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Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
pre-scriptum:
                no polyglot would experience this sort of "paradox", it's not even a paradox of a "paradox" off a 'paradox', bilingualism has its methodology, as Kant could explain, extracting his methodology off the page into a meticulous day-to-day activity... the sage / if not the clock of Königsberg... i can imagine this obsessive-compulsive mini-rituals that would always escape the throng on a Sunday... the Sunday eucharist wasn't enough for the man, there were so many rituals to take care of, having famously not married, while Kierkegaard having: infamlusly not married... i appreciate their strategy... reading them while also reading Nietzsche, these two gentlemen, by comparison, if not in work, certainly in life gravitate above the popularity of Nietzsche... why? Nietzsche appears as an incel... fan boy, are you? *******... but you need some sort of structure if you're not going to marry... Kant found his daily routine an eternal mass... so many routine daily tasks seemingly mundane to some, can enlarge themselves to become out of proportion pillars of preserving sanity in face of standing before god and a post-life scenario... hell is not so much a place of suffering... i can tell you of the most "mild" form of suffering... an extrovert becoming drunk... constant talking, lack of purpose as in: lack of direction culminating in: lack of concentration, pandemonium is the heaven of a flickering light for a moth... again... this always bewilders me... why did Sisyphus have to drag the stone up the hill? was there some overlooking demon with a whip looking over him? couldn't he just... sit, and concentrate on the stone, create pleasure, from thinking? is that really so odd... i suppose so... given the grand h'american export of the freedom of speech... few people will find pleasure in thinking... Kierkegaard, which Nietzsche didn't read... said: why do people concern themselves with the freedom to speak, when they already possess a freedom to think? is this, me speaking, because it's the internet and it's a public space... surely i don't have an eloquent speech, i speak too quickly, i sometimes mumble, this is an extension of thinking, it's not an invitation to speak... rhetoric is an art designated for people who joked about philosophy and took sophistry seriously... i don't like Nietzsche... i still think of the man as the esteemed bachelor... apparently being freed from women allowed him to write his Critique with the sort of clarity that comes, in a cascading form, at the end, in the methodology of transcendence... which reads, like a page-turner tabloid narrative... once the formalities / difficulties are established... i'm no polyglot though, but i do succumb to some eccentricities... as any entrenched bilingual might... notably linguistics... how there are no diacritical markers in english, but there are: in other latin script based languages of continent europe... how i've never heard of dyslexia outside of the realm of spoken english... how orthography does not exist in the english language, which creates all these silly english questions of: what is reality, what is perception... with no orthography: metaphysics runs rampant... and "another" thing... i really can't read a philosophy book in english, i always have to revert back to my mother tongue, to Polish... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i looked at Plato once in english... the aesthetic is lost on me... but the Irish know of the Slavic aesthetic when it comes to dialogue, i.e.:

(a) the english standard for dialogue weaved into a narrative -
"i want this," she said,
   "as i want that," he said...
(b) the slavic standard for dialogue weaved into
a narrative...
- so?
- what?
- will we try to speak without
   the reiteration of who said what?
- we could.
- no, we should.
smoother... James Joyce noted this,
casual - no point adding descrptions of
how the puppet-master lost power
over his puppets with " " ditto markers of
dialouge of a: he, he really did say...
no, not he, the narrator...

   i simply cannot read the genre of philosophy in english, too much easy access points of pop culture with that umbrella overreach... matrix, memes, darwinism, blah blah... too much focus on images and very little focus on words, esp. etymology, that other component of history that focuses on: a universal application of words, beside status king, or status pauper... both the word bread can succumb to the king's tongue, as to the pauper's... but with an origin story? anything beside **** similis, the monkey, will do me just fine... then again... there's no one strand of monkey to begin with... a bit like looking up your own *** for too long, you decide that there's a coherent, "bigger picture" and it begins with chimp- and ends with -rilla... doesn't anyone else just tire of looking up a monkey *** to peddlestool the importance of darwinism for so long? i mean... at least chemistry is a playground among the science... there's no worry for a beginning... there's only play... no... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i have to read it in Polish... which is also a... january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, novermber, december... you'd think i'd be able to recite you the months in my mother tongue... styczeń, luty, marzec, kwiecień, maj, czerwiec, listopad, grudzień... english alphabet? a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, m, n, l, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v... **** gets scrambled... pointless rubrics... give me the practical! - i've just picked up a copy of Plato's republic... straight away i know that i'm finding my gensus in Plato rather than Aristotle...

    och ty, pijaku z psim pyskiem,
                  a za to z sercem jelenia...

    oh you, drunkard with a dog's snout,
                           nonetheless, with a stag's heart...

again, Nietzsche: Kant is an idiot, Plato is boring...
perhaps in German, for a German,
looking for Germany while roaming parts of Italy...
well... Plato, really seems appealing in
high slavic (western), the conversations breed
a sense of clarity, about fog, about darkness,
or any akin metaphor to boot...
                           between Nietzsche's maxims,
i'll take la Rochefoucauld succinct observations
before i succumb to pop-nietzsche modern
cult meme fucklords...
                          Roger Moore... prime example
of a bachelor, Kant, the same, Kierkegaard...
as for myself? if i married?
  would i still have the same sort of access to new
music, that i currently enjoy?
   for god's sake... i have to fall asleep while
listening to music, if i spend a day without
at least 5 hours of music on the headphones
   i start to lose the plot...
              my drinking is merely a side-note...
a p.s., given that now i'm a reformed drinker?
having cut my dosage in half...
     i'm still a music *****...
   women don't like music junkies...
                   and when my ex- started reading me
a qustionnaire from a russian cosmopolitan
magazine on the train to moscow from
st. petersburg... i thought i was going to shoot
myself in the head...
             perfect girlfriend this,
perfect girlfriend that...
             bob dylan saved me...
        but not for long...
                         women aren't feline...
at least with a cat you can ignore it...
                  he's pretending to be a solipsist and
you pretend to be: caring...
                 food on the table,
a clean litter tray... besides that?
                                                 fuckoffski!
     and i write this from a perspective of endearment,
nothing beats the zenith moments in a hetrosexual
relationship... the odd date...
                 talking impromptu... making food...
***, ***... ***... *** *** ***... ***... ***...
       but the petty arguments...
   the attention to detail...
                   god... anniversaries?
  i don't even celebrate my own birthday!
i fake celebrating christian holidays...
                    today is today, tomorrow:
that's tomorrow's concern...
           o.k. england winning the cricket world cup...
but that's a celebration with a calendar!
it's not regulated by hormones and
the impossibility for nostalgia...
                 i tried the relationship,
i tried the ***...
                       i had to visit a brothel for
the anaesthetic with regards to the past...
  i needed to visit the brothel to also visit
the butchers...
                               i needed to become meat,
to **** meat... and stop concerning myself over looks:
they only brought me trouble...
like i was walking with a "telepathic"
c.c.t.v. crow on my shoulder...
                             so i put on the weight i lost...
and... at that point? it was liberating...
mind you... if you want to lose weight?
  bicycle and swimming... no gym...
fruit for your last meal during the day...
eat anything you want...
  but losing weight? and all that bulimia,
classical roman bulimia:
training the oesophagus with first *******
into the mouth... then with no fingers
down the mouth?
                beauty... is not worth the trouble
when you really tempt yourself with the expansive
temporal canvas...
21 was my peak... after that...
                     voluntary celibacy...
                   a **** here and there...
            but no... it's not for me...
                    i guess i looked up to the right sort
of men... with regards to staying a bachelor...
to be highly invested in something,
   like Kant in a transcendent methodology...
like Kierkegaard invested in the arts...
like Nietzsche invested in waiting for
the fruition of his prophesies...
                      you have to be born to want to live
the simple happy life...
                  the "expected" life...
       the whole Hiob motto of: once taken,
can be regained blah blah...
                        it needs to have trans-generational
breeding involved...
                   a list of expectations...
                social-pressures and for that matter:
intrinsic socially-cohesive-stratification...
i'm a ****** in England...
             and... that puts as much social pressure
on me as... a chihuaha barking does
to an Alsatian's yawn... that's the stereotype...
the smalls dogs bark... the big dogs bite...
                 oh sure, when i visit my grandparents
back "home"... the older generation put
the pressure questions to the test:
even women from Warsaw...
   so where's your girlfriend?
to the old folk i reply: well i can't exactly force
a woman to be with me...
to the women of Warsaw?
   i'm practially a monk...
                        why?
          you don't really want to be aged 21...
forced with a scenario of:
happily dating, presumably reciprocrating trust
with regards to contraception,
being forced to reply to the scenario:
i think i'm pregnant... my my...
   and we were only 6 months apart after
the break-up, living in two different cities...
em...
                     on a lighter note...
what's the most fun you can have in Kenya?
   sitting on the balcony, in the shade...
feeding rascal macaques anything from nuts...
to bags of sugar... you, two macaque monkeys,
one balcony... the indian ocean frothing beyond...
it doesn't require a genius to figure out
what's worth cherishing without having
to feel obliged to the whole of humanity for...
offspring - many already figured this out before me:
you learn to give birth to your self (reflective,
and yes, not yourself - the reflexive)...
   which brings death to having to stand on its head...
... isn't Sisyphus the son of Atlas?
            couldn't Sisyphus just sit beside the stone
and... well yeah: think up the philosopher?

.em... looking back at the british empire, and the loud-mouth former colonial people... by god, i've never seen such leeches, i've never seen a people, so proud of being colonialißed! what's there to be proud of?! looks like in a post-colonial world, these former colonial busy-bodies had to, had to: step up and move their markers for Aladdin being performed in the West End... *******...  never in the history of the world, were post-colonial people endowed with so much pride, the whole m'ah bwee'dish *******... to counter herr zeppelinmann with the pakistani in the p.s. framework of the british empire... rotherham... ring a pakistani blue?! have a guitar on y'ah?! see... i don't like these former colonial states, with their people migrating to england, having their overlord say it now, say it clear bollocking... i don't mind a top hat, tux donning ******* giving me directions... but when a ****- does it?! sorry... i'm so sorry... will you please excuse me?! i just don't like *******, i don't like the sort of people who celebrate being colonial subjects, esp. after the whole post-colonial celebration of "libertion"... i don't like ****** / pakis who have to find their "past" by playing the cricket ball of, "the former" colony! i hate copper skinned ******* of ****- origins! former colonial raj-vizier... how can you breed these sort of people, who find pride in being under colonial power?! the **** didn't understand freedom, only understood it when being subject to its lack?! well... so much for english women... i guess they were only going to go for pakistani grooming gangs... drowning in the ganges... i have as much of jesus christ on the cross in me, as i have plenty and enough of pontius pilate's worth of soap to mind the next few years; never in my life would i have to witness the former colonißed to bribe their way, into an acceptance "speech" methodology... the ****- to fable the englishman for his, "tea"... no conquered people, no colonißed people should ever glorify their conquerers or colonißers... i guess the british achieved a double subversion... why do the ****- (stanis) still play cricket... i don't want to know... i'm new here... but... but... when a ****- attempts to displace a european from europe? that's my breaking point... i don't like being displaced from europe... the next ****- that will? well... the obvious target, a northern english teenager girl readied for grooming. i said! next ****- that tries to displace an european from europe... well... i guess.. given the power of the current politicians... nothing! ha ha!

well, with the e.u. article x, y and z...
herr zensor just flew over
London and dropped a bomb
from his zeppelin,
             because?
         two year ago,
       a teenager, girl, aged 13,
downloaded some materials
regarding self-harm...
              now the english government
is implicating regulations,
it will regulate social media usage,
mind you: ***** 'arry was pushing
the agenda all along...
   never mind the competent users...
just tackle the problem
with the addicts...
    oh look: no ******, no alcohol...
ms. amber: i'm sorry, we've failed,
we punched "the agenda"
of a blank canvas too far,
    we're going to have to double down,
for a while, so we can just
survive and have this sort
of a punching-bag of a blank
canvas readied for us...
               so the government will come
in and regulate,
       come on, 13 years old,
but the rising queer epidemic of
premature depression in the youth?
    while the parents do not
implement internet safety
   for their children,
        no block filters...
                like blocking pornographic
sites,
      so the infiltration came
            from within the supposed
safety-net sites?
           ****... i was exposed to
rotten.com by word of mouth at
school...
                           just when the internet
launched with that whole
dial-up modem,
    chris rock in lethal weapon
moment talking about old telephones...
and people bemoaned e.u.
articles...
         there have to be consequences...
people should / companies
should be taken into account...
     what about the *******
  who sold me chemically enhanced
marijuana?
            well of course:
   better a guilty man walk free,
than an innocent man become imprisoned...
that logic is still kinda flimsy
for me...
                 i don't know why...
   but it just is...
    surely there are parental filters
for what a child can and cannot see
on the internet...
                 when i was first exposed
to horse on woman *******?
       em...
         is there anything honest to think
about, at this point?
          maybe that's why i decided
to "ghost" around 200 fwends on fb.,
i figured...
        **** this pseudo-voyeurism
of what people want me to see...
    i've invested a decent amount of years
and settled for the 13K poem / doodle count...
and some pictures...
   none of them saved on a personal
drive...
         why would i stash the content,
hide it, when i want people to peruse...
'it's always dark before the dawn',
sorry, i don't know how much
of a ****-******* optimist i have to be...
before a stoic cynicism grinds me
to a halt of:
                   "branching out"...
              i came here for the punching bag
of a blank canvas...
              i never came for the fake
sycophancy or some count of numbers...
i came here, for an outlet...
      it was either this,
                     or a punching bag...
and you almost sense that this whole
farce of "national sovereignty"
is about to be dropped into the *******
and flushed...
       because... it will all become
                             "too inconvenient"...
oh they'll stall... until the european elections
take place...
                   and there's a u.k.
                        (probably the only time
where an N does't come between
vowels)...
                they're wriggling themselves
out... public: 1 vote...
                parliament: i've lost count...
it's not even akin to rats jumping ****,
more like a maggot **** in a pit...
                        that's what a cynic is:
a realist...
                         if i'm wrong, i'm wrong...
but...
              on several occassions
i haven't been wrong...
           and you just have to watch for
that glee in the eyes of channel 4 journalist
anchors...
     i know that glee in the eyes...
it's a glee of hope...
              a sly variation of hope...
               it's also a certainty imbued
               with a certainity-expectation;
thank god i didn't use the video medium...
no passive watchers,
      at least with writing...
certain sacrifices have to be made. / / / / / / / / / /
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

a "p.s.": well of course i'm not happy
with the news coming from today,
mind you: ever spot a woodland pigeon?
god, aren't they plump?
               bloated *******,
they always seem well fed by the forest...
a pair nested in a tree in my garden,
only yesterday, i picked up two
almost translucent offspring of theirs,
thrown out of the nest,
   the bride and groom
               decided they were sick,
weak...
                  they did look weak...
     death stared back at me,
          what once was animate,
lying there, among the stones, inanimate...
what a strange sight...
            do i believe in god?
            well... tell me...
   what is the driving force that coordinates
hearbeats, the functions of the stomach,
intestines, liver, kidney and lungs?
the categorical imperative split of the brain:
thinking, memory, imagination?
the bank of pathologies?
              tell me, what is the universal
1: nth term functions of the brain / 1 (divided
by 1),
                 the heartbeat / 1,
              the liver's function(s) / 1...
              the stomach's function / 1...
the pancreatic function / 1...
           i sometimes wonder:
  i own bones only in light of the thin
skinned extentsions associated with
fingers and tooes...
   sometimes this sort of thinking helps...
to "fake ignorance",
in order to rediscover awe...
         as if a genesis story...
to be the first...
        you never actually know what you will find...
sometimes there's no point being caged
in all the advancements of knowledge,
of certainity we are presented with
on the secular altar,
            ****! i can't even begin to comprehend
how i managed to clamour out from
beneath the eisenvorhang...
    a brief interlude... and straight back under
the siliziumvorhang...
            i guess i need to sleep the better dues
to pass this day...
           it was expected though,
i was, after all... sending out an S.O.S.,
     wattpad... what is it?
              teens wet silly with poetry
associated with no messy love,
mostly girls...
              YA novelties and novellas...
side projects...
               again: vampires, warewolves,
zombies, blah blah: yawn a year later...
         teen girls: sensitive as
daffodils, but as soon as a presence
comes along: little scheming modliszkas
   (mantises) - since daddy would not
approve...
              i discovered marquis de sade
in my teens: thank **** that i did...
i wished for an exoskeleton,
i moved past it, into lizard skin,
until my skin started resembling
an oyster shell hardness...
                     you snooze, you loße...
i only saw the trilogy once,
in the waterstones of Greenwich Village
in London, when i was doing some roofing
for a housing project...
i only saw the trilogy once...
i only bought Joris-Karl Huysmans's
Là-Bas once... i should have bought
the two other books...
  since i never saw them again...
  unlucky me... having succumbed to the sterotype
of the magpie stealing silver spoons...
the cover...
   artwork by aubrey beardsley:
                        'of neophyte and how the black art
was revealed to him by the fiend Asomuel'
   (the pall mall magazine, june 1893)...
on amazon.com you either get a chance
to purchase this book, or:
Against Nature (a rabours)...
    but there's a trilogy behind Là-Bas...
zee fwench: sorry, and not sorry,
the english can be grand poets,
but when it comes to prose?
                they're not even sniffing
the toes of the french...
                what happened to woodland pigeon
coos today?  wattpad.com,
2015...             the same for me...
an outright ban... because some girl
decided to be offended by me cutting off
a conversation with her: wish her a good life...
and i really out so much effort into that page...
zip it shrimpy: cut off, little richard
on the guillotine... cut!
                well... i was clued into
the world of 'olapoesía.com,
           hallopoesia.com
                       sveikidzeja.com (lithuanian...
dzieje? happenings, events, in ******)...
          and just my luck...
      leave a harmless comment in an in-group,
in a hive?
              how the nazis were not exactly
mongols, or the first christians who
burned down the library of alexandria,
when notre dame burned...
      when the blitz of london...
and how st. paul's "miraculously" survived...
and i said: i'm pretty sure the people
in command said to the luftwaffe squadron
about to bomb london:
you drop a single bomb on st. paul's:
firing squad...
           they were nazis: but sure as ****
they weren't the people of the siberian steppe!
so hellopoetry.com,
  2019, suspension from may until december 2019...
but unlike wattpad...
  i still have my account!
   and guess who's digging trenches, right now?
poetfreak.com and minds.com are
step-overs...
why did i delete my 200+ fwends off of
facebook.com and reduced it to
3 random strangers?
          eh?
                   as much as i abhor darwinism
poking its head through to give
every single existential explanation...
i have to side with darwinism on this point:
a defensive modus operandi...
lie low...
          pretend to be dead...
                   i knew the censorship storm
was coming back in 2015...
and this current banning of woodland pigeon
coos banning?
     i'm sort of happy...
but not for the sort of reasons stemming
from the ban...
     i can finally spread the "love"!
           i finally know what it feels like,
for someone who liked my work...
         being cut off from my content...
frankly... it feels great!
                   i can finally entertain my perspective
with a pinch of empathy...
sympathy is already here:
since it happened to me back in 2015,
and in early 2019...
         now for the 3rd time lucky
on the platforms i already mentioned...
but like this hindu woman said to me...
1st time is an honest mistake,
2nd time is a lesson in learning...
3rd time? there's nothing for you to learn...
and that's of course in reverse:
of me being banned.
                         after all...
if marquis de sade is still with us?!
                 marquis de sade...
                              i knew herr zensor was
coming...           but i didn't exactly
expect to climb from under the iron curtain,
to be draped over with the silicon curtain...
and these people know they're taking away
our former playground,
our youth center,
                       well...
                           but at least i didn't make
passive content akin to a video...
         if they really want to ban me a third
time...
       i'm glad someone took the effort
to read my work...
   saves them the time ageing toward granny
age, resorting to binging on harlequin
romance novels.

p.s.

you've actually caught me in my berserker
drinking mode... i'll just spew...
and spew as i must, i never expected
the "useful idiots" to comply to what my thinking
didn't prescribe them to do...
even hegel once pointed out:
something about 3D chess,
a thinking man, with pawns of willing
actors... i never liked hegel...

                  hegel has become too much
of a crucifix, a bookmark,
of what and where, "things" went wrong...
i hate bookmarked people...
kant isn't bookmarked...
         all the slander that nietzsche offered him,
as some repetitive jargon booster,
with the sort of a bachelor lifestyle
he greatly admired: rooted in Königsberg...
****** worked like clockwork...
his predictability was the great deception...
forget shuffling ideas and whatever
like a northern semite...
weren't the vikings the semites
of the north? restless creatures,
constantly displaced? weren't they?

mind you... eh...
     you know how many necromancers
actually exist?
   you ever read a book by jean-paul sartre?
james joyce? stendhal? dumas?
sienkiewicz?
      you sure you're not
a necromancer?
                it's not an exactly
illustrious title to hold...
             when reading the books
of the departed, aren't you invoking
their living presence, into the current storm
of affairs?
  sure as **** it's not a spectacular "title"
to hold, is it?
           to think: one is more likely
to cite the dead, having "risen" from
their grave, that one is to make
   "compensations" with the living...
   when journalism ****** politics...
and the sort of admired journalism,
akin to all the president's men...
died...
                a slower death than the traversing
speed of a snail...
   like that other quote beside
hegel:         the terrible...
                   has already happened.
the holocaust, chernobyl...
   that has already happened...
               awaiting what could ever be
worse: is but akin to the sword of Democles...
it's hanging in the air,
   blood-thirty,
  like the talking heads of
the french aristocracy, once the guillotine
chop happens... gagging for "free speech"
in a basket...
what is mary antoinette just said:
let them have croissants?!
    fat fake cake binges would...
with a snap of the fingers... be over...
still... the english crumpet...
      tyson fury vs. manny pacquiao
    (the obvious choice of crumpet,
and the croissant getting battered...
akin to a french toast,
               soaked in beaten eggs)...

you read any book by a dead person,
you're a necromancer...
             i'm a necromancer...
                 you're a necromancer...
the dead arrive at your head,
have a ******* with your thinking,
then leave,
you continue,
   in your own right,
and in their right: of mutating their
original thought...
          that lost ambition of narrative,
transcending any and all
moral 'oughts...
                    try me after an hour
spent with a ******* doing nothing
but kissing her:
just, because, "on a whim",
i forgot to trim my ***** hair...
                stealing kisses from prostitutes
isn't exactly easy...
all that pretty woman dogma...
     **** above a kiss...
          well... "yeah"... in reality?
                   i'm thinking about three things
right now... growing a heard long enough
to reach my heart...
   bonsai: in both the tree botanical form
and a feline form of a shrunken tiger
akin to a maine **** cat...
   and a pagoda...
                      don't ask me why...
i'm good at su doku puzzles... mahjong...
really **** on the crossword puzzle scale...
hence? random words just enter my mind
and i need an ars poetica impromptu
to lodge them into.

p.p.s.
i already know what the inquiring man would
or could ever do with a child,
to inquire about his own development as
a child, to find the: dot dot dot the missing
answers, to see for himself as he developed
into an adult, or, worse, to project his own failings
onto the child, child genius tiger mums team
alpha-bravo... child prodigy gehennah...
it's almost a psychological fetish for some,
to bind oneself to the canvas of a child,
better off with a cat, or a dog if that's your
"thing"... at least you won't be hurting anyone...
worse still: the marquis de sade ******
scenario... i still have memories from when
i was 4 years old... Ganesha must be looking
over me: the stereotype? elephants' memory,
which is as long as its trunk...
      "conundrum": if an adult male can fathom
his child: himself at the age of 4...
if he can fathom a metaphorical foetus,
why would he have to procreate,
to produce a d.n.a. mongrel to satiate his
curiosity further?
      besides that... if society was once overtly
religious, moralistic...
today's society is overly-psychologised...
i hate psychological stereotypes,
everyone is this part-time hobby-psychologist...
             i don't exactly require a biological
part-replica of myself to preserve at least
one thought with origin and end within
the confines of my self...
       i'm not exactly prone to utter patriachal
proverbs that encompass whole ethnic groups...
maxims or categorical imperatives
cater for individuals...
                   not the masses...
i'd have to be a patriarch to utter proverbs as
a way to gather the brood of my own
sow and subsequent harvest...
to be so obscure,
    to be so... concerned with lineage...
                   you have to be born with the facets
of necessarily ensuring that future generations
are to make the same mistakes...
           that's why i would never trust western
neo-atheism... d.n.a. as the only future blah blah...
         sure... if you can lodge a thought
into d.n.a. and receive the token of finding both
self and consciousness within such claustrophic automaton confines,
"somewhere down the line"...
      much older generations would have told you...
that's in the fables, the mythos, the temporal crux
and crossroads... time doesn't give a donkey's *******
about your "rational", scientific materialism's worth
of continuum...
                         etc.
Sa Sa Ra Jun 2012
Sore’ us
Ooze
‘da poor ‘ust ones
Black scotch and de’wars
**** ‘um is fin’er
As I run from life
‘a from any at all.
‘dis ain’t ‘dey party
Fa’ de’ parted departing
It’s just ‘dey way
Of getting ‘duh deed done
It’s not mystery
Nor ‘duh chance.
See?
Pure despair
‘nings discernment
Evils low ruse
Vindictive benedictions
Pleasures ease
Smell’s clear
While here
Something’s sick
’nings’ fatale
‘ah a‘traction
Sum treacherous torture
Of sentenced de jour…
Jeer’us!
Infectious disease’us
Runnin’ rampant
Of spells complete
Consumption ‘us
Divergin’ opinions ring
Must be sick ’o
Is pathetic delusion ’o
Imagine
Is just imagining
Flashbacks of ole
Smackums’ hymn
Kind’a makes me laugh
But truth is too
Much to rash
That woman’s
Complete
Abusive…
Trash!
Got the world?
Or her wrath
Taken out the best…
Mother Natures Son
Everything he cares for
His family and chill
‘da heir
‘dey run
Only pain and death‘ eruption
Ultimate relentless destruction
Her kind of fun
Yeh ‘dey disorder of disorders
Kin‘da be a gun
Yud luve to be swift
For such ‘da gift
That takes you from ‘dat world
She’s so horrid
From hell they’d tried to bar ‘er
They’d hope to have starv’n out her
But souls she’s quick devour’n
Takes you out
To bear pain upon ya’
Despair, would you’ve joy
Preparations of
Desperations…
She’s suicide!
She’ll get ya on her dream sensations
Thee unforgivable debts
War crimes kinda’
You’ve got comin’
Lest her best compensations
U’d try n try to escape
Marked for pain
Marked not to make it
As prey unto desolations
Of the desperate
And ultimate violations
(She is Suicide
Kind’a be a gun)
(Spring 2010)
I actually considered this a blessing to be able to write this!!
Not legally separated, the Power of Persecution, Control and Manipulation,
Magical Understanding of Wounds, Weaknesses in the most Vulnerable Ways!!
Yes I have not been immune from suicidal thought yet as a notion I am Done!!!

I was ever wrong
for ever a wish
to leave for
now I am
where
we all
<3
:
B
E
'
L
O
N
G
!
.
.
.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/forgive-me-all/

I was nearing 2 years towards with what I was hoping,
to be an end of 18.5 years Suicidal Idealization!!
So this was a gift for record!!!
Sure I had Lyme Meningitis, opportunistic within HS neck injury.
Though nothing like relationship issues with spouse and now,
with 3 kids who really mattered beyond myself.
Myself who took things like 'Dark Nights of the Soul',
as worthy conditioning till such point!!

I no longer prescribe to such notions...

We can do all this self realization with self honesty only,
and All Self Love Gifts found within then also,
With True Love, Joy and Fun!!!
<3<3:):)!!!R!!
David Aug 2014
Despite impending loneliness threatening to suffocate me, one optimistic thought came my way as I strolled wearily homeward today from my work at the library.
Some compensations for isolation might prove as written in the following list.

1) I am not required to retire to bed or awaken at any given hour.
2) I possess the rare ability of being allowed the choice of my own meals and also the given time at which I prefer to eat, whether it be meager or hearty portion of vittles. Perhaps I may fast from breakfast altogether, and then again may feast upon indigestible dainties such as doughnuts or fruitcake upon retiring, accompanied by a novel of my given choice.
3) I am free to write poetry or from such to refrain according to my mood.
4) If I spill my tea or bread and butter falls onto the floor, who cares?
5) Nobody can demand me to clean the house even if it looks quite untidy.
6) If I sing or hum out of tune, there is no risk of anyone laughing at me.
7) If I fall into a trance of reverie and am out of touch with reality, who can upbraid me?

The list could go on and on interminably, but to sum the matter up, in short, I can most thoroughly indulge in all my whims be they ever so eccentric in tranquil solitude with no threat of a wife to nag or henpeck me. I am free to cry, laugh, sing, daydream, talk to myself, and every other foolish or wise thing a healthy man might crave to accomplish.
Thus musing upon these blessings, I strolled homeward with a lighter heart despite life's insurmountable obstacles.
copyright David upon August 11, 2014
Complacency is often mislabeled genius
In poems teeming with pretentious words
and trite metaphors bought in bulk
over compensations for a poem lacking depth

There's an elegance  in simplicity
a celestial spark, in the ability
to make the ordinary seem divine
and to turn simple into sacred

We are all gods, aching in our humanity
we are all oracles, with prophecies waiting to be told
So dip your pen a little deeper, press pen to paper
until heaven is felt in every verse

*G e n e s i s  is only a poem away
Vernarth was ready at the threshold of the validity of the constellation of Orion, barely a hundred millionths as indicated by the Duoverse in his Cosmogonic amphiboly, and sensitive to physical space with the Kli vessels that he carried on his back that were in the proximity of the Loop of Bernard as the Omission nebula as the exponential hemicycle in the center of Aurion's oculus waiting for Vernarth and redistribute its molecules at 518 light-years or 440 Parsec, with the diameter that will be reflected in Patmos of more than 300 light-years condensed with the element of Hydor or water from high space over Aurion. Vernarth, united by the fragrant hand of the Mashiach, could carry it when he moved away from the Opistodomos and the remains of incandescent lagoons of supernova materials that surrounded them to accelerate the mass of the Iridescent Nimbus that Vernarth would carry, and the Mashiach as a sentinel of his Purgation. already defined whenever the simultaneous explosion of the Super Nova with Patmos becomes effective, and the Terrestrial World in impulsiveness that admonished him under the right shoulder blade in the skinny hollow of the arm that was getting rid of the oscillometer right at the original entrance of Betelgeuse, and when Vernarth remained alone in the frontal altitude chamber to take off towards the cosmogonies of Eridanus to tune into the Ptolemaic astral. The Sybilla who acted as stellar consort would be Herophile with overtones of expansion and her brilliant metric mass that would take her through Betelgeuse Orionis allied to a multifunctional instrument such as the entrance Aulos, expelling hydrogen-like an Ace in 240 harmonic scales, and sounds of light that they boomed towards the Pleiades and the Milky Way where it would be the supposed first state of paradox where Vernarth would utter: "Give me a little Gála and I will be more than Zeus". This is where he will experience the diarthrosis of his synovial joints in the process of Hyaline cartilage, allying himself with the two bones and synovium to hunt down the Trapper Aurion in advance to wake up from the feared defenseless world that he feared since everything he abandoned despite having his Purg discharged, he kept sensing that if nothing would work for a lost world. Here Vernarth would hold Alexander the Great's first childhood vision as an infant at Péla using his scapula with the force of rubbing discs at the Olympiad making the sky his Odyssey-encrusted Constellation of whips, and sullen Hellenistic being by May in the amber trunk trapezoid and in each hand a Xiphos and Dorus.

The pathologies were at the forefront with dexterous inclinations of his Kopis to the west when he throws it and the whistle of return makes him see that the meteorites reached as far as his gaze could observe the latitudes of the Tyrrhenian. He takes his bronze-brass cudgel with the corrosive breath, filing the odysseys on the concupiscent ******* of Eos, Goddess of the dawn, opening the heavens of the eager natives of Gála, by sipping raw milk from the right edge of the corner of her upper lips before the first dawns of the world, when Eos would be in grains or grasses that brandished from the bronze club that Vernarth waited for before leaving Gaia, or rather the fertile land of Patmos that officiated at him. Mega hectares appeared that threatened Enopion's revenge, disturbing his eyes that shone in Hesiod's striae by advocating for him in the Duoverse where all deities would be annulled but his psychic ramifications as stellar humans would be covered by the action of Helium gas. In this way Vernarth was already bidding farewell to Saint John the Apostle with his rounded eye set on the shine of both pupils between Mintaka, Alnitak, and the third shine of his pupils united in communion with Vernarth when arriving sideways at the pale shine of Alnilam (The Three Mariah) fourth star to follow in Orion as the brightest of the three on Vernarth's neck like a necklace of precious pearls. In this way, he climbed the steps to measure the slow brilliance of the immensity of the celestial solstice that raised him with the expedient Sun that also led him towards the twelfth lunation of the celestial vault attached to Pléyone in his bolometric oceanic matrix, which will arise between the stellar limitrophe between the Canes Mayores and Menores, and a priori in the measurement of the eye of Aurion always harassing the Pleiades. The intrigue will be reborn for the second time from the Duoverse's momentum that Vernarth will have to leave in the biosphere oscillation wasteland of Prometheus already freeing himself from life in community, and from an extreme sensitivity of major psychic connections that will flow throughout the immensity of inaccessible time. , on the atmosphere of the earth like bronzes that twist in the necks of the oxen that urinate on the endowments of the Barnard Loop, and its polyphonic magnetic exciter, on it the ***** of Orion falling on the poles as flagrant Amphibology. The Kanti Steed and the Aorion nebula to the beat of a waltz will ionize chemical portents of ions free of electrons, on the neutral molecules of Betelgeuse to propagate in the nerves of the shoulders of the bronze club ad limit of harmonious praxis, and net compromise by supplying steps to the nebula and art of the Duoverse that shows the primeval daily days as in his alchemical armband, germinating astral Lynothorax and axillary armpit that held him in his maximum club, cutting down roots of Olivo Bernar after Barnard's Loops in between of fugitive stars that go regimented in their ionized bleeding esplanade, like Stellae Novae that transfers astronomical cults in the formation and pretext of going through the darkness to sleep near his parents Poseidon and Euryale, acclaiming him near the gramineous fields to paste him with explosive clay on the portfolio of such a smiling face drunk with Ionian wine, in precedence of the disemi nar by the new and expandable Duoverso, Vernarth was already on the last steps of the stairs similar to that of Florence in the Medicea Laurenziana as well said to feel alive when going to paradise next to the Messiah who came to pick him up. But at times electrifying residues would vanish over his field of vision in small beams or flashes, which would prevent him from moving forward to the last stirrups without looking back where all the Birthright was watching him for one last time.

Sitting on the edge of Andromeda, Zefian was waiting for him to meet him in his dark chamber, since the most intimate and primordial causality of his metaphysics emerged from the bases of the reason for all things that should exist, before everything was created and that it has never had pre-eminence as it is in this case of the parasitic chamber of Zefian in the company of the Auriga, which also came to wait for him in the calash running wild as prescribed by the Duoverse in the structures of luminosity in the midst of this colossal inter-planetary chamber, between molecular agitated points that will venture through the axon of infinity longitudinally unpredictable for light-years even though it is so. The thermal outcomes of superheated remnants over the entire luminosity will speak of the catastrophe, and of the inherent emptiness in the eyes of the eternal hothouse very close to the supernovae that can only strengthen the fusion of the space disks of the Universe-Duoverse long before the explosion between Orion and Andromeda. The axes of time will be dislocated between both astral components in this dissonant chaos that will contract with Vernarth's levitation whenever he has stepped on the last step before entering the Hydor chamber in every dark portion of the Universe, making both constellations the ferrule or ring that will yield to the underbelly of Betelgeuse, dispossessing the boasts of the appropriate Commander Hetairoi of his Lynothorax to resist the ravages and turbulence of the Apokálypsis, which brought the immense loads of matter that discharged all its constant energy through the circulating nuclear power plants, and tangents that caused galaxy changes pierced by Hetairoi Aorion clods satirizing expenses for retracting the galaxies below Soldier's precept and super homeostatic mass attracted from their distance on astronomical scales of 2.5 million light-years.

The galactogenic galaxy made use of great prominences that would cover the greater proportional that is outlined in Andromeda of the strands of the Universe adjacent to the spiral that rolls on the underbelly, deferring to telescope sections, and the gravitational field to execute its nocturnal translation like the Hyperdisis Galaxy that collects the bubbling of the belt in conjunctions of minor stars making star mechanics by exaltation, and magnetic disorders creating other leading atmospheres in those detached from the cord of Andromeda, the Milky Way, and Orion. Vernarth was still holding on to the transparent hand of the Messiah while he was climbing the ascension steps to Hydor that would transport him to travel with him through the globular clusters, they will form the perfect delay in transfusing the lineage and not another, in this way the Lynothorax or bleeding pectoral de Vernarth continued to flow from this polynomial tractatum between all area subjugation guidelines, and refinement of the sagittal profile of Hyperdisis in the inter-galactic reversible staked Duoverse.

Lenticular to irregular above the nails of the trapezoid, it spread towards Aurion's right armband, sequentially making the centric radiogram hiccup, despite taking advantage of interstellar matter to self-generate its own transmission light, this made it refrain from emanating the hybridity that came out of its body by vibrating above everything that expelled from its center towards the right rectitude of Orion, thus making the multiplied speed of containing itself of both parts of the null hemisphere of its free will when verifying that it never existed, that it was only an illusion of doubtful matter that would soon Go away like gasified water on the galactic repulsions that would settle on Patmos as devotions of Skalá, and Astro-omegas that would be adhered to the Xiphos and Kopis, who were still united to their being rather in the contour of the perimeter of his soul two meters floating like invisible quantum universes. The totality of everything was inciting the fields of omega-stars that would begin to advance after becoming visible from the spur of the sword that became denser with the viscosity of the Hebrew Adom, which trickled from Orion to Hellenic lands as an Omega age for Vernarth which is conceived early when it carries Hecate's Kleidia or keys to the Omega world towards the proto-galaxies that provide ultramarine loaves, knowing that the Milky Way and Andromeda come so close in their stellar mass that they can collide in a few million light-years. The Duoverse of Hyperdisis was predicted in the visual reality of a fusion of change to interact with each other as it dismembered but re-transformed into the new theoretical core of the Duoverse as a large Black Hole embedded in the center of Patmos. In such a way all the inhabitants began to worry when phenomenal masses of warm air that began to take on the appearance of the Universe plagiarized each other generating incoming earthquakes, not affecting the Opistodomos or the Primogeniture, nor the crowd that was waiting. of all the monstrosity of monks who were grouped kneeling on the top of the Profitis, floating the shattered shaggy skein parts of the Himation. As it was dyed in the albi-color of Calígine, demonstrating the darkness of the intrinsic terror of whoever plows later to free all the succumbed who fell throughout Greece and Judah, exposing all the origins of appearance from the internal now in the converted Universe that was reimplanting itself in the helical of polarity, and bifurcating by pretexting all the reincarnations and polishing the stagnant cessation of darkness towards a luminance that could warn them and observe where their feet could move, sheltered from the monumental litter of calorimetry, and chromatics that was linked in romances trivial with the residuals of the angel shark galaxies where Aurion's progenies will deliver in candelas per square meter: LV waking is the luminance, measured in Nits or candelas per square meter (cd/m²).

• F is the luminous flux, in lumens for the Andromeda triad, the Milky Way, and Hyperdisis in conjunction with Orion. From here Vernarth will supply all of them as the one who will dwell in it in the preface of his Fables of Calígine with the following: "Ex Calígine Chaos: ex Chao et Calígine, Nox, Dies, Erebus, Aether", which transliterated means "Of Darkness: Chaos. From Chaos and Darkness: Night, Day, Erebus, and Ether", Decreeing the (Burning Darkness) before Chaos as flow F, is he also the only one who divinized this abstraction, conferring a proper meaning to the word. And then make of the normality of dwelling in the darkness that is the irrevocable opulence of the desire to maintain the radiance of all the forces that devour eternity. From the remote aces came dark families of flying Lepidoptera Ditrisios, lined up with countless other species that carried dimensional eyes that will be devoured by ocelli or giant eyes that come from the chaos of Vernarth's Caligine to appease the effects of ultraviolet rays, which started from the Nimbus Iridescent creating a layer of protection between the new dimension of the twilight of flight that was already beginning to ignite from the Aurion's scaly fingers.

• dS is the surface element considered the triad Kímolos, Rodas and Patmos. While Vernarth is distracted, he manages to dissipate the twilight of the inverted Erebus between Eleos and Ezis, personifying Clemency and Sadness, where they border the worlds that are not yet riddled with chaos or Calígine, who exalted himself over Erebos with the redemption of Eleos, who was getting ready to swallow the sadness of Ezis. Therefore Kimolos, Rhodes, and Patmos will consolidate their hegemony of unalterable lands where Eleos' piece of clemency will bring the support that makes Ezis's faceless portent, close to the hybridity of the Itheoi gods, in the Transversal Valleys of the Horcondising, with the Norns and generosity of Apollo who had given them after long stays in Hyperborea as female spirits once again as advocacy and imperishable protection of the legacy of Smintheus's travels by providing the company of Dísir, Uror, Verdandi, and Skuld as a female entity, of the past, current and future that should occur by order of Skuld. This will allow the three to unite with the Ds to merge the three as a complement of three female entities that will safeguard all climate change on future disasters in the Dodecanese.

• dΩ is the solid angle element, from Vernarth Omega and the origin of the Duoverse. From this premise, the worst of Vernarth's fears was to let go of the Messiah's hand and fall into the anger that blushes even Hetairoi Hero from Deimos, when the night reverts to the rest of the demons and the night adopts those who go perceiving in Vernarth that perhaps he was holding hands with Ares for the battle alongside his brother Etrestles, under the orders of the savagery of the metaphysical engines of panic. From this vision, Vernarth manages to open his eyes with the desire to show those who were watching him and to be able to show that he was aware of being a prisoner of his emotions and escaping from himself in the illustrious suffering of thousands of arrows, which ran around him like fleeting meteorites to the flat field of Tisiphone's revenge. The luminances became and became colors that were molecularly twinned with disparate tones that were capable of differentiating them, and at the same time nullifying the power of obscuring Vernarth's countenance to take his right hand and take the arrow to break the darkness that was lunged at him.

• θ is the angle between the diameter from Andromeda and the Milky Way (2.5 million light-years), Nemesis or Ramnusia as the retributive coercion of disobedience, being aware Vernarth became more and more of a being adopted by balance Nemesis for balance to command him to his senses before entering the field of limpidity of his soul in transit to liberate himself from all the chained who used to be happy, but sad that no one acclaimed them except Aionius Itheoi of Vernarth who translated the messages that from now on will move diametrically from Andromeda to the Milky Way, without any of these two portions being invaded only under the order of Nemesis, and Vernarth abiding by the retributive justice of The luminance that can be defined from the radiometric magnitude of the radiance without more than weighting each length of the wave by the sensitivity curve of the eye. Thus, if LV is the luminance, Lλ represents the spectral radiance and V (λ) symbolizes the sensitivity curve of Vernarth's eye in the underbelly of Betelgeuse, spilling plasma and magnetic bruises on the galaxies and Eyes of Orion.
Meanwhile, it manifested itself as a personal universe, not excluded from time and space for a metaphysical causality that will not be able to compose the mentality that is measurable in the joint senses of a Zig Zag birth from this same calígine emerging from another creature of self-observation and see the physiognomy of the anti-material and mass Universal Horcondising. From which we pre-exist to waste of science that models the system of energy and matter in causes of ancestors with which his life and ours that were propelled furtively. Gravity made great paternity in Vernarth's active Biomass, being in the Dodecanese and cosmos in the verification of curvature that makes us with the moon of its romantic astrophysical swings and exaggerated geometry of a Zigzag.

We are versatile multi-dynamic mass that expands simultaneously in the void that pauses in the Nothofagus Obliqua of Vernarth's Horcondising, and also of time2-space2 that have not been attributed to the origin of the stars that move irregularly in Zig Zag, for their immature componential that is clearly of Aramaic blue light from the Pealim of the Abba, circulating with bullets movements skimming the air of the grasses attracting the attention of the entire order of the hypnotized universe, making appear before them the duplication of the universe itself; in Duoverse, which is the recently shaken Universe and of gratitude in the distribution of nearby galaxies that are keys to the paleo kosmous already arranged in macro waves, which are percentages of the spaces of the Tri-solated energy fields, which interact with the phylogeny of the Mashiach in Gethsemane, lying now in a stagnant decomposed future, in a frozen present specific to the peri Kosmous. Its final station is to wager the Zig Zag Universe on the temporal middle Ages chrestomathies re-expanding in qualities of gregarious Sub-mythology, already settling here in Archangels to activate. The implosion of gravity has procreated worlds of visibility of magnanimous astronomical longings, in some fractions of time in Zig Zag by millions of fractioned light-years, as an irregularity that resembles the measure of everything quantifiable, being omniscience or not acquiring the hexagonal of the primogeniture of the fragment since Jerusalem goes to Bethlehem, where the Davidian prism whose Original is attributed fractal in form.

The personification of longevity was trapped by Geras, always escaping from the obfuscated universe or temperament that could be represented in humanity that relied on the antigens that served as support for the reversibility of every hero like Vernarth, who tried to glorify himself in the fullness of life in Heraklion or in the sand that was dyed red-azure when the soul of Alexander the Great would rise together with Vernarth with the Mashiach. The fractal beating line of the Mediterranean towards a vein resembling the rhinestones of King David to the Ziziphus of the Messiah simulating to be irregular symmetrical formats, to build gems in thorns of landscapes that basically subdivide into similar conical funnels, to then be randomly displaced towards its central point shared with King David's five o'clock Incorruptible crown, recursively reiterating it in each square until the eminence of the desired detail was reached in the curve that joins the landscape to Bethlehem and then to the Baptistery of the Shepherds in its hexagonal base, figuring to be the sleet in the final Crown of Rejoicing falling on the top of the roofs "Doroteo or theological gifts" in which the Mashiach's stable of Kafersuseh burst and agonized in the abstraction of the One-Dimensional Beams with foreign eyes, and own tissue eroding to mortal frowns that can be seen with their divine eyes in our own likeness, and of the planet n failed to increase the size so unknown and analytical in this peripeteia of the implosive ideology of the bubbling of the Verthian Duoverse.
The nature of the snowflakes in Bethlehem are natural fractals detailed in their nature, and in the natural infinity that here was envisioned from the new privileged world for self-similarity in speculative functions of Vertnarth, by intervals in each space of shadowy fences, bringing accelerated courier bulbs from Gethsemane in intermediates of olive trees transformed towards other humans.“Their correlation is infinite with reversible observable time, and paternal belonging to mobile gagged echoes of a space that is obstructed by Vernarth, in such a monograph and integers among the fractional integers "Finite is the curvature between the path that walks through the thickness of the Duo-Universe as an alternative of Zigzag and Duoverse energy, which is unleashed to our subconscious observable orb, and what a great beacon reflecting eye that ignores and prescribes extreme distant and focal parts of the One Dimensional Beams of Kafersuseh in Ein Karem. The Duoverse is the rehearsal Universe that the Mashiach had before coming to the Holy Land, provided by his form of Hyperdisis escorting him from Betelgeuse Orion, changes of arduous colors in gradient and Avant-Garde, for limits of perspectives and verbally of amendments of physical fields framed by an external gravitational means. The macro waves are exposed to matters not contained in the abrupt changes of the Mashiach optical selection with the One-Dimensional Beams, attracting selection crystals to atomize them in reaction disturbances, and recreation of multiform plasma saviors of Christian astronautics, examining the double of the macro waves and equation of them on the axis of the universe converted into Duoverse, already in millions of light-years, they will continue in the Duoverse, to reconvert from ectoplasm with large margins of assertiveness. Cartography is the error correction of the current universe, getting lost in the second thousandths of figures that separate us from the Universe, but all being more than time…!, remaining at the expense of the wick of the Cirio with all its electro-matter” Having already established the sub-mythology, Hestia appears after having slept a great dream, when she appeared before Vernarth in Tsambika she was seen changing size, when she was six meters away she looked tiny and when she was already two meters away from him It looked monumentally enormous, but with a versatile physiognomy, therefore it was already appreciated in the last steps with its domestic figure of a goddess that emanated light-years disserted by chimneys and its rooms. The critique of immanence that would happen, would pre-exist the perfectible plan for the Zig Zag Universe and Hyperdisis as Hyper-Hestia, bringing torn words for those who were approaching the main altar of the Vas Auric, which consisted of the great ratio of the proscenium in the Teodora vicinity of Tsambika, between Clairvoyance/Judgment for Wisdom/Meditating constant mechanisms according to the cosmological constant, leading perhaps to the beginning of a decade and third universe called the Triverse. The oscillation of all these fantasies was observed by Vernarth, but he knew that he would have to collide with this finally, already precipitated by temperatures that acted on the average of the normal range, therefore it was imminent to mutate him into the proselytizing provisional Duoverse, which moves backward between the lights vertiginous of creation. Immediately afterward, the Universe has torn apart and lost among those around him, establishing units of millions of years of compressed light from the piccolo Aulós, which Hestia carried in one of his pale hands, his prytaneion was lighting up with the flames of the heart of fire and passion of consanguineous love, "Prytaneum", paving the light in the clarity of the faith of the owners of farmhouses that were founded when they arrived in Tsambika in search of the Vas Auric, acclaiming with the omphalos stone that marked the navel of the world with defiance wandering to the island of Delos in the daily warmth of a spring afternoon in Rhodes. She is a woman with veils over her face always walking to and from her home unscathed in the house of foolish or vestal virgins, there is no Hestia, only perhaps there are some similar ones who were staying in the cold fire of her climacteric losing fertility after his father swallowed them, and then they were expelled from himself regurgitated in flaming matches from a blessed house full of indemnity, giving the Duoverse another category calculated with angles never contained vibratingly sliding between distances that discount minutes of Hestian space for such a corollary of approaching to its finitude and inaugurate the sub-finite,  which will never be a source of terminus in a disconcerting end of time not finished flush with the physical equation. “This consolidates the Duoverse in Duouniverse, expressed in figures that moderate the length of a physical state before it is consummated and restarted in a process that does not end (sub-infinite).

Vernarth was a few meters from entering the Nimbus, when suddenly his soul darkened and his panic flared..., suddenly he felt a scream from above and below he saw how everything was made of rubble. Courage blinded him, not wanting to observe what the evident end of the world and rubble intended to consume him if he said goodbye to his most beloved beings, until the lines of infinity approached those of the earthly world, intending to eliminate all traces of his family lineage. In this way, he begins to run through his hands the reflected Hydor of colors that pierced the skylight of austere words. He manages to see Calígine del Apokálypsis farther from the mist, detached from all gravitational force, only being able to see his mother among the smoke, who was coming up by a ray of light, Vernarth tries to free her from that moment of expiration but does not reach the synchrony of catastrophe in what pretended to be from the hand of Eris as the disagreement that did not allow him to put his survival weapons in order, believing that this instance would not allow him to ****** her from the goddess Eris, if he could believe that it was inevitable that his mother Luccica became a granite coat of arms, after the dark night that threatened to unravel her from her flimsy solid state, and then crumble to the ground turned into the ground that was crushed from roots that postponed it to be consumed by the gift of the light of life, and end of a light that is visible in all the roots of the earth when consumed by the infinite that vanishes in the existence of all being.

Vernarth, when a moment of clarity allows him to see his mother, tries to rescue her, realizing that his father Bernardolipo was with her, between them they would try to redeem them from the spread of Nix and Calígine, who behaved with great pain by mocking the edges of the Ether that they received Crono, they could not be victorious in arriving in time to rescue them, if from the harmony of a troubadour of the Mashiaj he observed him see if he would return with him to enter. They became visible in their parents as they contended before an avoidable awareness of this indivisible event with the aggressor words of hindrances and generations of millennials who anticipated the omega of everything in the lower part, under the feet of their parents appearing insignificant one (w) that precedes and succeeds the beginning of a beginning based on the end of a beginning a thousand times more than a threshold based on hundreds, appropriate to the metric unit of the numeral Myríaz = ten thousand, three times more than the Falangists, one thousand less than the Peltasts and three thousand fewer than the horsemen, total thirty-seven thousand fewer than the fighting forces in Gaugamela out of a total of forty-seven thousand, under the myriads of the Myriaz of Phalangists undermined by their Xiphos in the area of the right calcaneus of each faithful man under his command before facing the Achaemenides. During this period, Vernarth took extreme steps to rescue them and stop the numbing effect of all organic matter, not being able to rescue them, only granting them in the image of each one when they began to turn stone from feet to head until the fragile solidification of their eyes. when for the last time, they looked at each other only making it clear that it was a belated rescue gesture. The omega was ineffable even beyond the omicron, being Omega and Micron in the warfare primer of initiation of its cause within the prophetic in all the necropolis of lowercase omega (ω), towards an Omega that reaffirmed the raised hand in Saint John the Apostle to rewrite the Apocalypse twice, having to be the same but with the voice of Vernarth commanding the ten thousand Phalangists that made up the intergenerational gaps, more than mimicked alien ancestors. In such an effect, as is known, the Duoverse opened the skylights with its sheathed pillars and with the strings of tetrachloride of chlorine in solid angles of Ω in what was Virgo institutionum/Aurion, an entity that interfered by projections and leaks that converged in the strut of the omphalos of his heavenly father dealing in frequency and bloodless of immortality, consisting of an auxiliary being towards the planes of subconscious reprogramming and perspective. With its arms raised in each claw, a sword raised to pierce the vanishing point between the spaces that were ascribed, under the solid projection from an observer that inhibits and limits the biomass in all the aqueous filter pastes and lumens, towards the throne of the angelic guardian of Avant-guard by stereotype and sclerosis of Zeus of dissociated physicality, still being an amorphous entity with magnitudes pulverized between numerosities of Pi and Aureos, fading without area or volume.

Saint Jerome of Estridón: “Vernarth, I come from Bethlehem to help your life because I have detected the subsuming of the chains where your parents made the alliance from where your life has been erected from Sudpichi, Transversal Valleys in the temple that bears my pseudonym. The only rune that will determine that your parents can remain united, is through the action and direction that has been consecrated to me. No dead language will unsay what a dead soul cannot interpret. Our Mashiaj has entrusted me to free the languages that have conspired at night, and low luminance where Calígine has been uncomfortable seeing me knowing that it is my favorite environment, the memory of the chains want to incarnate in the stones that surround your parents, but  they are typical of a response that I will get to conclude by urging your mother and father to recognize that here they made the alliances, ordering, and reconciliation of your world that concerns us all in endless dictates to be agreed, I know very well that the point has not of allowing your atonement to have been prevented by this cosmological affront, here are the transverse Valleys in the favorite place of the Spirits lie the treaties that will move my greatest interest to re-marry your parents from the true chains of the complacent scholar, thus all the vastness that afflicts you will belong to your servant Jerome”

Vernarth replies: “At your service, his majesty, here I have been since dawn arriving at the town to meet them when they contracted their marriage. I know I shouldn't be here, rather I know that decades of inquiry had planned it that way. Of such conviction that their chains were anointed from the heights of the Kanthillana whose partiality emits the partials close to your direction? As is known, my very extensive walk through these dusty paths must recognize that the personality and nobility of its burial mounds will strengthen my presence so that everything that is incomprehensible if it is brief by making it neighbor to my reason”

Saint Jerome of Estridón: “everything has been planned like this, and as time drags on I know that your wounds burn in my epistolary like Latin and Greek voices that reluctantly direct me to your aid. Everything is beautifully comparable, and first to what should not be said..., but to do to the genre that above all it practices, the second to one of the ways with the above all that it practices "
By the reverse of the expletive to the insurmountable destiny, Vernarth takes his hands and Saint Jerome withdraws them telling him that it was not time for greater vain for the equivalence of minor desires to please him if he had not appeared before him. It shows him to celebrate him and to want to make of him the permutation of his golden polysemy or interpretation of the world's Apokálypsis by not changing his axis of change, by redirecting them to stated comfort interests. Namely; the leaders of the world in their world of annulled freedom of will to practice following as they please when interpreting the Apokálypsis only as a revelation, and not as a destiny that exalts the senses and compensation that will reconquer the consistency of the nature of the Apokálypsis that adheres to humanity as golden that will consolidate humanity fearful of its own ******* and excess of greed, just as it was just a few steps before entering the Temple of San Jerónimo in Alhué hand in hand with Vernarth already fully healed of his Lynothorax pectoral. They go to the ambo and Saint Jerome essentially takes out of his pockets chaff that was from the escape of the mass of stone that had not yet finally hardened, allowing them to generate a mystical sermon so that their parents return to the nave of the temple in person to surpass farther from the spring of awakening of the Kantillana requesting the unification of the ashes of his father Bernardolipo and Vernarth, to rescue his mother from a poor abundance, and is transposed by the metaphor of the life-giving spirit. Immediately afterward, Saint Jerome pours the chaff of his parents all over the surface, a great noise is produced, the doors and windows of the temple are suddenly closed, and his parents can be seen walking along the central row of the nave, where fiction could testify that everything was a fantasy, rather a great testament that would exhibit the union of two juxtaposed flanks prior to an invaluable crossing of smiles and flowers that fell from the upper altar on their crowns, they came holding their arms like open borders with the procedure before the harsh reality of a metaphor made real in the future of two beloved shepherds who crossed the limbo of their fingers, with the ferrule or the act of engendering rings of family procreation. The crosses of Lisbon and Saint Jerome resembled the monograph in beats of her wealthy feet that were consistent with the nubile gesture of her lips and then released with all frenzy towards the meeting of her beloved Vernarth, the three of them dancing together on the central pinnacle of the obese light that sheltered them, meaning from the testamentary Hebrew the Aleph on the way to Sudpichi after the Raphaca “Healing” ceremony until the diastole that adheres between the middle of the gap that was produced when the three confronted each other and the word “Heth” again He was bent over to take them like gigantic camels to meet his relatives and ghosts that surrounded him when observing the heights of Kanthillana at the assent of all this.

Because of all this similarity, the tribulation from Patmos was raging with very strong resistance, leaving totally clear of the conditionals of the flint or flint, which enveloped the parents, began to fade from their bodies while it was recomposed of seven elemental forms in relation to the transcription and identification of the three as a family trunk enormously of its exegetical possibilities. Tangent to the transcription, and if it is the case identification of the names that we stick to reunion and redemption of their parents, like all anthropology that was chained to the figures and characters that cordoned off the top of the temple when the three met they hugged and held hands as a sign of illustrative demonstrations of never surpassing oneself. Beginning with the compensations in the fullness of the tables, and completion of all the facts that showed that nothing of language escapes what an eye can observe; that is to say, as long as there is a speaking light, it will always be necessary to listen and then observe in the presentation of the mechanics by the lines that expressed the figures, which were increasing the number of letters that were possible to decipher; called stichometry or measurement of the lines in the texts that Saint Jerome that they were ordering to order a vade mecum or memorandum of this unbridled situation, which in any case had to simplify it whenever it is indicated for the reading of three beings that would meet in what literal of four spirits articulated in the continuum, in such a way that Vernarth added his bilocation to this symmetrical experience to meet again with the Mashiach who awaits him on the third step before entering the Iridescent Nimbus.

His parents will be the co-princes gathered on the Supichi road bound for the Horcondising, where Vernarth all Austral Winter Solstices will come to ask his parents for an audience in the Kanthillana Heights where they will summarize the exact day, that everything happened from a Thursday to a Sunday in the first hour of the most certain Saturday in which the twelve unnatural candles will be incorporated into the Duoverse from the branch of the Raedus Codex, specifically from the Antiphon that accompanies them to the compromised one, and sinuous height that was misted by the mist of snow, and vehemence that was perceived in the greatest regulars of Spílaiaus, having a ring of lights as if such were a gesture of Jerome and everything that was named in the concordance that could be confusion that slipped from the metaphysics of new space by beginning. From such a root emerges the Eta or value number and Vernarth symbolized as  N times from "8" to the entire value of the figure of 800 "w" or Omega, which will be the values of figures and numbers to predispose the alternation of the visits that will take place. to have with his precursors each Solstice, after alternating with the Elves of Archimedes, and to cross with them the manifestations that made him lighter than air, as could be expected before the imposition of everything that he imagined to sleep to the badly gestated world that had been altered, even with a remote Faith that symbolized the decisions of Saint John the Apostle by disposing of the salvages of the vestiges that had been destroyed in the physiognomy of a cause that proved more eloquent than a mere revelation that was never believed which would awaken from its very Semitic superlative. In this case, the allegory surpassed the prototype of all curly visual language that emanated from Vernarth's decision for the humanity that needed him, on the one hand, Saint Jerome already resolved, and Saint John the Apostle in the division of two events of the same story that It was melting into the complexity that would be unspeakable for two Saints in the middle of Vernarth, demonstrating that he had taken them with all the power of the force that is capable of pulling and manipulating until arriving at the darkness of the senses where all understanding and reasoning fall asleep. only allowing the silence to take them in the ellipsis recently emanated by the Nothofagus that were walking on the flaccid snow, the three went with graces of faith and satisfaction, Saint Jerome escorted them with everything healthy that made the incomparable awakening of two latitudes explode who managed to revive in invisibility, after resisting the latent verbigrace of the Apokálypsis that showed that the incomparable topic denoted the ma Greater resistance to everything destructive and Omega with the only subjection that only the verb "Love" does. They reached the icy and stinking gases similar to what Santa Rita de Casia emanated, which at the same time would be dividing breakers like those declared by the Corinthians about the Israelites when they were blinded by the radiance of Moses. The same would happen in the veil of little snow that was left behind his last steps when everything was white as a growing incident that would be attached at once to Patmos and Sudpichi, as well as Kanthillana and Olympo. He says goodbye to his parents and they carry their impulsive agreements to meet on the next Solstice together with Saint Jerome and Spilaiaus on the plateau.
Genesí of  Apokalypsis
Ben Brinkburn Jan 2013
I’ve got this pocketful of dragons
and it’s doing my head in.
They just won’t stay still.

They keep roaring and when they
get really upset they breath this fire,
yes, ****** fire,
and it plays havoc with the lining
of your jacket.

But there are compensations; dragons
have had a bad press you know.

Although volatile and let’s face it
-utterly unpredictable- they tend to
balance this out with a world-weary
wisdom; an erudition that takes us back
to the dinosaurs, to that time
When They Ruled The World  
and although occasionally bitter
about their fall, they’re still up for it,
oh yes, and so:

I put them on the table in front of me
and sympathize with their woes and sigh at
the resigned acceptance of their fate.  

They don’t seem to mind

They just want to help

To contribute even  

But all they do is live in my pocket  
which hack’s them off to a certain extent
but after a few pints of diesel they just sit back
and relax, kick back and have a laugh
and slur ‘sailor vee,’ and eventually pass out,
at which point I gently gather them up,
and put them back into my pocket.
I listen to the absence of time
Allow myself to become wrapped in its nothingness
It is a punctuated absence, like light through dust,
Showing all my imperfections deep emotions and real desires
My thoughts parade before me a regiment of vagabonds
I view all this as if I had never existed
Desperately searching through my boiling memory
For something that may prove my existence
I find nothing

Now my mind is heavy with expectation
Laden with an atmosphere of flawless irregularities
Strangely I feel a dreadful sorrow
I know I have always had desperation with life
A black rainbow in the sky that has the purchase on my vision
But the distain of silence nevertheless echoes weird
With destabilising compensations
My own splintered voice reverberating in my head
Presents a clarity of particular insanity
Now I realise for the first time
I have kept my secrets even from myself
So now when I reach out to find Me
I can’t, it’s too late, I've already gone
Yo i know this track was already blessed
So i guess i sit back n roll aome sess
My life is always revolving solving
Problems of the worlds nobodies involved in
And nobody gives a **** only after the buck
Some do gun play but most of my homes stay
Pimpin' the pen my skin is my sin
Will the Heavens let me in??
Its ****** everywhere i go
Fools even gettin' killed at funerals
No shame in the game humans huntin humans but all in the same gang
Naw we divided by race look me in my face
They want us to go after the paper chase
So they can cover of the murders
Of there **** ups blame minorities
Then we summoned by the authority
**** authority  i clame royalty
My ancestors died on this blood soil for free
So how are we free? When tell us from the jump street we enticed to the penitentiary?
Education is a joke occupations goin up in smoke
Feel the vapors compensations fadin'
Wake up youngin' and start obeyin'
Ya instinct dont act like ya **** dont stink
In all house nigguhs **** a **** *****
Homeboy this aint childs play
This life n death so listen to what i say
They murdered many with the injections
Because elite society a growin' infections
They murdered Eazy Janis Hendrix Malcolm King Nat Turner and Amy and many?
So yea you can blame the
Music industry music is revolution the only solution
Is to invoke pollution gun shots silent provoke violence
Shake up the white house now its deaths appliance
Defiance
I am cuz im a man not boy so **** being coy
If they really wanna end you they put you
On a ******' tube to show
That they murdered yiu in cold blood
And not even cry sit on the chair interview spreading a lie
Know this the eye sees the mind believes
Break that mentality before you recieve
The mark of the beast three slashes on ya *****
Turn the degrees
Up six hundred and sixty six **** dollara n sense
Wake up or get caked up because if you get to close to light ya might die of ****** ******




Now im stretching the heat
Of beef
So if ya hungry you can eat uh
I stand on my feet
After beat downs of the punk police
This aint a tale this is a saga
Spittin' lava from my saliva
And if you mad get yo steel
And if you happy go pop a pill
Cuz the **** i speak make the pigs squeal
Runnin' to corners like mice
Cuz they know im so real **** mass appeal
You can cash out on death
And take a deep breath
Cuz its hard to inhale all this ******* it aint hard ti tell
Open yo head or let the ghost out the shell
Earths is Hell cant find a bail
Enticed to famine disease illness
Id rather die young like Black Jesus
Yo religion dont please us
So tell Jessie n Sharpton
To get back on the bus
Cant trust
These hyprocrites suckin' white supremacy ****
So wipe ya mouth N double A CP
Cuz i aint down with O P P
They steady watchin' but im watchin' them
Just ask my homie Tim
OLSAN BETTER KNOWN AS BIN LADEN
that nigguh aint dead he just bin hidin'
In government custody
Remember how they did Toby?
Show that you real
And watch how fast you end up behind bars of steel???
So you can say im a pessimist
Naw this is just a  genesis the realist
To ever spin off a instrumental
**** a sentimental im official
Like Jude break the law always entice the blood
Hold up this aint a gimmick
Killin' all the mimics its murderrrr

elle May 2012
To the point
Where no words adequately express pain

To the point
Where no actions properly display change

To the point
Where all is buried; past present and future, far far behind us

To the point
Where the highest of highs are no compensations for the average low

To the point
Where I am broken

To the point
Where you're unspoken

To the point
Where I am on the edge of reality

That is where you'll find me.
And the darkness that lies in truth
They have qualifications of compensations that prove ineffectual in the meaning of speech
Like the false prophets who preach then hide in explanation preferring the faces of boys steal my name
Mothers hold their children to their *******, purple smoke fills the air while other peoples’ appetites are eaten
The most frightful realisation of ambiguity presents itself in a waltz of hesitation
I hear the whispers of soft syrup coloured skin, of long polished black hair, of complexions
A pestilential silence that reaches and grips from corpse strewn streets creates a gentle but pure indolence
Now You are no longer where I can find my presence.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
the worst curse i ever received upon breaking up with a girl: you'll always be a child if you leave me and go back home. my reply? it's the pain that makes me childish sometimes, i'm a son of immigrants, i was ready to work the roofing business to earn money, but i guess Rasputin didn't see as much either in the people of St. Petersburg... i can say: the Scottish Widows' HQ roof near St. Paul's cathedral is partially mine... well thanks for only allowing me to complete one roof.*

o sweet medicine! o sweet medicine for my burning
head after such prolonged watch,
insomniac, i can't believe his disciples who
were working men, men of the fisheries,
and of other trades, who fell asleep so easily
at his prayer in the garden of gethsemane,
i alone would have stayed awake,
not because i'd want to, or because i would
chose to have: but because the night is my
malady, to stay awake, and during the day
esp. during summer, it's no good time to
find a Nordic shade - that's about half a litre
of absinthe and a walk for five beers
and then the synthetic sleep inducers will
work, little disks of such an infinite pleasure
but of finite experience when compared to
those venturing with shamans from both the
Amazon and the Swiss chemistry laboratory -
she wouldn't be as smart about being able to
take pain, to later complain about a weak
spine if man managed to ditch the inglorious
book of genesis and chose instead the rationality
of the Roman way of birth... oh men so content
with life fall to sleep so easily in order to
jump back into life, and morning, this past morning
i can watch a man walk cool spring streets readied
for whatever emptying task, for indeed the emptying
task is filled with the already emptying thing:
the thing that cradles many things, and by process
of not only economic, but of aesthetic conditions changes
many hands with Shiva playing poker with you,
once the stone carved precious rather than crude held
value, prior that, the flint... but aren't these the times
of the limits of money changing its form?
perhaps all these profession that bring neither bread
from dough, or egg from hen, perhaps the readied
meal, the readied salad, milk sold as skimmed
semi-skimmed and full, when could have been sold
only full so what water might be added at home?
O man's care over fellow man's health, first ruining
his behaviourism, then enticing him further to
some idea of amphibian genes in his ability to swim?
to have created diabetes by cursing natural fat,
to have eradicated fat from natural products needing
to contain it, filling it with excess sugars...
what good would that do if not create a diabetic outbreak?
mm, the honest workers fell asleep while the dishonest
mystic prayed for compensations to his aims?
of my life, i'd give the many hours he gave on the cross
in order to know a certain guilt and a justifiable
punishment - but i know only uncertain guilt
and unjustifiable punishment by man, a fellow of youth,
if you are to plagiarise a plagiarism of monotheism
remember that the first plagiarism took root in
polytheism, does Islam know this? monotheism
made a mistake, polytheism exploited it and never told
the monotheists the mistake from the travels of
Alexander to India... O poor Malachi...
just a brief book, perhaps two poems by 21st standards
of prodigious output, and so much zeal invoked...
for fair you in Hades? you'd fare better with me on
the Mount of Megiddo... look here what a poor
shepherd's frustration at being excess skin on forehead
cheeks and neck made him do to his phallus -
at least the pagans of the north worshipped what was
given to them, and didn't bother revision,
look at their civilised shock and the barbaric being
revised as if a dove of Noah metaphor of promise
to spread the good word of revision the same revisions
given unto the Dobberman dogs with slit ears and
cut tails... or, let's just say Bleach Jackson and painkillers...
well, if one wants to suffer to continue spreading
the good word of revising creation, of man's lost
invigorating spirit, making man more docile,
well virile in head and toe: O ROMANS, LEND ME
YOUR EARS, YOUR FORESKINS AND YOUR TESTICLES!
see... spread the message far enough and a few of
man will lose more than just the ease of only one
*** with excess skin... hey! castrato hymn! sing!
well, the crown of Myrrh did spread to our modern
companion of excess diagnoses, we diagnosed
the imperishable, the soul of persistence in this world
not by destroying the existence of god,
that's no man's vitality, unless in earnest prayer
for personal concerns, rather than kneeling in oink church:
prayers for the slaughter rather than martyrdom...
it can't be that easy even if you played yo-yo
with alms and tax... what modern man destroyed
was soul: he instigated so many theories against man
rather than against god (god is readily gone away with),
by undermining the core essence, the vitality of man,
indeed thought exists for philosophers, and they never
seem to be bored of entertaining it, like a monk
entertaining god... but what modern psychology undermined
was what it said to be a travesty: why can't man
perpetually think! why can't we can't we create
ascriptive pathologies we best describe by zoology
in treatment?! you undermine the force of manual labour
you undermine the displeasure man has with thought
rather than god, i.e. thought implying fellow man:
the car mechanic having to think when his boss lays
him off, although enjoying his manual work, so
freely excited like a sunrise of a perfectly happy body
fully exercised in existential arithmetic counting
birthdays and the number of Christmases... huh?
a man mechanised is content with his body,
to him god is simple as god is simple to Kant...
it's thought that's not entertaining on your little
modern stage... back when God sought redemption
from the cross than thinking about giving redemption
to people, he merely allowed perversity and ****...
well, people cursed god, because thought back then
was manipulated by the dis-attractiveness of
the farmer's life... the still breathing care for adventure...
all my finer points have already been made,
the last remaining points are just written
to show you how far a rigidity of words can become
of the people who hardly read:
e.g. hallowed be thy name...
       holy be your name?
       let's say the modern interpretation is:
       hollow is your name... since we rather
       censor the word **** than make optical
       studies of the tetragrammaton,
       not inserting Adam & Eve into the equation
       we're working on something,
       it's not purposive censorship, it's
       just unnecessarily necessary to see things:
       the tetragrammaton is a tool, like a hammer,
       or a nail... it's not necessarily
       the person using either.
Arlene Corwin Dec 2016
Watching The Signs Of Aging

Watching the signs of aging;
Ultimately,
Finally
An end.
Notice, I don’t say THE end.

Not a film, a flimsy bit of flimflam,
A clouded artificiality, life imitated, intimated.
As stated:
A downgrading: witless and insensate,
Thinning at the temples,
Eyebrow hairs a crazy zigzag;
Tummy more rotund and round;
Fingers, which, however trained
No longer want to grasp or grip.
Compression of the whole foundation
Underscore the downward trip.

Aging signals watched with care –
Obviously there!  Involuntary!
Glasses that you never needed;
Tender spots you never heeded.
Fragile scenes that make you weep.
Couplets which you once thought cheap
Resorted to, which you now keep.

Compensations: pensions, patience;
Many words that end in –pence
Because, and just because
All signs become a Santa Claus:
Signs of good –
That is, when you are in the mood.
Stiff fingers finding newer ways to play piano, open jars,
The mental auto-search a galaxy of syndrome-stars
Bursting unused.

No longer worrying ‘bout standards,
You’ve your own.  
No need to join
The middling crowd,
The mediocre: in reality, the herd.
Small ambitions,
Minimized conditions
All good and fine, but still
Signs of aging ultimately will
Win out.

Watching The Signs Of Aging 12.5.2016
Circling Round Aging; Birth, Death & In Between II; Bath Book II;
Arlene Corwin
Lee Dec 2012
Despite my best efforts,
still i fail.
Despite careful planning,
despite long hours of contemplation,
despite endless nights awake in the heat of an inner debate,
despite all loss of faith and abandonment of previous principles
just to try to find some new way.
Still i am lost, and can not be redeemed.
My mind bashes itself to pieces on these questions,
and not only does the answer evade me
but the question itself
becomes fuzzy and unclear
a static saturated radio flying away
in the cab of a filthy car
Driven no doubt by some saggy eyed *******
a smoker who eats out alot
wrappers and ash stuck to grease stains
cover the interior.
Wait.
What am i trying to find out?
Why does it matter?
Who cares?
Do i?
Who am i?
Still, grasping blindly in the dark of human knowledge,
in the tainted waters of my own memory,
I can find nothing.
Nothing for myself.
Nothing for anyone else,
no purpose,
no inspiration.
Loss,
loss and desperation.
I spit in the face of your compensations
offered up like tasteless party favours
for my incompetence.
Pity, plead, or beg
these are not the actions I engage in.
I am too stupid,
too proud.
I wish only to be left alone
only to be untouched
twitching and broken
in the toxic and shard filled mental pool
of my own making.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2023
My apologies for leaving this empty earlier. Last night I wrote a bit of doggerel criticizing unhappy men who obsess on weaponry. Then the news about the horrors in Lewiston, Maine was broadcast and I withdrew the lines lest the words appear to be frivolous and thus hurtful. I stand by my no-nonsense thesis, though: no one needs one of those ////ed semi-automatic testosterone compensations that fire military rounds.

And no thoughtful man or woman need tolerate for a moment any whatabouts and all the pointless arcana about assault rifles vs. civilian rifles, automatic vs. semi-automatic, magazine vs. clip, and blah, blah, blah.

I was in Viet-Nam.

I know exactly what .556 and 7.62 rounds will do to an adult or a child, and the name of the gun (yeah, I know, "shoulder-fired, gas-operated, blah, blah, and blah") doesn't change anything.

Your grandfather's old J. C. Higgins shotgun is a wonderful thing for bagging supper and eliminating predators. A shiny (they come in Barbie colors now) .556 is good only for inflicting death and suffering on our fellow pilgrims on this earth.
.223, .556, and other codes for death.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
it's nice to think
that my addiction to alcohol...
doesn't require,
or, rather,
constitute...
other people...
  better still...
       i have as many excuses in
bulging in the addiction,
as i have to ensure
excuses for compensations...
no... not going to happen...
people can claim their own,
in terms ownership...
    i give my shadow,
my sidekick up?
   i guess the affected people
should also drop
off their own faults...
before being critical of me;
because it's somehow a:
hey! saints!
                         lullaby?!
prior to the ******
there was something
worth investigating
akin to a *******...
if you didn't notice, prior.
Wk kortas Aug 2017
She brushed her veil aside and tilted her head upward,
Not seeking comfort or benediction,
Only to confirm what she **** well knew was happening,
That the skies, full of gray and grim portent if not outright malice,
Had picked this very time to begin steadily dripping,
Signaling what was sure to be a sodden downpour
(The weekend already chock-a-block with disasters:
The chocolate fountain a testament to dysfunction,
The rehearsal dinner poached salmon overdone and dry
The limousine company downsizing them at the last minute,
Having realized their top-line models
Could never handle the grade or narrow figure-eight drive
Up to the mansion’s precarious hilltop locale.)
The photographer, who’d lived around here all his days
And had developed a sixth sense
Concerning the vagaries of the weather
As well as those of combustible brides,
Had done his best to border-collie the proceedings along,
But as the droplets increased in size and intensity
Recriminations were hurled and doors slammed
As the bridal party sulked off
Toward what promised to be a most interesting reception.

We’d witnessed the goings on,
(Bride fulminating, groom supplicating
The location for the pictures apparently his idea,
Thus proving there are places
Where angels and husbands should fear to tread)
From a safe distance, under the overhang of the great porch
Overlooking the broad, ostensibly placid Hudson below,
Having come here in spite of the clouds,
As the odd rumble of thunder,
And occasional spate of rain being part and parcel of things,
As we’d mucked through these parts long enough to know
That they were fleeting,
And not without compensations of their own
If one was of a mind to seek them out
(We knew full well of the bewitchment
Of seeing the clouds descend slowly,
Covering the sleeping silhouette of old Rip Van Winkle
Slumbering in the knobby Catskill foothills just to the southeast)
And no more than fifteen minutes
After the newly minted man and wife left,
The sun broke through, glorious and unfiltered,
And we ducked into the great room of the house,
Reveling in the magic of unaugmented light.
Olana is the former home/estate/studio of Frederic Church, one of the significant figures in the Hudson River School of painting; it is now a New York State historical site, and a **** breathtaking one at that
Yue Wang Yitkbel Oct 2015
The Fall
By: Yue **** Yitkbel

I still want to hold your hand
Ask where you'd want to go
And follow you there

Give up all these city lights
Lights, camera, pretty faces, and real estate
Give up all these price tags
Insecurities, and compensations

I still dream of looking for you
And finds these dreams the sweetest
For even a mention of you
Brings warmth to my soul

Except, you would never remember me
Since, I never truly met you
For you were but a nameless, wordless
Silent image
Rushed by me in the breeze
Now buried in the past
Slowly fading,
And here and there,
Picked up again by the turbulence in time
And pulling me back

I am still waiting
Looking for
And walking towards the edge of the Earth
Hoping to be caught by a monolith before the fall
Yet, knowing full well to have past it long ago
Knowing full well the terror of the imminent drop
But, unable to stop
Unable to do nothing, but keep on walking
Looking
and Waiting
For nothing but the fall.
Real tenderness can be perceived, longing affection, like how overused a glance is used in the romance genre, oh how else is lover supposed to start? For what I’m I supposed to do, when she’s not around? So I write poetry to help pass the time. I want to bask and yawn in paradise, as for me, I dare to dream on her, sweet honey kisses, though until it’s in actions, there is nothing wrong with romanticizing upon her, poetry is comfort until she glances attention, shifting my emotions from terror of angst to perhaps life isn’t so bad. Do I dare to glare inside her secret eyes? Secrets, secrets, secret inside. Do I dare wonder how many had dared to do the same? As I watch her turn away, as my heartbreaks in two. It’s only earthly sadness in eternal war. I’ll breathe in the moon, I’ll breathe in the sun, ******* in all of life’s beauty. For it’s only temporarily compensations. I’ll report back to poetry. For love isn’t meant for some strange land, some dream we all experience, a yearning or a sigh. Love was made to be held in our hands and experienced.
(knowledge variable)
Arlene Corwin Oct 2016
November 8th, 2016

November eight; election date;
New president, old Arlene Faith
Who, on that date, doth celebrate
29,930 days, 718,320 hours since birth:
A non-elected eighty-two.                              
Who wants to vote for 82 or -3 or -4,
And doesn’t want to ask for more,
Four more…and more?
For nothing’s better
Than the pancake batter
That is life & breath & health & strength,
And solving unsolved human wrath:
Wars, filth, child-death with all
That forms the aftermath.
And where and what is soul and truth!

It must be synchronicity
That Trump and Hilary
(chump/champ) compete
The day old grumpy me
Heads into grumpy eighty-three,
Hurling memories unpleasant
Into green and pleasant pastures,
Saying anything that pleases
With the breezy ease of Sophocles,
Eighty-two can’t be all bad.

Eight, November: situations:
(Discord outside, inside nations)
Eight, November, compensations.

Are there ever real changes,
Or just temporary re-arrangements –
Everything no more than fad?

November 8th, 2016 10.2.2016
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II; Birth, Death &n; Between II: Birthday Book II
Arlene Corwin
Yes we are all aging together and it is part of life. There are compensations for me: things not allowed in youth are permissable now. So i gets plenty of ice creams….

I have mailed Carol as I see I am on a big day out next Tuesday so am unable to come over for the meeting, and I am sorry.

I remembered proverbs and wrote the bit below. Please send my greetings to all and also from Rosey. Have a good summer and maybe see you in Port.
Reward
To live in the misery of the past unable to let go
of childhood’s unhappiness but let it fester and
grow till adult life becomes unbearable, demands
of recognitions and compensations, because their
suffering must be taken up polished and with time
a jewel to show the world. This you owe us and we
deserve what you give us, although it will never be
enough even when the gem drowns in blood by those
who got in the way of the righteous path.
Never forgive or forget, let hatred be your leading star.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
an aging symptom
of the mediocre.

- assorted justifications of happenstance -

three bottles of 8.2% strength of cider... nothing...
it's understandable that high % beers are
reserved for alcoholics and taste bad...
but... when it comes to cider... at 8.2% it's like:
not drinking wine...

quick change of pace: 35cl of whiskey...
ooh... an itch that needs to be typed
and words have to be conjured from nothing...
listening to Button Poetry stand-up
poetry readings, cringing...
where's my straitjacket where is my Hannibal
Lecter mask... i need to bite on some bones...
bones of an over-baked chicken...
**** out the marrow... pretend to say hello
while clucking and clocking in a morning
with... with no more intention than
the intention already arrived at by a cockerel...

probably the first fun football match i was willing
to watch in a long time...
the magic sometimes happens...
Tottenham up 0 - 2 against Manchester City...
just me and dad watching the football...
last few minutes in the first half...
that's Tottenham two nil up...
then... the second half happened...
2 - 2 within the space of 45min + 10min...
and then... a solo show from the Algerian
Mahrez... sometimes it's fun watching a game
of football when one player has a carpe diem
stamina and the rest of the team
is... gripped by a passer-by mentality...
i'm having this passer-by mentality...

unlike the death-and-hollow-pangs of anguish
when existentialism was born, notably with Kierkegaard,
perhaps even Kafka...
i'm becoming more and more at home
within the confines of my alienation...
i realised that i started reading
Dickens' Pickwick Papers and didn't finish it...
gladly revisited: since the original was serialised
so even if abandoned: an easily returned to script...
i still remember some details...
Dostoyevsky's the Idiot... also started... not finished...
well... better heel myself in the ***
to get a move on...
not to mention Heidegger's black notebook
ponderings VII through to XI...
                  
     ****... another... Spinoza's Theological-Political
Treatise... in English...
that's the truly accessible Spinoza...
i wouldn't recommend reading Spinoza's
ethics in a ******... it doesn't really matter
it's a language i was born with...

   in English the form of words
that end with -ing...
    thinking, counting, running...
cycling, demanding...
similarity of tongues but with a different form...
beginning with dość: enough...
szczer-ość (truthfulness),
                   ladodn-ość - gentleness...

or like all the Croat surnames ending so:
   Puli-šić
                            well... this plentiful little life...
this little life of a nobody who bit his pride and sort
of figured out that people with little authority
have this self-aggrandizing monstrosity
of the Quasimodo complex...

so i have this friend living all the way in Hawaii,
London - Hawaii...
i told her that i'd love to be homeless on an island
with great fun aura of complimenting
me sleeping in the cannon of gushing warm
air... she sent me some compliments from
that land: way far away...
dried pineapple, macadamia nut shells...
i bet there are not oaks on that island:
one islander to another islander...
a year passed and we know each other's addresses...
we're not bullshitting or scamming...
now we made a date of it
by phoning each other...
tremors... i'm getting a stage-fright since she
already knows what i look like
and how flimsy i can be when it comes to
****** encounters... sure... even i too could
own that dog of commitment because
*** has become a sort of Apéritif -
bragging rights of women liberated with the maimed
men chained: i feel sorry for
those circumcised buggers who don't know
the feeling of ******* with *******...
and lasting longer during *******
having the ******* constricting the blood flow:
to hello, bishop's head purple...

but it's like that scene from Dancing in the Rain
with the face mismatching the voice...
what if my voice isn't rhapsody prone, RHASPIC...
not hung-over, not manly, gritty enough...
warped self-itemizations borrowed from youth...

or the currency of shame inducement
borrowed from all those proud specimens
of degrading parenthood as a parasitic
inhibition process of achieving full potential
living alone, alone self-praise!
while in some random Hindu household
we're talking less individuality and more:
get with the times, grandma is aching
and father is moralising...
can't bring a boyfriend home...
oh yawn and yawn some more...
maybe if i glued my eyes to feeding the expression
of language into the fabric of a paragraph
i might be a more serious and seriously undertaken
sort of person than all this empty voiding space
of the cascade of poo-tried...
maybe...

then again: life ought to be about making it easier
to struggle less with all the demands,
expectations, even those born from the grandiosity
of being served to align oneself by
being morphed by the grandiosity of the seas
and the mountains, this little atom called man...
make life all that can be bearable and
unconditionally civil...
learning the first lesson and the last lesson
in life: wisdom is born from dialogue...
while knowledge is a vector of agitating oneself
to speak with oneself...
wisdom is a dialogue
while knowledge is a monologue...

so much for spewing quotes, rotas of maxim
but never adhering to them...
sentimentally sort of adjusting
the frail thinking to a frailer mind...
and hardly any soul to drink from a fountain
at the bottom of the drip drip drip...

language apparently conjures itself up
spontaneously whenever feeling: no intentions
no purpose... instead: all that's in-between
of struggling to meet demands...

i'm tired i'm lazy... but i'll still find the pillow
my head will rest on in the thick-glue-of-night...
because i'm lazily so...
i was supposed to go to the gym with
my lesbian coworker...
she met someone... as lesbians do...
she woke up in her bed... lovin' it i replied...
well...
who doesn't want to be loved...
when surrounded by men who confuse a woman
for a man... while you're there dribbling her
assurances telling her: Pixie haircuts...
butch? the butcher who?
piercings, tattoos, Mohawk undercut hair...
rings... butch-rings... six-pack...
who doesn't want to be loved?
i don't... i like the idea of utility beside the neediness
of being love...
i like to think of interacting with fellow man
like a door is requiring a door-****
and a key and a keyhole to lock, to stash,
in a safety of the back-of-the-mind...

              love has become ridiculously simple to me...
but my god, i miss the youthful idealism
of what love was once...
Stendhal and the Crimson and the Black...
origins: always ******* French...
that was fun then and not so much now...
love is like owning a cat... or two cats...
i can ignore i can be ignored
and all this ignoring, mutually sacrificial...
leaves the cat and the owner with
a sense: but you'll be there when i meow
asking for the "manna from heaven"?
you'll be there when you let me go outside
but then i return and want to be let back in
into the warmth because it's cold outside...
and i'll plough the imploring meow in my defence
of you: taking care of me...
love, therefore? so much so much less about
pretending, parroting...
cinema dates, dates in the restaurant...
i just need love to resemble:
i need a shadow come noon
and i'm hardly moving, hardly moving like
a ticking clock...
i want love to be readily available: a readily available
duty of anti-conferencing demands
and... all the bliss of nothing that is to be ever met
for a hope of precursor expectations...
explanations...
something freely given like...
drowning if one is incapable to swim...
or falling with all the flamboyance of gravity...
falling to one's death like first flight seagull chick
or... hardly flapping...
freefalling like a sack of potatoes...

better still: i could do all the housework and work
on the side...
all the nitty-gritty *******...
but... i have found... it's almost impossible
for women to savour the own self-serving gratitude
of performing the feminine-exfoliation
of character building... less controversial
and somehow... appeasing, appeasing...
i have a pair of ******* between my legs...
i don't need a pair in my throat
heaving the grandiosity of constipating Plato
against a brick-wall...

cycling with a heaving, always remembering to
breathe through the nose,
sometime gasping for air skin
to a goldfish figuring out the bubble of BOB
tongue tickling: lapping and history via
only the etymological sourcing of events
completely idle within the confines
of the canvas of Darwinism...
overdoing measurements
               confining a kilometre into the "size"
of a centimetre...

cycling much better than having ***...
esp. when the brothel dynamic changes...
jealous women are: jealous women...
they keep you endeared to have more ***
without it being ***: ***...
one pleasured woman is at least
two angry women who are:
"oddly" not compatible with you...
because ever-knowing already spoke to them:
it's just impossible to relate to please
everyone...

life and traffic... custard bulging like so:
regurgitation: like foam of freezing
and hot-air ballooning...
     exploding lungs in details of cubism:
written about rather than painted...
violins crushed... sounds akin to the harmony
of representing the concept of music:
squared... crushed... never to be heard...
just knock-knock on an imaginary door...
a door a house that was formerly only a cave...
  
               even language: this flimsy kite serving
the ever flimsy atom of ego that's
extending and exploring the horizon of
who we let go: to live their life as any living creature
might... self-absorbed, self-serving,
self-gratifying... autobiographical-who?
most probably either me, or you; the towed two of
towering halving shadows
with fully-exploding faces of smiles: fakes;
cornflakes crisp... mud-holes and that
endless fascination with bears...
hibernating mammals...
what use and purpose of hammers...
pyramids... the bears sleep through the worst
ordeal of the seasons...
so much for music and so much for art...
flimsy compensations... ****** reparations...

blocked tube... if one there was a Marx writing
a history of man... by now we know
that Darwin is the new Marx...
with Marx the communist
and Darwin the capitalist...
                  i hardly think animals
ventured to apply the intermediate
medium of money in relating X to Z... via Y...
parents, busy... so? the existence of the nanny...
animals have no concept of the third party: helpful...
at least parasites are two-dimensional...

Darwin is like Marx... unavoidably true...
but truth: this sort of truth: Nietzsche's aversion to Darwinism
plain-sight...
no sight of liberation...
it's just a mundaneness of Atlas passing
the globe to the little man and: the ants fared better...
ants and Solomon fared better...

to me Darwinism is like Marxism...
escaping Darwinism is not aided by journalism,
tabloid press... or fictive escapism...
or science per se...
    Darwinism has become an impasse
unlike the possibility of filtering the flaws of Marxism
through... **** sapiens and ogling
into the warped-hole kaleidoscope-****
of the **** similis of ape...
mammalian borrowing ontologies of fellow
mammals and further extending the borrowing,
stealing from other categories of animals:
the Mantis Woman... **** me...
at least Marxism allowed a group-think
being together and the common good is...
and the commonality of evil is...
and we can overcome said X to accomplish
yet to be discovered Y...
but with Darwinism the new Marxism this
atomised man... this grammatical baron
this mammal of lent traits of other mammals...
the crown... atop the decapitated head
of king Charles II...

i wasn't a fan of Marxists writing history...
i'm also not a fan of Darwinists writing the history
of the world...
that's Darwinism outside the scope
of the actual science, what's being popularised...
who want to wake up in the safeguard
of an Agrarian Society?
   while giving into the impulses of hunter and gather
sexed up shamanism...
easily liberated: so much for forward thinking...
so much for planning...
i love being "bored" with a book...
i love being bored cycling...
i love to not love having ***...

                    such advancements and yet so little
to show for it...
   because... spaghetti-feet tangling married
to shoe-laces...
               life without advertisements...
because... you only end up buying what you need
and not what other people demand you to buy
for them to buy in return...
       i abhor Darwinism as much as Marxism
in the realm of history...
it's soul crushing... it's soul-denying...
  Darwinism and Marxism are like-for-like...
to admire the natural world and feel jealous:
the clowns of the mammalian hierarchy,
the bears... sleep through winter... we? get goosebumps
from the cold...

and just because Darwinism originated in the English language?
no wonder it's being kept like that historical artifact
of the the crucified man... being:
hmm... and the wisdom of man is purest
by being so insolent as to have to be crucified?
said wisdom seems, therefore, borrowed... not his...
given the account of Matthias ben Josephus...
i was sold a ******* lie...
praise to Islam for having a pair of *******...
i wouldn't even dream of concerning myself
with dictating the replication of my DNA as thumb,
rule, to preserve... what?! only i thought what i thought...
does it matter whether i spit or ******* or
take a **** or... have eggs in three ways:
scrambled, poached or fried?!
does it?!

   the useful idiocy of women and the preservation
of non-intended demands outside the confines
of the natural world...
at one point the pyramids of Giza
yet another pin-point the Hagia Sophia of Constantinople...
me scribbling so little with such adamant
desire to shackle myself to fervours of
earthquakes... even if disappointing
and never to accomplish a widespread focus
of influencing others...
i'll die... with a welcomingly arrived at
THE END... and i will have no son or daughter
to grieve for me... or... list a litany of forgiving(s) -
because i failed... at least i failed on my own.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
as if Sisyphus before the miser tract,
and Charon before the debtors,
no weidling pitch-fork caucus,
or more toward askin for worth...
came first the siamese tongue
and tree in candle flame entwined,
from Y you came, unto Y
you shall return;
a candle spurred came closer
to my abode, than any lover would;
even is that W became a C...
and the remnant in nearing
acronym, or prefix elongated...
          the demands of the gods  
are for mortal men to mark a labour
in recurrence to no scout in return
of assurence of settled tomb
mark swoon, scoop, harvest
and ditto...
                 had i but my own:
wife, children and heritage...
         I wouldn't be left thinking of
Antactica... as some sort of
reimagining of a Sydney pleb
choir fetish for transcendence...
  and that overtly bloated meringue
(as any dyslexic anonymous
intervention, borrowing french,
adding as many diacritical marks
as eating vowels in suffixes etc.);
in pristine form comes
a bone akin to a chewing sensation,
gargantuan into fade;
pst...
       anglo over uses pronouns,
demanding definite and indefinite
           X quasi space pseudo timing
und contra...
           other languages demand
an incorporation of pronouns
into other words,  that simple
plastic surgery won't fix...
                7+ 000,000,000...
                try attempting "fame"
in China...
        the ******* chopsticks will overtake you,
like shoelaces will, heading west
to make compensations with.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
the world renowed english: black humour...
schwarzhumor...
better known by its "high german" -
alt-vater-zunge... schadenfreude term...
perhaps this anglo-slav of me always
found an iron maiden
of self-censorship to never
allow myself a pleaßure from this...
"sense of humor"...
it's not that i'm gripped with
either sympathy or empathy -
i guess i am... more or less:
arms tied... pretending to be a rock
or a ghost when...
we shared a laugh:
once upon a time... when one of us
was kicked in the *****...
or the football came full force
in a football match against the genitalia...
or how i was so wrapped up
in reading a newspaper while
walking... i'd walk into a lampost...
it's not laughing at misfortune is
general... it's a quick-equipped
circumstance of slapstick humor...
the base instinct... almost paranoid
in waiting... because you suspect
the universe to find the counter joke...
of close proximity karma...
you laugh nervously...
because: the 12th rule for life...
sorry... can anyone translate the fact
that petting a cat in a street...
is by far the hardest rule "for life"...
that cats do not come with:
readily petted... by strangers...
unless... so unloved by their owners
they become "missing"...
lost dogs and "missing" cats...
a cat is never missing...
i own two cats = i vacuum the house
every, single, ******* day...
sometimes i'm vacuuming spare air...
but i always wish for vacuuming
to be fishing-esque...
the need for the house to be clean...
shedded-furr-free is...
almost compulsive...
but it's necessary...
it's not that ****** easy to pet a cat
in the street...
it's too obscure to be a rule...
dumb dog will be whipped and either
turn around and bite...
or further his nostalgia for the all-loved-puppy...
distrustful creatures...
these cats... a black cat crosses your path...
the number 13... bad luck...
elsewhere... not here: not with me...
it's hardly a rule... because it can't be kept:
no random cat is willing to be petted
by a stranger on the street...
first of all... you need to walk the streets
at night...
but this is about...
never being inclined to entertain
schadenfreude...
among the western slavs... the polacks...
there's only plainsight jealousy...
i can stretch my palette when it comes
to the english schwarzhumor:
the ridicule and the terse accounts...
and the bombast...
i can entertain this dry scrutiny:
cptn. obvious in tow...
but the old rhine black forest humour?
schadenfreude...
i actually find it less difficult to avoid
encountering this mild sadism...
what's harder? faking apathy...
because when confronted with having
to disguise either empathy or sympathy...
is much harder than to give way
to schadenfreude...
back into the co-ordination of a self:
your self: reflective -
yourself: the reflexive...
it's a balancing act... and it's near impossibility
of stratifying "neuter"...
well...
apathy - what a paradoxical word -
a bit like psychopath -
the pathology associated with the existence
of a soul - psychopathy and exclusive materialism...
apathy: to be freed from all and any
pathology is a pathology per se:
which is apathy...
it's this automated "free ride" that
drags along minor details...
posists spotting microaggressions...
you see them... for your own pleaßure...
since there's no major hinderence...
no clarified pathos -
no obliterating ****** impetus -
the middle-ground: no-man's-land...
i currently have a cold - that famous...
voltaire definition of living in england:
the forever-cold...
the bounty of living on an island...
premature arthritis and constant colds...
away from the dry air compensations
of continental air...
sure... it does rain on the continent...
but you're not surrounded by water
all the time!
perhaps the + is that...
given so much water around...
the daytime hours come sooner
during the winter months...
than they do on the continent...
it's this... ******* island damp!
but - in all honesty... a cold is a welcome
period of: immediate discomfort...
with immediate remedies at hand...
discomfort as: less lethargy and more
nausea...
i know the signs of this minor discomfort...
all i have to look at is...
the uvula...
i know i'm in the chicken-shack enclosure
of the common, mundane cold:
ad nauseam when the uvula...
is... not swollen... but elongated... seemingly dripping...
when the uvula is touching the tongue
when the mouth is open... i know i have
been infected by a common discomfort...
would this ever stop me drinking?
hardly...
but tonight... no need to walk
the labyrinth of the outer english suburbian
streets looking for cats and foxes "to pet"...
the third tonsil is still in place -
it almost looks like a overtly-wrinkled
nutmeg stone...
and it protrudes itself in the gob
when an automated reaction to regurgitation
plays a role...
from the days when i used to mind
my weight and physique...
also having succumbed to classical
bulimia (roman) -
or eating and then regurgitating what
i ate... ******* down the throat
at first... until the oesophagus was
properly trained...
but an uvula that's "trickling" down...
like a mama goat's ****** that has been
****** off too many times...
and is lazily agitating the tongue it
rests on... then i know i have a common cold...
i experienced schadenfreude once...
but it was the immediacy that surrounded it...
it became an outburst of laughter:
spontaneously or rather:
if i were th lucky man, wearing a top hat
or a bowler... walking through trafalgar sq.
and having a pigeon **** on it...
but there's a doubled problem surrounding
schadenfreude... these days...
it's a humour associated: brooding-over...
or like reading a charles dickens novel...
something bogus like so...
it's hardly married to the child of spontaneity...
or the reflexive invitation: like water,
most unstoppable...
humour in a sense: pickling cucumbers
so that they become gherkins...
those tiny little oddities of the kingdom
of... the vegetative state of affairs...
i don't know why i would enjoy this...
ancient (not so primitive) sense of humour...
today i finally realised working my way
around the alarm clock...
and what a beautiful morning it was...
being woken up with music...
full blast: american head charge's debut
album... rather than some alien sound
of gongs and castrated gods, or sparrows...
a tonne of elephant **** landed in my room
and i became chirpy like a sparrow
without... what those gypsies get up to:
sing-along *******: happy r.e.m. -
peoples of the world: disunite...
two jokes: why do italian men grow moustaches?
so they can look like their mothers...
nick nolte: head full of honey...
decent film...
joke no. 2... why are all german jokes...
it's better than these people have a car to export...
there is no german joke...
little brother england - the expansion
of saxony is one thing... but hearing
a pomeranian joke is... watching the *******
tide becomes funnier the minute i close my
eyes and imagine: the need to blink upon
opening my eyes again...
this lazy uvula... soar throat...
more like: the uvula made a bed from the tongue
and forgot to dangle:
my mouth the church bell: the uvula the gong...
but not this lounging...
*****-****** ****** off too many times:
milking cow ******* thrice daily state of
sick... common sick... boring sick...
where the everest of the major discomforts...
like the ghost leg of an amputee?
teasing fate?
fun out of what? low i.q. or...
            karma-paranoia?
      choice of words... lepidopterological ask:
a cloud of:        e     d      r
                        a      b     n     o   r
                             i     h     m   p   w:
red baron whimp...
this... monolingual fetish for... best we not learn
another tongue in fear of becoming schizoprenic /
bilingual... need fortifications!
anagrams and crosswords!
the trouble of meeting an english native-speaker
half-way...
you'll never meet an english native-speaker
half-way... either way or no way...
a rare event... sooner coming across
a polyglot or a polymath than a willing...
native bilingual...
greenwich meridian: bellybutton people
of the world: the center of attention!
     even if the natives go against the welsh...
from the outside looking in?
not that many compliments going to scotland...
gaelic somewhat: more like mostly:
the trajectory of: but we kept the accents
the hark-and-harking-sense of sing-along:
tweed and tartan!
yes... but the welsh...
kept... llachar coch
    llaчar coх (cyrillics borrowed)...
or llakhar (kh - к) coх... draig...
gwyn heddwch (hedłх) rhag uchod...
gwyrdd porfeydd isod...
dazzling red dragon:
white tranquilty from above...
green pastures below...
              not so much can be said
about the scots: who "forgot" gaelic...
mainstream...
but: och! the glaswegian accent!
mein herr! what a bounty!
               i have a real problem with schadenfreude...
i don't know... perhaps...
i never appreciated the joke of:
having to walk in someone else's shoes:
literally...
if they are too big: the sensation of
walking the clown's walk
on a ground littered with dead squid...
slipping but not slipping...
otherwise the cramp and "claustrophobia"
of being a tip-toeing geisha...
or something from that chinese nightmare
of the lotus feet of the Song and Qing dynasties...
called: lotus feet... more like...
pork-stilletos choppers...
you can almost spot a hoof in this
man-made deformity...
blah blah all you want about the superiority
of the chinese ideograms: dear ezra...
sure... a chinese ideogram as... a brick
to be lent in building the great wall... against
the mongol...
but... at the end? what's being said:
the crude syllable: chin chong shin diggy diggy.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
i've moved through several "mentors" in my life, i obviously started with someone like Milton, seriously, on poetic matters, i didn't start with Shakespeare for the sonnets, i found then too... too claustrophobic, rhyme in general is claustrophobic for me, it's such a lesser expression, i much prefer playing squash, squash over tennis, every single single, playing it... id est, obviously watching a tennis match is rather enjoyable, a bit like watching a magnolia tree bloom in spring, or any spring blossom when taking a walk at night: it's great watching it... but the practicality of playing tennis "goes missing" when you turn from spectator to player... let's face it... there's a football team's numbers' worth of aids... let me count.... dot dot dot: 6 ball girls / boys... an umpire... 6 vertical line judges... 4 horizontal line judges... what's that? **** me... more than a football team of assists... more like a rugby team... i started with this mentor... that soon passed... Bukowski... Will Alexander... i did a whole year of Ezra Pound and opera... why bemoan the trans-Atlantic slave trade?! any jazz... coming out of Africa... can you envision a world whereby music was explored as it was explored... by African-Americans (****** conjunctions, just the "retards", plough-labourers sold by their own tribesmen to instill a fervor for up-keeping their high status polygamy... mind you... no white girl can compete with this sort of Calypso... a Harley Dean... nope... not ever... car-nage)... can you? any new jazz coming out from Nigeria, or just the same, similar, ethnic *******? that's being overlooked... jazz was never ever to be born in Africa's *****... the antithesis of classical music... it required Africans to be forcibly moved to the "newly discovered" continent of America for jazz to be given birth... painful: like most original births are... but... we had the reconstruction of classical music through jazz which opened / paved he way for all the "other" / subsequent music genres... if i had any black fwends i'd tell them: **** it up... you don't realise what you gave us... compensation? for slavery?! oh sure sure... the Jews got their compensation payments for the Holocaust... and what did the Polacks get?! as, ahem... compensation? communism! we, "we": received diddly-squat! ******* and your "compensations": "reparations": ******* with your Marcus Garvey or otherwise: shut the **** up... this new born Christianity of the African continent is somehow sickening... no! i will not shut up... it is what it is! pranking supremos... grifters! spindlers! can you imagine? people have so little interest in music that they have to resort to talk-radio... they need to be talked to... and then they return: en masse... as a public decry of government policies being shuffled in shadow... beautiful world... a world so beautiful that it only requires one to **** a ******* to level the playing field... i keep myself intact: i focus on what's to be loved: first... id est: children and animals... that's it... it's not a sinking Titanic motto of women and children first... no... nothing's sinking: children and animals first... women... 4th... what's 3rd? male on male camaraderie... drunken men at public events tell me all the things women tend to "forget" to tell me: i do... although some... i have three tiers of women... the wedded ones, clearly bored... still doing: whatever... Lolitas and... prostitutes... obviously i champion the last of the three because the rest are too timid and by too timid i'm looking elsewhere... charm a totem... a fox... let a fox feast on your leftover food from dinner for a month: not a dog... but... maybe... either he was run-over or he figured out a "thought" of: well... isn't this weird... running drunk with deer... a harem of deer... that created a traffic conundrum... can i just be blunt? women aren't mysterious... they're just a ******* drag... drag... boo-ring... i watch married men pandering to their wives' demands and i'm thinking: not all fools are horses... some are just ******* donkeys... me? i tried... i failed... i tried i tried... i failed i failed... that's the beauty of rejection... there must be a chemical formula akin to adrenaline whereby you stomach rejection all the more easier... it's sort of on a whim... a: eh?... whatever... you start gluing your eyes on that Zeno paradox race between a turtle and a hare... or... reimagining... what if horses had to compete with camels... or... what if.... man tamed the bull and not the horse for battle?! hmm... the world is truly my oyster... but no... i don't do rhyme i don't do haikus... i think i'd find writing a haiku very: unsatisfactory... perhaps it's a relief to read... but writing one? no conversational overtones?! none of the blah-blah effect?! what?!

i never write from a source of "inspiration": forever the mu dane "rezoning" of me (N - ease honing: of reasoning)
i never write from a source of "inspiration",
reading the Latin classics taught me this one
"thing".... to never reiterate a square
of -ing                            -ed




    -ed                              -ing

first come the children, second the animals,
3rd the camaraderie, 4th, the women,
to un-stiffen: myself....
hell... if Walt Whitman could get away
celebrating himself... i guess i can too...
let's dance... facing the music...
to hell with tired old men writing poetry
once upon retired, salvaged.... "happy":
SAFE: yes... now is the ripe time...
the time to craft banknote meanings...
  whisper to the ******* wind!
i need myself in my youth:
in an element of brute!
      free! freed from ever having
ever stolen or murdered or otherwise...

children, animals, camaraderie, women....
a bit like women....
  Lolitas, wedded women...
prostitutes... the rest?! pass...
  seriously, pass... i rather be chasing deer
drunk in the night...
timid is not not mystifying...
timid is just boring...

  but in terms of language...
                the ancients knew a thing or two...
sure... they lived in a world governed by
geocentricism... but...
they could figure our minute patters in
physiognomy without making
a ******* science out of it!
of making an -ology: authorities on:
the reminder of the recluse super-intendant:
*******! seriously...
****-off...

if you were to give Atlas the weight of earth
by...
tectonic... shrapnel...
rather than the whole globular...

dead-weight... stones...
imagine carrying a dead-weight...
compared to... alive-weight...

same distinction between mass
and weight...
gravity... is dead? is dead? gravity prone?
***... imagine filling up a skip...
of stones...
then imagine...
  ******* a *******...

i have bruises on my arms
as if i were over-shooting too much ******...
goddess...
i peered at my shadow trying to
to unpeel it into nothing...
watching it... merge
with the shadow of trees: disappear...

i'm not a god... to hell with the Olympians:
i'm a TITAN!
i can see the pulsating blood in my protruding
veins as i liberate Sisyphus from
his slumbers... as i irritate:
wait a minute...
if the ancient Greeks deplored the Titans...
and invited the gods...
what did Christianity do...
if not make angels into saints?!

  i hate Christianity...
              it's a hatred with a passion that
leaves me... unable to find a girlfriend...
"unable"...
to hell with it... i can cook, i can clean,
i know how to iron shirts...
i do most of the d.i.y.
  and by then... the ones that are available are?
single mums... ****** is ******...
i'm not getting any replicas...
    so... so... as far as ancient customs go...
i'm not a Tiberius Caesar...
  ha ha... no no...
        fostering ******* is not on the menu...
although...
fostering... what's the equivalent of
a daughter born out of wedlock?

    me? i have a healthy mind... a keen mind...
that's what happens when you read Stendhal
and Marquis de Sade in your teens
and leave Ovid till your 30s?
******... "******"...
            i'm not investing in anything beside
an idea... a succulent thought...
something that's beyond a mere squeeze...

dość! enough!
      but no ść in Russian...
akin to šč
    i.e. szczypiorek - green onions...
chives even...
ever smell chives in bloom?!
bothersome addition of a "comma"
to the already defeated epsilon
  щ...
            or... strict woe woe Woe...

the most beautiful letter i ever came across?
Plato... Theaetetus... SO...
not in katakana... not in Hanguel...
in the near extinct Glagolitic Slavic scriptum:

M: Ⰿ
too many ******* vowels!
that's my reply?
the Germanic "question" regarding Slavic
languages employing "too many consonants!":
you people have been ****-hurt over
an Afghanistan-likeness inclusion
into the Roman Empire for for long
that all you get to say: too many consonants...
i say? i say?! you use too many vowels!

but i'm nice in person...
that's why i've decided to to this job...
i want to hone in on my crowd authority
"skills"...
**** knows... one day i might feel like
i want to perform!
i need good target practice!

i just woke up at 7am: the skip was supposed
to arrive between 7:30 and 9:30am...
i have "tattoos" on my arms from the dead-weight
i was lifting...
it's a bi different when you're making yourself
mandible during live-weight sessions of ***
with a "proxy"... *******...
i don't see the problem Jack the Ripper had a problem
with...
last time i checked?
prostitutes?! most hygienic creatures
there are... almost **** about it... like i'm
a **** about hygiene..
i seriously don't care who you sleep with but
at least i don't need to care about
having unprotected *** with one...
  because that's the best *** there is...
          and just imagine:
  when you can build-up such mutual trust with
a perfect stranger:
she judges your hygiene... and you judge her hygienic
standards: you meet on common ground...
an immediate trust bond ensues...
              it's oh so lovely than with some random
stranger picked up in a nightclub...
after all: she probably lives with flatmates
or still with her parents...
  and you still live with your parents because:
you're sort of good friends and the whole mother / father
son relationship is a bit post-modern...
but... well... the brothel is the middle ground...
you're not there to work in the garden
or cook dinners or do household chores...
  or read the Sunday newspaper...
  you're in a brothel to... basically do what
a butcher does in a butcher's shop...

long gone is the mentality of a Jack or
  for that matter Samuel Little...
                      why would i moralise women by way
of moralising them through: killing them?
at least these women... well... out of the... how many
i have slept with... only about 2 had a genuine
(nymphomaniac) love for the act...
    maybe 3... the rest were in the profession and still
hadn't managed to love the idea of ***
like the idea of *** was loved back in the 1960s...

i must have mentioned it once:
i'm not a gambling man...
but i am: when it comes to gambling with a ******...
it's more fun-tub-goochy-goo...
why take the thrill of life from life?!

she sends me a picture of herself behind
a driving wheel: no make-up...
she looks... hmm... as fresh as spring...
i send her a picture of blooming chives...
almost rosemary-like...
no... not rosemary... lavender... no!
quasi-fuschia!
most certainly fissile-like!
          that "rose" without the spines
of a mantis... the chives...
but most certainly the bishops' attire of bloom...
THISTLE! ****'s sake! THISTLE! THISTLE!
THISTLE THISTLE! THISTLE!
FA FA... FI FI... how many surds?!
fizz... isle... burg... doughnut... a load of *******!
did i, at least, get the spelling of fuschia right?!
chances are... no...
  
FUCHSIA...
                  bull riding... ****'s sake...

      but that's what it felt like: the inversion of rock climbing...
carrying these heaps of stones
from the garden into the skip...
    that's why i could never go back to the gym
and pump iron...
                    swimming, tick...
bicycle riding, tick...
    maybe i should revisit my former past-time
and hit a climbing wall in Hackney...
      
  but *** is also great exercise... between than doing
stomach crunches...
    only today i was coming back from a shift at Wembley...
late... late... just came in at 2am...
i was thinking of stopping over to see Khedra...
but then...
  oh you know... if it isn't some ancient perverted
evil of being stimulated by ******* as you groom
your female cat and she sticks her **** up
as you brush her... which wakes up a desire for a woman's
body by way of recoiling to the idea of *******...
then it's... the newly discovered "fetish" for south American
women... Argentinian women: milk-cows...
i don't think i've seen so many well-endowed women
in one evening...

  but... hmm... i can't go in for the act without untrimmed
***** fair... plus... i needed to see my Turkish barber:
yesterday...
  it will have to wait...
  plus pay-day today...
    finally! i've returned my my mental safety-net
of having the minimum £3000 in my now two bank accounts...

sometimes i walk up to a cash machine and people
print their statements and forget to take them...
my £3000 in "savings": they're not savings...
i just like to have this amount of money on the ready...
but other people?
my god... they really are living from pay-check
to pay-check... i don't think i've ever seen a statement
that read: £500+ on the account...
it's usually in the range of £10 to £200...

      on a daily basis this life is somehow worth living:
i'm being reminded of my literary diet...
it's good that i read Marquis de Sade as a teenager
and that only now i'm rediscovering Ovid...
  i think the reverse would have been...
very... very... grotesque.
Delton Peele Sep 2021
1253  lie awake  
Hear the  dry mechanisms
In the clock searching desperately
For any distracting thoughts
Tictictictictic tic tic  tic  tic .  .  .  . . . ......
Finally !....gravity!
compensations mathmatical
Calculations with variables!
This rythm fluctuation in timing
I had thought maybe
I was imagining....I'm not!
It's real in fact perfectly predictable  ....  
its not intermittent
or some symptom
of mechanical failure
The tic of the clock speeding
Then slowing its not the batteries or something discrepant in the machining....
Its so simple  ....
The weight of the second hand being the longest is pulled by gravity.........
so as it hits the six you can hear a lul in the ticking as if it were dangling without tensioning on the gearing
Then you hear slow struggling up to the twelve .
Where it sorta teeters then speeds sounds like it's trying to hold back the sands of time
Time... .
Time..............
h no ......no...please
Let me sleep,
Here comes the wave again
Pain full perfect memory
The clear and present danger
I know is immenment
The discovery ....
They'll see I've been pretending
To be innocent
And my biggest fear
My most mind breaking soul shattering life ending fear.....
Is they will think
I had taken pleasure in
Getting away with it...
So I relive it ...
I transfer myself into the ones who hurt the worst
Become them and absorb the worst case scenario
Over and over......
I lay awake ....
I live the humility of being ...
In the .....
I know I'm guilty wether I'm caught or not.......
I'm not trying to get away with anything .....
I just don't want to get caught...
Suddenly ....
The door slams like at the end of ironsides.....as the footsteps echoing down the hall ...
Louder aproaching
I see a big green question mark
Teetering and ticking above my pursuant....
Ohh no here it comes again
BAM BAM BAM.
this is it
My day of reckoning
Should I run .....
The door is opening
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
i don't get me... i woke up with a massive ******
****** into me face...
i get it... i get it... i like performing oral
*** on women...
i like the idea: it's non-edible...
i could be slurping on oysters...
i could be worried about tapeworms...
what else, could i be worried about?
old men that finally decided to write some poetry
because the prose train left a long time
ago?!
   you tell me...
    i just have this image in my head...
i'm slurping... i'm being sloppy...
as you do: with any available *******...
flowers are in bloom...
because the tender parts of the ****** are
at the top...
the... horrid parts... the impregnating parts
are down below...
implying fingers need to be used:
for insertion purposes...
       i have a broken "car":
i have an unfulfilled woman...
come on! come on! i need oil! i need
lubrication! what are you going to give me?!
tell me! tell me!
i don't mind slobbering:
teasing her **** with my nose...
no problem... give me more!
i need more!
i can **** all day and all night!
i can rotate my tongue with
all the anti-Copernican inventions!
more! more! more!"

no... fatherhood
or marriage is not on the cards for me...
i want to understand the rules
of playing Bridge...
if i were single for the many years
i've been single...
could i... would i... have been able?
to enjoy... the sort of diet of music
i allowed myself to ingest?!
truthfully?! no... i don't think so...

well then... thanks for the promise
of children...
but... this unearthed discovery of music
sort of overpowers me
in making "compensations"...
i still wake up with a hard-on
thinking up performing oral
*** on prostitutes...
not vegans... ahem... sorry....
   vegans are the new virgins?!

i wake up and think about... "think":
imagine... licking out anuses...
i'm sitting pretty...
sort of not pretty...
nonetheless discreetly: affirming my
unabashed sternness
of being: unmoved...
                 sure... move me...
move god...

     tell autumn to precede summer!
stones are stones...
mountains raise mountains...
seas are confused by rivers...
butterflies will never be as difficult
as moths...
      death is a riddle that life has
to be lived by effort: to a ****...
            everything lyrical best be im Deutsche...
or?! Adolph sings! ah ha...

   ha ha...

the clean house: the empty house...
the living dead... the dead supposedly living...
such are people...
            they're sort of morbid:
living... amongst them...
            i don't want to live in fear of life...
what's the point?!
            may i cite?!
die sooner! die sooner! die now! die now!

oh! the *** is an absolute feast!
i love *******!
i don't understand why monotheism abhors
the ******* in males!
can... anyone explain?
why does Judaism and Islam
abhor the ******* in male genitals?!
please...
  i just love suckling on the female genital *******...
i will: bring: your... gods... to... kneel!
or i will eradicate your
imbeciles of a supposed "people"...
i will devour with a pork's snout!

please please... remind me...
why do i enjoy performing oral *** on a woman...
she still has all the uncircumcised *******
on her ******...

this ******* PORKIE-PIE is going
to FEED! i'm going to feed off female genitals...
because i don't understand the secular
contract bound by American men
and their conscription toward being
consecrated on the altar of anti-kippah
and anti-niqab of circumcision...

       this pederasty of a deity is going to end!
this matriarchal deity of the Hebrews
and the Arabs is going to end here!
circumcise pigeons! cut off their wings!
this monotheistic god of women
is a horrible abomination!
she re-conjured him with her fable of
Frankenstein!

               darling... please die!
the sooner you die the sooner i might imagine
living for about 10 years...
before...
what bargain?! you keep your *******
while i'm robbed of it?!
thankfully i haven't been robbed...
hence?! i'm neither Jew nor Arab...
good!
        alles gut!
          which is why i enjoy eating out a ****!

these monotheistic gods will have to ****
at my "missing" *******...
while i eat out the vaginas
of prostitutes!
no wonder... inbreeding... low IQ...
sure... we need people to do deeds we
otherwise would not do...
no wonder we don't have any friends...
i don't have friends for the simple reason
that: i really don't have anything
to talk about to anyone....

oops... times are a bargain.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
somehow i rewarched...
father of the bride today...
in between planting three
roses: hybrids...
cool names like: prima ballerina
tea sunset... etc.

   the wedding itself didn't put
me off...
beside the princess diary
   and... catching that whimsical
thread: hook... and sinker...

i also thought about two things
today while watering the grass
just so: with the drainage:
to get the proper mush-mush
feel of stepping on it...

the grass is going to become
my new pride...
swans... left in the bathtub...
bel-air...
and the fresh prince therein...
the ice-sculptures...

but that... there was a myth...
still alive... in 1990 h'america...
of a production and export
         dynamic?
           who was the last man to
walk in shoes that were
produced, last... in h'america...
beside that... "desgined" in calofornia...
manufactured in a chinese
sweat-shop?

mind-boggling...
a bit like... poland... once upon a time...
had a metallurgical heart...
men were men that did the honest:
good...
call the electrician or...
change the fuse gone dead
in the plug... first?

i thought about two things
when watering the grass...
i thought about smoking a cigarette...
and about... jerking off...
i did the former...
forgot to bother myself with
the later...
***... when you don't have access
to... a systematic toil of the matter...
can become...
hardly an exercise of pleasure...
it can become anything...
except that...

             before walking into
a brothel i'd rub my hands against
bricks....
in order to... feel...
an exponential worth of skin
upon touch...
toughened skin...
         it felt: most likely...
that i'd find a soothing sensation...
when it concerned the "question"
of leather... it's not akin
to curating pig-skin for leather
for a sofa...
it's still... a life with a breath...

they might want to ban...
the father of the bride...
                  i don't have the quizzical look...
or two munchkins at my disposal
to park 200 cars...
or a gucci suit i'd want to fake /
pull off as black... when in fact...
deep seeded navy...

           they might want to ban
the movie because...
                manufacturing jobs...
in h'america?
california produced sport shoes...
did they... magically... spit on...
laurel leaves to conjure up...
prosthetics and...
gum-bear bacon to sleuth...
and wear to be worn down...
come... the 20 year gap?

           cherished plum! eye of my mind...
a daughter to be readily sanctified...
so cherished that she will have...
her... pride parade oops in white...
and..
it's a movie like no other movie...
since...
  the metallurgy was shut-down
in eastern europe...
the divisions and the winds
assunder...
cheaper does it...
but the quality...

   i still own a shirt... fathomed
in bangladesh...
     i could wear it for fifteen..
     but... given the currency of:
made to be easily exhausted...
the chinese "embargo":
nothing is to be traded globally...
if it is... it is to be manufactured
in china...

the lost currency of plumping...
and the new economy of:
time-eating...
        the new economy of:
ice-queen pirouettes...
                     the basking in...
detailing the artifacts of "absence"....
the eastern european...
metallurgy dynamic...
no black slave ever worked
in a coal mine...
           picking cotton isn't exactly
the equivalent of mining for coal...
this shirt off my back?
you can have it...

              adolescence of arguments...
who is to fathom the circus...
when... one isn't allowed...
paint for ogling scare and scared face...

this house... which i can't envy...
this story: which i can't envy, either...
this bride: this take on the in-laws...
this pristine... lie:
this "reality"...
this summation of cruxes laying
the path of X walking a "question" apart...

all that's anything worth...
a... lessening of humour...
when the reflection... extracted from
water... is a ghost...
a ghost-esque synonym of fading
memory...
the old reflection... born from water...
like the old forbidden fruit...
perhaps the fruit was...
to have... stated the a posteriori
niqab: consummation point -
that the gods were like us...
should we find enough water...
to peer into... and find ourselves:
the lesser of the apes: and half-witted gods...

then born from water...
a fading reflection... a ghost visage...
but... perfected... sharpened...
and now standing before
a mirror...
what was once a reflective piece...
of apparatus...
a fading clue...
had to become...
a reflexive: frankenstein myth...
a retort! an aghast and a horrowing
miasma of... borrowed...
vowel-consonant compensations
of... left-over reasoning(s)...

     standing before a mirror:
****... reflex comes itching...
talking becomes... breaking...
a solipsistic adventure in quasi...
but... taking to...
a reflection in a puddle...
or a lake...
or a glass of water...
or... a black coffee cup...
i lose the ability to reflex my
"circumstance"...
i reflect... i fade...
i marry the murk of the diabolical
waters...

as i re-imagine cinema...
9 hours worth of...
resident evil 2... walkthrough video...
which is not...
gone with the wind...
which is not...
     the director's edit of:
apocalypse now!
or ben hur! shy of 4 hours...

but this... game... walkthrough?
over 9 hours...
a cinema for...
post-hoc gaming...
     cinema-esque revelations...
old ideas: old hamster...
but an apparently new: wheel...

- the genius that conjured up a blatant
combination of...
an iceberg (salad) and some
mayonnaise...
     who might also...
curate the geometric skeleton
of square...
along... the bonus of...
the shading synonym differentiations
of...
the in between of when
blue came along with yellow...
and... bob's your uncle...
out came green...

                      the wrapping of a tortilla...
and the unpacking of a stranger's suitcase...
then the tortilla as the reinvented:
toast... because... sooner or later...
it will be known...
continental crows are much
fatter than their cousins on the isles...
except for the freaks they...
fatten with... black pudding and blood
soaked crumbs at the white tower
of loon'down...
  by that... murk of a river...
with no... blessing of a concept
of time... as... passing...
but... instead... bothersome...
because... it has... a tide... and hours...
subsequently...

                  it's not that subjectivity is "bad",
per se...
it's not like there's a way to
escape: being subjected to...
                gravity... time...
sure... the ++ benefits of being objective
about space: one can easily objectify
space...
but one... can't... objectify time...
beside that one time it was tried...
and so history became...
"something borrowed"...
clown and circus mad envy riddle
of marking bull *******
for the dough, and...
it was never... the hammer and the nail...
the sickle and the shaft of wheat...

because the stereotype hanged supreme...
the new... "capitalists"...
had a word to say...
but also managed...
what they managed...
the mug prints... the t-shirt... prints...
d.j. arcadia!
               prometheus...
           loan word bargain:
the carbon footprint of the collateral
social distancing laws...

       and what "talk" of love is there...
what pompous ****-ah-zoid is about
to lay the foundations of "function":
best... left... undisturbed...
        this lacklustre of the idealism:
love central: i'd love you tripple
and treble "good-time"...
make you ****... **** thrice...
******* **** go numb!
   fishing for shrimps!

              curl up all your *****:
give that... "excess" of *******
the geese-strutting... "bumps"...
                      
  here's to: any and every... imitation
junk-e and the yard to fathom a be...
here's to... any and every...
imitation... fast-trolled gimmick...
moth chaser...
like an exploding bottle
of carbon dioxide contained within:
the turkish buddha...
sitting akimbo...
               a feasing of... translation...
of a postcard with a DASEIN
implied...
no smarter than... the runner concept...
designed for... he...
who... would... stand... still...
and watch... warsaw and manchester...
grovel before the alter altar of time...

how can one be...
subjective about... space?
how is subjectivity... something "less"...
than objectivity?
time is subjective...
space is objective...
             i once asked...
i'm no einstein... einstein imagined
travelling at the speed of light...
light travels with our understanding of:
c²  -
           i asked...
what of...                  c³?
                the concept of light... cubed...
subjecivity is a purely communist
child... abhored... "wrong"...
to be the subject of:
the defenders of the crown!
  i asked... what of light that is...
stationary... c³... surely there must be an equation
to compensate a loss of the mobility of
light?

the speed of light: cubed:
thus stationary: light as stationary
expansion...
              
what is so... possibly wrong with:
the subjectivity...
because of the crown...
a communist variation is: absolutely wrong...
retards are being claimed to govern
new grounding...
because the smart people are all:
objective...
the novel and the novella written
from the perspective of objectivism...

subjective is ******...
objective is genius...
        that's the ******* motto!
repeat!
repeat!
              repeat!
subjective is ******!
objective is genius!
                 that thinking is
more important than feeling...
sure... and...
not feeling is most important
to give a birth to thought!
apathetic, solipsistic... semi-
if not wholly-consumed by...
an autism of capitalistic-objectivity...
and... sociopathy...

   for all the worth of thinking:
and... that thinking...
this prized asset of objectivity...
the keter... crown...
without... the subjectivity of...
the yesod... the foundation...
            schizoid paraphrasing
a last known unison of...
a constellation... somewhere...
and a universe: for some...

subjectivity is no wrong:
if you want to be subjected to...
reading a novel by Stendhal...
because to read a Stendhal novel...
to be without a subjectivity "bias"
is to... not enjoy
the act of reading to begin with...
one will be granted a "moral superiority"
as the objective reader of...
diatribe falsetto "journalist"
bogus print-god work of
satanic **** being glorified...
what's so... communist...
about "it" being subjective...
and what's so... capitalistic...
about "it" being objective?
  
the people "in the know"
who always want to be "right"... right...
subjectivity is bad:
because...
all the ******* time...
we can just.. "opt out"... from...
being... objectified by gravity!
i much... prefer...
the subtle cookie-variation of...
well... sport... son of sam...
i'm subjected to gravity...
by being subjected to gravity...
i can cut a crisp escapism...
i will transcend the: being subjected to...
and object to it...
and i will give myself:
Icarus-esque dreams
of closely related fathomability...

but i need to know...
what being subjected to said "thing"
implies!
i can't just... play the idealist...
and ping-pong... and object-object my way
out of this... "scenario"...

the genius of capitalism
and the retardation of communism...
while... the capitalists...
exported all their... manufacturing
jobs to... the crying dragon...
well... if not ****** then...
absolute genius!

subjectivity is bad...
objectivity is good...
"somehow"...
        i like eating pork...
i also like frying it...
           the placebo...
        anemia of objectivist scrutiny
statements...
who gives a **** if you...
once upon a time...
enjoyed eating a steak...
        you will not be subjected
to beef...
you will objectify beef...
you will drop these pills...
of replica... of the stated nutrients...
and you'll ******* smile
while you're at it! savvy? sputnik jim?!
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
what's that "ally" phraseology - happy to keep tally... afraid of keeping grandma company? i think this is an insurgency comment... may i question a disbelief that... somehow... "somewhere": i.e. not this apparent here, or now... some of us want to use language with baggage associated with: a preservation of species-oids... could any dialogue be settled for entertaining the tease of: dodo-project? it's hardly a rouse according to extinction rebellion... esque...  some would tall it trolling: i much prefer teasing... i'm white and... i'll gladly bow out... could i inquire of white women? i could: but i won't... i have been amnesiac / anemic / anything in between... time has run out... i have no power to run out... i'm a schizophrenic: entertain that word as either supposedly or... fragrantly: bilingual / messippotanic: turkic *** grecian... alias... athena... i'm looking for an antagonism... would you allow yourself the designation of "white men" to russians? by the breadth and time most consummate... mother siberia is no afro-can... just asking... just asking... i appreciate time running out... i very much appreciate a solidarity with the dodo-project... i will gladly bow out... and leave my... ahem... fellow... whitey flesh for the breeding wombs... i can envision myself as both body and limb and ***** and frog and tadpole... i can most certainly see with my eyes a replica of a mongolian horde... invasion... tax evasion at the least... such staggering conclusion! it's clearly impossible to not find solace in petting a bad... i looked beyond that sort of giggle with dogs... alas... the leash... the muzzle... the overtly inquisitive stress for presentation i.q. like... nothing could ever be arrived on the personal... a debauchery of faking it... a debauchery of never making it... a debauchery of... i've had a vision of: a *******... it stresses a fine art assumption based in a critique of *******... i.e. a ******* involving two males and a female... i had to wonder: it's such a waste of space to find... at least one of the holes being neglected... don't you think? at the same time... concerning ***... so much of phellatio is lost to the engagement that... one would almost wish for a 3rd person "narrative" of a ******... women do acquire a rawness for ***... how i love toying with these words... i'm white but i'm teasing a russian sort of deliverance... out of this ideology of: corpus circumcised... corpus cuckolderly... egregiously! yes! time is running out! all the better for time! i will not be akin to those poor sods and grieving cough-loads to make... important... the beauty of Helen... that there was... such a diabolical act... as: the Trojan war... when the beauty of... eternally waning... had to arrived at reality's shackle... great... grit... berserker heaven! to reiterate... it's impossible to bundle up white men with russians... which i find mildly inconvenient... but hey... jenny-oh-jenny-neau... i'm just an extension of a concept of *****... i'm not going to be the next milk-motherly-monkey... dod-project beckons... i am gathering enough raindrops for: tears i will not shed... the wake of Aeschylus... the hell-breed has been dead for years and still... i am... too tired to invest in him personally: i have to heave a borrowed tongue: more competent than mine... in how best to grieve him.


p.s. no offence... the comment section on this website is as inquisitive as an oyster is to market fidgety frankenstein... sure... nice... parallel non-inquisitive... ergo: no frightening emotions to wrestle with! ooh! to play dialectics with! how can one... delve into... compensations of
commentary... when all one hears is adulation... or sycophancy... can we allow ourselves staging a mindless neutrality / nuance?

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