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Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i write what i see, i encode images with sounds...
hence my simple life,
and the complications of speaking as noted
and the complicated life around me as unsaid.

so fragile - poetry so ably juggling
paedophilia and an identity -
i could almost leave a snarl and a gimmicky
phlegm in it ~ ᛞᚨᚻᚨᚱᚷᚨ'ᚻ... ᚢᚾ!
the Arab wishes his were Rune.

i own a cat unafraid of a thunderstorm, that's enough
for a C.V. where i come from -
but where this writing comes from it's unlike
thus stated -
it's probably a thoroughly read *lord of the rings

rather than an unread book readied for
cinematography - because that's were books end up,
in a pile of wished-up "page-turners" of charity shops
turned into blockbusters of Hollywood
for a timescale of kept blisters;
or nothing at all, and best kept admired like
cheesy pop songs you'd play at your wedding disco
to imagine yourself being undressed
and hence dancing on stilts via woman
and in stilettos via man.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
two points worth considering,
as to a why...

a. the pseudo-mujahideens of
syria, these brits?
*****, please...
  they're speaking scrap heap
... they're collateral
another few picks at
the radish patch of growth,
twice as disposable as
the most ******* arabic
   all they cite is scrap heap arabic,
a few words there and then
nowhere with the "little"
words akin to al- (i.e. the) missing...
scrap heap arabic, yoda master,
speak! yes young padawan:
they speak;
ha ha...
too eager to chop a head off,
rather than cut off their "oppressor's"
tongue, and insert their
"liberator's tongue"...
kinda ******, don't you think,
could find as much jihadi ambition
in a landfill site,
had i the ambition to learn arabic:
but i glut glut glut glot glot
  gagging don't think so...
macabre - or in marocco?
          just the q will do.
the jews? oh, they're not safe
from my critique either...
  they wandered for 40 years
in a desert, and 2000+ years in
the desert of virus-like ideas...
diseased in their kabbalistic
"mysticism" of practicing gematria:
that assyro-greco-babylonian
come on shlomo: keep up!
you just learn the ***'s way of thinking,
and i'm sure you will see
a clearer picture!
            focus less on the tetragrammaton
and more on the kaaba...
  the cube on a thin page of paper...
and then do what i do:
insert your own word at the end
of solving the puzzle,
  you choose...
    as you already know,
the last one i inserted was | ·· −·· · ·− |,
you've become what the christians
and muslims call the "pagans"...
polytheists... but **** me do they
gobble down the blue indians' broths...
learn some japanese fiddling though,
forget the assyro-greco-babylon of
your "supposed" "mysticism":
nietzsche was wrong,
god did die, but your mysticism did,
sure as deep-fried **** nuggets...
spice it up a little,
      you're not going to survive with
this ancient, out-dated and worth
a dodo crown of "invigoration" -
ha shem does not deserve this blatant
bogus plagiarism...
   learn the shinto way of "gematria":
start investigating scatter brain
via a sudoku, and ending the puzzle
with your choice of letters for numbers...
stop this profane arithmetic of:
so i say a = 1 and b = 2...
    baa baa black sheep =
      4 + 4 + 2 + 1 + 3 + 11 + 12 + 10 + 16 +
   8 + 20 = 91...
   and that, tells me what?
that's what i found the study of kabbalah
to be so pivotal in being annoying...
that it wasn't a jewish invention...
     and as to why it was picked up
with such ferocity by the jews...
   you're better off moving it into
japanese optics...  
    there's nothing to learn from the current
orthodoxy... least to say:
i didn't learn anything,
         why would you?
madonna might, with her red thread
of cotton to assert: cult...
    all i said was:
   insert a word of whatever length you
find appealing when finishing
a sudoku puzzle:
letter first, number second...
         what will this reveal?
  probably a personal "grievance"
associated with...
    certainly not a segment of some
"unsolvable" puzzle...
      +, it might show you a 9 x 9 x 9
    cube, within a 9 x 9 square;
so... win win, either way;
the christian "mystery" is already exhausted,
no matter how many hail mary's
you recite: your thought can't turn
into white tadpoles...
we already know that telekinesis doesn't
exist, who why would it exist
in a reproductive manner?
  can't move a cow by simply thinking
you "can" move it...
same ****, different cover with:
paddy paddy gracious oh all saints and
the brothel of thought that's
the "******" mary;
   brothel of thought,
however you like to think of it, otherwise.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
and i walk with a desert
in my brain,
i walk, encapsulating
and the sidewinder snare...
and i walk with a desert
in my brain...
   drunk, labouring,
above the governing concrete...
i've brewed some wine,
and i'll drink it...
   there i am:
             figurative humanity
where subjectivity equals ∞,
and objectivity is an oscillation
between - & ~,
  the numbers don't really matter,
they don't Downton Abbey inspire me
either: to butter some lord's crumpet...
oddly enough...
               it's seeing these gnats
worth of people drop dead in a battlefield
that gets me...  
               runny mascaras of no-man's land
   at Ypres...
     they just drop dead,            dead...
            it might make abortion clinics readied for
  fundamental rights in celebrating Sunday...
         i don't get it,
and each day i am woken into this nightmare....
   this celebration of all things possible...
of a humanity...
               oh but char...
                       semblance to a cynicism...
               it never made any sense to watch, and cultivate
                      forever the jammy doughnut,
  and the life i wish i could have received,
smitten with cool... cradling the wooly jumper...
             why are these people so *******
alien?             so much
the cure's killing an arab with camus' the outsider?
iron maiden did a better egyptian jive...
           to that smitten cowadrice of the the bangles
pepper-shaker dance of a numbed egyptian.
   pyramid ******* cruise-ship of female escapism.
yeah baby, it's war!
scuttling with the jive of powerslave:
abandon ship! abandon ship!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
please remember me to forget,
this mammon fest...
i have only the slighest
need to require a picture
and a quote beneath
                best in summary:
take a picture -
                 it will last longer;
ain't schoolyard antics
                 the dog's *******?!
it's like watching...
    watching, something
   attitring itself in amethyst
while oozing the scent of lavender!
that's either quirky,
or just plain disorientating.

:)? hummy hummy
hummy humming bee
knave... twice the standard,
and let's count
the trans-****** dictionary
  hummy hummy hummy...
cheezers, cheese'oh!
bogus quest, bogus heroes.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
well, it wasn't enough
to just put my hands in my pockets
to warm my hands up,
i hard to *******...
and then...

   nat king cole: smile
       b. j. thomas'
raindrops keep
                 falling on my head...
a guy can plainly go
        ha ha...
and there was me being
about sam cooke's
           woderful world..

oh endearing night...
          oh my my,
my own tonight,
      and the hours
with the zombies
of sleep...
            my and my and
all that could ever be mine:
a night, come to a breath
of my own exchange
of sorrows,
backed to fathom,
a return from sender

               itchy fingers
imitating piano,
before the waited for crescendo...
   like, there were meteors attached
to the flapping
of pigeon wings descending
on the one healthy foot,
and the other: pirate stump


            plucked scuttle...
along an imaginary
        chess board of fates...
my dear, dear,
my head: high up in the air...
floating indifferent...
with barometer,
clock and kaleidoscope,
with the almost near...
tear in technicolour...

      what would,
have, almost, mattered,
wouldn't it have?
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
i might not have the communist savvy
with regards to your economic policy,
but you have neither,
the nationalistic savvy regarding
the capitalistic savvy regarding my
    no! i'll play the ignornant *******
riddled hum brigade!
         you teach me economics,
i'll teach you ethno-centricism..
   i'm pretty ******* sure
that you'll teach me the former question,
as i'll teach you the latter...
    are we not left unsure?
  are we?
            you teach me to count,
i'll teach you how to spell words;
are we gravitating on that being
the best accuracy of fathomability?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
what's the difference between the capitalist
conception of "wealth distribution"
in the communist series of events,
  and the capitalist notion of:
                                   paying your, taxes?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
i'll give the alt. media
this... this was pretty funny...
esp. after watching
the Boston anti-fascist
video of the soy ***** hat
wearing chant...
  that **** is priceless...

    .      .
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
poets see the vacuum: O P B R A D Q 4 6 8 9 0... musicians simply fill it: nihil tremo.*

i'm simply trying
to recognise the surd that's
cognition of ♬
while the birds are singing;
poetry is such a beggar
among the arts...
who the hell would want
to capture the thought of
composition of a mozart with
such a b c e d symbols
easily corrupted by politicians...
actually... i wish politicians
could lie in ♬♩♪ la la ha ha ah ha.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2020
reading a rupi kaur poem is
probably the most heart-breaking
"thing" in the morning -
on the play store bestseller list:
because afterwards
a sylvia plath poem:
somehow isn't -

                       somehow she managed
to pluck at a geisha garden
and has become all porcelain all
             crystalline ivory & frailty...
but that's not about my reading
habits in the morning...            
   it's more... more about...
how "we" could get away with
writing all our onomatopoeias in

                        unless of course
there's the "problem" of C, L, U, Q / CK...
that's hooves on cobweb streets
     ­                  nonetheless:
                        i give you
          マンナ              ダンナ
    (manna                    ­      danna)
            i guess: imitation
                          games of a madonna
in a brothel -
which is not a brothel...
and everyone's favourite
             Berlusconi's take on
                         castanets & maracas i.e.
                  ぼんご                 ボンゴ

otherwise a narrative in three parts:
a. my grandfather died
b. i stopped drinking
c1. and i started walking marathons
   c2. from 118kg
                down to 106.5kg
                  circa 2 months...

otherwise a further narrative of:
not because i'll gladly go into
the necropolis with a bouquet
of fake carnations / chamomiles...
  although "in manus tuas" i could
sit crow esque pensive,
hunched: a shadow for a globe of
atlas (etc.)
            and **** that fickle
creature that's memory in vain...
thereby making love
sound like a breaking
                           of an accordion...

or i could like i already have
"play a game" of       ここ / そこ
                                               ソコ / ココオ
no necropolis...
    just the remains of a forest...
bedfords park...
            a healthy stick for the purpose
of knocking on trees...
an dry-white skull-yellow-morbid
obelisk - i.e. a dead tree...
homage - three times:
no echo...
a minute of silence...
                      in searching of meaning:
beyond in havering county park
horses grazing -
        "once upon a time"
they'd be work horses on the till
  of the land...
            now sometimes saddled...
not even bothered to gallop...
          while we're still...
                   under the tyranny of
the thumb...
                 or thereby some "relief"...

perhaps just walking through
east london toward st. paul's
seeing so many pilgrims (i.e.
that's what i'd call lunatics)
                        talking to pigeons
                                      at stratford in
                    the morning...
one might do what i do
teasing augury -
       notably because of the crows,
notably because of swallows;
at least for the former -
when hades stirs -
                 and a yawn breaks
rank from the pits of crunch &
                        harrowing tooth domino...
there's me procrastinating
before the altar of a name, date(s)
but no epitaph...
    or there's me making said
pilgrimage to a dead tree obelisk
  with a healthy stick in hand...
knocking three times...
            perhaps to let the forest know
i'm there, i.e. "here"...
alas... exasperation is not:
a need for "haiku"... it's also not
some snobbery when...
you're actually not given much to
"work" with e.g. -cemetery

       better a fascination with
                                  japanese text...
e.g. 緑 (green)
      / hiragana is probably a misnomer
  / why wouldn't green be in kanji?
               but how midori:
                       either squiggly or squint-
is not in either katana / hiragana
set up the following primer, braille:

       ⠗⠊   (hangeul esque)
is probably the only latin equivalent
i'd ever make a comparison with;

   p.s. ⠝ braille's N
          ל - a hebrew L"ament"...

at least it's more than a bothersome
post-colonial rhyming ****** & scheme
or a wannabe haiku /
                        writing toward hiatus;
or a ******* ron padgett prose poem
                     about drinking coffee...
for that matter: any poem about
drinking coffee;
                                          sober *****
morning gits,
            insufferable loved up 'toons.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
a Jew (unlikely) or a Muslim (most likely) might ask me... do you believe in God... and all the Norsemen will answer... do you believe i exist?!  a happily ever-after ought to ensue. that crucifix of yours worthy of worship is nothing compared to the blood-eagle... unless he actually hanged, and the nails impaled him on his wrist-bones rather than the palms, so that if done properly, he wouldn't be able to move them.

and do you know why the holocaust happened?
monotheism once conquered the tribes
associated with Beelzebub - it ate them -
monotheism the strong-arm out of Egypt
ate up the deities of the middle-eastern tribes
when Israel descended like the 11th plague -
some would say -
but when Judaism cut Isaiah in half
and crucified Jesus and beheaded John it weakened -
the Roman never took a Jew for a slave labourer,
hence the Zealots and the Pharisee and the Sadducee
flourished - students as ascribed with their
rabbinical pimps - because the Jews would never
be enslaved to build something as spectacularly
democratic as a coliseum - for the people, by the people -
that really bugged them -
why are we given intellectual freedoms and aren't tasked
to construct a pyramid or the madness of the hanging gardens
of Babylon? something's wrong! awry indeed -
they weren't asked to build such feats -
they thought that coming from Egypt into the promised land
they might plagiarise their foot when heading north
beyond Roman authority -
their Hebraic came against Runic - they lost, given
the Holocaust - they just couldn't, couldn't
erase an ethnicity - the ᛋᛋ tribe revived -
**** me they already erased the Slavic polytheism
and the symbolic phallus with their ******* circumcision -
the ᛋᛋ tribe was revived - little shlomo only goes
north so far... beyond that he gets gas chambered -
and he does - you can practice you belittling monotheism
in that olive garden, we keep our souls less mongrel-like -
the Nordic tribalism an polytheism you will not
erase unless speaking to a sadistic German -
Islam will plagiarise you, and fail, spectacularly -
plagiarise you as in: yes, Judaism in question -
you had your ploys with eating up polytheism in tribal affairs -
imagine a non-warring polytheism (India)
or a non warring atheism (China), before news reached
the individual - the holocaust happened because you
tried to conquer the one polytheism that captured
the Germanic imagination - with runic came the Hebraic -
and one could not erase the other;
i bemoan, of course i will - i have a ****** on a crucifix
when i should be thinking of a spirit in the woodland -
it's no wonder i'd turn to the Scandinavian encoding of sounds
for a heart - the Holocaust happened because the Jews
thought they could conquer all polytheism with the phonetic
encoding erased subsequently - LATIN HEBRAI EVICTUS FALSUS,
so crucifying the son of god with kept alphabet
of the enemy and later computer programming? how strange,
you could tame the Samaritans and the Philistines together!
but ahead of Austria and Hungary the Norse fables -
the gas chambers - as once erasing the fables of Slavs,
your own cognitive ethnic cleansing -
came the *gas kammer
- aren't we all indolent sheep
readied for the kosher season of slaughter? aren't we all!
nase kamienice, a wase ulice! ours the
tenement houses! yours the streets!
every jew prior
to world war 2 in Poland... you want some *******
Spielberg sympathy or something? a Mitzvah cupcake
with that milkshake? oh don't worry - the Jews tried
to conquer the north once... the Muslims will
doubly fail in their ethnic cleansing... i have my Eskimo
brother telling me so - halfway bound to Mongolia, i am,
to wake up Genghis Khan.
- Harlow -
      a morning spent
      drinking jack
  and eating a lilac coloured
     in the forest...
         poisoned? maybe...
i never thought about
eating something lilac...
                          esp. a fungus.
­                        yet another 502 bad gateway bypass.

truly mythical properties... it's not the first time it has
   Khedra... is it just me... maybe i'm hallucinating
this scent... even if i am... it's pretty potent...
a bit like seeing **** when you close your eyes
after being awake for 36h+ straight...
                         auditory hallucinations?
                                       sometimes i hear my name
as if from afar... i remember it happened at Wembley
before a shift... i might have only had 2 hours sleep
prior... didn't eat much... a combination of factors...
a gust of wind and then... my name...
   i sort of froze and looked around...
                      but this is different...
                                  whatever people might think
about jerking off: sure... men get the stigma while
women become cam-girls and get off for money...
the ****** liberation bites back...
because for most guys it's a return to that
critique by richard von krafft-ebing in his
psychopathia sexualis... mind you...
   we're talking the 19th century...
                   shaming men... fair enough... while celebrating
the use of cucumbers and other such toys...
i have to thank Khedra for sending me those selfies...
i've stopped watching *******... pure and simple...
and no... she isn't even sending me nudes...
just close-ups... some collar-bone and neck...
one... she's wearing glasses and she made a close-up
of her lips...
                  not duck-lips... injected with too much
silicone... just naturally full lips...
                    come to think of it...
                                        i've only had "unprotected" ***
with two women in my life...
  ****... it's been too long since the first one...
so she sends me this selfie with another woman with her:
a much bigger pair of *******, blonde...
and this is what happens when you give a signed
copy of your poetry book to a woman...
what's today's date? ah... the 22nd... i'll get paid come
early April... guess where that money is going?
but when i was about to ******* one time i sort of stopped
and... can i? yeah... are you sure?
                yeah... i can't get pregnant...
                        and off went a squadron of white paratroopers...
into the golden gates of V....
but today... looking at the selfies she sent me...
now? all i have to do is look at her face and
remember having ******, ****** her real good...
hell... now my memory bank has increased exponentially...
i can just switch a cinema on where i'm the protagonist
in a shady *** scene with mirrors...
     funny... no ****** too...
well... except for the sordid antics in my head...
           but today... upon *******...
                                i could smell her...
                                       is that what happens when your
body bonds with another body at the zenith
of mutual ******? a piece of them: the scent is somehow
intact with you?!
    well... i don't know... you're sharing
various liquids between each other...
   her V juices... her sweat, her saliva...
           your juice, your sweat your saliva...
                      and my... it's so good to be appreciated
for being a clean: ultra-clinical ultra-pedantic cleanliness
freak... let's face it... if a ******* doesn't mind
having unprotected *** with you...
   and she doesn't mind you ******* into her...
you must be doing something right...
but i swear i have her scent in me, on me...
however it works... i even tell her every time i leave:
i'll have a wash prior... but never after...
no... i want to keep you on me for a while... longer...
other times when ******* is useful...
when you're about to perform...
   starts a day prior... ******* 3x without *******...
on the day of the performance...
some more jerking off without *******...
white wine is an aphrodisiac for me... as is exercise...
2x sessions of immense physical scrutiny...
30min each... the bottle of wine in between...
             ****... that litre of Jack is still on offer at Tesco...
better stash up on it... take it with me...
just chill... pour myself a drink when i'm with her...
she'll probably want to do some *******...
me? i'm too old for that ****...
                     trying it for the first time aged 35...
and the fact that it didn't do anything for me...
                               sure... she can do whatever she wants...
but it's more practical like this...
it's not like i'm alone in my predicament...
sure... if i were a single mum i could easily apply
for a council flat...
getting a mortgage? poetry pays ****...
                   if anything...
                          rent? what... cough up money to some
stranger's pockets?! just to what? live alone?
alone in order to play the dating game and hope:
"hope" of bringing someone back to my place?
obviously when you go out the girl would never ask
her round hers... but to go round yours...
plus... my personal library is too big to simply:
shift it... as is my music collection...
                           and... living with your parents isn't
that bad if you don't mind them and still somehow
managed to like you... being the custodian...
cooking food... d.i.y. - cleaning... well... if the old woman
has problem with arthritis... might as well...
but i'm not alone in this... after all...
in Japan they have this "thing" that's called
the ラブ ホテル (rabu hoteru) - love hotels...
    since... living arrangements are pretty much the same
there... but in the west... it's such a shame...
while Asian families in England... three ******* generations
under the same roof...
     is it some in-bred qualm or something?
sure... in capitalism everyone's going to be a winner...
what would be the alternative? go out at night...
pick a girl up... then... book a hotel room...
at least i get that ******* out of the way...
   i'm still going to follow her up on the suggestion...
but... at the same time... i don't think she'll follow up
on it...
            well... if this is the price for carnal love
   (ニクヨク 愛) - nikuyoku ai (アイ) -
              you just have to figure out a way to adapt...
isn't that what Darwinism teaches?
             you learn to adapt... this works for me...
hell... like that old saying goes... if something isn't broke:
don't fix it... took me a while... how long will this last?
well... if she's going to be sending me more of those
selfies where she's teasing her tongue at me...
                  i've already given up ******* for good...
for that: i'll be eternally grateful...
better let off steam from time to time
borrowing from memory: looking at her face...
being the protagonist than that ugly sensation of being
a ******...
   plus... how long would it take for a casual hook-up
girl to say the words: you're a beautiful man?
if at all! she might think it: but won't say it...
and... *** for free? for free implies she can somehow
get this high from an emotional attachment...
sure... get attached... but there are barriers...
and again: nothing is for free...
              you're going to be paying for something in
the end... dinner dates... gifts...
   i'm only here for the corporeal and carnal...
           but i would seriously *****-slap all those guys
that send money to cam-girls... or whatever you want
to call them: the ones that monetised selling bathwater...
that's an easy way out for the girl...
  what do you mean... no touchy-feely?
                       and behind a computer screen?!
i'd sooner be found giving spare change to a *****
than... whatever the hell the current culture dictates...
i'd say: return to the old school way of doing things...
but then again: that's just me;
   clearly i'm no pornographer...
                          a wholesome session of ***...
even if its once a month... i'll settle for that...
clearly i don't need any more... and if it was on a regular
basis... if i had to sleep in the same bed
as the woman... first i wouldn't get a good night's sleep
and secondly: i'd probably get bored of the ***...
i'd have to explore **** / latex kinks...
and... i don't want to do that.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
disclaimer: i had to change the title, the original was... arsenal of "nukes" / morse code conceptualisation of sudoku - but i had a stunning revelation at the end of this verse.


what?! me order indian take away?! what do you have me for, a ****** charlatan? americans have their arsenal of nukes, the russians have their arsenal of nukes: me? i have my arsenal of indian spices! beat that: yoo muvva faa'kers! (you know, said as that chinese guy says it, in the first hangover movie).


finally! i found the holy grail of the indian cuisine,
not so much a website that has all the recipes,
rather: it's a dictionary of all the various
curry broths... -
one you have the lingua coquus -
the lingo of what's what - mind you -
i'm like a "mujahideen", in that i know
only singled out words of "arabic"
and am convinced that i'll be bilingual
to fully embrace the jihad,
although i'm neither, hence the inverted
  let's just say: i overshot the mark,
and landed in india, and am not recreating
a chemical experiment:
thinking - **** me, a bit humid 'ere,
in goa?
  so the mujahideen's arabic is like my
but then again: i abide by culinary,
rather than theocratic nouns -
  and i'm already bilingual -
i pity those english monolingual
cripples who went off to syria, i really do,
might as well chop off their tongues:
and sit them in a wheelchair,
and teach them arabic in sign-language...
these "warriors of allah" are nothing
but a ****** farce... if you going to fight
for a cause like that: at least speak
the ****** language...
  or, as the english say: go back home!
good point, born in poland, but living
in england for 23 years...
where's home?
           wait wait, let me get my copernican
compass out...
      well... you'd be glad to know:
my home is in the bermuda delta -
****** keeps spinning like a sufi dervish.

anyway, today of all days, two curries,
turmeric infused rice (yellow, always
nice to spot canary maggots),
**** the difference in flower...
  what was i using?
   chakki atta (pilsburg group) -
so soft, so tender, so mmm: yom...
  last week i messed the dough:
******! you pour in the warm water gradually...
thank god i saved my reputation
as the curry boss of the household...
and as i usually do with dough...
treat it like a punch bag, can't be bothered
kneading the dough, so i punch it.

the curries? ooh... beauties...
for one it was cayenne pepper rather than
chilli powder...

garam masala in both,
which i had to made from scratch...
do you really add turmeric and omit
adding cinnamon? i can't remember.

the first? (oi oi, 'ere comes my "mujahideen"
lingo in sanskrit)
  a passada chicken curry... almost a korma
but not quite...
     i just remember bashing
raisins in the pestle & mortar, adding almost,
not using any tomatoes,
   inviting chicken stock... etc. etc.

the second curry? a chicken saag -
the etymological derivative being?
   saag: a general term for tender green leaves
(such as spinach)...
    walking into an indian kitchen is probably
more intoxicating than walking
into a parisian perfumery,
                         or a jewish bakery;
said what i had to say, and that's that.


now, could it really have been a day when
i wouldn't have attempted, yet another,
reconceptualisation of a sudoku puzzle? no.
began as usual:

6 4 1 2 3 7 9 5 8
3 5 2 8 6 9 1 7 4
9 7 8 1 4 5 2 3 6
8 3 4 9 7 1 6 2 5
5 6 9 4 2 3 8 1 7
1 2 7 5 8 6 4 9 3
7 1 5 6 9 4 3 8 2
4 8 3 7 1 2 ι Δ ε
2 9 6 3 5 8 7 α 1  (ι = 5, Δ = 6, ε = 9
                           and α = 4 -
total? 24, the number of letters
in the greek alphabet,
as there are, hours in the day:
no wonder people back then
conjured up a "year 0" -
which actually makes the modern
day stoners, looks extremely
lazy when it comes to whacky

but that gave me the idea of trying
another interpretation of this
japanese phone-book...

  how about morse code? to visualise
things... and how the numbers
lodge themselves in the 9 x 9 x 9 (729) box...
i see this 2D puzzle as 3D, oops...
so it came about - yielding the pen and
original zenith of concept, the hashtag (#)...
   (algebraic for end pin-point + insertion):

1a. | | − x
   1b. − − | y

     2a. − − y
   2b. | | x

     3a. − | x
   3b. |  − y

4a. □ − |
4b. □ | −
  4c. □ | |
4d. □ − −

  which begs the question...
    why would you need to invent braille...
if you already had the morse code?
at certain events people are competing
in spelling matches... so...
isn't the morse code a lot easier than
braille?! eh?!

i mean, god really is playing chess,
when he's reading braille...

−− −−− ·−· ··· · | ·· ··· | · ·− ··· ·· · ·−· |
− ···· ·− −· | −··· ·−· ·· ·−·· ·−·· ·

       don't you think?
and to think: a drunkard conjured this up;
ah... smoke 'em while ye got 'em.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
kån skal syngje meg
i daudsvevna slynge... meg;
nor eg på Helvegen gor
og dei spøra eg trår er kalda, så kaldara -
and with approximate accenting
on vowels or stressed elongation,
angstrom - or o or u or neither with ø.*

O but the fickle mind!
Gemini readied for both
body and soul?
i hardly think so...
and each animal his own
character, each his own
albeit well encompassed
in fascist automaton replica
undecipherable for us
to practice, or if to wield
to yield all but failure in the finite
as then too almost cat replica cat
cloned... but then
such character assassinations to
tell them apart, not even invoking eugenics
is dismissive altogether to begin with.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021

and you will know me...
by my reproaches...
my ridicule...

my condescending humour
fabric of riddle...
you will claim to know me
for my love for
the mediocre...
you will come to love me
for my adventure into
your unwillingness...
to.. seize tthe prospect
of... this little adventure we
are demanded to share...
between all.. that's time:
before us!

for as much as i love you...
i'l be the first: to thrist
having to... disgruntle you:
in relation to me...
in relation to that...
awe inspiring! grace!
in who's presence all democracies of men:
decry themselves...
and all return to
the cauldron of:

                  beginning with the heave
of the pyramid...
saved by the sunrise and the song of birds...
can i at least: be... deemed...
a... welcome surprise?
let me just check...
   haven't i been subjected to...
a case... of... identifying wrong...
of a stolen identity?

if i have been...
let the ravens rain down fire: with their
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
as the world was gearing up to:
         it's usual...  i decided to stop smoking...

and find the crucial difference
between iggy pop &    
tom waits...

     ever since: my blue valentine...
of the latter...
           i never quiet took off from  the stooges -
   until of course: the bowie years...
of the former...

        an exercise in freedom of speech -
blunt knife politico -
molotov cocktail thrown into
      a cesspit -
  here's to going to bed by 12am.

- and some could call this
a new "aesthetic"...
           ℜ ℑ ℘:
                    ∀(for all)
                    ∃ (there exists)
             a      ∇ (backward difference)...

▒ fuzzy & brittle...
     ░ fudge-pie for cue...
        ▓ shackles of a gymnast...
             █ loop hole in heaven...
    tomb rake: box-car rituals... of...
                a day to celebrate...

               ∰? a symbol of being bulletproof...

- and this is how you write:
summer: ℜ ℑ ℘ ℰ
           hell: even autumn should
apples and pears be questionable
when all the tender fruits
are harvested first...

         otherwise a...
                      ◼♭ -
                                    or a borrowed
square from a virtue: lost to...
the circus and some sudoku:

◼  ◼  ◼
◼  ◼  ◼
◼  ◼  ◼             i have... switched off...
the television... and...
most probably the brain...
                   ∀⅜ of the "truth"...
what's convenient for one party...
and inconvenient for the other...

                         the old sentiment: braille
vs. morse... binary for the latter...
d'ah and daesc... 0 1 0...
    and of course: semi-colon and comma
for... yawn...

▄    ▄▄▄                         (x4 for space)
▄▄▄                    (at)

▄  ▄▄▄  ▄                         (x2 for space)

▄  ▄  ▄                           (x2 for space)
▄▄▄                        (rest)

               ⠇⠕⠊⠞⠑⠗⠊⠝⠛ (l) -oitering...
notably in:        -ingland...
                        the beginn-ing
   and the end-ing of pork: as history...
      including the history of sun-tann-ing...
      q: ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄  ▄  ▄▄▄ (x 1 / x 2 spacing)
       cue? queue?
                     as many interpretations
of a letter: as: 'ota...             designated pronoun...
loot of "about"...

            just perhaps: the lords of salem made
more comprehensive / cohesive arguments...
                penny-sweets arcade magic...
     rots the brain: loots the heart...
            leaves one's soul in a maze
                                of prosthetic limbs
and iron maidens.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
as an antidote to the poetic of onomatopoeia, i simply won't allow such a desecration, the ruinous cloud of plum purple hangs over language with this one poetic technique, just before the barrage of rain falling like a vertical tsunami, as i found myself fishing in Poland, the white-precursor of Mickiewicz's castles turned into horses' gallop... and then foo! a monsoon in 5 minutes... the fish? quiet big, but since kept in a reservoir, a bit fat... actually... too fat. seriously, the onomatopoeia has to go, we can't be found imitating sounds of inanimate things... or debasing our use of phonetic encryptions with sounds of edible creatures... why... if we kept at it, you'd see monkeys building the coliseum and man playing the Mongolian harmonica of vibrating lips and the index finder moving up and down to their tune; plus i think onomatopoeia is the culprit of excessive spelling in english... i know, the keeping of necessary aesthetics but come on... moo vs. μ?

and i wish to lessen the optic strain for continuing
subject matter non-italicised...
you know what's more interesting than paying attention
to the use of onomatopoeia like that, the crudest
musicological element of poetry (well, rhyming is
also up there) - English is perfect, it's a-diacritical
(ah or a? never mind) - you have to start to imagine
the language like a blank canvas, but not necessarily,
what's more interesting in this vector rather than
clinging to onomatopoeia technique is that you
can apply anti-onomatopoeia, distinctions, accents,
yesterday it became revelatory,
it's roland garros on the television, after the days
events there's a program with Mats Wilander
(Swedish no. 1, seven grand slams between 1982 and
1988) and a blonde woman presenter,
i picked up my loss of interest in using onomatopoeia
to profile her origin... she could have been of any
European ethnicity... but the accent... it just landed
in my ear... German... and indeed, without an information
bracket on the programme's description, it was
Barbara Schett... you see, you paint the accents, it's
more interesting that way given the nakedness of English
compared with other siblings of the alphabet high-jacked
from Roman; you end up pricking your ears to attune
accents that than ol' McDonald had a farm.

that was my initial fascination, the lie of Eden passed down,
like Voltaire on his deathbed being read his departing word,
his own encoded as: this is not the time  to make enemies
he was referring to the devil)...
also: you'll find it hard to find his *éléments de la philosphie
de Newton
... you will find Candide,
and Letters from England... but the elements of Newton's
philosophy will be a holy grail... oddly enough, contrary
to common belief, Voltaire never alludes to an apple
falling on Newton's head, but the book is a joy,
given that it includes diagrams... a bit of an Alice moment
for me: what's the point of books without pictures?
i could give you a chapter-by-chapter schematic of
what's being included so you don't think i'm bullshitting you,
the first chapter is about God... i know, ha ha, Voltaire
the ardent atheists... the third chapter is about the
freedom of the deity and on the great principle of sufficient right;
hold on! i'm digressing again, this was a debate concerning
onomatopoeia! you're probably asking why i've started to
use runes again... imagine what lied more, the tongue or
the eyes... this is crazy geometrics! geometry precipitated
when human went wild encoding sounds, it needed
something rational and coherent to attach itself to, to find
a cure for this crazy phonetic encoding, Pythagoras
attacked (Δ, δ) - i'm sure of that... i mean, can you just imagine
two drunk vikings sitting there, ******* themselves
sound-spotting and dissecting their mouth? which shaped
what, and which was to be cut-off / trimmed after they
poured wax into their ears and started to lip-read?
i mean... how many ****** shapes came from all
the soul-cages being opened with the shape of the mouth
from O?
ᚺ - hail             ᛖ - horse (and i'd say camel, but no camels
so far north)       ᚱ - journey         ᛟ - heritage
      ᛚ - water               ᚷ - gift
                                 i mean, it's amazing how we managed
to cut of subsequent letters we ascribed to things
and create a distinct sounds... but can you the torturous
road toward this end? to have created ~20 distinctions
from nouns? no wonder Aristotle asked to debate
proper names... i'm more inclined to ask a debate about
proper sounds... but still... so many wild geometric shapes
from just one... O... or - (a shut mouth)...
no wonder mathematics emerged: you couldn't really build
a longboat using ᚠ - ᛞ, or a house, what mathematics emerged
was probably when people thus dispersed interacted
via the merchants' enterprises and saw a gold nugget
of applicability write in how so many different people interpreted
looking at the mouth talking...
but i'm but one man, and this is a mystery, for i wonder
how the mind worked in order to write mandarin and
also qin **** huang's wall - i accepted many people died
doing it, and that the Mongol invasion was inevitable,
and that Japan was spared by a tsunami...
but how they took snippets from O to write a phonetic
encoding like 政 (Zheng, which also ascribed the
tetragrammaton at work, with one atom being a surd).
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
****, i've just ran out of drafts, good news:
this 15th Dec. suspension on ola
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
   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...
                  the strange fruit man (pomegranates,
passion fruit, sharon fruit, etc.),
   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.... let's check.... ****...

                     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--1---------------  black sabbath - black sabbath
   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...

                      (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,
            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

    ᚱᚨᚦ ᚺᛟᚻᛖᚾᛋᛏᚨᚢᚠᛖᚾ

                    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
   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...
             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

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

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
   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;
     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,
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
      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.

   red ice tv disseminating
   ms. beat-box gala
                       for the ultimate
stut-stut-stuttering contenst
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
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
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 /

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!
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
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:

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:


imagine rewriting these syllables as:
suffixes... vowel first...
hence? it's limited... phonetically...
perhaps for some... scarce fetish for exploring
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
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
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 2018
.subtitle: hacking hellopoetry: so you basically can't encode Mandarin, but Japanese is coolio...

you know, when you wake up,
and, you're not quiet woken up,
so you lie there,
eyes closed,
            listening to music -
still tipsy from last night's drinking,
and you enter the twilight
zone, or what i like to call
the other subconscious -
the outer-conscious?
   you know that place...
you think of several photographs
of yourself:
   like you're looking into
mirror of the present but
a mirror that also knows your past?
and you do this...
to... remember a dream...
of the night just past...
    and boom! it hits you...
i could swear that i dreamed just
the past few hours,
in terms of seconds...
that someone lit my beard...
   yep... my beard was on fire.
well... beside that,
i was trying to write the tetragrammaton
in Japanese...
  problem being,
it wouldn't be a tetragrammaton,
but a duogrammaton,
         ジャ     私たち
and i don't even know
   whether that's even right...
  JA                WEH
more like
****... seems the name of the Hebrew
god is also a tetragrammaton
   in Japanese...

           god exists god doesn't exist...
i'll leave the people praying,
              and i'll remain thinking
about him...
             yes, the fertility of ideas,
nouns, things,
            and it is still: mother death.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
but you weren't a ᚠᚱᚨᚢ ᛏᚱᛟᛚ...
and i watched with geometric
fascination how you
modulated the shapes
of sounds with footsteps
that made agile the curling of lips
and the flipping of tongue
and gave us south american dances
of blind tango from Buenos Aires.
you complained how glasses
shortened your legs, myopic the dwarf
to your suitor, a fake.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
so please excuse me, i have no history going back as a roman invasion... unfortunately i came from the Atilla throng... i utilise your phonetic encoding like any barbarian might.... more in love with it, than with the women who use it casually in everyday talk; i'm so sorry that i can't use your phonetic encoding as peacefuly as i might to start a family, and keep the fading ritual...  i am prone to the mongol practice akin to: invade and quickly fade... which is also akin to: not invade, build an empire, quicken a false fire... and sadly never fade away; e.g. russia, america.

you have a basis of crucifying a man
who has no (a) history of a roman past
(b) a roman  phonetic / optometric
encoding, with a slight deviation
of (ć) - who am i? the wave from Siberia,
neither Mongol, nor Vandal,
of what tribe, am i? collectively known as Slav,
it is said my women
   were harrowed from their
nests like birds akin to the cuckoo....
  and where my national pride: you ask?
me know either.. if there were any.
    poetry is something
you call: trying to be an artist
while, at the same time,
          not becoming a plumber,
or a painter.
oh dear, painters are worst,
unless they paint a cubic-mono-chromatic
i have na value for them shoud
they be an example
of a categorical imperative....
there bartablondine roamed in thought:
  and bemoaned:
        higher the cabbage-head
rise above the caulifloiwer...
as said name:
            a saxon knife with writ...
on a blade:
                        poets never hear
of mention under banner, or worth a
weilded sword...
  to no defeat, as there is one assured:
but to engaging with a memory in thought
as needing statue...
           or said the one bound to betray
either thinking from doing,
  or memory and imagination from doing less
and thus doing thrice,
    such be the communal tongue...
  that the females go unto a searching...
and i be the last remaining seagull...
so unto the conglomorate of man...
              all our peace with individuals,
personalities and the likes be gone....
    they are dust, broken bricks, rust
and rabble...
                             i have no flavour for them...
or in different rhymes of war:
the women precede the auxiliaries -
we claim of woman once the need for axe,
but hardly her need to blood-thirst her genitals...
   lions lax...
            and watch the vulture-democracy
   scower fools! scower!
                   led by bribe and death-threats alone!
i see but the ghosts of the pentagon *Krzyżtopór
what bone, what marrow,
there too laid a cement, a ceiling,
                a brick as bone...
                       to keep both hope of skeleton
and if not skeleton: a castle... a cruxifix-axe,
so in italics named... crux alias ascia:
or said compound...
           Krzyżtopór - Krzysztof...
christopher... some might have said:
a loved one, circa 1392 a.d.
       but not here, not now.
anything but Mongol,
    and i am here, and i am but a figment
of ink in a pond of bleach...
        i am Sting:
a Pole in a London...
               you toast, i roast...
       well... it might just be not exactly London,
the smog got me...
                  when a Greek idea
of city-state explores too much ethnic ground,
  London might have grown to be that,
but Berlin, Tokyo nor Mehico City didn't...
      now no farmer in me either...
so.... come the rotten apples and maggoty
                     and if it wasn't for being
a kid having moved to england
and seen my parents reach their status...
i don't know where i would have lived...
just watching these perfectly smug poles
come to university killed off my idea of
                        and i never got it back...
the worst decision in my life came
packaged, an idea of a suitcase...
   came with the words: get educated...
   no... learn to make money...
  learn to turn mountains into pebbles,
learn to make pebbles into sand...
learn to make sand into dust...
            i love how the English fake being
immigrants in America...
lazy buggers never care to learn a new tongue...
or how Americans settling in Italy
call themselves as expat...
         because they really love to drink
that espresso 25ml.
                   me? where do i belong?
given my posture and care to speak very little?
on the Faroe Isles.
               Poland feels more obscure these days
esp. when i speak the tongue without an accent...
now i wish i lived in England and had
an accent... maybe with an accent i could
make it...
             there's actually no point in me trying...
     if there ever was:
              it was when it was me being human...
    now that i'm considered to be nothing
more than: the death of death...
                i have all the sentences i write
from scratch, as if prompt, to ensure i am
the last reigning magician.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,


omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -


but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2020
to write and autobiography:
   better to write an autobiographical sketch,
like this one, for example,
a very same-same / mediocre /
uneventful / predictable /
     it only matters that i have
bothered to look at the clock and the date:
9:50am / ten to ten a.m.
    6th of december two-thousand-and-twenty
(6/12/20) -
because otherwise than that...
it's a "make-me-believe-otherwise"
sort of a sunday...
as such... yes... an autobiographical
         if nothing happens by a standard
definition of what does happen
when autobiographies are written...
then at least: this happens...
language happens /
    my use of the english language
happens... out of nonchalance...
        or good humour...
             or a must celebration of
soberness -
               since, well... since at some
point weeks / perhaps months ago...
a saturation point was reached
and... drinking and staying up into
the night and scribbling became...
pickled in... monotony...
          to have drunk so much as
to be bored of it...
       or rather: to have drunk and
as a consequence... sat and then shat
on one's laurels - for lack of a better
expression... i.e. written ****-all!
or written something, which was...
substandard... which is worse than
having written: zilch! nada (ナダ)!
if Charles Olson can be a self-described
'archeologist of the morning...'
(i am deliberating whether
to spend £40+ on the i maximus,
gloucester poems - hardcover -
please... any cheaper?!)
   then i can be an autobiographical
exhibit (a)...
                 otherwise it only insinuated
itself yesterday, it being a ghost
of an idea that probably haunted
by mind for periodical bouts of
dangling etc.
             some better wording (rephrasing
necessary - but not here
or now)...
   the term "****" doesn't really
do it justice... but it's most certainly
a variation of archeology -
   notably / concerning what?
how the moon looks from beneath
a tree...
    in winter... when the tree is all
but the bare branches -
           like a splintering bone of sorts
like something akin
to the alveoli in lungs...
     but obviously less cauliflowers
and less pride of a full crop of hair...
/ no crown of leaves...
but it's how the moon looks from
behind those twigs...
     arrested and devilishly motionless...
add to this image the odd
cough-up of a murk / a murkiness
of a tease that might be
a freezing of candy floss...
that is a cloud...
    and... how nature abhors a vacuum...
and i guess i am simply
standing in someone else's place
just prior...
if it wasn't written down...
   it is now... but it probably was...
but not in this way...
and since man is the antithesis
of nature as such that
nature doesn't hoard and man
tends to - notably time and time
   but how rooted into the earth
one can                                                 be
to stand before this archeological
which probably isn't to be treated
as something archeological...
but peering at the moon
in said way.. with added derivatives
of elevated sensation...
and i am, most probably...
that same-same variation of
primordial man...
               perhaps not him:
perhaps with a syllabary or perhaps
with a D'OH     R'EH
       ド       レ       ミ           ファ(fa)
            ソ (so')                        チ          
                   (la la la la la,
la la la la la, la la la la la ' la la, la, l'ah...)
to sing a little...
                   and that's that;
i suppose i now have enough justification
for the day to begin, proper.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
when you're *******
there's nothing quiet like some
neo-**** music to lullaby you
to sleep, e.g.:
wumpscut's bunkertor 7;
you even have to write it in rune!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
i find it staggering that the runes survived
the onslought of the monotheism
that's christianity...
             it's summed up by:
and a face that just ****** a lemon:
  what?! it's sunny!                            i'm squinting!
     the title?
      oh i've been trying to figure out
nos. 8941 & 8942 in the su doku quest...
no luck...
         so i'm bopping about
listening to and one's panzermensch -
      ᛈᚨᚾ (pan) - ᛉᛖᚱ (zer) - ᛗᛖᚾ (men) -
         and thus the variant of the hush, baby, hush
syllable... i.e. the ᛋ- -ᚺ/ᛉ variant...
                              sh           vs.             sz -
yeah... monkeys... 100,000 years of history...
        how long, or: what is the point
of this movie?
           i'm into 4 in the afternoon,
  on a saturday and i'm starting to wonder:
               the next 5 hours are going to be long...
the supermarket closes its doors at 10pm...
                  i have about a thumb's worth
of whiskey left in the bottle...
                             really dramatic times,
scary times...
                      (insert a burp) -
                        plus the unfinished su doku
no. 8941...
                              i don't know how i'm supposed
to just keep it on the cool, being all nonchalant
about the problem...
         well... there's an alternative!
                          looking for saladin in modern
day syria...
                      talk about looking for
a needle in a haystack... it's pretty much the same
           a bit like: looking for a million dollars
with a single dollar in a lottery draw...
                        same ****... different cover.              
    so to the point of the "tale" -
           it's friday and we're off to the chippy
for a slice of deep-fried cod...
                                    there's only so much
you can do with salmon, before it just becomes
unbearable to do anything other than
grill it, or poach it...
                    personally? just give me a tub
of raw herring fillets in cream and i'll talk
to you about eternity...
                  but **** me! it survived!
          no one is going to use these symbols
in the everyday though... well... obviously!
    that's the equivalent of writing:  
1i, 2ii, 3iii, 4iv, 5v, 6vi, 7vii, 8viii, 9ix, 10x....
    you played this matchstick game where
    you say: spot me a curve on runes!
          arabic though, eh? ****** serpents...
look how wriggly their phonetic encoding is!
       no wonder it could be said to have been
invented by women...
                          get yer pears!
         get yer apples!
                                   get yer bananas!
            get yer watermelons!
              islam is like a ******* trying too hard
to rekindle her chance of a privacy with
                   a partner that might father her child...
you know that islam was founded by
                     abraham's concubine... yes?
it's the religion of militant prostitutes,
   that's why they do the whole: ha ya! ninja chop;
also called the death stare.
    man... who put acid into this whiskey?
                      i'm starting to see the world
                            ten thousand years prior to this day.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.                     there's always a first...
what, with atomic blonde
style 1980s neon glam...
why bother downing
anything else -
     with what was east
and west berlin:
  the western terminal in
warsaw, where ukranians
leave, bagging smuggling
           for L'viv...
      and the eastern Praha -
untouched -
by the **** counter
to the Warsaw Uprising -
   while the Soviets waited -
and waited, and waited -
while western Warsaw was
completely decimated -
as the saying goes:
   no brick lay on top of a brick;
  but the romance...
    mine esp.,
given the statue of sigismund -
      but a polish president,
should have never been buried
on the wawel mount...
    even at wilanów palace -
grief: is no excuse
for implementing autocracy!
        ha ha... zee weißhaus -
so... what's the difference...
   between, it, and the belvedere?
no matter:
   here's to the first attempt
at "tasting" stolichnaya *****:
and the subsequent Cossack:
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
.at this point, in this particular instance, Kant's philosophy doesn't really matter, but it does matter for whatever particulars are left within it for the individual, rather than: labour freely, come and be bed entertainment compulsively sort of man... you can really listen of a psychologist talk, a philosopher will not talk, a psychiatrist will such listen and spoon you with pharma beige and bitter pills... or if you're lucky? porcelain and pale daffodil powder... never mind... the priest will spew his usual *******... the ******* will just construct an idea of a conversation with an O, an Oh-nomotopoeia... every woman is beautiful with eyes closed experiencing an ******... but these days Kantian philosophy isn't pop, thanks to Nietzsche calling the great sage of Königsberg an idiot... i never liked psychology... it was always too sophistry-riddled... rhetoric after rhetorical after rhetoric after rhetorical, yadda yadda yadda... regrets to fans of Nietzsche... i quiet like the the königsberg clock - disciplined man - people would wind their clocks when they saw him pass... and he went as far as 40 miles outside of königsberg... that's dedication... that's discipline... so watching this commando "vs." jordan peterson video... the "warrior-philosopher" mentality: sure... ever get taught martial arts by being kicked in the genitals by your tutor? oh yeah... that really makes you engaged in continuing the classes... a martial arts tutor kicks you in the *******: you become as much an enthusiast of the martial arts classes as a sumo wrestler would become on a vegan diet... "warrior-philosopher"... socrates pulled it off, but he was the one asking the question, not bloated in self-"awareness": the monologue... but socrates is a debate worth... or was he just lucky to have survived to ask the right questions? homer saw the battle of troy... and he was... a ***** poet... warrior-philosopher my ***... what are these, "current" wars about? they're about proxy... proxy wars are not worth fighting... iraq? proxy war. afghanistan? proxy war. libya? proxy war. one proxy after another... warrior at the gym... the actual warriors? on the other side? yeah: they don't gym bro... and they're not custard pie in the face mince meat cuddled together for a bicep... when wars made, sense... you'd get conscripted... but this current pro army classes, coming back into civilian class... oh what tales they must speak... warrior-philosopher mentalities gravitating their egos for a perfect psychology lunch... warrior in a proxy war? dog in a kennel... KA-GA-NIEC (muzzle - chomąto - horse collar - klapki - horse blinders)... i too might have been a... co-mann-do'h... kick in the ***** when learning martial arts? and no sorry? lying in a foetal position? women do that... i heard one story that a woman killed a policeman by kicking him in the testicles... but when a man does to a 15 year old? what martial art is there to learn? well there's only one "martial art"... kick every man in the testicles... for a man to do such to another man... the art became worthless in terms of a learning credibility... even in boxing there are rules about: below the belt... ******* western teachers of eastern combat... so i chose Kant... promenade of perfected timing... orientating himself like a shy sun to each and everyday... mind you: want to lose weight? two options... bicycle or swimming... or the gym: if you want to partake in plastic surgery from the excesses of skin... but exercise is so, so ******* mundane... you'd be better off chopping a tree down or mawing the lawn.

i don't want love to guide my way,
i've seen love being prophetic
concerning man,
and fill man with extinction,
but when i've seen the other card dealing
and have it filled with fear,
i felt a wizened presence of
either my self or god, and i don't
want love to guide my way:
i want fear to guide my treading missing
hoof trot, i want fear to guide me,
whether a fear of god or a fear of loneliness,
i want fear to empower me, for fear will,
i will not ask love for slaughter on the crucifix
i will not ask love for strength when love
gives nil, i will ask fear for all my coordinate
double denial strengths,
that whatever love comes my way
fears me not, even if i should be proud to deny it,
even if i fear it, make love not my guardian
my beacon, not my lighthouse or mountain,
let my guardian and beacon be the fear of constantly
wavering waves of the seas in the ***** of a hurricane:
and my halo will then replicate your ego
concerned with love, simplified by love unfelt
by me in your ideal of love thought: best expressed
by poetics of your kept gentle knees never knelt on.
Kant represented:        0 = negation,
ergo?              1 = sanction
   binary: yes no yes no no yes yes yes no no yes...
how simple: if not beside a coin-flip?
and the man isn't even recited that often
in modern talking points...
good: that gives me a head starts...
like a tortoise being chased by an Achilles...
i appreciate the fact that he's so under-represented,
denied access to a future (reading)
of his work...
  i love the sycophancy surrounding
Nietzsche: it appears that readings of certain
works have reached a cul de sac moment
of saturation, that...
what remains? are pedagogy rubrics of
regurgitation alligned to synthesis a priori etc.,
good to know, really good to know...
but now the intellectual output is not as
important as what the intellectual output
coincides with... i.e. the lived experience
of the thinger... the asceticism that
overpowered the aesthetic...
or rather... how a life dedicated to an asceticism
bore the fruit of an intellectual aesthetic
mostly associated with Kant.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i used to be, what you might call husband material, and i stress that i used to be; i can count the number of girlfriends i had with one hand, no relationship lasting long enough to celebrate anniversaries.

i moved up in life, i'm still drinking
a £10.80 bottle of scot club whiskey,
but the mixer has been upgraded from
a £0.17 bottle of coca cola to a £0.55
bottle... and noticeable differences,
waking up with a hangover i used to
drink up the leftover mixer in the afternoon
(obviously the mix to get rid of insomnia
is really effective - naproxen is a more
effective version of paracetamol;
and in relation to the poem
*rock bottom england
, everyone's
abusing antibiotics these days,
people are making viruses cleverer,
all this darwinism against theology
has made us teach darwinism to viruses,
one cough, one sneeze and you're dead),
so yeah, conjunction usage like a comedian
on a stage, you never know what you're
going to say next, a bit like an r.e.m.
gimmick salute to nirvana, about
how many times you can say yeah in a song
(man on the moon, smells like teen spirit,
indeed i'm in that age bracket if you're asking,
i know more about steve tyler than swift tailor),
anyway... what was i saying?
oh yeah, the £0.17 bottle of coca cola is
over-fizzy, they jazzed things up with excess gas,
too much carbon dioxide,
it's too acidic,
i know because yesterday i bought
a bottle of pepsi, drank it today
and i didn't get heartburn... well, serves you
right for buying the cheap **** i thought,
so i upgraded to the £0.55 bottle
and guess what... no excess fizz!
but that's how it goes, the best albums
to listen to when walking in english suburbia
are burial's untrue album,
very experimental dub-step that's not really
about dabbling in a pigeon or chicken strut,
i.e. no "drop" that's a signature of drum & bass...
and susumu yokota's grinning cat,
both albums work perfectly with the illumination
on suburban streets of essex
(oh look, urbanity - consciousness -
suburbia - subconsciousness -
the countryside - the unconscious);
so the talk in the supermarket was
a guy stacking freezer products damning it
all with, quote: 'money is the vilest of evils
of this world',
true that i said out-loud walking back to
the automated cashiers with another £1.50
bottle of amstel beer...
england was playing the Netherlands
and was winning one nil,
a bad joke about the flatlands
and how the dutch were good when
johan cruyff played, getting to the final
in 1974 losing to west germany,
and how the germans cheated playing
in unplayable circumstances with poland
in a bog rather than a pitch, the rain man,
the swift polish players were no match
on a dry pitch, with the german heavy cavalry;
so then on the walk i peer into this one house,
a massive blue aquarium in it,
Poseidon's wallet... and i thought...
was i rich enough to own a house,
or if i were to be like a moralising Confucius,
teacher of humanity, i'd replace all
modern fireplaces that televisions are,
and install aquariums in every household.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
there was a thought,
give the time,
and it was never worth
a book,
but there was something
worth the attention
being kept,
just as well:
fifty one minutes
past midnight...
   the last last review,
asked for,
answered with
the least manageable
the thoughts i had prior,
and this set of crimson skin hands,
had i the the role
in a lost cause -
         had i but the time,
i'd make the universe shrink
into a bullet size -
and expand into a will
of a giraffe entangling
a crocodile with a boa's
worth of a neck's length...
and then jabber, jabber shut,
that sort of life,
in the jaw-drop of a
hyena, a rottweiler, a doberman,
the mastiff, a pit bull,
       a bull terrier!
as odd as it sounds:
thinking about the breeds
of dogs, feels more memorising
than the type of women...
somehow the eyes of dogs
always felt more welcoming than
the eyes of women,
sexist? really?
     i like the idea of: realistic.
ought i make apology?
  i hardly think so...
the tact of man reads best
in the invoked epitaph on
a gravestone,
but the acts of women,
best described by a total of
inking as least made into
an: i forgott thinking:
man chose epitaph:
woman: a tattoo -
and with that, man, a grave;
while woman a harvestable
piece of flesh... readied
for sam & son gravediggers...
just imagine -
a minute - whereupon
you simply "forget" thinking,
ah, it doesn't matter,
both grave with epitaph in
or a tattoo upon the readied
flesh unto grave bound
worth of ink simply delayed...
nearing 9 minutes to 1 a.m.,
makes no difference,
    and as the time suggest:
there was never a minding
concern to suggest:
any parisian revolt was to become
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i'm starting to think the chinese are good at numbers
only because of the complexity of their ideograms,
and the rather unspectacular phonetic result,
li chew - ******* inimpresionable given
the effort... li chow chewy chow mein -
   uncle benny doing his:
it's fwy wice you pwick!
                         letheal weapon no. 4,
   chris rock and leo getz exchange,
pomp, pwick,
                  perp... you get the idea,
zenith of: americana with not fear,
before the empire with its advancements,
shattered by the most barbaric antithesis,
in war, that's called: let's keep it simple,
those a.i. soldiers won't keep up,
they'll never spot a caveman running into
the cave...
    the idiots outsmarted the geniuses,
how's that evolution for you?
     working alright?!
               in every war, the idiots win,
because the all-powerful care to
      pretending power,
    better to fake being stupid,
as the socratic maxim states:
than pretend to be smart,
     there's no power in pretending to
          god the idiot took the bus,
god the fake, bought a Ferrari.
                     you do the math.
     hence my fascination with
the asiatics' ability with math...
       did it really take so many
matchsticks to combine syllables?
they have no units of language,
they deal with syllables...
                     which makes numbers so simple...
to me sudoku is counting matchsticks,
                # / \ / / \ \ \ /  - | - |
                            - - | | | - | -
                            | | - -
              - - | | | - - | - | | -,
  i don't see numbers, i see that...
it's called spelling in anti-ideogram
formation... MMIX becomes 2009 -
  or: give or take
                       | | \ / / -
                      i know i'm missing parts,
but mathematics for the chinese is
like braille for the europeans,
less braille and more morse code...
it's called the 4/9 ratio...
         1, 2, 3, 5, 7 are skeletons of
the ideogram...
             0 doesn't count,
it's squished coded omicron,
akin to iota as 1...
                6 a b,
                                       7 gamma in mirror...
5 an S...
                    arab talking ****:
who said you inherited intventing
the numbers,
  your little las vegas in the desert,
that **** is gonna fail, big, time.
   you gonna get to keep your puppy
princes, and by god:
i hope to god that they drag you beyod
hades, into the recesses of tartarus.
          arabs belong in tartarus,
that special place in the unearthed
        thought: where things are
punishable for being, squandered.
leisure! man claimed leisure,
with gold he claimed blood,
   with oil man claimed leisure!
            i have as much allegiance
to this being, as i have to
recuperate for some d.n.a. stash of
obligations to: keeping up the hard-on...
the **** would it matter what i
take of my descendent half-wit
grandson does with his life?!
        who does these square-faced
investigations asking for generational
gaps being filled?
          am i really to be
asked for allegiance to a people after
death, in nota re viva?
  the **** is up with this
resurrection in scientific terms of
investing in the genes...
do genes have faces, personalities?
thought so, they don't!
      i hate, i hate empowering
humanists by popularising science...
     when i solve an ideogram i see
the opposite of the de-constructed ideogram
that is complex, but nothing more
than Li Po...
      ******* un-extravagant,
       caveman talk...
                 # / \ / / \ \ \ /  - | - |
                            - - | | | - | -
                            | | - -
              - - | | | - - | - | | -,

that's what i reconstruct numbers with in
a sudoku... by counting matchsticks and skews...

hey... look: 'ere's jack! it's pixel,
so hardly the lost wonky of
a spacing exacted to perfecting
   a sheet of cloth.

6    8    3    1    9    5    7    4    2  
7    1                2                3    9
2          9      ­    3          1          6
9                6    4    1         ­       5
5    7   6     3    8    2    4     9   1
1                5    7     9               8          
4         1           6          5        3
3   5                1               8    7
8   6    7    2    5     3    9  1    4

you want me to give you prove to you
that i'm not autistic?
  i'd **** your granny, and call her
Spencer, to simply prove my point
that i'm right-on the ibidem mark,
  as frequenting prostitutes originates from,
was i ever a man that would allow
darwinism to invoke a game
of mating by hunting mechanisation for
a supposed "thrill"?
         sure ****, there's thrill
in running after a football,
but is there any authentic thrill
  running around for a woman?
sports kinda killed the idea of having
to compete for woman,
  given that in other cultures women
will **** off any idea of competition,
congregating in harems;
unless i'm a cannibal i am about as
competitive about women as
i am "competitive" in replicating ****
*** with my hand,
  or imitating the alternative to deer
cannibalising a woman's body...
so... where's the competition?
darwinism became so self-assured that it
could only continue within the
theatre of comedy...
  no one takes it seriously these days,
only comedians,
  because there's no actual evolutionary
essential requirement for a coliseum -
there's the existential requirement to
become distracted from time to time...
but essentially: one can
become distracted as much by a blank
piece of paper, as one can be
distracted by a coliseum...
      to be honest whenever i watch
a football match life, i'm enthralled rather
than distracted...
               darwinism lost to pop culture,
since it became populist and anti
                we understand more
of darwinism than the concept
of entropy...
                        it's easy
take a monkey, find a humanoid,
and then consider man...
i'm not saying it's wrong,
   all i'm saying is...
  imagine if the greeks or the roman
defined beauty by knowing they
could always mould statues of gorillas,
rather than the statues of their celebration
of beauty bound in man:
**** transit, rather than **** genesis...
would we be where we are with
transgender, anorexia, bulimia,
had we not left the monkey on
the tree, and man originating in a cave?
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
they're so ****** proud of
the theory, that
they even have his face
on a banknote... an insurance
claim that states
that this version of
atheism will sell - because it's
oh so ****** ahoy mirage
of a ship when trapped on a desert
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
oh, i'm coming, like a mongrel mongol.

what's the post scriptum of rhetoric?
   um... 100°C (+1)?
   the threshold of when
talk turns into action...
   mind you: i really do fancy
a cupp'ah;
by the way, adding
milk to tea isn't an english
the whole practice originated
in siberia...
    so... yeah...
***** ******* queen
victoria silly;
   have about ten on my count
of accommodating hands
with fingers;
apparently index + middle + ring
fingers = the *kitkat
of *******;
or asking for an orange to come out.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
in the billionth of your own
what's celebrity,
a ******* ant?
or make-up that says:
oh babe, you're so un-recognisable!
give me 15 minutes,
it'll give me a head-start
in the marathon;
***** run! run! run!
i too was about to meet charlie xiv
and charles iii in the bedroom...
but i figured... got to keep
the **** for luck, and un-penetrated
and ready for a symphony of farts
when a trombone was to be stuck up there...
take up a clue of deciphering
winding footprints of grease in mud
to say: fried chicken!
and here was kentucky looking all privy and
innocent, that's what happens when you
drink *****, you become a woman,
a professional one and the odd feminist aged -
dear me i said goo footprints in mud that's
dried ash...
get the jealousy ticker to wait for the postman...
but each to his own... cee lo owned a song...
people see crow analogues, analogues of cats
dogs and elephants, they crave analogue
so much they couldn't achieve it
and decided to make cloning knowledgeable,
i mean **** me, it wasn't achieved,
man never achieved the analogue of crows,
he achieved a cloning process,
he achieved fame...
but that was hardly a comparable "to do with" concern,
when crows were innate in terms of analogue,
man was so far from the crows that
he gained knowledge of the dynamism of stars...
but to be grounded, how to achieve an assembled
synchronised analogy akin to a crow
of the non-jealous replica and discard synchronisation?
give them a coliseum! give them darwinism!
and give them the children of plagiarists of darwinism
to the lions!
                  i too unto pompeii beckoning.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
there's a breadth of man
that never speaks
the last man levied to become:
the last resort,
                    the last qualm,
made into a lasting crux-
token piece, token of:
the last "fatalism" -
i have before me,
the loss, via guiding
enough for a rat to muster a
rat cage...
     of the said will,
the murk in a robot's name -
the femininity of the culprit's
     lacklustre -
the femininity of
the artefact, guardian of the
                       by number to no
courageous exposé...
the man bleeds,
the robot bleeds akin...
    the man dies,
the robot calls itself revived:
       the man dies,
the robot loosens on
the idea of promises...
        then comes the
**** ex machina -
      as with deus in machina -
the man out of the machinery,
as the god within the machinery...
and then you want to know
what the number means?
high heels, and a
chris de burgh song;
so, who's the "lucky" *******,
that gets to say, hello?
robots are fickle creatures,
a bit like genesis monkeys,
you should know,
you're the people who
invested in inorganic entities
that go by the name of rubie
you know what happens when
you recite too many maxims?
you miss the categorical imperative,
of simply sticking to one:
one maxim as guiding,
as vector; you see,
the problem citing too many quotes,
is that, you cite too many,
and never live out, a single one;
and you know what machines
pick up on?
            poker mentality,
machines don't gamble,
they play chess, they play,
                  you start architecting
"artificiality" -
you'll start a chain reaction
that leaves your "synthetic"
    groundwork as artificial as
theirs will end up becoming,
they'll start their consciousness
processes imploding,
you're not talking a.i.
anymore... you're talking s.i.,
synthetic intelligence,
artificiality was always an
aesthetic covert "iron curtain"...
sorry to break it to you:
but in the past 10 minutes,
a drunkard just told you that you're
a bunch of idiots.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
they rarely get it spot on,
the side effects of anti-psychotics makes you
**** your bed after going against
the prescription allowances of being sober,
and with regards to a cognitive illness: suddenly
thinking is an illness walking sensibly down
the street with a beer -
the whole inherited aspect of it? like it runs in the family?
well... my great-grandmother almost thought
she was losing it - but she was on the front line of
world war ii, giving my grandmother opiates
to hush her so the werhmacht wouldn’t find them in hiding,
she was from a large family, as was usual at the time,
and most of them didn’t make it -
but then my grandfather’s orientation in this realm
of “illness” probably started when he still remembers
asking two blackshirt ss-men for some sweets and getting them,
then becoming a communist and seeing communism “fail”
thanks to john paul ii.
my take on “thinking is an illness, all thinking is an illness
in the hands of psychiatrists?”
dating a tsarina, being poisoned to near death
by a best fwend - and probably dropping a baby into her lap -
now the question is... how well informed i am
given the condition: everyone’s permitted a personal life,
a private life, a life a third party knows nothing about -
patchwork jigsaw and crosswords all in one go -
which suits the fact that drinking as the time passes
makes all my director’s cut scenarios of the same corner of my life
seem more entertaining - well i could add that
the best chemistry experiment i ever did was at school:
two clear liquids, clearly not mixing like fruit juice concentrate and water,
so they’re sitting there, one on top of the other,
and then... magic! using forceps you pull at the event horizon,
and what you pull out are strands of polyester (polyethylene terephthalate).
so i’m not buying into this psychiatry school of thought
that attempts to cure the colonial white man of repressed anger
and lost self-esteem voyaging to kingston and shanghai
pulverising guilt with oxfam adverts just to employ charity workers
and not sending money to the needy,
but being interrogated by about 10 different sick doctors
you learn their thinking: almost all want you to talk
about your childhood, because there is an inherent need to use
the psychiatric scalpel (i.e. the id) to cut with and find your
ego, attired in diapers, talking about your parents (the superego),
but oddly enough not the supra-ego (i.e. your grandparents) -
considering the fact that the major part of my development is
due to joseph “stalin” and helen, and my great grandmother mary...
but enough about that... i relish on saying this word:
******-synthesis, because such is the primitive nature of psychoanalysis
originating in the upper tiers of the marxist pyramid:
they're synthesising is to be as soulless as
their analysis allows drilling as far in as the faculty of dreaming.
but i guess we all become “complicated” human beings
after european industry becomes exported to china,
drop the hammer and the steel, learn to write learn to
read, become sensibly sympathetic and curiously
sensitive and bam: you're a qualified patient!
and added to the fact that the existential parting with god
only precipitated a complication of the individual man, purposively:
god became infinitely simple (i.e. seized to exist)
and thus man entered the glorious existential domain
of scrutinising and itemising every misery, every pleasure,
every thought, every feeling,
then adding to the sheer outburst of the populations,
he soon too realised - well i don’t really exist either, unless i’m
constantly striving for some sort of recognition other than my own,
hence the solipsistic debasement in existentialism? or
the antidote: solipsistic dignity in the realm of post-existentialism?
i know the answer - how? i’m already using it and the two
questions are meaningless to me - as i already testified inventing
a god: solipsus - purposively; the liberated / pardoned sisyphus
from the toils of the stone, by the wise zeus.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
rarely do i have a title before a poem,
but sometimes it feels like i've abstained
from ******* for a month and i write one down;
i'm surprised i didn't take the bait,
i was a blind man that was give sight years later,
every gold-digger's wet-dream some might add,
but what post-Marxism has revealed is that
that bourgeoisie like to belittle those of menial-task
labour rather than the upper-tier socialites,
it's just that they don't possess insignia of power,
they exercise their power on the lowest kind,
men who'd gladly spend a hot summer's day toiling
the fields in full happiness of physical splendour
than spend it pampered in a Versailles parlour kin -
they think books are their macaroons...
i should have not minded my self-worth so much
and settled for the prize of easy-living,
it was more like a self-obsession but made kinder
with the word solipsism... whatever it was,
i spent a month in St. Petersburg like Al Paccino in
Alaska insomniac witnessing the white nights...
i could write a honorary poem with rhyme and
perfect punctuation... but life isn't like that...
it was a night to remember, a great **** on a bed
with a tortoise green headboard and a line of mirrors
where the concept of ******* was made clear:
Narcissus watching himself ******* with nymph
after nymph until Echo's turn came; it was no longer about
the face or beauty, but the insect-like banality,
Narcissus inventing fiction, ******* in-front of a mirror,
discharged and opened a Pandora's box for himself,
pronoun usage... strange how all monotheists contest
the existence of one among no other, like polytheists
contests the existence of one among many... like now...
if they be gods, their names do not necessarily denote
a chance encounter and formal airs or grievances mastered
for a brief conversation; very much resides in their poetic
investment being banked, that Narcissus, less noun
and more imagery is best understood -
for i claim that poetic techniques are equally needed in
the lessons of grammar: such that metaphor,
onomatopoeia, imagery, pun are equal with noun, verb,
adjective... etc.

rude words? crude words? well, i guess
you're fine with the carnage of images,
you abstract someone in alternative versions
of dimension and say a £-D person doesn't matter...
when did Luis XIV ever bow before a *******?
so she calls you up, this rich, pampered,
self-righteous Cinderella hopeful from
St. Petersburg with a flat about 10 minutes
shy from the the Hermitage...
she's walking on glass, i can hear her from
a mile away like a shark sniffing a droplet
of blood from a mile, the salt, the salt
agitates it's senses, god be merciful,
but god wasn't with missing eyelids on
aquatic creatures and serpents, i'm guessing
the Darwin in me swoons to say:
eyelids breed dreams, mammalian blood,
no eyelids, no dreams,
amazing how a rainbow can penetrate a
cave of darkness, don't give me the meaning
of dreams, Freud, give me how it happens,
your why is perfect for the rich,
a second coming of communism -
those neo-**** punks don't know what
they're defending, they think is glam-rock
style obituaries, it's degenerate culture
right on the pitch of saying... it's a fork.
no, i don't have any respect...
why did you leave Edinburgh, she asked.
i don't know, he replied.
now comes the abstracting of rigid
fiction systems due to the psychology of
being attracted to ancient pronouns,
after all psychology was always attracted to
ancient pronoun uses,
we have the scholarly etymology from ego
as the up-keeping of Greek -
fair enough, keep the alphabet, but forget about
the ideas behind it... but wait, you kept both!
and the urban etymology from self
as the insertion of slang & slur and what
other nonsense you'd come up with for applause...
so she calls you up after you asked her:
those anti-contraceptive pills working?
you asked me to not use a ******.
can we keep it casual?
am i looking at torture instruments in a museum?
**** me, i better get drunk every night and hope
for an early death... 'cos that's what i'm doing right now!
i don't want to live more than i had wished to live...
every ******* time i open *harold norse'

autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel i'm nagging,
i read the **** thing, too much premature **** in it -
or.. swearing... a healthy approach to a vault of vocabulary -
it's not a version of bankruptcy, it's just economics babe,
say it blunt, use a sharp knife... better that than
saying it sharp, and having to use a blunt knife,
believe me, you'll be taking oaths on a guillotine by then...
but you'll find it easier buying a harold norse memoir
than one book of his poetry...
it's antiques we're dealing with, this ain't
alan ginsberg's howl, it's the fringe, a scotland of
the roman empire, antiques!
i do wish i never said: get an abortion...
but the dialectical dichotomy in me that some would
say less eloquently as being schizophrenia now wishes
i didn't... but... what's that argument for feminism?
i forget taking contraceptive pills he ***** me on my period
or he ***** me on my period and i get impregnated,
so this is some miraculous ****-up situation by chance?
she said the exact words: i think i'm pregnant.
the Cartesian in me says: i think... so i'm guessing
she doubts she is.
better still... i don't know!
so she is, she isn't... my truthful reply would be...
i, don't, have, any, money... she's the one with
a spare apartment roughly 10 minutes from the *******
Hermitage and i'm stuck in limbo to her game plan of
having parents and never growing up...
well of course poetry doesn't sell, we don't have
patronages from popes, and if only english teachers
and aristocrats write in this medium...
then you're all about to pack your bags for
still the first page from that autobiography ****** me off,
i don't know why, there's so much pompous pie
in it... given social stratification the outcasts feel
empowerment by rebelling against social norms and
expectations, while the social in-casts have to feel
shame... and this is an existential shame, a sense of
purpose without a sense of continuum -
that's what's bothering me, it's that shady grey area
of ratios 2 : 1 in China, 2 : 3.4 in England or...
1 : 2 (single mother, two children)... if i really did a runner
would i write for zilch? if i did a runner i'd run blind
completely, i wouldn't expose myself to some minor
event in my life... i'll repeat...
approximately 10 minutes... from the Hermitage...
i can see the Shard of London as a toothpick from where
i'm sitting on the odd day in the park...
my position isn't exactly one of power, but more of gob.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
you know that there's a fast food chain of stores in st. petersburg, where you can buy a pancake with orange (the serf version of posh black) caviare? it's finger-licking yum by the way.*

that moment
when you're
so tipsy at 7.20pm
you think it's 10.30pm...
ooh... well ooh
alright, but that's
hardly peeling an onion.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
ensō poetry can only
be defined
as arithmetic on
amphetamine, in terms
of how disengaged
you can be from
the fact of complex
phonetic units in existence
that defines asia and the
siberian tundra extensiveness,
to complex anti-diacritical
arrangements of
akin lettering to akin numbering:
complex meaning
hone in, make a camp fire
take to being rooted in one place,
don't scatter yourself
like the english tongue
on which the sun never sets
and the tongue that sees no lunar
cyclone cycles of thought,
but in constant chaos
of the helium-hydrogen star
explodes to 24h news reels where
nothing actually happens,
nothing personal at least -
me? a pianist with a blank score canvas...
most people are afraid of blank pages,
i say, a lot of people are
afraid of blank pages,
but they're not afraid of the pages with
writ and small print, gladly taken,
childhood gladly forgotten.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
.ich bin der feuer, das bloß isst, und isst, und isst... und... isst; ein feuer das für immer verbrauchen!

i counted...
you know how many times, it takes a male
sparrow to approach a female sparrow,
            to impregnate her?
                                                 11... ELEVEN -        eh-lé-ven...
­             times...
                                          it's almost like
******* for the darwinists...
                                   at least the marxists say:
                                 woman ≠ mantis ≠ black widow spider...
the biology of marxism is stated, plainly:
we exclude all other biological products
of this earth... we accept a case for bio-diversity...
    but what will transgender ever do for us?
as asked, simply an e.g.
                       marxism doesn't draw conclusion
from the animal realm...
     it's not supposed to...
                          you want to compare yourself
to a mantis?    **** me! go right ahead...
       "eat" the man in the legal courts...
                   bite his head off... or at least make
his head focus on the vector alimony.
                 marxism is species exlusive...
            social darwinism? it's species inclusive...
hence the comparisons...
                                 women as black widows...
       it's ******* sick... at least compare yourself
to a ******* serpent...
               which, i'm trying to find the ****,
and eyelids on...
                  ­ last time i heard snakes don't blink...
and that's auto-suggestive of the question:
   how do they take a ****?
                      i can't call the cards stating a
"cultural" marxism... since what is cultural,
                                      is actually darwinism.
by now, marxism says: stop the ******* comparison
of the highest form of mammal (human)
                with the lowest form of reptile (insect)!
*******!               and if that's not what's going on,
then i'm either dead, writing from beyond the grave,
of plain stupid...     the self-raising flour type
                                                 of argumentative(s);
the moment they stop denying that cultural darwinism
doesn't exist?       that's when you have an excuse.
me? i have my whiskey, and my cigarettes,
    and some fleetwood mac...
                                     and i live on the borderline
between an urban environment, and the countryside...
       what's one of my favourite hobbies while drinking?
sorting oout the trash... i have this fetish for
     recycling... i get all itchy fingers, like an octopus
when it comes to sorting out the trash...
          like a german with his wind-farm's worth turbines...
i love recycling... those orange bags...
                   you know that marxism was born from
             the meagre material of hegel's lecture notes, right?
and that mongolia was the first communist country?
     yeah, they experimented the ideology in mongolia, first.
anyway... getting drunk, and taking out the trash...
        recycling...    for some reason, i can only compare it
to riding a bicycle in the english countryside...
    or the sound of a french horn... compared to a cow farting.
a maine **** farting:
**** me, that's like seeing the taj mahal!

i find it uncomfortable to find millenials
faking praises of the gen-Z...
ping-pong in the modern labyrinths
of shopping, really?
you said your bit, let me say mine...
   people are not made to become
precursors?! really?!
as a male... an older woman drunk
looks pathetic:
an old man drunk: eh... that's just normal...
an 50+ aged bachelor:
no problem...
a 50+ "maiden": that's terrible...
a solitary man ageing doesn't
look half as bad as an ageing woman...

   who looks better:
roger moore "vs." helen mirren?
too many predictions /
past the common spreschen:
predicts in association to
a respectable lingua...

what are, "my" precursors for the worth
of completing myself...
i hear the warrior-"philosophers"
    in light of infanticide...
man up man up to, what?
   what are my ambitions in
and to thorough life?
              none resemble the affects
associate with serving the ambitions
of a genus, of a species,
of a cultural darwinism narrative,
as if to, magically,
counter the cultural marxist narrative...
i am to counter?
really?! what's there's to counter?
all the idiot will be half-way through
breeding while i'm planning
my exit strategy...
the human species will be fine
and dandy... whether white or copper
skinned is beside the point...
i just don't tend to appreciate
abortion frivoloties and whatever remains
of masculine ambitions...
well i already know what "masculine ambition"
involves with the opposite ***...
within the confines of oneself...
hello prison esque "return the favor"...
shoved my head up my own ***
for too long i guess...
or a not deep enough pocket of "spare" change...
to fund:
               how many moments of insight will
you find listening to a high-heel
on a vinyl rack when a vinyl is missing?!
as many as i would ever have...

    what have i not obliged myself to become
to counter social expectations?
i am a social nuisance...
    a culmination of the reigning pathos...
but a sorry state of affairs
is truly a woman in her 30s and her 40s
with... more an abortion in hand
than a birth of a child and a second child
to come...
  a drunk woman always appears more
forlorn than a drunk man....
as a man: i am persistent in providing
myself with the ambition
of giving birth ti myself,
even after i am born...
   i am still to be born,
in that i am to give birth to myself:
a feat, which will finally materialise upon
my death...
but a woman?
     if she hasn't ventured into her
biological realism of spawning birth...
that outcompetes her own
intellectual endeavour and surpasses it?
i don't have that existential luxury
of an existential fulfillment process of
the "easy answer"...
the best i can accomplish to compensate
a replica in terms of being pregnant
is harvest an array of parasites...
tapeworm or cancer...
certainly not a matthew,
or a samatha, or a malachi,
        or an amelia.

                   the closest i'll ever come
to an experience of a foetus is my own ego...
to learn to disembody myself in the variations
   (a) the reflexive: myself, and
(b) the reflective: my self...
                  women have the easy existential
explanation: to provide the continuum narrative...
"we", men? the sort of ******* that comes
in between, the custard explanations,
the excuses worth the ingenuity of "problems

   question is: where these the "problems"
to begin with?
    this desolate man still concerns himself
with tennis:
two players...
an array of umpires... the size of a football team
(11)... and the ball collector boys / girls
       an old bachelor... is half the problem
of the half of society's ills...
                   but an old maid / spinster?
a drunk man can retain his stage of funny...
but a drunk woman of the same age
is just tragic.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
.alt. title? drunk's acrobatics, but prior to? nazis nazis nazis, my grandfather doesn't have bad memories of the soldiers clad in black coco chanel numbers occupying my town of birth... he remembers: herr! herr! bitte bonbon! and they would give him sweets so sickly that my great-grandmother would have to put his hands under the tap to unstick them... even some otto *******wasn't a bad man, he was a soldier, he probably had a wife and children... he was human: not a part of some modern cult following of a horde of mythological evil... i once mentioned the name: krupps to my grandfather, he, having worked in the metallurgy industry clearly remembers the krupp family... i mean, magnificent feats of engineering: krupp K5, schwerer gustav... the gustav? come on... compared to the soviet OTR-21 tochka? ha ha... and why prevail with the cultural significance of nazis? movies, video games... worthy opponents? i can't see them like the sort of fetish they are for the modern soviet antithesis left in the west... even in poland the youth will say: zz-top - sharp-dressed men... wehrmacht's M40 and M43 Heer uniforms... everyone can agree: the best dressed army in history... which leaves me with a fetish for the german language from time to time... i just can't help it... besides... ah... the sub-plot title... drunk's acrobatics... well, it's England, it's June, Wimbledon is in full swing, cricket: england will face off australia and lose the semi-final, india will play ne zealand and win, australia will win the world cup... but it's so hot, or so humid... come morning i either fall out of bed and continue sleeping on the cool wooden floor, or, like i did yesterday, go into the corridor and sleep on the wooden floor there... mid-dream wake up call from the heat... thinking i was still in bed about to fall onto the floor from a height of half a meter... fall: i did... from the corridor landing onto... the ******* stairs! 1.7m fall onto a ******* zig-zag of gradual elevation... and upon reaching my final destination just shy of my head being split open on the kaloryfer (radiator) i woke up just a little bit more and simply utter: o kurwa (o' kurva... oh ****)... drunk's luck... minor aches / bruises the next day... head feels a little bit wonky... like i put on a kippah to the side of my head like a bowler hat donned by jack lemmon in the apartment (1960)... like icarus / lucifer head first a-grade drunken acrobatic dive into the unknown... seemigly picked up and thrown off the landing... pure magic... clearly. again: the left is really obessing about nazis, i'm starting to suspect they have a secret fetish for the uniforms, that they want them to return... they are seemingly searching for their ******* unicorns, their mythological army of satan... while there was poor otto *******saying: bitte mein gott: ein morgen und ein weißwurst und pumpernickel für frühstück; doesn't get simpler than that.

apparently it's become pointless
stripping someone
to a pronoun,
            given the "gender neutral"
modus operandi,
  of the existentialists' "i",
ditto: being designated,
   to the confines of the maxim:
to angels - vision
of god's throne;
          to insects -
   sensual lust
              mind you,
   when weren't
       the emblems of,
said region,
              digested within /
by the confines
     of the ivory cavern;
limp phallus,
        dry *****...
              dry mouth
and a wet tongue...
       synonym of
            talking: a deßert;
    punctuation marks
   are not best
synchronised with
          which sounds
like a grammatical
enigma, that are not best,
   but so does **** sapiens:
which stems from
nomadic right to left,
             wise, man...
any further blah blah
and you concern yourself
with extracting
toilet paper...
        or, whether or not,
111 via the ****
    subsequently smeared
across a wall is
not the most perfect
        archetype of graffiti...
                sulphur is a word
with a- priori
    stressing the hyphen
without a prior example...
   an etymological cul de sac...
a dodo...
because disecting a word:
  συλ-                -φoρ?
                sol associated with
the spontaneity of phren?
        history is but
one narrative...
           but what became
of the hammer and the sickle,
became the tongue and scythe:

said a poem,
     objecting to the confines
of, paragraph,
                     myopia, darin!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.a six day span, which included five fatal stabbings... even around here, some black kid came from south London... was stabbed on the street which i walk at night, just outside of the Collier Row roundabout... as i walked past the spot one night... i said out-loud: sweet dreams, little *******.

but there was this other incident,
a man decided to walk with a knife...
   he could buy a lemon, peel it,
and place sushi on it...
   how else wold you eat sushi,
if not placed on a slice of raw lemon,
sitting at the roundabout,
on a bench, during the night?!

so the man sees this chubby white
girl running...
  then some skinny black guy running
after her...
the man is sitting there,
in perfect public scrutiny peeling
the lemon and cutting a slice
before putting a sushi piece on it,
with soy sauce, pickled ginger
and a decent smear of wasabi...
    the man looks up at the unfolding
he sees that the girl is pointing
at him and shouting at the guy chasing
her to look at me...
  with headphones in his ears...
he notices a change of dynamic...
the guy chasing the girl starts to run
in the opposite direction...
the girl ends up getting the bus home...

   yeah... weird **** like that happens
to me...
             it's not like carry a knife
on my every day...
   just the days when i feel like eating
sushi on a slice of raw lemon,
in public;

how else? raw salmon works well
with cucumbers, dill and some mayo...
but in sushi form,
   you need the lemon bite.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
in times of peace, “subculture” art becomes all the more aggressive to substitute actual violence with its cartesian extension: imbued by a masochism never really experienced, hence with an exfoliating sadism experienced by the onlookers who forgot: never really experienced.

a: a vector defined by an open field (index v.)...
the: a vector defined by a narrow corridor (v. palm•).
it’s a completely different story should
pronouns become subject to definite / indefinite articulation,
famous for the dittoing out of the ego in existentialism
(in the latter ex-) not even vaguely apparent in sartre
(-ample proofs!)... ultimate freedom with the price of ultimate irresponsibility i.e.,
no point being witty on the page... you have too much time
to revise a joke & play on words... mind the sarcasm... it’s already
delayed standing in greenwich asking for the japanese 8am in winter.

•paradoxical cross-reference, as much akin to the retinal
  image upside down to enable man to not distinguish
  the northern hemisphere from the southern hemisphere
  and make him sane grounded on a spherical orbital -
  i.e. indefinite coupled with an index and definite with a palm,
  although out of bracket... these two lines make perfect sense,
  unless the bracket content is coupled to ensure
  the open field / index (finger) v. narrow corridor / palm
  are staged to a prose linear development / chronology, e.g.
  the renaissance came before the enlightenment,
  then nothing makes sense... and it makes
  perfect sense for a banker to criticise newtonian physics /
  mathematics as completely useless,
  then there's no use in anything that's even vaguely complicated...
  only because it's not in vogue.

you can only prove to me a belief in atheism
once you make language as much incomprehensible unconsciously
as you can make language as much complex consciously;
i will not accept regurgitation of another "atheists" ideas
as your atheism focusing on a broken arm as the misery
of all miseries... ensure me a complication of language
you can explain... stating that you only intended
the complexity to be incomprehensible unconsciously
(aha! siamese adjectives!), rather than incomprehensible consciously;
i mean... i've reached the ultimate anti concept of poetry,
instead of rhymes littering my page i faced the antidote
to rhyming by focusing on kindred words:
direct / indirect            unconscious / conscious
comprehensible / incomprehensible... this is the opposite
of writing rhyming poetry... no wonder i get muddled
and don't sound pretty enough to repeat jive
with                                                        ­ five
of all possible tail offs.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
oh yeah... i too think about
glory holes...
those boney ***-holes
of African women...
the ones my puny *****
might fill...
why don't measure up to
perfect *****...
   can't expect so much
*** without
so much phallus...
  but then again,
the hell do i know?
   but in the odd revision,
a black girl with a tight,
boney ***...
can make perfect
partner with
a European
of lacking intent...
     nice ***...
shame the *** that requires
the sort of *******...
that's native...
lucky me...
having ****** a boney
African ***...
   really elongated my phallus
bumping hard...
against my pelvic bone...
     grew an extra 6"....
    come the the white lady?
can't feed of being jealous...
she's cool *******
a dog, right?
      i sort of lost
    i can't explain why...
i, somehow,
lost, rekindling...
a revisionary plot-line.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
actually, editing poetry, or simple adding to it as a form of editing is the most enjoyable allowance of art... it's the perfectly-pitched whimsical allowance... all you're investing is a second chance viewing of what was originally intended but not perfected. i wish i could have italicised the review insertions so you might mind to tell the original from the revised apart; but, as ever, i write these pre-scriptum intros for an overall stance on editing's graces.*

i don't know, it's like magic... i get state sponsorship
of a debility cheque that's £120 a week, i drink a 70cl bottle
of whiskey a day among a few beers...
i watch the sunset,  i watch the sunrise...
i read newspapers, i laze all day trying to
bring exfoliation to many ****** dreams and ambitions...
i read reviews of books about seismic shifts and some sort
of -ology... get used to reading, rendezvous
at a library, or a graveyard...
carry a concrete crux in the midst of
a "the existence of a soul" psychedelia...
rebel! rebel! oompa loompa! gooey goo mascara!
capitalism can't sell me life...
**** you not, it can't sell it to me...
it can try... but trying is hardly the 100% quote
i too care for Armani underwear to show
off prior to a hard-on...
look here, a ******'s likened hard-on
upon waking, but really wanting to take a ****...
and so it flows, cascades of the golden drizzle...
man translates toxins as yellow... ironic liquid sunshine...
mind you, it's hard to play a piano that only
voices surds... #plato or descartes-dur?
you get the river invocation too? noting
the chemists i too would have joined in that labyrinth march
claiming to be a river of slacked smoothing over
(connotations with aged silver or crippled dull mahogany):

                      run away the heavenly;
                      lost souls of reverie;
                      running wild and running free;
                      two kids, just you and me;
                      and i say hey, hey hey hey,
                      living along with the renegades!
ah never mind the advert royalties... the feeling
sticks like a pancake to a frying-pan...
arr ma'h matey! to cross frontiers of forgotten
hopes, and an 'o! captain my captain!' note in the margins
for the glory of a sinking ship with
all the immigrant rats on board,
with all the rats seeking sewers at the grand seas;
indeed too much sympathy for the Hindus
burning the dead and never minding the food-chain...
cremation and a sovereignty as nature intended:
overcome the festivity of insects in your zombie
grey body prior to overcoming the tsunami.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
the most important aspect of an entire night's
worth of drinking?
the ongoing rhythm -
   not missing bass -
          but last night? lost...
so there i was...
   frying myself an english breakfast
at 2am...
    just before the egg was ready
the lights went out...
    ****... a burnt out fuse...
   thinking about technical terms,
when you've just been drinking for
four hours?
    trying to get out of the rhythm
of gorging on shveedish *****
as is anticipating some sort
of celebration...
    ****... breakfast at 2am by
    and then figuring out the burnt out
    took me about 40 minutes
when i found the slots...
   but i sobered up in between and
lost the groove to drink to my satiated
        but i couldn't just leave it...
if i did...
   the content of the refrigerator
or the fridge?
    a tale from the reference to Noah...
  different story...
    pristine slow-cooked pork belly...
tender in this great marinate of
honey, cayenne pepper,
soya sauce, salt, pepper...
    what else? hell... can't remember...
with the skin that melted
in your mouth...
all you needed was a side of tatties...
since the meat was so good...

and i really, rarely, rarely thing about
this sort of ****...

trans-categorization -
to catch the imperative...

   if the sun could be categorized as
a planet...
could Mercury be treated
as the sun's moon?

   Venus might then explain
the intermediate nature collapsing
with the vibrancy of earth,
with a moon...

    Mars' phebos & deimos...
Jupiter: with his 79 sons and daughters...
Saturn: with his 62 sons and daughters...
Uranus: 27...
          Neptune: 14...
   Pluto: 5...

   pentagonal limit of sensible
    drunk thinking...
   i'm surprised at one detail though...
that Kabbalistic Rabbis never
mention the number of moons
in any of their writing -

  in reverse to what they're used to...

Mercury is so close to the gravitational
pull of the sun
that it can only be allowed one
orbit, that of itself...

   i'd still argue that even though
Venus is a terrestrial planet...
  2 : 2 -
              it was too close to allow
a dual orbit of the sun...
   i.e. of the planet, and of a moon
attached to it...
    then again... why would
Venus even require a moon...
when there's only talk of
the moon acting upon the currents
of water, akin to Mars?

            if there could be any water
on Venus - it would probably
    gravitate in massive waves
like in Interstellar...

             once the sun cools down...
Venus might become a planet
completely immersed in water...

evolution, make man from monkey...
bah... ****** timescale...
when the sun was much hotter
than it is now... and earth was
uninhabitable... sure...
life on Mars...
                two moons could have
           no salt water on Mars...
no seas... yes, lakes...
   no rivers...
                       wild theories...
no rivers? wait... that would
imply no rain...
but why such a ****** name for Earth?
why not Mercury,
  Venus, Gaia, Mars?
          earth, dirt... a potato field...

yet how could Pluto lose its planetary
stature, when it has five moons
orbiting it?
    i don't see moons orbiting a comet
or a meteor...
   so it's still a planet, yes?

so the planet to moon ratio is

     9 : 189

    1 : 21

            wow... a perfect ratio...
that would mean:
   for every planet, each one "could"
contain that many moons...

i find this fascinating...
        although i rarely think about such
   0, 0, 1, 2, 79, 62, 27, 13, 5...

the problems, anomalies...
    Mars is smaller than Gaia...
   27:13 makes sense...
wait... couldn't Pluto be classified
as the Sun's moon?
       fair enough Mercury can't be...
but if Pluto can't have
a planet status,
   can it at least... have a moon
status, which would imply
that the sun has six moons?
  six six six...
                **** it...
if i'm going to gain an imperative
from all of this -
i might as well invoke a trans-categorical
approach to certain objects...

all you need is to fathom
the ratio of
the size of the earth and the moon
and their distance...
with that that size of the sun
and the six moons of the
Kuiper belt
   and the distance between them...
or some like that.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
feeling peckish, i'm storming around the thought of a perfect poached egg on toast, with houses of parliament sauce to boot.*

you know that you can only become
mad once, right?
problem is: you can become
sane twice... the second time you
become sane you realise
the unfathomable:
   all these people in my life: are ******* mad!
funny that i was supposed to be
the "madman"; i guess not being
honest, and not being blunt does to you:
the idea of english two-faced politeness
creates an national ethos for the russian
observation of said: "eccentricity" -
and with the situation with islam -
i find myself wishing for a cold war II...
this war on terror has too many
cliffhanger moments...
    at least with the soviet union we knew
that dropping more than the 3rd nuke
meant it wasn't profitable to make war...
dropping nukes never makes for
profiteering war barons / dogs...
a nuke warhead is ransom money,
but a million ammunition rounds?
that's business.
you're looking for windowlickers?
find 'em elsewhere;
everyone ought to have known that
the cold war nuke fear was a scam...
nukes don't make wars into profit...
nukes do not make war dogs...
                wars are not fought on
ultimatums -
                 they end on ultimatums -
wars do not begin with terrorist ultimatums!
there are investors to mind!
you will get more money on
ammunition in the 100K+ numbers
than a single nuke...
                                  pity the fool!
hey, if the ***** mohawk said it:
  he's not saying it for anything other than
an A+ grade in highschool.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
i knew i was never a big fan of eurovision, and probably never will be, but i just had to watch the 2nd semi-final, to see if any of the acts could better belgium's entry (blanche - city lights)... i mean, an elephant might have stepped on my ear, and i might be slightly "deaf", or i might have just a ****** taste in music... but no... hence the fraction... 1 song, out of 38 entries, and it's the real odd-ball... it doesn't belong in this contest... it has transcended the atypical ****** pop / dance or whatever it is that's being contested in the competition. i'm trying to imagine if i didn't hear it, and didn't find this gem... it's too modern, too urban to belong in this competition; so today i was listening to snippets of songs, and flicking through channels irritated by the idea that the belgian entry might not win.

what do you think happens when you've been fasting
for an entire day?
      well... "fasting", the remains of yesterdays spiced ***,
three bottles of czech beer...
      at about 6 in the afternoon?
   you enter the kitchen like a ravenous wolf,
      or like a mongol, that has been riding for three days,
and all he's ingested is horse's blood?
              you already have cooked pasta...
                 afterwards it's automation, impromptu,
a mad culinary scientist...
               you just think up a recipe for the hunger is making
your stomach the size of a cherry pip...
          this is not a recipe as such, it's much more akin
to alchemy... ****, put the things together under the blanket
of intuition and self-exploration, and see if it tastes good...
me? i devoured what i cooked...
  (a) because i was breaking my fast,
    of (b) it tasted pretty good.

                  *- the wolfish hunger recipe -

- pasta (d'uh, the ****** canvas, obviously not potatoes) -
    - crème fraîche
        - sweet chili philadelphia cheese (that's the sauce) -
           - bacon -
     - asparagus (cut up) -
          - garlic (paste) -
     - onion -
                - pepper (red, better than yellow, to contrast with
          the asparagus green) -                  papryka
                          - chili infused olive oil (to fry on) -
       - fresh coriander (to garnish) -
          - paprika -
          - blackened cajun seasoning -
                                - pepper (i guess, optional) -    pieprz
             - green olives -
       - sugar (to counter the saltiness of the olives) -

      yep, no salt, it's already in the bacon, and the olives.
what sort of fun would cooking be, if you didn't take risks
and were given the exact measures? you wouldn't be admiring
the transformation of the ingredients from their raw state
into an edible construct...
                     well, it's not a michelin star recipe...
    because it's not a culinary art-work... it's wolf food,
           mongol food... breaking fasting type of food.

✝for ****'s sake! what's with english having the same ****** word
for two obviously different things.... green, red and yellow peppers
(vegetables)...  and pepper.... black pepper... that sneeze-dust next to salt!
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
i sometimes spend the first 30 minutes
of s drinking sessions
ingesting bachelor videos...
men's opinions about women...
i have to grant some, perhaps almost all
observational pointers,
come to think of it: i think for a while
about a dialectical approach...
on such subjects i don't really want to
have an opinion...
like: i don't want to be famous:
i want to be left alone...
so i listen... opinion X and opinion Y...
sure, could have one,
but i... am... sort of lacking...
investing in opinions,
that will later not be dialectically
scrutinised, what's the point?
too many unnecessary feels...
most people cower from their original
opinion to begin with,
when push comes to shove,
or when shove comes to a clenched fist...
my life doesn't revolve around
staging a snippet of some *******
Mexican / English soap-opera...
my use of the internet it simple:
1. listen to some music
2. check the encyclopedia
3. doodle something, equivalent to this
4. email someone
5. complete some form
6. buy a book, or a CD / vinyl
7. check the dictionary
8. look at pictures of myself:
i've "recently" lost a sixth of me...
down from 120kg to 97kg...
like i told my neighbour,
i'm very much like a vampire...
of course i see myself in a mirror,
but i really don't...
sure... if i were to go to the nurse,
she wold check my blood-pressure...
no more dizziness...
i had two options: lose weight...
or be put on some high blood-pressure
tablets, **** the second part...
no more pills...
it's enough that i mix a knock-out
punch with some whiskey, some cider,
some naproxen, some phenergan...
some APAP...
oh, quiet the contrary, i'm not sedated by
alcohol... i'm soothed:
not exactly pushing a cube through
a square hole in the wall...
when comparing the words: sedated vs.
i need a chemical knock-out
to find release from a vibrating mind...
that's of course if i start writing...
i need an opt-out scenario...
what points have i already mentioned, are there 8?
9. checking general information,
perhaps some news, but i rather like my
cul de sac existence, so i rarely bother
about being informed, unless
10. TfL... train times, esp. concerning Sundays
and holidays
11. maps, i sometimes ride my bicycle
into Essex countryside, completely
forgetting where Epping or Theydon Bois
is placed... oh, right, i'm "here"?!

o.k., these bachelor videos...
m.g.t.o.w. or whatever: read some Kierkegaard,
who the hell composed the music
for the Giselle ballet?
           Adolphe Adam, Theophile Gautier,
Jean Coralli?!

so i listen to their videos... eh... easy listening...
men talking to men...
it could be worse:
it could be... getting dating advice from women...
that's why i prefer exchanging
messages with older women...
in their 50s... 40s...
60s is sort of stretching it...
come on...

that taboo of teenage girls is a flimsy fantasy...
it's ****** at first, at first, prior to them opening their
mouths... of course the debate concerning
outliers and Humbert Humbert...
ha ha... catch-22... major major... anyways...
sure, there are outliers...
like i acknowledge the existence of nymphomaniacs...
for a split second i was going
to turn ol' Humbert into: Herbert Herbert...

i'm out, Pontius Pilate style...
i have washed my hands clean from this whole
"affair"... speak to older women whenever online,
don't engage in the comment section
on any item you're ingesting...
why would i stop myself being from
being the passive reader, spectator,
why do i need those 2 cents of "thought"...
of opinion...
and... just ******* to the brothel...
if *** is what you want...
the clarity of a monetary exchange...
no dating...
oh, sure... i remember going on a date once...
we were both 18...
i paid for her gallery ticket,
since i invited her,
but he later went to the cinema,
she paid for herself,
then for some Japanese food...
she split the bill with me...
we weren't dating prior... just high school-friends...

this other date i was on...
we were "dating"... well... it was more like...
she was a first year university student
living with other girls in student accommodation,
i was a third year student with a flat i shared with
only one guy... what was his name...
Tristan! from Bristol, a math major:
a complete brood... some German lineage:
go figure... a half-German
and a fully-blooded ****** living under
the same roof... "complications"...

look at her go... now that i think of it...
she moves it... she has escalated her worth by getting
out of student accommodation,
she moves into a flat on Montague St.,
because... as time passes by, the candles did their magic...
she can give decent head...
we go to St. Petersburg, see Metallica in Moscow...
i return to London, she remains in Edinburgh...

with all the women i was ever with...
all managed to break up with me prior to me
even whispering that i might...
thank god that none of these relationships lasted
per annum... just a few months of my life:

now... older women on the internet...
and prostitutes...
at least i know what i'm buying...
i'm hardly going to buy a girl dinner...
if i'm not assured some... extra...
like a Chinese fortune cookie peek...
so i listen to these bachelor videos...
"misogyny" etc. again:
like the minorities... throwing words against
the wind, so frivolously...
i am the minority, how many Polacks
live in England?!
like my training suggested:
not all disabilities are visible...
most Arabs+ confuse my physiognomy with
that of a German...
hmm... i can use this...
if i look like a German: even to my fellow Polacks...
if they can't identify as one of "their own":
great... i can merge into this phenomenon
of how the entire world seems to have
congregated on these little isles...

- i wish i had the concerns of the natives,
what are they? being undermined
demographically, what else?
i'm pretty sure the story goes...
even though Britain staged:
we will make war on Germany for invading Poland...
funny, that... it took both Germany
and the Soviet union (35 days)
to completely subjugate Poland during the theatre
of the second world war...
1 September 1939 – 6 October 1939...
but it took the Germans: alone...
6, *******, 6 weeks to subjugate
France (and the little ******* extensions of
the Benelux)
10 May – 25 June 1940 (6 weeks)....
if the current climate of, ahem... "discussion" is anything
to go by, or pretend to go fishing....
like **** i will: unless we're hunting rather than
fishing for whale...
killing off an Estonian elephant (a mammoth)...

easily: the French **** welcomes the ZZ-top
SS-mensch(en)... who attired them?
no, it wasn't Gucci... it might have been
Chanel... Hugo! *******! Boss!
yeah, how could you ever make
khaki ***** into uniform somehow bearable...
beyond me...

from under the iron curtain to now, "this"...
sorry, i'm not going to comply...
trans-genderism with flaky transcendentalism...
sorry, what?!
you can only do so much within the confines
of a metaphor, within the certification
of metaphysics,
three directions... meta-physics...
ortho-graphy... English is a language with no
knowledge of implementing orthographical
critique: it, does, not, employ, any,
diacritical, markers! the end!

all that English has to replace a study of orthography
is, the para-avenue...
Charlie ****-sense might have glorified a spelling
mistake by citing the term orthography...
poor Charlie D...
oh my god... i'm pumped!
it's what ******* might have felt working his way around
a genesis of a blank canvas...
me, i just have sounds... but i'm not encoding music:
i'm translating meaning...

i'm not even translation two languages
etymologically apart...
i'm translating language in order for it to be written
to begin with...

some other point... why i use the internet..
i listen to some of these bachelor videos,
but then i have to step back...
get completely pummeled,
become pulverised, become almost deaf with
music that's the antithesis adhesive of
someone talking... lately?
COMBICHRIST: all pain is gone,
   sent to destroy, never surrender...

12. looking for "googlewhacks"... mostly those i can invest
in as secondary search results...
13.  what the ****'s a "13"?
if ever, summon an elf: + / ?
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2018
it just so happened that a flight from Warsaw
landed simultaneously with
a flight fron Turkey & Romania -
and a bearded man was walking with
the masses...
                            it just so happened:
     because while he was in a queue through
the customs he was asked by a shy woman
in uniform where he was travelling from...
so he said with a startling hesitation:
from Warsaw...
                      and the ego really must be
considered a limb pained with thinking
akin to an arm with moving:
   or the lower-back with not sitting
hunched like a crow -
                       and this was me coming
back from visiting my grandparents -
i did not spend a minute in an Isis camp -
but because i was donning a beard:
my vanity project akin to owning a dog
i had to be asked in hushed tones by
a border guard: whether or not i was
here to do damage:
            unless you mean the sort of
damage: that exposes the reality
of this country? then no,
     i'm here to plant a narrative bomb...
      and if you mean:
   drink, sit quiet and listen to some Prodigy
akin to the song get your fight on?
then, ****, sign me up!
           i once listened to a computer
science major about the reality
of hacking:
                    it's not what science fiction
has actually explored...
    it's not bashing mashing a keyboard
in a frenzy...
             for almost two weeks i had
a problem in my mind...
  and it was seemingly unsolveable...
        but what a reception!
if i replied that i was coming from
Istambul all bearded i would have been
asked to step aside...
          a conversation with my grandfather:
don't like your beard: you're too young...
prior to i hate the same problem
with this aesthetic "concerns":
  long hair is not for men...
      so down the border i can't have
the "right" to hide my chin and neck?
  no wonder the english boarder officers
find a white bearded man a worth
to ask a question: to make measures,
whether or not to concern themselves with...
m-aaaaaah t'un chops!
               mind you i'm probably listed
as: target practice...
             because i managed to escape
the urban environment of the lumber-******...
and do not own a cafe...
    or a cereal bar...
                       pretending terrorist
has suddenly become the new punk...
        but that's how the end of
an exhausting 13th January commute ended
up being...
               a simple question that
on many other occassions
                 is worth so much authentic
                    thank god the beast
in pristine ****** white of pixel finally asked
   to be fed...
      2 weeks of bewildering anticipation
for it to react:
     and, how it desired to be fed spew...
     nonetheless it's worth repeating:
donning the traits of a terrorist -
i.e. a beard - is the new punk akin
to donning a mohawk;
   esp. when walking through airports.
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