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Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
.had i not come across the tironian ⁊... my my... what is a 7? did tiro invent a counter to VII? it was not all borrowed numbers from the sankskirt wielding hindus?! tironian... now that's someone you don't hear of much these days, it's all aesop and spartacus... if even that... tiro formerly a footnote in the life of cicero... for a B and a III - stenography's 3... Q and R or IX - stenography's 9... yes, we europeans didn't invent the current numbers... but just imagine... the details of +, - x, ÷ hidden within the jazz hands and counting with your fingers and the abacus... and how you will not find roman algebra... or that the discovery of calculus took both: numbers, and letters... etc. etc., but that we didn't invent numbers... as the slave Tiro... and his stenography of letters... i ascribe stenography as the original proposal for modern numbers... perhaps they would have "thought": II (+) III (=) V... or... oh i forget the cliche of Rome and the seven hills... i see: I, V, X: L, C, D, M... seven hills or what? who needs 10 digits when you can do just fine with... 7? the seven headed beast of revelation... i call that bait... but they built a... ******* coliseum working with: a year is bound to "spelling" rather than counting... CCCLXV... then again... with letters as numbers perhaps all of mathematics was once upon a time only practical, practical architecture... beautiful architecture and what not... glass shards would fizzle out: because of their proportions... imagine geometric-algebra with: letters and letters rather than superscript numbers: yet to arrive from the Raj of india... or otherwise found in ol' Tiro's stenography of letters... tender waiting buds of welcomed may... because we really borrowed numbers from: what was not already in letters, bound, waiting for a steographer to revise the matter of "counting"... all of ancient mathematics was without a hypothetical... without an algebra.... concrete evidence suggests that: a mathmetician was someone who had enough spacial awareness... numbers drafted for taxes and building coliseums... beauty marked by IX + XI = **! quiet odd... i see the 7 headed beast, the roman numerals beside the seven hills of the ancient resting place of papal bones: I, V, X: L, C, D, M... that numbers came to us from the Raj, from Persia? we had a 7 in the form of the greek gamma Γ... all that was required was codifying a looking into a mirror... might i stress the importance of narcissus in this affair? the unconscious of narcissus: Γ | ⁊... aren't i the lucky one... with a leash on the baron of the talk of shattering of mirror: never sounds like the shattering of glass!

as ever, opening a bottle of ms. amber and sitting down
to a sudoku...
to ensure this sponge of a brain slurps up
some wet concrete...

//
   \\
                      __   (⁜)      "oop" □ here
                      ⁁  †               ‗
"oop" □ over
here...   focus points...
the kaleidoscopic eyes...

words to abstract words are not enough...
anagrams are: "abstracts" of words using words...
i'm too tired to play games of this
nature... i want to return to...
VI + IV = X... somewhat daringly... return to...


a box over here: ◰ (yes, like so...
with the isolated number missing,
e.g.
or an ◲...

                     a line of 9: ――――――― here and
now "there" |
                      |
                      |
               ­       |
                      |
                      |
        ­              |    in vertical
                      |
                      |

i've seen how people lock their smart-phones...
•   •   •
•   •   • and whatever ✭ pentagram "zigzag"
•   •   •

   opens it up... a sudoku puzzle, can very much
be a bunch of stacked pentagrams:
                            ✭
                       ­  ✭✭✭
                      ✭✭✭✭✭
                   ✭✭✭✭✭✭✭
the eyes will always wander to-and-fro...
again... what sort of i.q. does the darting eyes?
i'm not that good with crosswords...
as a bilingual i already have a crossword
in my head...
i don't play games of anagrams...

you want to write a cascade poo'em... write this...
otherwise peer into...
this will never make a study of geometry...
this is a 9² "problem"... more like a canvas to
relax in... sudoku says the hiroshima pundit...
i say... it's a 9²: niner squared...
in the UN approved phonetic alpha-beta...
why isn't it the alpha-omega...
choicest of wordings...
i guess an alphabet implies a cascade that...
cascades?

          A                  B                ­  C
   x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
1 x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
2 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
3 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

but what if the following narrative...
took place... with the numbers being replaced
by letters... better still, something more simpler...
what it A1(1) - the bracket implying
the number placed in the square A1:
which consists of 9 numbers...
0 is never part of a puzzle... nor should it be...
0 is a number that acts as more a function
of (x) and of (÷)...
you can deem 0 to be involved in addition
and subtrtaction...
but... not really...
0 acts as a prime multiplier and divider...
it's so clearly omitted in addition and subtraction...
that... ancient romans... said 1 = I...
3 = III... while 10 = X....
while 9 = IX and 11 = XI...
and 20 = **...

but what is a 9² (sudoku) puzzle was to replace
numbers with greek letters?
why not greek letters?

however much i put into these scribbles...
maximum effort... minimum return rate... so i will not
do as i anticipated myself in doing:
reaching into a dimension of ambition...
i'd only say... it was much easier calling it a...
A1(1) rather than a Aa(1) narrative...
don't ask me why... perhaps the whiskey has...
"muddled" me...

but...

          A                  B                  C
­   x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
1 x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
2 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
3 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

was more simple to solve than

          A                  B                  C
   x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
a x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
b 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
c 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

  borrows from puzzle no. 11,337...
to solve and explain puzzle no. 11,341...

but in between... let's watch the optical
schematic: ▣, ▤ / ▥,
              ▦ / ▩ and ▨ / ▧...
while at the same time: squadron-✭
                       mein gott:
this over-inflated nihon squat and square...
as donal rumsfeld said: the known knowns,
the known unknowns and the unknown unknowns...
because he's not just like...
the bullet-point and the next target practice
of: **** bad... **** all good...
the war criminal Slobo Milošević from
Yugol you-go...
the english isles would know know...
as to why... a mongol invasion would never
set them back a century...
or as to how the ottoman turks teasing...
was only a romance in romania...
because... even if Finland is the quirky odd
kid in the whole bunch of the Scandinavian
sandwich of rar herrings and gherkins
and rye bread...
well sort me out oh please sort me out...
tell me that listening to
these debut albums... or near misses...
silverchair - frogstump...
everclear - sparkle and fade...
stone temple pilots - songs from the vatican gift shop...
it also made sense to be a pre-teen...
listening to these albums
with an uncle with a car... eating cheap
chicken wings while he washed the car
from some next-or-no-other *****-circus date...
after that... it didn't make a sense to own
a car... if there was the bus...
and a dream of riding a horse everywhere...

this little moi: this solo experience...
of the long hair of gods
and the long beards of men...
and the of the sikhs and the devils...
and how it didn't make sense to grow
both at the same time...
long hair in my youth...
while playing, slumpt in...
catch-up-baghdad...
i too thought it was going to be that
simple... a demigod grows long hair...
a demi-imbecile of the most basic
infernal hides the scythe moon
and the chin behind a turban of a beard...
the god with long hair...
the devil and his... beard and itch...
eden of ***** having migrated from
the cushion of underwear:
fully exposed to... not tended to...
or the scrub of stubble...
or what's not... the venus glory sheen...
smoothed or smothered skin
that still belongs to the buttocks of the newly
born...

yes... in between the songs strawberry and
heartspark dollarsign - from everclear's debut...
i too wish i took drugs...
fortunate as i am unfortunate: words and letters
are in x-ray black and white...
what good would licking some mushroom
do for me, or for you?
excesses of colours, among these dams and bridges?
among these sputniks of  precursor numbers?

even if the blanks, were to replaced with a 0
for the other algebra unknown...
tier above... hyperscript a 1 - 9...
i.e.

          A                  B                  C
   0     0     1     0     0     0     0     9     1
a 0     0     0     6     9     0     3     0     4
   0     0     3     0     0     0     5     1     7
   9     0     0     0     1     7     6     0     0
b 3     5     0     0     0     0     0     0     0
   7     0     0     0     5     4     8     0     0
   0     0     7     0     0     0     2     9     8
c 8     0     0     8     2     0     4     0     6
   0     0     2     0     0     0     0     0     0

mirror, mirror on the wall...
who isn't a charlize theron 0 = negation
of them all?
abigail mac is not a *****
doppelgänger of alicia vikander?

no better need to drink...
nonetheless the sun still shines on the question...
sudoku 9²: what it the cardinal numbers
were to be replaced with cardinal letters...
notably greek...
the alpha male the beta male the gamma and
the omega are all covered...
so is pi... given xi (11) is 0...

          A                  B                  C
   0     0     1     0     0     0     0     0     0
a 0     0     0     6     9     0     3     0     4
   0     0     3     0     0     0     5     1     7
   9     0     0     0     1     7     6     0     0
b 3     5     0     0     0     0     0     0     0
   7     0     0     0     5     4     8     0     0
   0     0     7     0     0     0     2     9     8
c 8     0     0     8     2     0     4     0     6
   0     0     2     0     0     0     0     0     0

thus? Iota = 1, A = 2, B = 4, Γ = 7, Δ = 3,
rho (Ρ) = 9, Π =...
B should equate itself to 8 in the stenographic
origin of numbers...
depending on which stenography you decide
upon...
Iota = 1, A = 2, B = 8, Γ = 7, Δ = 3, P = 9....
no lower-case, please...
intuitively: zeta: Ζ = 5...
what's missing? we have: 1, 2, 8, 7, 3, 9, 5...
4 and 6...
                     Η = 4 and Σ = 6...
rubric, please!
1 = I
2 = A
3 = Δ
4 = H
5 = Z
6 = Σ
7 = Γ
8 = B
9 = P...

and how would a sudoku look like... thus?

          A                  B                  C
   0     0     I     0     0     0     0     P     I
a 0     0     0     Σ     P     0     Δ     0     H
   0     0     Δ     0     0     0     Z     I     Γ
   9     0     0     0     I     Γ     Σ     0     0
b Δ     Z     0     0     0     0     0     0     0
   Γ     0     0     0     Z     H     B     0     0
   0     0     Γ     0     0     0     A     P     B
c B     0     0     B     A     0     H     0     Σ
   0     0     A     0     0     0     0     0     0

notably when the following narrative unfolds
and

          A                  B                  C
  ­ x     x     1     x     x     x     x     9     1
1 x     x     x     6     9     x     3     x     4
   x     x     3     x     x     x     5     1     7
   9     x     x     x     1     7     6     x     x
2 3     5     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
   7     x     x     x     5     4     8     x     x
   x     x     7     x     x     x     2     9     8
3 8     x     x     8     2     x     4     x     6
   x     x     2     x     x     x     x     x     x

becomes

          A                  B                  C
   4     8     1     5     7     3     9     6     2
1 2     7     5     6     9     1     3     8     4
   6     9     3     4     8     2     5     1     7
   9     2     8     3     1     7     6     4     5
2 3     5     4     P     Σ     8     7     2     1
   7     1     6     2     5     4     8     3     9
   5     4     7     1     3     6     2     9     8
3 1     3     9     8     2     5     4     7     6
   8     6     2     Γ     H     9     1     5     3

via B1(1) C1(6) C1(8) C1(2) C1(9) A1(9) A3(9) A1(5) A1(6) C3(7) C2(7) C3(1) A2(1) A3(1) B3(5) A3(3) A2(6) A2(2) A2(8) A2(4) C2(4) C2(5) B2(3) A3(5) B1(5) C3(5) C3(3) C2(1) C2(9) C2(3) C2(2) B2(2) B1(2) A1(2) A1(7) B1(8) B1(4) B1(7) B1(3) B2(8) B3(9) B3(6) A3(6) A3(8) A3(4) A1(4) A1(8)... post-script in greek numerals...
B2(Σ), B2(P), B3(H), B3(Γ)...

and if this is bingo... then bingo more... B2(x) and B2(y)...
and B3(y) and B3(x)...
my god... the fun time i'm missing when having
to raise children...
esp. among those superior intellects
of men... who... upon being married...
upon raising children...
return to the manosphere and talk to other
males without harems as if they were:
either constipated... circumcised...
or needing a father figure for that all encompassing
shorthand:
i didn't go to university to study chemistry...
i went... to the university of life!
a supermarket cashier clerk...
was the sort of cocktail shake-up required
for my bottled shampoo!

a ring a capturing a female is enough
qualifications to overlord the conversation
whether by topic or "feel"...
among ones... the la's nostalgia regret...
that would never arrive at blur or oasis
when it came to growing up in 1990s cool
britannia...

coming home to little town Poland...
is a carnival better than landing in Warsaw...
i can't say the same should i come,
and arrive in Loon'don's queue...
or the tubes under tarmac...

but of course drinking would get in the way...
to raising children...
perhaps drinking will allow...
a cameo father-figure role with a ******* child...
akin to: john wayne oscar winner for hard grit...
or: i'll **** my trousers because it's:
gonna be a rainman sort of day...
to start licking windows...
because: fear... prior to the mirror...
and the tongue that would no dare
to usurp the phallus in the serpent analogy...

yes... i noted "wrong"... i made a siamese blunder...
a siamese *** myopia...
two puzzle boxes... "the same" postal box...
the same university level education
of a non-high-school tier drop-out...
esp. because there's still no honda civic
worth a 33 year old to user the tinder app
to bother the wasp hive / harem... or some whatver
future of: this scenario never made it into blade runner...
or the inspiration for blade runner...
the one twin dead talking from the grave about
the future...
perhaps it was original for philip k. ****...
but perhaps... like any poet...
he's the host... and it was jane charlotte ****
speaking playing peek-a-boo from the grave?
there's no future in my writing...
i guess if this isn't "me"... then it's my
maternal great-grandfather and me talking about
shadows and dentists...
last time i had the foggiest...
i had a tootache...
so it's settled...
senior "chopin" and quasi "chopin"...
an internal joke...
how's the family?
family beside the atoms and the period table?
oh fine fine...
after all i heard the myth:
he didn't have any of his teeth pulled out...
but he also threw a tonne of coffe into the river
because certain people in europe even in
the 20th century didn't know what to do with coffee beans...

the spirit of adventure and exploration...
notably prolific in a landlocked
experience of the czech republic or moldova...
or... idaho... or...
i see water i want to see waterfalls...
i want to turn the anchor in a pumpkin carriage
and call the waves my horses!
to call an island a ship!
to call a continent a yawn and backward peoples...
and branch out... like a phototropism...
leaving all these continental europeans
living the nocturnal life of:
growth on **** sort of fungus of a past...

there's certainly a mistake in here...
but... unless you're just watched: shock & awe movie...
or still retain: the times weekly subscription...
what's a pedantry's "safe space" of automated
complications:
oh the joys of not having to cling to passing
a telegraph of genes and keeping it a minimum
of: two adults ******* better produce at least
two replicas... rather than that chinese
1 child per couple failure of ******-short-circuits...
oh the burden of reading some french thinking,
some german thinking...
nothing of a locke mea culpa as
the current phrase: pilate washing his hand
like a o.c.d. sufferer...

Tiro the new Aesop!
🙉 🙈 🙊
           monkey branch, busy cousin
of the follow-through deviation from gravity
in the upsillon - the parabola of a banana...
called the canary dip...
otherwise: my! what a treat!
what greater ambitions to write...
in order to write something
that would never become so quickly screened
like a stephen king novel...
obviously the contra comes from...
the loitering dean koontz...

it must be a curse of the surname...
i have a ****** surname...
well... unless you add... no...
adolf had a surname...
that germans must have found funny...
stalin had a surname...
that the russians must have found funny...
ghenghis simply could: in a present-participle
of: can...
and future present as a pop. surname
in pakistan: khan...
which sorts out the "problem" as to why
there's a stephen king and a dean koontz...
the answer is self-evident...
as i'm sure every smith and handy
becomes a plumber or the better part
of anyone day when he's struggling
with sightseeing and tourism...
of what might become...
the better part of a Thursday burrowing
from Hades into Tartarus.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.i (am) giddity giddity getting it... lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment in reality.


blow backs and...
i've never heard so much
politics on the citizenry level of
implementing the discovery
of politics...
    
    i love Tuesday nights in
these parts of the world...
German army jacket, hood...
walking really slow,
drinking a beer,
smoking a cigarette...
tense upper-body frame,
not moving my hands
that much,
intimidating posture...

  passing cars don't count...
**** me...
like a scene fro the Vanilla Sky
beginning...
in Times Sq.....
but this is Romford,
the outback that somehow
constitutes London...
i made a count...
how many people did i spot?
3... and that includes me...

i love Tuesday nights...
and then making lunch
for my father going to work...

next time i hear the following...
all these internet bums
imploring for donations...
they're...working?
making ******* videos?!
that's work?!
  that's work?!
and me writing is what...
Stephen King ***
David Koontz?!

they're working?!
right... making existentialist
quasi-*******
with a return of: how else
to be a consumer?!
that's work?!
    work... come to think of it...
what's work?
low unemployment levels...
yeah... go figure...
but the jobs on offer...
aren't they, just a tad bit
*******?!
         the sort of work that
is summarized by ctrl + c
              and a cntrl + p?
if there is so much work available,
sure as **** the work is "work",
i.e. it's *******...
it's not a plumbing spot...
it's... the sort of work
that... could also come with
a contraceptive message,
a ****** career...
            why even bother doing this,
this... "job" when you can align
yourself to making contraceptive
precautions?!
so... you want me...
to do this, "job"...
this waste of time bollocking of
the lesser actor?
        no ******* chance...

unemployment is down...
well of course it is...
more meaningless jobs
have been re-imagined!
    no wonder!

i'd understand a cinema cashier,
there was a sense of aura,
notably with the popcorn scent...
but now?

no... over-population isn't
a problem...
but meaningless jobs are...
a ******* problem...
    ******* attempting to suffice
my escapism with a meaningless
function that is...
about as much a trade
as a peanut is a watermelon...
*******!

i'll huff... and i'll puff...
and... ****... forgot the cucumber...
make my father
the sort of lunch that
kings dream of...
   yeah... but just sandwiches?
and only sandwiches?
  ****... forgot the cucumber...
      a thai cucumber pineapple salad...
oh no... you little ***** bank donation
******* and *******...
you get to rent...
       you get to rent a flat...
coughing up money to the most
deplorable people... your landlords...
should have thought about your
teenage tantrums...
   and thought about
  talking to your parents differently...
incidence...
i dated a Russian girl once...
and she told me...
that her grandmother was her mother,
and that her mother was her sister...
a ******* confusing relationship...
**** yeah that it ended!

well... evidently the retards coughing
up money into strangers' coffers
will deem me ******...
    then again...
only in the west there's the parental thesis
of being a child, and subsequently
an adult... only if: you are ashamed
of having parents to begin with;

hello, test-tube Dan,
frozen egg Hilary,
           IVF... Peaches?!

counter argument: well...
i could live in a shack in a forest,
or call my shadow a roof,
lingering on the paved streets...
then again...
my neighbors lied that
they bought a house,
and they're... what... 30 something?
saying they're renting it out...
and yet...
  they have house parties
under their parents' roof...
and smoke **** in their car...

lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment by reality;
i do not find lying
to be a moral encompass,
more an economic bypass...
      lying, simply doesn't make any
economic sense...
  "morally" (in question)
      advantageous in
the short term...
   but economically...
lying is exhausting...
            given that it's a lived
fiction... rather than
a non-lived fiction of a book...
i don't lie...
  because...
              what one cannot love,
one better be ashamed of...
****... does that even make sense?!
to be denied a love,
     one can at least bask in the shame,
that the truth of denial entails...
yeah... that sounds better.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
hmph... where are the open mics?

This coffee-bean bag city abound

with eclectic fusions of wireless access

enter-the-net -abilities

Kenya to Columbia / slow, dark roasts...

and Napa Valley vineyards

intermingling

at Cream...

How oddly bright, surrounded by glass

windows--like discovery of x-ray vision,

through clear walls i see how packed

like an iMac convention it is

inside...

   Poetry readings: Yahoo local search directed us here,

barista-scented alcoholic webmasters

thin-legged tables laid out like a life-sized

chess board--us three white rooks performing

black bishop moves to the cashier;

curious like George as to where

in Carmen-cool-San Diego,

in this glowing rubix cubed place;

   where in the fluoresent skin of Comp-USA borne

peoples of the web, where

where oh where's the poetry?

Reading Vista-windows rather than obsolescent-absolutes

of books by Keats

or obsessive-compulsive Koontz...

   Though bright and machine-warm, Cream

felt metallic-shiny, slick as plastic; conversations

with an electric hiss

rather than a hum of heart-beats and laughter

where's the **** poetry??

   the readings?

a prolific geek or Hemingway refined older men

on a single microphone;

turn-table-tales in rhyme

on a platform made by the local grind

college theatre teckies (staple-gunned and glued)...

where are those poets?

   those spoken-word-wisdoms, writers

performing, even in their Goth-blacks, even in

their Seattle angst of cordoruoys or dock martins;

forget Starbucks, leave behind Jitterz,

the Expresso Roma is the poetry of coffee

no enterprise

can replicate

duplicate the unique...

   sadly i must concede, the spoken word

and poetic fluffers are a dying breed; as far as

i can web-surf, no place

houses them any longer, no more

do they sprinkle their pixie-dust of verse

or prose, mosaics,

fantastics of floral or funk

imagery and emotional

stark revelations of discovery...

   sadly--it is the day's turning of a page;

***** is the word,

adverb to lost horizons, i am

a dinosaur of the mess-no-beatnik-era,

"poet-a-sore-is-rest"

deep thoughts' ooze now the blood of

{fingers snapping} history

"yeah, man, cool...outta sight"

and i'm not yet extinct;

i am a teradactyl with so much sky

soon without a place to land, / below

crash into the matrix sea--Cream pixelates my woes...

communication has become a plastic factory

to Japan, and Europe, my inner "screeeeech!"

"where is the poetry?!"
Butch Decatoria Aug 2019
Let's pretend I can read your mind.

What unkind words would you not say,
     whose name would you hide?

What places would you flee, in dismay,
or wish to Caribbean cruise to?

If I could hear your love,
what would it tell me
     that I do not already know?
What kind of fantasies would whisper?
Will your fears be softly moaned,
or scream loudly to be let go?

Let's pretend you knew I could
hear deeper all your silences,

     how many flatteries, there, would echo
like broken vinyl,
a skipping heartbeat, a flat tire...on the road…

Would you still lie, if you knew--that I knew,
still believe in them?
Still make me believe you good?
(never telling the truth)

Let's say you could
hear my thoughts... my inner worth...

Would you condemn me and herald my secrets?
Command me for your work
     make me a lackey
     or say I'm crazy
to everybody—a nobody...?

If you could see inside me
or feel my worst hurts,
would you understand \why and how
my heart should burst?

And of course, this is all make believe,
imagination at it's height,
     but true life is another sort
     of his and her stories….

from our minds' eyes
to witness
to be told :  be realized.
And every tale has once come true:
man now
     flying, cloning,
          in rockets to the moon,

I'm sure my fiction will be
written soon, if not already
In that book...

what kind of mood
“He” must of had when craving
King & Koontz
the idea of me...
           (and “god” knows who)
scratching chin
his beard of white
in a bowl of crocodile tears,

playing pretend,
and silent night
our living years...in a sigh.

(No need to read your mind
I can feel your lies, goodbye.)
Revised.
Butch Decatoria Feb 2016
Let's pretend I can read your mind.

What kind of words would you not say,
     whose name would you hide?

What places would you flee, in dismay,
or wish to caribbean-cruise to?

If I could hear your love,
what would it tell me
     that I do not already know?
What kind of fantasies would whisper?
Will your fears be softly moaned,
or scream loudly to be let go?

Let's pretend you knew I could
hear deeper all your silences,

     how many flatteries, there, would echo
like broken vinyl,
a skipping heartbeat, a flat tire... (blown)

Would you still lie, if you knew--that I knew,
still believe them?
Still make me believe you?
(never telling the truth)

Let's say you could
hear my thoughts...

Would you condemn me and herald my secrets?
Command me for your work
     make me a lackey
     or say I'm crazy
to everybody a nobody...?

If you could see through me
or feel my worst hurts,
would you understand \why and how
my heart should burst?

And of course, this is all make believe,
imagination at it's height,
     but true life is another sort
     of story

from our minds' eyes
to witness
to be told :  be realized.

And every tale has once come true:
man now
     flying, cloning,
          in rockets to the moon,

I'm sure my fiction will be
written soon
if not already in that book...

what kind of mood
He must of had when craving
King & Koontz
the idea of me...
           (and god knows who?)

scratching chin
his beard of white
in a bowl of crocodile tears,

playing pretend,
and silent night
with our living years...
Move to a faster blade, swift ears, catch the musical, serenades,
It's like dollar stand lemonades, prices laid, we being played,
Amongst the *****, of confusion enrolled, out the institution,
So many using, the youths mind for their, own boosting,
Soft society, eyeing me, but what about the, forged legacy,
The boomers, setting the degrees then, blame the economy,
Millenials and Gen Z, but I see the pies, of piece, cold release,
Shots of fire, see the flash of a Messiah, am I reaching higher,
My conscious desires, the better things in life, void the strife,
They say, I was born with three strikes, slash like nikes,
Take my bike, every where I go, to take a look, at the globe,
Sun, looking like a fiery disco, as slow sip, the mojito,
Feel the stings in my mojo, soon to be in slow, mo let the cycle,
Break every, evil scenario, ice cream seen, a blind man cling,
Onto the sights, of happiness, and there I planted, fist, so crisp,
It's hard to break, a wishlist, drink malt liquor, til I ****,
Out the verses, viva la worses, bella bella nutella, rock modellas,
Helter skelter, put on the face of map, bold words all caps,
See victory collapse, thought the world, was gonna relapse,
Perhaps, I'm just in my own destiny, the pains, dreading me,
Carefully, watch the swiss watch, ticks n tocks, see the stocks,
Of heartbeats, getting ready to drop, corona, still at the top,
Never ending, folks pretending, Dean Koontz, gave ya an incision,
Brains is lynching, folks claiming they, players but benching,
Stings, of the golden bronze, honey blondes, sitting under cons,
Rebel X, my rolex, I thought the world, was involved round ***,
Mic check, see what's next, too many folks, guilted plex,
It's too much, stress , to be going round, around downtown,
With julie, yeah she's a cutie, babygirl, knows the duty,
Cant keep a chick, if she's unruly, sounds of the toolie,
Streets of rage, so many feelings in a cage, outrage, crazed,
By the medias, black propaganda, take a deep, gander,
Amongst, the seas of chaos, squids leeching, a coin toss,
Equals rights, ain't nothing a but a plight, to ****, civil rights,
Man down, stand down, hold my *****, with Ebenezer crown,
Six feet in the ground, there I lays, keep my legacy, in stays,
Twenty guns, salute with the liquor to finish,the final scoop,
Rejoicing, with the demons and angels, in every angle,
Of light, to darkness heights, saw Michael and Raphael,
Holding chariots of hell, see how the earth fail, ahhhhhh hell,
There I stare, with a cigar lit, waiting at the gates, of jail,
Am I still alive, even in the perdition, or is just another fairytale,
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2022
i've just been exercising, cycling like a demon for almost two hours, passed the Gallows Corner roundabout twice, heavy traffic, i just can't keep away from the thrill of being lodged between moving objects that might **** me... the closer i am to death, the closer i am to life, which is sort of paradoxical; sort of: a memory best kept alive, by mortality per se...

if this be "capitalism" then i must be a *******
****** - sorry - what's that etymological
fallacy i hear concerning the word: Slav?
oh, right... a missing epsilon / eta...
i never know the difference between the two...
perhaps the clue is in the word: between
itself... epsilon is a long E while
eta is a short E...
******* get over it... ****** this ***** that...
i must be a ******* whigger by now...
the etymological origin of the word Slav
was derived from Slave? really...
perhaps you're referring to my distant cousins
that settled in the Balkans...
sure, the Yugoslavs might have been
enslaved by the Turks...
but if i remember correctly and i do know my
history, since i'm sort of tattooed with it...
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth fought
back against the Ottoman onslaught...
apparently we managed to salvage Vienna...
such etymological laziness...
but what's to be expected...
in English ****- is insulting, oh sure sure...
esp. for the police force in ******* Rotherham...
sensitive little *****!
no... way better: KOONTZ!
a bit like a bite off: it could be ****... but no:
it's SH'ITE! here... fly my ******* kite!
the etymological of anything: ask the people who
refer to themselves as Slavs...
i.e. słowianin... root? słowo - word...
we are wordsmiths... how many Slavs have
actually been acknowledged by those northern
cultural Cyclops(es) that the Swedes are
(not my words, ref. to the Norwegian
Knausgaard)...
suede - suedes - persuasion sort of bollocking...
yeah... sure, thanks for the Deluge...
thanks for the harangue of Częstochowa...
(często? frequently chowa? hides...
je? them - feminine plural - chowa -
that ******* monstrosity that became the noun
Jehovah... he who hides women)
so yeah, how many Slavs have won the Nobel
prize for literature, compared to...
a German... an Englishman... hmm...
i'm not keeping score, but i know of a few...
if the English expect to take up etymology on their
on ground, using their own language...
ha ha, ******* still think they are the extension
of the Roman Empire...
all over European people have applied their
own diacritical distinctions to the alphabet...
whether that's the German umlaut or the French cedilla...
the Czech caron... blah blah etc.
but not the English... here's where i tell the Gaels
to start speaking their own, ******* tongue...
(god bless the persistence of the Welsh)
let's leave English with ol' Yankee
and rich Chinese tourists...
                    no... i've just been cycling... did 100 push-ups
lifted some weights...
and now? my mind is refreshed...
let's start the new year with the following
resolution...
   so i cycle up to a supermarket... oh, good...
they still have the Saturday edition of The Times...
i'm a subscriber so i have a discount
ergo i have a coupon...
   so i walk up to the cashier... she scans the newspaper,
then scans the coupon... no good...
she asks me for my Tesco club-card...
no good...
  - it's not coming through... something's wrong...
- today's the 1st of Jan, isn't it?
the coupon reads the 1st of Jan, no?
- yes...
- well then, that's not my problem,
your company can take up the argument
with The Times: whether or not they're printing
false coupons... but... i'm taking this newspaper...
whether you like it, or not...
- but, but...
-  NO.

so i just walked out with the newspaper,
she had the coupon,
outside i was taking off my bicycle-lock while
she was knocking on the window...
did i look up?
i just figured... now... catch me if you can....
subsequently ****** off towards Rainham
then Hornchurch then home...

that's my New Year's Resolution...
telling people: NO
period, the end, no thank you, *******,
bye bye.
            
why? i was supposed to be paid for 5 shifts on
the 31st of December, so, yesterday,
i even received a confirmation text to comfort me
that i'd be paid: i wanted to pay off my mother
for past dues...
it's a ritual: pay off your debts in the year about
to close rather than drag them into the new year...
so? ahem: "capitalism"?
for the few & the crooks...
you want to work, in earnest...
i'm not even going to listen to the ******* excuse:
ooh... "grammatical" error... filing error...
paperwork: fiddly...

too many ******* paperclips, eh?!
i'm so teasing the thought of attempting to **** someone...
no, not **** someone...
just walk up to someone in a street
with a knife, bear-hug them, sit them down
with the blade at their throat...
then ask a witness to call the police...
why, Matthew, why would you do something
like that?
you think not getting paid, being taken for
a ******* whigger is, nice?! the "right" thing
to be taken for?

  get over the extra G... you can say Niger...
you can say Nigerian... but what, giggle?!
that's too far?
               people pushed too many of the right
sort of buttons in the past late...
i'm going to gatecrash this year...
riddle? that's a double-D... bundle of what?!
in writing i can be anything i want to be...
like i can be caged with a Nigerian at the Oxford
stadium turnstiles and he'll come out
with a joke: ha ha... almost like a Nigerian prison...
and i'd joke back: yeah... sleep standing up
strapped to the ceiling...

it's always these 3rd party "aggravated"
the people that are not part of the conversation,
the busy-bodies that want to be at the centre
of almost everything!
the types that say: oh, me and my black friends...
what black friends?!
i had black schoolmates, i had a Jamaican marijuana
dealer who pushed me his rap record
while i listened to his mad ranting about
the Illuminati and seeing the face of Jesus in
a cloud at night, who wanted me to teach
his girl to play the guitar...
and now this Nigerian coworker...
                         am i supposed to be ******* friends
with people on a racial quota?!
do i ******* look like an interracial advert cuck?!

i've just been exercising... mein gott!
how refreshing... i need to get more of this stuff!
my mind is doing miracles on my well-being!

this is the year: i start say NO
to people, this is the year i apply the lesson i learned
from having met Dan...
my "supervisor"... for how long?
depends on whether i get paid...
2022... time to become a proper **** in real life;
i'll be nice... but only when i feel like it;
ooh... FEELZ., i like that very much.

p.s. 502 bad gateway bypass,
title: pardon pardon
body: meister meister: hersch.
Butch Decatoria Apr 2021
Let's pretend I can read your mind.

What unkind words would you not say,
whose name would you hide?

What places would you flee, in dismay,
or wish to Caribbean cruise to?

If I could hear your love,
what would it tell me
that I do not already know?
What kind of fantasies would whisper?
Will your fears be softly moaned,
or scream loudly to be let go?

Let's pretend you knew I could
hear deeper all your silences,

how many flatteries, there, would echo
like broken vinyl,
a skipping heartbeat, a flat tire...on the road…

Would you still lie, if you knew- that I knew,
still believe in them?
Still make me believe you good?
(never telling the truth)

Let's say you could
hear my thoughts... my inner worth...

Would you condemn me and herald my secrets?
Command me for your work
make me a lackey
or say I'm crazy
to everybody—a nobody...?

If you could see inside me
or feel my worst hurts,
would you understand \why and how
my heart should burst?

And of course, this is all make believe,
imagination at it's height,
but true life is another sort
of his and her stories….

from our minds' eyes
to witness
to be told:be realized.
And every tale has once come true:
man now
flying, cloning,
in rockets to the moon,

I'm sure my fiction will be
written soon, if not already
In that book...

what kind of mood
"He" must of had when craving
King & Koontz
the idea of me...
(and "god" knows who)
scratching chin
his beard of white
in a bowl of crocodile tears,

playing pretend,
and silent night
with our living years...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
the beard as a violin - somewhat...
some new exquisite
variation - a tease of the brass...
the girdle and "the thing in the middle"...
also...
the beard allocated to the outline
of the jaw...
   never being allowed to draw a hiding
flow... this unbelieveable scrutiny
of a... breaking of a swan's
neck...

    not that a milan kundera work
is out-of-date...
                 le rideau. essai en sept
parties
...
  the times are out-of-date...
       my god: this is so blatantly
pointless that it hopes
to crease a letter on a bone...
  something near impossible...
                        
        it's just impossible to make
references, concessions...
fishing talking points
around the pillars of books...
       when... perhaps 1 from a 1000
will listen to bbc radio 3...
otherwise: what bookclub antics...
otherwise this suffocating
       self-aggrandizing
               litany of prose...

              it's such an impossible future
with such an impossible past...
and unlike passively listening
to the radio...
   to read a madame bovary...
to the pickwick papers...
             if it's not a metaphor for
archeology...
   then... there must be over 500 years
in passing...

                 a czech learns french...
  a ****** learns english...
and perhaps a russian comes
to grips with german...
                                   futility of...
what has encapsulated anglo-
pop culture...
                    it's indeed a shame
that i haven't read
a stephen king novel...
         but given the cinema suckling
and outpouring of: adaptations...
more of a shame to not
have read a dean koontz novel...

douglas murray
roger scruton - of the latter...
a book about wine...
and how... you never see wine
bottles on the street...
you might see an empty beer can...
you might see a 35cl bottle
of whiskey...
            it's very impossible
to read a book by someone who
is so well spoken...

           you wouldn't want to
deface the rhetoric
with your own punctuation monstrosity...
and it's not like:
but it is like these days:
it's somehow necessary to write...
something must be written...
it doesn't have to be thought of, prior, either...

it must be written...
that it is somehow also given
the preposition alias of thought it one thing...
but beyond all...
the vogue of the dead writers...
i want to imagine 100 years
from now... and how...
h'american poets of the 1960s
will fall out of sensibility...

pseudo-"poet" / proto-journalist...
well yes... it's just so: impossible
to not having to make reference as having
read: or eaten a laceration
of a turnip...

            eyes-for-glue...
and what's the glued toll stare...
                      then again: the only read...
pivot on the easily digested...
the striptease of skim reading...
my better than a vote:
a voice with "idiosyncracy"
of best: puncture(d)
                                 of punctuation...

for all the glamour of the sacrificial lamb...
best be riddled by
the counter... to sacrifice...
work-around of sanctity...
           also... "concerns" for the
impossible hand sequence...
when it's last waving...
   and the first...
                           crispy...
                   a monotony of
puffing up pillows...
                         image after image...
such a structure of
             hindering silk when
all that's best served is a dutch wooden
pillock: best believed
to be a shaman of the shoe:

walked around... pranced...
******* jolsted into captivity...
ruining the expectations
from how picasso borrowed
contorts off of a mandrill...

                  lost the contorts of the ***:
in gizmo-mode...
sold out to loot the... m'eh...
                     œuvre "or" the Louvre...
limbo-granny litany...
  skidding and slouching...
    kidding and seriously orientated
wtih the w'oah jingles...
            
     for there be a public liability
of conscience and the ruler dictum
of the squeezed at bow-tie...
            
         or that there's a concept of
clothes like
fur... when there's only
something pristine...
             breaking-the-break-back...
the fur is a dried-out
over-sweating into shirt...
            my *******' worth
of the subjectivity of death...
        when there's the lost and last
ordeal of a body cocoon
in:
      hybrid moth looter...

                   my new cool is loot...
a shadow a crease and
a shadow ask for beside...
the sun ruining a shadow's dalmation...
pocket the nuisance
life's long lost
reason to adjective life...

         slow-cold-and-hot revived
hinterland crisp.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
freud, the pity boy
looked at his genitals
and found a tongue
in there, somehow,

                            notably the strand
   of thinking that originated
   from Hegel...

jung?
                  Kant's disciple,
   looked at his shadow
   and found a tongue in there
(somehow)...

         lady gaga reads
       dean koontz...
                     applause...

          now i'm starting to
             fancy myself walking about
massive ******-heads...
               or at least appreciating
whales and the mantis...

   peer into that biological
artefact long enough
          and you'll come back
without an archetype to cling to,
let alone drown with...

notably the sketches of Ed Hopper...
in the haunting shadow
  of the 20th century,
           and all this 21st century
prop talk,
            i.e. the startling:
    but in the 21st century!
            does the human condition
suddenly change,
  by a flick of some magical switch?

  21st century my ***...
              
         and that Quran promise of
the 72?
              in jewish terms that's
also: the names of... go, go, goat...
         ever ****** a ******?
                i ****** as if peeking
from behind a curtain...
            turns out,
my **** is like a swiss army knife...

             because *******
doesn't have a escape outlet that might
bring me closer to a woman...
      a pregnant woman and herr *****...
even the eunuchs of the harem
   at Giza had a role:
      even the pharaoh can't **** them all
(silly stamina fetish):
                  but even the eunuchs
were walking, sometimes talking
                      versions of ******.

— The End —