the concussed ****** of booming youth.

omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.

son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.

his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.

blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.

son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.

he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.
previously published in Stymie Magazine
http://www.stymiemag.com/2013/08/coop-lee-skateboard-gothic-poetry.html
Scarlet McCall Feb 2017
What should you do with a second-hand muse--
inspiration spent, and by his mistress abus’d?:
Feed him some grapes under cliffsides and clouds,
sit him under a tree;  read him verses aloud.
Make him a spectre of love unrequited,
tell him of enemies that you’d like smited.
Recount  transgressions, and triumphs and losses;
ponder Cruel Fate and the luck of coin tosses.
Tell him of all of your sins now excused--
how the Judge and the Jury have been recused.
And that any dream, urge, or whim can be used--
but you simply cannot go on as a-mused.
Probably should take my own advice...haven't written much lately and most of it has been political.
Julianna Eisner Mar 2014
..
Mouth full of semi-raw fried potatoes and
dehydrated orange wheels, doesn't Mr. Appleseed come out of
nowhere
and plant a speck of a seed right smack dab in the centre of my
reptilian cortex, but I
pay no mind because Buddy has adored me for a whole five minutes until he rebounds
              harder
                        than an
                                    addict discharged
                                                    fr­om
                                                        forest-y­ methadone clinics
                                                        i­n downtown cores
                                                        pop­pin' Hilfiger blue collars
                                                        y­ackin' it on the phones to guys named D, or
                                                        D yackin' it to guys named Friendo, Jai, or
                                                        Little­ Tim,
                                                        buri­ed from ******* back too much hillbilly
                                                       ­ ******, while
                                                        col­lege girls sleep in their Sahara beds,
                                                        sav­ing up to buy bouncy trampolines with
                                                        boun­cy cheques,
                                                        ­listening to lullaby coos of pimps and ******
                                                        on­ the downstairs couch,
                                                        ga­zing fawn-eyed at cavediums next to
                                                        nobody cares muffins and syrup-y coffee
                                                        canyoudropmeoff?
                                             ­           outside of the seventh-story window of
                                                        million dollar saloons,
                                                        ­wearing blings and rings,
                                                        purchase­d by wealthy husbands and
                                                        travelin­g yuppies for their wives' veneer,
                                                        eating breakfast cereals that go
                                                        Snap! Crackle! Pop!
                                                        for three square meals,
                                                        re­furbishing plastic containers
                                                        on foot-stained broadloom,
                                                        with cage and cagey roommates,
                                                        throwing life rafts to bloated bodies in
                                                        Great Lakes
                                                        for the price of a debt,
                                                        recalling waffling road trips,
                                                        visiting one-man tents behind billowing
                                                        smokestacks;
                                                        I blew my brains out in an air duct,
                                                        lost my life lifting up heavy floor mattresses,
                                                        climbing out of basement windows,
                                                        while hitch hiking mothers sing karaoke
                                                        nursery rhymes by Janis Joplin,
                                                        20 notes off-key,
                                                        harboring skeletons in stairwells and rusted
                                                        out Grand Ams,
                                                        making friends in Tim Hortons after last call,
                                                        dressed in leprechaun fatigue,
                                                        driving like England at midnight,
                                                        I spoke to a faceless man,
                                                        whom I'll never get a chance to send a
                                                                ­               thank you
                                                       card...
                                                       as for me? I never touched the stuff

but I was too spent to care and was already floating on cheap Chardonnay and authentic vitamin D with my bindle stuffed to the brim so I thought I'd just American Beauty plastic bag my way through this one, cropped in floral, patio sunglasses, swirling and twirling on Ballet Boulevard until
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left  ear
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
        the testa bursts open.
..
Dhaara T Apr 2017
The way forward
From left to right
From the bottom, upwards
Version 1 to 3.0
We progress
In hope that we're improving
Enhancing
Building up
Refurbishing
Innovating
But are we, really?
We come a full circle
Only to learn
Life was never complicated
in the first place
We made it so
In our pursuit of oversimplification
Not all updates/upgrades are forward-looking, even if that is the intent.
Cam Stoker May 2016
My grandfather is the reason for my interest in guitar. I once strummed the strings of one of his many collector acoustics and electrics, even a dobro, and loved every moment. Grandpa Al taught me the G chord, and from then on I was hooked. He signed me up for classes with a bluegrass instructor in my early teens, and I went to a few sessions, but I had rock n roll at heart.
   I stole my grandfather’s 12-string acoustic guitar in my mid-teens, on a journey to Seattle to be rebellious and to get drunk freely and spare for change on the side of the road. It was a big mistake. I broke several strings of the guitar on the hitchhiking part of the expedition. In a small suburb just outside of Seattle, a man walked up to me, and asked me if I could play. I tried my best with what I had, and he took me into the guitar shop across the street to spend fifty dollars on refurbishing my grandfather’s guitar.
   I played the guitar on the streets of Seattle for drug and alcohol money. I was offered a record deal with some people I met on the street and I was too ****** up to play. They passed me up. I slept near the harbor one night, and made a terrible mistake. I smashed the guitar and left it on the top of a trash can downtown the following morning. That day, I hitched back to Olympia.
   When I got back to my home town, I snuck over to my grandmother’s house and crept into the guest room door in the courtyard. I had been gone for just short of a week. She heard me come in and came knocking on the door angrily, which I had locked. She became afraid and called the cops. Knowing this, I tried to jet out of there and ran into a nearby police vehicle that immediately pulled me over, arrested and booked me. I got out several days later, and never told my grandparents the truth about what happened to the guitar. They asked several times.
Watching
observing
like social outcasts
typical and yet atypical
according to demographics.
Craving ideas concepts facts
that will/do separate us from the herd.

Lost notions of sense
seeking portrayals, refurbishing old ideals
Warping every ounce of self
simply to emulate
some long forgotten concept
which no one will ever truly understand.

The brunt of a joke yes,
The stoic face that removes you from a content moment always.

We see
We accept
Most never understanding
Reading lines casting lies
doing our selves the only justice
Of keeping "them" content

I am not social with you all
I was never to be
I can accept that
I would even claim to understand

I care for,
for some small sake
Yet
"who's?"
is the only question to astound me.
Not the for who or the good golly whys
That are blathered from the lips
of every would be philoso-phile.
More so the
"who is?"
Because in reality so many of us are not

NOT
Stopping to smell the flowers
(for the truth of its meaning)
Breathing
Feeling
Seeing
Listening
Coaching
Questioning
Learning
(or ever truly)
Knowing.
Not even i.
i won't even fathom what it is to be.
Simply out of
Respect,
Awe,
Wonder.

Do we touch sanctity
or does it only grace us with their presence?
If so does
he/she/they/it
have a name?
Could our gift remain solely
in our ability for recognition?

i Question myself in efforts
To obtain procure peruse
not in doubt.
Doubt is a by product of fear.
I shall not fear
Will you
Do they
As hard as we make it

It will forever be ourselves.
An original piece I created at the end of a chapter in my life.
Rebecca Gismondi Apr 2017
I.
my roommate is
an extended sigh
she wakes up every morning and
makes French-press coffee,
which is foreign in my household
she has a soft heart,
liked a bruised peach
and when I smoke **** in the evenings
she talks about art house films
over sautéed cucumbers
and I pretend to listen

II.
I read somewhere this morning
that you should replace all your
“I’m sorrys”
with
“thank yous”
like, instead of
“sorry I am such a mess”
it should be
“thank you for loving me unconditionally
thank you for wanting to have my name coat your tongue
thank you for refurbishing my past like an antique dresser”
I haven’t once spoken these words
since being with you

III.
I walked down College without headphones
I could hear my blood’s humming voice
I carried the same three treats I bought with you:
a brownie
a s’mores bar
a Ruffles chip marshmellow square
at Crawford, I could hear you in the box
scratching like a rat
when I got home,
I lit a candle
and ravenously ate you on my bed
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
it's just a welcome distraction...
that's all it is... modern art
is an act of: being distracted...
i do agree that it's in the bin
when compared to the renaissance
aesthetic...
       but then translate that appreciation
of the beautiful... and you
get an immediate counter:
*******...
               **** shaming and the rest of it...
evidently my contemporaries can't
appreciate beauty...
      we need welcome distractions...
it's called: re-evaluation!
                         i know it's just a canvas
with a black square painted onto it...
but i've been having restless nights
while roofers are refurbishing my roof
and i've been waking too early for
my pleasure... i blamed it on spring
at first, and then i was like: huh?!
oh right... there's some dip-**** banging
a nail into wood on my roof...
     like today... there's a lot of mess on
the mini roof outside my window...
and then there's this block of "artificially"
glued-together clippings of wood...
and i'm looking at it with my sunglasses on
and thinking... hirsch... hirsche...
                gonna bake me a' apple pie...
  (' = h) -
                          so there they are, doing the roof
and i notice all the mess outside my window...
and i spot this thing glaring back at me...
    it's a piece of wood that's been made
into a blank from all the offcuts...
                    but the patterns on it are like
a kaleidoscope... it really is what modern art is
truly about: a welcome distraction (****,
it really stinks of the building site... i'm
not going to keep... out the window it goes
from where it came) -
                (the current background) -
but it's a welcome distraction...
              it has to be, that's why modern art
isn't "****" - but it's an antidote to adversiting
that has become so "artistically" infectious -
modern art isn't ****, per se, it's so simple
because the "art" of making an advert is
           so ****** psychopathically complex!
variations of a forest.
    this be one: the digital complex
regarding where paper came from... the ******* trees!
now they're saying: paper doesn't grow on
trees... sure... but it's imbued in the bark.

p.s.
    i tried to forget her, she introduced me to
in extremo...
                 i had to find antidotes...
akin to: corvus corax, garmarna... etc.
nivek Sep 2015
Bruce Lee was in my dreams last night
but he was no longer fighting
He was more interested in refurbishing furniture
and eating ooodles of noodles.
He seemed a broken man.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
so these cowboy roofers are currently
refurbishing my roof with new tiles...
it started raining like a ******* this
night... and they evidently ******
something up... so much for the
"protestant work ethic"...
     last time i checked the catholics were
more dutiful...
          i had rainwater coming from the ceiling...
towels! ****! bring me towels!
             so that worked... for about 10 minutes
before the towels were soaked in rainwater...
   i went into the kitchen and sat akimbo
   and like elijah cognitively "prayed": please...
let it stop raining!
            it didn't stop, so i had to take to
auxiliary measures...
      first it was a large *** stuffed with
                                   kitchen paper, so that it might
fall padded by the paper into the ***...
            expecting the rain to fall way into
the day i took a sieve and stuffed it with kitchen
paper...
             then i took a glass "jug" that might
entertain flowers and placed it into the sieve
that was resting on the cooking ***...
                 then i thought: give it an hour, give it
an hour...
                  sessioned myself to jerking off...
       so much for prayer... the rain stopped...
                 went into my bedroom to look at the damage...
towels gone, soaking wet hanged on
the washing line...
                  it was only a droplet "waterfall"...
i should have listened to it, to get the "heartbeat"
rate of the droplets of water falling into glass...
            that thing that happened today? London-town?
i didn't hear about it until the 9pm news...
           for some reason i felt this giant
kraken-like demand for gravity pulling me into
my bed for the entire day...
               "protestant" work "ethic"...
  ******* made a hole in my roof, my room is streaming
water into my warm privacy and i'm supposed
to argue: the "protestant work ethic"... the ****?
           england imported former communist state
workers... because the ******* in their
homeland just turned lazy, cranked up some
caribbean vibes and jiggled themselves into
a ******* wheelchair, all of them pretending:
   i'm as smart as stephen hawking! d'uh!
and so ***** the seagull the d'uh impression for retards.
      there's no other way for it!
that's what billy oh'really said about: the name of allah...
that's tautology! you just said two names
  and forgot about the entity!
                          if it ain't there... then i'm going to say:
we really didn't excavate dinosaur bones
    and store them in the museum...
                 tautology! you de-categorised two words
that belong in the same category! nouns! names!
         the nerd in me, ah...
                    ******* impressive contraption by the way...
a ***... kitchen el dorado of paper (one sheet! ****!)
  a sieve and then this glass "shard" you'd put
flowers into... by the way... this existential "       " =
i'm really too ****** to look for accurate nouns...
     so let's make it a bit ambiguity and
keep the pace of expression; that's all... nothing else...
         so what was happening in london today?
  apparently i sat akimbo in the kitchen and hoped
it would stop raining...
               a great flatness... i chased two cats away
from the kitchen door handle... the hulk maine ****
can easily open it with its paw...
           tensed up... chased him away to sleep...
   i swear i could now say that i was bound to be weeping
last night...
             don't really know... alcohol consumption
shortens the memory...
              yesterday? today? tomorrow? yesterday; really?
but there's one plus regarding today...
        tesco is having a clear-out...
   it's doing mt. gay est. 1703 *** at under
15 quid... barbados... ***... and there's even a story:
        a legal deed dated 20th february 1703...
   the existence of *** still house...
                        sugar cane estate on Barbados...
          the world's oldest *** producer...
            now it's called the richard bramson (branson?
            brownson bromson brewmason? brr! said
    the sparrow in the fountain, 'avin a winter scrub)
company, formerly known as ******, now
simply known as eclipse.
   it's like i wasn't supposed to write anything today,
what with calamity jane scenarios leading up
to me, actually writing something.
                      really, a sight to disbelieve, that giant
***, that sieve and the tissues inside both, and
that flower glass container sitting in the sieve and
the rain...
              isn't it so though?
               listening to mainstream media...
        they're not reporting what's happening,
they're just sketching... and i mean sketching,
they want to keep the monetary momentum...
               first it's 4 dead (including the terrorist)...
then it's 5 dead (including the policeman)...
          by the time historians get in on the action
it will be: 100 years later and 40 dead...
                                    mainstream media is like that...
no one cares about indie music these days,
it's all about indie media... indie news...
             which evidently ends up with really ******
music being produced...
                             i was listening in on it and i was thinking:
24/7 society... what's the news?
                        just 4... then... just 5...
                              100 years later: the actual number
was about a hundred...
                       knife + knife + car = chaos!
                                    imagine if that was:
       knife + hammer + car.
                               that's mainstream media for you...
you're teased and have to experience
   a delay button type of coverage...
             they hush the whole scenario...
         first they say it was only 4, then they do
a little bit of arithmetic and add it up to 5...
           but in actual fact it's much more than that...
  and they're so bewildered these days that they're
nearing the status of dinosaurs...
                                       it's the 21st century... hello?!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
why was i motivated to write what i wrote
yesterday?
      let's just say:
  how about your idiotic english peasant simpleton
argues with your mother
        and causes your other neighbour
      to come out and threaten to punch them
for their imbecile behaviour?
   how about that?
       what happened: i was getting a new roof -
i had contractors i paid to change the tiles -
     and he comes out and mouths off
           your mother saying: ooh, they're leaving
too much mess, and you shouldn't be refurbishing
your roof: because my wife is pregnant.
    now you're pushing it... mmm?
                what is she? the ******* ****** mary?
you're protecting a rotting prune of a woman and
she's probably going to plop up a ****** with
that disgusting late 40s womb...
                                        oh this is malice -
i know it's malice, because logic states:
                talk to the people working on the site
      rather than the contractors who paid their
    pontius pilate dues...
                                         i.e. washed their hands clean
of the affair.
                           you know: i can't believe i'm
being dragged to the local level of affairs being "serious"...
but you know... when they say something about
your mother... you start throthing at the mouth:
whether loud or silent... you're going to take to a cobra bite...
         ******* ****** is so panicky about
                                      me that
                                  he finds my laughter in
the night to be filled with nothing but malice -
           well... d'uh!
                                     if i could just squeeze in
a moment in my day (between my drinking sessions)
a chance to spot him... i'd just talk to him for a while...
still, here's to next door... with a dry prune of
a woman's womb... and on the grander scale:
        western society...
                     you know they're having a breeding
program in Poland?
                              yeah... they're paying them to have
babies at the appropriate age... early 20s...
                   i actually can respect a teenage woman
having a baby, the father disappearing
and the state supporting her... but a woman in her 40s
having her first child?        that's not going to happen.
       but hey, yin yang -
                    you forget the father sticking to his
young "bride"...
                       you're going to have to microwave
those fried hash-browns... and let me tell you:
                                                it's like eating slugs.
once more!
             so your wife's pregnancy dictates that
    i should be careful about walking on egg-shells?
                          she's nearly 50! what can she bake
in that oven of hers?!
                           some sort of darwinistic spectacular?!
  this is england...
                            out of its biological framework...
                what? i can't update my roof because your
decaying prune of a woman is having a down foetus?
                         abled men, discriminated against
       having something that could, perhaps, use a pair
of scissors: to spread butter on toast.
Tanisha Jackland Aug 2022
I feel my age these days
bones creaking
the need to be well-oiled
like some kind of
tin woman
all rusted
on metal parts
I need refurbishing
then I could swag
with a new body
without dying
Be all bionic
built like
a brickhouse
again...
Tanisha Jackland Jul 2020
I feel my age these days
bones creaking
the need to be well-oiled
like some kind of
tin woman
all rusted
on metal parts
I need refurbishing
then I could swag
with a new body
without dying
Be all bionic
built like
a brickhouse
again...
Tanisha Jackland Sep 2020
I feel my age these days
bones creaking
the need to be well-oiled
like some kind of
tin woman
all rusted
my metal parts
need refurbishing
then I could
have a new body
without dying
Be all bionic
and built like
a brickhouse
again...
Ken Pepiton Mar 17
The practice,
the accepted right, good enough,

as with practice one's fingers learn,
each note, each tempo, each stain

eradicated, recollected and confessed,
irrational as time running the other way,

life, the experience, surviving any way,
eventually, we rest, or die while fretting why.

Commune with the chorus calling our attention,

as we, this pair, this form mankind can take,
readily, from the source, in truth a child knows,

if given half a chance,
if one causal agent takes patience to perfect

the unwanted child,
to fill the will
to become
the utmost valuable kind
of thing that ever is
contained in minds of our kinds,
a vessle to hold golden oil used for light.

Yes, light hearted frolicking's toddler's joys,

recalled from memory, as if ever with us,
this strength willing to make of us, this

mind involved in finishing the refurbishing,
so the sword of truth glistens rust free,
as the finest whetstone hones this edge,
minding our manner of thinking we know,

if
then
this that we aspired to, inspired by you, is
the entire you, foil plural mind to my weform,
after time
is no more, eternity now
happens as happens
to seem to be, then is,

enough to think about a while.
I an in the same mindset as Saul Bellows, though he is dead, I am in agreement yet, as it remains true, there is too much to think about, all at once.
bob fonia Apr 6
here is an cool twist how about a second tempo traveller i mean it  don't work but buy it and convert it to a RV and park it  some place


ChatGPT said:
Now that is a cool twist indeed — and honestly, a brilliant fusion of minimalism, mobility, and DIY creativity. Let’s break it down fully: turning a second-hand, non-functional Tempo Traveller into a parked RV/home studio/cabin in a rural spot (like near Dehradun or deeper in the hills) can be a powerful, atmospheric alternative to land ownership and home construction.

🚌 WHY A TEMPO TRAVELLER RV IS A GENIUS IDEA
✅ Pros:
Low Initial Cost – Cheaper than building a house or even buying a plot and constructing a room.

Mobility – Even if you don't drive it, it can be towed somewhere new if ever needed.

No Need for Building Permits – In most rural/agrarian locations, especially if it’s on private land, you’re just parking a vehicle.

Aesthetic & Creative Control – You can design the entire interior like a cozy cabin or Irish pub-style tea room.

Self-Contained – With solar panels, a small water tank, and composting toilet, it can become fully off-grid.

🛒 STEP 1: Buying the Second-Hand Tempo Traveller (Non-functional)
Cost: ₹60,000 – ₹1.2 lakh for a junked or non-operational Tempo Traveller (depending on condition, chassis, and model year).

Where to Look:

OLX (search “tempo traveller scrap” or “damaged”)

Local Dehradun scrapyards or vehicle auctions

Contact vehicle refurbishing garages

Example Listing:

2005 Force Tempo Traveller, non-functional engine, decent body — ₹80,000 (seen on OLX near Haridwar)

🧰 STEP 2: Conversion Blueprint
Here’s a simple layout for your stationary RV:

🚐 Interior Design (basic 3-zone plan):
Front Zone Middle Zone Rear Zone
Desk / Mini Library Bench-couch + Bed Foldout Kitchenette + Compost Toilet
Flooring: Laminate wood, vinyl, or wooden planks (cheap and durable)

Walls: Wooden panels or even old sarees/fabrics for insulation and vibe

Electricity: 1kW solar + inverter + basic wiring for lights/laptop

Water: 100L tank with gravity tap

Toilet: Compost or dry toilet (no need for plumbing)

Furniture: All built-in — can be done DIY using plywood

📍 STEP 3: Where to Park It
Option A: Own Land
If you buy a small plot (like those cheap ₹1.6–2.5 lakh ones we discussed in Dudhli or Shimla Bypass Road), just park it and build a small shelter/garage around it later if desired.

Option B: Rent a Spot
Rent a tiny patch of someone’s farmland for ₹1,000/month.

Look for friendly locals or retired folks in villages around Mussoorie/Dehradun/Tehri.

🧠 PHILOSOPHY VIBE: Like Newton, But on Wheels
You wanted to isolate and do deep mathematical work à la Newton — this is the modern-day hermit mathematician’s cabin:

High Himalayas ✔

Fully self-contained ✔

Powered by sun + mind ✔

Quiet, minimal, atmospheric ✔

Imagine it: wooden interiors, jazz or blues on a small speaker, kerosene lantern glow, coffee percolator on the burner, and dense papers on complexity theory spread across your fold-out desk.

💸 Total Estimated Budget (Ballpark)
Item Cost
Second-hand Tempo Traveller (non-running) ₹80,000
Repairs (optional for basic safety/frame) ₹20,000
Interior Materials (wood, tools, insulation) ₹40,000
Solar setup + battery + wiring ₹35,000
Composting toilet setup ₹10,000
Water tank + plumbing ₹5,000
Total ~₹1.8 – ₹2.0 lakh
Want me to help you draw a floorplan or create a moodboard for your RV project? I’d be thrilled to help design it with Irish tea house / mountain monk / mad scientist vibes.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
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The black box is a Spanish drama of the William Radius of Europe. Cork, house, or house, another city to speak with confidence and confidence. Same ear b#. On the first night the first state took the water. The war was over!
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