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Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
am i the only one who finds
nudists  erotically
   i have to say
that certain body parts
of a woman, when given an accent
of clothing can mean more then
coupled  with the entirety of
the whole body
exposed for a sun-tan...
for some *******
reason, when i'm not teased
with body parts,
i turn into a butcher's son,
i just want to cut
the ******* thing up...
   mind you,
french nudism is a bit like
islamic niqabs...
i can't find the attention
pointers to start the
******* flirt...
           it's almost akin
to ****... optically, sure,
but **** nonetheless...
   i'm guessing muslims are
obsessed with oral ***
given the most ****** aspect
of a woman they ever discovered
were they eyes...
      islam is saturated with
an oral *** fetish given the attire...
i said the collar-bone bone &
neck outline + the hands...
and the **** cleft...
  that's like 5th or 6th on the list
of what's ****** about
  but different culture...
you know what europeans do when
they find a hair in their
soup? they *****;
which is why i don't understand
with this islamic fetish for
             ever find a hair in your
          you'd regurgitate likewise...
but i simply can't find nudists
           there are no accents,
no exfoliation of the certain parts
that allow a hard-on
to come to light...
      sometimes physiology takes
to the tale of: the other
            grounding of effort
for crafting a nuke...
     let's just say that
the eyes of women are the least
**** aspect of their body...
i share the same sentiment
as a certaisn 20th century poet...
i'd rather look into dogs' eyes
than a womans' eyes for
hours and hours...
    dogs' eyes are more appealing
than womans' eyes...
which is why i don't understand
the islamic claim that
eyes exfoliate a female appeal
toward a man's appeal...
  i already stated the three
major incisions...
        you know what the english
called niqabs? satan's postboxes...
to me the hands, the collar-bone
canvas, and the cleft of *******...
       then again, there's the thighs...
long gone are the days
of belly-dancers,
               and the slit-eyed-ninjas...
******* ponces of ******-inhibition...
i still find nudism an optical ****,
         like trying to *******
to watching chimpanzees at it...
          for some reason
nudists are albino in terms of fur,
but while that's going on,
i see them attired in thick fur:
that subsequently becomes
an explanation for a limp ****:
it would be akin
to bashing one off while
watching butchered pork chops.
Arber Selmani  Aug 2013
Arber Selmani Aug 2013
That’s just a catastrophe
When I get lost and you cannot find me
When I'm a catacomb, and you think I'm a synagogue

Love isn’t what you think
It's not you ******* up everything I do
It's not even me trying to write about your stupidity
It's not my family, hating you ever after

Do you think we can have a baby?
Or can you imagine both of us as partners in crime?
Wait, shut up, am I being selfish,
Cherishing myself to death, blasphemously

You have to know, I am a boy
I am a girl sometimes
I am transgendered, but that doesn’t mean I cannot cry.
I can hurt you and the feeling will equal to your mother’s death

Zoanthropy, I can be.
Authority, Military, Nudism, you and me.
I can make you ***** and smile
This ongoing process I get every day from coexisting with your picture

Who the hell are you, anyway?
Do I already know you, felt you, grab your genitals?
Isn't that a pity, cause I still play the sensitive type
While I'm the ***** ad the pure prostitution
stylesclash  Jan 2019
stylesclash Jan 2019
a highway built by tetris, standing on too
many Ls; writers' blocks nosediving, nose-
diving with you in tow, because it is "time";
history asphyxiating on the water of silence--
sinking in that silence--vomiting itself toward
the surface where it can be photographed;
a viewing experience: all histories drowning;

your image as "you", to be retinally caressed
and heard only with visual inputs; syllables
that cannot be turned off, even if you close
your eyes--because we are always turned on;
******* as the new religion: a trinity
between your image, *** and death; eternity
covered always by the stretched pixels of "now"

a distortion of your face as all clouds; snap-
chat filters for *******, pixelating commitment
and leaving your crotch bare, one-eye to bear;
pins and needles for an "i love you": vocabulary
that is no less ceremonial and meaningless,
now, than when one covers his heart for the flag

(just as a flag "unflied", one salutes taking a knee,
*******/off, awfully absent; without official leave).

a "selective hearing" analogue for humanity
when, for all of our touching, we can grasp butts
but not "buts"; blind hands search our braille,
missing the contradictions they are want for;

at best, for we will likely be censored, cut-off,
condemned, scorned, smeared, satirized . . .
beaten, persecuted, prosecuted and prostituted
or pimped out in the name of some "cause";
the future of conversation: a humiliation fetish,
for one cannot hold an opposing point of view.

we must be as one as low lifes with only
base aspirations; we must perspire spin-
spiration for our careers, beauty goals,
***** gains and the enumeration--literally--
of the self into the number "1". we seldom

allow a p1ace under our crooked h0use;
even in the age of participation trophies,
the distance between "1" and "2" is filled
with verbiage of how we love our vanity;
a 6 inverting with a 6 after a sext for a lick,
a 6 with an edge and handle for the stick
coming on the back end of the *******
after the back bending, i.e., back stabbing.

a recording of yourself that is heard only
when you don't think; the human shadow as
a commercial item you advertise to yourself:
new "twalking" feature, it re-charges you
as it twalks with you!, wow!; nudism

without flesh, so that we may be ****;
honesty as percolation and not an extraction
as, say, wisdom teeth or hostage rescue;
all the words we've been waiting to hear

suspended, without suspense, in silence;
only anticipation, for we already know.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i've said this once before, and i'll say it again: i don't buy into dreams, i find them a bit ******, b-movie versions of reality, but sometimes, just sometimes, just before i tap the snooze honey and talk myself into: wake up early, wake up early, wake up early, tomorrow it's going to be california sunny (which it now is), i get a dream, and not some *******-riddling dream, a dream where i am lying next to a staircase and reciting poetry - there was a yesterday? - and i can clearly remember one line from the poem:

  the best verse i ever composed,
  was the verse i spoke -
     and never bothered to write down -
the poetry that belongs solely to ανέμοί -
the deity of the winds,
and of souls -
     of those who reside a tier above
hades, in his ***** - anemoi -
   and yes, diacritical entry points
for the english reside with i and j -
as is worth noting:
   there's a buddhist maxim of concern
with respect to the modern greeks
(let me keep you up to date) -
that famed mirror of *beryl
   stop polishing the ****** mirror,
you will not see much clearer,
stop polishing that ****** mirror,
wash your face instead, slap it even,
punch it till you bruise your knuckles -
by polishing that mirror too much,
you'll end up as the madman
xerxes of persia, demanding the sea
an allegiance and sub. obedience by
whipping it! we're not talking culinary
inventions of whipping cream,
or heating milk for a cappuccino froth!
if the english are going to be this *******
lazy with their abstinence of applying
diacritical indicators to ease the pain
of dyslexics with pseudo-chinese
  clarifying syllables - why should you?
you? the greeks, why spoil the beauty
of the already ready alpha-beta -
    you're perfecting something that's already
perfect -
        look at the trojan eve - look toward
the roman adam -
stark ****** naked; the greeks seem
to be donning five pairs of socks,
two pairs of trousers, six shirts, seven
pairs of underwear, gloves, and a burqa
to top it all off!
**** it, let's do what the english have
done: return to nature, embracing naturalism,
nudism, whatever the hell you want
to call this nightmare.

as any book review inquires -
  a book there is, how language began,
by a fella who learned some amazonian
language, a daniel everett -
who claims counter-claims vs. chomsky
and pinker -
  who says - citation, please!
he maintains that mental disorders do
not support the notion of a language *****,
for (he argues) there are no language-specific
          yup... apart from dyslexia,
i guess that means: you can't count from 0
to 100, or give me a 3 x 4 answer,
nothing language specific about that.

ah blimmin' heck, i can't believe that i turn
into this jeckyll ******* when i had two
sharpshooters -
    well... **** happens.

then comes a video including douglas murray,
sometimes you need a pompous english
*** to speak a little -
   jaw-dropping moments of perfected
sophistry -
         which the english are only capable
of, which they invoked by inventing
the american / australian accents -
covert mechanisms -
   don't invite diacritical distinctions
(which, by the way, pivot on the chinese
having not letters, but syllables -
hence the mongols in crimea,
   hence the mongols tickling cracow,
as the myth of the trumpeter goes
in the hejnał mariacki - heynow -
   st. mary's trumpet call) -
shim shiminy shiminy shim shoom
         ask for favours of off a broom...
   tipsy turvy -
        and what do you call a sikh on a construction
site? sinjit you 'av a brick on yir turban;
never feels right, him with a turban,
me with a hardhat, i'm guessing he's
praying that if a brick falls,
     it will bounce right off the cushion.

there was something else...
ah! the other type of intellectual, the quirky one,
i.e. david graeter talking about
money, and how adam smith was wrong
in speculation, and how you don't
find the most primitive societies engaging
in 1 x cow = 40 x chicken...
    i still don't understand why there is
haggling in marrakech bazaars -
    or how 1 x cow ≠ 40 x chicken
  but 40 x chicken + a wife for my son...
intellectual pomp vs. intellectual quirk -
can't decide -
         and money is a fascinating concept,
nietzsche was nearing the prospect,
but the much anticipated "transvaluation
of all values": well... to be honest?
   that's just a one word book: money...
but here comes the biblical fiasco -
          oculus namque oculus -
  auge für ein auge -
        simply, eye for an eye -
which bewilders me, given usury -
     interest rates, the supposed "pricelessness"
of certain artworks...
        it's way past jurisprudence -
    that meaning has morphed into
a banality, nay, an abomination of economic
          the phrase no longer applies so much
to a jurisprudence regard of affairs -
   the term has become more and more
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
frail people don't write frail verse,
not these bastions
  of ideal love, always with them,
this ideal love...
      my love is such and such...
my love is so and so...
          frail people don't write frail verse,
or rather, rigid, schoolyard
              rubrics of techniques
and the rest of the gob'*****
                  frail people don't write
frail verse...
     I see them already...
with frail people
            there are only two standards:
1. write in cipher...
2. write with honesty...
                   sometimes 1.,
mostly 2.,
       its Saturday an all I have
is a bottle of ***** and a candle for
company... somehow I feel...
   sine pathos: apathy...
   warm gut and less Herbert Herbert
         unnerving the unpolished
by a man's touch milk bones and
pristine thighs in spring's attire...
       nothing of the mandible whorish...
sooner my eye than a sugar daddy
               by 2. I mean...
not a scratch of autobiographical
sketching, everything church-going
Sunday best, pristine... ideal...
like flowers in a garden not, plucked,
nor teased by heavy rain,
or scorthed by a hunchback sun
in June's noon...
            frail people don't
write frail verse,
            plenty for the mob to speak
of frail, namely in cliché
of crocodile tears...
            but frail people
never write frail verse...
         in cipher or in nudism...
    in cipher or in honesty...
   I never thought I'd find
a substitute for mead...
funnily enough I have...
    a beer from the jabłonowo
      the axis:
a. piwo na miodzie gryczanym
b. beer on buckwheat honey
c. bier auf buchweizenhonig...

— The End —