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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
if god is dead,
then poetry is nought: but suicide.

could it be the evermore question, a year from now
the same autumn will rinse the lands of once budding colour,
and stretch, as the eye can see, the witry skeletons,
where once the birds nested their young in bulbs of harvested
twigs  bundled up? for what if the wintry tree, if not
the last remnants of the airs of spring,
a lizardly womb of flight...
   so the paupers of Rome argue
about the benefits of monogamy,
as they might about monotheism...
and they say monogamy is not "natural",
but what is? why take the burden of
a widower swan, why extract monogamy from
swans and later find the harem of monkeys?
and then simply say: it be unnatural... why?
we were never gracious enough to mirror
swans, hence the brothers Grimm and the
ugly duckling mistook...
        oh wagers of the translated Graeae
of Scotland, where it Hamlet on the couch,
or where it Macbeth?
what matters is how populist media makes
a franchise of a form of athletics that cannot bed
a guised look of despondency -
      puritan saxon conference on sexuality
that gone beyond the ******* use:
***** therefore thinking,
            flaccid therefore not thinking...
you can utilise language to a point where mathematical
certainty is given, as is the missing blemish of
woad... no wonder the Saxon maidens
    retain their virginity at home,
but treat themselves for a nibble of the Magdalene
on the isle of Malaga... puritanism disintegrates
2 weeks in...
                   and still they bemoan,
if they have been growing more and more depressed
since the second world war...
                why allow them to create this viral infection
that's like a virus ingested by unsuspecting
       victims... are they not the ones
prescribing premature depression since they
heaved no foetus in their womb?
          and having done so, are clear of the command:
remove that alien **** from me!
   aren't they?
       if god is dead... all those who write poetry
have committed suicide...
           i once made a lament statement:
given that god is dead, then so is poetry,
i don't which is more lamentable...
but i'm sure to spot a few more eager-beavers of
kneeling and prayer than i'm to see poets...
and can i return to the heights having sunk so low?
      evidently i didn't sulk on my way down,
could poetry ever be tamed with no populist
acrimony? no *auld lang syne
?
      i doubt it...              i very much doubt
a care for anything else sing-along astute than that,
for all i can compete with, is, some sort
of individual... a shadowy statuette...
         it's what's called the reverse of having a heart
for the cardiologist, a brain for the neurosurgeon,
a pathology for the psychiatrists,
  an ambition for the philosopher (mistook them
as humanists you have, for those that are simply
relegated from the realms of language by linguists) -
  for the oncologist that's hardly an ontologist....
swans epitome monogamy with the widower...
apes are Islam with the harem...
          and they say gods do not exist...
but if one sees no god, how is one to replica
a god's existence, if man borrows from the purest
sense of plagiarism that hides no legal documents
enforcing a slack on plagiarism, namely that of anima /
animal? man cannot grasp a concept of god
by sacrificing himself on the altar of imitable animal...
swans have their monogamy... man too presumptuous
also chose swans as the guiding beacon...
softened core, a mongrel of mammal and lizard
that the birds became... furry but borne from
a cracking of the eggshell... man too presumptuous...
he looked elsewhere to no visionary guide since
Narcissus: for mythology is the guiding hand of
new poetry, should god be indeed dead, and poetry
akin to that statement be merely suicide...
then at least mythology is equivalent of history
for poetry... at least there is a logic involved..
   for assuredly should god be dead,
and chlorophyll as pointless as the logic of bio:
be that of life outside one's own graphic or within
one's graphic... should life be nothing more
than the tactless usurping of history that is merely
a blank hole between the omni toward a speciem,
then why have we bothered recording history?
of all scientific theories, of all that rampantly
degrade all human dignity, why create a despotism
within science, that constantly repeats itself
to be overvalued, for reasons that suggests:
en masse applicability due to its pictorial invigoration
for a cruising simplicity? i gather this be a reason
for the emergence of technophobes, or men equipped
to war armed with nothing but sticks!
it's one thing to popularise an idea, later morphed
into a theory, then morphed into an ideology
(an idea that recurs persistently and has no
theoretical basis to not succumb to its theoretical
premise of becoming dodo - the theory of evolution
doesn't take into context the notion that it too can
become extinct... surpassed by something more
invigorating)... later morphed into a shiva
construct that destroys itself...
          we've seen 20th century's pinnacle of this
idea... we've seen eugenics emerge from a pristine
monkish background that said: how best
to economise the case of: the accurate *****-count...
is Darwinism the zenith of invigorating man?
              i find it's too arrogant to even imagine
a square tilting into a rhombus...
       suggesting a rectangle...
       but the days of roaming the Savannah are long gone
and past us... the dependency on oil and gas
and central heating has created a prison-like Akeley...
from what we've inherited, toward what we can
expect, or with suspicion: demand.
            and to think having begun erasing history,
and to think, having erased history of what's noteworthy,
we turned the slapped cheek into a cubist abstraction:
it seems pointless naming pubs after Charlemagne
(shar-le-maine) let alone singing about them...
let's all celebrate running ****-naked on a Kenyan
plateau... and rather than dealing with the past
on a poetic scale... rather: on a literalist scaling of things...
it's almost like biblical literalism kinetics....
     in either case: everyday poetry dies...
or as the case is minded to refresh the argument:
    with the death of god, poetry committed suicide...
i don't know which is the more tragic evidence
of what language has become...
                     this doesn't even invoke an analysis
of the marketplace use of language that politics is...
god forbid it should ever come to that...
  aren't we supposed to feel something otherworldly
at some point in our lives?
                     it's not that i can't rationalise my existence
into this world alone... and feel all the contentment
i need by mere concern for thought trickling into my
being within it...
            it's just that i can't rationalise my existence within
this world alone, based upon a hierarchical
          symptom... much akin to Guy "Lucifer" Fawkes
tried to state by blowing the houses of parliament...
which doesn't suggest a need for a celestial conjuring
of dictator... man has already encouraged that
with English 24/7 c.c.t.v.,
                                                   and as might be suggested...
the point you reach when catching yourself trying
to persuade or enforce a point...
         that lacks all emotive sensitivity hoping for
a romantic excavation invoking the zeitgeist of the times...
neo-romantics are on the rise...
                            we do live in a time of neo-romanticism,
as a few might have suggested: globalisation's
and the audaciousness of militant Islam's offspring:
lying dormant, like a speech by Pope Urban II:
     it just lay there, under a fog of submerged Calvinism
and secular sensibility... waiting patiently
        till the nibbling stopped and it had a chance
to counter... it truly was a case of Damocles' seconds...
tick-tock, tick-tock... and thus the guillotine dropped;
you could feel the carcass stench in the air
         or what cultural-marxisim would make of
an economy that attacked its own economic model...
  it would be deemed dead economically,
but culturally? resurgent...
         you could sniff it out in the air, that rotting
carcass menu: providing a wake of vultures,
                                  or a comedy house of hyenas.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
In conclusion

in between a busy life living,
I write.
to nite, in the early morning night,
for the first time in a long time,
I put myself on the shelf, and just read,
I read.

in conclusion came to me
after two hours of loving your written word,
that I am temerity, audaciousness 100 proof 
to think that I am worthy
of  sharing this space with you.
I am ashamed that I ever called myself
poet.
I am ashamed at the paucity, the poverty of my words
Matthew Walker Jun 2014
This is my first train ride
and I'm absolutely mesmerized.

You meet a special breed of people
living in uniquely passionate ways.
Saying I'm inspired by their kind
is standing in a blizzard naked and saying
"I'm cold."

The thrill they give me is more
powerful than words can capture,
though I'll try to do my best
like photography with distorted aperture.

I want to write vagabond on a name-tag
and slap it mercilessly on my chest
as a gorilla beats his pounding heart
like a drum before the last stand.

I ditched my seat and found an empty car
to escape the commotion and strum my guitar.
Slowly, people followed and joined me,
I felt like Moses dividing the sea.

I can hardly sing and barely play
but as they listened I felt as if
I was singing the sound of the rain,
washing away the mud in their smiles.

Six people are sleeping on the floor.
Beside me, their silent presence is igniting.
I want to dance in their zeal;
let it burn me, in hopes that the scars will never heal.

Maybe I'm over romanticizing this moment
but I can't squelch the raw audaciousness.
It's in their eyes, and in their laughs,
and in the way they form sentences.

It's burrowed itself into my heart.
In this moment, I feel so alive,
this passion cannot die, the traveler's immorality,
I have become the wanderer's infinity.

*m.w
12/17/13 1:30am
Innocent Nov 2014
Your smile lights up my world
The sweetness of a hummingbird
Leaving me weak and unnerved

Those eyes, blue as the sea and sky
Breathtaking in your tux and bow tie
Lost in the night of Shanghai

Indulge me, ****** me, encourage me
Lead me down the path of audaciousness
Raising hell, leaving nothing but a shell
Waking to the sound of church bells
In my own private cell

Nothing looks familiar but everything looks the same
And there you stand, fair game
Looking at me, lost in the emerald of my eyes and the innocence of my  smile

Love me, hug me, kiss me.
a
chap
at
a
poetry
site
asked
a
poetess
to
send
him
her
silk
*******
well
his
request
didn't
go
down
too
well
she
was
shocked
by
the
audaciousness
of
him
wanting
her
tail
coverings
the
thought
did
cross
her
mind
that
he
was
of
the
cross-dressing
kind
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i never understood why people have to treat all
writing as raw: crude oil, for example,
and never the refined product -
far from championing several books,
i like the pendulum of power having read them
reside with me, like any literary critic:
who primarily dissuades someone from
grabbing the ******* / reins, as it were -
there's a problem, but thinking about it
gives no solution, because, as most people realise
that thinking is, essentially, a luxury,
a comfort zone, mostly eradicated by
quasi-Buddhism of the west: mindfulness,
tech detox, you name it... i treat thinking
like i might do sitting on a sofa - it's not that
we're not thinking, it's the notion that thinking
somehow solves all the awkward verb ventures
by primarily being occupied with nouns -
apparently no one has heard of day-dreaming
and said: thinking coagulates all the cognitive
faculties together, and if you can escape daydreaming
Freud will catch you - thus said:
never trust an Egyptian with a triangle and a square...
bad move... you have to realise the audaciousness
of man to bring forth a wrath of that magnitude
that you end up either lying about it,
putting on the glove of Coptic Christianity and
later Islam... or accepting it as, well: given
the timescale and 24 hour north east west south
relevance of being hooked like on ******
the back-burner (sort of speak) and imitate
******* strokes standing-up beside the wailing wall...
   usher in the time-bomb - spatially we're
used to the hydrogen mushroom, now the advent
of the time-bomb of ageing Japan and ****-soaked
Brits gagging for some humanity -
             as of now, the state robs... it doesn't provide,
it robs.
              there are problems and i have no solution,
the **** it attitude works, if your hero is
some *** by the name of Diogenes:
                oddly enough the Nazarene did nothing
spectacular - this Greek *** was bothered by
fashionable ladies sitting in his kennel urn with dogs,
that Jewish guy? a *** that bothers others,
well... wayward fro, toward'e Golgotha -
or how English was written ridiculously without
diacritic marks, perpetuated, oddly enough,
by trademark grammaclasm (oh sure,
they still bend their knees at the sight of an icon,
sharing indulgence with the cardinals accordingly
in Russian, rev. simony and i too think
Ezra was justifiably a grand economist at heart) -
i just don't understand how people expect
all written material to be based upon easy arithmetic,
there's more arithmetic involved in putting
a      r     i     θ      m     e       t      i      c
together than it is putting
1     18    9     6    13      5      20    9      3
and he ****** them for gematria -
oddly a ridiculous gematria result, let's say
$6,000,000,000 doesn't translate as Napoleon,
a rich chum of a chimp cross-dressing in a shopping-mall...
so they should have been looking at grammar
than inventing this "magic" calculator -
anything to do with the above in bold?
   both θ (theta)    and φ (phi) have the numerical
value of 6 - using the PLAIN LATIN TEXT.
anyone can reach up to this level of bog stench -
          what, the, hell, is, going, on?!
oh, i assure you, i'm actually aware of myself
writing this, i'm not that (much) hooked on the topic,
i can retract and tell you: just a passing fancy -
topically a rainbow, silver for the magpie's jealousy,
the myth goes: magpies are the werewolves of the sky,
although they ****** a greedy glee sparkle at
a silver spoon: i might as well have written
a Persian proverb having written that...
with me there this... as already written,
and a whiskey sharpshooter and creedence clearwater
revival... i'm not bothered about someone claiming
this to be theirs... all i see is puppet strings attached
to their tongues... waggle waggle yeah,
       waggle waggle blah...
                                               lies have short legs,
or let's say: stumps for legs...
                                                   lying
is the moral equivalent of dwarfism - short
tempered asking(s) for wants of similar literary
gifts / curses - assuredly - i don't know why people
want most of anyone's writing output to not lick
something akin to J. Joyce's Finnegans Wake -
and not expect someone having read such a feast
to not feel inclined to remember it, in turn,
by fleeing from conventional blockbuster
ex narrator - i wasn't even planning to write
a self-help book, or instruction manuals for Ikea
to assemble a table... you got the map,
but you don't have a compass... well... better sit it out
till sunset to know where the west is...
                          any help from Copernican imagery,
         i wouldn't expect... having an image of
our gentle blue orb will not save you from the 2 dimensional
representation of where you need to go;
conclusively? con ex narrator? ex personae: thespian
                                                                         dabbling.
blushing prince Oct 2018
under the algae
beneath the sedimentary substance of a sentimental
there resides the need to put everything into categories
organizing it by numbers on the top corner of crisp sun yellow manila folders with the messy scrawl of someone punctual but seldom in time for things

in the absence of sunlight i took to you like a lamp
the one with a warm glow and dust collecting on the folds of your body of ceramic
the more i got close the more i could feel myself burning from the inside like a watermelon containing meat fruit or the inside of a pumpkin spilling out onto your counter with audaciousness
sticking your finger in the warm gooey center only to dispose of the carcass without indulging

sometimes the left side of my chest hurts and i immediately think of heart attacks and a blue face

sometimes it's flood season and i see the bottom of bridges puffy with overflowing water and i immediately think of five years ago when i thought that if i laid down i could sleep forever and never wake up
my body slowly un-recognizing how to be the human condition

but then my lungs still move in my rib cage rhythmically
my chest expanding and contracting
the repetition of comfort inside my abdomen
and i know it's not heart disease but the fluttering of panic slowly dancing on the bottom of my collarbones

but then i get up from my bed and fix my hair into a braid
my hands remembering a pattern i don't have to think about
fingers nimbly trembling beneath handfuls of hair
and i know that despite everything

i would continue through and through
i would continue
a poem about a fuzzy head and moody weather
("Thus always I cause the death of tyrants.”)
the purported line Brutus uttered
after assassinating Julius Caesar.

     Alternatively titled:
The prose and consequential arguments
for the death penalty.

     An attempt to resuscitate
the following rambling missive
written quite some years ago
(being declared dead on arrival
if yours truly took emergency measures
to recruit editorial assistance),
but after re-reading loopy thought process,
I decided to submit to rebukes
and suffer withering criticism
from any anonymous reader.  

     Ever since the early forerunners
of twenty first century mankind
(sprinted across the trackless expanse
extant upon planet Earth),
modern **** Sapiens
essentially won out as coterie precursors
sans predominant present day team of rivals.

     The zigzag line,
whence our arboreal ancestors
skedaddled their way
toward a capitalone delineation
of die hard grateful deadheads
******* disaster, and acquiring
dubious distinction decreeing domain
of oblate spheroid as prime real estate,
(when Prometheus fire
made privy to proto humans,
while an anonymous forerunner
of Flintstones squatted squeezing
with utmost effort,
when nothing more
than an ear deafening blast of flatulence
issued forth unwittingly
kindled sparks of tinder),
the imperceptible figurative ink
did not dry before these hairy hooligans
edged out other prehensile primates.

     Enfant Terrible employed
as an analogy for punctuated equilibrium
(postulated by Stephen Jay Gould
heterochrony and similar evolutionary changes
would not be directed by the genes
that actually build various body parts)
witnessing a boom rang
amidst feral creatures unpredictably crowing
with foo fighting fecundity
(inadvertently in sync with Feng Shui)
to launch a scrappy posse
of measly mensch kin’s into the realm.

     This phenomena countless thousands
(more like millions) of years
since the inception of brutal,
nasty and short tempered
present day troglodytes.

     With the aid of an imaginary crystal ball,
the seeds of White Lily got borne
via Aery windy gusts
jet setting most “advanced” pygmy beastie boys
as the animalistic bellwether
per future adventure,
whence many anthropological
opposable thumbed volumes yet written
till the present deadly crossroads
announced ruthless Reichstag.

     Credos, codas, diktats
governing infantile Messerschmitt
Sol Invictus yet unnamed role
as most dangerous living beings
known to exist
unwittingly usurped
grandiose nom de plume
as Master baiters
predicating their survival
on brawn and brains
to public enemy number one
to all other life forms.

     As the fittest
(at least when accidents of circumstances
found tendency to crowd source,
the mob mentality already evident
as hyena cackles quickly garnered rubric
of might equals right),
thus grabbing by force of strong arms
(fingers clutching deadly lances),
the top prize
as sovereign dictators of the Proletariat).

     Over the course of millennia
(presently without Melania, who cares),
they became the de facto dominant species.

     The proto humans ancestors of Donald Trump,
essentially won the race millenniums ago.

     The evolutionary descendents
metamophasizing into bipedal hominids
of recent mankind did not monkey around
when competing in the Human Race.

     They elbowed, jostled,
and ousted competitors eventually
to ascend inexorably their way
to the top tier of totalitarianism.

     Great indomitable naked apes
of early simian evolution,
would not settle for any role
except top banana
in the hierarchical schema of biota
extant throughout the nascent
dawn of civilization
and age of Aquarius.

     Violence with whatever materiel at hand
vanquished any threat
to world wide webbed *******
sans existence at dawn of civilization.
  
    Closer to late morning and high noon
the tall tale ushered vanity
videre licet venal, vicious, vocal
frankly zapped Tarzans,
10,000 Maniacs, and voodoo worshippers
blitzed like banshees.

     Literal face saving each manikin for himself
(gnome hatter whether blood pact swore),
the bludgeoned, hoodwinked,
and whipped warriors wary warlocks
fought tooth nail to the death.

     One instant found a bald
(ah that explains my receding heir line)
bandied legged *******
macho tree swinging sportsman
(my monkey's uncle)
brazenly boasting bona fide.

     Well guess what ma friend?

     That sure-footed geico hunter
met a ****** death on an empty stomach.

     His purported blood brothers abandoned him
(at the drop of a clump of offal)
as not dependent and unreliable brethren.

     No such thing as a gentlemen’s agreement
ruled the ****** terra firmae.

     Amidst the warren of primates,
a promise quickly broached instantaneously
after pledging allegiance to a pseudo fraternity.

     Swift lee tailored and harried styled obeisance
adhered to a flip flop (dip thong)
pattern that guaranteed staying alive.

     This included bopping strapping "jocks"
on their beanies
with rotten tangerines of bystander’s
whereat even babies innocently
caught in the culture club
thwacks between one competing claque and another.

     Pity clobbered indiscriminately
friend and de foe alike
exacerbating ruination of bucolic beauty.

     Contra bands (very loosely applied)
associated with village people
as the most powerful brigands,
which shifting fidelity took place
without the presence
of border crossing guards
or border collies.

     The open frontier
presented Avast earthlinked heaven,
where danger lurked
in most every field camouflaged
by delusively diminutive sized cretins,
that punched a wallop with a crack
on the noggin before
indigenous faux peoples swooped down
amidst the war whoop emitted
by a madding crowd marauding
where angels feared to tread.

     Oft times (no doubt),
thee ah bridged brotherly bond broke
brooked ranks (once
upon unfamiliar terrain
of an alien nation)
plying figurative cards
to benefit bristling brood.
    
     Deoxyribonucleic Acid
played a key role as genetics
probably parlayed traits
to the ace of spades,
where the wild impractical joker
abetted physical heft
to hoist with her/his own petard heavy objects,
and mandates employed and obeyed
by snatching strapping twisted sisters,
thence sacking sacred cistern,
when bands of ruffians
within the melee wrought regal restitution.

     Where nature fell short
weeding out the weak, sickly, elderly,
frail, deformed, et cetera,
the Flint Stone Age paradigm
evinced population control
linkedin to Netzero tolerance
for even minor infractions.

     Interwoven with the whack
upon the mole hole atop noggin
with cracked skull
(and broken weapon of destruction)
throve the depredations
of rival rebellious ravenous stealthy,
quick of pluck (prestidigitatious like)
orchestrated nature made ideology.

   Highlight of Goofus and Gallant
bred within the survival instinct
of hungry hordes of prey,
when Earth in the balance
against an uncomfortable truth
smug smurf like scavengers.

     Punishment meted out
and limited by the poison
yielded courtesy iron maiden
of hand-to-hand mortal kombat.

     Only when the codification,
edification, glorification…
of sedentary versus nomadic lifestyle
did considerations turn
to protection of self and others.

     This shift in consciousness
occurred over great swaths of time.

     At some juncture in the history,
an alteration from superstitious,
querulous, and portentous outlook,
some anonymous hotmail
awakened with a momentous,
judicious, and industrious insight
to counter act and oppose
hellacious and supplant said pathos
with a healthy generous dose
of fortuitousness reckoned
by invention formulating calculus,
audaciousness and picking up
some helpful tips from bad company.

     Difficult to pinpoint
the precise instance or prodigy
who advanced contemplation,
federation, intuition…
the process most likely happened
in fits and starts.
    
     As aggregates of close affiliates with out genus and species recognized benefits of law and order, a coordinated effort seemed to blossom forth promulgating civility, every good boy does fine mentality and seeking methodologies to offer greater guarantee for longevity.
  
     Creedence clearwater revival delivered the gospel according to Matthew, which soon indoctrinated the merry brigands of pagans actuating obloquy against contrary beliefs.

     Long story short of course forcibly pronounced decree imposing religious strictures to be obeyed lest one be sentenced to death.

     Many a decent creature, who found solace from spirits that inhabited the natural environment got sucker punched (or worse tortured till he and/or she recanted supposed primitive beliefs), and at some instance relinquished spiritual heritage harkening back generations.
  
     Though freedom of religion an inalienable right, a twisted sister logic (my opinion) seems to destroy innocent lives while a terroristic perpetrator becomes a martyr.

     If the realm of each cerebral individual aggressively usurped by indomitable fanatics hell bent on proselytizing at a very tender age, (when the mind most malleable), and hashtagging those whose willpower greater than any sword, the latter labeled heretics with the price of their life to pay for staunchly held vision quest.

     Here doth stare me a long entrenched hypocrisy at the expense of no threat to another.  
      
     How (warning cause mumbo jumbo ahead) in the name of tarnation (with or without feathers would be incidental to this Unitarian based atheist) can there be a more severe implication of self sovereignty than the deprivation for personal willfulness as a natural curiosity to cogitate, educate, genuflect…et cetera on the ramifications of humanism if forced to recant such individualistic projections?

     Unbeknownst to this wordsmith his meandering reflections would follow an arc unpredictable at the start of this self-imposed literary exercise. His er rather my intent aspired to dwell on near black and white principles of so-called right and wrong.

     Funny (and/or maybe ironic), that most if not all organized edicts disparage against every single premise (particularly taking the life of another without just cause), yet pronounce severe screeds with a bounty hunter put upon the head of he/she who professes such antithetical intimations.

     Further objection toward adherents to this, that or some other accepted codex, when the sanctity of embryonic/fetal entity sets mad men going off on a rampage of ranting, and raving, and even killing in the name of pro life.

     This introspective, live, oddly ruminating uber xman wags as a sagacious thinker, and does assent that a capital offense (such as ****** – minus self defense) ought to be dealt with a blow (both figurative and literal) against the killer, though outright execution disallows the hardened criminal to become sensitized to such a deadly deed.

     Earlier chapters of mein kampf would elicit an immediate declaration that what he/she who kills another ought to get (I scream) their just desserts. As the decades passed, a realization that exact retribution can bring reduction regarding the departed heartfelt, lost past quirky specialness, whether that person constitutes an outlier whose notions, thoughts, whims, et cetera, could upend the entire complex edifice what tomb me on par with an ennobled, established, and accepted myth greater than Sisyphus.

     Whatsapp penning to me (a punning logophile with acute perception can be briefly explained by the role of fatherhood. As the papa of two dearly beloved daughters (both soon on the cusp of taking wing and flying the coop at the electronic date/time stamp), many controversial stances underwent augmentation within the breastworks of mine *****.

     How many emotionally laden issues posit one or both of said prized progeny as a hypothetical/speculative victim courtesy growing up in a dysfunctional upbringing.

     Anger against the avenger would be mirrored by innumerable questions. I would be keen to share how pained this papa felt/feels, and beckon to  explain what provoked such unforgivable vengeful wrath against himself.

     Damage would haunt thine prized precious offspring, and this dada cannot imagine how a mother and father endure the never-ending permanent harm dealt their son or daughter no matter the perpetrator penalized.
a revision of the earlier posted poem with a similar but not exact same titled:

     ("Thus always I cause the death of tyrants.”)
the purported line Brutus uttered
after assassinating Julius Caesar.

     Alternatively titled:
The prose and consequential arguments
for the death penalty.

     An attempt to resuscitate
the following rambling missive
written quite some years ago
(being declared dead on arrival
if yours truly took emergency measures
to recruit editorial assistance),
but after re-reading loopy thought process,
I decided to submit to rebukes
and suffer withering criticism
from any anonymous reader.  

     Ever since the early forerunners
of twenty first century mankind
(sprinted across the trackless expanse
extant upon planet Earth),
modern **** Sapiens
essentially won out as coterie precursors
sans predominant present day team of rivals.

     The zigzag line,
whence our arboreal ancestors
skedaddled their way
toward a capitalone delineation
of die hard grateful deadheads
******* disaster, and acquiring
dubious distinction decreeing domain
of oblate spheroid as prime real estate,
(when Prometheus fire
made privy to proto humans,
while an anonymous forerunner
of Flintstones squatted squeezing
with utmost effort,
when nothing more
than an ear deafening blast of flatulence
issued forth unwittingly
kindled sparks of tinder),
the imperceptible figurative ink
did not dry before these hairy hooligans
edged out other prehensile primates.

     Enfant Terrible employed
as an analogy for punctuated equilibrium
(postulated by Stephen Jay Gould
heterochrony and similar evolutionary changes
would not be directed by the genes
that actually build various body parts)
witnessing a boom rang
amidst feral creatures unpredictably crowing
with foo fighting fecundity
(inadvertently in sync with Feng Shui)
to launch a scrappy posse
of measly mensch kin’s into the realm.

     This phenomena countless thousands
(more like millions) of years
since the inception of brutal,
nasty and short tempered
present day troglodytes.

     With the aid of an imaginary crystal ball,
the seeds of White Lily got borne
via Aery windy gusts
jet setting most “advanced” pygmy beastie boys
as the animalistic bellwether
per future adventure,
whence many anthropological
opposable thumbed volumes yet written
till the present deadly crossroads
announced ruthless Reichstag.

     Credos, codas, diktats
governing infantile Messerschmitt
Sol Invictus yet unnamed role
as most dangerous living beings
known to exist
unwittingly usurped
grandiose nom de plume
as Master baiters
predicating their survival
on brawn and brains
to public enemy number one
to all other life forms.

     As the fittest
(at least when accidents of circumstances
found tendency to crowd source,
the mob mentality already evident
as hyena cackles quickly garnered rubric
of might equals right),
thus grabbing by force of strong arms
(fingers clutching deadly lances),
the top prize
as sovereign dictators of the Proletariat).

     Over the course of millennia
(presently without Melania, who cares),
they became the de facto dominant species.

     The proto humans ancestors of Donald Trump,
essentially won the race millenniums ago.

     The evolutionary descendents
metamophasizing into bipedal hominids
of recent mankind did not monkey around
when competing in the Human Race.

     They elbowed, jostled,
and ousted competitors eventually
to ascend inexorably their way
to the top tier of totalitarianism.

     Great indomitable naked apes
of early simian evolution,
would not settle for any role
except top banana
in the hierarchical schema of biota
extant throughout the nascent
dawn of civilization
and age of Aquarius.

     Violence with whatever materiel at hand
vanquished any threat
to world wide webbed *******
sans existence at dawn of civilization.
  
    Closer to late morning and high noon
the tall tale ushered vanity
videre licet venal, vicious, vocal
frankly zapped Tarzans,
10,000 Maniacs, and voodoo worshippers
blitzed like banshees.

     Literal face saving each manikin for himself
(gnome hatter whether blood pact swore),
the bludgeoned, hoodwinked,
and whipped warriors wary warlocks
fought tooth nail to the death.

     One instant found a bald
(ah that explains my receding heir line)
bandied legged *******
macho tree swinging sportsman
(my monkey's uncle)
brazenly boasting bona fide.

     Well guess what ma friend?

     That sure-footed geico hunter
met a ****** death on an empty stomach.

     His purported blood brothers abandoned him
(at the drop of a clump of offal)
as not dependent and unreliable brethren.

     No such thing as a gentlemen’s agreement
ruled the ****** terra firmae.

     Amidst the warren of primates,
a promise quickly broached instantaneously
after pledging allegiance to a pseudo fraternity.

     Swift lee tailored and harried styled obeisance
adhered to a flip flop (dip thong)
pattern that guaranteed staying alive.

     This included bopping strapping "jocks"
on their beanies
with rotten tangerines of bystander’s
whereat even babies innocently
caught in the culture club
thwacks between one competing claque and another.

     Pity clobbered indiscriminately
friend and de foe alike
exacerbating ruination of bucolic beauty.

     Contra bands (very loosely applied)
associated with village people
as the most powerful brigands,
which shifting fidelity took place
without the presence
of border crossing guards
or border collies.

     The open frontier
presented Avast earthlinked heaven,
where danger lurked
in most every field camouflaged
by delusively diminutive sized cretins,
that punched a wallop with a crack
on the noggin before
indigenous faux peoples swooped down
amidst the war whoop emitted
by a madding crowd marauding
where angels feared to tread.

     Oft times (no doubt),
thee ah bridged brotherly bond broke
brooked ranks (once
upon unfamiliar terrain
of an alien nation)
plying figurative cards
to benefit bristling brood.
    
     Deoxyribonucleic Acid
played a key role as genetics
probably parlayed traits
to the ace of spades,
where the wild impractical joker
abetted physical heft
to hoist with her/his own petard heavy objects,
and mandates employed and obeyed
by snatching strapping twisted sisters,
thence sacking sacred cistern,
when bands of ruffians
within the melee wrought regal restitution.

     Where nature fell short
weeding out the weak, sickly, elderly,
frail, deformed, et cetera,
the Flint Stone Age paradigm
evinced population control
linkedin to Netzero tolerance
for even minor infractions.

     Interwoven with the whack
upon the mole hole atop noggin
with cracked skull
(and broken weapon of destruction)
throve the depredations
of rival rebellious ravenous stealthy,
quick of pluck (prestidigitatious like)
orchestrated nature made ideology.

   Highlight of Goofus and Gallant
bred within the survival instinct
of hungry hordes of prey,
when Earth in the balance
against an uncomfortable truth
smug smurf like scavengers.

     Punishment meted out
and limited by the poison
yielded courtesy iron maiden
of hand-to-hand mortal kombat.

     Only when the codification,
edification, glorification…
of sedentary versus nomadic lifestyle
did considerations turn
to protection of self and others.

     This shift in consciousness
occurred over great swaths of time.

     At some juncture in the history,
an alteration from superstitious,
querulous, and portentous outlook,
some anonymous hotmail
awakened with a momentous,
judicious, and industrious insight
to counter act and oppose
hellacious and supplant said pathos
with a healthy generous dose
of fortuitousness reckoned
by invention formulating calculus,
audaciousness and picking up
some helpful tips from bad company.

     Difficult to pinpoint
the precise instance or prodigy
who advanced contemplation,
federation, intuition…
the process most likely happened
in fits and starts.
    
     As aggregates of close affiliates
with out genus and species
recognized benefits of law and order,
a coordinated effort
seemed to blossom forth
promulgating civility,
every good boy does fine mentality
and seeking methodologies
to offer greater guarantee for longevity.
  
     Creedence clearwater revival
delivered the gospel according to Matthew,
which soon indoctrinated
the merry brigands of pagans
actuating obloquy against contrary beliefs.

     Long story short of course
forcibly pronounced decree
imposing religious strictures
to be obeyed lest one be sentenced to death.

     Many a decent creature,
who found solace from spirits
that inhabited the natural environment
got sucker punched
(or worse tortured till he and/or
she recanted supposed primitive beliefs),
and at some instance
relinquished spiritual heritage
harkening back generations.
  
     Though freedom of religion
an inalienable right, a twisted sister logic
(my opinion) seems
to destroy innocent lives
while a terroristic perpetrator
becomes a martyr.

     If the realm of each cerebral individual
aggressively usurped
by indomitable fanatics
hell bent on proselytizing
at a very tender age,
(when the mind most malleable),
and hashtagging those
whose willpower greater than any sword,
the latter labeled heretics
with the price of their life
to pay for staunchly held vision quest.

     Here doth stare me a long entrenched
hypocrisy at the expense
of no threat to another.  
      
     How (warning cause mumbo jumbo ahead)
in the name of tarnation
(with or without feathers
would be incidental
to this Unitarian based atheist)
can there be a more severe implication
of self sovereignty than the deprivation
for personal willfulness
as a natural curiosity
to cogitate, educate, genuflect…
et cetera on the ramifications
of humanism if forced
to recant such individualistic projections?

     Unbeknownst to this wordsmith
his meandering reflections would follow
an arc unpredictable
at the start of this self-imposed literary exercise.

     His er rather my intent aspired
to dwell on near black and white principles
of so-called right and wrong.

     Funny (and/or maybe ironic),
that most if not all organized edicts
disparage against every single premise
(particularly taking the life of another
without just cause), yet pronounce
severe screeds with a bounty hunter
put upon the head of he/she
who professes such antithetical intimations.

     Further objection toward adherents
to this, that or some other accepted codex,
when the sanctity of embryonic/fetal entity
sets mad men going off
on a rampage of ranting, and raving,
and even killing in the name of pro life.

     This introspective, live,
oddly ruminating uber xman wags
as a sagacious thinker,
and does assent that a capital offense
(such as ****** – minus self defense)
ought to be dealt with a blow
(both figurative and literal)
against the killer, though outright execution
disallows the hardened criminal
to become sensitized
to such a deadly deed.

     Earlier chapters of mein kampf
would elicit an immediate declaration
that what he/she who kills another
ought to get (I scream) their just desserts.

     As the decades passed, a realization
that exact retribution can bring reduction
regarding the departed heartfelt,
lost past quirky specialness,
whether that person
constitutes an outlier
whose notions, thoughts,
whims, et cetera, could upend
the entire complex edifice
what tomb me on par
with an ennobled, established,
and accepted myth greater than Sisyphus.

     Whatsapp penning to me
(a punning logophile
with acute perception
can be briefly explained
by the role of fatherhood.

     As the papa of two
dearly beloved daughters
(both soon on the cusp of taking wing
and flying the coop
at the electronic date/time stamp),
many controversial stances
underwent augmentation
within the breastworks of mine *****.

     How many emotionally
laden issues posit one or both
of said prized progeny
as a hypothetical/speculative victim
courtesy growing up
in a dysfunctional upbringing.

     Anger against the avenger
would be mirrored by innumerable questions.

     I would be keen to share
how pained this papa felt/feels,
and beckon to  explain
what provoked such unforgivable
vengeful wrath against himself.

     Damage would haunt
thine prized precious offspring,
and this dada cannot imagine
how a mother and father endure
the never-ending permanent harm
dealt their son or daughter
no matter the perpetrator penalized.

— The End —