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This isn't him,
This can't be the face he's left here,
This isn't the face he's used to seeing,
Solidified in the mirror.
It can't be the current one,
Or even close,
It's not at all how he recalls from the ponds he's known.
Not the one admired,
On crystal clear days,
Or the one sang with,
Through some humming nights.
Maybe his memory is just fogged up,
Maybe this reflection is just blurry from the showers,
They'd have burned others skin.
Still this can't be the face.
Not with the potholes for eyes,
Waning moons for lips,
And cliches for brains.
Or maybe things,
Maybe they do just change,
Maybe sometimes somethings sink in the earthquakes,
And are never swam in again.
Maybe sometimes there's no hope for reversal, redemption,
Or some rectifying light to right what's left,
Only hope in surviving the new.
I guess that's all there ever was.
If only he had it sooner,
He would have thrived in the old world,
Found melodies in the days and more mirror-less memories for the nights.
Only then could things be better off,
Different.
older poem, don't turn on your front camera or introspection may occur.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
or that worth of gimp, the hotted sauced out
cradle of predatory amusement              banked on,
                        i have the notes,
mind you, you're clearly laden
with khaki material,
to mind the blackshirts of the SS,
a Vandal epiphany -
                 less khaki juice
and more blackcurrants -
                  or so the motto stands,
asserting brief and all that thought
of tomorrow.
                   all i'll add with this
vague blunt alcohol ridden self?
the vampirism of the abandoned trill
of the R...
                   that's the Vlad-blatant
abandonment of the trilling of the R -
and the competent disregard for
linguistic laws...
                 until tomorrow,
until i find my sobering-up manicure
and in rewrite the notes i've made
when inspired...
                      and i have made them...
it's all about me being nicknamed
a Viking for my tolerance to drink
you under the table, and dabble with nods,
or the blatant hiding of the tetragrammaton
with ghee (said gee) and otherwise,
                  (Indian butter) -
or dhal - or quiet simply daal / dāl:
against the aesthetics, ouch.
     again in French: je t'aime: ř - adding zero
hour to the said: sharpening the shrapnel -
                       jaded temp. / jay temp. /
                  j-j ****** or the rue flu.
oh it's there, in the notes,
as i benign the thought: unfit today,
payday tomorrow.
wait... i might have a sober moment tonight...
         encapsulate that with a question
about Iran, and a quasi-stop in conversation...
        or counting the strokes in a handwritten
variation:
              Yen ( ¥‎) = 4
                      pound (£) = 2
    matchsticks...
                             elsewhere also matchsticks:
º (red)
                = R E D (3, 4, 2) matchsticks,
                 º (
writing is termed another variant of arithmetic,
the total is 7, for one ideogram) -
             the sigma for red
   is 9, but divided by three means
        the European model falls 4 short
of optical indigestion.
     ř (caron) - caron of the missing z -
         not the variant of caron s and c with z:
czekam (i'm waiting), or szukam (i'm looking),
English has this pronoun priority
                   to be included in every phrase,
or what provides the British Empire fabric:
            how a-  (indefinite)
     and the-    (definite) articulation secures
pronouns with excess modifications
  as already apparent conjunction modifications
worthy of exegesis into the exotic / excess.
there are 7 pages worth of notes,
   but i have three quarters worth of whiskey to
drink... give me an Andy Warhol moment
suggesting: in the future, people
will have only 15 minutes worth of rechargeable
         infrastructure; hence the pending /
ongoing / will return to in a minute.
reintroducing the trilled R vogue:
    is a bit like incubating a vampiric
in English,
                    rzekomo (apparently so)
       řekomo -
                         variant of: as already stratified.
               still, the trilling of the R
is so out of fashion in English it's necessarily
a vampirism qualm -
                   never nearer the French hark
when the R summarises a rolling effect -
      by imperial standards charred.
howe then to resemble a trill?
           r̭ ?
                   or wave akin to wavering
                       (ñ) that's necessary above an r?
i need the trill represented!
    for thrill a better word -
                  or 0 and the minded gambit.
as said caron the missing H...
       twins in
                 Y or three-dimensional space,
and W
              of trigonometric absorption...
waves hunny, waves...
                          and three dimensional space
and rabbis... honey cluedo pooh bear...
i still need to find the trilled r!
**** me, the trilled r! virgulilla:
or thus said, a patent otherwise.
        yet again a ******* Yeti,
    counting matchsticks in Japan
   rather than in Iowa...
             cos it really ******* mattered
given the knots -
       and other reminders...
         yen, or Jenny,
      v. p o u n d
            (2 1 2 2 2);
          ś (acute) half-missing caron
      inc. grave v. š (caron)
             or the Sean Connery effect -
e.g. środa (wednesday) or škodaª
             (insert a H or a Z)
           for pronunciation
                        of the Czech car manufacturer,
already the Tetragrammaton descends:
   ªwhat a shame, it's such a shame.
       Mishter Bondè:
                                tequila sunrise?
ney - ney shaken nor shackled to a shtir (
šush it, and wise up, mš. moneypenny).
    just say Sharon and write Šaron:
dimples!
                         or how to paint a Kabbalistic
anatomy of the mouth to slow variation
between ś (acute) / no consonants will ever
acquire a gràve - necessary: the e isn't said
accenting / syllable scalpelling cutting up...
but still the coran s (š - to mention
ch in cheap, and šiš kebabs too).
variation of cutting up the caron into
acute and grave?
      ś: the tongue is primarily squeezed by the psyche /
breath and the mouth rekindles eating a lemon
tightening it's juiced up and juices the tongue
to sting with missing saliva -
š? primarily a serpent's hush -
  the mouth hollows out -
         the breath enters a so does a pufferfish:
antics of hollowed out mouth follow suite,
the diamond or double L

       bone                                    soul
               L muscle                            L teeth
  tendon                               tongue

synonyms and Γ apart -
                                 of the LL, or ΓL
                    or LΓ or ΓΓ.
                      the diamond diadem -
assertion of bone: whether caprais or
   cousin in the mandible family...
    is a tongue a muscle?
            still the Kabbalistic anatomy dynamic...
  the kinned appearance of H or the
variant of bone...
     or?
              a-
                     (+)
                              -theism,
it doesn't mean that God doesn't exist,
it just means that God has no logical attachment
to man's sprechen,
            the omni- can be rightfully disregarded
in that rubric consolidated within
categorisation of: lazy...
      a- (i.e. without)  
                            theology,
              ­       or our abhorrent freedoms of will,
nurtured by a universal lack:
       atheism contemplates talk of god
without a contradictory circumstance of the
human endeavour to find itself a *******
     lacklustre of comparative Raphaelite
                 illustration...
                           always the favourite,
aren't they, the crucified ones, rather than
those enthroned? aren't they? so why are the
Japanese asking about their ****** culture?
over-sexualised west?
let's ask Yokote,
   let's ask Takeshi,
let's ask Masahiro,
             sure... you can ask me:
  i prefered prostitutes because i actually
knew i was using my phallus rather than representing
a ******* identity of some egocentrism
regarding the skyscraper -
                     and the last girlfriend i had?
i wouldn't wish her to be a companion of
any kind of a Mongolian invader as part
of a horde... i had an argument with her
and was so unhappy i actually wished i was dead...
          jerking off never seemed so holy
as when encountering this woman who
stood by the motto: life is ****...
           but i guess money does that to you.
**** me! i never expected to be so Japanese in
my outlook;
tragic, i know, but what can you do,
    you unlock the floodgates of feminism
and you think that lions will start to provide for
the household? then you aren't lionesses; obviously;
or reluctantly so:
           i find the 21st century is withstanding
  any kind of revision, given the 20th century's
revisions aren't working
        for any worthy necessitation of reciprocated
stipend.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
for all its worth, ad inviduum matters,
as any stress imposed
to, "break away from the herd"...
the ever becoming need for
flamboyance and bombast
to not be: the drowning man
in a sea of corpses in the inevitable
inferno...
      as much as the saying goes
about vanity projects,
   hair make-up, or rather:
less extravagence and more on
the lines of: you can walk in *****
and torn clothes...
       but at least you've taken a shower
prior...
             yet there still remains
a stressor on individualism...
    in that...
            as long as individualism
is accepted by a herd of "individuals"...
i remember that outside of school
i knew one black guy,
as the black joke goes: he was a drug
dealer, and a single father...
what the white boy knows a black guy
joke doesn't follow up is that
he was ostricized... a fellow *****...
because they really tell you
about the Bangladeshi workers
    dead beneath the burn khalifa...
even individualism has limits,
with the motto:
   as long as it doesn't mingle with
eccentricity,
    as long as individualism doesn't
mingle with eccentricity...
   because in the latter sense?
that's the individualistic norm shattered...
everyone gets to over-hit the mark...
which shows the cracks in
the so-called notion of individualism...
notably in the west:
        cogitans est cassus primo
                    gratia rideo...
      logos incognito.
                     as such, individualism
as spare, auxiliary / collateral change...
trend setters,
    if famous for 15 minutes,
   pack leaders for 15 seconds,
and then back to the frivolous intrigues
of peacocks on a catwalk...
by individual, i think of the:
                 hersch...
                      a dangerous line between
setting a vogue and a minor
sentiment for the vanguard...
and becoming ostricized as a *****,
humouresly being attached
the term: eccentric...
     or just plain weird in the harsh
tongue of the children's blunt...
phraseology...
                             the world comes
to the boundaries of a small town
exactly 1.5 days later,
  give or take the algorithm
via prior searches...
                                   perhaps how i
understand individualism is
how Narcissus might understand
the vampirism of his brother
     Solipssus...
                  a kind of people who
behave as if without a body,
a type of people who, like vampires,
can't see their reflections...
not that they can't in a literal sense...
      as everything small begs
a curiosity,
   as everything large astounds
with awe...
             paradoxical thus,
the content of a church,
                 and the church itself...
        after all...
     the legionnaires did soak
a sponge with wine and offered it to him
on the end of a spear... which he refused...
   a pale comparison
as blueprint, to what subsequently
came to pass...
              well...
it is pale... considering you'll
never actually know, upon giving
himself up so freely...
  that there wasn't anything,
remotely comparative
with the infamous example
of Albert Fish:
              self-embedded needles
lodged in his pelvis and perineum...
just as the other case in point:
marquis de sade seems more like
a scapegoat than the sadist
his imagination and only his imagination
allowed him to be...
because what,  screaming from
the window of the Bastille, or locked
in an asylum, he could really
compete with the power of the clergy
in the form of his uncle,
the abbé de sade...
                       how can it not be
a fiction, when the power of fiction itself
has become slowly obliterated
wriggling in a cul de sac?
     how could I ever write a work
of fiction, when what was deemed
as truth, credo, is facing up to
non-mainstream footnote reading
and the 1945 archeological findings
that match up to the 2000 or so years
of heretical speculation?
riht now, he can be brown olive
tanned mulatto or whatever Dalton
hue of orange...
              if white is ivory if it is
a scalped cranium a pharmacological
soup woth of brain...
             if white is white and even amrican
south: h'white...
        clingy *******
to the feet of the Urals...
    pardonable warm *****,
only Sveedish, and only at 25ml a pop...
talking to two old people
half-awake, half-asleep...
      buddha-eyed sleepwalking almost...
as i came in contact with
the dark chapter of medicine,
not even past the 1950s America...
                 the infamous tactic
of regression: also known as
    false memory implants...
                    two old people trying
to fall asleep,
   a bottle of *****,
       shy drinking, 10 years of celibacy...
with the odd purely physical encounter
like a rag and a hand and a ***** sink...
my grandfather bemoans that
he never had a chance to say: father...
i could bemoan not having said:
i love you...
                ascribed her an endearing
nick'...
                it seems this world
hides higher pleasures bound
to a rigour so few make eruditions of.
PrttyBrd May 2010
Blindsided by near tragedy
Bullied by unanswered questions
Elation tempered with doubt
Too frightened to be free
Best attempts continue to fail
Escaping to nothing
Nothing in return
Empty or just too full to feel
Irreplaceable time
Withering and wasted
Searching beyond hope
Looking for the good
Holding on to rainbows
Spontaneity dies slowly
Restless minds swim too fast
Shades of yellow in a fog
No memory of yesterday
Pulled back into now
Unable to process more emotion
Unstoppable floods
Undeniable bonds
Unwanted feelings
Unconditional everything
Emotional vampirism and parasitic tendencies
Leave nothing behind
Overwhelming need to help
Bound by limits
Pulled by love
Torn apart slowly
Unable to heal
Unable to deal
Left bone dry and used
No one to blame
No cycle to break
Taking your sorrow
Swallowing your pain
Carrying your suffering away from you
As you heal I disappear
- From Sunset to Sunrise
52310
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
i remember the meningitis scare:
   oh... it was very real...
i guess it was supposed to affect a niche
proportion of the population...

so much for the "scare":
they would vaccinate us in the schools:
since children were more prone
to succumb to: and inflammation of
the lining around your brain and spinal cord...

and all that: press a thumb against
a skin... and if the skin returns to its original
colouring: there's no blemish of applied
pressure... pressing glasses onto the skin too...

the aesthetics have changed so drastically:
what can **** you is so subtle these days...
it's hardly a case of leprosy...
or... eczema of the zombie plague:
or miniature lilal mushrooms growing
out from your armpits:
suddenly breaking into song:
  'steve told us to sing... so we have
sprouted: to sing!'
       no... celeriac sized warts... hell...
i haven't seen any pictures of covid-19...
as i never saw pictures of ebola...

            death has been given: an anonymity...
but what's still kept in reserve?
shingles...
     like: hyper-eczema...
                i'm having to consolidate myself
on the luck of being 30+ and still having...
a skin on my face that i can't peel:
but i'm sure that belzeebub took a dump on...

they're either dead maggots
or dead white blood-cells...
        i guess i have so many of the latter that...
my immune system is constantly
on a over-charge mode...
          
    where are the lilac mushrooms about to grow
out from out of my armpits:
when will death become visible again:
outside her womb:
without any anonymity to behold:
when will everything... "ev'fing"
  return to the obviousness of a guillotine...
a hangman...
      a... hanged, drawn and... quartered?

the improved aesthetics of the threat is hardly
be sitting in an armchair...
welcoming this: paranoia precursor...
there's no phosphorescent yellow-green phlegm
being shot through the air with a sneeze...

i'm quite disturbed about all this...
        "sterility"...
                      well thankfuly i know that
a schizophrenic can't beget a drone-replica:
dead'ed brain: "schizz"... zombie-cult-esque
   brain: riddled with parasites like...
a disciple of burrough's fever might provide:
subsequently... by...
   by caughing a splitting-headache that might:
somehow: "later": arrive at some variation
of bilingualism...
          but never will... perhaps it should...

because: right now: i want to wrong about everything...
i want to ****** with a hard-on of doubt...
and perhaps: tease negation a little...
or rub-rub-'er very much...
but i do: most honestly...
    want to be wrong about everything...
esp. when it comes to...
   the aesthetics of the "problem":
    it's a problem-solution: solution-problem
  quadratic...
           i mean: if it was truly cosmic... and original...
would it really care for much of aesthetics...
can viruses becomes stealth assassins?
   is a virus a misnomer of plague?
or is... a virus a former case of plague...
  that couldn't be: prior... weaponized?
   the rampant exfoliation of: the obliterated
concern for aesthetics...
   oh sure... it's clean cut...
           god knows what happened to those old
curiosities of medicine...

otherwise...

   what will 3 hours spent reading nothing but
Dickens do to you...
me? i "somehow" managed to miss / forget
about a sunset...
   came the night and... yeah: when meningitis
hit...
   and i guess after the mad-cow disease...
break-dancing limp feet cows...
drunk cows... morbidly drunk cows...

      there was always that postcard reference:
now?
you could obviously see the bubonic plague
from a mile away...
you could see eczema...
you can sure as **** see a shingles belt...
        would a virus even care...
to appease the aesthetic concerns of man?
how doesn't cancer do that...
well... i just start thinking about...
the botanical cancer... viscum...
hardly seen in western europe: tree-foundation
societies... etc.
   half an hour on the road outside of warsaw...
that's enough...

oh sure: because of covid-19:
who could, "somehow" forget about...
                  metastatic tumors!
oh the joys of... <cough cough> the carousel
or that ol' chestnut!
            come to think of it...
    would ingesting a tapeworm make thinks and things
more real?
what wouldn't be bad
about acquiring a symbiote these days?
     all: postulations of the mundane...
without yet within the science-fiction universe...
the facts will simply not stand the test
of time... or will... but will be shelved...
given to the bookworms and their placenta
worm-queen...

it's actually becoming a sieving tool for acquiring
nothing lost: of the old mundane...
the sterile aesthetics of the whole under-taking...
it's too: invisible: too pure...
to be... a freakish byproduct of nature...
sending us back in time...
as the original: single-cell organism
about to usurp the crown of creation...

    my list of conspiracy theories begins
with: catcher in the rye "coincidences" and...
that david copperfield sort of *******...
      because if it's not Pickwican...
it's certainly not an account of count
smorltork:
        peek - christian name
                weeks - surname; good, ver good...

otherwise these days:
the intellect has become a sponge...
and the supposed underlying:
because it is "supposed" and there's an
"underlying" aspect to all of this...
that there is a "dialectic" and...
otherwise: the bestest of the best kind
of...            soap...

is it a revival of an "empire"...
when at the height of its decline...
there was that motto:

     panem et circenses...

     what's underlying in Dickensian prose?
well... some of the words used...
i'd sit with a page and check the dictionary
3 times on average...
because there's still that underlying:
we, Britons, prior to the "english"...
the anglo-saxons... are the Afghanistan
oopsies of the ancient world...
there are so many words with direct
connection: etymologically "speaking"
with latin...

now: the bread is still "here"...
   of the 20th century... you could see a ****
coming way back in 1933...
and the communist... whenever that happened...
and you could subsequently trickle the "evil"
archetype into movies... into gaming...
and have people hooked on a bullseye of evil...

now? greyish blips and blobs of
Kantian bureaucracy...
    
o.k. panem et circenses...
looks to me...
like the circuses are long gone...
the bread is still here...
but... of all the seismic shifts this is...
hardly a ffffffffffff-ucking Pompeii!
riddle me this: riddle me that...
what can possibly become so... overly entertaining...
about eating a slice of bread?
why are the vermin: multiplying:
what's with all this: "huddling" at a distance?
need a cape with that: herr ubermensch?

last time i checked: rats do no operated
under herd scriptures...
there's not need for a shepherd...
there is: fire! scramble!
peep-squeak and more!
          
    an impeding confrontation with a pack of wolves...
a vegetarian lion convert...
                 the bubonic plague: lack of aesthetic...
and now this...
this supreme aesthetic of: when the ancient greeks
thirsted to conceive of the existence
of atoms...
          not that i require proof...
what so of circus: though...
      is, this?!

- yes folks... in the current climate of labyrinths...
the Minotaur isn't here...
and we're out of stock on smoke...
and... mirrors...

citations of a possible prediction to allign with
some variation of borrowed horrors:
to usurp the status quo and sentences us for:
there's no "third time lucky" therein...

all that's happened though:
mental people who would never allow
their minds to riddle them...
become claustrophobic by mere thought...
can you?
translate thinking into claustrophobia?
oh god... no... we haven't reached this nadir...
have we?
thought didn't imply θ(ought)!
that erotica of a would be pronoun:
the moral quest...
                  not because i did something bad
in the past...
but because:
i did what others didn't do prior to me...
i ride the wave of what a *******
said to me once:
after an ******:
this is only the second time it has happened
to me: hello ***** envy thrown out of the window!
hello sisters of mercy in some convent
in Limerick!
'allo! 'allo!

beside the moral conundrum of θ(ought): ought i?
this narrative of the ol' 'ed...
is... claustrophobic?
             spread this negation-of-ease further:
dear kin!
   dis- prefix that denotes negation...
ah... and -ease! the suffix that complete the circle:
no contemplation is necessary!

i'm still seeing bread, though...
oh mein gott! die zirkusse! die zirkusse!
what can be done about the circuses?!

people are coupling thinking with claustrophobia...
people are implored to read
for at least 3 hours a day!
a dickens! a tolstoy! a dumas!
and then relax from congesting paragraph strain
and explore the airy side of what was
written into prose and paragraph with
the aid of poetics: that non-exclusivity of rhyme:
always missing... best missing!

i too abhor this synonym:
poetry is what rhymes...
            a set list of: knock-knock jokes...
about as tasteful as...
               roast beef: done well done...
eating the bark of wood:
now that's an adventure!

            or what's... the adjective riddle / riddled...
of: now...
permanent - adjective... these days a host
of "calling scheitmeiser for all his worth"
and what not...      
                               now: the experimental
history of yesterday and "oops"
now: the cameo cinema of yesterday...
and god willing:
you have a "savings account"
of: memories that can...
suffocate the future: the imagining...
of and for the nought of nothing...
the "conundrum": of being...
such and such... and somehow...
retain: personhood...
rather than... a mere... citizentry "status"...
of the ebbing flow of cattle meat and dung:
itsy-bitsy spider teeth itching...
before the bone!
and... after the bones!

load of crock-**** Lombardy is not
Italy... mantra...
and those rites of rats from
the sinking ship that's Wenice...
much too... quasi-important...

      H - surd of a letter...
but the skeleton supposed to behind:
laughter...

the hibernian folk know it...
the english: eh... somewhat...
          bound to θ and bound to φ...
in t'ought... but not in: t'aught...
who needs the apostrophe?
no me: not "you"...
         third: or... θird:
or... ****... or τ(au) says: "herd"...
                             and what's "spezial"...
the surd worth of π (pi)
     in ψ...
                    or      'sychology...
              then there's "all that" with...
chrome: the χ that becomes a kappa (κ)...
but not... exactly the...
the...      ah!                   CHisel!
chasing dog's tails?

                            but a hardy: hibernian:
it's not an F... it's a T...
we have to expose the H-surd! primo
pronto!

    but ψ can afford...
          πσι in that...
                      either the π... or the π...
is treated as a surd..
cited: the whittle canyon of eta (Ηη)..
            ha: if it's a definite article in 'ebrew...
or ha: if... you need a consonant
skeleton... to breathe when laughing...

toes when marching: chin ching chatter...
otherwise "K / kappa" the matter...
taught to think it all but a massive:
****!
   or... a θurd... which is exfoliating in
the gaellic concept of: third...

i'm not from 'ere...
              mind you...
              this is all disneyland for m'eh et moi...
hello whittle atom me...
hello whittle atom you...
hello: hyvä aamu... susie 'ere...
       rakastaa... että ulvonta...
                 "unohti" haukkua:
fins... drawfs... and other whittle people...
eskimos of the "narrative":
   "kaikki alkaen apinamaa"!
    pωl pυt ***...
             and there's "3" of 'em!
exactly... what about the V'em...
             perhaps a F'ought...
      but: V'ere!
            V'em!
                            who the **** gets to
assure me: this language "ving" or "thin"...
sure hands... sure hands...
it's not all grafitti from chernobyll!

and what if... Joycean would 'ave to begin
its pilgrimage toward Dickensian?
this Ezra of ours: what of this...Ezra of
Fahrenheit of "ours"?

           my atom "versus" your... "atomized" man?
my spaghetti english
versus your... i'll sooner choke on ß...
or SuS...
         or SaS
                  SeS...          sayß...
h'american spaghetti english... *** riddled:
ghetto crown-tongue...


me and finding a juggling of chuckles
with: wit... hiding the ha ha...
when θ = τ...
hibernian...
poland the playground of god:
greek... the plaground of men...
esp. those as being cited:
with origin of the barbarian tinge...

  exatly! what of WH when TH are....
thought of "wen":
this grafitti phpneticism...
this barbarism...
no code of "conduct":
what should have:
and did "have": a happen to...
when it came to the ratio
of consonants to vowels...
  of the latter there was a supposed more...
or the latter a less...

    h.i.v. vampirism romances
would have to die...
  a death... most... closely associated with:
psychopaths: or...
the general pathology is: soul-quests...
all "things" considered...
there is no "grand-Σ"
        "past-participle":
of the unconscious-conscious liver...
does the part: actor... functions
of... i robot: you, not here...

the liver does what a liver does:
even if: i r woke...
and i r: sleepz...
               eyes only on when...
orientating myself around:
a failure of a distinct "individual":
moi foie premier...
   moi estomac premier...
and of "me" or... a me...
given that... there's no: "the me"...
            load of ******* and a chewing tube
of "worded"... "circumstances"...
as: "the alternative" to...
sorry... no other alternative...
was... or would ever... be given...
errror message 404 commences: as of: now!

- or... can you?
compensate a word like... draconian...
with a word... the periphery word...
akin to... byzantine?!
the kite's high up in the ******* air
my dear lad...
can you? "compensate" this...
marry of all other:
never-poppin' up 'ins?!

that's one way of minding:
a grey-ginger...
or an albino-masai...
for "good luck"... of all t'ings:
the lerprechaun 'ucking charm brigade!
that's just 'ucking necessary: that is!

as.... the people have already mentioned
their freedom: to cite and keep up to
the rigours of salutations...
they said and they said... and they:
sad but nonetheless: they sad-***-made-"truth"-of...
"it": 'ucking wombat
multiverse l.s.d.: me typing on an old... cranky...
soviet "qwerty" imitation...

the freedom prior to the plague:
i am yet to see...
the **** covid... and the leprechaun...
and the tarantula...
and the... leech...
   **** me: raining cats and dogs:
what a scenario!
     i was supposed to get...
               not leech: not *****...
those fidgeting terse quizzes...
          *****... no... leech... no...
leprechauns: double no...
             szarańcza... old mother-tongue:
ah yes... "these":
                                 locust!

the third of the lard off the herd of the most:
"likely"... nosense to me:
something for you:              up!
otherwise know as:
quiet a bollocking... wouldn't you,
somehow... please... stage:
an agreed to?
               ****'s sake...

  tyrd the triddle twiddle torn und
towing: dublin the sorry-eye: und sore...
you freckled maverick salt
burner you... and... it's a ginger:
stick-prone... keep y'er eager distance...

eh? that's true: is what's through...
**** paddy **** and a poor ******
walk into a bar...
and the bartender is... a kippah-don
of a rastafarian:
the jokes end...
and there was never a conversation
to begin with... ha ha!
now that's a joke... to wake up...
a frankenstein!

      ginger pleb: ginger poodle!
the new africa: the new eskimo...
or... the finnish gateway: etymologically speaking...
an alternative to... *** and...
              the leftover mongols
stranded by the waters
of the empire: receding...
          the...        no: not the croats...
the...
          a very much elongating concept
of pause....
              "d" or the "v" of: v'eh...: the...
the  immortal savages
of: crimea...
      ah yes!
                  those...            tar-tars!
like the tartare steak:
or what was forever available as
the alibi for: sushi!

        because tokyo is just one of those...
forever huan: new... beijing chicken shacks...
and "tokyo"...
or some other anime typo *******...

irish catholic intellectuals...
and... the none existence of whatever
would have required a magna carta:
believe it or... eat **** sort of
mentality...
            the russian doctors
are already abiding to be hunted
if not huddling in churches...
because: co-vex said: co-vid...
co-vid: sharing blockbuster intrusion
pokes was: that last resort to
mortality: and oh...

          this should have happened a long...
a long long time ago...
  transparency tourism...
where you going?
nowhere...
  and "where" is "going"... "nowhere"...
a bit like france... and the eiffel tower...
and there's no speaking french to have
to be resolved...
because like: "**** it" and what?

the ginger-ninja... the ginger-ninja...
the ginger-ninja and...
when the reality of *****...
reaches... an escalation "reality"
of: synonym with... oh god! beards!
ugh!           vot                          ven?!

yep... and the irish were always:
the horse-breeders..
they always were...
always the catholic-intellect juggernauts...
because the hey'talians and
the spoon-innards...
and... mon deu: zee: fwench!
forget the ****** cathos-pathos...
*******-of-os...

and in me:
the gravitas for a disconcerting ambivalence...
almost a compound:
misnomer... but no...
i like the spaghetti though...
yeah: it looks nice on paper...
and off paper...
and anything to cite: the godfather with...
because: boo is a ghost story
that a solo would sell... and ******* like
that...                   yup...
which is a word: to replace the ideal trajectory of:
would be: ghost limb...
james bond...
                          roulette...
you the actors "faking it": no of course...
dylan thomas bob dylan...
"faking it" i.e. stunt actors!
what's "bob": when there's a ******* roulette:
and a devil's dozen of rich, russian...
oligarchal chick... pretending plastic is not...
new world... ******: comb-over...
creaking chair... stlye-on... style-off...
plastico-supermanoh... dynamo-oh-oh...
those "soz" and "whatsevers"...
works well...
the times column...
when your parents are... conscripted...

             mammoth playdough oh oh oh...
irish is cheap...
catholic is cheap-oh...
******...
ha ha... let's not go there...
becauße that's like...
   goldberg variations: the bwv 988 aria...
   yeah: "soz"... but... i'll ******* eat you:
if i have to: for the purpose assigned
to a hard-on... most associated with...
sparrows...
and... the pirates of the confines...
the magpies...
          
             in every period of congregational
"sanity" there's that interlude into:
madness...
howl how! oh dear world of:
that lost appetite of surprise!
        you begin to wither... and die off:
by the slow culmination of hours...
like... a picture to entomb the perfecting
affair of a decaying pear... or apple...
               and...

            and....                 and...
trickling of sentiments...
and sounds...

                           and there are commentaries...
and there are... catholic bishops...
and protestant cardinals...
and ****** popes!             ah ha!
am i to.. truly... die... from laughter?!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
it's not like i was away from society,
sure, i crawled into my room and stockpiled on books,
the Tibetan Book of the Dead was never something
i was going to finish reading and find translatable
insights to compliment...
but there were plenty of books...
enough newspapers too... all the culture sections
written by critics: just today i was reading
up on two reviews in the culture section of
yesterday's the Sunday Times:
  poetry reviews! wow! wow! poetry is being
criticised in a mainstream media publication: still?
isn't poetry dead? last time i heard
TS Eliot killed poetry...
    well: if anything needs a killing -
i imagine trying to **** a dead person...
**** a dead person by mime?
**** a corpse by propping him in a chair...
talking to him, it, her,
pouring her, it, him a glass of whiskey...
dealing cards to them?
pretending the dead thing is somehow still
a body and all the mechanisation process of SIGMA
we dare to call soul or a seal of falling leaves or self?

horrors of the novel and all things
flashy and pop... i could if not for the autobiographical
drip drip drip...
   today i stood in the kitchen and imagined
myself: the demon cook of hell...
tomorrow i'll be making a Turkish dish
of finely cut beef... rosemary (oddly more complimentary
of beef than lamb), chillies, garlic,
sumac, pepper... cheese... white wine vinegar
to cure the meat...
                        black pepper... salt...
eaten with LAVASH...
                                          gorge of all gorges of
the thirst -
      but i will also be making two curries for the day
after tomorrow... to give myself more time for:
more time...

i went away from society: but didn't...
society tried to cement my ear into a lunatic asylum:
how i wished i made it among the madmen,
truly... how i wished i was at one point sectioned:
i tried my luck, i tried and tried but failed...
i never was... pop pill X white as nerves
and the bleaching of aluminium -
   pop pill Y... no result... the desired result...
the world span forward and still the same world
i returned to... although with quaked psyches
reaching out for hands instead of receiving
pointing fingers... exclude you: exclude i and you:
you-not-you i-not-i: or even:
i as "i" and you as "you"...
                    
in this kitchen: this, not this: any kitchen...
what was playing in the background? a spin on vampirism,
a blood-disease romance...
i thought about: if i wrote a YA novel about
vampires in the decadent period of the 1980s
with the height of the AIDS epidemic?
imagine: i "said" to myself...
    imagine vampires with AIDS... i started to imagine
vampires suffering from AIDS...
    not the sort of pristine vampires that needed
virgins or children to survive...
just a wild-thought: an unnecessary thought...
i'd be better off thinking of windmills...
    like that one coming up to Upminster from
Hornchurch...
               because this book, will never be written by
me... but a theme exists...
vampirism at the height of the AIDS pandemic...
vampires with AIDS...
             the homosexuality of vampires is yet
to be explored... seems these creatures might want
to exchange blood, spit and *****...
perhaps vampires would be immune to AIDS...
but then again: that's irrelevant since there's a cure
for ***: the virus that designated the past-"redemption"
state of AIDS...
or at least: this is what i "think" i "know":
point being - i don't care to know...
                              
the following rubric also came up...
on the topic of gravity...
swimming - ∇ (you find gravity in the top part
of your body... in the torso)...
the feet are slackers... they come in for the swim...
cycling - (again) ∇ nabla schematic...
your torso actually manages the coordination
of the body on the bicycle...
your feet do all the work... peddling...
but your upper body needs to coordinate
the centre point of gravity being: you're not falling...
you're not falling when either swimming
or cycling...
you're not falling when walking...
you're not falling when climbing, rock or tree...
∇... the legs are only there for the "ride"...

but? ice-skating... it should be the same!
it should be a ∇-schematic...
but is it?! is it?!
hardly some darkened mysterious, poetic O...
oh god... not another of those O O's...
like O is ****** or O is orbit
or O is eye or: whatever happened in Ur
and why not Oor for up-sigh-alone
   is not different to oh-mega-n: oh Meghan?
not a name in the tabloids... just
a coincidence, a little coincidence...

i can't be blamed for underachieving in the second
wave of literacy: basic example i can give:
frightoffreedom = "FRIGHTOFFREEDOM"
print(f"{frightoffreedom.lower()}")
who write so complicated but still performs
magic in 2D and can't translate 2D into 3D?
did every child start speaking said, any said
language to an unsaid capacity of a Buddha's
silence? gate-keepers some say,
a new literacy i say: i too could learn if
there was someone willing to teach...
but as the first pigs to the trough...
first learners come first and the rest "struggle"...
that's me sorting out the basics of ever used
EXCEL twice, properly...
HTML building blocks once...
sorting out my father's change of accountant:
three years prior to his retirement:
quick-books confuses everyday tax-payers
except for the intended audience of accountants...
but... how happy i was... filling out the rubrics
finding math fun without doing any math...
my new favourite expressions
are =SUM(D3:D34)
   that's for the total of money spent...
next column... =(D3*1.2)
   that's the rubric for the Netto (without VAT)
slide the mouse down from D3 through to D34...
next column the VAT (Brutto)..
    =(D3-E3)
             ergo... the VAT in cell F3... scroll down
to F34... then at F35 type in:
    =SUM(F3:24)...

                   modern poets are yet to have discovered
or used the internet or computers...
Poet-Luddite... conflated language:
i want to forget outside of the immediacy of having to
know an elephant is an elephant and
there are five blind men trying to tell apart
a chair from a table...
                 perhaps seeing each item represented
by a cubist painting would leave them
the same blind men if they were only given
a snippet of sight to tell a chair from table apart...

conkers left on windowsill and other locations
in the household allow you to spend the winter
months: freed from feeling spiders...
spiders apparently abhor the scent of oak seeds:
i've been huddling in my winter abode
freed from spider bites... in winter...
when spiders morph into mosquitos and draw
blood from mammalian flesh...

- i can't believe it though! it was so easy!
but... it had to take a lesbian to ask me out on a date!
it took me from the age of 21 through
to the age of teasing 37, done so casually...
hey: do you want to go ice-skating with me
after the shift is over? sure! why not!
today i paid for it... however many hours
i spent cycling, today i felt muscles i never thought
i had... but it took a lesbian to ask me on a date...
a coworker mingling scenario...
we worked the shift, we went ice-skating...
she filmed me trying my best not to fall over...
her laughter, or rather, her giggling reminded
me of Ilona... that masculine-feminine aura
of self-assurance...
i'm not attracted to these women:
they just seem to be attracted to me...
tattoos, piercings, bully-boy butch-Toms...
standing a proud 5ft4 eyeing up a 6ft2 example
trying to kick punch and kiss all at the same time...
well... it was so easy, so much fun...

it should follow that finding the centre of gravity
within the confines of ice skating
should be the same as that of finding the centre
of gravity while swimming or cycling...
i.e. ∇... that's the schematic...
upper-body: the torso is giving prime psychological
concerns... the legs are secondary...
but no... it's counter-intuitively: "intuitive"...
you can't exactly begin finding gravity while
either swimming or cycling by flapping your
arms about pretending to learn to fly:
but you do! you do!

            a drowning man is flapping his arms about
but his legs... his legs...
i'm starting to think i'm getting this theory all wrong...
swimming = cycling = ice skating = ∇...
i kept looking at my legs
pretending to walk while simultaneously trying to glide...

Δ schematic insinuates: don't look at your legs...
no one who walks upright looks down
asking the legs to do the walking...
one looks down to resemble a humbling
expression of grace: thank you: mechanisms of
what binds water to a tide and the mountain
to itch for rising above the setting sun...
thank you...
no one looks at one's legs insinuating:
you're not performing my unconscious demands
of moving from X to Y...
but on ice? ice skating...
it's a fake schematic... ice skating is truly like
swimming and cycling...
next time? my 3rd time on the ice? i will have to let go...
i will have to fall the nth number of times...
what's scary is generating a momentum
so easily without any obstacles of a hill
of grit of grind...
     it's a bit like: people exercising in the gym...
performance art... they can lift weights as a spectacle...
they can create a sexed-up physique, body-shape...
but throw the same people into a manual-labour
environment: with the drudgery of manual labour...
the bulkiest of them will stumble...
tell them to lift, perform "art work" on a roll of
      felt in the roofing industry...
lifting weights is an abstract compared to actual
physical labour...

still... aged 36 and the first "date": it wasn't a date...
was with a female who just so happened to be a lesbian...
what sort of heterosexual woman would go on
a date with me so simple... she asked to go ice-skating
i would have asked: want to go cycling with me?
want to go to an art gallery with me?
was there any talk about what job i have?
was there any talk about what living arrangements
i'm living "under": more like over given
the current climate of renting in London:
12 months upfront rent?!
             of course i still live with my parents...
i clean the house, i cook, i sort out my father's invoices...
i do the VAT for the accountant,
i tend to the garden...
                              i pay "rent"... well...
thankfully i didn't have hopes to get married...
so... my parents didn't have to fork out from their savings
for some grand fakery parade of ceremonial pomp
of ****** white: bride to be...
easier with the prostitutes in the brothel...
but i figured: if the the 8 year old me figured out
how to ******* before he could produce *****
he could also have an inkling into the current debacle
of men who *******: like that was ever a hindering
"problem": because women are all pristine
because they rarely talk about it:
cipher: Madame Bovary...

         two bad experiences having *** in one brothel
and i'm thinking about curing my ills seeking out
another brothel... but it's winter and my libido is
obviously not up to scratch...
so? three times daily... jerking off to the point
where i: i don't have to actually enjoy it...
no movies... just pictures... cleavage... ***...
eyes... mostly eyes...
                           bacon, butcher, bacon,
tenderising meat, curing meat with acids...
spices... herbs...
                 the more i do it the less i think of it...
worried about communal hot topics about loss
of testosterone?
                   i have hair on my chest
my stomach, my back and on my chin...
                  blah blah some parrot said...
seagulls dived in for a *******... the Kraken yawned...
Norse mythologies crept up on dying Christianity
and all was well... meadows covered by frost come
late January somewhere in the open green patches
of Edinburgh...

                - the labour and the pains of the crucified-foetus....
some say it's like waking into a world
where women perform the splinter-membrane
argument of what's living and what's not...
how ancient male mammals performed infanticide...
yet how chemistry and the abstract allowed
a new-mammalian-wave of female infanticide:
because: early birds in the dynamic of ***
made their first falls the fault in the opposite ***...
while some of us waited and waited and
by waiting became freed from ugly brides
and social expectation: Darwinism's pressures
to procreate...

i can't listen to both Darwinism and Buddhism
at the same time: i simply can't knife through
to the fork to subsequently spoon up and gulp down
this sort of duality...
like i can't stomach the dualism: if there is one
of consolidating the aesthetic with the ascetic...
i can't consolidate the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC!
Christianity did just that! Christianity
married the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC"
They are Immortal.
They are dead inside.
They are pale.
They often sparkle
but naturally don't.
They bite necks.
They are nocturnal.
They are out for blood.
They enthrall people effortlessly.
Their loved ones are often dead
or being mourned
while secretlly alive.
They act like the cool kids.
Or the awkward emo clicks,
but are treated like this exclusive club.
They don't show up in mirrors
because this IS their reflection.
They don't let the real them see the sun.
I am reflecting.
On.

Why.

Why have I only dated vampires?
I'm loosing lots of blood.
But
What am I gaining?
Besides y'know...
their blood diseases.
And lots of exciting! moments
That belong in movies
that would get
or already have gotten
way to popular.
And be better as books.

Some of them can throw me across a room.
Some of them love to count.
some of them seem to only show up around halloween and looove chocolate

Don't get me wrong.
I still love all these terrifyingly
Seductive temptresses.
I have a type.

But I don't know if it's A
Or B
Or O negative?

I'm an optimism ******
Oh, Positive?
I'm not afraid of needles
But they're afraid of me.

I tend to be a universal donor.
Which makes matching blood hard
Blood that works with my body is rare.

This is not to say anyone
could use my blood
Universal donor or not.
I am infected
with a blood disease
It could be vampirism
Or well, whatever causes one to seek
Vampires.

I Can't confirm anything about wooden stakes
Or decapitation or garlic.
But i can assure you setting them on fire doesn't work.

No matter how hot or fiery I make them
Their anger never kills them
It just makes them stronger.
But it does repel them quite nicely.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
they call it the intellectualism of a tumbleweed's
worth worth of attention...
      they call it jargon,
or gnarling, or showing your teeth weather smiling
or teeth kept to a gnashing of bone until reaching
marrow - as they say: if a tartar steak (which
is raw, there's no medium or
well-done to speak) has not marrow
juice for glue... forget it...
i'm eating the horse.
they call it difficult and they call it
jargon because they forgot the Kantian
key... oh sure, the keyhole
is Hegelian pop culture, Hegel is pop,
Kant is antiquity... but in terms of what's deemed
"difficult"? at the end of the day Kant said
0 = negation...
            what symbol could engulf affirmation?
and what symbol would affirm doubt?
  would = proposition and could = preposition?
i'm sorrowful to say: prepositions are still
taken to be grammatical units,
while propositions evolved from aye & nay
into maxims... a sorry state of affairs.
      so Hegel is pope... of ****... pop...
and Kant is an antiquity...
fair enough, we have Nietzsche to thank
for calling him an idiot... i too had great ambitions...
such writings are akin to arithmetic,
what i'm interested in is not a Dostoyevsky
narrative being prescribed for huddling from
the cold in Siberia...
     a        the              's, or how to bypass
the elephant man in staging a language
to be said, avoiding the language thought of,
the plural and the possessive usage with
the distraction of the hanging comma:
its (anger at the l.g.b.t. community
    for any pronoun usage deviatory to the cause)
      and it's (such that English is, Cockney rhyme
or modern urban slang... Becca instead of Rebecca...
Liz instead of Elizabeth...
   no wonder people started calling their children
Peaches)... which is shortened for the drool of it is;
i know they discriminate against these caravan
hobbit inhabitants of Shropshire, but the earls
really do write like these Pikies speak...
trolley trolley bumblebee black bitchiness boo...
    the r that's a trill becomes almost curly...
           well this is an x-ray of all things fleshy,
it doesn't / or should go to the bone...
            you talk to your mother with that tongue
and lick the privates of your ******-coo
             maiden too?
probably not... some called them gypsies,
some called them the ironed shirts...
which was ironic because of the many problems
that Middletons spotted in terms of creases...
         libido though? i'd spotlight a **** for
a gypsy girl... as i said: i'd **** anything that
moves and only hanky-panky my palette
on oysters if i had to... it's called the rebellion
against feminism: or ****** oppression to
endorse kiddy fiddlers in dog-collars getting away
with it and us, "men" having to make
the hand entwine the **** into a boa constrict ion
to imitate: a experience of a ****** i never wish
i had... that's transgender: i've got two
organs... one's a bit android, but **** needing
to necessitate a **** to get the kangaroo pouch
of feeling it, mmm.
              well, if it's too hard, then i'm obviously
employing a darwinism of some sort:
intellectual selection; i put the effort into
writing it, you put an effort into reading it,
the plebs get their stake... and everyone's happy.
     but no one gets away with youtube
regurgitated murk of someone promoting a book
   and then having to reduce it to quote,
while the book if waved about like a brick
about to be lodged into the Library of Babylon...
well... we know what happened with
the library of Alexandria... there's not a single
dittohead to encourage revising what was there once.
as we "speak", this is Latin written in Arabic,
i.e.: right to left, rather than left to right...
  but hey, no runes, so the crucifixion of Juan
at Golgotha wasn't all bad after all...
            look at how Arabic squiggly and Hebrew
proto survived, we could have gone down the route
of hieroglyphics (ideograms, but still the Mandarin
survived), but unlike cuneiform... there were simply
too many holes to be filled with Latin...
but i still don't get why they wrote a shortcut for
U using V, given O... i guess the shortcut for
O had to be •, Omnium Vampirism stake to the heart
of the stone for an indentation...
    i'd cite you the mea culpa if i could only use
another phonetic encoding, but i can't, i'm still
using Latin encoding... it's beyond dodo, it's the one
sound-encoding that could create the technosphere
of digitalising papyrus.
so Hegel is pope because non-economic Marxism
is pop... but i leverage with W. Burrough's
cut-up and Tzara and cabaret voltaire...
   and how revitalising Kant is crucial in saying:
but he already mentioned a thesis and an antithesis
disciplinary coercion in a moving-forward of
mutually-progressive antagony... why is
Hegel the one to take all the credit?
               why not say akin to: Leibniz & Newton
said some about calculus... ah ****, i forgot,
all the Ferraris and bling and *******...
                           let's just settle for the fact that
Hegel brought about the mingling of thesis
and antithesis to create a synthesis that
culminated in Marx, and Kant brought about
the mingling of thesis and antithesis to create
an analysis...
                           i bypass Nietzsche on this point
for insulting Kant, and having been overtly
influenced by the French...
la Rochefoucauld, is, after all, the antidote to
Machiavelli, and that's my pardon;
but that's beside the point, some people want it
easy, but language does take toward
being nurtured sometimes, like a flower as a seed
as later blossom, as later a fruitful in abounding
colour...
                 language doesn't have to take the route
toward a bestseller preacher-style dross of
congregational assimilation and a "shared experience",
which is why i abhorrent that words had to be
invited into an l.s.d. experience,
                        absolutely no c.i.a. transparency...  
it was all up-in-the-air and never personal...
if i write about something personal i'm writing it
because people in the 1960s went beyond the person
experience of hallucinogenic drugs, and the reason
why i wouldn't take them: is because they wrote
about them and ***** the whole case of wanting
to experience it... as the shaman don juan said:
it's your own; once it has been ascribed words?
    it's commonly shared down to the pinpoint
of a plumber and a toilet... once it has been contaminated
with words / accounts of such an experience?
it has become generic, it has become a poem that
can no longer retale it's status as l.s.d., thanks,
***** beatnik, *******.
    well... if a piece of writing is hard... treat it like
if it were some venture into arithmetic,
    and given the parallelism of space-time 1
                with time one, and the Kantian
0 = negation... you'll deny it, because it's too complicated
on the basis of, so what's the equals?
             like that cartesian result: i think therefore i am...
   therefore i'm still thinking... well the + is that
you're still intact and not shrapnel of wonder ascribing
fascination for prefixes suffixes conjunctional *****
        and diacritical marks as once thought of as
rebellious angels in Milton's theology, redeemed,
ruling over ulterior suggestions of dissecting words
for the correct rhythm.
   if a piece of writing is difficult: it's a version of arithmetic,
the only question is whether you can complete the sum
  of the arithmetic and, obviously enough, return to
yourself as your "self", in that you are intact,
having experienced a "self" or the cognitively active
other in the reflexive sense of yourself, which in turn
props of your self, in what's to be of you in the reflective
sense; that's the equivalent of arithmetic,
hence we have encyclopedias and dictionaries as
being equivalent of calculators... i still don't understand
why complex writing isn't deemed equivalent of arithmetic,
i'll probably die not understanding this...
yes, yourself is reflexive   and your self is reflective...
English really is a battlefield of pronoun use...
let alone revitalising yourself with an archaic word...
   thus said: Kant will never reach the populist status
of Hegel.
Life may not go as planned;
the worst kind of fool extrapolates
from a heap of thwarted expectations:
"Life is over because I'm upset!"

Emotions out of control, roiling,
demarcate that which in human is animal;
the worst kind of fool loudly insists,
"Life should gratify my ego!"

Disappointment becomes license,
a weak excuse for calamitous disregard;
the worst kind of fool dares to think,
"Others are responsible for my actions."

Cowardice thrives in this heath of weeds.
The worst kind of fool gives up early,
quick to resume safe, familiar weaknesses:
"I should never have dared to try."

Wallowing loves abundant company,
the likewise-dead who disavow all power.
The worst kind of fool supports other fools:
"We are special; this world is against us."

Self-absorption and delusions of grandeur
conspiring with fashionable self-derogation.
The worst kind of fool achieves impossible vampirism.
"Value me; reassure me; therein I feed."
The stink of entitled vermin.
Jon Martin Dec 2012
This coffee-stained late night existence, an experiment
in progressive technocracy. An amazing, affluent proverb
of modern disfunction. So many late nights swilling the
mis-brewed staple of societal vampirism. Those forgone,
unsung antithesis of the conscious, diurnal homosapien.
To pretend problems non-existent, to daydream as that lazy
star sleeps, to truly feel sibling to the moon. Mood is the
monster that begat me, these creatures of the ambience of
dark. Nowhere - NOW. I give thanks to have finally hidden
from the beast that can't find me. I am what I decide, a dawn
of infinite potential, and the opportunity to spend an entire
night in preparation....
No, seriously, this has no title.
Marie Dec 2020
The Umbilical cord is cut upon .... first breath.
Separating us from mother;
Pushing us to thrive in a manner outside...
Maternal internal cannibalistic vampirism.

Circumcised upon ****** classification.
Separating us from father;
Peeling away the skin,
Exposing the core of the apple.

Hair is pruned.
Separating us from the psyche;
Leaving us in the dark,
Like a shadow without a heart.

Held up by our foot.
Strung like a pretzel;
Smacked by the tune of historical blood,
Claiming degrees of separation.

We deny...
We are
       (Mother and Father...
        God and Devil....
        Creator, Perpetrator,
        Anti-Violator and Master Manipulator.)
  Adam, Eve, Snake and Apple.

--Marie Moldovan ©️ 2020
Violet Lundy Sep 2010
Come in through the backdoor,
Enter this house of stone,
Ripped apart by cold war,
You dare invade this combat zone?

Now do you see the vampirism?
Eating away at us all around?
We’ve as many faces as a prism,
Can’t track ‘em with a hound.

Free us from this mighty sin,
Speak the deplorable word,
Cry out over this potent din,
Command the theater of absurd.

Watch them fall; all crumbling,
Into a dismal dust,
Hear the end of grumbling,
Leave only yourself to trust.

— The End —