Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2016
it's called the preliminary poem,
you can imagine why - all those godforsaken
years of the serf, the carpenter
the fisherman and all the other trades being
kept in the dark for the priestly monopoly
of literacy, the genetics kick in
and you're not exactly quick to care for
all the castles and labyrinths that Victorian
universal education gave to all -
was it Victorian what with child labour?
post-Victorian then, thank you Charles Dickens
(i have his entire collection in hardback,
old stinkers of books, edition date 1850,
the Gresham publishing company, 34 & 35
Southampton Street, Strand, London
i probably will not read any of them,
love of honesty, never aspired to get involved
in English novelties, esp. novels,
never pictured myself having an English
sensibility to read such murk of verbiage -
am i all the better for it? i don't know & i
don't care, novels aren't really my thing);
what i'm saying is that spending an entire day
looking at things, and so much colour attained
by them or synthetically attributed to them
i tend to drink a little to get me all groovy hot
and concentrate my thinking on symbols,
encryptions, when i'm watching the Olympics
i'm usually stunted in my vocabulary,
quiet literally a couch potato in terms of commentary,
that's how bad it becomes, but i know, deep down,
that there's an escape route that wouldn't
be available to me if i were alive in the preceding
centuries prior to the 20th... all these labyrinths
would have to be enshrined in the hearts of others,
to create meaningful relationships, professional
and private... not anymore... i have been access to
a realm of once the highest form of repression,
where i would end up writing an algebraic unit
to denote some sort of agreement and subsequent
duty to be faithful to it, like a conscript to a war, X,
treasure ******* island with Robinson Crusoe,
but not any more... sure, i'll drink a whole bottle
of whiskey like an off-duty surgeon,
but i need the preliminary poem, something to fire-up
the areas of the brain where all this knowledge is
stashed in... by the time this poem is finished
my brain will have morphed the labyrinth -
by simply looking at books passively, or by reading
is no actual provision for what the encryption utilises
in terms of dynamic, in the library of libraries,
on the throne of thrones (the toilet) you can read a passage
and get no simulation, why? one hand holds the book,
and the index-thumb pinch to flick the page is all that's
used, when you write... both hands are used,
equally, and you're working from the perspective of
a blank, and you're having to remember
the whole, and the fractions when doing the brick-work
layering - the true drinking poems akin to
the drunk Japanese haiku in ensō form come much
later, once enough barley is consumed...
but apart from finally using the encryption γ (or
the Υ-γ - bewildering how they didn't put those two
together... instead we have Γ-υ - just wondering, because
of tau - strain the monopoly long enough, and some
bright-spark comes along and says: huh? you kept
the monopoly by deliberately confusing people? makes
sense that you kept your power for so long) -
or the γ (gamma) encryption, derived from what's otherwise
known as the alphabet, just a fancy name for
encoding sounds and not giving a donkey's piñata^
bashing of the *******, basically
^pinyata - that's how you say the ñ.
you have to admit, deciphering diacritical marks has its
benefits, not using the bogus linguistic method of upside-down
e or nu (ν / v) or whatever those educated prats are using;
but the truth is about what spurred me on, for one it was
last night, i forgot my tactic, i didn't write a sober poem,
the preliminary poem, and when that happens,
and i'm not doing a warm-up poem of the above mentioned
reasons i barely write... religiously inspired poems always
give me a downer the next day, it's just their ridiculousness,
i mean, if i had to argue with some religiously inspired
adherent to religious works i'd be no match,
what having read an X number of books while having to argue
with someone who'd **** you after reading 1...
it's debilitating... you always have to imagine the religious
adherent's superiority on the matter of just 1 book
rather than a literary rainbow... you can't win...
but i guess what you can say is, something like:
so with the drug laws... you trying to tell me you'll be
happy for an L.S.D. trip when the "saviour" comes back?
you into spiking everyone's day-to-day grime
by considering an en masse L.S.D. trip? might as well
drop a date-**** pill into their drinks after that...
i know the effect of that, getting ****** throughout
a day, a few meatheads at a club punching that
arcade version of a boxing match, an open bottle
of beer on the bar counter, like an idiot i drank it...
next thing i know i'm walking with a pavement slab
in my hands trying to keep the gravity momentum while
the whole world around me is spinning into a dumb
crazy version of an equestrian competition, not with
horses but with elephants... elephants doing pirouettes
and then sneezing some accompaniment to the music
with their trunks pretending to be Miles Davis -
those ******* pills are a blimmin' ******,
never pick up an opened bottle of beer, however
sweet it looks to "get one on the house"... then again,
some girl could have picked it up...
all i ended up doing was walking home with a pavement
slab between my hands and a horrible hangover
the next day - oh yeah, about the L.S.D. / second coming...
you think that the whole: kneel before me
and i'll give you all the kingdoms of the world
matters in India... or China and the entire far east...
let's just suppose it will happen,
i can just imagine a sanity dome over that region
(more than a third of the world's population)
being inserted over them when all those
Christ sniffers get ready for a mental **** with bright
colours and god knows what care for the everyday
working ethic to follow: i'm guessing mass suicide
to skip the queue of middle and old age.
Mateuš Conrad
Written by
Mateuš Conrad  34/M/Essex (England)
(34/M/Essex (England))   
   Rob Rutledge
Please log in to view and add comments on poems