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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.do you really need a disclaimer, for this sort of work? no, not really... it's not exactly being allowed the equivalency of dropping an in excess of 2000mg of paracetamol.

the one aspect of legacy media, that still has some viability, akin to rekindling the famous extract from the movie: all the presidents men... is concerns for metal health issues of youngsters, who didn't have, the, "privilege" of being exposed to internet ergonomics, other than within the confines of gaming, they came far too late for, what replaced mp3 sharing.... ideas are not exactly sound-bites of copyright infringement...

**** me... do i really have to slap then punch
myself in the face, to remotely stay
awake while drinking ***** like pepsi
sharpshooters?
     i guess so...

   i too, "suffered" from roman bulimia,
the classical kind...
   don't ask me how i managed to make
the esophagus contender of the heart,
muscle...
                 at first it was cheap choc down
the throat, missing on brushing my
teeth for 48 hours...
   then... ******* down the throat,
like the ****-style gimmick of the Watergate
informant...
       came back up, bundled in quasi turds
packages...
               classical Roman bulimia -
eat, regurgitate, eat some more,
hell, now you have a Pompeii style
banquet of the coming of age...
laxatives?
that's no bulimia...
  bulimia is an extension of an ancient
Roman practice, akin to throwing yourself
****-naked into a nettle shrub area...
to get the "itches"...
     that method, involved in energizing
the neuron extension of the skin...
              it's a "placebo" itch...
   nettles, ancient Romans,
and bulimia like the rite of a loss of
virginity of kings...
      festering at its core... of the French court...
with a *****'s teaching apparatus,
leveraging the use of, a single "tool"...
           and even though the ancient Romans
never reached my people...
i get to abuse their phonetic encoding stratum...
bulimia... sure... i, "suffered" from it...
not really, no... i ******* enjoyed
the regurgitation process...
   anti-Grecian pederasty gimmick...
(a) taking a ****
   (b) oral regurgitation
   imitating an ancient Roman banquet
(c) / (d) ensuring the two entry points
are filled by an external source -
wishing for vanilla custard *******...
none to be...
    oops...
               so no one taught these girls
about ancient Roman bulimic
practices?
   you work on the esophagus...
                       by the time i finished
the transition period...
  i automated the esophagus reaction...
like training gymnastics for a six-pack...
no longer ******* down the throat...
you say charge? i think of
a rhino juggernaut...
           so no one bothered these girls
introducing ancient methodologies
to their predicament?
    no training of the esophagus,
no two (index + middle) fingers down
their throat to ease their larynx from
a gagging order?
    none of it?
   they'll grow out of it!
i did...
       drink a liter of ***** per day
and i'm feeling: shimmy!
          upon each nocturnal investment
that i translate into writing...
      anorexia?
    give them excess coffee...
              or strong cider...
      the most pristine aperitif...
    you can't cure anorexia with either
drips or syringes...
   you need aperitifs...
                     but please don't give them
white vinegar...
           you need a balance of alcohol
overcoming the sugars...
     strong beer is alcohol overcoming
starches... won't work...
     coffee and sugar helps...
  both simulate the pristine form of
the marijuana *****...
             it's not poison...
so why should i care?
   oh but i do care... reading this article...
troubled teenagers dodge Instagtram
   curbs on photos glorifying self-harm
...
ever tried burning out a cigarette tip
on your knuckle?
   ever wondered about
    warming up a hand of scissors and
giving yourself an indie tattoo?
   while at the same time...
relying on the mouse principle?
i.e. remaining pipsqueak clean from
making any noise?!
              cutting is so crass...
so unimaginative...
  you will not achieve the adrenaline *****
status of a stab-victim...
   there is no element of surprise...
but...
     if you really want to ingest pain?
hmm... hmm?
            heat up a scissor arm...
   and put it against your skin...
            and then... EAT... the pain...
with what you can surmount in and with,
silence...
                   cutting is too... dramatic...
at least burning yourself you have
not achieved the stature of a shedding blood...
cleaner, more effective,
think of orange recycling bags
collected at the start of the week...

              **** me though...
you seen the comradely behavior
of competing athletes, at the european
championships in Berlin,
   with the pole vaulters?
   Armand Duplantis -
congratulated for having crossed
the 6m benchmark of respectability...
now... that's sport!
football, soccer, basketball,
call it what you like...
   that's not sport, that's business,
that's advertisement...
     that's concussion cover-ups...

Epke Zonderland? also a doctor...
communist Poland believed in
sport, sport on the side,
   sport was never to reach status
of a mono-career investment...
            most of the local football
players from my hometown,
also worked less hours in
the metallurgy plant...
                  that's sport...
   a healthy balance...
which, mainstream sport is lacking...
oh look...
   the women doing the hammer throw,
or the discus...
   not exactly Vogue / Chanel catwalk
material...
    mandible beauties...

    to be honest? the doping affair
in the Olympic sports?
   but a minor setback of credibility...
     i rather watch that...
   than those pitiable 22 ballerinas in soccer.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. give me enough *****, lime juice and pepsi, the right song, and i will show you a control-environment psychotic episode...

sometimes, it's not about what you
know, versus who you know -
notably? when you're aiming at knowing
yourself...

      and psychosis?
   the synthesis of a soul while within
the confines of a body?
       one such example is walking
under two street lamps,
and spotting two shadows,
   immediately investigating,
whether or not, someone is walking
behind you, with a stalking
proclivity...

  you turn around -
  nothing but a hallowing voice
on the slightest of breezes -
the kind that barely motivates
branches to bow...

       - everyone knows that
the italians are famous for their pasta,
just like the french are, for their buns...
some Pakistani makes a joke
about the western love for cabbage...
esp. pickled cabbage -
mashed up with wild mushroom
to make up the filling for slavic
dumplings...

       sure... how's the turmeric?
i've been dying for the turks
working in kebab shops
to elevate the lamb doner (kebab)
using pickled cabbage -
  like they might use pickled
chillies -
       oh look... both are muslims -
the Ottoman's might have
figured out the southern slavic
palette, having occupied
the Balkans...

          we do more with potatoes
than a mere boiling down
to, what could never become an Irish
famine...
   first?
     there's the *****...
    nothing quiet unlike the whiskey
perfumery of pict-land of Scotland...

     Silesian potato doughnuts -
usually served with a cabbage radish -
pickled -
          and a thick pseudo-Hungarian
sauce...
   the potatoes are boiled,
then mashed,
   then sliced into 4 portions,
1/4 is moved aside,
      potato flower is added in equal
volume, and one egg...
   then it becomes mashed bashed
and given the skin
     tenderness of a drunk's wife's skin...
cut and molded into little doughnut
shapes,
   the index finger is inserted
into each one,
          and then each "infantry" member
is boiled,
till ready, i.e. floating on top
of the salted water...
             and there you have...
        Silesian potato doughnuts -

and there is a variant - potato hooves...
same ergonomics -
but instead of potato flower,
plain flower -
               i can't remember the proportions...
also boiled...
         but best cooled,
and subsequently fried -
for a crispness -
         mingled with honey
and something the Hindus know
that the Slavs also make -
     not exactly quark cheese -
   but getting there - more flaky...

    mind you...
   the whole out of Africa story?
   given that so many Roma live and trade
in Poland?
            perhaps having incorporated
the Africans into your pre- and post-colonial
nations, the genesis story would
begin with: out of Africa...
  
        and they swam across the mediterranean...
funny...
    you's sooner see a white competitor
in the 100m sprint final,
   than in the 100m final of
     the breast stroke / butterfly / etc. final...

no...
      i place my origins in India...
moving across the platitude of Siberia...
i have more in common with
Raj origin story... than i have anything
to do with: Zulu and the pinnacle
of Giza...

     i place my origins there...
         and those potato hooves?
they have a name in Italian...
       they're called gnocchi...
served with parmigiano-reggiano
       & pesto...
    never fried,
          and subsequently hardened -
next time i hear the cabbage
joke from some copper-skin
about a group's palette...
       having, actually enjoyed
the other group's palette?
             skin is a base no one works
from to make obsolete
     and redundant bigotry...
    we don't have to share
the same physiognomy...
  but sure as **** we can share
a meal;
        like among the russian drinkers...
i honestly quiet enjoyed
their dried fish ***-bits
to nibble on...
    because, whoever said that...
beer was to be accompanied by
peanuts?
Mateuš Conrad  Aug 2018
entrée
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.perhaps it's a good thing,
that i don't succumb to witty
rhyming poetry...
i hate rhyming poetry as much
as Bukowski hated disney...
Homer didn't rhyme...
  and all the better for it...
this rhyming fetish,
whereby, when you start
rhyming, succumbing to
some quasi orthodoxy?
   getting caged?
       better than rhyme...
   noticeable signs of impromptu,
and absolutely no, so
signs of editing...


      if god is dead in philosophical
discussions...
then rhyme is dead
in poetic composition...
    we, really don't need curriculum
poetics for GCSE students...
cages, entrapment,
   not bothering Stendhal from
the brink of a post-existentialist
despair sitting in
that other graveyard,
  the library shelf...
    and seriously?
    why Jane Austen on the 5 quid
banknote, and not Mary Shelley?

and there's a reason why i will
not make a single youtube video...
why?
       on a certain level of the popularity
stratum,
   it's become this,
  american nostalgia for high school,
the gossiping, the undermining,
the atypical Brutus confidant circle
of "content" creators...
   net-novellas -
   a bunch of people my age...
******* up to the tele-novella
       ergonomics that Polish grandmothers
watch, imported from Turkey...
or the English 1985 Eastenders
soap opera...
   ******* have to be different,
through and through,
drive on the "wrong" side of the road,
then they have to start calling
tele-novellas, soap-operas!

short attention span, sure sure...
no problem...
          do your ******* homework
during the week, watch the omnibus
on the weekend...

what's this one youtuber, who said
something about the advertisement blockers?
by the way...
   Samsung?
     all videos have been demonetized...
perhaps on the odd occasion
a vevo ad... but that's about it...

       advertisement blockers?
  seriously?
   are these people so ******* impatient
that they can't locate the mute button?!
i see an advert: MUTE...
   i think of something,
   to craft an anti-zombie
   pause, moment, anything...
    why block advertisement -
when you can merely mute it...
and listen to the vacuous sound
of celestial orbits?

        within a certain tier of content creators,
it's already the ****-smearing,
soap opera, back in a high school
playground "nostalgia"...
  sorry... not for me...
but thank you, for taking the effort,
to take a reed, dive into a lake,
and breath through it,
while remaining covert, hidden...

         again... numbers numbers numbers...
i'm still exercising a freedom of
"speech", but i rather prefer the
practice of writing, as the appropriate
res extensa of the vector origin
for this cascade, the res cogitans
as it were...

   and there really are only two forms
of nuanced language:
a study of philosophy,
   or the study of: law...
      but this youtube **** show...
   this: back in high school,
no revenge time...

                 i only tuned in for the music,
but then these youtubers started
propping up in the recommendation
list for the music i was listening to...

die krupps postscript suggestions
came up with x,
   wooden shjips came up with y...
lao che came up with z recommendations...

on a side note...
   ha ha!
    mark manson's book...
  the art of not giving a ****...
it mentions Bukowski...
  only read the sample...
        that he was a, loser...
and loser is specifically derogatory
term in American society...
to which i reply?
   and what the **** did
mark manson, actually win?
Bukowski at least won
a childhood where his father beat
him silly in the ******* bathroom...

you haven't exactly won anything,
mr. manson...
   if you didn't lose anything
to begin with;

and if you have?
   let's see the follow-up of
to your bestseller,
         of "not giving a ****";
but we won't, will we?
      - hardly brown-nosing,
the guy's dead,
1997... i have to keep
the integrity of the dead
on my bookshelf...
      
      who reads this
reverse masochism of the self-help
literature genre, anyway?
you can't even use these books
as a counter to a decent roll
of toilet paper!
   unless you want to scratch,
ahem, sorry, wipe your *** with
the pages, and start an **** bleeding!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.does the concept of a misnomer, exist, within the confines of synonyms?

                       poets began complaining:
if we're not rewriting
         the brother grimms'
fairy tales...
   we're writing: about reading...
so what the hell
is up with the modern revamping
of journalism?
  journalism about...
journalism?
   and this legalißation of
homosexuality...
and the standardißing of
of transgenderißm?
i'm living inside a society,
that has abolished the concept
of the asylum...
      and i'm like:
oi! garçon! noch eine tee
   für mich...
             an dis verrückt
                  engländerteeparty!
- since writing about reading
is the consequence of
a landfill site ergonomics...
what is alt and Samson
journalism?
            oh look... another set
of people, who've entered
a problematic posit of plagiarism,
having to wrestle with,
yet another cul de sac scenario...
the nuestasi...
      i agree, there's a healthy
canvas of competition...
but... after a while?
  it's basically people slagging
each other off...
    journalists "doing" journalism
for the front-liners -
journalism as simply
     the editorial sections
of newspapers...
     opinion avenues, rubrics...
there's no longer a journalism
within the regards of:
what's happening in the world...
but...
  there's a journalism,
within the confines of:
what's happening in journalism...
the day had to come,
when the times newspaper...
had to run a page 2 story...
about a Toff Tinder dating app.,
about pseudo-eugenics -
minus the strict Nazis,
and more:
   those annoying English
aristocrats,
   who received, much more
than a circumcision when
     ruling over the Indian Raj...
mind you... it always bewildered
me...
   most european languages...
do not actually allow noun ascription
to letters...
   like the greeks might with
O being omicron,
   or A being alpha...
    hence me, among the "losers"...
well... because i have
a roof over my head,
and there actually exists a class
of employed
people in england,
that are, nonetheless, homeless!
    the latin alphabet,
with its Ah Be(e) Ce(e)...
                      ****...
just before they cut his ***** off,
the castrato at the Vatican: sang!
sang! ****** sang like a
Modena tenor... having his *****
squeezed, before having them cut off...
sung the alphabet...
   and... couldn't fathom
ascribing a noun... to a single letter
in the encoding metric...
            no surprises...
but it's not like tyrants didn't
need eunuchs to keep harems...
back when the plastic industry
wasn't in full swing...
   and you wanted to keep 200 women...
you basically needed walking ******
to keep the women occupied...
     so... a walrus bollocking
within the grasp of a, "sudden"
loss of stamina?
                 evolved...
like a tree made into a toothpick...
because... only some make
it into the kingdom of god,
imitating the monogamy of
the nobles, that are... notably swans...
the concept of
     widowhood exists among
swans...
                 sometimes...
among people...
        but hell...
                      this Bulgarian
******* asked me:
do you have a girlfriend?
   nope.
              - and the "affair" was over
within the confines of an hour...
the same emotional investment
as one might take...
   in killing a mosquito -
   omni corpus - nulla cor vel mens...
was that said, plaintively?
not really...
              no bogus drama -
   the sheep was still intact,
when the wolf left, satiated.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
as a usual Saturday, a sniff of whiskey left
from the previous night -
that'll do - it's not much, but it steadies
the nerves and handshakes with ghosts
of dead writers and poets -
but then the paranoia kicks in -
this isn't the same utensil as a fork, or a typewriter -
this keyboard is attached to a matrix -
it extends far and wide,
i don't know... you can get paranoid
after writing at the height of your drinking
the previous day and wake up the next day
and consider it as nothing more
than diluted prose - which it is, a snapshot
of Joycean ergonomics - but you then
by accident hit the F5 button, yep, the one just
above the 5% button: are there poets
out there, still writing as if they are holding
quills and their fingers have ink stains
and they're airing their frustrations at a blank page?
seriously? i freaked out for a minute having
pressed the F5 button, panic! sheer panic!
panic is worse than fear, i thought for a splinter
second that the government was trying to
censor me... that i was somehow in deep ****,
writing propaganda for some obscure government
that allows 12 year old children perform public
executions by shooting culprits in the back of the head...
what does the F5 button do?
it freezes / blocks / denies the laptop mouse -
a rectangle mat and two buttons incorporated into
the actual laptop - for those few seconds
i felt monitored - standard paranoia of the 21st
poet / writer / whoever, but not quiet enough
for a spy novel... just bog standard feelings... which
are very much linked to printed book materials...
e.g. **** deus: a brief history of tomorrow by
yuval harari - about how we're getting dumber
because someone smarter programmed something
and we weren't given the manual...
funny... they started selling computers like they
were selling hammers... they said: easy, easiest
thing to operate... i'm well chuffed (i guess i use
that word to replace being surprised - local
ingredient - how they bang on about organic
locally grown potatoes and beef, same thing,
only with local vocab) - but they don't sell computers
with instruction manuals - so obviously
the smartest kids these days get on the app. rather than
the mortgage ladder - but **** me! you
could have at least included a little booklet that tells you
what F5 does... i never use it! i'm one of the few
lucky ones, i have some literacy in this department,
but i'm not a techno-philiac as such -
i'm one of those people that says: well, so much
for the building, but you have to put something
meaningful and human in it for the building
to be worth something... not what it is, but:
what it's about - i once learned to use Excel...
****! gone, not coming back. i once learned to
code and build a website... ****! gone, not coming
back, goldfish syndrome due to excess drinking...
but what bothers me is finding something
interesting in that book review... the invention of
humanism as a religion in the 17th century (
funny how Nietzsche criticised Christianity when
as an academic he would have known about
humanism, but dumbly persisted to criticise
what was already being replaced... unless...
he was anticipating American Evangelism,
which might be true) - so i'm trying to look for humanism,
and i come across Copernicus and Galileo -
because, apparently, (as already mentioned)
'Christianity was gradually dislodged by a belief
in the scared status of every individual's feelings
and judgement; we became the centre of the universe,
placing our trust in an unease alliance between
science and moral instinct.'
so there me thinking: so this goes back
to what we're experiencing now, heliocentric humanism
and geocentric humanism -
like i already mentioned, what's west for
nautical calculations past the moon and where's up
or north? it's still flat, the earth, if you're
trying to get from A (Lisbon) to Rio (B) -
so it's happening now, the great schism in humanism,
one side demeaning, angry, frustrated,
the other optimistic - heliocentric humanism
suggest that humans have all the great answers,
that we're all little Louis XIVs, about to dream big
about sorting hunger with spaghetti with a chance of
meatballs machines lodged in our head...
cure for cancer, etc. but then the geocentric humanism
movement is also strong: carbon footprints being
more important than carbon dating, global warming,
you know, typical ****.
still, the F5 paranoia was great,
writing this with an unlit roll-up cigarette was even
better, puckering that luxury before
the last word, and Houston: we have lift-off.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
that's a trinity of nouns in that one symbol 0,
that rhombus to a square (omicron) -
zero, nought, oh... and then there's fifteen-love
in tennis, and also nil - so that's more than
a trinity... never mind...

i know why Islam is attacking, a scene from
Hellraiser Hell on Earth, the church scene dialogue:
- my child, what's the matter, what on earth's the matter?
- i have to get back to my apartment, back to the window,
  but they just keep coming, they just keep coming!
- who keeps coming?
- the demons! the demons!
- demons? demons aren't real; they're parables, metaphors.
- then(,) what(,) the(,) ****(,) is(,) that?!

shows you how much people over-read the unearthing
of the Nag Hammadi library in Egypt,
simultaneously with the unearthing of the Isaiah script
after he was cut in half... so i guess this is a competition:
getting crucified (with so many eager Philippine Phillips
eager to address the Olympic record of a day on
the crucifix) - oh wait... didn't the saviour travel to Egypt
in fear of Herod? funny we should find the unorthodox
and therefore more prescriptive writings there...
all hell broke loose in psychiatry in the 1960s...
we had R.D. Laing cite the gospel of St. Thomas...
it's like that Hellraiser narrative... people really took it
seriously... a final testimony of mankind...
the Order of the Templar's Idol: the Bahomet -
that's why Islam is attacking... oh forget the king controlling
the pawns... Iranian women are having none of it...
they're mobilising pawns as we speak, day by day...
every single ******* day... they're mobilising men
against the abomination... supported quiet clearly
by a fear of striking emotion with language...
in Oxford, just recently, there was a ban on denoting
social status of Mr. and Ms., i too would have favoured
the idea of demonic possession, and the joke of the
town is transgender... for whatever feminism does,
it's insulted under the horse's galloping hoof and a
statement by the suffragette: Emily Davison -
she's being insulated... you little ******* are playing
the puppets of Iranian women, that's why you can't see them!
under their niqabs they're playing the boss...
who gives a **** whether they drive their cars!
do i have to be the ******* Greek around here?
ever talk to a woman about homosexuality over a glass of wine?
no, i bet you haven't... prostitution ain't that bad, after all...
but talk to a woman high on ******* about transgender...
see where civilisation ends up at... it won't be chess...
it'll be chess with a blind man, changing the rooks...
you can't be that ******* gullible, but you are, so i'll continue...
these are acts perpetuated by men by argument of women...
they're attacking Christendom (forget western culture,
that's pig ******* deep fried gone and dusted with
Trump as with Ronald Reagan)...
they're attacking because when the library of non-orthodox
Christianity emerged, it was like the Soviet Union
collapsing: a wild west... sure we lost a few good women
to the slavery of the brothel... but in return we learned to
make people obedient in being wrong... can't go
against archaeology... sure... shift the pyramids just a little
to the east and you'll get Auschwitz chimneys puffing...
hell, you might even get the wild idea of the hanging gardens
materialised.
so with that demon story... i'm starting to look at it:
well, thank **** for feminism, but, wait, oh, the insult...
the slap in the face... and then the defence mechanism
of politically correct speech... the transgender movement...
to me that's a perfect safety mechanism for Islam to attack...
this is Christianity 2.0... this is neglecting poetry,
this is the necessary ambiguity of language...
given that people are actually practising trans-gender
ergonomics rather than saying: well, if ambiguity has a case...
i'll just wear a t-shirt... but no! but no! castrate the *******
and send him off to Siberia! you know that Islam
is perpetuating war because of this, Islamic women are
laughing at us... one was noted for the childish example
of tongue-out-of-cheek pointing beneath the veil: hell bound.
the Jews of Europe never made use of political
correctness in the realm of speech - but we don't
have Jews in Europe, America is thriving,
we're stuck with Muslims teaching us German guilt...
i'm not French, nor the mythological Swede kept neutral
even though receiving parts of the Marshall Plan
rejuvenation program of the war torn parts...
the part of me with Mongol just says: well,
Golgotha Pyramid of Baghdad - later known as
the Laughing Cranium Dynamo of Baghdad.
but they really did take the metaphors too literally...
just read the Gospel of Thomas...
it's all there, trans-gender and lubrication -
defending trans-gender rights just insults women,
those in favour of defeating the western cause are obvious...
all that care for feminism gets the cold-salmon fillet slap
across the case... get the **** back into the water!
king in chess a mere cameo extension of pawn -
queen in chess a marooned combination of bishop rook and knight -
or the ****** diversity, mantis and black widow,
the abstract, looking down onto a board...
but in the mammalian realm? the reverse...
oh ****** i'll mobiles... fascism against fascism...
i'm looking up... and what i see i see as what Horace said
to me in the 21st version of the Diverting Comedy -

vivere si recte nescis, decede peritis.
Lusisti satis, edisti satis atque bibisti:
tempus abire tibi est, ne potum lagrius aequo
rideat et pulset lasciva decetius aetas.

                 (you alone bring no bettering of life,
allow others to live, who can beyond your incompetence
to likewise aim at the laurel crown of economic competence
of mortality. you have used enough of allowances:
you ate aplenty, drank aplenty, it's time to go,
so that the hasty youth of what's to be drank, ahead,
for the good per se, not ridicule nor ordained itself better)
.

well, i'd put Bukowski with Horace as alike...
maybe that's why i chose Horace, above Virgil, Ovid
or Homer... it's the ******* drinking, the honesty of
drunks... as sober men we're nothing more than lost cabarets...
but i am seriously about the above cited Horace...
no matter what feminism does to women right now,
in the economic realm... equal pay and what not...
women are doubly insulted, a frame of mind from
neglecting reading poetry, where poetry could have
incubated words into an internal reality of speaking
about femininity and masculinity, we're talking
real, the Ten Plagues & Transgender... the ****'s that about?
that famous citation found in Spinoza's Theological-Political
Treatise, chapter 14 (faith and philosophy), aphorism
no. 12... god and the trumpets and Mt. Sinai...
concerning? the voice of god gave the Israelite audience no
philosophical or mathematical certainty about
the diabolical "certainty" of the Catholic omni-plus
geometric and quizzical knowing of dates and time differences
between Moscow and the Galapagos islands...
well, never mind that reference... i'm frightened that we're
actually hearing the moaning and groaning from Golgotha
just now... when poetry dies... and people take religiously
indoctrinated language without keen interest in poetry... hell spawns...
at the moment it seems the re-establishment of Israel
is working miracles against the Valley of the Shadow of Death
that Europe represents to the Jew's memory...
and in that Koranic reference, Jesus is the Messiah...
what, with a few of our men attempting metaphysical
acrobatics in the genital region? why not?! added to boot
France tickling the guillotine with its tongue.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
sample size excavation:

urbanity forsake the village-metality
of the undisclosed biological
credo...
                     urbanity became
a pawn & pauper in a "clues",
which replaced facts...
                         i am more mushroom
than reptile or genital mutilation
grammar asking...

              finally! cricket has come home!
well... in between watching
roland garros,
and the ICC?
             even i can agree...
of all the h'american sports?
  baseball... sure...
ice hockey... sure...
     basketball... sure...
   h'american football?
esp. when watching rugby?
  i don't get it...
         scuffling in the middle...
pass back... one throw forward...
a decent runner...
         ball hits the deck...
"regroup"...
      reinforced rugby-esque scrum
drama...
    play-stop-play-stop...
ad. revenue interlude...
   start-stop-start-stop...
             doesn't it get boring, ever?!

i had to turn to cricket!
oh i'm enjoying the cricket...
it's like chess + braille + bridge
dynamic of tactic... sure...
it's not baseball...
       it's cricket!

   international test matches...
50 overs...
         50 x 6 = 300 throws of the ball...
1 over = 6 throws...
no other sport was so much
beautiful jargon,
so much stat.,

             and so many idiosyncratic
terms...
what do they call english
cricketers? tourists...
west indies (the carribean team?)
the windies...
          
          349-8 (349 runs...
         8 wickets)...
              
                   imagine a sport...
where it lasts so long that it errodes
your attention span like
a Tolstoy novel...
      come morning,
it finishes in the early hours of
the evening...

                cricket... quintessential
Dickensian replacement narrative...
and i've never seen more
laid back referees (umpires)...
what's a 4 to a 6
in terms of body language?

you have tactic akin to bowlers
throwing spin-accents...
so there's a minimum of a 1-2 1-2
runs... rather than 4 or 6 worth
of smackers...

            cricket isn't the worst
of games... by far h'american football...
that's the worst game, ever...
then, golf...
             **** me... table tennis
beats those two games,
even without all the glamour...
but itching chinese pretending
to be fast paced insect-esque
reaction time automatons...

                 i mean two female sport
events make complete sense...
tennis and gymnastics...

i don't even know why i enjoy cricket...
after all,
i am not exactly english "born and bred"...
bred from the age of 8...
hybrid mongrel...
i would still like to appreciate
the sports celebrated by the land
of my birth...
        żużel (speedway) and
(szczyptarze... almost a googlewhack...
2 results)...
                 hand-ball... and volley-ball...
greek wrestling...
      archery...
             sport is so under-represented
these days...
        only the major sports...
and at times, the monopoly associated
with their funding, their subsequent
traction of spectator numbers...
  it's so boring!
             it becomes too tribal!
totteham hotspur f.c.: born and bred!
there are so many other sports...
that do not entertain tribal ergonomics!
most of the olympic sports, for starters!

  today i was watching pakistan take
on england in the ICC world cup...
             ****- beauties all round...
      and then... for some "weird" reason...
the shadow of Rotherham...
     the cube didn't fit into the square
hole a gorilla was supposed
to push the prism through...
            
       there are just so many underrated
sports! it's not even worth criticising
sports per se...
         it's the sports that appeal to
the masses, that elevate the sport beyond
the sport per se, and craft trivial and
tribal affiliations that bothers me!

           i still think h'american football
is the dumbest sport available...
considering it as, rugby: devolved.
there's as much sense of passing the ball
backwards, imitating a charging wave
against a coastline of defence...
as there will ever be any sense found...
in scuffling in the middle
like some pretend boxing match...
allowing only one pass backwards...
and one runner maneuvering past the pointless
scuffle in the middle...
pass back, one throw, one catch...
                       run Forest! run!

o.k. even i found cricket a bit *******...
asparagus... ****... asperger syndrome
with its overt analysis...
   but even cricket looks better
than that ******* irish pub brawl
take on boxing that h'american football
represents...

bloated egos in armour...
           sorry, even ping pong looks
more appealing...
the ******* sumo diet worthwhile
to compete with...
        it's the cricket world cup...
and the time it takes to play out
100 overs?
    maybe chance upon a 6 run...
   8 wickets...
                      elsewhere
handball is pop, as is volleyball...
ski-jumping...
          
        sport per se isn't the problem...
it becomes a problem when
sport becomes tribal,
and the initial per se pleasure
of the spectacle of a sport is drained...
when people have to take sides...
when the sport per se cannot
be appreciated...
            hence the "concept" of the sport,
the logic of behind the sport is lost,
lost in the fact that it is lost to
it being monetized...

              when sport, resembles....
the kind of live performance,
akin to Heilung - Alfadhirhaiti...
while i am left, bound to the greater desires,
of moving to Greenland...
or the Faroe Islands...
        because even the English summers...
are starting to resemble
Indian summers more and more...
**** being your atypical English
sun-worshipper who "miraculously"
moved outside of London...

                         not, far, enough!
give me Greenland, give me the Faroe Islands,
give me Alaska!
    i can't stand this surge in
the creeping Summer heat about
to grind England to a halt!
                   however long it will take,
i wish to plan my escape to these lands...
i don't want a year's worth more,
in this little saudi land of the north,
with pubescent saudi ******* racers
bragging their diesel lamborghini *******
down Knightsbridge!
Shaded Lamp Mar 2016
Lost in an unfamiliar home, deep inside a book
In the comforting glow of that lamp that stood...
Standing to attention in that gloomy nook
The words jumbled & spun on that page
So I slammed shut the book

Above me burned a coil of tungsten
Blazing bright
White
And from it
Every angle burst its miracle of light
Beams/ waves destined for far off places
But shackled by the shade
Mocked by the tasselled trim
Harnessed by the braid

My mind wanders...
It is a marvel of our age
That we choose to create lamps so bright that they need a shade
That they need to be shaded
Those lamps can't shine so bright
For without the shade the dark won't creep in and we wouldn't be aware of the night.

I step outside
Into that night
Shadows cast by the city street lights

Down that dank alley
Lives an uncelebrated man
In a tattered box with faded damp
Barely noticed
Camouflaged
To most he's just another jaded *****
If only they could see
He
They
We
Individually tailor the shade for our lamp
Privately (inside translucent shields)  we all burn bright.
Shaded by fear and notions of what's wrong and right
Right and wrong
Wrong and right
Creations of those that had the strength to fight
Not by the humbled, battered and bruised
Too shaded to raise a blazing revolutionary fist
Too fractured, hungry and confused
Afraid of the attention caused from cries for any justice
Instead
Inside my head
I imagine I have my own bed
A good book
An cosy reading chair
And a lamp standing to attention with its thousand-yard stare

Staring out to the ever rising seas

Cometh the great submerging eviction
Mass migrations fleeing war, famine & filthy camps
Oceans rise and tears fall with whispered benediction
How many of you will become degraded tramps
But we just keep insisting that it is farflung fiction
Back to my box and its faded damp

Silhouettes of four impatient horses appear on an windswept horizon.

This false paradise we live in with its twisted ergonomics?
Should we really sit and wait for the catastrophes to appear?
Surely we are collectively able to create a smarter economics?
Or is it just easier continuing to accept living in fear?
Because when all is accounted for
All the pros and cons have been weighed
What matters most
Is not the brightness of your lamp
But your choice of shade.
Revised
Paul of Tarsus resented his visit, among so many issues of paganism and Christianity that somehow tried to establish it in Jewish orthodoxy, for goods in non-Romanesque centuries of centuries, dissimilar to a Roman statute in the past to decree it today as ****-Clerical.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Christian doctrines were limited when they settled in Jerusalem, nor did they submit to worldly Judaism. He preached it while breaking the loaves in the fasmatémporos or sacralized breadbaskets of salvation, and of the company of those who were circumcised, by those who received the kingdom while they were born into Roman *******. Everything was Estebanian obfuscation as the first martyr of the ecclesiastical order, where the universe points between races, society, and sensual possessions; between Greeks as junk between barbarians and uneducated, and Israelites between Jews and pagans, to make capital laws but hidden among the subjugated codes of dictatorialism, like all the slaves, gathered in Corinth. And of female inferiority to male supremacy, without inheriting the flesh in the reconciliation of shared worlds. His policy moves the bellows of the free winds, for an enclave that begins to be a direct belonging of another man with the Alpha, and finally, this ends up being his landowner in Omega, as a fugitive baptismal sprinkling of those who become attached to the lord, that they do not recognize and if they do it under their clothes and thoughts, that they even carry sores or wounds even on their chromosomes. The genotype is the third month of gestation with embryos that can even be heard with their heartbeats beyond all the galaxies back and forth, colliding with the head of the woman who puts order to the established opinion of the extreme polarity of the genome. The coronation sculptures were made diverse with Gothic forms that differed with duplications of the stars that were built, not specified in any quantity of accumulated energy after thousands of years to be released in the channeling of the corbel, where the Cherubs rested. dedicated today to the lordship of the ancestry of the invocation, and the exaltation of the stained glass that descended from the sky with sectioned iridescence, marking the canonical hours of the first century, the beginning of the fifth decade, where Paul was already pointing to the letter to the Romans, "Where you give free grazing to the sheep, the rams overwhelm the density of certainty with their betrayals, the sublimity of the atrial rebound movement, makes their disparate ears warn of the justification of pointing out where the danger grows". In this way, Pablo de Tarso decided to name himself in the middle of Mataki, as Pablo de Patmos, because his soul still depended on the Marial outlet for his canonical lapses, in fact becoming the main and actant incarnation of faith, with the cardinal points.

Goddess Nike appears again to consummate the victory, then from the exhausted stadiums of the Pergamon amphitheater, Wonthelimar will bring Victory with the other "V" of the goddess Nike, also borne by Athenea Nikephoros. From this duplicity, both are transposed into Vernarth's "V" as an initiatory pseudonym; which will depict the reinforced twin of the Hellenic genesis of Wonthelimar, articulating from this Prótypo with the genesis of the cardinal Mandragoron, which will be Vernarthian architectural and divinized hierarchy.

Mandragoron Geodesy

- North: Vóreios (Zefian Boreal)
- South: Nótos (Austral de Borker)
- West: Dyticá (Sunset of Leiak)
- East: Aftó (Equinoctial of Kaitelka)

Faced with this geodesic repositioning, Pablo de Patmos makes the context of narrowing the analogy of the cross and the intersection point of them through, the Zohar Light that emerged from the iconographic program that was spreading out of the Ave Maria that was heard in echo intervals, The main one being the one heard by the oil press that Vernarth was holding, to lavish the first virginal thread of olive oil, which joined with the sleet drizzle falling between the intersecting points of Vóreios from north to south Notós, and from Oeste Dyticá with the Necromancy of Leiak to the Kaitelka Peninsula.

All seated began to pray, then the nascent of the Empyrean that came with the sleet emerged, and the ****** olive grove of the first degree, all went into a trance, the soul was overwhelmed only with light that each one could see in their features through the irradiation of the eyes of Vernarth and Saint John, and in the breathing of each being difficult and discordant. In the distance you could see the sparkles of Peter and James, together with the Mashiach, they came to enter the peace of each one of those who were here in the Katapausis, the night was warned by the Notós de Borker who prayed with the disciples of the Mashiach accompanied by the three winds from the south, which transfigured the colt of Bethany that admitted them to take them to the Seventh Heaven, here at the first stone of the Megaron with the Mataki, the seven bread baskets and candelabra, taken by the agony of the chalice that everyone carried in their bodies where they sprang from their interior, along with the thread of oil mixed with blood that had fled from Zion to Gethsemane, thus lifeless with the interdict stained the lights of the Menorah, which was propelled over the gray and agonizing shadows of the bread that asked why hand would be divided? They all say drink with their hands, but the hands of the Mashiach opened the sky first to illuminate the exacerbation of Leiak's Dyticá, saying that the sweat of agony will fill our chalices intensely adorning what is revealed by our disturbing sleet. The Equinoctial became magenta and Eritrean, where glory made it pertinent to leave and ask for an oblation in the natural reaction of the recipient, before offering himself! The shudders only spoke of the rictus, when Vernarth huddled every so often to blow the embers of the incense that spread from Aorion, spliced in the Fourth Arrow of Zefian, to leave the ergonomics bronze point, pointing out the Cherubs that came from Heaven falling, to those who went up with their sacrilegious bodies to purge their errors, adoring them with purely beatific simplicity, to bring them back to Patmos to purge there, what the error will make of virtue the light over the darkness in lives that stumble over the moaning death, whose sufferings ravage beyond life, where they suffer undaunted pains of danger, not knowing how to resist them.

Frontality becomes ordinal from unity to three, and from duality to four; that is to say, from Vóreios to Notós and from Aftó to Dyticá, making the Escurialense cross with the crossed lines filled with the celestial blue that filled them with the Seventh Heaven. The darkness macerated the embryos on the error of confronted anguish before an impartial body fallen from the discouragement of overcoming it and moving away from the eschatological. The Mashiach moves his hands through the Codices of Raedus pro generating Jubilee, for the branches that climb the thread of the olive tree that was scalding with passion, to hang on the wood of the Kashmar. The Kardiá resembled lost in the minutes of Kairós, failing to rejoice them, to then overwhelm them in some Escurialense demonym, forming the golden cross, whose four arms were already covered by blue and blue enamel, and in parapsychological fractality, making temporality move in the super imagination of Áullos Kósmos de Vernarth.
Seventh Heaven
Dana C Sep 2013
My heels bite the pavement,
the cadence of Monday through Friday;
My shoulders are stressed
In spite of ergonomics.
The strangers who pass me,
eyes glossed with similar fatigue,
beat a shuffling rhythm:
the melody hypnotizes.

That's why I don't notice.
Walking just the same,
a pace not unlike the teller
or the lawyer in front of me.
They speak of a repast,
old haunts, new places,
television and sports.
Another measure, no sign of caesura.

When I find myself unsure,
uncertain of the cool ground beneath,
of the muffled grumblings
and the scrapes on my knees,
it feels like a dream.
“I'll wake up soon, I'm at home.
I've fallen asleep to the T.V.,
a wacky dream bred from the same.”
The breath on my neck is so hot.

Once my head straightens up,
the world once again standing still before me,
the weight against my body multiplies.
The floating sensation of sleep,
The feeling of a shell within a shell,
It dissipates and my insides are knots,
molten lava, churning against its crust
and my skin screams in tune.

The grunting and the pawing,
brusque lips are sinking ships.
There's not enough sandpaper
in the world to compare.
Those heels are dust,
their teeth broken and rotted;
Percussion takes a rest.

I am trapped inside my clothes.
Twisted like a snake around my body,
I want only to be free of them--
in any other situation but.
“Here let me help you with that.”
The words slither, covered in mold.
My every wish in that single moment
Answered, a betrayal; trite axioms abound.

Suddenly the weight lifts, is suspended,
a chance accorded to a plain old girl.
But my limbs are heavy, fear looms,
Justifications swarm my panicked mind.
“Don't be stupid. Give them what they want;
They'll leave you alone. Go to another place.
Return with some piece of mind:
no matter how fractured your body, you heal.”

But there's a light on overhead.
The unmasked man stares lustfully at my lips.
His uncharted groping is fervent, fearless--
his desire to be soon bestowed upon him.
Consequences do not glaze his feverish eyes,
and worry lies dormant, sets off no warnings.
The cage was set, the trap precisely executed
and there's no spoon to help me out of here.
Sept 13, 2009; Portland, OR.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
you see them, the sober angry girls
maturing into what the establishment
wants them to be angry about...
they're nearing 40, they're *******,
no, seriously, they're *******...
you're drunk with extrovert
apathy: nonchalance, and you see them...
it's actually scary seeing them...
they're so angry... so ******* angry...
they're like having just undergone
I.V.F. treatment... they're so angry...
they could do a better job circumcising you
than a Rabbi... ******* off
your ******* clean...
i'm just happy to have a day with another
drink... but there she is,
******-up with the biological clock
about how having children was like
deactivating a bomb - equivalent of an ******* -
seriously though, walk the outer
suburban streets tipsy, and walk past a girl in her
early 30s...you're a dead man... seriously, you're
dead.... that look of hate will become a tattoo
of auto-suggested deliverance...
she won't relieve your part...
Darwinism ensured that mammalian ergonomics
turned into insect ergonomics...
the mantis and the black widow revealed
why the fathers for justice movement took off...
Darwinism reduced mammals to insects,
invoking the rise of feminism -
well, **** yeah! applause! but in terms
of keeping up the example, please treat me
as truant; i just can't be bothered,
because your objective narrative is just so ******* boring...
honestly... and trying to rekindle the subjective
narrator will not work;
as you already said: who the **** wants to hear
about partying on a Saturday night? bravo! problem solved!
if it's non-inclusive, and a omni-inclusive recount, then
it's hardly a reason to mind for a worthwhile exercise in literature.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
of the kind of person, in an Alcatraz
forbidding continental coagulation,
unlike the Icelandic model,
heaving an asthmatic moral superiority,
caught up in imperialism,
and all that crap of 5 p.m. talk
on an Empire... to then compare these
nationalists, who's nations have been
brushed under the carpet -
to tell them: whatever national pride
you have, we can't accept it,
because after solidifying our empire,
we paved the way for globalisation,
you can't have you pithy nationalism,
we accept Israel as a sovereign state,
but we can't accept you history
as quasi-Israeli - we can't have your
belittling nationalism, due course:
remembering the past -
because we have done away with
with given Darwinism: or as dodo do
as dodo did, as dodo will -
let's curb all human feelings into
designation via: kings and ******,
murderers and prostitutes -
or as said: Britannia rule the world:
or akin to the Chinese: but not this bit...
or akin to the Arabs: Lawrence said:
this bit neither... or as the Russian
said: Siberia off-limits!
or as the Mongol said:
you come here, you smoke ****,
you don't come here and say:
Beatnik! who, the, ****,
said, that, you're, welcome,
and, that's, synonymous, with, landays
and the little horror - and pashtun's
Kabul? as said: Kazakh Soviet,
as said: all Mongol, Soviet -
could you even squirm Alabama Soviet?
no.... you'd scream coco balm
cotton *******!   or ******* do what
                confederacy said you should do:
namely hang... as ****** do.
propagandist? me? sure!
i'll raise my hand in Saudi Arabia
pretending to have stolen something:
my hand for a peach... bargain!
             two peaches and one hand to spare!
i don't believe the west in undermining
continental nationhood,
only because they have mastered post-colonialism
by reducing empire building with
globalisation ergonomics -
              i'm actually apprehensive concerning their
phobias and congregating fears in paranoia
   by suggesting that what once attacked these notions
(they can't even call them nations, they're merely notions,
   and a 100 lawyers for each Francophile)
             was going to morph into geese -
always the superheroes, never the villains -
                  they are - pithy little perverts
****-a-doodle-do -
                                  they love their little
multicultural experiment,
   but they hate their pickled herrings
and their packaging of cucumber pickles -
                    they loath them...
they call them the Palestinian loafers -
shorthand: the Arab cheese strings for shoelaces.
    all because they had an Empire,
and that's alright because Victoria managed to
**** into a throne aged 80 -
                          do i get: well, resurrected
Israel is o.k., but resurrected Poland is
actually **** Germany...
                      **** me! this is going to get a little
bit more than just interesting!

— The End —