Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i only started collecting a library, because, would you believe it, my local library was a pauper in rags and tatters; apologies for omitting necessary diacritic marks, the whiskey was ******* on icecubes to a shrivel.*

ernest hemingway, e.m. forster, mary shelley,
aesop, r. l. stevenson, jean-paul sartre,
jack kerouac, sylvia plath, evelyn waugh,
chekhov, cortazar, freud, virginia woolf,
philip k. ****, dostoyevsky, aleksandr solzhenitsyn,
oscar wilde, malcolm x, kafka, nabokov,
bukowski, sacher-masoch, thomas a kempis,
yevgeny zamyatin, alexandre dumas,
will self, j. r. r. tolkien, richard b. bentall,
james joyce, william burroughs, truman capote,
herman hesse, thomas mann, j. d. salinger,
nikos kazantzakis, george orwell,
philip roth, joseph roth, bulgakov, huxley,
marquis de sade, john milton, samuel beckett,
huysmans, michel de montaigne, walter benjamin,
sienkiewicz, rilke, lipton, harold norse,
alfred jarry, miguel de cervantes, von krafft-ebing,
kierkegaard, julian jaynes, bynum porter & shephred,
r. d. laing, c. g. jung, spinoza, hegel, kant, artistotle,
plato, josephus, korner, la rochefoucauld, stendhal,
nietzsche, bertrand russell, irwin edman,
faucault, anwicenna, descartes, voltaire, rousseau,
popper,  heidegger, tatarkiewicz, kolakowski,
seneca, cycero, milan kundera, g. j. warnock,
stefan zweig, the pre-socratics, julian tuwim,
ezra pound, gregory corso, ted hughes,
guiseppe gioacchino belli, dante, peshwari women,
e. e. cummings, ginsberg, will alexander, max jacob,
schwob, william blake, comte de lautreamont,
jack spicer, zbigniew herbert, frank o'hara,
richard brautigan, miroslav holub, al purdy,
tzara, ted berrigan, fady joudah, nikolai leskov,
anna kavan, jean genet, albert camus, gunter grass,
susan hill, katherine dunn, gil scott-heron,
kleist, irvine welsh, clarice lispector, hunter thompson,
machado de assisi, reymont, tolstoy, jim bradbury,
norman davies, shakespeare, balzac, dickens,
jasienica, mary fulbrook, stuart t. miller,
walter la feber, jan wimmer, terry jones & alan ereira,
kenneth clark, edward robinson, heinrich harrer,
gombrowicz, a. krawczuk, andrzej stasiuk, ivan bunin,
joseph heller, goethe, mcmurry, atkins & de paula,
bernard shaw, horace, ovid, virgil, aeschyles,
rumi, omar khayyam, humbert wolfe, e. h. bickersteth,
asnyk, witkacy, mickiewicz, slowacki, lesmian,
lechon, lep szarzynski, victor alexandrov, gogol,
william styron, krasznahorkai, robert graves,
defoe, tim burton, antoine de saint-exupery,
christiane f., salman rushdie, hazlitt, marcus aurelius,
nick hornby, emily bronte, walt whitman,
aryeh kaplan, rolf g. renner, j. p. hodin, tim hilton... etc.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
all this en masse... gravity toward...
"sanity" and sobriety...

well... it's the nicety of giving /
stating compliments...

if only there was less
fertile ground:
to make one's arguments for...

if the united kingdom
was more akin to... iceland...

             i drink...
  and that gives me hope
in my original venture:
h'america signed a plot
line division:
to abhor the liquid...

for it brought nothing but ill...
constipated abolitionists...
whiskey frankenstein's
monster's fire: bad... mantra...

in that:
the perverted persuasion
tactic of the... limited sober...
sane... the... cream / rather not:
the creep of the crop...
and this is... somehow...
the **** worthy of harvesting?

one ghost... limping...
dead loitering limb...
a foot... for that crazed
ballerina...
then a jargon of a hand
missing... ghost reading
of braille...
             as one does:
when one's elbow
arrives on the scene...
with... robert downey jr.
and tommy lee jones...

then again... ask...
what is... homogeneity...
to the... russians...
                    sweep-stake
the concept of mongol and orc...
somehow: the old east...
is the new south...
you have an imploded "problem"...
you allow it...
all the circus rights of a democratic
load and loot and allowance...

those... whitey...
masochistic chant-lords...
are no good to begin: governing:
anew...

i hear one more ref. to 1984...
i swear to god...
i'll start the **** book burning
fiasco...
              that's all that's ever recited
these days...
it's not the monolith of the bible
recitation...
it's 1984...
it's not even: homage to catalonia...
it's not even...
the stranger by albert camus...
it's this... fixation on:
this was necessarily true...
it had to be necessarily true:
since... we ensured that it be...
necessarily true!

         brave new world
and 1984: sometimes known as...
the works of prophet isaiah...
and malachi...
or some bogus first choice answers...

it's not like charles dickens...
the pickwick papers are to be cited...
no... ray bradbury's
          fahrenheit 451...
     or "we" by yevgeny zamyatin...
is no... one...
to cite... from...
the master and margarita...
mikhail bulgakov -
then again... again... again...
       he, of our own...
that was always right...
and we... of his own...
dumb enough... to have...
         walked... into his...
prediction... and... gloated at it...
when... walking into it...
**** y'ay: brovado!

          it's one scrutiny to...
blind time with all the omnipresence
of open space...
that there is a future:
you'll forgive me: there isn't one...
it's all... kiss and kick
a donkey with a whipping:
blind... then... fish one out...
for the royal ascot...
with an imaginary carrot...
the stick doesn't mind...
whether it be imaginary:
or detailed...

                  but as long as someone...
somewhere...
    is reading an alternative...
not some... thought-fulfilling gravity
of consorts and bitter bitten knees
with more than mere...
masochism of kneeling on pebbles...
there's the... kneeling...
and the exposed calf... and biting riddles
of... the demon with a name akin
to belzeebub! the one associated
with minding mosquitos!

     sayz who?

that these... people... are well verse...
they cite 1984 by george orwell...
like they might cite the *******
quran...
         because: hey presto!
something is real!
they adore... the past...
catching up to the present...
and the present being
devoid of a future...
who aren't the people...
already drunk from...
something in the past...
   coming true?!

      of fruit:
the U.B.D. the B.B.D.
and the S.B.D.
  i love those acronyms as much as i love...
that... affair with the acronym of...
the idea of USA... prior to...
   the louisiana purchase...
                     that little affair of
anglo-dutch proto-germanicus...
maine... new england...
all that fuzzy jazz and... smog...
and lost clue... for: dreamland of
lingering horror...

  so said the sober and "sane" people...
that sanity of the blah of the herd...
well... yeah...
h'america and probihition...
one of those... moon-milking
nation of narratives...
              how science-fiction was
always to eclipse the science itself.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
it's a paradox of yevgeny zamyatin, that the true rebellion is caused by a stress of the necessity of dreaming... talk to any schizoid individual and you find they're the dream manufacturers... dreams happen in the safe environment of the laboratory of the unconscious... they're the socially acceptable hallucinations... it's even socially acceptable to interpret them... which i find very odd... why should unconscious hallucinations be socially acceptable and profitable and career crafting and conscious hallucinations be socially stigmatised? ah the safety, the environment of the freduain interpretation of dreams: well... he's ******* asleep, isn't he?! ******.

after my usual walks drinking, i tend to enter the
realm of heat and christmas tree
a little bit too brooding,
i just painted a picasso or a kandinsky,
burnt it, and then am told to "plagiarise" it...
i don't like the approach nietczsche had
taking a notebook with him
and writing his thoughts written,
i like the way my faculty memory
eats the immediacy of thinking
as counter to the translation of descartes'
theory equating existence with thought
as if thought could prove i exist
thus uncoupling it from the original:
thought and doubt.
memory is central by comparison,
i have the revision from the miscarriage of descartes'
aim: memini ergo cogito.
it makes sense, given i started the night off
buying three san miguel bottles at tesco,
buying five beers at the turk,
spotting russell the schizoid-affective man
huntched in a corner...
told him five minutes max...
started talking with him
about the ol' sailor's narrative... turbulent noons
and midnights with a bottle of jack...
wide eyed russell every time i speak to him
reflected...
i remember drinking my first coffee aged 7...
i was born with a heart condition...
i shouldn't have... live dangerously though...
drank it... magic!
i remember the taste even now.
the cognitive me is not the existential me...
odd, isn't it?
i should have kept the original kandinsky,
but i burnt it and kept the plagiarism...
why is it that the function of memory
is paramount to mental health?
this prof. of psychology itemised this girl
who's north mania south an airplane descending
from the height vector with the ears popping...
why is it that i can remember me aged 7
and most people got cheated into total engagement
in life in the orientation of satisfied or dis-satisfied
expression of puberty?
if the faculty of memory is not defended
then diseases enter...
not one of the diseased is like an original adam,
like translation of original adam, i.e. mozart beethoven
einstein...
good enough to be without plain jane as narrator
and puppeteer...
let the strings do the talking, please!
i'm in love with ****-****** literature...
take that **** of yours, that suitcase
of ***** stockings to your mother to give it a eco-friendly
spin of the washing-machine...
**** that crap should that crap enter my heart...
you heard of ****** latin? i think you have,
it's not church slavonic, it's rude latin...
the type of thing that adds oil on the cogs
and makes you adherent to the philosophy:
pause for thought or pause for fake vocabulary?
i sweat with oaths to add fluid...
if you're offended by **** and not f
ck you
must be really appreciative of pronography...
so they said: we must rid the word of a vowel
and expose the people with **** corn bits between the teeth!
well... it worked...
i didn't tell you remember the pythagorean theory
you were taught aged 12... i told you
to remember you aged 12... like i remember nathanel
with his briefcase in year 8 in math class...
like i remember this english teacher's legs
when i dropped the pen to loon inside the stash-load
of pooddles and *****...
like i remember racing a guy from bałtów
to ostrowiec and winning: he on a tour de france bike
with anorexic model tires and
my on mountain bike fatties...
i told you memory is crucial... given our thought explored
inanimate things as the perfection of our knowledge,
given our thought explored animate things
as perfectly categorising man and animal alike
thus mis-interpretating ourselves, oh the sacrifice of
the perfectly catalogised atom among the toothbrushes...
a convo of assortments...
it's perfect knowledge in relation to inanimate things...
the sort of thing which is question:
but atoms are animate things... calling them inanimate
just because they're invisible doesn't give you a
right to driftwood clung to in robinson cruseo's shakespearean friday.
hence the passing inspiration... so dull now
that i only feel inspired to pour myself another whiskey
and justify the meaning of relaxed.
associate yourself with the world,
hardly many of us will end of with the genius score of don juan,
we're in an environment of strict biology,
we're told that memory governs our world
with the world being on the quest to repeat...
and it does repeat... sounding the encore of biting frost,
sounding the encore of delighted shadows of summer
having postponed snipers to shoot them dead with night...
the world that inquires per se via repeat
only divinites man's faculty that's memory,
and quickly attacks it in revenge by dementia...
imagination is left to the murderers' who fancy
all the hues of red on the face....
this world is not pleasant to those who think,
to those who couple thought with imagination,
and to those who couple thought with memory...
alas... such few increments are left to re-discover
after being taught the uselessness of centimetre
when no centimetre knowledge is used in their
mechanisation of a profession.
that bit monkey less than man already happened
contradictory in theoretical terms
given the diversity whereby man's diversity
per se cannot explain the diversity of each thing
using evolutionary relativism, niche by-product concerns...
penguins will always make it to antarctica...
no banker or plumber on antarctica... just
scientists who started the whole expedition as
worth anything by counting penguin eggs...
indeed... ah this is going nowhere...
i don't believe in evolutionary relatvism
like socrates didn't believe in moral relativism
theft is punishable with the cutting of the hand
that stole... ****** is punishable with the cutting
of the head - it's all really related)...
and the aesthetic relativism is as true as: beauty
is in the eye of the beholder -
to that girl in the night near the church
walking with a concerned friend
concerned by her attractive panda-eyed mascara expression.
most of the time i find the inherent vice of jungian
interpretation of poets
to be a case of narration: poets don't write enough
to be valued! i respect fictional occupants of the
equivalent hammer of a labourer writing long paragraphs!
well, true enough... any idiot would suddenly exclaim
a symptom as: i differentiate that i'm a constant inspiration
for a non-existent narrator, and the symptom i differentiate
from true to fake by the fact it hinders my faculty to think...
pronoun shrapnel i call it... auxillary pronouns
that benefit me to expand my thought on a levelling
that did not want to see in monochromatic divergence
of continued with linear-ism akin to horse blinders
that only exposed a corridor where a valley could have stood
for the eyes to be inspired by.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
it happened in china, about fifty years ago,
with a singleton clone embryo,
all very barnacle if you ask me,
but not as bonkers as the story from
moscow by yevgeny zamyatin,
anyway... the soloists were split into three
categories - the ones that made
mental games their signature,
the ones that made animals
their buddies... and the third...
oh the ones who started off like ivan
throwing dogs off the kremlin
                    towers to break their legs?
they're the power people ready to
steal a mongol from a war camp
and un-slit his eyes by cutting off the eyelids.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
1984...
funny year...

that's in the future, right,
the future where
i'm in no part to blame
for any active agency...

no... мы...
           no zamyatin...
modern day politics,
*******
        boney m and
ra- ra-
   rhapsody in b-putin
minor...

     mw'y...
вы - vw'y...
   Y, yes, that hollowed
out iota...
pasture of the sign
of the cross...
lost among
the W and the Ł...
            
but in the days when...
i am...
    born... innate...
with a distrust for politicians...
i am also
to entertain
an innate prejudice
against... journalists?!

please tell me...
at what moment
(if not already)
     i am to, not...
differentiate
the journalist from
the politician?

                at no point?
sorry, i'm a bit slow...
1984 happened
in 20- thereby or so
a year... with me being
two years shy of existence...

suits...
i see suits grieving
being allowed
their rhetorical
   wunderbar!
  sharpen than knife,
herr meißel...
              the ****** *****
epidemic of westen bərˈlin
(ja, ə no
        boar / bore leen)...

how much *******
           "hollowing out"
do you need,
to require an Y become an
I?
           i count to three...
you... cúnt to tow,
or two...
   as in:                  count...
ú is a: pool table
for the saying...
'arp as a cue,
but no queue in mind...
i.e.: ******* coont...
Maine... ****...
                       breed of cats...

complete with citations
of Orwell...
like...
      there is something
inherent in me,
whereby...
            i feel, most inclined...
to not wish to be here...
are you too feeling
some tickle
of the said sentiment?

- but i'm here,
and luck, is no charm,
as neither is...
giving citations borrowed
from Shakespeare...
nor will schizophrenic
paranoia play a part...
they're out to get me,
and i'm in no mood
to get anything,
apart from...
the thrill of the mob...
and a raw herring...
soaked in brine...
later dipped into some
sour cream and gherkin sauce...
eaten like...
that time when a *** ate
what he forgot was supposed
to be... a take on...
investigating the practice
of sushi... on the shoreline
of the Baltic sea...

and its... "people"...
       oh don't worry...
i can dehumanize myself,
just fine...
but such a curiosity cannot
simply go...
   sterile for so long...

   1984...
sorry... what year?
          its like:
people keep citing and citing
that one work of
effort,
to the point where:
stop citing it,
i'm living in...
what was supposed
to be the, "current" year...
        that wasn't supposed
to be: the year in tow...

        and that's not even
the year i was born into,
with the inflation
of a dead come to an end
soviet society pact
for the satellite states
with its: hyper-quasi-Zimbabwe
type of inflation
ergonomics...

      what the **** is this...
always look at the pauper
for any worth of a sentiment
for doubt?!
             juggernaut-kiss-***
*** beg-for-***...
   and then...
in a distance... an angelic choir...
less to assure you
a good-night's sleep
and more...
pseudo-amphetamine inducing
insomnia of...
left, shattered,
and riddled
(don't forget the riddled part)...
the sand baron of
theology stood his ground...
and chose...
his... corpus caedis...
    
now you expect a crescendo
of a juggling act...
suppose...
        i have any russian
in me...
   the ****-nick
of the solistice of me
throwing a dinner plate
in a row over domestic
functions of the atom, and family?

what then?
i pray to caesar:
vis, mors subita...
     only, (a) sudden death.

i cannot shed light
on the parlance
between the fake throng,
the partriarch
and his deadbed...
              as much...
as i'd like to shed light
on...
dying... in the hands
of Aisha (abi bakr)...

   i already known my
meine gedacht...
mein schatten...
meine freunde...
mein charon...
            ich sterben
mit die sohle
   trost,
          auf meine
sohle krank...
                              misch!    

bride, bed, willow...
and all the eerie
chimes...
of  the wind...
killing patience...
playing
an attempt at... flute!
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
i sometimes take a walk to remind myself
that i still possess legs...
i have no curiosity
to chariot keeping up appearances:
after all...
a car does invoke
paying road tax...
and getting a yearly...
         m.o.t. check...
         driving a car implies:
you can be implored by
the police to be stopped-over
and have your driving licence
checked...
unlike... in some places...
where... the "lesser passport" /
identity card is invoked
for merely walking...
who's who...
into the petrol station...
a bottle of beer...
walking out: oh hell...
no bottle opener...
back into the petrol station
to buy a cigarette lighter...
the minor archimedes...
should i not enjoy having
legs that... can...
somehow behave autonomously?
that people want so much...
so much is to be achieved...
and then that marriage with
death: the inevitable bride...
to reach old age is somehow
the purpose these days...
to reach old age and to live
in fear...
   what a crowning achievement...
collision course with...
a "belief" in an after-life...
or the already suggested:
quest and... game over...
a car for...
driving through Upminster...
the teenager girls walking
around with teases of their
****-cheeks exposed...
and i am somehow:
"not" tempted?
    to what... execution of a narrative?
she will grow to be...
less gracious than...
an 18th century first edition...

it's one thing to walk through
a gallery of paintings...
after all: to paint is to have invested
in something...
words are cheap...
homogeneity of ink...
            baron square sold for
his elevated cubist reiteration
of the rhombus...
    
               transit art: sitting nicely
with some scrap-heap journalism...
today was: this! spectacular!
no different to the prior day!
no different to the day after!

           but the sun and earth...
the moon was slow...
there was this miraculous... buoyancy...
nonetheless...

one could breathe awe and breath
it... because... even though there
were animate objects...
in the narrative... they... couldn't
be distinguished from the inanimate
objects... they... became...
so coherently... predictable...
fail-safe mechanisms...
truly: deus ex machina...

                  one can almost tease
a solipsism when...
and how the wind brushes tree branches...
how the sea froths and imitates
yards gained wave upon wave
for the shape of reiteration...
but there's "nothing" within it...
to prove a: ex nihil continued:
ad continuum:
    
               the thesaurus god...
a peacock of synonyms...
    the hebrews have... 72 substitute nouns...
the arabs have 99 minor allahs...
and "we"... well.. we have...
the omni- litany rubric...
which... is boring as ****...
              omnipresent i.e. telepathic
is the worst read scenario...

   at least... if given birth to a telepathy of god...
one would be more... courtesan...
when dealing with madmen...
impregnated with the "imagination
of sanity sages": the priests...

it's one thing to... spew the narrative...
sober... dictum: sane...
but another of an omnipresent...
boor... of a god...
and thesaurus rex: forger of a mona lisa...

if it is such an abhorrent word...
the arabs would tell you:
                 dog... as would... slayer ***
the stooges sing-along...
        make way! for the almighty:
blah'lah!

the idea of "god" is most probably...
something...
infantile... imbecile...
               terminology: schizoid: supreme
binding glue...
       which begs the question:
it's not really a thought of...
   but the obstructive nature that...
has no... real narrative purpose...

                       we could have so much
more than... the joy of exercising one's
legs when walking...
it is... mid-june... after all...
the nights are warm...
           the solistice is upon us...
and i can... walk my choice of streets
and find... hardly a wish for
confrontation with a brute
about to cout-knuckles...
or a hard-on thrill adventure with
a *****...

          there has to come a clearer
gratification from walking...
to use ones legs has to become
a central theme from therein...
        how... i don't have to...
ask for a ghost-limb effect...
   how... the legs can write their own...
paragraph of an hour...
so that... the brain can switch off...
for all the claustrophobia
of descartes' res cogitans:
     i counter... res vanus...
         in...

                  how a certain scent...
short-circuits my memory
and i enter a walk-through cinema...
or... after a worthy hour...
i sit... perched on a windowsill
on a folded leg...
and look at my... private library...

  a walk through a gallery...
  and... that sort of session strapped
to a windowsill...
a crow healing a broken wing...
to look at all the books...
read... being stacked up...
     it's unlike... walking into a bookshop...
and this feud of the eyes and the heart...
and the mind: the argument...
of having read...
the brothers karamazov...
but not having read... moby ****...
but somehow having ingested...
a cultural relativity of moby ****
through a different medium...
so... no... not ignorant of moby ****...
but... you have read the brothers karamavoz...
but you haven't read moby ****...

and that's... "somehow" a problem...
which would be hardly a problem...
if you were a PRO-per... a PROP'ah...
MAN'S-MAN... a WOEMAN'Z-MENSCH!
let's forget that the prefix:
uber beside: taxi-daddy-for-her-16-yer-old
princess oi oi! cabby! blah blah...

you know... it's a lot different...
walking into a bookshop...
surrounded by... books you haven't read...
and... amassing a private library:
romford town library can be shamed!
although... proud...
they did own thomas mann's
dr. faustus... which i did borrow...

                         a book... on par...
with anything heidegger ever would write
in either old age or youth...
beside... it's one thing to walk into
a bookshop and be...
"circumcised" k.o. with all the books
you having read...
and those nights staging a coup...
looking at your private collection...
and what you're read... of it...
and...
              if you could ever see the size...
of the in-real-life... the size of...
philipp MALYAVIN's... peasant woman
dancing... late 1900s...

        well... it would be akin to...
standing before an altar of someone who
had a private library... of read books...
of mutilated books by reading...
books with creases like napkins...
          a private library not to boast
a fake intellect...
or to boast intellect therefore...
to "appear intelligent"...
   let's skip to... nurturing a double posit
of privacy... a cognitive labyrinth...
enough to enjoy a beer when walking
in the night...

        unlike going to a gallery and
appreciating all the paintings...
to look at... a stack of read books...
books... not worth discarding in a carboot sale...
a private library: notably...
in two tongues... and a third spare...
a stack of books read...

say... alone... the Sienkiewicz trilogy...
which is not the Tolkien trilogy...
i'm bored of people regurgitating....
as they would do... making videos...
citations of 1984 and brave new world...
yes yes... and what of... Zamyatin's we?  
subscript notes for:
pedophiles, pederasts and pedants...
or priests, prostitutes and psychiatrists...        
                  
it's one thing... to go among paintings
in a gallery... without a mirror or glass...
and the ******* of space that a gallery confines
the painting to...
or a piece of paper and some caryons like
a child might...
but... eh!
    not going anywhere...
      a private library of books read...
   stacked like cans of baked beans
in a supermarket...
hey presto! no warhol!
     a different paternity of time invoked...
i have... 3 years apart... and roughly
a month from each of these 3 years...
           confined to... roughly...
the parameters of a box that could also
be used to... stack-up radios... etc.

     yes... it has become apparent...
this life is worthy of exhausting the narrative...
after all... so many things in this world:
do not have a fixation of narrative
as their prime concern for: ex nihil...

                      i have the cameo cinema of memory...
the blank stare and buddha-blind vector
of imagination...
               and that... ever...
more realistic currency of presently:
entertained consciousness... with not much
achieved... beside...
an argument contra Freud:
            what if i haven't been afforded
the luxury of dreams? interpret what?
    a hermann rorschach?
                       herr doktor KLEKS...
    kleggs... and various other alternatives...
antithesis chiral...
                             of note:
the lesser detail of any known theoretical
confine of organic chemistry.

— The End —