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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.the fireworks are still going off, Guy Fawkes 2.0, and sitting there thinking... big bang... so there was a sound in vacuum? i see a firework go off, the bright explosive light, and then the thunderous balloon burst! boom! i tap my finger... i'm guessing a 1.2 second delay from seeing the light from the firework, and hearing the BOOM! so... in light of all this... are we 1.2 seconds ahead of the big bang, or 1.2 seconds behind it, actually having happened, as in: still happening... i mean... it's not like sound precursors light... and we are not exactly illuminating creatures for most part, but sure as ****, we're loud.

well...
   i might have been looking for
a needle in a haystack,
or whatever it was i was looking
for,
  but i have spoken to a few homeless
people...
i remember about four congregated
around me in Trafalgar Sq.
one sunny afternoon,
    and that was the point where i knew
i was losing it, detaching myself
from the conventionality of "reality":
having meaningless conversations
with people wearing NPC-masks...
the voice inside my head started
thin out... until it fizzled out and i turned
into a writing machine...
if i had the same internal-monologue
with myself, i wouldn't be writing this,
a gaping abyss agitated by whatever
interacts with it,
and subsequently prompts such writing...
i put my hand around one of
the homeless men,
he didn't like it, i comforted him,
we'll just talk...
   then he started explaining to me about
his spot in the Sq.,
  he stood up, and indexed the spot,
the spot where i sat next to him,
another came and sat akimbo
like a child, listening to me intently,
two teenage girls passed
and he asked them:
      what do you see in his (my) eyes?
they replied nothing...
still somehow mesmerized like a child
in a primary school, listening intently...
red as a beetroot from all the *****...
i ended up giving him a book
i just bought in an indie bookshop...
christopher marlowes Dr. Faustus...
i stood up and abstracted a square,
drew both my index fingers
   around a slab of pavement
asking the stupid question:
                     do you think it's there?
or inside your mind?
                  then the homeless man
sitting in akimbo introduced me
to a northern irish veteran with PTSD...
drunk like a skunk...
         and then we walked into
the homeless shelter together,
   they didn't let me in,
because i didn't remember my national
insurance number, or had the card
for that matter...
          weeks pass...
   imagine the chances of this happening,
in central London...
i bump into the same man who sat in
akimbo in Trafalgar Sq. on the streets
of Soho... the chances... or meeting someone,
randomly, a second time, in London?
******* slim... slimmer than size 0
catwalk models... more like size -1...
and he told me that a spider crawled
      into his ear...
    he said that he was going deaf...
                   so i walked into a shop
bought a few beers and we sat in
a church courtyard talking with his friend
who showed off his buddha tattoo
and said: i'm going to walk to India...
subsequently we were ushered out...
because we were breaking the law...
and i thought: but you serve wine in
the church, don't you?
    there was no argument...
then there was the instance in Leytonstone
with the homeless talking about
pneumonia of some woman they
were friends with...
               many pleasantries hugging
what not...
   but...
          the most profound instance i had
was just outside Romford train station...
the same man i would later sit down with
and offer a cigarette to in Seven Kings,
just outside the O'Grady's Irish pub...
       i've seen how people interact with
homeless people... that snarky attitude...
they stand and bend over while talking
to someone sitting on the pavement on cardboard...
a toned down version of paddy bateman...
this ridiculing with intimidation...
ugliest crap imaginable...
   so i sat with this man...
     gave him my spare fiver...
       rolled up a joint...
   we went around the corner to smoke it...
some kid with a football ran up to us,
we passed... and then we asked each other questions...
the kid said he wanted to become a footballer,
me and the homeless man encouraged
him to take his dream seriously...
quickly the marijuana high smirk
left his face...
    apparently i had a diamond on my forehead,
claimed the homeless man...
but then i asked the very touchy question...
so... what made you homeless...
  i'll never forget what he retorted with...
my mother told me to never tell a lie.
what?!
  so the only reason he was homeless was
because he was an honest man, prior?
   oh... so this is what makes men homeless...
honesty, for one,
   and along with honesty,
   other traits that elevate valor,
    alongside the many other virtues...
well... "who would have thought"?
               like that wasn't painfully obvious
to begin with... namely...
how the rats, the skivvy, the immoral,
the sadomasochistic overlords of
institutions become rewarded exponentially...
while the man who replies
to the homeless question with:
    my mother told me to never tell a lie.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.
the
Olivia Kent Jul 2013
Mary Jane Kelly was maniac's final victim,
From land of Ireland she hailed,
Moved to Cymru when a child,
Mastered fluent Welsh,
Well to do family,
Gave her fair start,
Was reported by a friend,
By all accounts a buxom gal,
Five feet seven with eyes of sparkling blue,
Ginger hair maybe blonde ,
Skin gentle as the morning dew,
Fair of face or so they said,
When she had a drink or two,
Language would make the air turn blue,
Always wore an apron clean,
Never wore a hat,
Really into studies, artistic soul,
Caught in high class brothel,
From where she sold her soul,
Went to live in France awhile,
Wasn't very happy there,
Came back to her demise,
Poor thing,
Met a grisly end in her room,
Last captured sight was with a stout man in a bowler hat,
Showed a trace of ginger hair,
Seemed to be a gentleman,
A little out of place,
'Twas mentioned that the last sound Ms Kelly ever made,
Was in a song' A violet I plucked from Mother's grave when a boy',
A strange song to behold,
At four a.m, was heard a call ,
****** nobody reacted,
It was commonplace, in this area of town,

Mary's rent was overdue,
Rent collector called to collect his dues,
Greeted by the awful sight,
Poor Mary Kelly,
Torn to shreds,
In darkness killer burned her clothes to illuminate his crime,
The fires of hell he did ignite,
Upon that most disgusting night,
Sliced her, diced her,
Left her liver between her legs,
Propped her head up with one hewn breast,
The other breast left by her feet,
Severed her crichoid process, was unable to breath,
What a dreadful way to die,
Intestines laid piled as snake upon her right hand side,
Her spleen remained upon the left side,
What an evil individual he was,
Face was torn to ribbons, not of silk or satin,
Her nose, cheeks and eyebrows taken,
Lips were left unkissable ripped in bits as well,
Almost like autopsy began before the lady died,

Interred in Leytonstone, East 11,
St Patrick's Catholic Church,
Nov 19 1888, a lonely lady,
Suffered solo death and a solo funeral,
No trace of kin for sweet Mary Jane Kelly,
The youngest victim aged twenty five,
May she rest in peace.

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
even my mother says: i've become a ******* peasant in this society of suggested tact hidden and later exposed in group theory, a ******* peasant! no wonder this society gave us Newton! well, i just say: origins of the English woman: fair play originating in **** (Greece)... but god knows where the paedophilia fetish comes from; stone cold hearted *****... swim the Thames solo!

i'm waiting my 40th in ten years time, and i'm already looking like a disgraced idol, fancy that, rebellious against the crucifix ideal of a six-pack stretched on the rack of vertical suffocation, a fine magic trick, between the years 18 through to 21: now you see me... now you don't! the same amount of time it took "salvation" to start up his dyslexic library of Al Capote's brood of thigh-thick neck gorillas doing the muscle-work... oh i have no concern for youth or Madame Tussauds (it wasn't enough for the ***** to capitalise on the Victorian hearsay to take photographs of the dead, you had to mould them... the cure between you and me is... cremation and dispersing in the Ganges to fulfil the element's haphazard inclusion... all the horror comes from the resurrection, and keeping the body seemingly alive in both death and life: plastic surgery is always worth a coffin prior, and the body isn't even worth a burial, just a advert for the proceedings to keep the familial ties in furore for the media! leeches that serve no medicinal purposes! c.i.a. heard of me first; just before the N.S.A. revelations i could have been warned, public security all in all, at least Saddam was a name that wasn't *Big
and at least Saddam had a surname Hussein that wasn't Brother. oh ****'s happening in England, you bet... all the Irish horses win the derbies... it took me about 3 years to forget all the effort i put into magnetising *****, turned out that after 3 years i ended up being a stereotypical 50 year old idol with puffy cheeks battling insomnia as best i could.... but of course, the same people who loved looking at you aged 18 suddenly turning gangrene green with you aged 50 and summarising it as: i too wanted a hot-air balloon ride into the sight of paparazzi! imagine, i've just passed 30 and you're 50, Johnny, i'm looking as much-****-you-all-as-you... it's wonderful! if i wasn't awake for the past 40 odd hours treating alcohol as a magic sedative i'd be raging with a wine bottle around the place too... you know that women cry best when they lie?

i can understand the common foe,
indoctrination en masse,
but i just don't understand this atheistic movement;
esp. the vector of its clenched fist,
perhaps Radio 1 not playing
iron maiden's *bring your daughter to the
slaughter
perfectly collapsed argumentation
for rage against the machine versus
the x-factor christmas no. 1?
well, there's that... but why is atheism
not attacking secular religiosity?
why not attack the parents who indoctrinate
their children to support their football team
to sway them away from hooliganism?
you want to attack old perverts and the nunnery
of grannies of the catholic church
but feign to recognise the same brainwashing
of those children taught that they were
predestined to support a football team
of their un-choosing? would't we all want puppets
like those given to us... replace the churches
with the modern coliseums! replace factions of
dogma with bending Beckham from Leytonstone
in full guise of arthritis or gummy toes
kicking up rugby ball for the head-in with
a set-piece - **** TEE! DUMP TEE! WOBBLE
THAT ONE IN WITH A UKULELE SOLO!
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
as that commonly known phrase goes:
the terrible has already happened...
and it has...
my cycling through the night towards
Stratford from Romford
for some: "love-you-long-time"
at... the 2nd most visible brothel
through the East End: starting from
that one jacuzzi / sauna / massage
parlour at Goodmayes...
the terrible has already happened...
i bought a bottle of J & B ms. amber's whiskers
just off Leytonstone
and peddle to Lilly's... Libby's Sauna...
a fox laughed at me perusing the nightly
traffic of flimsy leftover pedestrians...
one... shady character tried to approach me
while i was utilising a bike-lock...
i stood over a rough-sleeper
seemingly content with:
who wouldn't be... such a June night...
but i'd  be more joy having a welcome
of a meadow...
i just stood over him so well cushioned...
as i entered the "sauna" i asked...
no entry fee...
£160 for an hour... a single room...
£180 for a double room...
i forgot to ask the ethnicity
of the girls...
but given the front door was occupied
by a woman...
it's a lot different...
i pretended to not have enough
money...
i peddled to Goodmayes...
lo and behold... yesterday? closed...
today... magically open...
up the stairs via to buzzers...
there used to be this plump woman at the door...
now... some Ottoman ****...
£10 entry fee... £120 afterwards...
the girls will discuss the details...
see if they'll charge you less... more...
oddly enough...
when a woman has the vantage point
of your entry...
it feels so much... less of what men do to men
in societies that focus on harems...
on polygamy...
man O man: never the... but sometimes the rare
focus of the imitation of swans...
the terrible has already happened...
i've been here before...
perhaps i'd be some dough shy of feeling
good about some savings... petty as they are...
but...
given my newly acquired physical labouring
under the ying of the bicycle...
the coolness of the night...
what more can i be given from
a mere: *******?
          what can't fiddling with my own beard...
caressing a cat...
would i really require myself
to blunt the sensation in the tips of my fingers
on some bricks (imitating sandpaper)
to subsequently concentrate the sensation
performed on a woman's body?
i'm hardly a ******* performer...
no... i'm not a ******* performer...
3 years without and i can just imagine
how comical it would look...
who's expectations, met: mine, hers'?
              it's a good thing that i haven't eaten anything
for the past 2... coming to 3 days...
just enough beer and whiskey fuel to
aid me peddling the odd marathon
through the night...
how certain of no egoistic-libido needing
to be satiated when... you're...
impregnated with a deeper hunger:
an actual hunger...
when... biting your nails makes you
realise how: well... even if i used a clipper...
no chance...
and while drinking beer on an empty
stomach starts to be a metaphor for
drinking molten butter...
this litter adventure of mine seeking out
body... **** **** **** and ol' Jezebel...
sigma... in her wholeness...
     it's good to do so while fasting...
after all... thirst, hunger come prior...
to all that *****-nilly get your secondary limp
part wet in...
i could finally get my spare parts
together... i'll wait...
it's not like i have some: ulterior avenues of
stalling libido antics...
stamp-collecting... butterflies...
i'll just make sure that... if my libido comes
knocking... hungry for angry...
i'll not be prompted by a maine **** she...
she with her ******* **** up in the air
while i cut her nails and comb her fur...
i'll make sure i've eaten something decent...
no...
i'll come round to this desert goddess of
unimaginable thirst some other way...
not like this...
concentrated on actual hunger...
because: fasting... does just that...
- only for the little quippets of tenderness...
perhaps that's a misnomer....
but why couldn't a touch also me...
an amusing remark?
- there might be a dog without a need
to employ a muzzle or a leash: too!
the terrible has already happened...
chances are... it probably might happen again...
i'll be roughing up the night with
bogus arguments...
for there's no need for shelter...
for there's no need for sustenance...
only this carnal slurp-up
of half-edible body parts...
  bite to tease... bite to linger with
a flaming tongue and itchy teeth
and... blistered lips...
and... fingertips craving sandpaper prior
to... the details of grooves in the elbow vicinity...
the knee... all that's thighs...
and esp. the collar-bone...
the enigma of knuckles... the scent of...
freshly washed hair... curdling my sight
to all that's raven, Bulgarian... even Turkic...
i almost want to forget the mythological blonde
on her altar of... her preferences...
looks like i have mine too...
                   akin to the fantasy of...
somewhere between Tuba Büyüküstün and
Ava Lauren...
mein gott: short-hair on a woman...
done precisely as can be done
outside the realm of mad-pixie-girl stereotype...
i'll wait some more...
a lackey of quest that begins with never-ending
inhibitions...
i most certainly want as little of what's
to tease me, tempt me...
i don't follow promises...
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
i left the house all geared up for some:
frivolous never-minds...
cycled past st. paul's... through Soho...
Soho? that chalk city of intimidating hopeful
             marbles?
circa 1am through to 6am...
no one is selling love?
no one is willing to buy love?
hell... i was only allowed to buy a beer near
Leytonstone...
for some reason that zombie period from
3am through to 6am is...
English idiosyncratic...
                 you can't get a beer...
3 hours of... what?
reflection?

  ride into the sunrise... ******... and since i did...
i hope... eh... 4 hours of sleep until 10am...
and then... supposedly returning
to some "norm".
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
as if that wasn't enough - he most certainly didn't
eat much in the 3 days since -
lying in bed: trembling with a fear of god -
from last night his intention to enter the imitation
city of Gomorrah -
            not on some moral high note...
he stated his intentions clearly:
                         an hour with a ******* to satisfy
his carnal needs...
would that be less of a conundrum than say...
the urban hook-up culture?
                    in the end... one party pays for something:
if it isn't as obvious as to pay for the deed...
then a payment to entertain... to fill the gut & gob
with treats?
for 6 hours he cycled from the outer reaches
of the city into the inner sanctum...
                            entering Soho just after 3am...
he already saw the carnage of those jovial celebrations...
the street cleaners were already going through
the motions...
the pimps were walking around asking in hushed
murmurings for any possible clientele...
while numerous women in their prime were walking
home alone...
the odd man too... but they still had drinking on
their mind as one, come 5am in Leytonstone dragged
6 bottles of beer for... i guess...
drinking to celebrate sunrise...
but of course, prior to that...
     if you stood with him at the night's zenith...
and wondered... why some stars are fixed while
others appear to be roaming - passing at various
speeds in straight lines...
sometimes even two stars apart: moving in unison...
or... that great fire that was lifted from the earth
and stalked him a while...
glaring like Elijah's mouth...
                          rummaging through his mind
and sinking his heart - entombing it in a labyrinth -
a pebble among thick stone...
                              indistinguishable...
an unforgiving similarity of matter...
             such nights... such moral questions
answered - with only a fear as the prime summary...
could this be him: completely devoid from
passion - paralysed with an investment in what
might come: a judgement - in inescapable litany of
of life: its deeds and misdeeds?
for all that this fear brings...
   a plethora of doubts - scheming platitudes of
negation...
                    O this begrudged life:
how are so many immune to all this...
                         that they even have a maxim:
hulaj dusza - piekła nie ma!
             go wild soul - there's no hell.

— The End —