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Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...

  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ
?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)

mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.
SassyJ Jul 2018
He topped coffee with melanin
as if there wasn’t even blackness
set in rigid processes and routines
days in and out of smoking
numbed his brain to senseless cells
and he dreamt of dreams I never hold
poetry was just pretentious to him
a narration of my soul and heart
every word I wrote to him was a spell
the curse of his native Englishness
every adjective was a clocked tense
and he never understood my words
nor heard my melodies and rhythms
and as he rode, sure it was like a dog
lost in sense, an escapism of reality
the puffs turned to paranoid tales
those sudden withdrawal and panics
drove me away to the deepest forest  
and my very bones felt his distaste
collapsed in manipulation and new age
his push always became my push
and the pulls up became my polar
Such a little boy with no ultimate direction
Locked in the abyss of the faded memories
Paul M Chafer Jul 2014
A ****** Of Crows is the collective term for a group of crows. A term I have taken full advantage of in my prose poem. I rarely post prose, I rarely post Dark writing, so as a special treat, I offer the reader both.

Neighbours should cherish peace,
I thought, taking my seat for the show.
Psychopomps were gathering, fluttering, cawing,
Not on my roof though, not in my trees,
On Varley’s premises, my bad tempered neighbour.
I observed, shaded beneath my garden umbrella,
The sun bright in a blue sky marbled with cloud,
Sipping my tea, quintessential Englishness,
Brewed from the leaf of a China plant,
Sweetened by the pith of an Indian cane,
But English, all the same. (So I told myself.)
On hearing Varley clattering around in his kitchen,
I flicked up the music another notch, then another,
Black Sabbath’s Damaged Soul, pumping out,
The heavy beat thundering across my patio,
Through the picket fence, into my neighbour’s brain.
He deserves this, he truly does. (So I told myself.)
A wife beating pig who terrorizes children.
More Psychopomps came, pecking at each other,
Waiting eagerly on the fence, telephone wires,
Soon my feathered friends, I whispered, very soon.
I flicked up the bass another notch, sipped my tea,
Then he came, roaring out of his kitchen door,
Stamping down the yard, apoplectic face, so angry,
Almost purple as he bawled at me; screamed.
‘You half-blind ******! I’m coming for you!’
From my stash I pinched up the dried leaves,
A dash of hemlock, deadly nightshade, perfect.
I dropped them on the small brazier by my side.
As he reached the fence, shooing birds away,
Giving him my best smile, I told him. ‘Goodbye!’
Hairs, taken from his comb, fell from my fingers.
And as they crisped, Varley’s face froze in horror,
Instantly coming under siege from a ****** of crows,
No ordinary gathering of birds, these Psychopomps,
But more akin to the Hitchcock variety of bird.
I turned the volume up full, chanting quietly,
While the birds pecked out his eyes, opened his throat.
A mass of black menace, fluttering in a frenzy,
Brought him to the floor, wailing and pleading.
(So, Varley, I’m a half-blind ******, am I?)
It was soon over; the birds took flight, so noisy,
Leaving Varley to perform one final twitch.
Silencing my music, Varley’s dance of death done,
I gave his wife a wave as she walked down the path,
She smiled her approval, nudged Varley with her toe,
Just to make sure, then sighed with obvious relief.
‘I owe you,’ she mouthed, blowing me a kiss.
‘Call it a gift,’ I mouthed back, finishing my tea.
(One can never accept payment, it corrupts the magic.)
Varley’s wife laughed, I smiled, so darkly sweet,
All was well with the world, as it ought to be,
Neighbours should cherish peace.

©Paul M Chafer 2014
Inspired by the writings, and dedicated to, Sharon Robinson.
Nigel Morgan May 2014
Turbulence

As he sat watching the shadows
flicker across the beige carpet
the morning air explored
the room, caressed his unsocked feet.
She appeared, briefly:
to walk to the window
to be reminded of the view.
Turning purposefully,
she sent him a wave of turbulence
out of the folds of her long
patterned-blue skirt.


Wild Swim

Evening,
but not yet dark in the Slad Valley.
Beyond the village they left the road,
and down, down a woodland way walked
into a gentle polyphony of birdsong
that is the evening chorus;
a more considered singing,
an equal music and exchange of song
far from the wild chorusing at dawn.

High above, the delicate traceries
of ash leaves;
at their feet, the chocolate-brown fall
of beech flowers.

His hand sheltered her fingers
lightly placed into his folded palm,
but ready to unslip: to observe, to touch
to wonder at the trackside vegetation.

Down, and further down into the valley,
the setting sun illuminating golden
corridors between the tall trees,
they came upon a presence of water
in the air and before the water seen;
a lake, a rhomboid reflection of sky
and still, sun-stricken pines.

Feeling his body wish the caress
of its earth-coloured water
he walked the lake’s line
gazing down into the opaque stillness
seeking to judge its depth.

He might swim; he would swim;
he would feel the water
kiss his body, his feet discover
a hidden floor of mud,
of stones, of vegetation.
Yes, he would lower his naked self
into that cool texture of fresh,
untroubled water.

He undressed before her,
placing his glasses into her care,
each garment into her arms.
Removing his sandals he stepped
into the water until its cloudy surface
covered his thighs, his ***.
He lowered his body and swam,
a few strokes at a time, stopping
then to test the depth,
for his feet to feel the tangled
floor of the underlake.

He turned,
and still in his depth walked back:
to see her standing bemused on the bank.
Out, and in the evening air, he stroked
his hands over naked flanks,
stomach, arms and ****,
brushing the wet away from his body
until a sense of being dry prevailed.

It had not been cold, he thought;
it had been gently invigorating.
A full freshness enveloped his body.
It would stay this passionate longing
he so often felt when alone in her presence,
and in the unconfining space
of the natural world she loved.
It remained with him until hours later
when, regaining the presence of his body
as it stretched itself in their generous bed,
he slept, dreaming of water’s kiss and touch.


Newark Park*

Turning into the drive
a lake of  buttercups
floated in the blue morning
on islands of grass green
between parkland trees
where peacocks called.

Entering the shallow house
barely two rooms wide
light flooded and warmed
the cold stone flags
of this hunting lodge
saved from ruin
by an itinerant American
who searching on a motorbike
for a manored home found his domain
high on the brink of a limestone
escarpment. With a view to die for,
most certainly to live for,
he was captured, captivated
and later confirmed
to all its Englishness,
its history, and despite
its cold, cold comforts.

Most certainly a man’s abode,
long-ago ladies but not wives
would gather for a grandstand view  
from behind its rooftop balustrades,
there to observe the hunting
in the forest far below
and then to entertain,
be entertained
far away from prying eyes
and wagging tongues.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
and he comes over in the afternoon, his wife is pregnant,
   she also had an abortion with the love
of her life... and he says i am diseased...
as i once said to a pensioner
in a park: cut words open and feel
less than a sucker's punch,
dis- (negation) of -ease... yes,
i'm bound to being denied a cradling of ease,
your quick syllable punctures are no wit to be
celebrated...
         i thought i gave back enough that was
necessary... but this madman of a neighbour complains
that i sometimes laugh in the night:
   because i am bound to tomorrow with aeons
toward the future, and aeons toward
  Darwinistic falsification of history...
          because where is the octopus ontology ****
up to the wall of intestines like a tapeworm,
as what point, exactly?
                  i sorta forgive that grievance,
even though i'm sitting in the living room,
and he picks up a package that's been left in my house...
           because the high-street has suddenly
evaporated... the rich are making the middletons
claustrophobic too... i could never buy the music
or the books i read these days when skimming the annals
of what's worthy of being bought, with the money i earn.
   it submerged, not even an anarchist bookshop
takes my fancy... but this **** of a neighbour comes
by and suggests i could ****** my mother,
              the same neighbour who ushers in politics of
gardens... a branch fell onto his side of the fence,
                   he throws it over to my side and crushes
the daffodils without much thought...
there are homeless people out there,
    and he complains that i syringed too much life into
my one chance to be here, to have the audacity to
laugh like a fox, to sometimes hum, and to sometimes
sing aloud...
      and he complains that it cost him too much money
from moving from the rear bedroom and into the front
bedroom... oh kiddly pauper, how poor you must be,
to have never had the capacity to laugh on your own.
   i listen to these Balkan guys angry at Sweden,
  i know the language like a Belgian and still that's not
enough... if national pride really bound to
a religiosity of fish & chips on a Friday, and skinhead
chanting at a football match at a London derby?
       should i say: sign me up!?
           all he had to do is move room...
he didn't have to sleep rough...
                what a swarm of ants in the *** that must be...
          because one man managed to laugh...
as it always does: concentrates on women...
           i must come from Mongolia to be honest,
how i find English women unappealing in terms of
companionship... the ridicule comes when a people
are unearthed and side with Israel...
                as the landowning class for a region bound
to Prussia and the Austro-Hungarian chattering maiden:
  Jan Sobieski (now a pop *****) and the siege of
Vienna...
                  we have so much prejudiced history tattooed
into our psyche, lukewarm 100 year old stuff...
   and out-of-the-blue, we're expected to bleach all of it,
somehow accept a dialogue that's merchant talk
     and a community clarification...
    the same neighbour has the same audacity to claim
i have a medical problem, and that his labouring wife
is the most-endearing hope for company...
  i just sat there on the sofa while he blah-blahed
his way into receiving the package...
             i could have emerged from my slumber and
faced slander to knuckle with piercing eyes...
   but i preferred sleeping for 2 hours on the sofa
while words turned into daggers...
it's just that part of me that suggests...
   for my knowledge of the English language,
  i have no need to debase myself with crude Englishness,
to invest in post-colonial ambition to right-away-the-elder-wrongs...
you know the first time you wear a cotton jumper
and you just itch? it's like that...
               i own language, language has no right to own me,
i tell language what to do, language doesn't tell me who
to identify with or as such identifiable with the thus said...
     plus... if someone agitated me over an intellectual
problem i might have emerged hearing slander against me,
but as they say: **** stinks, don't touch it.
    i once made brother of en Egyptian childhood friend,
every day since he chose olive skin solidarity
i've been heard citing a very pointless mea culpa,
              for i too could have been wiser
in not forming childhood friendships - and being a hermit
for 9 years and counting: i don't ever think
to engage in intimacy, other than with Puerto Rican
prostitutes in Amsterdam, or Bulgarian madames in
London... i don't know why they said they were
Romanians... the one word gave them away:
the cyrillic: pizdets! пиздетс!
                    if he even remotely insinuated a topic
concerning van gogh (v. gou) -
                such is the traffic of life passing through my
days...                    this the fascination
              how greeks gave names to their encoded
sounds... and how it took a plastician to recode
       what came as
         п (p'eh)- -и (ī)- -з (z'eh)- -д (d'eh)- -е (eh)- -т (t'eh)- -с (esse)...
  how fascinating that you cut off so much stabilisation
of the alphabet and no wooing vocabulary
  before you do away with stabilising letters that are
associated with clear indicative formulation from
alphabet into word...
                       which goes beyond Heraclitus' лoгoс
and certainly beyond my фoнoс...
                as suggested: back into the aлbion ζ
      beginning if not simple begging norman sicily's α...
                              alphabet - zetayod...
and mirrors - of those worth a seven year signature
to yet be mended... and those pristine,
      with focus on the doubly mortal, within
a tsunami of time's paraphrased democracy, wherein
autocratic: from Helen of Troy to Kimberley of the Liban...
     how then rise from such belittling circumstances,
and enforce the law of abstract?
                    to come toward the лoгoс
   as with due to spot the фoнoс, and as such
auto-instructive diacritical marking of iota should
Lιban be a Ly-ban....           enter the dragon, Bruce?
                     yep... we have established the лoгoс,
and chained by synonymous banking affairs for
peacocking tongue waggling, i insist upon a return
      into how the Greeks left no musicology to
how they named the symbol ι with iota, or ω with
omega... but the Romans left a musicology
that yahweh embraced, and said of a: ah... and said of
m: em, and said of t: tee... and said of p: ***...
because they didn't come up with names for letters,
which is why scientific constants are written
                                                   in γρεχκι (grechkι).
if knowing the native tongue is not enough...
        i cannot contemplate the natives teaching my
their ****** practices any more than my eagerness to
engage in them... their presumptuous agitation of
trying to "educate" almost everyone...
     it's true a Mongolian arrow pierced the throat
of the trumpeter in the tower of the Mariacki Church,
           it's just they treat their women
            as i wish i could have... the Dutch know love
by spitting on eastern European women...
(because they just had a conversation about their
interests in a pub with another man two seats down)...
   and in our age of propaganda: i have not a single
opinion that isn't bound to be but ash scattered in the wind...
            i just find it strange to be in "need" of being educated...
given most of these "men" have never had the guts
to visit prostitutes because the girls are playing puritan poker
at home: and Jezebel at an **** in Malaga...
         i can't deal with this en masse schizoid conditioning:
as if lying or having a Dorian Gray fantasy could
ever get me off with a hard-on when a girl says:
can you imagine what my daddy would say if he knew
i swallowed you jizzom? well, now that i know what
you're imagining i'm starting to think i need a shrink...
                  for ****'s sake! why do prostitutes seem
the most sane women out there? saviours!
               i could have done better things with my hands...
like moulded a statue, or something,
               dating culture killed it for me...
  and the whole: women are there to be chased like
cheetahs crying their eyes out at speeds of 100 kilometres
per hour...                  it was in my best interests
to learn a knowledge of the language...
  that was my utmost necessary courtesy of being
   part of this society... local customs though?
                  you know what a smarkatka is?
    you really didn't expect for me to blend up to the point
of supporting Millwall and knowing football songs
religiously, did you?   it's when you use the language
and still get ridiculed...           the locals have been
given it on a platter...                i get a "poem"
they get the ease of buying vegetables in a supermarket...
          brownnosing yourself in Kentucky
                                     will not help either...
Calcium Steeps       of Dover could be equated to that
Hawaiian Pearl in terms of what hand will wash the hand
that puts a thumb in the **** and the index and middle
into the ******.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
it's not even a letter to my mother,
i'm actually grateful for having
shadow,
          and doubly thankful for not
having a muse that i could translate
into a verse akin to: something
i can't touch.
    and i'm thankful for the yellow
teeth of death...
           and i'm doubling up my prayers
for an early death...
           and with a loss of fear of owning
a shadow; i'm hoping for a world with
two suns... and how my shadow can double-up;
god i'm praying for a night, god...
i'm praying for a second shadow...
        how i always wanted to be twins...
      why didn't women neever give me a sense
of necessary sacrifice i should have
attempted to sacrifice myself to to abide
by the ring?
  that ring to rule them all... to be the metaphor
known as marriage? to disappear into
            being an old retired **** of a man?
i cry because of the music i listen to...
it has no relation to the realism of
   a "life" lived out...
                     people fear expressing
existence, you find them true to their word:
they'd rather live... they can't fathom an instance...
  music gets me... it weakens me...
                         music...
                           but then there's the mother-tongue,
and what i'm thinking about: i can't speak
it to a lover... to any lover...
           to anyone except apart from the child
i'm fathering, that is i...
          i'm just sick of my father playing the joker
card constantly pretending to be
          the ******* drama queen of the whole loss...
to be the tragedy... i'm tired of
listening to the "tragedy"... with house with wife...
what the **** do i have?
        a verse... a bed i don't own...
       a few books and a compilation of compact discs...
the only love i ever received ended with
the girl slapping me in the face while i lied
to her, attempting to make a career in chemistry
in scotland... obviously she was asking
for a ****** existence... keep the hard-on babe!
we're going into depths of titanic tourism!
       oddly enough i have no affiliation with
polish nationalism, as i neither have any with englishness...
      i'm actually a ****** when it comes
to the idea of nations... people talk liberals
in the modern sense and in the classical sense...
          how about usurpers? how about traitors?
seem to congest the same picture? no? i knew it wouldn't
amount to the conclusion...
i really wanted to talk about my life
   7 years ago...
                now?
            10 years and counting?
         ha ha... i want to see the world burn;
     i'm one of the few examples of a people that would
rather bite with fire into skin than with ink to
   keep people prone to keep the faculty of memory
active beyond taking to crosswords aged 60
   as some gym-session...
                            i can't compete... first she blames it
on a nurse in a hospital... then she tries to suffocate
me with the tip of a milk-bottle-****** by cutting excess
squirt...
                    now i'm supposed to be this:
"gift to womankind"... oh sure... sure...
                                          how about you **** yourself
and on the day that i learned: queen victoria
and her cousin albert got married...
         that **** ought to shoot up your head and burry
millions... modern criticism of islam?
          that's what christianity was in the 19th / 20th century...
cousin-*******...
                               i dare you! i double dare you
**** to try normal! if queens **** their cousins you try
to be normal! you're right in there with me,
entombed in the muddy trenches!
Mateuš Conrad  Nov 2017
я
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
я
some words, really do require a chance
to un-english the englishness
of them...
                   my, how the english beam
with a stiffness of their tongue -
i actually lament the lost trill of the R -
that drum-roll moment -
       how some letters ought to be changed
in calligraphic terms -
            notably the R -
no longer rotating, rolling, robust or
for that matter: readied for the rattling of
a snake's maracas bulb...
          the english R is a swollen tongue,
a tongue gluttonous: stung by a bee -
      it's not as bad as the harking french R,
but it's not exactly satisfying -
when it started its numbing journey to lick
off some of W - or rather: hollow itself out.
on the altar of sacrificed runes -
   edh, ð... similarly the R ought to be placed
for a sacrifice of revision to enable
the knowledge of: the lost trill...
                           poise the R with the leg
making the step forward as curved inward...
      bend it...
                      the sound is numbed anyway,
let it settle for a foetal position -
      who is to say that calligraphy cannot be
changed?
                 if a letter no longer represents
the sound, there is no need to keep it...
       or at least: that's what makes sense.
i further have to acknowledge -
           the fury and the passions ascribed to
word, allah is a particularly intoxicating word...
     i can actually shed a tear listening to
an adhan...
                    but by simply listening to
alpha blondy's song sebe allah y'e -
    for some reason: there are ever present
emotional connotations within words -
i hate to approach language where words
have been undermine by secularism -
unsung, unsaid, vogue or not vogue -
riddled with prefixes and other greco-roman
abominations of science -
                      if you can grasp a passion -
not say, nor sing: but vow to feed the depth
of a howling wind and taunt with
a word, that's admirable -
           i give islam that, the word allah is
quiet agreeable in song...
   i will curse **** ***** **** dog-dung sheep-*******
my way through two stories in pop
that reveal the adam & even of YHWH -
sauron & voldemort -
a foul tongue ensure a pure body...
but a foul tongue also ensure: a clearer
  perspective for the mind to lap up -
a ****** is just short of a squid's mouth
or a venus flower -
a pair of ******* just short of
              a cow's ******* sack...
                 that's the puritanical objective
stance... miracle be made from a *******'s
ability to turn this objectivity into
the subject of: an ***** phallus,
prostitutes always seem to succeed where
liberated females, always, seem to fail to
arrive in bed with the man completely enslaved
by arousal;
       freud was right about something,
after all.
                        maybe it's the lack of
***** talk by prostitutes?
                    the whole: what would my
father think during *******,
or doing it under the membrane of bed sheets
or with closed eyes (except when climaxing)?
          besides the R...
  to turn the J into a Y -
           yerúshalem -
                            yields more emotion than
jotting down jerusalem (dz grapheme in polish) -
jot, dzik (boar) -
                      mind you,
the Maltese word for god, is actually allah,
you can sing that word so well -
       shame christianity is riddled with
the deathly gong of the 11pm bells -
once they gonged for a call to prayer -
now they're just a medieval version of a Rolex.
            if words cannot turn into
goosebumps and a tectonic shivers infused
with electric tingling across the face and spine -
   if they cannot make stakes with cool tears
evaporating on a flushed face oozing
sickly heat -
          if god remains outside the realm ****** -
we're talking language equivalent of
                a flat soufflé...
          passsable, instructional,
  tinged with a mathematical vector focus -
get's you from (a) to (b) -
  but language is not a ******* map!
    with language, if you're not lost,
   you're using said instructions -
           you're going through the plateau
of the nauseating flat Belgium...
            where the horizon is not
obstructed by a mountain range,
but merely by the distance of the unchanging
perversity of the people who write
instruction manuals for Ikea on how to
put a chair together.
                       who the **** finds these
comatose perverts, or have they actually
started to liberate people,
  and "employed" lit-bots to write this
crap out?
     - i always wanted to meet the people
who write the small print and
    the terms & conditions sections of any
agreement / contract;
            cold corpses sniffing tulips
  from the roots up, doesn't even cut it.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
you only assimilate with what you care to retain, you retain nil, when you assimilate nil... meaning you turn toward white-boy masochism, but white-boy never taught your masochism... me? i know that i assimilate with, as i known what i retain to be worth being upkept... and leveraged toward a "loss". you only assimilate with that you care to lessen but at the same time keep as a "loss"; you retain nil, when you assimilate nil, but more abhorrent in retaining an origin, is very much asiatic, pakistani, the anglo-saxons were once, and never will be, anglo-indians... the most racist sons-of-goats akin to the arab closure on a curse to be worth minding... calls us vermin... no wonder my aversive vocab... ask a camel to spit at a donkey with these *******... some are anglo-eire-indian and think they're speaking einstein english when actually speaking your local rancid john of 'ackney... wankers can't even get a hard-on to **** one off solo. what? it's personal! you want a jerky-chicken-sauce-diablo to "mind the affairs" of a undeliberate "concern"? ****-hackney, sons of ******* are so ******* arrogant you almost wish to apply some sort of aversion to circumcision utilising their ****, twist one ****** of flesh out of the enclosure, and then trim the bits... only an anglo-**** would call a pole vermin... so? here comes, the party!


your attempt
  at an "education",
           is worth my response;
that's catholicism
minus the paedo paedo 'edo 'edo;
luckily enough;
thanks for not
teaching me any concern
for latin...
rather: the ethics
of being concerned with
abortion, aged 16...
  or sniffing glue aged 13...
i'd let you off had you
managed to teach me latin...
but no... you're about as catholic
as, ******* maradona;
     you know what's worse
in england than the finicky fake
englishness?
      alpha maling celtic...
       they actually think
the lowest of the lowest accepted rank
in their societal format is
actually king...
        most notable in the region
of the gael, who doesn't possess the
intelligence for bilingualism,
too busy playing video games,
too stupid in attempting to
write a book,
     twice the handyman
in attempts to learn his native
labhair* -
             his caint -
                                  ******, don't
teach me a "proper" within
the domains of a language:
that isn't either yours, as it isn't mine!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
ha ha! among the english, even if something is written on pixel paper, in the public domain, it's deemed "spoken"... ha ha! how infuriating this notion of "freedom of speech"... how about you respect my freedom to think, and put thought to paper?! mob dictatorial stasi *****! seems to be, that this supposed "freedom" of speech has extended its stalinist hand into the freedom to think, and "abuse" digital, pixel paper! you *******, wanks! paper, free, defeatists' commodity! pamphlets! hello! they are really trying to make writing = speaking, because? it's on the internet, in a public space! you're just as bad as north korea, no, wait: you're worse! you're what defines the minority report prophecy! and, by the way? the minority report vision... that's twice as bad as 1984.

comes a bit late,  given the 20th century
continental output... well, what is it?
     a cat video?! a cat video with a piglet,
a cat video with a piglet with
a cat licking the piglet...
                                             great!
     can i have my pork chops
right now, or do i have to wait
for a vegetarian protest prior
to the bon appétit?
    might as well call it
by its proper name:
q = ?
         while Q = ?!
e.g. you what(q), vs.
you what(Q)
                    can't deal with
laze-round english...
  ******* will not learn
one iota's worth of a smacker...
i don't mind:
it's called being kind:
you have to be...
you have to ignore the laziness
of others to be kind...
leave being cruel to the english
and the middle-eastern
scoffs;
they seem to have handled the idea
pretty well..
and? *włodzimierz lubański
:
thanks to the english - they broke
his legs...
     in terms of the english?
i love to hate them,
rather than hate to love them...
hardly a **** in me...
         esp. because of
    włodzimierz lubański,
top goalscorer for the national team...
even though, i must admit,
the country of my birth?
  seems mythical at times,
just as much as england to me:
feels more like a lunatic asylum than
an actual country...
strange, i speak the language,
but i have no tattoos of the natives,
other than those spoken to me
by my father...
       i wish i had less of these psychic
tattoos...
     then again, i can't seem to organise
myself around english,
  in terms of the upper-tier of
worth of utilising this tongue,
pretty much like any, if not all
of the al-britanni jihadis...
      i can't find myself surprised...
don't know why...
   but i just can't find the globalist nomad jew
in me...
    never could... never will...
and never will the al-britanni muslims
either...
           i couldn't join the caliphate
either: i love music too much,
plus, the adhan is sung...
it's not a catholic murmur of the "creed"...
no music? no go.
        but that's what anglophone
existentialism has become:
ridden with comic strips
          rather than sentences...
cat videos rather than paragraphs...
   it's a bit late to panic...
  might as well shove the panic under
       the carpet, and pretend it's aladdin's;
it's too late to write books on existentially
orientated englishness
(they ask too much about "britishness"
en masse too much, and also too frequently),
     and, as all english people know,
      all too well: in times of panic? speak!
this unpreparedness of inhibition of thought,
and exhibition of talk, is the most rife
characteristic of the english "ambition"...
    suffice to say: people care more
for the freedom to speak (in the english domain):
than the freedom to think...
it really does pain the english to think,
thinking to the english is worth as much
as the need to gulp down a paracetamol;
akin to the "debate" between citizens:
and, does that give you, power over me?
don't like social criticism?
   australia is: wide open;
so is spain, but you'll need to get off your
lingua franca ***, and put an effort into it!
chop chop!
           i'm like kierkegaard in mind
of: the pleasures of thought,
and this, nagging realm of the anglophones
attempting to find their speech as
"compelling", if not the least irritating
as the song of sparrows, or that of canaries...
these "defenders of free speech",
sound more irritable than the sunrise choir
of bird song,
for all their championing of existential
darwinism, they sound more, more
irritating than the laughter of hyenas...
did these people ever put this observation
into their "right" of a freedom of "speech"?
to be honest, i sometimes find
the buzzing of refrigerators more interesting,
the white noise of ambience,
coupled to a music genre of some comparable
electric hive;
    i find the "freedom" of speech
as irritating as anything to be made spoken -
at least the birds sing uninhibited,
thoughtless,
       but man was gifted with the decency
to think...
     evidently americana teaches us:
there is no decency of thought!
there's only the decency to speak!
well then... i wish you sounded as beautiful
as birds during a sunrise...
sadly... you're not going to speak at me
a worthy compensation,
for you have transcended the dasein of
a springtime sunrise, and the waking of
the birds' libido...
         your "freedom" to speak:
is like a stalemate at a pensioners' house:
not enough deaths to fit the yawning budget.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: prune
body:
      /ick/
\itch\
|snooze|
szshszsh    a 502 bad gateway bypass


HIM:

Why are we quantum entangled? I'll just walk away

12 hours ago Quantum physics mean nothing. Take your plank hole shove it up your plank hole ***. non locality? get non locally ****** every instant. I drank the essence of a black hole.

12 hours ago Wait, I want to know what you see so I won't walk away.

12 hours ago I live in the US, in Colorado. It ******* ***** here. King George is an *******.

11 hours ago My issue I'm having, there's too much to the story inside my mind. There's not enough words or time to tell

11 hours ago It all starts with Unholy Trinity. Cast of characters in “clinical” terms, Borderline Mommy Room 11 who lives completely fragmented and disassociated from her own feelings and emotions and Narcissist Room 7. I’m cast in a role in a control fantasy  between these two psychotic child blood drinking creatures. I have to be the adult. I have to deal with their feelings and emotions. I don’t get to have  happy childhood feelings and emotions.

Now I’m in my 30s. I’m confused about Borderline Mommy Room 11 because “Real” Mommy failed miserably. I don’t understand being born because of this “failure”. I found a new Surrogate Mommy who lives above my head Room 11. She’s “clinically” “borderline”. I think she has a control fantasy. She’s using  me in her control fantasy, really easy and convenient for her. She had been watching me for months before I realized she even lived above my head, apartment above. When she was always making noises, before I even knew who she is, it would give me PTSD symptoms and I’d think my dad’s getting up and he’s coming back to ****** me again.

Now I’m more aware of the situation. I had a control fantasy too but I’m working on breaking down it down, return to source. I know now I just have really really ****** up Mommy issues and I’m using Surrogate Borderline Mommy Room 11 as a mirror, projector to try to understand what the **** happened in my childhood. I have no idea what is going on in her brain, she refuses to communicate with me.

The first time I saw her, I saw her in the rear view mirror of  my car. I did not know how long she had eyes on me. Way longer then I knew about her. Basically she had preyed on me, calculated a whole bunch of stuff about my psychology because she had been spying on me. She approaches me one day under the pretense of a light for a cigarette. We talk. She tells me about her self. Like’s to paint. Has paint all over her hands and arms. I had been avoiding looking at her because the beauty, is just what I want. I want her beauty and I’m scared of wanting that. So simple. She made a move though then I saw her up close, too late. Feelings are there now, no going. She smokes cigarettes, I don’t. I smoke cannabis, ask her if she wants to smoke in my apartment. Show her my computers stuff, tell her about my divorce, pretty much just make a fool of myself. What ended up happening is me inviting her to the apartment was a ******* really really bad idea. I show her more, my paintings and stuff. Tell her I served time in the psychiatric facility. She served time in the same one. They say bipolar mania for me, borderline for her. Nothing happened between us, she decides she wants to leave. I tell her it was nice speaking with you, she says the same. She says she’s happy she came up to me. I tell her I’m happy too Got her number, she says she wants me to text. I tell her I would like to see her paintings before she leaves.

I’m trapped in the spider’s control fantasy at this point and I’m completely oblivious. In her control fantasy, She’s just using me to  recreate conditions in her childhood so she can master them. Nothing personal.

She asked me to text her, I did, basically just repeated myself, would like to see your paintings, let me know what you would like to do. She “ghosted” me. She lives above me and “ghosts” me on the cell phone. I never send her another text or call her. Takes me a month to figure out that she has *** with Narcissist Room 7, who has way too many guns and always has the cops showing up to his room for some reason. He confessed to it, and basically the way he told is is he lured her somewhere and ***** her, used her for purposes of ****** gratification and that was that. I think she saw me talking to him, this is what borderlines are known to do. They triangulate. This man who I was speaking with reminds me a lot of my ex husband, who I recently divorced. He was a very evil man into the Voodoo religion, a super control freak who had me under a Voodoo spell.

Psychologically, Narcissist Room 7 has now become cast in the role of my father, or ex husband Voodoo, who is a very dangerous and abusive man. Now I’m in the middle of this really ****** up situation again, like a repeat in my childhood, between my parents and their inevitable divorce, trying to stave off the impossible. Narcissist Room 7 is obsessed with me. He was working on me, trying to get me to do what he wanted. I was just humoring his manipulating attempts. Honestly, I may have even had a plan. I have plans and keep the plans from myself. But the plan got jammed up by Borderline Room 11. I’m ******* ****** with him now and it completely ruined his plans to manipulate me. He came by later, trying to manipulate me to get over it, bros before hos, blah blah blah. I’m not following that script, I will not be manipulated. I’m angry with that man, for good reason and we will not be ever becoming friends and this just eats him away. He is obsessed with my attention for some reason, so is she. She always puts on a display to make sure to parade her kid around in front of me in some bizarre power play. That’s how she communicates with me. She’s holding me hostage in her control fantasy and I have decided now that I’m just not going to play along anymore. This is a ticking time bomb situation, we’re all ticking time bomb people with very bizarre psychologies. Not sure what’s gonna happen here.

So the root error and cause of this ****** up situation is my mommy issues. So what do I do? I call my mother. Tell her to come visit. My plan is to give my mother all the attention. When she gets here, I’m going to ask the Narcissist Room 7 if he wants to have *** with her while I watch. I’ll tell him he can invite surrogate Surrogate Borderline Mommy Room 11. We can even record it and have the memory live forever. I’m going to keep talking to my mother, give all the attention to my mother and drive these ******* stupid *** people crazy. They want my attention, I need to give my real Mom my attention. She’s in a lot of pain and really hurting. I care about her even though she abused the **** out of me. She’s finally learning how to help me out a little, for real this time!

11 hours ago Oh i forgot to mention, last real communication I got from Borderline Room 11. She has a really bizarre sense of timing because of her fragmentation and disassociation. She went out to take her trash, timed it with when I drove back to the apartment. I was looking at the sky, ignoring her. Timing ended up being she walks behind me as I walk up to the do or to unlock. She walks up to me exactly the same way narcissist room 7 ***** her. Asks me how I'm doing? I'm just like, inside, is she ******* kidding me right now? ***? I just reply: "Ill be all right". I havn't made eye contact, this isn't real communication. She's ******* with me and she knows it. She's still behind me, the split occurs and eye contact occur. She says thank you. I tell her, you are welcome and I smile. Now I'm in a fight with Narc Room 7 down the hall I guess, with a little child in the mix.

I now find myself most concerned about the child in this situation.
I am very frightened.
The danger is real.
Violence seems inevitable, can’t see the future.
Caught in the web
No way out

Last communication I got from Narc Room 7 is he told me my room smelled like **** because of the insence I was burning. He told me this from down the hall. I tell him, come up to me and say that **** to my ******* face, say that again because I did not hear you. He said it. He replied: Are you saying I’m ****? He got real mad about being asked this question, so I asked him more. Why the **** do you come up to me and talk to me? What the **** is it about my attention that you need so bad? He just says all I do is cry, makes crying noises. Im just like ***, you literally turn into my father. I ask him if he’s real? He closes the crack of his door and returns to his apartment.

10 hours ago I forgot to mention, I held the door open for her. Total sucker, total fool

10 hours ago Let the self trashing continue. I already know what's coming. I'm indifferent. Okay with anything. Ready for the suffering

10 hours ago This is my last message before it scrolls off the screen. The identity confusion that results from being in the middle of Borderline Women and Narcissistic men is very very very very confusion. I am so confused. I think I'm going to be okay. Writing helps. Getting the story out of my head helps. Will continue the work as long as I can


ME:

how can i unpack, justly, fairly, what you have left me? i don't think i can... oh: i will have you know that i read all of it, it was a curious read in some parts, but, in other parts? very relatable...  i'm going to try to refocus your attention on something that's been been bugging me before i try to consolidate your troubles, not that i'm going to offer any advice, proper... o.k. o.k.... the song... Your Woman by White Town... was sampled by Dua Lipa - Love Again... which one do you prefer? Me? i recently tried to get together with this woman... i'm 35... she's 39... oh my god... i really fancied her... i was round her house three times... outside of work... brought her homemade wine, forgot my "Gordic Gryffindor Sorting Hat" i left at her house... pom-pom and all... a hat i found at a bus-stop... mind you: i hate Harry Potter...she too has a kid... a lovely 11 year old chap... i told him he should be learning German rather than French because the grammar: the way words are aligned are akin to English... her dog liked me... i had wounds on my knuckles from putting out cigarette buts on them... because? i enjoy pain... being a sadomasochist... i like to inflict pain i might on others on myself first... that's the real test of the threshold... first: me... and if someone gets in the way... at least i could possibly say: 'don't be a *****, i can stomach this... if i can: so you can too...' i even cycled the night prior to Valentine's day and left a card and a bouquet of flowers on her porch... what did she do? ghosted me on WhatsApp... then again... all the talked about was her exes... her abusive exes... one boxed her (beat her)... drank excessively... i drink excessively myself, mind you: but i'm the sort of drunk that tends to wrestle with his shadow and beats himself up... the kid doesn't know his father... she dated this dog-lover type of guy during lockdown... but once lockdown ended... the dog-lover type ended falling back into his old ways... sniffing ******* etc.,  for THREE ******* DAYS i had stomach cramps... i was thinking: ooh! i'm in love! i'm in love! i'm in love! i thought i was... "thought"... this is the same person that... on our first shift together tried to spread a rumour that i was stinking of alcohol / drinking on the job... 2 ******* WEEKS OF DRAMA... between my coworker females... you know... in that sort of scenario... watching a horror movie like Hellraiser is more akin to admiring Buonarroti's Pietà... horror has its moments...it's no longer horrific... it's somewhat beautiful, when people behave in such a petty way... but i told the other girls... listen... don't tell her that i know, i even used the proverb phrase from my native land: liies have short legs... i.e.: liars don't walk on stilts... you need to be a Machiavelli to lie... you need cunning... you can't just expect to be a good liar by watching English soap opera dramas... to be a good liar? you first need to master telling the truth, i.e. to be unashamed of it... like... i tell you i still live with my parents... in the Anglo-Saxon sphere i should be ashamed of this fact, like i'm some would-be Ed Gein ******... but then i tell you... but i'm the custodian of the property itself, i will own it when they're dead... i do all the housework, the DIY and the cooking... my parents are not going to be found in an old people's home... but you know... in order to lie... you need to remember the lies you spin...  you need to be consistent, otherwise there will come a time when glitches... irregularities appear... all liars are bad because they haven't spent enough time in speaking the truth: CONSISTENTLY.... the reason why i'm framing my reply like so... from a shared experience is because: i don't know how to approach your individual case... the similarity is that this "girl of mine" is also damaged goods... she has an 11 year old kid... she has several suitors... she's also very attractive... and i'm as dumb as you in willing to commit to a doomed relationship... rumour has had some sway on me... the other girls told me that her ex didn't actually beat her, but she... beside ploughing him with fists threw knives at him... and... ha ha... she was in her 30s while he was 19.... they met through her son... when this guy was picking up his younger brother from school... why did she ghost me? she can't control me...  in the most recent episode of Billions... don't know if you're familiar... Wendy tries to bribe this Buddhist monk with a tub of vegan, homemade ice-cream... it's different when a man brings a woman his homemade banana loaf and wine... i was peacocking... **** me... if she's not impressed then and there... basically because of that... and from what her past experiences of men should have taught her... then... she ghosting me... i don't think she has anything to learn... Colorado, eh? i'm not English... i have no allegiance to the history of England regarding your country... i'll go as far back as Edward the Confessor, Henry II... but i'm not English... i hope there might be zero animosity between us on this front... i don't care what your take on Englishness is... i just live here... my favourite barber is a Turk, i buy my spices from an Indian merchant... i'm going back to Poland on the 5th to reassurance my grandmother that... Putin will not cross the border... blah blah... man... now that i think about it... you know what i did when this girl ghosted me... on a ******* shift a taste of: voyeurism... she was swiping left, left left left on TINDER... i never used a dating app... but there she is... swiping left left left... it's bad enough that i have a facebook profile... that's ******* embarrassing... but i did set it up when there were restrictions regarding to who could sign up... university students... i have no twitter... why? i write too much... 140 charaters is not going to cut it for me... plus... with this girl... we didn't talk about books, we didn't really talk about movies... well... i mentioned Sunset Boulevard & Bell, Book & Candle... the 1958 movie... my love for vinyl records... our 4th date was supposed to imply i bring a vinyl record and some more of my homemade wine... obviously that didn't happen... mate... it's ****... and from what i read... you're knee deep in some... horror show... i dare say... if H. H. Holmes wanted to build a labyrinth slaughterhouse... he'd base it on your narrative-analysis! i'm not joking! but you know what i did after this rejection? the girl obviously loves her soap opera... her femme-boxers... she just likes to be abused... some people can't help it... it's like that Eurythmics's song: sweet dreams are made of these... who am i to disagree... i travelled the world and the 7 seas... everybody's looking for something: some of them want to use you,
                            some of them want to get used by you,
                              some of them want to abuse you,
                     some of them want to be abused (by you)...
the next big fix on offer? going to a brothel and seeing a *******.. i'm not going to handle rejection like that, not in my 30s, that's simply not going to happen, i was always going to have an auxiliary fall-back to land on, that comes all the more easier with prostitutes, at least they're blatant, obvious, 3-dimensional... at least if you upkeep personal hygiene one might tell you: live dangerously... have *** without a ******... hell... i'm expecting her to bring some marijuana to our next session since... two sessions prior i mentioned that i haven't tried *******... she brought ******* to our last session... tried it... did **** all for me... i prefer coffee... it's like sniffing... a dog-****... with chemical rainbow aftertaste... i was more into her naked body... mate... get out... even if you have to grow a pair of horns or a cranium  thickness of a ram's head... get out... but it's how you opened up... kudos to you... you are most certainly primed for the Beatnilk cut-up technique, oh man, i was a big fan of the Beatniks in my younger years... all that ****-****** literature surrounding William Burroughs... the confused state of "affairs"... i gobbled his books down... Naked Lunch is still one of my all-time favourites... you're on your way, in terms of writing... i will spare you correcting some discrepancies in your messages... although... the grammar-**** in me is tirggered beyond belief...i'm seriously itching at what corrections i see that need to be corrected... but this time... i won't...  i see too miuch of you in me and i hope: not enough of me in you... but at least we can share the similitude of our fates.... to compare... we're not that much mis-aligned... trouble being... i went to the outlet of a *******... to counter her having control...even my neighbour today, who i went going to the shop commented about my **** beard... you need to find other people to please, there are always other people... don't congest yourself with the claustrophobia of this one woman... like my one... oh... she's fit... she's just my type... half Celtic... hair like a sunset...ginger: but not ginger...but she originally wanted to get be sacked for "apparently" drinking alcohol on the job... you can't help them... if she's into being beaten, if she's into soap opera antics... free will is a *****... however much good you want for someone: if they are still adamantly reserved in being receptive to advice... so be it! let go... just let, go... your interest in computers is like my interest in making my own wine... let it go... see a more available third party... you know how much i wish it could be true? but... i just don't feel like being the *******...i don't want to **** myself spiritually in order to win over her heart... sad... i know... i'd like to love her... but if she's only willing to be loved by men that abuse her... Pontius Pilate... i wash my hands clean, of the whole affair... FIAT!

i did sort of warn him... he didn't believe me...
i guess that's perfect:
learning the hard way, from experience.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
- rock 'n' roll -
    once upon
      a time
   a Patti Smith
          in Nigeria.


on the rare occasion that i thinking to myself:
well... i'm not exactly going to end up being a millionaire...
the game is rigged... last time i heard...
poets get paid every 50 years...
    if that... but... someone has to do the workload
for the mere passion... of course: looking for other outlets
of income...
mind you... how did Bukowski get to sleep with
so many women? hmm... well... he didn't go off to fight
in World War II... i'm guessing... plenty of widows...
plenty of girls who lost their boyfriends...
to the Panzer brigade et al.,
         so... less of luck and more: opportunity came...
hell... i remember times before the advent of social
media... you... could actually date...
there was this guy in high school with a terrible case
of eczema... still managed to get a girlfriend...
i'm not going to become rich... **** it...
less chance of me looking like a sucker should
some hot fling come around and start milking me...
who vowed that... vow of poverty?
well... it's not the Medieval Ages...
   you can hardly vow to that sort of shin-dig these days...
scrape the bare minimum...
if by bare minimum implies...
   today at the vinyl shop...
         oh... wow! Matt?! what? you don't think they
have the new Ghost record, on vinyl?
what? Impera?!
    i just found Ghost B.C. Infestissumam...
   so i started fiddling around...
   sort of oblivious to my surroundings...
some pretty teenager girls... whatever...
    bothersome flies...
                       they hover around you for a while:
then notice that you're not noticing them:
******* just as promptly as they came...
    oh man... these records are getting dear...
lucky for me the ghost record was on offer...
2 for £40... ****... now i need to find a second record...
aha! Lana Del Rey's debut...
   i'd love to hear a woman's voice on vinyl:
not that i haven't...
      walk up to the counter... she's a he he's a she?
right? i didn't ask... i just made the complicated
assumption that she was a he / he was a she...
anyway... it (sorry) they checked whether everything
was in order... some cheap-*** *******
decided to take out one of the vinyl disks and stuff
the sleeve with cardboard...
   how on earth the record was returned...
beats me... well she he he she it they said: well i can't
sell you this... hell... i'll just pick something else...
originally i was going to buy the Rammstein record
with a match on the front cover and with songs
like Deutschland and Radio on it...
but when i saw the ghost record... ugh...
Lana Del Rey was a cop-out...
            what else did i have in my hand?
Patti Smith's Horses... does that album have that
song covered by American Head Charge?
i.e. rock 'n' roll ******?! oh... right... it doesn't...
pass..
             Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA...
does that album have the song:
human touch on it?
              no? oh... right... pass...
        well... there was clearly only one alternative...
Fatboy Slim's: you've come a long way, baby...
a bit like DJ Shadow's endtroducing...
or... Leftfield's leftism album(s)...
         i was never into any club-scene...
         but these albums... don't get me wrong...
they haven't aged that terribly...
they haven't aged akin to something like...
atypically generational... lodged to a past...
the Grateful Dead... the Eagles... em... i'll give
King Crimson a pass...
              surprising... what? oh...
the Fatboy Slim record... not that i was a massive fan...
but...
it has aged really well...
then again: most electronica ages really well...
it can't exactly be innovated upon...
             dub-step tried... sure... kudos...
some decent examples...
                           but it's almost like classical music...
or jazz... the strange death of jazz...
someone should have written a book about that
phenomenon... how jazz emerged and just as quickly
as it emerged: how it died...
did the beatnik poets drag the whole jazz music scene
down with their "experimental poetry-jazz" fusion?!
that must have been a ******...
for the saxophone player... imagine having to loose
your melody to the bass player in turn losing his rhythm
with the rhythm of the drummer because...
some idiot is talking over you with half-baked
rhymes... the ******* headache...
ugh...
                  clearly i don't want to think about it...
i only wish bands like Boy Harsher could become...
no i don't... i don't want bands like Boy Harsher to become
mainstream... sure... all the success...
but with that comes a tainting...
                 i know that if i started performing some
of these scribbles... i'd stop creating new content...
un-poetic? hmm... like no one ever read Ancient Roman
poetry... try... Horace for starters... or Ovid...
they... sort of wrote like this...
plenty of conversational overtones...
to hell with too much claustrophobic techniques of rhyme...
i'm of that school: if there even is a school
of that sort... conversational overtones...
                        a narrator that can also play
a character... sort of scenario... oh... irony:
very much confusing with no quotation markers...
now i'm being doubly ironic... now i'm being sarcastic...
but it's rather pleasant to watch younglings
walk into a shop and see someone actually sieving
through vinyl records with the intent of buying them...
it's like they spotted a dinosaur...
a strange looking dinosaur since the dinosaur
is not even 40 years old...
             it's like a curiosity experiment...
but... but... you can... listen to this music... online...
yeah... but the difference between listening to music...
on your headphones... and... on a gramophone...
when the house is empty... the room is empty...
   it's a little bit different... but hey... i'm this dinosaur...
and you're circling me looking for clues to some
magical equation / thought experiment that:
i simply can't give you...
   ******: now that i'm listening to Summertime Sadness
on the earphones... i'm sad...
i wanted to hear it via a gramophone....
winter is coming to its final closure...
               here we go... libido insomnia... girls
*******... more flesh that a porky pie's worth of
rind... but good to know that some will still
keep on their napkins / diapers on their faces...
the hypochondriac types...
        well... at least i've managed to curb all
that journalistic limp-**** mentality...
the world is sort of a haze in some distant background...
it is... but at the same time: it isn't...
not for the past 2 years...
   not with the ****-show of my grandfather's
death and a bigger ****-show of the funeral...
the world: as i currently see it...
doesn't deserve me to couple myself to Heidegger's
Dasein... what was once there-being
has become: simply... there-is-being...
                           i've read enough of German thinking
to now, finally... retort as a Frenchman might:
c'est la vie!
i'm not going to touch anything by English
thinkers... i've touched enough of Newton via
Voltaire... but Locke? who else... Hobbes?!
i'm not going to touch English intellectuals...
the people who invented football... rugby... cricket...
even if they have anything interesting to add:
intellectually... the English are a pragmatic people...
they don't like cafe conversation riddles / complications...
why bother?
   if they want to be oh so practical...
so direct two-faced... let them...
               i esp. love how they downgrade the Australians
from the anglosphere...
while having their heads shoved up some
fat H'american ***...
                no... don't get me wrong... it's just....
sort of... funny to watch...
this big... English diaspora... but...
there are gradations... like... Canadians are not a laughing
stock? but... to be English is to...
have one's head shoved up a H'american fat ***?!
seriously? right now?
perhaps it's an English thing...
to see New York... to see Las Vegas...
me? i've already seen Moscow... i've already seen
St. Petersburg... i'm thinking...
ooh... the Kamchatka Peninsula...
   to hell with Finland and the rest of Scandinavia...
i might speak the language:
but i'm hardly going to blah-bah-black-sheep
go along with the narrative...
blow myself up? hardly... i say... live a little more...
let life drag you down...
       should have employed Chinese ideograms
to protect your idea-churning-machine
of liberal Englishness... no?
     not good?               what the **** is ever good
with these people?!
  anti-racist confused pebble-roast...
                 i'm not siding with the Russians but i'm
pretty sure the Ukrainians were pretty glad
when Poland was invaded by **** Germany...
i'm also pretty sure... Volhynia & Eastern Galicia...
the genocides...
   right... so why remember anything?!
i've learned that the English have this tactic...
the history of other people is... insolate...
childish... or rather: that they remember it...
while... at the same time... the battle of Hastings?!
what a ******* joke of a battle...
but hey... it's their culture... it needs to be stressed...
not... the winged hussar charge at the siege
of Vienna against the Ottomans...
but... it's childish... for me... to give my psyche to
these events... no? but... if i were to regurgitate
the history of the Angevin Empire:
all's kosher, sonny... like **** it is...
take a ******* hike... daddy... to the highest peak
of Rotherham!

— The End —