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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i like the thought of the dynamic between words such
as presupposition  supposition and proposition -
i'm holding a book of philosophy is one hand
and a newspaper in the other: one certainly feels heavier -
   so many lives are documented
daily, without a fail, and it's sad to say: they don't
matter... but that's what it feels like
holding a book of philosophy and a newspaper:
         people get degraded into
things:
             res absquecogito (a thing
without a thought - actually
a thing without the verb of thought,
what with thought being the crowned
prince of nouns):  some do say that
thinking if the doing part or not doing
anything...
     sometimes i write and think i do not exist,
such is the overpowering stance of the people...
     but you're still left with newspaper in
one hand, and a book on philosophy in the other...
  the reason that philosophy doesn't solve anything
is because philosophy is a word of practiced
misanthropy - it just says:
i'm here, my thinking is hardly utopia:
but i don't want you to experience my problems
and make them real or phantasmagorical
as the sold solution: you avoid me,
i avoid you: we'll be fine.
  hence the juggling of of presuppositions,
suppositions, propositions and
      trying to keep your mouth shut
with enough pronoun surgery to an out-dated
Michael Jackson face and enough prepositional
leeway to protest for an amendment
to protect and: altogether losing that freedom,
readied for shouting as is the case.
what a difference though...
        a literary medium "siding" with the people,
and a literary medium "siding" with itself...
         what a disparity between the two...
       such is the shitstorm:
presupposition(s), suppositions,
   preposition(s) and propositions -
      the a before a god,
suppose there is a god,
     then let us presuppose that suppose / supposedly
so?          proposing something also works
with the same dynamic, a proposition has
to be grounded in a preposition -
                           presupposition dynamics are fun though,
you have no propositions for them,
        all you have are prepositional shrapnel itemisation
a- (without, by way of indirect)
     and           -the (bad mannered pointing at it, or by
way of direct)         articulation: summed with an -ism.
         prepositional dynamism has nothing suppositional
concerning god, hence it has no propositional
      about the most economically franchised / effective
variation of philosophical expression: lost the narrative,
ergo we encourage aphorisms and maxims.
       language needs systematisation to reveal to us
individually what words we'll be juggling systematically,
perhaps it's the re- and re- and and re- res
             reflective reflexive repetition thing...
or it might be throwing a guarding prefix
into the argument: akin to the already stated
within a framework of the pre- vs. pro- attaché
that comes prior to the suggestion...
    supposing there is a god vs. presupposing
  the supposition that there is a god... zenith: what's god?
nadir: propositioning that there is a god vs.
         prepositioning that there is a supposition of
god...
         equilibrium? propositioning a presupposition
vs. the supposition of a prepositioning:
the arguments will never end, it's just a question
how you make peace with the shared experience of
internalising sounds and encoding them in 26 characters
that are, to be frank, underdressed in terms of formalising
a standardised accented basin...
at its height language can become akin to
arithmetic, philosophers are, actually, brilliant arithmetic
artists, they can't write you a Tolstoy,
or a Camus... but they can write you a great 1 + 1 = 2...
  it's not even being economic wird words,
   it's more like Robinson Crusoe was stranded on
a beach, his tools included a coconut and a matchstick:
build me Philadelphia! obviously it didn't happen
overnight... but it somehow happened.
           that's why mathematical orthodoxy has
nothing to do with mental or signatured arithmetic,
              philosophy meets that disparity too,
obviously this stance isn't a Lady Gaga moment of
cool populism: it's shadowy and obscure,
because why would it not be so?
                  philosophers are the great arithmetic
conglomerate of spell-checks...
           hence no Napoleon invading Russia
and courtesy talk of privilege over a samovar session
and more of the odious rubric:
                 and nul scores for coherency and
creating an imaginative rekindling from a mistake made...
nul scores!
     mathematicians are bad at numerical arithmetic,
philosophers are only good at alphabetical arithmetic
(and yes, it's a kind of arithmetic:
made really difficult by babel-compounding
of non-distinct units due to the missing diacritical
marks): and in the Crimean chimera sense?
      mathematicians are good at abstracting arithmetic
in their stance on isolating symbols,
whereby π is designated the 3.14 bubble...
       and pretty much all of the Greek is scientifically
prone to encourage a stabilisation...
     people like us, working from such heights into
wording everything in an alchemical format of
lodging and connecting things together have to necessarily
spot obstacles... i know that i stress the Edenic
circumstance of the English language without
diacritical marks, but are serious journalistic outlets
suggest: about 14% of English girls are vaguely literate.
       the existence of the "other" arithmetic is
quiet poignant although remotely acknowledged...
it appears rightly asserted when someone actually has
a competence with a language (encoding an obscure number
of variations of sprechen): but still faulter / flawters /
                 ah! falters on what's otherwise, clearly
a very easy arithmetic puzzle: 0 1 2 3 4
                        a b c d e
calculator                       hence put       b d e
together into a coherency passed down to others...
cul de sac, i.e. bed.
                    a bit like the alphabet cut into three:
0 (a)     z (26):
         it emerged from the lost clarity of English ponce:
or keeping onto power, spellcheck had to be invented,
along with algorithm search engines to correct
what would otherwise be non-distinct correlatives:
had they been properly attired with distinct barriers -
  could have been worse,
we could have had Arabic as the tongue of globalisation,
but then again, as the myth goes (according to
cradle of filth within her ghost in the fog):
                                 an arabian nightmare probably
doesn't envision an alien invasion.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
you know that there's a weird
but omnipresent eye
wired in the igloo...
yeah... it encodes a message in
Morse... it asks for darting to & fro,
rather than blinking.

i'm waiting to leave the rhythm section
of pop music,
rhythm that was once a standard
soloist impressions in classical
music, and in classical music
solos that were just asking
for broken finger of piano,
while leaving the brass and woodwinds
worrying about schnittlippe smiles,
Chelsea a mile away:
how about... a todgrinsen...
your lips cut off and forever grinning
like an enclosure for a hyena laugh:
teeth to rattle to cages to bars...
make a big O... a big rat tat tat ha ha...
i pray i'm not you once you
entertained me for a while in silence
and in thinking to equate to my inactivity...
they remembered me as a party animal,
ready for the next friday...
sure, i used to be like that,
but i settled down: ready bodied
with weak thought against
a thought strengthened because the body
weaker, once readied for the look,
the applause... the perfected grammar of
changeable fashion appealing...
that's gone, and so the self that once was,
now standing outside the collective...
peering in, because they never attributed
depression to cancer victims...
apparently cancer just affect the body
and not the thinking,
now they realised cancer affects both body and thought...
you can't think of a friday three weeks away
in soberness dubbed sanity when you have
a physical ailment... so why create physical
ailments from simply having the odd thought:
the ancients dug a fetish for immortal creatures
and lived and slaughtered...
the modern congregation of supposed immortal
beings is a ridiculous thought... but so the antidote...
immortal beings disappeared,
but mortal beings turned to a quickened heed
for immortality with a thought rather than activity...
no heroism in the aisles of hospital beds...
no heroism there...
immunity for ideas also lost, immunised
by gaming and shooting blanks into duke nuke 'em
geography of the labyrinths...
by disengaging from immortal beings
where all suffering took place: let's face it,
mortality understands immortal psychology the best
it's simply unendurable -
we invoked a loss of immortal beings
by becoming twice mortal,
by dwelling among animals for a synchronised
systematisation of understanding we lost
many individuations of the unit, the self,
with too much darwinistic interpretations
we claimed some strange mirror,
a multi-diadem mirror of man: a minute a swan,
a minute a monkey, a minute an ant,
a minute a larvae of flies when naked...
no one said the theory is wrong,
but someone said: but that's how i feel about it...
overly objectifying does not look cool,
it limits emotions ready for individuation...
apathy breeds no pathology,
love embraces apathy: the apathy of
someone selling a newspaper while you
commute, the baker, the butcher, the medic...
hatred doesn't appreciate such an apathy,
it embraces pathology, and because of this,
becomes caged.
i just want one stab at it...
to feel a finite resolve of estimation,
to have camouflaged as a mammal among
other mammals, but thinking more complex
more different...
rather than resort to the simplest of simplicities
for a resolve on the matter of ontology...
a pre-dating reasoning...
but you see... it's not darwinism that governs
humanity... it's a plagiarism...
humanity adapts via plagiarism...
all the poor dream of making it big...
the only thing that keeps us moving
is a stress on plagiarism... you see a homeless
guy you get the defence mechanism usher message
telling you: DO NOT PLAGIARISE...
you see a guy with a harem in a black limo
you get a striving mechanism usher message:
PLAGIARISE! it's idiotic to think of /
utilise darwinism in terms of defining origin...
me? monkey over man any day...
simpler diet... plus endless swings and branches...
parasites no much of a problem...
plus moral killers like tigers not too eager
into sadism and mutilation, because just hungry...
not fetishes with carnivores... quick kosher kills.
the only adaptability we have is plagiarism,
because we have a self to worry about
as a. in a collective assertion of it whether
existent or non-existent... and b. in a singular
event asserted by abstracting it, notably
via existential notation, of a "self";
as someone once said:
animals do not commit to genocide...
yes, that's true,
they don't commit to passive genocide
of enforced laws of differentiation
to look cooler or smoother or just plain
caught up in a cultural grooves and edges;
and from the tree of knowledge
of good and evil you will not eat,
because you'll enforce plagiarism,
a consciousness of plagiarism
a consciousness stressing that no self be attached,
with only attachment being via a "self",
the continuum of misunderstanding,
reaching a potential of understanding
once the continuum reaches a twilight peak
at *ad infinitum
, where a randomised
narrator steps in, and deviates from the
orthodoxy of constants and subsequent remnants
of how man de-glorifies god, and glorifies nature,
but doesn't dare to engage nature as nature
engages with itself, apprehensive of nature per se
man defiles a god to abstract nature,
by calling to question the role of nocturnal beings,
insects and parasites... choosing to believe
in god in order to exact due noun to his fellow
creature... for man defiles god and glorifies nature,
but by glorifying nature he ought to despise,
he creates insects parasites and murderers
he eventually lacks the power to despise...
personally? it's hard to write a coherent opinion
in english, too much prepositional / conjunction
shrapnel... poetry is overly elitist, my lamentation...
in an age where overt use of images
numbs a sense of entertainment using words...
and dialectics just lost a disputing partner...
in an age when each to his own, a free-reigning-free-fall...
where non-engagement with one strand of opinions,
leads to another, even more extreme than the one prior.
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
I can't rip myself asunder from such a magnanimous prepositional
as this.
While the fishes hang from my window
like little ice-ickles in spring.
So foams the frosty beverage that tells the gills to sing.
Twilight music and the sonnets contained therein
have little left to offer us, save a right-winged jerry-bin.
So the muse of ages goes round and around and around
for the malarkey of a daffodil creates folds and hills
where none exist.
...who knows?
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2018
the half-life of a resolution

~for maaidah durrani~

“your words really spoke to me and
i deeply encourage you to write more”
<•>
any resolution
barely lasts to the completion of its
flyby, tower-buzzing,
razzmatazz appearance,
colliding with the wall called
not today a/k/a,
tomorrow

tomorrow takes the lead pole position,
the conditional timing prepositional,
the delaying exscual misanthropic of
but one more,
whatever, it’ll keep for 24 more,
holding out the pretense of hope
for the resolute dissolute

sure, for sure, tomorrow,
will dissolve regret
tomorrow will write of poetry
but not a poem,
tomorrow will swear my
resolutions will be enacted
or, at least,
erased and re-written,
the oldest first when
re-added to the top of the list

tomorrow
will honor thy request
keep on writing for I’m no fool,
1200 plus poems, I’m yet a novitiate
I will keep your request as
one I’ve can never
cross off my life’s list

but tomorrow’s resolve,
be a better man,
leaner, briefer, kinder, a better lover,
sadly
the list has overrun the white pad,
the blue lines refuse another resolu....
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
i've noticed that, upon ushering words from the depth
of nothing, or as an interlude in Knausgaard's day-to-day
musing in vol. 6 after inviting Geir over:
this "i" or that "i" or for that matter "my" i...
however you want to frame it...
    i noticed that if i allow myself an evening of not writing...
esp. on an electric screen for someone else to see...
if for example i lay down to go to sleep...
not exactly asleep: dart out of bed and scribble something
on a piece of paper for only me to see...
i will still dream...
but if i sit down and face the electric screen:
pixels like the eyes of a fly... for someone else to see?
i don't dream...
   otherwise... having scribbled down the following
on a piece of paper:

   exploring Heidegger's dasein in another language...
my native, which i will translate into English,
basically prepositional coordination of(f) being
off not necessarily implying non-being -
perhaps merely: being-in-itself or rather the other...

tu-być : be-here
              to-bycie : this-being
ten-byt :                      ditto
although: nuance... there is a distinction...

i also scribbled down something i heard a long
time ago about how Russia, India and China are
re-orientating themselves with the slacking of the western
influence on: whatever it was that the west had
for the past three decades beside
proxy wars, collateral damages and "culture"...

i heard the term: post-ethnic-nationalism
post-ethno-state post-nation-state...
ergo: multiculturalism... which, oddly enough:
i can't come to grips with trying if not trying to
pretend to be a native of these isles -
perhaps it might be a shock for someone outside
of London - but in London it's almost
second nature to... be surrounded by people
from all around the world...
needless to say: the natives are not so disgruntled
once they're sitting all pretty-cherry on top
of some hierarchy: esp. in the journalistic
opinion sections of the Saturday / Sunday magazine...
then it's an open bonanza against
the "lower class racists" and what not...
i can't be an anti-racist: after all...
                                     anti-racists once produced
a schematic for us to learn from in primary school...
which shower the size of brains of...
a white person, a black person and a racist...
and some other brains...
the racist's brain was under-developed:
smaller...                                      ­ really?!

anyway... so Russia, India and China have opted for
what has come to be known as the:
civilization-state...
                                     given the ongoing zeitgeist
******* blowing up in the Anglophone world from
H'america... the culture-war(?!) -
i would bet fairly and say that pretty much all
former nation-states of western Europe
and beyond are currently in a state of morphing
into: buzz buzzword: being - culture-states...

but whereas a civilization-state seems an abrupt
optimal to counter and disagreement with regards
to continuity: civilisations don't merely come and go...
whereas cultures do...
   culture is somehow a totality of the little things
in life... fashion, the arts, politics, faux pas innuendos,
trends, diet...
that's culture and some...
but civilisation? to me that's like saying...
the foundation of Rome was the creation
of the aqueducts...
                  civilisation to me is like saying:
the British Empire and the steam-engine...
civilisation to me, London, exclusively is... the tube...
the underground network...

seriously... i don't need to go to a West End Play
i don't need to go and see Ed Sheeran play
to a sold out Wembley stadium of 100,000+ people
(although, i did, even though i did because
i worked a shift there doing security,
so, technically i didn't, but did)
            i don't need culture... as such...

all i need to do is first, do a shift at Craven Cottage...
hope that the Elizabeth Line won't be working
travel on the Central Line from Newbury Park all
the way to Holborn... and then blah blah...
instead of trying to look at the tired faces opposite
me admire the map of the Central Line
(it's a toss-up between the Central Line map,
or the District, Northern or Piccadilly)
and then, on some sunny day... get my bicycle
out... and bicycle for most of the route... notably...
skewing... merging at Fairlop working my way
through Barkingside, coming to Gants Hill
then less of the tube route (mind you...
between Leyton and Stratford it's pretty
much over-ground) -
   and then from Stratford - through to Mile End...
from Mile End via Whitechapel... to Aldgate...
from Aldgate to St. Paul's... Chancery Lane...
Holborn... rat beneath the ground:
like a rat needs a bicycle -
   well this rat is no hamster: hence the bicycle
and not a hamster-wheel...

what culture? movies?! i tried watching something
relevant to the 1980s today... ***** Dancing...
great soundtrack but... cringe!
that's even before Malcolm X and how inter-racial
inter-****** relations had to be the new norm:
i mean: ******* fair play...
    building the new Brazil -
    but i still think there's an under-representation
(and isn't everyone supposed to get a fair share
of representation) of white boy Romanian girl
(Roma, gypsy) or white boy Turkish girl...
   or white boy half-white half-Indian girl...

i know i will not dream tonight because someone
will see this...
my little itchy thoughts, my freed from the reins
"i" that doesn't really have these words clogging
up its mind - only until the itching of the fingers starts
and i have a blessed day...
like today...

why is it that a Saturday evening can feel like
a Sunday evening?
oh, right... i made steak for dinner tonight...
potato wedges (skins on, first boiled until
the the water started boiling, turned off, soaking
for 5 min, drained, olive oil, cajun pepper sprinkle,
into the oven)
    and some baked vegetables:
leeks, carrots, parsley root, red onions,
celeriac, swede... balsamic vinegar,
    sambal, cumin, coriander, salt, pepper,
sugar (i stopped using honey,
   it sticks to the baking tray plus the vegetables
lose their crunch, and vegetables need their crunch)...
2 steaks (456g total) shared between three people...
seasoned with sea salt and grain black pepper
(i prefer pepper grains than pepper powder,
i.e. pockets of explosion of that spice)
    3 min each side... a perfect medium-rare blush...

however the Indians might sell their spices...
chillies etc. there's still something wholesome
when it comes to eating certain types of food...
given that... i wouldn't be eating beef in India:
i wouldn't be seasoning beef with chillies!
that's why pepper is important...
that's why horseradish is important...
i let most of the Indians slip up: oooh! the Europeans
didn't have any spices...
apart from thyme, rosemary, sage, lavender,
mint... pepper, horseradish, i#m sure we
were also familiar with cumin seeds -
as well as that anise-seed that' not the star
(i forgot the name of it, it looks like
a cumin seed, but fatter, and split down
the middle - green) oh and of course:
plenty of salt...
what's all the spices in the world in the culinary world...
IF, YOU, AIN'T, GOT - SALT?!
   (if you don't have... i know i know...)

it's rather bewildering talking to certain Asians...
although, saying that...
most of Eastern Europe had plenty of interaction
with Asians, namely the Mongols
and the Turks - which the western Europeans
sort of... "forgot"... after Darwinism they
skipped over Asia and went straight back
to Africa... personally? i feel more akin to Asians
(esp. the oriental folk) than i do with anyone
from Africa... however Christianity was born...
after all: what's the definition of a white man?
Caucasian? and where's the Caucus?
Asia... Europe was always going to be
a funnel - a bottle-neck continent -
a port... a departing point...
       perhaps we shouldn't be so clingy to it...
unless of course:
   oh the parody of Jesus never came out of
Europe: "we" had to wait for it coming from
North America, but by then it was no longer
a parody of Jesus but a parody of North American
Christianity... a North American parody of Jesus
is... oddly enough... a European parody
of North American Christianity: via Jesus...

which brings me to another thing... only upon
doing a shift at Craven Cottage did i first hear
the parakeets... never before...
     i'm not going to bloat my ego this much but...
since then i've seen an article on Wikipedia that
i never saw before, the article just appeared out of
nowhere: feral parakeets of England...
subsequently... only a day ago:
you're only here for the parrots, fans chant
as birds swarm Leyton Orient pitch (Evening Standard
4 hours ago)
and bare conker trees overrun by bright green
parakeets make them seem vibrant despite leafless
branches (Daily Mail, 3 days ago, somewhere
in south London)...

today i was given the chance to walk back into my old
haunt... as much as i love cycling...
it's sometimes refreshing to walk...
the slowing of pace, the horizon almost intact...
more so... if walking into a forest...
Bower Wood... i know it is a curated wood...
it's not as feral as the pine woods of Eastern Europe...
but: if life gives you X... you make XY...
x = lemons, y = juice ergo xy = lemon juice...

i'm pretty sure i was familiar with this wood...
i was out hunting for souvenirs for my mother to dress
the table / fake deer antennas for candles to sit in...
holy, some other greenery with black berries...
i was hunting for ferns, almost near impossible
given this time of year... found some! bright blush
of childish envy... oh... and birches...
some oak barks fallen off... just me alone in the forest...
i was so thankful by myself...
but usually i heard crows, magpies and woodland
pigeons... but now?! parakeets?!
here?! now?! parrots in winter in these parts?!

i swear the world is standing-up-side-down...
it's hard not to miss an under-current of a serious
pagan revival weaving and slithering its way through
Europe: if only you care to listen...
i switched off from whatever is available in culture
these days... i know that what i'm listening to
will not gain popular traction...
i can walk into the forest and... there's the forest...
i go back home... cook dinner...
go into my bedroom, open a bottle of cider
thinking: no champagne will beat this...
put on a record akin to...
Heilung's TENET and... hey presto!

                       i was in company of a good friend:
someone already dead who...
i don't know how someone can lose themselves
in the forest... pareidolia...
   you can sometimes see paths already trodden...
unseen but somehow: you can see a "ghost"
of a foot here and there...
    you know: you just KNOW where a human foot
prior to yours once treaded...
there are patterns... better sticking with pareidolia than
the iconoclasm of celebrity...
i always thought that was better...
i like to think i'm in the company of strange
creatures: phantoms of my mind...
but hardly! how can these be phantoms of my mind?!
i didn't spontaneously conjure a face in a tree
when the ******* tree is older than me!
the tree was here before me!
what?! some sin?! some psychological sin
of non-conformity?! i don't adhere to star-gazing
in the filth of commodities and entertainment?!

i know why this feels like a Sunday evening even
though it's a Saturday night...
i was planning on going to the brothel tonight...
but... oh hey mother, hello father...
i'm going out... where? you don't have any friends...
blah blah... yeah... well... i'm kind of happy
because of that: no social-constraints of expectations...
as the conversation usually ran with the last
remaining friend i had from high-school...
- so, what have you been up to?
- nothing...
     and he knew that i was scribbling like mad...
what's there to talk about when it comes to writing?!
last time i heard: you read what is written...
you don't talk about it...
hopefully the reading of something written goes
back into thinking and is not spoken of:
since the conventionality of everyday
formality of social-speech crushes anything delicate
that is born from i-ought-not-but-regardless-i-must!
it's a compulsion!

i went to the shop about 3 hours ago to buy an extra
bottle of cider because i knew: having read a little more than
usual i had to keep the Libra of conscience in place,
"conscience": never write more than you read...
and never read less than you write - so so...
          wow... FORK in the "ROAD"...
                        this is me replaying the opening of the song
TENET - the sound of the horn...
well... i didn't have a horn in the forest...
but i had my pagan statue... a dead white tree...
i left this little stick next to it... i used to walk this wood
more times than i can remember...
sometimes i walked into it bare-chested...
blind from the darkness, but somehow illuminated
by the moon... sat on a stump of wood...
silence... then a breaking of a branch...
not the sort of breaking of a branch still attached
to a tree... something stepped on it...
i wasn't alone... i froze but then ushered in my voice
to compliment a shared bewildered amazement:
that is not a foot of a man stepping on a branch...

in the same wood i saw my first GARMR...
would i really have to go with the flow
of a Christopher J. MacCandless?!
                                       if hell is going to send its hounds
out to meet me, it doesn't matter where that might
be... i don't need to visit the northern most parts
of Norway to find what i'm seeking...
and what i'm seeking i found: since i'm dragging what
needed to be found around...
it's not surprising that at Bower Wood i was
alleviating a traffic problem when
two does and about 5 fawns were causing havoc...
"havoc" in the night implies 3 cars pulling over...
me coming down from the hill running up to
the village of Havering-atte-Bower spotting one...
not caring if there was a stag nearby running
with the fawn which subsequently ensured
the two does and the rest of the fawns
started to gallop and disappeared into the Wood...

i wish i could make this stuff up...
but then again: i'm not jealous of people
who have seen the Galapagos Islands or the Maldives
or... ah... just recently...
i took that rat-above-rat-below trip on my bicycle
into central London... i said to myself:
circle round St. Paul's cathedral... nope...
not good enough... around the Old Bailey then...
o.k. - and i "prayed": please! not another flat tire!
hey presto! on my way back... a flat tire at Aldgate!
great! well... i walked this distance before...
i can walk it again... walking back...
passed the East London Mosque and then...
Allahu Akbar! a bicycle repair shop!

walked up - leaned the bicycle against the wall,
the Chinese guy said: just 10 minutes
(while he was fixing this Deliveroo rider's
electric bicycle) - no problem -
i took some times to each some gelatin sweets
and drink some water, looking at people,
i felt like i was in some exclusive club,
only cyclists allowed - it felt like a very urban
sensation that most punks must have felt,
or goths, standing out...
i paid too much compliments to those guys
in Cycle King bicycle shop in Chadwell Heath...
i knew the front tire was worn down,
but i thought: get the professional's opinion...
they would be more than willing to change
the inner-tube for the Nth time before telling me:
oh... you need to change the actual tyre...
how many times did i change the inner tube?
**** knows! milking it... ******* were milking it!
but this Chinese guy said outright plainly...
it's ****... i'll change it for you...
inner tube, tyre and labour... £55...
done!
               he changed it to a tyre that...
well... let's face it... 2nd gear front
and 4th, 5th 6th and 7th gears in the back...
i was whizzing past home... he said:
less width... more grip... for the grit...
   but at least he was ******* honest...
that's what i mean about a European's relationship
with the Asians... i'm honest, they're honest...
they're not some SCAM MERCHANT KNIGS
of NIGERIA: CNUT-MBAPPE typos...

oh... and it's not like anyone didn't notice
that Indian girls think they're the bomb?!
oh yeah... oh no, not the Muslim girls... those girls
are whipped into always staring down...
like white girls are whipped into peering into
their smart-phone screens and envisioning:
anything outside of inter-racial relationships is:
pederasty (loose term)... whatever it might me...
bulimic antics: not done properly, mind you...
not in the Roman style of training the oesophagus
to just spew on a whim: i.e. i ate too much...
apologies... i need to... ugh! ugh! ugh!
                      get ready the trampoline!
we're going to launch half-digested fish-heads!

now i'm happy... my Trek Merlin 5 is compatible...
fun... looking at that *** trying to chase me down
working my way down toward the Old Bailey...
Asian ceramic raven haired
no helmet... and never, never... ride a bicycle
in an urban environment minding
the sticker on the inside of a large vehicle:
BLIND SPOT... well... d'uh... so use the large
vehicle like a battering ram against all the gnats
of smaller vehicles... ride on the outside of the large
vehicle... always on the outside...
what are you, cyclist... a Hebrew forced by
the **** brown-shirts to walk in the gutter rather
than on the pavement?! what am i?
just because i'm a cyclist i'm no less a hazard
to a motorcyclist?! momentum, self-generated!
i like my legs... let me know when you're dealing
wheelies and whizzes on a ******* wheelchair...
until i have my legs... i'll be skimming through
traffic... Norman Davis might have called
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth God's Playground...
i think i'll call London my playground...
there's plenty to play with around here...

                 but for once i listened to my ego...
for some reason i didn't require a depth of the
Freudian secular trinity of the addition of superego
and id... i was just about to think about going to the brothel
but then my ego said: you're not feeling it...
and i wasn't... i still had to clean the kitchen up,
take the garbage out... i was oiling myself up...
"oiling": checking if i still had a 30 year old's hard-on
i stopped using the fake diet of ******* of
actors: disposable, unattainable...
i switched to: ROMANIAN AMATEUR ****...
well... it's what i'm going to get...
but i checked my hard-on too many times today...
checked, i.e. checked without climaxing...
checked about 4 times... the 5th time i checked
i was thinking about going to the brothel...
but then my ego (not my ego) checked me...
you're not going anywhere:

THE FICKLE MIND AND THE FIRM TRUTH
OF THE BODY...
the mind lies more times than the body cares to admit...
until, of course... the reality of body steps in
and the mind has to retreat... just as happened with
my excess drinking... i went to buy that extra bottle
of cider and waiting in the queue while a mother
with three daughters "****'s sake" the mother retorted
while the girls were undecided what else
to add to the basked i looked at the shelves
with all the spirits... no! no! no more whiskey!
no more *****! no more!
i checked my supposed "impotence" too many times
today... "impotence": more like being
insulted by the madam: beached-whale...
she just flicked it when it went limp because
i found her physically abhorrent...
flicked it... like it was a worm...
like she was 6 years old and i was 5 years old
and she was still playing with Barbie dolls
and unlike she was...
because she knew what a key was and what a keyhole
was... but she had no idea what
physical attraction was...

                        reciprocated...

well ****... it's working... guess it's not working with you...
a bit like the horse that Christopher Reeve rode
when it dropped him and recalculated Superman:
without a spine...
plus i had no excuse to leave the house...
i had plenty of excuses to read some more of Knausgaard
and write this...
tomorrow i'll have the excuse of "working late"...
going to a brothel is not like saying:
oh yeah... i'm going on a date with a girl
we're going to the cinema blah blah...
       no... dearest ******* Madam...
she's the one that chased away both Mona and Khadra...
what the **** happened?!

what am i? a Duracell bunny?! there's an ON and OFF
switch with regards to my phallus?!
if that's the case... what's the dynamic of ****?!
is ****... no... it can't be... **** is a man *******
a turned-off woman? i once had an experience
of a woman who... let's put it mildly:
her **** was as dry as the adequate metaphor
of sensation one might regret to feel from rubbing one's
hands on sandpaper!
hands... finger tips... rough skin...
ergo the ability to play guitar or rock climb...
we're talking tender skin...
so... technically: hardly a pleasure for a ****** to feel
pleasure from an unaroused ****!
ergo?! that was an aroused **** and it's all psychological:
not physical... the shame of giving it so freely
and unwillingly... whereas playing games with
those one might want to give it up to...
i can hardly **** with a LIMPY -
   but i certainly wouldn't want to **** a timber-mill worth
of toothpicks, match-sticks and left-overs...
**** is psychological it would seem...
                the shame of it... all those labyrinths of playing
games suddenly disappearing from the case of
"spontaneity"...
   you should ask her: South African... Sancha...
worked in a private school... teaching boys Mathematics...
maybe she was a *******... by now who knows?!
i do know that i wasn't terrible aroused by her
the first time we tried...
i got a limp... like i got a limp with Ilona:
a forewarning... but she was adamant and whispered
into my ear: you will not deny me...
second time i was in her teacher accommodation
i brought a copy of the Machinist with me on DVD...
she must have spiked my drink because then the horror
of cocoon *** ensued and that's when
she climbed on top of me and gave me the sawdust
sandpaper **** treatment in the dark...

it kind of follows through to the casual mode of
argumentation people have concerning the schizoid condition:
it's all in your mind...
right... so the schizoid condition is simply: so...
your i-think detaches itself from thought
and forms a i-hallucinate complex as if: spring follows winters?
well then... it's all in your mind...
**** is probably in most of women's minds...
it doesn't actually exist in reality:
in the physiology... **** is a mental construct...
it must be... since i don't recall any ******
talking about: oh ****... i had to pull out...
her **** turned into a mantis or the mouth
of a worm from the planet Dune... i just couldn't
continue!

the next day she drove me to the station and i never saw
her again...
ergo? i have a strange relationship with a limp ****...
it's not impotence: per se,
it's more a judge of character concerning a ******
partner: however brief, however informal...
it's like a wild animal freezing still...
     deer in the headlights...
                                      i should have known better
with Ilona... but she pressured to the point where it
finally started "working": i wish "he" didn't...
it would have saved me so much pointless drama...
if i were a man with a child i would tell him just as much:
it's not working for a reason...
that ***** is a mantis... you're not a robot...
this isn't a *****... you're not an extension of a *****...
it's not working for a reason...
go and check... watch the most realistic "*******":
switch to amateur stuff...
                                that's all you're going to get...
and can you, get it up? well then...
it's not you...
                                     once all the glamour is gone
and you're left with a butcher's cut of antics...
                              well... if you're aroused by that sort of stuff
in private... why can't the partner reciprocate?
maybe that's just me finalising some logistics for
tomorrow...
shift at the Ice Rink tomorrow...
me... two girls...
   one butch lesbian... she keeps rubbing off on my arms
every time the home side scores
and she's celebrating...
      one rub by chance i can understand... two rubs
and i'm thinking: this isn't homosexual conversion therapy,
is it?
the other? got me the job to begin with...
started taking dieting pills because she feels depressed
because she thinks she's fat and this is what
working with women looks like if you're not
in the business of being a plumber: in the realm of
customer service...
    
                 that's how this new girl i fancied at work
got fired... about 4 other girls ganged up on her
and she was literally bullied out of work because...
            
it's coming up to 1am... i need to get up early tomorrow...
do a cycling shift...
trim my mustache, my beard, my ***** region, my arm-pits...
finish one more bottle of cider for good luck:
or no luck...
           listen to some more pagan music...
think about Bower Wood and how i wish that if i weren't
working tomorrow
i'd buy myself a bottle of whiskey and walk
into it, right now... to howl and wake up the crows.

p.s. oh, right, that dream i had last night when
i didn't scribble any words for anyone else to see?
two night ago i was swimming with
pseudo-jelly fish on the edge of the universe
transmitting vibrations of light...
last night i was watching while some colts
were gleefully celebrating their ability to drink
shots of absinthe... until i walked up to the bar
and showed them how to drink absinthe
properly...
i took out a spoon, dipped the spoon in some
sugar... poured some absinthe onto the spoon...
lit the spoon and the sugar alight...
watched the caramel form...
then poured some water into the glass
to clue them in into the secret of drinking absinthe:
you don't drink absinthe like *****...
you need for the green-milk of wormwood
to emerge!
    sie müssen für die grünmilsch von wermut
zu auftauchen!
Carla Marie Jul 2012
You watch too much tv…

I am not what you see.. on

cop dramas…Or

reality shows…or even… at this point...

B E T

I don’t use

“is” in inappropriate places

Nor do I finish sentences with prepositional phrases

Such as “who you is?” or “Where my coat at?”

I don’t do elaborate handshakes

I don’t work my neck

I don’t purse my lips… constantly sneer… or

“go off” at the drop of a hat

I do walk with quiet dignity… and

Shake off your devilish ways with God given grace

I do have a life… a peaceful “unbroken” place to go home to

Hence the serenity that you see on my face

Leaving you nonplussed-

That I have no desire to be you… and

You find yourself… trying to bond by

Putting the word “be”

Where no “be” should be… cuz you’re

Trying too hard to understand me…

And I

Wear this faint professional smile.. though my eyes do not

Which (as an aside) you don’t even see

Use all of my vowels and consonants

Never acknowledge any flirtatious compliments

As I render unto Caesar what Caesar’s should be… and

Escape to my loves…And

read something… or

grow something… or

learn something…

Now that’s the me that I don’t mind if you see… but

You’re not interested in THAT reality… cuz

It would wreck your notions preconceived…

So I've concluded... by your manners… or the lack thereof… that

You obviously just watch too much tv



.
Ken Pepiton Feb 2023
Look once more,
look back and see the way, to now
from
when reason first was used
to master the frame
of mind, embodied, as mine,
informed with shapes of things solid,
shapes of things inside,
shapes of thing outside,
shapes of thoughts stacked in sequence,
after the hallelujah,
as per holy orders of worth appraisal,
services rendered,
magic performed,
life administered, for another week,
any body can handle one more week.
After the hallelujah.
learn that definition once, and you never
see sequential activity in ritual
as before,
magic effectuation, affection, as joy
one mindful, chewy, gustatory morsel,
of child-like faith, to be conserved.
Conservatively speaking,
Whig-wise, knowing one's prepositional relativity.
We labor, not in vain… to become worthy
to tread, with shoes, on streets of gold.
where milk needs no cow, and honey bees
never need be busy all day.

Riches and sweets, both
take more than either promise, aimed at
via entertain-mental mmm-usings tight
at tension, mind's time spaced taut
edge of me, edge of mine,
edge of ever aimed at
thus far… where we suffer this is so…
- measured timespace in mind agone…
Then we live through the last now, to die.

Becoming the author, fisher for being bubbles
afloat in ever after all.

At my funeral. To spare the hassle, imagine.

Friends and loved ones,
most are dead, or far away;

but we recall times, vague days
incidents for which we each hold bits,

instants, reality instantiated, pastense,

feel the kiss, feel the shame, the joy,
the hope, the loss, the win, the terror,
the truth of no perceptible way,

away from quit.
--------------

Infancy instants, perhaps, we guess,
we recall being babes, for briefest
recollections of perceptions kept, some how

to be reformed from shards of information
stored some where in an image of a moment

seen from the frame of a seer, not me, seeing
me, infant me, tossed and caught by a laughing
man in a sailor suit…

and, the oddity, of the singular infantile memory
stored some where for reconstruction, living
entertainment…

like unto Agricultural Entertainment, an art form
ancient as harvest festivals,

when locals picked the orchards, and our worlds
were edged in otherwise wild hedge rows,
where little creatures live at child level,
where words miss heard give stories twists,

too odd to be retold while holding any of the small
awe, aw, so sweet, too dear to let be meaningless,
but
as truth been told,
mean is bad in dogs and men, mean is bad in mankind,
mean is common,
mean is most common,
mean is measured, granted
mathematical reality, mind my means, you know
"intend, have in mind;"
Mental meaning application, folded man-kind wise…
Sometimes connected to root *men- (1)
"to think,"
which would make the ground sense of man
"one who has intelligence,"
but not all linguists accept this.
Liberman, for instance, writes,
"Most probably man 'human being' is a secularized divine name"
from Mannus [Tacitus, "Germania," chap. 2],
"believed to be the progenitor of the human race."

~~~~~~~~

Institutional minds, adapted from drama,
worn like Superman's or Bishop Sheen's cape.
Übermmench, **** sapien augmentacious,

**** habitus, us, as we think, we are.
We are no other way,
as a man thinketh truth, as a mind may think,
fine, so is he, in his own mind, right or not,
limited fineness, judged, discerned, quarkishly
ever finer, to this very point,
where mind being time being comes to mind,
in you.
We, momentarily, agree, aggressive face to face
point, fair call
at the inner edge of the inverse square
practical fractal constant…
gravest of issues, at thought
speed of intention to grasp. Percept perceive
link touch… flowing listing seeping soaring

bemused become
amused and entertained, feeding on ensamples,
as sorted characters,
defined societal aspirational imaginal
roles in reality aboard 1950's era Spaceship Earth.


Standing, unbowed, before kings,
bowing before mean men, thinking

all ya'll are said to be created, made
equal…
valued worthy
of opinion expressed as yours, as
wings put on wishes, shoes on prayers,
for warding reaching pulling pushers
-list as wind, in cognitive bias, right
lean as wild grasses launch new seed,
- double helix, twisting up
- from down,
feel massive missal push us on,
orbital, for a lifetime,
be maker of a being bubble
be a minding creating creation,

as weighed in balance, or mass, as gold
or wind in force testing wills for making

a way, where no way was.
Dead end. No way from now, but through.

Wind beneath my down swung pinions,
lifting my imaginal self over my useless

wait state, ever learning, never learning
the whole truth we are sworn to tell,
as soon as
we begin to see as others see, subject,
object
seer
seen seeing, saying

we may be minders of findings, guardians
set to watch,
set to see,
set to say look this way, these invisible limits

terminal connection looping past through
you
as my word choices,
pass the blood brain barrier and pierce
eternal you, in stasis.

- ---------------
- post radio war, not so long ago

"how ' we gonna keep 'em down
on the farm, after they've seen Pairee?"
- enter the era of the salesman
Total war, full power propagation of faith,
in practice, words are empty, meaning
is made- hate festered pride
of whiteness, same color as the rich, qualia
as equally mistaken in terms we call common,
****** speech of the non-reading classes,
stupid peasants, children of useless men.
Lower by far than, Biblical men
of the baser sort. Belial's
sons of total depravity,
two rungs lower than average
working classes, labor, any collared man willed
to pay sweat for bread and circuses.
And a dry, warm place to sleep.

Man, the reasoning creature, is what he eats.
Man does not live by bread alone.

Imagine grooming a gimp, from puberty.
Imagine Michael Jackson, "the kid is not my son!"

Look out, Howard Bloom. Duck.
Watch the boy do a thousand shoulder shrugs.
See the fantasizing worth of awe in focus, this
is us,
we paid to see the man perform, in a role made
from lies a child uses
to make just now,
reasonable, just
cause,

I can, I have power given me by Life, look,
who can imagine being the fan,
aw, man,
nobody longs to be
in the nosebleeds, being there
is not being you,
when all you can become has become true.
Just imagine,
fakes never make it.

And truly a big tragedy to be avoided, next.

We interview… the biggest nobody,
an entity insisting formless information imagines
bubbles of being limited
-- some strings of pearls rolled up

roll into little *****
of gnoshit pearls, treasure true, in essence
from dried gnosisnot. These we cast not to pigs.
To think a readers reasons
for writing, become one
of the rare breed born
to become readers
of one thousand books, once before you die.

------------------
If Warhol made action seem so mundane,
might I not make fun seem so slow a function
to make perfectly reasonable,
picking a fight with a lie,
because I can… being created equal to that task,
I can recognize lies I told,
I know where the handles are, I know what holds
the handle to the secret meaning of things,
can seem material, where free will
is culture locked as impossible.
Thingo no hypo.
Action movie, opening sequence,
as liturgical as any measured reassurance,
enter in, become the entertained,
we live in another realm, we only play at
while being entertained, we only watch roles

being presented for judgement,
test your will to link a mind projection,

from a former time shaped mind, aimed
at drawing an audience, a crowd,
all agreeing upfront to pay
for the mirror neuronic stims,
in a darkened room filled with fools such as I.

Who allows possible a gunfight with ***'s,
at goal-to-go range, taking five minutes,
and no named characters die,
all blood is non player blood,
only a child's mind never exposed, flash,
allows that to feel real, for five minutes,
into a nonreal mindtimespace
reality
of ever once,
and ever after, onces

such as once, seeing a gun in your face,
once hearing the bang, from a gun in your hand,
once
upon
recalling that was a movie, and I never killed a man,
but by osmosis, I imagine I can see
how hate
works the same as ******.
Relax.
Recall the unbelievableness.
--- so what are silent action movies feeding,
young Aldous Huxley, a bright well educated lad.
{We are all alphas}
-----------
"His uniqueness lay in his universalism.
He was able to take all knowledge for his province."
-------
Only a rich man's son may so say.
Even, as limiting to level, if such leveling
evens the odds, serves to increase resolve
to square the circle and fix pi to simple, once
and
for
all. As events in the heaven occur, fractally

added in fine ality… at you, dear reader, enlivening me.
Infinitely, relative to yesterday.

Of course, comic books count. As in the future,
classic video games shall seem poetic code.
I appreciate the reader's task more than the writer's. Writing is easy, reading what you write from the outside is the reader's task, unless it feels like a game.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
****, i've just ran out of drafts, good news:
this 15th Dec. suspension on ola poetry.com
is going pretty well...
               well: as any worth that's the worth
of dealing with jealous people...

   only today i remembered myself,
shackled in the edinburgh university
never close to the Pleasance courtyard,
St. Andrew's Place...
       oh no, i didn't wish to live on the main
university campus, with its own canteen...
i wanted to learn chemistry,
but also perfect my cooking skills...
every single morning waking up to the sight
of the Salisbury Crags...
    one wild night i stayed up all night,
to walk up Arthur's Seat... returning from
the mountain (in the middle of a ******* city)
to buy myself some cornflakes and full-fat
milk...
   why would anyone even bother
with ******* Halls of residence...
   a university campus makes sense,
if you're talking about a city the size
of Warwick, or Brighton...
         but Endinburgh? to live in a university
bubble, in the middle of the city
like it's some sort of fortified "defiance"?
             where am i, at university,
     or the ******* high school canteen?!
i would still bring packed lunch...
          i liked the nicknames i acquired
over the years...
               goldilocks,
                  the strange fruit man (pomegranates,
passion fruit, sharon fruit, etc.),
                            viking...
   at times i would really love to hate myself,
but i found the stoic alternative of:
just laughing at myself...
   never mind that...
        ah... sweet sweet 18...
having discovered a new prog rock band
outside the top 50 mentioned in the mojo
music magazine while still in high school:
atomic rooster: death walks behind you...
tomorrow night, the devil's answer...
     i would plug in my electric,
put the piecyk (slang for amp) on the windowsill
and muse, full volume, blasting solo after
solo outside the window, trying to see if i could
make the Salibsbury Craig crumple
just a little bit...
                   mind you, in terms of playing
the guitar - i clearly remember Anthony
introducing me to tablature...
                        i can't read music, i wish,
but i can't...
    you really don't have to start with
smoke on the water, or iron man...
               death walks behind you is pretty
easy to learn, even without tablature...
even black sabbath... let's see if i remember
the strings correctly

e
G
F
D
A
E.... let's check.... ****...

                     e
                     B
                     G
                     D
                     A
                     E...      i'm pretty sure i'd still
be able to tune a guitar...
    i.e. make A sound like E on the 5th (divide)
   make D sound like A on the 5th divide...
   F like D on the 5th...
      G like F on the 4th divide...
     e like G on the 5th divide... i think that's right...
5th divide? you press down on the string...
and play E & A together, if they sound the same...
well... you're tuning a gee'tar...

                     e------------------
                     B------------------
                     G-----------------
                     D-------3---------
                     A-------------2---
                     E--1---------------  black sabbath - black sabbath
intro...
   but the next tablature will break
the camel's back...
           it's so... so... simple... & therefore
so genius... it goes against all of punk,
the punk of the rhythm section with only
3 chords... well... this song uses only 2 chords...

free - all right now... i still don't know how
mungo jerry's - in the summertime beat
all right now to the no. 1 spot in england...
  
                     e------------------
                     B------------------
                     G-------7---------
                     D--7----7----------
                     A--7----5----------
                     E--5---------------

                      (obviously you have to find
the rhythm yourself ADG 577 yourself,
       bouncing from a 1-2-1-2 on the EAD 577)...

i really should have succumbed
to teaching my former marijuana dealer's daughter,
a paranoid schizophrenic with an obsession
regarding the illuminati straight out
of Kingston ya'man Jamaica the guitar...

________
.well at least the english peoples
got one thing right,
brewing,
            name me an ale that
doesn't hide a hint / accent of
specific, or an irish stout,
       and i'll show you a cross-dressing
nun riding a chimera
coming from some german
convent, alright?


i guess it's just the tale
of the said / "unsaid" times...
    it's about to crank up the use
of cipher...
   if i get one haiku in old norse,
i'll be happy:
since, as much as i favour
   grammatical rules,
   i'm not a big fan of poetical
constraints...

hence?
    ᚱᚨᚦ ᚺᛟᚻᛖᚾᛋᛏᚨᚢᚠᛖᚾ
    
rað
hohenstaufen

       (plan)
                    which alludes to
          ᚠᚱᛖᛞᛖᚱᛁᚳᚴ  ᚨᚾᚾᚨᚱᚱ

frederick annarr (second) -

some prepositional words
will be missing,
notably the / a,
   direct and indirect articles...
but some prepositional
words might appear...

mind you, if i pull this project
off,
   and forget however many times
i have to ctrl + c / ctrl + p
   my way through it,
how i will have to
                  consult the english v.
old norse dictionary...

how i will also consult
                 futhorc runes
of the english,
         and the younger futhark
of old norse
over an aesthic squabble
when it comes to

             ᛄ / ᛅ - j (futhorc runes)                (ᛃ)

(not to be confused with ᚾ...
which... already exists in a modern
tongue, mein zunge...
          Ł,                     ł -    wom-bat...
see...
             i once heard a scientist
say: 'why bother swabbing
the inside of your mouth,
sending off your genetic
                                signature to
a company,
   to find out your ancestry?
   you'll naturally gravitate to it
                                                   anyway!')

and...           "kaunan" (ᚲ),
   i.e. before the whole mathematical
greater than >
                    and lesser than <
    became problematic,
ergo?

younger futhark ᚴ - k
                 (anglo-saxon) futhorc ᚳ - c (k) -

this could somehow work...
all i'll need is enough nouns and verbs,
prepositions will be troublesome,
given that modern english
is littered with this sort
of shrapnel...

                     but it's about time
to start to elevate the cipher,
if all the youtubers are jittery...
you know something's coming,
and it's not good...

i probably will stick to english
grammar,
   i can't promise a haiku,
         but at least...
          it will seem like...
speaking a language
                  from, my,
previous, now,
                   reincarnated, "self"?!
i don't believe in reincarnation
to begin with...
   it's too NPC for me,
and that's not even a reference
to mahjong solitaire;
   dunno...
     i once sat down and solved
one... then solved another...
i just don't like
        the whole:
there's only a limited number
of authentic souls,
   and they behave in a benign way,
soul-parasites,
while everyone is just plain
outright zombie.
- so this is the plan...
   rarely do i plan something...
might as well give it a shot...

****...
            beside that...
i do remember youtube's algorithm
when it was intelligent...
oh... 4 years ago... maybe even 2...
it behaved like
a thesaurus...
          glory days of exploring
music, i never even managed
to come across these current youtubers...
i couldn't care less...
the algorithm shifted from smart,
to dumb, real dumb...
     and then exploring new music
became a hag, not a hack,
a hag...
                       i'm not even
surprised to say that i never left
comments...
      why?
      i can sort that **** in my own
head, i don't need to comment...
                  oh right...
and if you're reading this soliloquy...
i supposed i never asked
for money.

p.s. good thing that i didn't
desire to consult the paragraph...
if it's poetry or "poetry"
or, more of the allure considering
it a soliloquy...
  well... imagine the claustrophobic
optics of your standard
   piece of paper...
in a book, with a paragraph...

this would never work in a paragraph.

p.p.s. seeing how
i didn't find the old norse
for not...
   but no: neinn (ᚾᛖᛁᚾᚾ)
alludes to a "missing" Tyr (ᛏ)...
which would elevate
the modern word not
               from an adverb
to the status of a definite article...
no and yes are not determiner
words for me,
they share the same article
status as the aesir and,
                                           esp. Tyr.

p.p.p.s.
   red ice tv disseminating
   ms. beat-box gala
                       for the ultimate
stut-stut-stuttering contenst
winner.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
two sudokus down, one pending, and the drinking is insatiable, peering into the stack of books, there's a copy of seven years in tibet and in start to wonder: what sort of interesting life should ever produce a book? the majority of me is asking: really? 7 years in 7 sittings of reading this?! who imagines writing a book, having "completed" an interesting life, does not imagine the majority of the readership, discarding the actual book, and being tibet bound... jealousy is such a cheap emotion, to be honest jealousy is the cheapest of all emotions, cheaper to pay a ******* for an hour's service, than take a fine girl to dinner; what, was someone expecting an "oops" with that?

i sometimes can't imagine the quality of pop,
it's not a pedantic "observation" -
it's just: well, could have done better,
but then again: you clearly couldn't have.
    i like rereading shakespeare and thinking
than minor additions would make the works
stand in greater clarification,
notably in shrapnel -
- 1st witch: why, how now, hecate?
you look angerly.
- hecate: have i not reason, beldams as you are,
saucy, and overbold? how did you dare to trade
and traffic with macbeth, in riddles,
and affairs of death,
  and i, then mistress of your charms,
   the close contriver of all harms,
  was never called to bear my part,
   or show the glory of our art?
such minor revisions, pedantic, of course...
i.e. - how did you dare to *trade and
make trivia
with macbeth -
      better still: trade & trivialise -
         and
   - in riddles, and in the affairs of death;
suppose we don't live in times
of man's "omniscience" etc.?
                but we do, and categorising ourselves
as such, we can only seem to test
knowledge via answering trivia question -
the triviality of knowledge oozes out
of game shows: where enough to be
knowledgeable is enough to known the most
encyclopedic set of facts...
    having to encompass all of man's
endeavours seems rather mundane...
             heidegger's aphorism 91 ponderings VI...
and the arrogance of writings maxims /
aphorisms...
        you read them as if they are basically true,
but then again: they're written as
propositions, rather than as presuppositions...
there's not a single word in the works
of nietzsche or la rochefoucauld
that supposes an observation to be true:
        a bit like the legal system dichotomy of
the english vs. the european courts:
  a. innocent until proven guilty, vs.
b. guilty until proven innocent...
                it's the ****** bombast of writing
maxims as propositions,
   there's no room for "error":
said content is: necessarily true,
                         but unnecessarily observed;
most of the time maxim notation is
an erosion of common sense, and subsequently
the killer proteins of alzheimer eating
away at the fatty tissue of the brain...
          mental exercise?
      who the hell wants a schwarzenegger's worth
of brain, i.e. exercise what?
           i don't like nietzsche's style precisely
because i don't like aphorisms or maxims...
          they're bombastic in assuming they're
true,
   i.e. once observed: forever replicated
to the same summa summarum...
  i think it's unsavoury to presume that one's
observations are fit for purpose of replica
observations taking hold of the reader...
if, perhaps, these aphorisms were written with
an overtone of presupposition,
             and left in the la la land of: supposing so -
they would be guarded by an element
of surprise...
                      an encroachment moment,
with an element of surprise...
         if only the loss of propositional bombast,
and the mediation of supposing-so,
   with an undertone of prepositional discretion...
stating the obvious in that stating
the obvious is stating an: unchallenged truth,
an unchallenged observation shared between
to people, well, aren't we talking about
  simply observing the perpetuated plagiarism
of what is "observed", without ever
deviating back into the "unobservable"?
       i believe that aphorisms (as a medium)
are plagued by a certainty inversion -
             sure, they're true, but they are also
true without a guarantee of replica -
                 for the most part they are placebo
ridden...
                and the only aspect of philosophy
that is unscientific...
                for the most part the style of writing
that's aphoristic is placebo,
        and not res replica...
           unless offensively forced - stereotyped.
if only the writing of an aphorism was
plagued by presupposing rather than proposing
a conclusive play on a voyeuristic act -
             the presuppositional attention to detail
would be tactful - and part of the cartesian
continuum...
             but propositional observations,
akin to making stereotypes, have no element
of founding one's thought in the cartesian dynamism
of doubt... there either is, or there isn't -
existentialism akin to the genesis in nietzsche
was born with the cartesian roller-coaster
of fusing an emotional regard for feeling,
i.e. doubt... negation being the prime ingredient
in existentialism, is oh so boring...
         ego negare, ego quasi cogito - ergo..
      i deny, i sort of think -
                                             therefore;
pretty obvious, we had to change the song -
we know so much already, in the current times,
that doubting would be pointless -
    doubting used to have a thrill of purpose
never being finalised,
   existentialism replaced doubt with denial...
so few things can be doubted,
   and when so few things can be doubted,
  we purposively lie, deny, lie, deny, to somehow
muster an origination of awe in emotive
experiences, which only bring failure -
  awe does not coexist with denial -
           you can't be in awe via purposively lying
to yourself...
  you can only seek awe by being forced
  into an emotional system of doubt...
but since existentialism eradicated doubt and replaced
it with denial...
     as already mentioned:
we deny, therefore, we sort-of think -
      we deny, therefore, we "think";
as the zeitgeist suggests - robotics, and other
forms of automation are taking over.
the argument still stands:
  if only the medium of writing aphorisms,
or succinct "truths" could be universally tested,
or at least universally observed as being true...
     if only there was a lost propositional(!) bombast
behind these pieces of writing,
or rather: a presupposition(?),
     since both approaches still converge in the realm
of supposes;
   a position is taken and one is for it -
while a supposing is given and one predates
it with a spontaneous unearthing of unnecessarily
having an opinion about it -
to presuppose is to not suppose -
since presuppositions are more archaic in always
being unforced observations,
  whereas propositions are enforced results
of having forced oneself to think: about something
with the end result of: a maxim,
or the extended maxim, i.e. an aphorism.
          - so who would actually want to make
language, and easy, and accessible, to the majority
of man?
          did not the power reside among
the priesthood who spoke latin, while the general
populace didn't?
   so why would anyone not decide upon:
speaking an english, within english,
   that the common englishman could not understand?
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
~~~


reaching hard for words

~~~

enter tip toeing,
the loudest noises off,
save for a silent, seriously-forming smile,
re-designing your face,
while in the orbit of early morn,
mapping your return to the planetary
bed
all the while,
observing her
while closeted, comforted and cloaked,
upon their/his
landing zone bed,
honing your return re-entry voyage
home

the blonde in her traditional,
sleep arms slung in wilding, disarrayed
repose,

and
her breathing stride,
regularized and still,
yet so humanly unpredictable
wild ride

and your are surprised

by surprising yourself,
once again,
that you're in this position,
when an unforced, yet an enforceable,
warm hearted girl-glad,
chest centric?
envelops and coddles
and yet
shocking you,
that this never-expected-gift is capable of being felt

at in over up outside inside
below across beneath above and the
all encompositional prepositional,
throughout

forms of its own accord,
not asking permission,
to exist within

your body that not so long ago,
forgot where it kept
the
how-to manual

and you,
obligatory poet,
noblesse oblige,
try reaching hard for,
top shelf, newly combinated,
adjectival adverbial nouns and
verb words
to encapsulate this
shocking development

but finding none,
save for the the silent, seriously-forming smile,
busy re-designing your face,
quiet like,
it,
thunder claps slaps
in your mind

enough!

your smile is
this time

self-speaking sufficient
and
there is no need
to reach for words


~~~


9:03am
The Sabbath
1-15-16
nyc
JWolfeB Jul 2014
In elementary school you learn about the importance of the 8 parts of speech. That with these essential bits and pieces of the English language you can grammatically slay dragons, build empires upon prepositional phrases, and verbally split wigs with hammering conjunctions.

Spitting flexible adjectives in general directions with a chance that someone might listen. I wish you could still listen.  I want to tell you. Verbalizing verbs with vicious vernacular. I shipped it. Wrecked it. Mauled it.

I want to fix it. I can't. I'm waiting. For the day I can hug you again. To apologize for the lack of complete. In life you complete stuff. Like when your mother tells you that you can't quit clarinet in the 5th grade, because once you start something, you finish. We never finished.

You left before we could complete. I didn't say goodbye or even hello. I guess I could blame it on pronouns. I could say well she didn't let me know, he was lost in his words. We didn't want to intrude on the walls they built with words that I never spoke. But without them I would be so much better off.

Or That we need to talk. We need to figure my **** out because some days this iceberg set of lungs I have, only melt when I don't need then to. So pass through me. Across the tremendous skin across my body in order for me to feel again.

The skin is tucked under this hard shell I learned to build after being poked all too often. Poked with things like goodbyes or when I can't tell time on analog clocks. Numbers are hard to compute when all I see is you. I want to quickly get over the slow process of slickly sliding into a hole I'll never figure out.

I'm in a directional pull towards who knows where with nothing but my brain space. We all know how dangerous things get in there. Like that time, when I was 7, I was convinced you were kidnapped by the bandit in my dream. Sleeping is hard these days.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
.
        2 + 2 is a tautology of 2 x 2, isn't it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

close to the circle... shh...

prove:

   that ℕ was not borrowed
from                                                ᚻ...­

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

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

well...

    cogito (A) ⊢ sum (B)?

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

so much for propositional
logic...

isn't metaphysics:
prepositional logic?

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

you want mathematicians
to go crazy?
give them a ******* thesaurus.
Chani Goldstein Jan 2021
Past tense
Present tense
Very tense
Me.
First tense
Second tense
Third tense
Me.
Prepositional phrases
Bridge words
Adjectives
Adverbs
Dangling modifiers.
Stories to be told
Of the young
And the old
In me.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
i once attested that... you can't a better barber... than a Turkish barber... for a while i thought that Romanian girls made great company... Copernican revision (almost): perhaps i just found me a Turkish gem... a delight from some mythical period of the height of the Ottoman empire...

nope, they're still here... that swarm of butterflies...
with Nabokov giving chase...
although there's no taboo about borderline
mature girls to talk about...
that one instance with my ex's sister when
i first saw her... absolutely gone...
             of a more refined taste...
                       she's 32: i tell her she looks like
she's 28 she says she feels like so and...
what else am i going to call this feeling...
heightened digestive anxiety...
    diarrhoea?
                    well it's certainly not constipation...
funny how: this is almost love...
it's not... it's just the aftermath of the best
*** i've had since... i was having *** / *******
with my fantasy goggles on...
it took me several years to get over
the supposed "best ****" i was ever going to get...
a Russian by the name of Ilona...
yes... brilliant... that night before i was to leave
st. petersburg we had one of those...
7 hour marathons... as you do... since it's st. petersburg
in the summer and you have those
famous white nights of st. petersburg because
you're really close to the polar circle...
so... you can't sleep... and what's there to do?
chess, drink... books?!
- i never thought i could get over it...
until... Khada... or Khadiya... or...
i've heard the name several times, now...
i even wrote it down and showed it to her...
but when i heard it again...
she... almost silences the last letters...
   Khaadaya...           to hell with it...
i already almost can't remember her face...
and it has only been since: yesterday...
  but then... i somehow remember it... yet...
its contorting... it's... a mouth open showing me
her tongue... it's her most certainly fire-riddling auburn...
maybe mahogany...
a light shade of that wood...
most certainly a van morrison song...
although: not so much freedom in running around
with a transistor radio...
or it's just that i can't remember her face
because... there's so much immediacy involved
in all that happens during *******...
the face stretches through many contortions...
all those vowels and hardly any consonants
that might allow for lip-reading...
- maybe it has something to do with seeing
Christian Eriksen collapse live on the pitch...
my bets were on: dead... thunderstuck...
i just had to feed life a bone a muscle some sinew
flesh, **** and tongue...
in between hard-ons throughout the day:
no hand! hell... i wasn't even remotely going to
give myself such an easy escape...
too much "thinking": reimagining all the details...
ol' raven haired woman of Anatolia...
i tried to compose a list of songs to fit
with my emotions...
the cliches ran after i listened to...
spirit's when i touch you...
all of nine inch nails' pretty hate machine...
something from the hellraiser soundtrack...
now i'm sipping a straight pimm's i "stole"
and am listening to the obvious:
the eagles' witchy woman &
cliff richard's devil woman...
      funny how... love is *** first... for any man...
or best be...
i can't handle some choicest of fiddly parts
of... eh... the criteria of a "good mother"?
a good wife?
                    all this pre-planning ******* of
the modern man... boxed life-on-loan anyway...
in her own words:
'i'm a killer'... oddly enough:
i couldn't read any malice in her eyes...
like i said to her when she asked me what do i see
in them...  e-very-th-ing...
the good and the bad...
   when i see her again... i'm already gagging...
choking myself with these *******
butterflies... i'll tell her what she is...
   a NYMPH...
sometimes i'd come across these sad sad prostitutes...
they'd thank me for my tenderness
and tell me i was a good man...
two or three close calls with veteran women...
but never... a... ******* NYMPHOMANIAC!
like she didn't care about all she was going to
gorge on...
a slap on the tongue and all that...
ooze O OH! all that ooze of... a feline serpentine...
right now... no such "thing" as:
"too much of a good thing... can't be good"...
any movement in reality is a joke...
i'm a poo'et that can't make a living off of the trade
and she's a *******...
that she sleeps with other men doesn't bother me...
i just like the she is when she sleeps with me:
other men are abstract as with them she's: a she...
i can almost imagine myself living in ancient Rome...
fathering *******...
being a good foster father figure...
being really... really liberal classically about...
what's mine and what's not...
i posit the idea above genes...
                         i posit the idea above genes...
an illuminating splinter on a night sky...
a joyous smile...
a glistening: ****** expression of staging being...
ASTOUNDED...
i.e.: what the **** just happened?!
m'ah head exploded and i'm still without any
obligations to make concrete sacrifices
to state: this be love that be commitment...
          she's a killer... like hell: she's a man-eater...
i was just ******* a "caricature" of a mantis...
                      at £2 per minute... am i going to listening
to some more... winging that *** is a chore?
thank god no!
HEAD LIKE A HOLE... HEAD LIKE A HOLE...
i was so *** starved for the past 4 years
that the whole #metoo movement passed me by...
with her i'm at loss to even explore being
bored with ***...
to explore alternative avenues
with latex and gimp suits and ******...
so... frankly... it's still somehow wholesome...
proper kosher...
i would never want *** to become boring:
i rather starve and not have: and then have it...
sanely... than have to double up on fetishes
and escape plans to being:
i am addicted to the idea of two bodies colliding...
coercing... moulding each other...
today's international football was...
        oh yes... that grand brotherhood of man...
also some sparring in boxing in Paris for the olympic
games between amateur boxers...
if my stomach is filled with butterflies...
my brain is a custard of wriggling maggots...
while my heart remains a stone...
no ulterior motive... thank god...
thank god i've escaped the fantasy land
of performance art of *******...
i'll gladly leave that boney-****-imitation of the hand
behind: i'd chop it off if i was:
doubly left-handed...
but i'm not... and i need some balance when i
type missing typos...
     grr...
              pimm's: too sweet... i'll need a beer or two
to put my palette straight...
mein gott: what an afternoon...
the crab bucket will be screaming right about now...
oh i know the crab bucket **** list...
why not me? why am i not wearing his shoes...
crab bucket my ***...
when i left the brothel there was still
agonised girl screaming into the mobile about
commitment...
oh welcome night... some depeche mode?
please do... and if i feel like this after tomorrow's harrowing
bicycle round-and-round...
i'll most surely feel better:
besides...
only this Friday journalists unearthed previously
unpublished poems... ahem... "poems"
by none other than... Jim Morrison...
rock star... *** god.. lyricist...
ah... there we go... LYRICIST...
i abhor lyricism...
       i have only one excuse for minding lyricism:
the music tends to be louder than the lyrics...
the bass guitar is somehow audible...
check out Metallica...
two... three songs when you can actually
hear it... the devil's dance...
but... otherwise... all primarily rhythm & solo guitars...
drums and lyrics...
rhyme: rhyme my *** with has...
                 that i have one...
oh boy... when i'm dead... when i'm dead:
and this is how i wrote...
it doesn't matter: what i wrote: about...
although... maybe that too...
     too much airy ******* fairy akin to...
verbatim:
    december isles
  hot morning chambers
of the new day
idiot first to awaken (be born)
w/shadows of new play
learned men
in Sunday best
we've had our chance to rest
to mourn the passing of day
to lament the death of our
glorious member
  (she whispers secret messages
of love in the garden
to her friends, the bees)
the garden would be there
forevermore...

am i the only one who... doesn't want to...
reengage with some... variation of a "loss"
of innocence?
i want the *** on display thick splodges
of worn limps... gearing up to a wedding with
death: a second birth...
and all that "filth" in between...
i want... the whole... experience...
like a seagull chick... FEED ME...
i want to turn my mouth into an eye
and my eyes into mouths...
i want to become a monstrosity...
a gargantuan take on butter...
  i want to overflow in the sick and the sweat
and marble of all that's human...
to hell with being a child...
inherently cruel...
an untrained bladder...
              at least the games of *** and informal
cordiality...
nothing sinister since no latex
or gimp suits invoked...
just kosher: *** deprived ***...

& in between ******* a pull of the chin
to explore those lips and tongue with
my lips and tongue...
ol' raven hair of Anatolia...

- on a canopy of ****-rod soft-core
girlies with nothing to do but pose naked
and dangle a latex ***** for
for some lap-dog...
       slurp...
                     i had to dig to the deepest
core of imitation Dante...
i needed to find me a nymphomaniac...
to escape the...
what's it called...
the subversion of men... of nullifying men...
of... sedating men...

i'm 6ft2... 218 pounds of Otis Redding's worth
of love man...
some other time... 260 pound worth of
a chunk of beef...
            slimming girl... just slimming:
for all the tenderness i want to give...
i'd be a gladiator in some other time and reference
of space... now i'm fighting pseudo-intellectuals
and the crab-bucket...
****'s sake...
but i'm still armed with a giggle...
so it's: just aye-alright...

correct me if i'm wrong... all that inheritance...
i'm not going to pet an anglo-saxon woman
and her thesis on anti-racism...
erm... ha ha!
                  when a black loved up to a black woman...
when a ol' whitey cuddled up to a...
Turkish delight... or a Thai surprise...
ha!
                             it's a black toddler one you can
fiddle with the afro...
while it tempts your torso being a make-shift bed...
how can you just kick a dog...
how can you not love such bundles of...
the antithesis of an exoskeleton?

how jazz, soul, rhythm & bass degenerated into...
rap synth...
because... it's not exactly even rap these days:
is it?
well... it's hardly that you... didn't see it coming...
god... loving this girl when she mingles with
me drinking alone is doubly exhausting:
because the reality of going forward
is forever an impasse...
a brick wall... take care... concentrate on
the undying emotion: right now...
focus on the butterlies:
on the hypersensitive digestive system...
it's not diarrhoea: it's just your digestive system
working overtime...

i'm in love: but not for keeps...
for illumination...
hammer met up with nail...
out came two planks of wood stuck together...

- just like i can't stomach: on repeat...
i don't own these anglo-saxon women...
there's not grand brotherhood of man...
i don't want to be trapped in some guilt riddled
libido game where she showcases herself
on some... vague: moral stand-off posit...
i'll just go where something is better: & available...

beginning with Romanian, perhaps just
ending with Turkic...
    to hell with these striptease in straitjackets...
how's that for... ahem... "lyricism":
oh, wait... lyricism doesn't appreciate
concrete punctuation / prepositional riddled
language...

one more night with a ***** movie in my mind
where i'm somehow, "somehow" the star...
mein gott: how she slapped that phallus
on her tongue...
how she's... completely involved in nothing
sensible...
how i despise old age:
how i'd sooner stab myself in the neck,
throw myself off a bridge... tame drowning...
anything to heighten the erotica than...
die off... slowly ******* neglected...
right now: spontaneously...
i'd bring a knife and ask her to finish me off:
but of course... i'm shy of ******* her a dozen
times...

none of the leather of neglect:
all her parts being so, so... jaw-like...
mandible...
oh look... what a hallow night...
the moon is here... all horned...
the constellations are in place...
but there are still those roaming stars that...
shouldn't be here...

i will now welcome sleep.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
the dream began long before the sleep overcame
me...
   lazy architect of the clouds:
what was it going to be this time:
per usual: castle, swan... a death mask -
ruminations of the future?

                     a violin quarter op. 17
no. 4... or as i imagined it before
sleep dragged me below the waves
into the deepest caves before it plucked
out my eyes and have me tears
or shed in watercolours...

   something so tender as this poem ought
to break into a thousand pieces...
or however many letters there are to match...

standing on Waterloo Bridge... playing that ******
violin... however crudely...
a pocket of fame so tiny that would
spread until... some other violinist heard
of the antics taking stage...
   a dream... that didn't catch me by surprise...
not lingering like a dream: proper...
which might take up at least the whole
morning of a tomorrow upon waking
and bewilder and amaze...
  
            such that i promised myself:
not a sip of that fine Mount Gay Eclipse
***... never: i hope never again will you drink
"thinking" you might write something:
at worst! tender sips only after something
blessedly sober was started during
the business of a day...

               an alternative to the Italian risotto
or a Spanish paella?
none other! the Biryani!
  oh the spices at my disposal...
a black cardamom pod
4 green cardamom pods
a piece of acacia bark (sorry...
  out of cinnamon!)
   3/4 tsp of fennel seeds...
caraway seeds, cumin seeds...
coriander seeds. black peppercorns...
a star anise...
6 cloves
      a bay leaf...

something from Norwegian poetry?
olaf bull?

og jeg, en levende mand, paa jorden hjemme
and i, a living man, with earth my dwelling...
som jeg, en død mand, paa jorden hjemme (begrenset)...

but i'm not going to learn Norwegian
on these isles...
it would make some sense
to learn Danish for a historical
whim or German...

then again... my bet it on either
Romanian or Turkish...
a today... at the Turkish barbers'
i only instructed him:

keep the length (of beard):
   but tidy the rest up...
tut(mak) uzunluk nın-nin sakal:
ancak temiz...

well i sat down in the waiting line while
the other turkish barber was finishing
off a customer... working with the electric
razor around the stubble...
strange sounds...
i've heard of iron stubble...
the sound of shaving never sounded
so... glass on a chalkboard...
a piano shattering...
something felt odd: like someone
was playing me a Turkish film
with Armenian dubbing...

so he shaved and shaved and i looked
on... does an electric razor mowing
stubble make that sort of, "sound"?!
it was only when my usual barber:
the one i modelled for once
when i came in like a homeless man
and 20kg overweight...
he took photos of before & after:
pointed me toward seat no. 2
did i finally come to grips with the sounds...

ha!
a cage with two budgies - budge-rigours...
budgerigars was placed in the corner...
two jittery little fellows...
i sat back closed my eyes and relaxed...
better than a *******:
ah... with ******* you need to staple your
eyes open to your eyebrows...
but getting your beard trimmed?
nothing to it... like kissing metal...
oddly enough either i was relaxed
or my barber was relaxed...
not a ******* pipsqueak from the two
birds...
a vibrating sense of contentment
a bit like...
when was the only time you saw
a bulldog content?
in the company of another bulldog...

now that's what i call a barber shop...
when he finished i was asked by
the other barber whether i wanted
to a cup of coffee...
my barber offered me a hot towel...
i refused both...
i'm pretty sure this was a way
to make new friends...
or rather: have some backup should
a funeral take place tomorrow...

maybe i have been living in England
for so long that... i might look English:
like the Turkish ******* remarked...
but i feel... neither here... nor there...
if i were to go back to my native birthplace:
i'd be alien too: not engrossed in
the politics in the culture in the everyday:
starting from: "born yesterday":
engrossed in the culture & politics of England...
but hardly "born & bred" as one
former fwend of mine: child of Egyptian /
Iranian immigrants remarked...
i can switch off from all the saturation
and read some Knausgaard in ******...

right now... i've just spent a mad hour cycling
and i'm going to sip some proper whiskey-esque
*** without the stealth assassin / an agitator
of a diluter of spirits... caffeine murderer of
a carbonated caramel ****...
i'll drink it straight over some ice...

an hour well spent...
  for all that's currently music: lyrical constipation:
i need to relearn how to breath:
to even think...
revisiting that dream i never had
that began with Haydn's op. 17 no. 4...
just the violins... no need for drum-tactic rhythm...
we're all "im-der-hier"... in the here...
"im-der-jetzt"... in the now...
but never really: must be lagging...
daydreaming or otherwise wishing it was
otherwise...

would taking the offer of a coffee and a hot
towel made so much of a difference...
or would i just have set there like
a ******* pile-on-steam-of-****?!
i love the smell of manure in the morning...
i love the smell of manure in the foggy morning...
i love the smell of manure when i'm
planting a new tree and it grows to be over
8ft tall after planting the original bonsai plum
some 7 years prior...

even in classical music:
there's the music that's there: played to death
& a second death that's boredom
that's only used to diffuse fame...
Haydn's op. 20 no. 4: that's how
a mousetrap ought to work...

niche listening: there will always be
someone reading something by Stephen King...
otherwise... spend a year on the oeuvre
of some composer...
at least the composers never fail:
produce "too much": then listen to it
being filtered down... sharpened to:
a bugging nugget of praise...

all that's pop is not necessary...
unless: utilised for pedagogic tactics...
breathe the air! there are no percussion instruments!
barricade the doors to your mind
with the wind of violins!

seems only fair that since i've had
my beard trimmed by a Turkish specialist...
speck? ***** & span... no...
speZ... if i am to write someone of my own
i'm drowning in the works of others
and there's 7am to mind...
there's defrosting two fridge-freezers too...
the sensibility of waking up
moderately sober...
all that's day and all that's a masquerade!

trivial things: poetry: porcelain...
but they shouldn't be so easily: quashed...
now that everyone can readily
read: write... somehow... long before
poetics was pushed aside...
of all people... if the Vikings are to be
somehow... envied... emulated...
ingenious thieves that they were...
at least they kept words somehow
sacred...
while they exhausted each limb from limb...
a body wed to the earth
a mind wed to the air...
and all congregating in sun, fire & water...
perhaps some mead some
frost... fog and shadow...

how i envy the almost first men
and their chemical eureka upon eureka of
the first intoxication with beer!
not this intellectual: morose flight of body
anchored down by the more heavier extraction
of run: run: ***-***-**-here-we-go!

let it not be another knock-out night for me
on this tired plank of wood i dare to call
ship: but i'm dried up on what's
language: trapped in conventionalities
of passer-by conversations that are hardly
that...

of course this couldn't be a lament:
i would regret a good conversation
since the *** is almost as good or if not better
than any whiskey...
a good conversation would get me off
my rockers all the more...
but then the fear of sobering up
in the middle of it...
for the proper K.O. i'll wait for the chemicals
to take charge... while i'll play both
mouse & fox & sneak downstairs for
a glass of milk...

architects of dreams: best to appease a
boredom of London by stripping it down to:
far away... Athens... here in quasi-Sparta
on the outskirts... the ******* emblems of
itching at the sky...
the ****** emblems of stadiums for
which football was made to be: ahem... "footed"?

bypass the standards of any language...
the nouns...
then work around the verbs...
and the adjectives that work as substitutes of verbs...
eh... prepositional, pronoun and conjunction
shrapnel...

presto scherzando: of Haydn's op. 20 no. 4:
a sort of violin does a pilgrims farewell
to the folk dance: hey hey hey trance
which reminds me of...
some modern song...
   very, very: modern...
                
it complete silence: or rather... memory
by now has become a drunken orchestra!
on the tip of my tongue...
ah! yes! corvus corax! herr wirt!
hey hey hey... there are accents of it...
littering Haydn's
presto scherzando: of op. 20 no. 4!

- and to think... i could have had a wife!
- and to think... i could have had a son!
- and to think... i could have had a daughter!

an uncle was a disappointment...
half of my grand-parentage i don't know...
beyond estranged...
cousins etc. long gone: still alive...
my maternal grandmother recently
estranged herself
from her grandson and her daughter
choosing a conspiracy of three
attitude with some cousin and her son...
while my grandfather...
there's pain: exhilarating...
quickly done away with you:
with a butcher's pardon on the guillotine...
then there's: pain: numbing...
relapsing... erosive...

well... i hardly imagine having enough time
to... somehow conjure up a connection
between corvus corax's herr wirt
& haydn's presto scherzando: of op. 20 no. 4...
beside the fire of the television:
how lacerating the warmth
how tongue numbing how...
if only this insomnia was
somehow translated into a transparency...
like my melancholy is a perpetual
hard-on...

all that's intelligent while only ending up
being mere posturing...
all that's plain daft while only ending up
being mere arrogance...
the insensible Kafkaesque tribalism
of the urban peoples...
the masculine aspect forgotten?
new: automated new: muscle loss?
the new wheat? juxtapositions around
cat's persistent inquiry whether the window
is somehow open...
or whether the bed is not yet slept in?

throw in a glass of milk come 1am
and... beside all that's to come with the chemical
circus... from now...
docile wolf still itching: bite a harvest...
sliding doors... the quintessential British
film from the 1990s...
it has to be...
that's me... dreaming of Swiss cheese...
cut with a guillotine... not a knife...
better still...
                     how familiar a curry has
become...
but you try and find the proper rice
to make a biryani not look like some phlegm
suckling stuck together grains of rice...
of a risotto or a paella...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
it must be a clear misunderstanding when someone utters the words: 'you hurt my feelings'... taking offense etc. last time i checked... doubt is outright discredited... yet in doubt: such a plethora of emotions... bundles of emotions... emotions that i can't bestow a narrative onto... it's not like the lack of emotions matched with denial... doubt's plethora: it's a pale version of love... in all but certain times... a pinch of uncertainty is always welcome... as is being offended... it's a loose-paradox (paradox: probably a misnomer in the context) of... an imploding objectivity... all those who claim objectivity also claim: being cognitive pure... not being dragged: muddled by emotions... why are emotions so undeserving to be felt... i'm tired of the silence of the heart for almost forever... when people say they have "****-hurt feelings"... or that they might be "offended"... it's not that... i see it as: implanting emotions... somehow it's easier to digest thoughts: since... "somehow" thoughts can exist in both an: in vivo as in an in vitro staging... you will probably never take thoughts seriously... but emotions... that raw slice of cured beef? well... it's not that i "hurt" your "feelings"... it's only that i gave you... feelings you never prior experienced... no one has hurt feelings: never... people only have bothersome feelings they cannot digest... no one is hurting... there are only a few with indigestion qualms... but since it's not the stomach but the heart... no one their pigeon brain starts to coo coo: cook up nonsense...

in light of recent events, in England...
a proselyte: of a former Islamic persuasion...
gets stabbed, slashed... whatever...
for wearing a Charlie Hebdo t-shirt
at speakers' corner in Hyde Park...
does it matter she's a woman:
does it matter whether or not she
was actually talking or merely wearing the t-shirt?
a proselyte...
i'm sort of one: teasing at the adventure...
i'll write the word ****** because...
well: giggle... bundle...
i will not censor my thoughts...
but because i will not utter the word:
i will not: it's not for the debility
and some "sacred past"..
but i will not scream it: choke my thoughts
with it... i'll reach the platitude...
urban slur that it has become:
you... don't... "own" the word...
i don't need this black hole punctuation
marker...
                      the "N-word":
god grease this "taboo": i have better pork
to ****...

- when enough drink is in me
i'll be writing under the influence:
but i won't be cycling... i tried that once...
i collapsed on the side of the road
clenched my bicycle
like a woman might clench a ****-buddy
and just... lay there... i was aiming
for the moon... it was a moonless night...
i started aiming for the constellations:
it was cloudy... i just lay there on
the pavement...
it felt... very village-esque...
as if the Red Army just passed through
having seen the well-dressed SS-men
running for their life in scuffles
and... torn limbs... in rags...
thank god the Bolsheviks were not
those ****-smeared Mongols...
who ate nothing but rancid horse-meat
and drank nothing but horse blood...
but it figures...
can i please talk to some of the sensible
Muslims: the ****'ites?
the old world Persians... even they're ******:
how come a bunch of camel jockeys
started to dictate to the Persians
a new thinking parameter?
the youngest of the monotheistic brat-dom....
so easily offended...
my greatest "fear":
the jihadi with an acute sensitivity
most associated with: French footballers...
why are these Muslims as sensitive as
French footballers...
Islam was once so gracious:
i was almost willing to "revert"...
i was implored by some Muslims to do so...
that's the thing with associating yourself
with Muslims in the west:
a feeling of conversation soon turns into
a feeling of conversion...
i asked one ****-
            -stani who approached me in a park
while i was sipping a beer...
why are you single? he implored...
a man of your stature...
shouldn't be single...
i didn't ask him whether this was England or
whether it was Lahore..
i just asked him what:
Alif-Lãm-Mĩm
meant at the beginning of a surah...
he brushed it somehow "aside" with a:
'only god knows'...
sorry... but that's not good enough...
i have to be the worst type of
a convert prospect...
although the best should an architecture
student... come along with a joint...
me with two beers... him with Le Trio Joubran:
that is happened in Amsterdam:
of course it had to happen in Amsterdam!

Alif-Lãm-Mĩm: is that sort of quiz
akin to turning letters into numbers
and "seeing" patterns... there's that Hebrew term
for this practice... it's not chiromancy...
it's not the concern for the Zodiac...
it only takes three letters...

"666": ΧΞϚ

last time i checked: "they" were breeding black
athleticism over Hebrew intellectualism...
Hebrew intellect fell short &, sour...
with what came out of Marxism
and... Freud still chokes:
but it's hardly a ******* celebration
when translated into skyscrapers...
when there's also that alias of the ****
with the football stadium... no?

but the "******" can be celebrated for his
physical prowess...
there are more holier words in this language
than a slur i hope to confess has become
more of an urban doodle: prepositional-punctuation
marker....

at least i'm not screaming the "N-word" in the back
of my head like some stuttering numb-nuts...
it's there... plain to see...
if i were to write: Niggerian instead of Nigh-Gear-Ian...
it would imply... what?
the same sort of hyper-sensitivity associated
with Jihadi Johnsons alias:
macabre: Russian ballerinas are more cut-throat
than these French footballers...

there are more sacred words than require
black-holes of: translated into "thinking"...
the name of the Hebrew god...
hidden within a "name for a name":
ha-shem...
there... i'll go as far as that...
i will not utter this word...
but sure as hell i'll make a great dough
of it: seeing how it might rise...

**** a black girl: colonial superpower, i...
the English are the tourists of Europe...
i don't think the Polacks ever felt comfortable
in their backyard... ever...
the argument goes: since the English went
all over the world... the world now has
to come knocking...
for all this ****** weather: you're more than
welcome...
Japan is an island... it has much
better weather: go figure...

another example... a former ISIS bride has returned
to England...
she's living in a £500,000 house
and has been giving treatment for
a prosthetic extension
of a lost arm: "lost" in a drone strike...
**** me... should have fought for ISIS...
pumped myself up with all those
amphetamines all those warriors were
ingesting because:
drink is... b'a'a'a'h bad (stutter?) i bet
you want...

hypersensitivity:
great at running...
but... no good at swimming
or for that matter: rock climbing...
from a tree unto the rock...

no matter... i was watching the Australian masterchef
contest and spotted a stand-out...
her grandmother was of a south-east-asian
"persuasion"...
pure as chalk...
well... "good news": ol' sandpaper man
comes in... 2nd generation
of interracial breeding...
well... two generations short...
what's that like in dog years?
the first encounter... done...
2nd... by the 3rd turn product pops out...
all is bleached...
worked with sandpaper... of white: piglet skin...

what a pretty fine explanation...
this connect: nuanced: "us":
greedily waiting the next: new...
conversion...
how do born & bred Muslims treat
proselytes...
converts... "reverts":
if not black h'american Malcolm X
stints...
all white... Mamluk / Janissary types-typos...
second class: ha! "citizens":
i don't trust these anaemic-**** smears
from the sand-pits of wannabe Congo
any more than...
no... great curry...

how it came about that a western man
had to become: educated by
some... retrograde... concerning words:
he would never ******* use!
even in a bilingual sequence of "events"...
mind you... the niqab would come about
as sort of... useful...
concerning the mythological blonde and
her ******* tirade of cough-ups!

get the **** real: ******:
the blacks just want to be...
blacks... the whites just want to be:
white...
you... play-up your jazz
while i drown my ******* Prokofiev...
you be black... i be white...
women always: some great heritge
of brotherhood making a comeback?
must be a Vancuever sort-of
a shin-dig...
investment in lady... qualities...

just about right: how h'Arabs treat those
Bangladeshi whips...
you have to whip those h'Arabs into
owning some ******* whiskers...
brown-beat doesn't even cover it:
with the copper-necks...

- just don't get me started on the Turks...
Turks... supposedly Muslim...
but their alphabet originated with the Mongol
geography...
seeing how the Turks licked at Vienna...
spent so much time just below
the Carpathian mountains: in Europe...
the best barbers and the best
prostitutes known to man...
oh and the ****'ite Persians who still love their
iconography...
Charlie Hebdo was wrong in that respect:
i bet Muhammad was a handsome *******...
a camel jockey / goat herder...
an illiterate par excellence...

it's not like he was immediately liked in his
local Mecca...
i have my "theory": in praise of older women...
i'm pretty sure she was the elder
the literate... the business mind-set illuminated...
she must have been the person who
wrote down the first Surahs...
who? Khadija: Muhammad's first wife...

eh... and they really do think they're the dog's *******...
Eddie Izzard's explanation is still tip-toe for moi...
my francophobia will not go away:
i can't speak French and not retain a French accent...
that will not pass...
therefore? i will not learn French...
i'm not going to speak French like a foreigner...

clearly i wanted to convert to Islam once...
"clearly"? hmm...
i once listened to this spectacular adhan and cried
like a Janissary...
what put me off Islam?
****-
    -stani Islam...
                 Saudi Islam...
     i'm still teased by the Turks... well... Turkish prostitutes...
once upon a time i also
heard vaughan william's fantasia
on the theme of thomas tallis... and also cried...
i cry at beauty... that's what i do...

my ****** lot... because the Hebrew's devil is older
than my devil...
imagine... coming from a people
that still defended the last paganism
of the Lithuanians: the last paganism in Europe...
the year: 1410... a battle between the pagans...
the Tatars (remains of the Mongol Horde)
the Polacks: lack-land lack-land...
and the Teutonic Order...

perhaps i could have convinced myself
to convert to Islam...
but then... what the hell do i do with
the *******... ms. amber and all that bourbon
that... always reminds me of a brothel?

the Hebrew god...
well... it begins with the implosion and all that's
clockwork with the Greek Δ -
that became the Y or... the serpent's split tongue...
funny story...
i was chatted with a Greek on a train to central
Warsaw from the Modlin Airport...
my god... how similar Greek sounds to Spanish!

look here: γΥ!
                           eh? eh? it's a sound structure that
requires an umlaut when transcribed into
Latin:                     gÜ...
one parabola... two parabola: a pair of wheels:
goo!          of the ghoul!

i do believe the story of of Carmenta (the Cimmerian Sibyl)
because... why shouldn't
it not be mythological that the genius
of Sejong who invented Hangul...
enough time passes...
journalism becomes history and history becomes
myth... or... there abouts...

all for the best... now that we're all seemingly
literate...
under too much weight of history:
it seems that i have inherited too much...
and i have inherited too much:
there's a plateau of a horizon...
so much history for a single man to digest:
ingest... that we have hoarded so much
of it... enter filter... enter skim-reading...
but it happens  ever so often that a Quran arrives...
a fire... but then... all the restrictions
that come with it... so much with keeping
too much from the past...

if only Islam could have cured me
of my drinking solution
to the boredom associated with
the soberness of the everyday: platitudes...
perhaps enough: just enough of *** could
curate me towards a better path...
such are the times:
there's plenty of drink: available...
but never enough ***...
unless you're a performance artist...

i feel most sane on a bicycle... feel safest
when being overtaken by a juggernaut of
a truck's volume...
a critique of traffic...
i feel... completely bewildered when
a mini-cooper: this sized: ||
takes... this much: |       | of space
to overtake you...
while... a man driving a van...
or a truck sized: |       |
takes... || to pass you...

Gallows Corner roundabout...
the last thrill of a cyclist taking to orientating
traffic... in the newspaper...
another solipsistic cyclist was mowed down
by a truck turning left at some junction
of Holborn...
me and my unconscious spatial coordination
arithmetic: not some ******... although:
a ****** would probably wave hello
this was a paediatrician cycling to her job...
i don't pity her... let the earth be light
upon claiming her body...

most cyclists that die on the streets of London
deserve to die...
how nonchalantly they ignore...
how... no... nonchalant is a timid word:
how... blasé they seem...
every time i pass one of these solipsistic
bulges geared up for: target practice
i forget to laugh...

i feel human... i bought 70cl of bourbon...
gorgon... bourbon: watch me turn to stone...
**** it... i'll sober up tomorrow morning
on the dual carriage way...
why not take the risk?
i'm most sane when drinking and scribbling
or when cycling...
i was expecting to see some lovelies in
Upminster... but...
since i was riding a road bike with 23cm wide tires
i was looking down for... ***-holes...
more than looking up for cleavage...

but this glorious spot... just outside of Upminster...
beyond Cranham... easing into
Bird Ln... through to Tomkyns Ln.
while walking across the A127 Arterial...
the organic beauty of England is starting
to grow on me... i love what the Saxons did with
the place...
perhaps the Welsh and the Scots: the origins story
Britons that the Romans met would have
done just as much...
nice... tended to garden...
i once felt nostalgic for the land most associated
with Polacks occupying it
but a land the Swedes wanted... the Mongols...
the Russians... Turks and Germans...
i imagine i'd be as much involved with
a love for the organic north America
while missing the love for the...
culture that lay on top of the organic spectacle...

i much adore this topography...
of course i can hardly appreciate the natives
having too play the game of capitulation
of former colonial herd "animals"...
hurt feelings? or feelings aroused?
you felt them: your problem...

how the English capitulated to their former subjects...
it almost hurts... almost: no... it hurts...
i love this land...
i'm hardly going to agree with the people...
nicety... politeness:
you give them a ******* mosque in the middle
of... i've was invited to the Reagent Park mosque
as a prospectus convert...
what is it with having Muslim "friends":
you're only "friends"... "proper":
if you convert?!
what's that recipe you have for the Lavash?
who would have thought that rosemary
works just as well with beef as it does with lamb...
oh right... that was it?
fair enough... *******!

see... that's what put me off Islam...
****-
  -stani: Rotherman...
bad taste man... it just left a bad taste in
my mouth... i ended up without a mouth...
pretending to eat via the hole i **** from...
i'd scoff out some diarhoea digestive juices on
my meal and then... vacuum it up with my ****...
i remember the concept of teeth...
though... teeth were nice...
so was the tongue...

****-
  -stanis ruined my vision of converting to Islam...
i'll settled for this... makeshift of Christianity...
gnostic.. because... well:
in my position: you're not teasing at Hebrew
superstitions... you must be...

oh this land... this most glorious: serene land...
how breath-taking "concept" of Scotland...
all the finicky irks of the rolling hills of
what's mostly England...
on a bicycle: best...
do i mind the locals?
well... do the local mind their former colonial
subjects?
what's that saying: thanks for the recipe?

you see me in Bangkok... you see a *******
chimpanzee die from dehydration:
sweated out from his... salty... nut-sack!
i'm not going... to hell with south-east Asian
humidity...
it's a cancer... i'll best survive with "the idea"
of keeping up a hard-on / narrative on...
prospectus ghost horizons...
the Faroe Isles... *******: GREEN-LAND...

that's where Frankenstein's monster would
have went... i'd go there too...
the agony of summer...
everything decomposes too quickly...
the flies... the maggot **** the flies!

oh for the love of these isles... perhaps not the people:
then again... i rather drift in & out with
the anglo-saxons than be jumbled up with
"my" people...
you start to appreciate despising the
******* diaspora after a while...
i guess the Polacks are the most willing to
integrate...
whoever showcased the dynamics of the
congregation project of Chicago...
somehow forgot...
i'll drink drink this 70cl of bourbon:
don't worry... i won't clog up the arteries of
the NHS with my antics...

you what? i love this land... perhaps the wolves
have been culled...
but the foxes are still running rampant...
well: if life throw you foxes:
you're not going to exactly: ah-woooo!
bark? for the love of life: i will never
bark or take to the leash...
i own two maine *****...
i exhausted them while grooming them...

they ended up spending the afternooon
sleeping in my bed...
i'm hopefully going to retire to it:
with a horror movie soundtrack somehow:
soon...
spontaneity of narrative... closure:
more impromptu... less of that...
masquerade formality...
this god blessed land...
if only the Spanish armada...
like the Mongolian ships...
should the conquest of Yappon could have
been envisioned...

anyone still reading this still bothered about...
GG?
the consensus of... a neGlected...
     Giant...
i think... this former soy boys catching
their Goliaths... catch 'em cold... sober..
or... simply exchange them?
to perform so well in slam-dunk prowess...
reinvent classical music via jazz through
towards blues... rock... etc.?

somehow the weight on my shoulders shifts...
a Nigerian ****** turns out to be an urban slur that
doesn't invoke a Nigerian...
a soy boy vegan: perhaps...
i implore the use with coercion tactic...
for those offended: yeah... i'll just implant some
emotions into your heart...
it's very much offensive for my to intrude with
proper spelling...

let's be honest: anyone who has been:
honest... is by now... tired of walking on eggshells...
**** a black girl... what, you?! colonial beast!
yes... confuse the ****** with the Croat...
the Russian too... hell... throw some Ukrainian bias
while you're at it...
anti-racist western girls are...
eh... m'eh... if i can get what i want for
half a decade's worth with some Turkish raven
hair... beaus...
do i... have to mind... pronouns... prospectus quotes etc?

like i said... wait for the bleach..
or... the sandpaper...
i've seen the complete works...
i was ****** with... love... affairs...
girls that dated me...
sure... but they had younger sisters...
and their younger sisters were more...
most attractive...
terrible combination:
dating a girl while her younger sister
is more attractive...

for all the choices and Heidegger...
lucky loser...
no... thank you...
to be one of these super-sensitive Islam propagators...
me? convert?! *******: no!
best keep that ***** in the niqab...
if it were a bone tomahawk..
it would be a female... declined limbs...
blinded...
a torso readied for *******...
imagine that... a replica machinery...

oh i'm sure... Muhammad... was a handsome beast...
but i'm thankful...
that the first... last... true religion...
met a schism so early...
Muhammad was so easily undermined
not keeping a nepotistic promise for
a cousin Ali...
early schism: no truer than:
truth is somehow sold?!

i fiddle with my beard:
whoever says otherwise... no... i'm still playing a violin!
i'll sober up solo... cycling against the gusts of wind...
Eloise...
Eloise!
England... oh this well deserved and welcome land...

my land....
in deutsche:: mein(e) erde...
i watch the locals: capitulate....
   what are you?! slugging *****-best-please
sumac? i... i am to surround  suspicion?

this glorious land....
                   this.... glorious land...
this: ING-LAND...
best forget the wolves..
given the foxes are prunes...
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
coming back full circle... but not exactly...
rereading ted berrigan's sonnets
is like:
      unlike: my dreams, my love...
my thirst my youth that i gladly blind-spotted
and it passed me: with not bye-bye...
not that i am old enough
for a retrospection...
  but i also, don't suppose it can ever
be a mythological time
akin to... march, april, may of
a 1963 of the u.s. of a.
            i never go around the: h'american
love for acronyms...
i never will...
two best things out of this said continent /
nation... 20th century poetry and...
bourbon...
i would have added cornbread
to the list but i've never tried...
but my god
        they really did love their milk:
esp. via seeing it in movies and some
h.b.o. "what's not a soap opera"...
#metoo: i too love milk...
but... not when eating dinner...
on it's own... and if i feel congested
then milk in the morning
with some strawberries...
usually does the "trick"...
but unlike any other time in history
when words were written
somehow: democratically and not,
because of a churn of a behemoth of
talent: like: Shaky Pear...
               not all... spectacular?
exactly... but not one to really
allow himself a statue status...
  such was the prodigy of a people:
once upon a time...
once upon a time there was also
a soviet pact...
now i'll just focus on pedantic *******...
i.e. the colon...
how it is primarily a punctuation
mark of a prepositional nature
to fathom a rubric, a list...
e.g. in a supermarket, you will probably
find: watermelons, whiskey, eggs...
honey... butter...
or... it's employed as an emphasis
when otherwise italicised letters
would do as much
ergo...
   i do wish: you could
"vs." i do wish, you could...
          then again... the stress is not
on the pronoun of you...
but whether this one of a you:
could, would, should, will, no...

it's been a while since i've liked what
i write... i guess it must be
a while longer because this
just stinks of forced-jack-****
of... "scared of an empty canvas":
it screams! beg the crows to
pig me...
beg the crows to peck me...
beg the crows to pluck my eyes
out... beg the crows at the pig's trough
beg the crows: i'm an omelette
of minced flesh...
not an omelette a
tightening of herr burg & herr er
with glue of most certainly
egg... breadcrumbs...
maybe... may-be... flour...
of the relevant culture from the past
century:
thespian shadow-thieving -
what if John Wayne were to be staged
in a biopic of Lyndon B. Johnson...
just as a reminder:
where my southern comfort comes
from...
backtracking to: some ******* of
a little town where the meme
of the slender man roams...
it's hardly not terrible to have this
romantic, nostalgic view of
1960s h'america and not the 1950s...
if i were a german
bound to the 19th century's closure
it would have been
the mystery of the ancient Greeks:
so i'm told no great nostalgia
on the crux of the expansion
of Rome: not a lot of thinking
upon the shoulders beside...
       "thinkers" like Cicero and Seneca...
congested with names...
cruel underworld of
a crab-bucket...
fatty farts against not wind:
below an entire grey body of water
of: must we forget(?)
             beside all this reason to:
abstract...
the drawings in the caves of Lascaux...
at best Kandinsky attempted
to replicate the "blur":
at worst he replaced the ox
with a deconstructed something or
alienated the "other" of
a rectangle...
mind you: the X (chi) is a surd...
Las-Cow...
  lasso me in... escape the tumult of sounds...
today this one word
started boiling in me...
no use to converse with it / over it...
i'd sooner be found digesting some
offal: like beef intestines in a broth (
beef-comb): sooner me nibbling
on goat's hooves...
- the word?
oh... it involved tonne...
   but it was missing -ne...
        whatever the word was:
i still remember the word: cloud...
as i might remember...
clot... and cauliflower...
            to stand in the light of the most
abstract: outside of the realm
of space, time...
then to have to return to the glued realms...
like... before the discovery of
dinosaur bones...
people were drawing pictures
of dragons...
fire-breathing creatures...
fire from the meteor...
accepted orthodox narrative "parallel"...
to imagine dragons from what?
seagulls and wriggling spines of
lost eyelid serpents:
insomniac lizards?
             i abhor fatalism more than
i might ever like to join
the nihilistic gypsy circus of
alcohol and ***** ****:
  skin's between the muscle, the fat:
toward the bone(s)...
  this is too eerie, even for me:
i might like to lapse into
some variation of existentialism
with solipsism on the fore...
barrage of verbiage: perhaps some loan
word... perhaps:
notably in english: none...
in the clamours of the niche:
   claustrophobic esque nostalgia for...
words from worms...
the sound made by slugs
when digesting glass, ice and pressured rocks
that... time... devours...
where to begin a resurfacing narrative
from?
  historically - rather...
ahistorical - easier for the atheist...
easier for the atheist
than the a-historicist... no?
              much easier to be an atheist
than to be... so laughed at having to conjure
past events like they might
lead one into commanding an army
of figurines...
that there must be some mediocre events
worth more than...
the john f. kennedy's speech about...
moon, nationhood and one's place in it...
is more important than...
the charge of the winged
hussars at the siege of Vienna...
well then...
that in the beginning there was word
and the word was god:
honestly?
poetry would call it: counter evolution...
we didn't evolve from apes:
we devolved from apes...
we... fell...
        divine inspiration...
to have to explain a load of camel riddling
******* along the way of
the humps and the seven rivers,
the seven mountains etc.
why would i need clothes and... fashion...
if i could still be a 300lb gorilla
with my own fur?
why would i need bonsai tigers
as company when i could
have life most exciting...
most congenial: most social in a little
pride...
for a computer or a telephone
i abhor... for the letters i see...
i could take my mortal self to the highest
perch of the crown: that's a tree...
i would never have had to leave
Africa and wander: desolate toward
the ***** of Alaska or Siberia...
a dream-esque state of affairs...
Darwinism is too much of
an a posteriori perspective...
      
      it's not that i don't like it:
but it's one of those arguments: structured
to erase any if all history...
the impeding doom for the "individual":
some... "now"...
it's not like Philip Augustus, the Capetian would
be desired to have
a mention...
well... under darwinism it's unlike
the Copernican collective revolution...
solo-projects astound:
some common grounding with this: hearth...

my pet peeve is also with the people
that are bishops of Darwinism...
who can't see uselessness of
having to apply something
a posteriori... having to agitate the sleeper-cell
of the unit of man...
i don't see the point of waking
individuals one by one...
hell: altogether now: yes!
but at the same time...
it's useless... hindsight is useless...
notably when studying history...
it **** with the momentum of life!
darwinism has ******-off with the momentum
of life...
e.g. subjectivity is an illness!

thank **** i'm forever subject to gravity...
and the english crown... but not forever...
and how they cite: subjectivity ill...
yet they are subjected to the scientific facts...
"objectivity" round-up...
they don't object to the facts...
the science...
next to none snooker + poker ******* teasing
with pokers & a giggle... march...

intellectually not hardened:
by the preface of the hard boiled egg:
later, much later...
screamed against a tile upon a tile:
glued together with some mayo for
a paste...

    for an atheist to live without
either the concept of time,
"concept" aside: that there is time,
that there is space...
for pauper me to allocate the...
Fwench scoop on the matter: pyramids!
what space is: a barren creature...
what time is: an unforgiving ******
of replica of past events...
what "god" is...
a most forgiving Ottoman of
leisure...

not what i will do upon entry
into eternity:
but, rather... what i will not have
to "encounter":
i see no evolution:
perhaps the simplest explanation
that guarantee the mind of gravity
extending to the serpentine
of plants via phototropism...

we devolved to be so conscious
of so much that leave
us adding so little to what could
encapsulate us with details
of managing "the whole"...
we have our structures...
our striking contrasts of cataracts...
what we pet we ingest with
cancer what dies
sooner we have probably poached
or snookered into an ivory trade...

we evolved for a headache...
a bunch of walking abortions...
i see no gorilla enslave
a giraffe for ****'s sake...
a body of horse... exists...
from chowing / chewing on grass...
the dietary requirements
of the omnivore of a "hulk":
rattle my wheat basin!

what isn't atheism is: what's ahistorical?
remind me what is!
cosmopolitan superiority
of argument: "argument"?!
           leave me with
Odin and Slender Man...
leave me with the oldest superstitions that
allowed me to gravitate toward
a purpose that was never
about the crisis in stand-up comedy...

for christ's worth of cross
and if that's not bad:
i just wanted a broom...
or a *****...
if i were desperate enough:
a *****...
sell that ****(e) to Syrians
if you must...
when i asked for a shovel
i received a circumcision suppose...
i asked for a shovel...
not now when Israel has
been established to drivel against
goat, goad & gott...
i can replenish the Berliner
cosmopolitan scoop.... for hush, hush...
will h'america charade with
a white knight charge?

no... i bet so!
this new... nuanced... axis of heave!
and even still: "evil"....
how one tribe "allows" themselves
to "think" they are expatriates...
the other tribe didn't follow suite:
not enough powdered *******:
not enough cumin, coriander,
turmeric...
EASTERN EUROPE...
lesser former soviet ****...
oh sure... the expatriates of Xina...
and...

   lesser people of Yugoslavia...
Greek is not European:
PIGS...
      once upon a time: jarring...
add a year or so to the equation...
just plain ******* dandy / annoying...
the lesser Europe... EAST...
well... **** me: bon voyage and your
sharia!
niqab me later...
         ****'s a brownie of a cuckoldry
and lacklustre and still calls it:
the beacon for all people
to glorify: brain-drain manifest themselves in...
to champion!
i was late to the party...
your... masochists had priority status
to exam the arguments...
i have a mushroom's growth
of animosity for these supposed:
higher tier people, these natives:
oh god... i love the tongue...
i own it...
   from what i heard some of the natives
are dyslexic.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
it's just one of those nights
when you just feel like...
a bottle of a chilean
malbec would finish
the day off, pristinely,
having just watched
Wolverhampton
get beaten (2 - 3): just
by West Ham, watching
the football with
the ol' man...

               thinking:
i'm not the son he
deserves and he's not the father
i deserve...
although... best to not know...
otherwise it's still him:
61 and me... nearing 35
and... if it were
for some sort of a housing
ladder...
some socialist... circa 1983
in a soviet satellite state...
a day after having cycled
probably over 50 miles
from somewhere
in north east greater London
to Canvey Island...
on the way back of course
there would be a detour
on the flatlands of Thurrock
just before
the M25 and Upminster...
but it's also one of those
nights where you can't
for the love of god
find a corkscrew
and there's most obviously
a cork so it's not one of
those *****-caps...
and... to improvise...
well pushing the cork in
was an idea...
tried the thumb...
then wrapped a toilet towel
around a knife and pushed...
like i might have pushed
a constipation
of a yogurt abortion... clotted...
no no...

resorted to making
a makeshift corkscrew with
a makita drill tip...
that half of the cork
was butchered out in shrapnel...
evidently the rest i pushed in
and then had to... sieve any remains...
although... on the tip of my tongue
i can still itch to taste cork...
but it's one of those nights...
over the Easter holidays
a conversation with dearest
grandma...

while the dead managed to throw
a horseshoe from the wall...
a tomahawk was in play between
sister and brother (mother and uncle)
and... considering what bad luck
my father's side of the family
had with family building: could i be
patriarch material...

i thought... a major relief that...
35 and given past luck... of this lineage...
i arrived at a cul de sac of events...
of which: the dancing dead
and the superstitious living...
apart from the clockwork bouts of
fear concerning old age...
how almost has to be undermined
when fathoming this:
more assuredly a solo escapade...
this lack of investment in a "future"
of child-rearing...

now that i'm slumped into
a crayon-oyster sort of position
slumped with a belly for a jug
of wine...
and my body ferments
while my thinking turns into a peacock
of verbiosity / teasing verbiage...
i tend to conjure up the hours
of freedom on a bicycle...
eyes-that-gobble-down-a-horizon...
a wind that "speaks"...
a sun that glistens with silver-membranes
added to all things that come
into passing...
an almost complicated ownership
of feline breaths....

Convey Island...
before me the great mouth
of the Thames...
and also before me: the soothing
brood of the north sea...
somewhere, "elsewhere" a name
of a land most associated with
Danes...

no message: but a floating cork
in a bottle...
it's this life so almost forgiving...
cowardly lenient and to have moved
away from any attempt
by extroverts
to instil pointless dramas into it...
a sample of where my eyes
have wandered to:

in braille or katakana...
   syllables that can mean something
than have prepositional value
akin to: to and tu:
    to (this) / tu (here)
       ⠞⠕   (ト)
                             ⠞⠥   (ツ)

i had to return to something
that might allow me to escape these
letters, for a while...
hell i've tried concentrating on runes
and Cyrillic, Glagolitic...
and Greek...

        the best i came up with
was            ж = зъ
                           ш didn't work
    since neither cъ or cь
                     could invoke... the caron...
above the s: for the hidden H or Z
of sh-ee-ring... h'ush-ing...
             even though                   cь does exist...
   środek - centre...
  although i hardly know
whether cъ does since...
                                       cъ ≠ š = ш...

if i'm this supposed "atomised"... ahem...
"individual"...
then perhaps i need to see language
atomised: into more complex constructs
that have to borrow from
other tongues beside
the english variation of
vowels: and the vowel catcher H
(of the tetragrammaton)

and consonants: a B's not an Ab
but a Be(e)
a D's not an Ad but a De(e)...
however an N's not a *******
(k)Ne(e)... since it's an eN... no?

language has to become
less conversational when i write...
less and less conversational
if i am this: walking abortion
sort of shrapnel...

because i feel that less of tribal
monkey **** flinging: i am...
gin + mulled wine...
who would think tonic is
worthwhile?

i should be saying:
it's more important for me to not utter
such  readily available noun
but like a jew's jew sort of a friend
i cower under the auspicious suspicion
of ha-shem...
or the tetragrammaton...
because NGGR shouldn't be
a most sacred word...
in my thinking cage...

  no?
           i guess the remedy comes
from even less conversation that
i have allowed myself to prospect: or hope for...
less conversation...
less and less...
here's toasting with my fears
and enjoying the last scraps
of familial ties
of son, mother, father...
and sort of pulling the thick-threads
of narrative along...

however loser posing i might appear
to be...
no luck in me attempting
a Goethe patriarch status...
wedded to the lock-up
with the disintegration
of the Arab dream of having all that oil
but... less and less of the camels...
and therefore less of the structure
of father-figuring out
a shadow of a mother...

modern burrowing ****-up
and cuckoldry antics of events...
here's to no pleasure:
to not have left behind shrapnel genes
to have left pillars of salt...
here's to time! here's to the tyranny of
this sea without echo, water or waves...
seashells... no seashells too...

here's to the misery of being
Tao-content...
here's to the salvage and no need for
glowing egg-heads clamouring
crab-buckets and the plateau of
the pristine... effort... shared oh of course
also shared...

the end.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
let's start this impromptu on the ugly side of "things"... i sometimes watch social-commentary videos... of note... the expatriate black pigeon speaks living it out in Nippon... Joy on a Frying Pan... ferrying pigeons to the gut... along with some squid... he showcased a sample of a mad crowd chanting: WHITE PIG GO HOME... well... PIGS becomes the acronym P.I.G.S. in the northern batch of You're-Epic... all that's Portugal... Italy... Greece and Spain... last time i checked... pig meat is unlike chicken meat... you can actually eat it slightly raw...  it's not sushi... forgive me... but then sushi is no raw Baltic herring in a creamy dill sauce...

clearly i was outnumbered in Venice... i used to take weekend
excursions in European cities by myself
and stay in hostels picking up random conversations
with strangers...
not that many... there could have been more:
Paris being the most memorable...
but Venice? Venice was something else...
i stayed in a hostel that started to resemble a nunnery...
i was outnumbered...
beside the other male who was sharing duties
of upkeep with a female...
i was... outstripped in the ratio of 1 : 10... at least
ten... there was a girl from Argentina...
a timid mid-30s Norwegian...
some others... but esp. these two...
travellers from the afar of H'america...
a Jewish Italian Leigh... and...
oh god... she was a mixture of plum and cherry...
and some peaches on the side...
they were taking a road trip around Italy...
both had some alliance to the heritage...
if you're sitting down at a table and
you're outnumbered...
and this peaches and plums and cherries
takes a fancy for you:
she doesn't disguise it:
'as handsome as you'...
hello ******... bad boy attitude implies what?
being unbelievably irksome?
Hannibal Lecter bad boy i.q. testing is
too: shudder flinging... vide cor meum...
the men women find attractive i find
simply annoying...
was i supposed to gloat in the paid compliment?
after dinner we took two or three riverboats
to Venice beach where i prescribed some
absinthe shots...
i was too drunk before the girls were gearing
up to giddy-up...
drunk's GPS... like that time in Athens
returning from a striptease-bar:
burrowing my face in the *****
of at least two strippers...

mythological blonde Australian girls...
yeah... they were in the mix...
next day a dispute arose...
a bunch of girls wanted to do X...
the H'american girls were split on decision
making...
i felt bad for Leigh... no one wanted to side
with her...
was i going to peacock myself ***** around
with these bunch of girls
or take up Leigh on her fancies?
of course i chose her company than have
to deal with a makeshift harem...
so me an her ended up sightseeing Venice
like a couple...
we ate pistachio ice-cream... St. Mark's wasn't
flooded... the blackshirts weren't there either...
she wanted to take me to the synagogue...
we went to the synagogue when it was just closing...
but there was still some activity in
the student centre nearby...
that's when i learned about the 613 (mitzvot)...

we ended up talking to some orthodox
men... one had a SHOFAR...
i told him to blow into it... he did...
now... i said: call it...
all of a sudden Leigh started to dart around
in chaotic vectors of ego...
i was being a tourist one minute...
the next i was keeping a wild thing...
she even paid for the water-taxi on our way
back to the hostel...
she still had about 2 weeks' worth of sightseeing
the Italian peninsula with her university friend...
all of a sudden
she decided to fly back to America...
she was gone before the makeshift harem
came back from their sightseeing...
i was sitting in the corner reading snippets of:
the Little Apocalypse...
- where's Leigh?
- oh... she decided to go home...
silence... it wasn't even awkward...
        for me it wasn't...
two girls that planned a tour of the Italian peninsula:
oh i'm pretty sure they still had
their sights on Rome...
then i came across their path...
i don't remember what i said...
i really don't... but this look of resignation
is still burning in my mind
like an epitaph might overshadow
the dates or birth and death on
a tombstone...
the female caretaker of the hostel
made me some hamburgers the next day
we sat in a makeshift scrutiny of silence
while she admired my way of eating
with a fullness of hunger...
she only made some hamburgers...
did i make an off-the-cuff remark about
Hey-Zeus in a museum?
don't know (dunno)...
my first girlfriend's father called me a charmer...
am i a charmer: self-love...
all that i am and...
               in a world bound to the poetic
of Je-Suis... a shade a tad bit more tiresome...
perhaps the Lebanese will throw in
historical antics:
apparently all the nations that were invaded
by the Mongol were given a sentence:
100 years behind the ones not invaded by
this: flea-infested.... ****-smeared nomads...
a tragedy: literally: a tragedy equivalent to
how the Christians burnt down the pagan
library of Alexandria: the Mongols did likewise
in Iraq...
as ever: crab-bucket mentality...
somehow: only "now" are we receiving
concerns for: what happens if certain people
are not allowed to properly state their prowess!
but that's only: vaguely...

i don't know how this slur came to be in my possession...
the word itself almost sounds Chapanese...
sorry: Japanese
KARAKAN...
not kraken... KARAKAN... (カラカン)
perhaps the Mongols brought it over
when they did their knock-knock party trick
of... the best party the world ever saw:
the expansion of the Mongol empire...
later known as the trumpet call of
the Cracow Hey-Now: Hejnał (mariacki)
st. mary's trumpet call...
the mongol arrow piercing the trumpeter's throat...
well... it's not Hejnał (maryii)
last time i read a newspaper
the Czech girls were supposedly glad
to have toppled the patriarchy
by losing the -ova suffix in surnames...
a bit like Mr. Kowalski becoming Mr. Kowal...
and a bit like Mrs. Kowalska becoming Mrs. Kowal...
Ms. Kowal:
language has most certainly become
a diseased hollow-house that once
entertained brains and tongues...


at best U2's angel of harem... is the closest i come
to Van Morrison...
can't just forget the M.O.P. (most oppressed people)
of the world: behind the Irish... running double
sure doubly blind...

tell me it's not true... the whole idea of romance:
as stated by the flick of: beautiful woman...
that a prostitutes' lips are niqab prone
sanctity... i don't remember how many kisses i have
stolen from the lips of: the lips that
willingly shared... more than mere lips to crease
themselves on...
drinking red wine: i don't like the numbing...
i add some pepsi... hey presto! kalimotxo...
the drink of Mayan gods...
feathers of peacocks and macaws...
tossed around for a joke of dice...
towing: bone...
by a macaque pirate: primate...

not all from Africa... i find my heart in India:
how i became morphed by mother Siberia
i will never truly know...
how much of history has to be forgotten:
lost... undermined... almost all of it:
it would seem...
the genesis of a game of tennis...
even in high-school we weren't interested
in girls... a game of cards...
and some slap-ball...
the "concept" of woman disintegrates
any further mention of the solidarity of man...
let alone brotherhood...
it's a sorry-*** affair of not being
as pristine as the ******* of swans...
live among us: in harems...
teasing the yawns of lion waiting for the growls /
roars...

good to have these bonsai tigers on a spare...
even as a man i adore these creatures...
i brought one home today...
holding its hind legs...
i brought him
hanging upside down:
to add to the concept of giving it:
added perspectives...

- i once sat in the same bench with a Thai girl...
during a biology girl...
the teacher: Mrs. Cowell asked each of
us to look into each other's eyes
and tell what colour our irises were:
sure... she's wasn't a Thai ssurprise
of a timid *****... she looked and looked...
*****: GREEN, GREEN... see a *******
leprechaun steering a tram into your soul!
Green!
so solid with these monochromatic
peoples are ****-smear skin, brown irises...
raven hair...
once upon a time the ugly head
of a ginger Pakistani beard...
some other beside the ***** Khan...
some blue-eyed of Afghanistan not sacrificed
like some Albino demon of...
whatever is to be leftover from Africa...

- カラカン (KARAKAN) it's hardly a racial slur...
did i insinuate ******* lemons for the proper
squint of the eyes?
the Japanese can reach a suntan status...
they're also very eager to showcase themselves
ski-jumping with the Europeans...
it's not a racial-slur... it's a slur of HEIGHT...
****** shogun! oi oi!
the man who demanded the building
of a pyramid... the greatest - ahem... joke -
of a celebration of life:
made it crystal clear:
build me a monument to celebrate my death!

i agree... it's not as well fathomable as the Korean
method...
the man behind Hangul... Sejong...
thank god he lived and died so close
to his existence not being undermined:
let's assume Abraham invented the Hebrew sprach...
the Cimmerian Sibyl: Carmenta
of all that's Latin? disguise as English:
now?

oh sure... patriarchy... more wine! more wine!
i need to find sleep!
to hell with the architecture of dreams!
i need to find sleep!

look here: a pseudo su doku
of the disappearing vowel:
the appearing consonant in the schematic of katakana:

カア
            ラア
                           カア
                                           ン

imagine rewriting these syllables as:
suffixes... vowel first...
hence? it's limited... phonetically...
perhaps for some... scarce fetish for exploring
hieroglyphs...
emoticons...
or what Vilhelm Thomsen made of
the Orkhon runes...
out of Africa... beside the hieroglyphs of
owl foster son of river flow...
perhaps the spectacle of ape came out of Africa...
but sure as **** the writing didn't...
the writing came out of India...

Africa can give up her grinding of the fringe...
i'm looking for skeletons:
who can't forget the spices
and the skeletons of writing excavated
from the blue Indians -
the smoky bomb that was forever
the black cardamom... who?
some Halved-African fudge-packaged
fufu?
the **** abhor the Chinese...
the English hate the Germans...
i'm a ****** that abhors fellow Polacks
in the diaspora of Polacks...

Darwinism is great: up to and including
a concern / conceptualising history...
**** similis was well known...
the ancients of Rome acknowledged
the blatant similarity...
of man's descent from ape...
but none would ever tease it as:
somehow a "shortcoming":

pierdolony karakan: azjatycki!
here's my racial slur against the Japanese...
keep them sedated: islander quirks...
Tokyo juicy...
it's not ******* lemons squint of
the eye... it's their ******* samurai height...
you know... you can write white as:
wite... right... whyte..
lite... wha-cradle...
bring on the peddle... later: latest of all:
the stool...

islanders: *** or Eng- alike!
their ******* diet of... fish...
crustaceans: in the houses of parliament
the topic is leveraged surrounding:
can humans feel... apathy?
if snails are being debated convening
their experience of pain:
no tiger would ever **** me for pleasure:
no lion would ever **** me or keep
be tortured: for sadistic ulterior avenues
of expression...
next thing you know:
i'll be bargaining with a foreign
entity of a parasite's worth...
than... convene a human: who's man?

how we have become almost claustrophobic...
disorientated within the provided confines
of ourselves...

i once imagined myself talking FOR these "people":
   oh god...  had some more aplenty prepositional
jargon to work with...
i ended up "talking" WITH these "people":
democratically viable...
i go my way... they go their own way...
almost everyone is satisfied...

to fear the old gods in a h. p. Lovecraftian sense...
who needs any supposition of love
when the emblem of said, "supposed" love
is being nailed to a ******* cross?
only a a Greek might...
but where's the Hebrew in the entirety of
the stated equation to undermine the Roman
Empire?
scuttling like the ******* rat her better be!

of a people that have been so undernourished
that... the ******* guillotine might miss their
necks! karakany: plural of karakan...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
ink or coffee blotches - most certainly creases:
chicken scratching for hand gesticulating
weaving together letters...

is this some sine qua non when romancing /
breaking into an effort:

name man, any man: as gallop -
           or tire calling him: frivolously extending
the whips of Xerxes -
some lesser creature would cost less
to hinder - ordeals of turtles and of rocks -
creatures of disproportionate sizing
with beards that attained
                              an eye's focus for waterfalls...

om - which ended as an omlette -
                          or aum -
                        and no (indefinite),
    not (definite) - aubergine -
   at best outlandish -
   for all this prepositional
   and conjunctional juggling:
  as if this, already wasn't...
               a joke of imitating convo.

                   - not by candlelight -
or by the itching glare of electric insomnia,
as bothersome as: the horizon and
London, just "there" might be...
              
    fiat voluntas tua!                (albeit...)
                                         sub rosa...

                                  as ever: what's new
or could possibly be?

                       - a question that does not desire
an answer: but what to observe?
    throw as much latin into the cauldron...
  heap upon heap of it...
latin like butter, red kidney and / or cannellini
beans all bloated -
       in a sauce thickened by
potatoes...

                     better than latin then...
a live tongue - a slimy fish of a tongue -
   so zazzi - some singing zing -
                  some amore lazio...
                       some pippa: bara-bing
para-bling...
                        and the pope's p'oo'ooh oops:
poops and not the chimera: pops!

  lingo moderno - linguaggio
  moderna lingo - bagaggio -
  dodging: gergo...

nove mesi a la puzza:
                             poi er tormento de la scola,
la cacca a la ssediola...
     er governo, lo spedale, li debbiti, la fica...

ciliegie e uva
          rafano e sedano rapa...
mare e cielo
              marrone di tutto:
                           soprattutto cazzo...            

zoom-zoom zours: russhin'o cap'oh
snare:                    pi-ц-a                  oh: eee...  

somehow i can only add:
thank god this isn't music...
           i bid - as much fun frustrations as:
i came to have...
mit herr watt - or rather:
                      mit watt und herr knott.
acacia Oct 2021
I ride towards your head, dear: in the dusty love of our house
a haze of mirrors block me
but I smile trhough the pinks
I look into the naturally lighted room
and I look towards your fair skin
a man, right there, in front of me, I'm still a fun little thing
and I begin to dance near you, my foot points out
hips rocking up and forth
a snap, a rock, a twist and kicking upnear you
a soft croon, my darling believe me
for me, there is no one but you
don't matter the things I do
listen to what I say
you've answered my prayer
you've accepted this ****
the ring sets on the heart and the monsoon of my love
sleeps on your soul
besides me, I take pride in knowing courage in your stereoblindness
believe me, I am someone five-dimensional towards you
I crawl my hips out towards and roll you near
breakfast for you: prepositional lunch, darling, don't leave me: nobody but me,
before I roll by you
I get out of bed and swan to the bluely lights
and look at the dusting light shining through the window
and I almost wish these candles would last, the fire, the heat
the presence of you and I know you are here in me
my head swings near, whirls, and twirls around you and we sweat
I sweat a little, you take steps near and I take time and drink
coffee with you little, dear:
unnamedpersona Jul 2020
2
the complete idiocy of straining your brain around, im sitting here and the cards are facing in that direction. how do i read a book upside down held the wrong-way-too? well, you can get, i suppose, into a total knowingness that knows what all the books in the world say, but i'm afraid that you would read all the books at once. your selectivity gets poor without locations. you would know, but you wouldn't know what you knew if you're going to do mystic stunts , do mystic stunts.



'belief interdicts as cosmic judge, the velocity of the gesture cutting out the faceted crystal ball, how much, which position, and why? these proclivities are involuntary, part of the unconscious low intensity biophotons of tangible flection pondering on utility of the ego in reflexive coagulation in shredding, dressing of the christ child, emitted and divulged from the genesis. different rooms, same crazy stairs.'

The eternal passes by in the form of a ***** and the madonna; the desire and the ******.

tantamount to the flame of your heart is the memory of the matter the matter of memory as 'porous' to the propelling pyramid of eye that blends with the Azure (Sun) ... rising a shadow that dwindles the smell of decaying flowers, a bouquet of insects, animals, rocks and trees and a translucent umbrella for the communion rain for you to mount the stairway to heaven through illusive glittering of the flicker of the flame of your heart, balmed on the brain exists the embalmed spirit. Lets magnify it so we can see all the insects of the rocks, all the Life and allow the glass-beads to become mirrors of the spherical-celestial, follow the trail of slime by the insects and smell the odour of flower-form without motion, just pure conduit of thought for the panoply of the prepositional neural network that wah-wahs in the prams and of course the drum-rolling-trumphet-mysterium of forbidden juice, to ooze the noble man in by sensory-nector, perhaps beyond & above to the ink of clouds where imagination lies without a pen ! BUT THAT ALREADY HAPPENED

the more articulate you explain things, the more they will believe
the vow of silence in a distant monastery is of no use when the cry of the christ Child is right outside that same silence, let's all pray.
the telepathic parapraxis
you look at an object and the way that the object is presented to you and if you don't see that door closed or tap shifted in the correct directional then your entire relationship is ruined, something like that.
'Dante... Bruno. Vico.. Joyce'  Feel the Void
'that question was shy'
'your larynx is detuned because your cerebrum is boring and your amygdala is *******'
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
after rereading some of Nietzsche, not that i was some
little miss sunshine American teenage rebel when
i started reading him to begin with,
he came much later - and i never really liked him:
not disliked him, just never liked him:
even though i read his Thus Spoke Zarathustra in
one sitting... rather lying in bed all night...
             but i just never managed to come to grips
with his use of adjectives / nouns - genius... greatness...
vanity... blah blah... an inferiority complex was
my reading of him - even though some crucial points
can be salvaged -
come to think of it, here's my attempt at an
"imitation" - it's not some outright propositional
aphorism of sorts -
    it's not necessarily - unconditionally true...
this is mostly a "prepositional" a posteriori -
                                     necessarily but... at the same time:
conditionally true... and yet... at the same time:
it's not at all true...
   it happens when...
           a man is no longer a boy...
the man is still living with his parents...
alternative? rent a room with a bunch of strangers...
flatmates... in my vicinity? how many men
have the same living arrangement as i?
oh... i'm not an Ed Gein type... there's plenty more...
i can count at least 6...
i'm not the only odd-child freak...
poetry doesn't pay...
                but at least i'm the custodian...
chores... cooking, gardening... i'm visible compared
to the others...
chances of my parents growing old
and in the western fashion of throwing them
into an old people's home? little or outright none...
point being... i've been looking at this
for a long long time...
concerning mothers and sons...
i don't think i'm going to write this in third person
ooh ah: Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman...
   i think i'm going to write this, more, personally...
a man's satisfaction with life,
increases, exponentially,
   when he sees... that his mother...
                      is dissatisfied with her son's life...
oh ****... that's not personal at all...
           it's sort of counter-intuitive... but it's true...
when a mother can't boast about her son's life...
career... etc. - when she goes to the gym...
has her little social events... a bunch of menopause
hens get together and talk crap over coffee...
her son this, her son that...
   some are grandmothers... some have to take care
of their grandchildren...
some hen's son is married a third time... blah blah...
DJ... earns £X,000,000...
                           and there's me...
poet? philosopher? i don't even have to crop up
into the conversation... ******* tree-shepherd...
i ******* into the night for a walk into
a forest... i ******* in general...
                 most parents would bundle up together
some money for a wedding...
did i, ask for one? did i ask for help getting
a mortgage? i guess not...
                do i pay my share for the monthly
food bill? sure...
    but it's odd... when a mother can't boast about
her son's achievements...
or for that matter: she can't even mention him...
in the company of other women...
because... she has no grandchildren out of wedlock...
or other issues...
and that's when the joy of life comes in...
if a mother can't boast about her son,
or... she can't really say anything bad about him either...
when she doesn't really have an idea
what to say... it's like... he's sort of a fern...
a plant... he's there... but he's not really there...
he's... "da-sein"... he's an abstraction...
            that's when i know that my quality of life has
reached a zenith...
            dumbfounded...
oh long are the days of the 19th century
with jack the ripper woman haters who would
"teach" frigid women lessons of giving it up
on prostitutes... these days... men like me just go
directly to the source...
    i love prostitutes... love them to bits...
at least they don't create a limp-**** Madonna-*****
complex... enough white wine aphrodisiac...
enough exercise aphrodisiac and i'm good to go...
no poker games no dates...
there: flesh meets flesh... no games...
   but that's how i find it...
                                there's a lot my mother pretends
to not know about me...
  how i champion solitude...
            how i'm not bothered about:
even at work... how many of these girls ganged up
on me, when i took interest in one of them...
another hasn't showed up to work for weeks...
how would i take, rejection? like so...
to the brothel with me... done...
                       when a mother can't boast about her
son's life... that's when...
the son lives a most satisfying life...
  since she can't boast... she can't also say anything
negative... because the life is staged in:
neutral... oh he drinks blah blah... who doesn't?!
yes - the greatest satisfaction a man can attain from life
is, when, his mother is most dissatisfied with his life,
how freeing it becomes: to know that you are living
on the bare minimum: how satisfying that you
have the bare minimum of ambition -
that you are content with merely the antithesis of
Frankenstein's drive - vivo per se: life in itself -
that somehow you're more of a freak than Frankenstein:
only in the imagination of a woman couldn't
the monster become a philosopher: perhaps the philosopher
is more of a monster to a woman than
the monster itself: with whatever prods and temptations
that might befall the usual man...
to seek some sort of existential redemption when
coupled with a woman...
that somehow... a reproductive outlet would solve
all his woes... if only: to give thought a death:
an ultimatum of (th)ought i dead end...
           it is most necessary to have at least a mother
in one's life that might cherish the simplicity of life
from a perspective of a son who:
really... doesn't really care much for hierarchies...
for... grand-standing... for vanity...
it's welcome to have a woman in one's life that
is dissatisfied with the life you're living with full
satisfaction... with striving for an almost ascetic aesthetic...
but at the time: no, not really...
on a whimsical winding-up...
                  frivolously meeting expectations...
frivolously not meeting them...
being a man who a woman can't boast of...
            so much is needed to find oneself with life...
esp. when da-sein (concern) is replaced with:
hier-sein... the simplicity of a merely the coordination
of hier, ich bin... that sort of translates as
a spontaneity of thought... narrative...
           a whirlwind of memory...
                   April 1st... snow... overcast skies...
then spring and sun and a trickle of honey...
then one woman ****** you off: off to the brothel with
you for some luvvy-dubby-juicing-up...
problem solved...
                   hell... i can imitate women too...
i can be as fickle as they allow themselves to be...
i don't need to be a proud-ridden
Menelaus... women... i can share...
the real problem comes with shoes...
      i couldn't possibly walk in someone else's shoes...
but when it comes to women...
sure... she can have gone through a cohort of Roman
legionnaires... but i will not walk in someone
else's shoes... quiet impossible...
but isn't that what most modern women craved?
for pain to be pleasure and for pleasure to be pain?
ha ha... "ownership"... protection...
last time i checked this woman in the supermarket
asked me... if i could... put a large bag of dog food
into her trolley... and i replied...
   and... am i wearing... supermarket staff clothing?
chop chop...
                 well... no... that's not what really happened...
i actually did help her out...
because... i'm still a man and i like weaklings...
esp. of the opposite ***...
  it gives me... cotton-candy sensations when i help
weaklings... but what gives me even more
cotton-candy sensations is the potential...
of being able to abuse my power...
         it's always in the back of my mind...
               that's the true thrill... i can seriously just
retract my help and pursue the threat of *******...
that's the true pleasure... sure... helping out is nice...
just... plain Jane... nice...
but... having in the back of my mind this *******
is... like: ooh! ha! wait... wait... retract...
keep him hidden... wait for the right moment...
and then... pounce!
                - but it's worthwhile...
keeping at least woman in your life dissatisfied with
your life... because: you're not "somewhere"
where you're supposedly, apparently supposed
to "be"... unless we're talking ******* heart-surgeon
and not some, random... x-ray analyst...
we're talking plateaus... unless i was born into a family
of pig farmers... from a lineage of undertakers...
oh hell... women always want more...
more of everything that life has to offer...
i'm glad of the stock of man...
    the least is always the most impressive...
          man in love with frugality...
                      good music, good whiskey...
one good meal a day... clean socks... clean underwear...
ironed white shirts... ironed trousers...
hey, i'm good to go... i once planned a trip to India...
didn't go... stunned myself by discovering
a lot more of London and the Essex countryside...
that... ******* Paolo Coelho quote from the Alchemist...
about... finding what you've been seeking
within yourself rather than... at the foot of the pyramids
of Giza... blah blah...
          women just complicate matters...
so many ******* complications...
who is to say to me that i ought not to gain the most pleasure
from life by... simply walking?
or cycling? or... whatever out of the fading blue, blue?
from waking up in the late morning...
brushing my teeth, harking up last night's phlegm from
having smoked too much? from vacuuming
the house, from washing the floors
with antiseptic juice?
   who is to dictate rules that would entice if not outright
force me to a pair-bonding?
i have always been alone... the seclusion born out
of being an only-child, sure...
the company of animals "helps" a little...
but i hate the ******* fur...
          it implies i have to vacuum the house
almost twice... but aww... looks so sweet sleeping in
my bed... ****, get real Matthew...
he's shedding more fur than a ******* sheep at
a christening of come spring...
   ugh... but it's not like you're going to make
a ******* cat-burger out of him...
little ******... little 10kg cat *******...
     prostitutes: yes... a big yes...
                  i wish i could want to have a relationship,
i sometimes wish i could desire to have friends...
friends... a big disappointment...
i once tried to share my woes with one...
apparently my woes were worth zilch...
since his woes were apparently greater...
but it's not like he was able to share them with me...
friendship on a superficial: glance level...
so i was like: **** it...
            i can always bash the keyboard into an aside...
keep this blank canvas thirsty for more skeletal
lettering... by the time he might come back
i will have moved on... with plenty more juice...
friends... b'ah! always the same type of...
disappointment... just like women...
       perhaps someone always very mediocre gets
lucky... pairs up...
           oh - and then the anguish...
when their pair-bonder dies...
                 broken heart...
                            dies from a broken heart...
dies from a lack of will to live...
                   it's so much more, profitable, emotionally,
to succeed in the pursuit of a solo project...
no one is going to miss me,
and i won't be the one missing anyone...
hence? allowing the flow of souls through this
conundrum of: is fact, is existence....
is life...
                           i must be coming across as if filled
with spite... no... i'm filled with repose more than
spite... i'm joyously malicious...
i like myself best: when i project
being: unavailable...
   not that i could offer anything to a woman...
i have allowed myself to be freed...
from the superficiality of woman...
                     oh... what a... relief...
                    i can't help to think...
stoic feminism?! i thought it was simply...
a mono-cultural thought experiment?
feminism and that's that...
but... cynic feminism?! the cognitive diversity
of male thinking... compared to the...
narrow stream of female thought...
              no match... clearly...
                               what a waste of time... if everything
has to be sieved through the sieve of
feminism... what a massive... YAWN...
women have always came across as boring
when they tried to intellectualise themselves
and weren't... readily-giddy in the bedroom...
a ******* waste of time...
    women who'd have to talk to rather than ****;
a bit like... drinking olive oil
rather than frying **** in it;
                                absolutely senseless;
sorry... but if women are given allowances
via tic-toc to spread **** about men...
                 oh sure, sure...
i'm just going to sit back and take it...
        like **** i am.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
this numbing ordeal as man...
    poor collective inhibitions: of man...
worse words were spoken
by one of the many...
       never spoken by one as many...
definite and indefinite and:
prepositional custard therefore...
something lesser or thereby:
something more...
   this numbing ordeal as man:
the original pursuit -
to make oneself a beast in order
to digest the ordeal of
a quest for civilization...
         pose as some variation
of Atlas... or the Great A'Tuin...
                 persisting: to spew a motto:
still living...
             language best served
on a platter of riddling postcards...
no: a new nuance...
yes: anything lost to berzerker
               and listless...
that old... ritual of a cigarette
after having eaten...
having not: eaten enough...
                impossible then...
                              ridicule...
               impossible then:
                a plagiarism...
                            unicorns summed
up by the flight of a pegasus...
                     hopeless... this otherwise...
child-rearing presumption:
of... all is well... all is therefore full...
once... one has... the credit...
for leaving a fraction of oneself...
to mingle with a franction
of one's not so very self...
     and on and on...
from 1 through to half...
  from half through to quarter...
and then onto the eighth...
  then the sixteenth...
                                     √ and "i"...
i will only trust a mirror...
when i'm... looking into a mirror
at a mirror... and there i too find...
my own reflection...
but for that: i require two mirrors...
one mirror is not enough...
a king's agitation: not becoming
of one's ability to confiscate:
                            "hidden" contorts...
yes all that and: what-what...
                   of men accomplished...
and of men desiring contempt.

— The End —