Members
24/Ohio, USA
insecurity thrives in the gap between "I want to" and "I should".
:)
Cut you're intrigue bout me,nd rather read,craphole.
Poems
Vyiirt'aan Nov 2017
A story before bedtime
Vyiirt'aan
Nov 2017
Grotesque images flow in when the lids close, enthralling the shadows that remained within.
One, two, three, four, five, six
Seven
Moons and suns pass by, obscured by a dynamic canvas
A chamber building pressure, blurring the view.
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen
Counting down until it all collapses
The canvas calls its name in an intricating cadence, echoing the chambers, a recital of ages
Pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel
Pixels
Keep me rooted on my seat, an innate adhesive
Excite the hollow gates, its luminosity alluring glaringly
Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen
It lingers ever so slightly, writing stories for itself
The gates open and a barrage floods the canvas at intervals, concealing the world in
Pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel
Pixels
Unified bundles of sparks intertwining its fabric
Devious phrases echo through the chambers
Twelve, eleven, ten, nine
It merely arranges sounds and patterns
Frigid words never sounded so sultry when inverted sockets run their currents
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip
Drip
A drizzle ripples the surface, soothing waves of ripples
Transition into a homogenic mass
Eight, seven, six, five
Embodiment of serenity breeds emptiness
Eschew the howling hollow chambers is like vitriol to creativity
Four, three, two, one
****** me before the end of time, empty chamber
Before invective reasoning clouds your idyll
The blackened canvas
It bleeds
One, two, three, four, five, six
Seven
Moons and suns pass by, obscured by a dynamic canvas
A chamber building pressure, blurring the view.
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen
Counting down until it all collapses
The canvas calls its name in an intricating cadence, echoing the chambers, a recital of ages
Pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel
Pixels
Keep me rooted on my seat, an innate adhesive
Excite the hollow gates, its luminosity alluring glaringly
Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen
It lingers ever so slightly, writing stories for itself
The gates open and a barrage floods the canvas at intervals, concealing the world in
Pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel, pixel
Pixels
Unified bundles of sparks intertwining its fabric
Devious phrases echo through the chambers
Twelve, eleven, ten, nine
It merely arranges sounds and patterns
Frigid words never sounded so sultry when inverted sockets run their currents
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip
Drip
A drizzle ripples the surface, soothing waves of ripples
Transition into a homogenic mass
Eight, seven, six, five
Embodiment of serenity breeds emptiness
Eschew the howling hollow chambers is like vitriol to creativity
Four, three, two, one
****** me before the end of time, empty chamber
Before invective reasoning clouds your idyll
The blackened canvas
It bleeds
Good night
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
Ouroboros & Caduceus
Mateuš Conrad
Sep 2016
the man drops the package off at 6 a.m.,
he is a man, in that Harold Norse sense
of the word - he's a grafter -
he's been riding from Poland for god knows
how many hours, he was supposed to
be here for 3 a.m., but i'm not complaining,
i pay him £20 for delivering the package,
ask him whether he had a good journey,
then i wish him a good day, no reply -
i put the package in a room, unzip it and
take one of the copies out... strange...
just like Augustus commenting on the death
of Marcus Aurelius: the soup is hot, the soup
is cold... a piece of writing is printed, published,
a piece of writing isn't printed, nor published...
it's in my hand now, slim, literature's anorexia:
poetry... i can stash it in the library and
think about it for a while: no goosebumps,
no thrill... just this strange: apathy -
the sinking feeling of being at the bottom of a dung-heap
of civilisation - i'm sure it was different before
the internet: writers huddling in tiny rooms,
writing with a big dream to escape -
rejection after rejection, until the magpie was spotted
to actually be a peacock - the 21st century is
a lot different, it would appear,
after 9 years at it, there's no sense of relief -
it's all about the pixel glitz, the pixel paparazzi,
the pixel red carpet - the Beelzebub looking back
at you - an abhorring feeling in all honesty,
the quick-fix medical procedure - all done in an
instant: and the snobs out there who still
preserve the insistence: paper is authority -
paper is respect... on paper means authenticity -
paper solves everything... sure, most assuredly
a trip to the toilet.
i just don't recognise the person on these pages,
so many things have changed since then,
so much was given to the dwarfs to mine that
any man or elf in me, is... well... not even there
on the pages, or here, ploughing along.
back in the 20th century, someone must have thought:
books, a great commodity, keep them secret,
keep them safe... let's wait for the next buds of
capitalism's May - how the dynamic has changed,
and this is even with a critical introduction
by someone who obtained a PhD in literature -
a picture of me on the back cover:
yeah, because that will really sifter through the
demographic with more observable definitions
of who's to read what -
but it's just odd... i think of all that effort
put into printing a piece of work...
and i think of Salman Rushdie and the satanic
verses being burned...
i think of the wartburg säuberung:
and i find myself sitting alone like king
solomon - none the wiser,
all is vanity - and i know nothing -
because i was never taught to experience
something like this the second time:
the only thing to understand
is the self that cannot comprehend experiences
given unto it... all that jack-in-the-noumenon stuff;
but i look at this little thing, these 115 pages
and wonder: so much? for so little?
how fortunate, or unfortunate to be given this
spider-web... it always feels so glitzy,
so: at the right place at the right time...
then the physical artefact appears...
and you go back to the syringe of
open access, and say: pressurised by the ever
changing circumstances...
back in the 20th century a writer
was told to shut herself away in a tiny rented room
and become a clarice lispector: become
a hurricane simply by writing about good
first lines: the writer's aesthetic, typewriter or
ink blotches - or the blank page... and later
become sensational, hurricane-like -
i feel no nostalgia toward the 20th century in this
regard... i'm immersed in what has only
begun in 2006 - circa or no circa, whatever -
we can't rent rooms like that - or do things like
that, given the 24/7 society structure -
and i mean that in the least ****** sense
when i say, as Harold Norse did, without
a backdrop of homosexuality (even though
he was working out with arnold "the governor"
schwarzenegger at some point in his
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel) -
a cartoon fix: the book of life -
the man, and the man -
ah what fanciful trivialities that bind one man
to goofy ideals, and another to duties -
and only when an artist becomes successful does
he really become a *****... cocktail and *******
parties and Sid Vicious cameos -
all the Renaissance artists had it easy,
with the Pope their patron, they could be as
****** with their contempt for earthly privileges
and could get away with it -
the days of a homosexual saying:
i am not a man...
the 20th century liberation
paved a way for the obsolete purpose of
the heterosexual man... apparently we have
grown a potential to grow ***** in
the laboratory - we are, quiet literally disposable
in that epitome of the Wrath of Eden:
just repeat after me: deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation, deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation - as constantly striving
to be the unique peacock among a *****-count
of peacocks without distinction on the
plateau of the living self-bound: you uniqueness
expired with the process of insemination:
you were once the one and only wriggly
world record holder at the 100 metre sprint...
a natural dictator it would seem,
but apparently, the ones that didn't make it
now respond: me too! me too! me too!
or something like that.
either through the eye
of the microscope or the telescope - cul de sacs either
end... because of the glue...
call it god, call it love, call it nothing...
it's still some sort of glue... sniff it, play with it,
avoid it... it's still glue...
gravity is a glue, but it's not the glue that keeps
muscles bound to bone - yes, tendons are
the happy ******* children of that ******* union
of all things apparent...
but in the sense that i keep repeating:
it's easily done - falling for the fake pixel glitz -
however official or unofficial it all is -
with or without advertisement on the pages -
it's the only junk that's out there these days...
if i were more of a man, i'd be chasing
the dream of a steady income, family and obligations...
can we call being a man a fool's errand?
i like to think of it as that... being man is synonymous
with a fool's errand -
no love transcend the grave,
no love can be engraved into epitaphs -
epitaphs and their respective soloists -
it's not even out of bitterness -
not in this pixel desert where 10 years later
those of us who used this medium will become
exponentially out-dated: archaeological -
and it will be thus -
Ouroboros Capitalism -
or back when communism and capitalism were
in competition, and somehow healed the 1st
half of the 20th century, and were indeed
the Caduceus - like the story of the cannibalistic
rats... what did the last rat eat in the pit-hole?
back when capitalism had to compete,
and competed it did, and healed by competing,
after it supposedly overpowered its opponent...
it started to eat itself... as i see it:
the transformation of the caduceus into
ouroboros has taken shape... and we're still
only 16 years into the 21st: oh my god! it's the 21st
century! this is preposterous! not really... no...
the same was said in the 20th century...
and the 19th century...
the steady improvement in living standards
always fed these gimps to say the exact same words
while being gagged by being paid to say those words
and doing the slosh-wash part of a *** ****:
Apache Vinnetou hail satan blah blah, V shaped ave,
skull-and-bones secret handshake etc.
he is a man, in that Harold Norse sense
of the word - he's a grafter -
he's been riding from Poland for god knows
how many hours, he was supposed to
be here for 3 a.m., but i'm not complaining,
i pay him £20 for delivering the package,
ask him whether he had a good journey,
then i wish him a good day, no reply -
i put the package in a room, unzip it and
take one of the copies out... strange...
just like Augustus commenting on the death
of Marcus Aurelius: the soup is hot, the soup
is cold... a piece of writing is printed, published,
a piece of writing isn't printed, nor published...
it's in my hand now, slim, literature's anorexia:
poetry... i can stash it in the library and
think about it for a while: no goosebumps,
no thrill... just this strange: apathy -
the sinking feeling of being at the bottom of a dung-heap
of civilisation - i'm sure it was different before
the internet: writers huddling in tiny rooms,
writing with a big dream to escape -
rejection after rejection, until the magpie was spotted
to actually be a peacock - the 21st century is
a lot different, it would appear,
after 9 years at it, there's no sense of relief -
it's all about the pixel glitz, the pixel paparazzi,
the pixel red carpet - the Beelzebub looking back
at you - an abhorring feeling in all honesty,
the quick-fix medical procedure - all done in an
instant: and the snobs out there who still
preserve the insistence: paper is authority -
paper is respect... on paper means authenticity -
paper solves everything... sure, most assuredly
a trip to the toilet.
i just don't recognise the person on these pages,
so many things have changed since then,
so much was given to the dwarfs to mine that
any man or elf in me, is... well... not even there
on the pages, or here, ploughing along.
back in the 20th century, someone must have thought:
books, a great commodity, keep them secret,
keep them safe... let's wait for the next buds of
capitalism's May - how the dynamic has changed,
and this is even with a critical introduction
by someone who obtained a PhD in literature -
a picture of me on the back cover:
yeah, because that will really sifter through the
demographic with more observable definitions
of who's to read what -
but it's just odd... i think of all that effort
put into printing a piece of work...
and i think of Salman Rushdie and the satanic
verses being burned...
i think of the wartburg säuberung:
and i find myself sitting alone like king
solomon - none the wiser,
all is vanity - and i know nothing -
because i was never taught to experience
something like this the second time:
the only thing to understand
is the self that cannot comprehend experiences
given unto it... all that jack-in-the-noumenon stuff;
but i look at this little thing, these 115 pages
and wonder: so much? for so little?
how fortunate, or unfortunate to be given this
spider-web... it always feels so glitzy,
so: at the right place at the right time...
then the physical artefact appears...
and you go back to the syringe of
open access, and say: pressurised by the ever
changing circumstances...
back in the 20th century a writer
was told to shut herself away in a tiny rented room
and become a clarice lispector: become
a hurricane simply by writing about good
first lines: the writer's aesthetic, typewriter or
ink blotches - or the blank page... and later
become sensational, hurricane-like -
i feel no nostalgia toward the 20th century in this
regard... i'm immersed in what has only
begun in 2006 - circa or no circa, whatever -
we can't rent rooms like that - or do things like
that, given the 24/7 society structure -
and i mean that in the least ****** sense
when i say, as Harold Norse did, without
a backdrop of homosexuality (even though
he was working out with arnold "the governor"
schwarzenegger at some point in his
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel) -
a cartoon fix: the book of life -
the man, and the man -
ah what fanciful trivialities that bind one man
to goofy ideals, and another to duties -
and only when an artist becomes successful does
he really become a *****... cocktail and *******
parties and Sid Vicious cameos -
all the Renaissance artists had it easy,
with the Pope their patron, they could be as
****** with their contempt for earthly privileges
and could get away with it -
the days of a homosexual saying:
i am not a man...
the 20th century liberation
paved a way for the obsolete purpose of
the heterosexual man... apparently we have
grown a potential to grow ***** in
the laboratory - we are, quiet literally disposable
in that epitome of the Wrath of Eden:
just repeat after me: deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation, deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation - as constantly striving
to be the unique peacock among a *****-count
of peacocks without distinction on the
plateau of the living self-bound: you uniqueness
expired with the process of insemination:
you were once the one and only wriggly
world record holder at the 100 metre sprint...
a natural dictator it would seem,
but apparently, the ones that didn't make it
now respond: me too! me too! me too!
or something like that.
either through the eye
of the microscope or the telescope - cul de sacs either
end... because of the glue...
call it god, call it love, call it nothing...
it's still some sort of glue... sniff it, play with it,
avoid it... it's still glue...
gravity is a glue, but it's not the glue that keeps
muscles bound to bone - yes, tendons are
the happy ******* children of that ******* union
of all things apparent...
but in the sense that i keep repeating:
it's easily done - falling for the fake pixel glitz -
however official or unofficial it all is -
with or without advertisement on the pages -
it's the only junk that's out there these days...
if i were more of a man, i'd be chasing
the dream of a steady income, family and obligations...
can we call being a man a fool's errand?
i like to think of it as that... being man is synonymous
with a fool's errand -
no love transcend the grave,
no love can be engraved into epitaphs -
epitaphs and their respective soloists -
it's not even out of bitterness -
not in this pixel desert where 10 years later
those of us who used this medium will become
exponentially out-dated: archaeological -
and it will be thus -
Ouroboros Capitalism -
or back when communism and capitalism were
in competition, and somehow healed the 1st
half of the 20th century, and were indeed
the Caduceus - like the story of the cannibalistic
rats... what did the last rat eat in the pit-hole?
back when capitalism had to compete,
and competed it did, and healed by competing,
after it supposedly overpowered its opponent...
it started to eat itself... as i see it:
the transformation of the caduceus into
ouroboros has taken shape... and we're still
only 16 years into the 21st: oh my god! it's the 21st
century! this is preposterous! not really... no...
the same was said in the 20th century...
and the 19th century...
the steady improvement in living standards
always fed these gimps to say the exact same words
while being gagged by being paid to say those words
and doing the slosh-wash part of a *** ****:
Apache Vinnetou hail satan blah blah, V shaped ave,
skull-and-bones secret handshake etc.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
death by consent
Mateuš Conrad
Aug 2018
.reiteration... em.. you're not internet providers... are you?! the best you'll ever be, is, software *******... you're about as invested in hardware, as the mafia is invigorated by mainstream politics...******* wankers... you what?! huh?! censorship?! who's supplying you with the copper wires?! you?! ha ha ha ha! how about getting leg ***** by a mongrel tongue... and considering your type of companies, as, serious, "mediators"... no hardware... just a software monopoly... ******* **** wasps! you almost want to cannibalize their presence! like... ever taste bone marrow? these "companies"... are teasing a taste of bone marrow! i want to eat something... these, companies, forgot, that, they're, not, service, providers! d'uh! and they're making the dicta?! inch copper **** making all the rules... what rules?! they don't make the rules... they're not hardware enforcers! they block my presence, i subsequently return to over-exemplifying using the scissors, counter the computer! yeah?!
em...
but you're not BT...
British Telecommunications?
the hell is up with these
software nuggets?!
how can google,
facebook,
youtube, ban, someone...
when they pay...
for their hardware provider?
did, said companies,
pay, for the copper wires?!
i'm pretty sure the answer is
no...
unless you've not been banned
by authentic internet providers,
but, rather,
banned by content creation
mediums?!
**** 'em!
**** 'em silly!
they do not actually
own access to internet
provision, i.e. ACCESS...
they do not own
the armory
of copper wiring....
that connects the dots...
*******!
BT or SKY or ******
pulls the plug,
you're all out!
you get the
differential "bias" against
the format of software
contra hardware?
no?
there are,
internet, providers...
there is the hardware of
occupational hardware user basis...
these companies...
censoring...
have a software stature,
without a hardware status...
want to rephrase the thesaurus
to concern yourself
with legislative phraseology?
really?
me? can't be bothered...
do it yourself,
VEGAN dietary requirements
and... whatever.
but you can't deny someone
content provision...
when they're paying for
an internet access...
these software companies
do not have to answer
to governments...
they have to answer
to hardware providers...
internet access deposits /
access points...
not governments...
hardware instigators...
oh, really?
software censorship?
if there's no one using
the hardware?!
good luck...
and a goof ball speeding!
these companies, who are exercising
"depth",
of the parameters of conscription
of legit consent?
they have this amnesia...
this amnesia...
of...
not being hardware utilities...
i.e.?
a comic book...
without the printing press...
savvy?
now i'm mowing down
eyed
claustrophobic eyed -
horses running,
with shutters on their eyes
for the added advantage
of tunnel vision...
that Bane scene equivalent...
with the quote -
crashing this plane...
"who" are these companies
to dictate,
"correct" internet usage?
they're not internet providers...
to begin with...
if... a company like SKY...
or BT... or ******...
obstructed internet access
of a person?
i'd be nodding...
in a coherent access of
agreement...
but...
these websites are not
hardware, they're software...
see the difference?
they're not internet providers...
they're pixel blank bulk anticipating
canvases...
unless there's something
wrong with the original idea,
of an un- investigated
genesis of a pixel blank?!
can i make this an issue
with your, internet provider?
i don't like you excluding
the content of the content
that is a blank pixel anticipatory
excavation wait...
sorry...
i don't like you miscarrying my
payment of internet access...
having censored interactive outlet
canvases...
i pay for one... i pay for all...
can you please pay
the proper amount of
compensation to the hardware
companies that provide
universal internet access to
the full spectrum of internet users?!
namely?
BT... SKY... ******?
yes?!
em...
but you're not BT...
British Telecommunications?
the hell is up with these
software nuggets?!
how can google,
facebook,
youtube, ban, someone...
when they pay...
for their hardware provider?
did, said companies,
pay, for the copper wires?!
i'm pretty sure the answer is
no...
unless you've not been banned
by authentic internet providers,
but, rather,
banned by content creation
mediums?!
**** 'em!
**** 'em silly!
they do not actually
own access to internet
provision, i.e. ACCESS...
they do not own
the armory
of copper wiring....
that connects the dots...
*******!
BT or SKY or ******
pulls the plug,
you're all out!
you get the
differential "bias" against
the format of software
contra hardware?
no?
there are,
internet, providers...
there is the hardware of
occupational hardware user basis...
these companies...
censoring...
have a software stature,
without a hardware status...
want to rephrase the thesaurus
to concern yourself
with legislative phraseology?
really?
me? can't be bothered...
do it yourself,
VEGAN dietary requirements
and... whatever.
but you can't deny someone
content provision...
when they're paying for
an internet access...
these software companies
do not have to answer
to governments...
they have to answer
to hardware providers...
internet access deposits /
access points...
not governments...
hardware instigators...
oh, really?
software censorship?
if there's no one using
the hardware?!
good luck...
and a goof ball speeding!
these companies, who are exercising
"depth",
of the parameters of conscription
of legit consent?
they have this amnesia...
this amnesia...
of...
not being hardware utilities...
i.e.?
a comic book...
without the printing press...
savvy?
now i'm mowing down
eyed
claustrophobic eyed -
horses running,
with shutters on their eyes
for the added advantage
of tunnel vision...
that Bane scene equivalent...
with the quote -
crashing this plane...
"who" are these companies
to dictate,
"correct" internet usage?
they're not internet providers...
to begin with...
if... a company like SKY...
or BT... or ******...
obstructed internet access
of a person?
i'd be nodding...
in a coherent access of
agreement...
but...
these websites are not
hardware, they're software...
see the difference?
they're not internet providers...
they're pixel blank bulk anticipating
canvases...
unless there's something
wrong with the original idea,
of an un- investigated
genesis of a pixel blank?!
can i make this an issue
with your, internet provider?
i don't like you excluding
the content of the content
that is a blank pixel anticipatory
excavation wait...
sorry...
i don't like you miscarrying my
payment of internet access...
having censored interactive outlet
canvases...
i pay for one... i pay for all...
can you please pay
the proper amount of
compensation to the hardware
companies that provide
universal internet access to
the full spectrum of internet users?!
namely?
BT... SKY... ******?
yes?!