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thatdreadedpoet Jul 2013
on july 13th, 2013: George Zimmerman
a florida native with a history of violence
was found not guilty for the ****** of unarmed 17 year old African American boy Trayvon Martin claiming self defense

on may 8th, 2012 African American, Marissa Alexander:
a florida native with no history of violence
was sentenced to 20 years in prison for discharging a warning shot out of self defense from the wrath of her abusive ex- husband

marissa,
i often wonder how you felt on july 13th when you heard the Trayvon Martin verdict
did you feel the heaviness of invisible shackles weighing your hands and feet down like you had stepped into the 1600s?
did you feel a surge of anger burn through your throat like i did for you?

did you ask yourself if you should’ve continued letting your husband play picasso on you?
Letting your body be his work of art as he splattered blotches of black and blue making a tie-dyed canvas out of you?
because the jury treated the bruises you wore as if they were the plague
saying beware of a black woman who protects herself
it takes 20 years of solitary confinement to cure her of this disease

marissa,
are you afraid of the skin of bullseyes your two children were born into
knowing that society will use them for target practice every day like they did for you?

can you not sleep at night out of fear anytime your child pulls a hood over his head
that he is marking himself as sacrifical lambs to our legal system?

did you tell your mother the next day to burn your babies black hoodies
because on July 13th it was made known
being black and wearing a hood means danger
that being black and wearing a hood means you have a hunger for ******
that being black and wearing a hood means you have cosigned to a persecution?
and yet…we all seem to forget the ones in white that fit the same description

marissa,
i hope you’re starting to see America has OCD
wanting to color within the same lines, with the same two colors
segregating black and white
neglecting to realize that blood and blood shed never bleed out in the same two colors
just look at the crime scenes of Trayvon Martin and your ex-husband

marissa,
from now on when you bite your tongue while eating
don’t spit the blood out
leave it, let it settle, then swallow
and let it be a reminder of all the trayvon martins, all the emmett tills, all the james birds, and all the little black boys who died for standing their ground like you tried to

marissa,
i know you feel like god abadoned you
as if he stabbed you into the back and sent you on a suicide mission
but please
know you are my symbol of hope
you are my hero
the woman i wish to emulate and be
you are the one i pray for at sunday night dinners while holding the one hand of my black mother and the other hand of my white father
hoping one day america can sing free at last and actually mean that
hoping one day america can be blended and still be considered alright
hoping america will stop painting pictures in only black and white
allyson Aug 2016
the seasons have changed
we are back in touch and its like last summer all over again
the electricity
the euphoria
we are at the base of the tree that watched you grow last year
you are smoking your first cigarette and crying
we are swimming in the river, taking polaroid photos of each other in a thunderstorm
we are at our favorite coffee shop, despite the fact that you don't even like coffee
but
there is still an ocean between us
and now i have different things i am remembering
she is in your bed, sleeping in your arms
she is posting pictures of you kissing in the park and i am crying so hard that i go to the bathroom because i think i might throw up
you are flirting with her at a bar while i am boarding the plane to come see you
you are lying and compromising the times we had together just so she feels comfortable
and now
you tell me you love me even though you abadoned every single one of our memories
you are choosing her over me
again
and it is breaking my heart every single time that i inhale
although im no longer sorry about the front bottoms
i am sorry that i told you that i needed you
and you still picked her because it was more convenient
i am sorry you are realizing now that maybe you need me too
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
keep me in this prison: to recount the spinning
labyrinth of thought before falling
to sleep only 14 hours ago...
                      and having done so:
dreaming up the most uncomfortably real dreams -
not that detailing them would be worth
anything...

   begging myself: remember the words
prior to sleep: write them down: you fool!
the "other" man is speaking - rising from the depths:
the child "abadoned": to curate this tongue
has risen from the depths by chance
of you favouring to enter them in turn...

a protest concerning kenneth rexroth:
but sir... what's there to boast about?
    aren't you reading Proust as a translation?

keep me in this prison... as of today...
a few chapters from the pickwick papers:
yes... i do kind Dickens much easier on the eye:
and most certainly much more peacock-strutting
than Shakespeare...
            perhaps with the exception of Macbeth:
as ever... exceptions can and sometimes
must be made...
                      however: minor...

and in between chapters... well...
                         a swedish ***** and some tonic
and lime...
            and then the windowsill...
perched on a folded leg...
       smoking a cigarette... continuing
to sip the thrill zapping... crisp and cutting...
      warm snow...
                       and the song...
             qui nous demaine:

                  trois fleurs d’amour i trouvai
                  en la bonne estraine
                  voici le mai, le joli mois de mai
                  qui nous demaine...

in the rendition of corvus corax...

yet another moon-less night...
         such nights: where it almost feeds to be inclined
to conjure up some nearby nomad with
a robe attired with stars...
         a silver globus of glistening
romance and death...

                  such nights when the moon
doesn't appear...
            and frankly... the clouds have settled
for keeping the man in the ***** of earth:
never to aspire toward galileo and copernicus ltd.
in protest! for astronomy!

yes... between reading the pickwick papers...
and listening to some music:
never the two at the same time...
a parting of the seas...
the art of reading: in the sea of silence...
where you can fiddle with...
    a whisper from the buzzing aeon bound
to minutes: the sound of an electric demon
in a lightbulb...

and of course beyond this sea of silence:
a sea of sighs and yawns...
a flipping of a page: like a crease in time -
or a passing whale-shaped-tsunami
of sound...          to then the music...

as death would have it: beside the music...
perhaps once upon a time...
but i do not believe it:
a pen on paper - a hunched crow left scratching
with its claws...
while a fire **** between such
imaginary creatures took place in a candleflame...
but no music...
perhaps in the 20th century:
the radio... and the type-writer: machine-gun...
the radio static would have aided
the mechanisation of the type-type-typo!
scratch-rip! again!

21st century antics?
   pristine quality, earphones...
all the better to not hear the clicking sound
of a lineage of ten little hammers on a keyboard...
perhaps plucking oysters from the depths...
or for that matter pearls...
or perhaps searching for delicate mushrooms
and pulling them by the stump...
still the umbrella royalty still: that sucker's bribe
of pride...

of note: the old tongue wanted an audience...
concerning? drinking... and other... habits...
*****: most certainly... with the lime and tonic...
in "rationed" doses... and a good sleeping
hygiene... i must call it a sleeping hygiene...
at most 12am to bed... and at least 8am the rise...
the drinking:
one day upon a sleeping lake...
another day upon a raving lunatic of a sea!
a time for drinking: a time for thrist...
a time for living and a time for dying...

i tried to imagine myself in one of those a.a.
meetings... self-lacerating myself:
in that secular ugliness: without a monk's tunic
or: tools for: penitence...
after ten weeks or so: clap clap all round applause!
i bet...
       the dry stretch: applause applause:
lady gaga go-go! to live for applause...
b'ah! to ******* with that sort of attitude...
and this is where the old tongue spoke(:)

o piciu?! wersja: jak, pić?!
chcem tego psa na smyczy niż tą smycz: samą!
bez tego psa! ten "niby"
wzamian z tym marno-nerwowym
   człowiekiem! tą śpiącą pijawką!
suma sumarum?
   wole tego psa na smyczy - niż tą smycz
bez psa!
lepiej ja z tym psem na smyczy:
   niz ten czlowiek ze swą śpiącą pijawką!


tr.
     on drinking?! version: how to, drink?!
i want this dog on a leash than this leash:
on its own! without this dog!
                  that "so-called" alternative
with this feebly-nervous human!
                                    that sleeping leech!
<>
i rather this dog on a leash - than this
leash without a dog!
better i with this dog on a leash:
than this human with his sleeping leech!

it's not some eternal wisdom...
but...                                 it's a good enough start...
and yes... please... this prison...
every... single... day, and, night....
forever...
i can become the observant spy mushroom:
the hitchhiker in 1960s psychadelia
mingling with darwinism...
the mushroom that hijacked the ape...
etc.

                  it's a pretty simple list...
a dickens... a ***** and tonic and lime...
a windowsill... a cigarette...
   some... folkish song... i'd much prefer
the lyrics to the sung in anything but english...
french, latin... german... norwegian...
but please... not italian... i'll settle for greek...

if asked: why didn't you marry...
good question...
                why didn't i marry?
                        perhaps this... or perhaps...
i much prefered the 1 hour periods
of entertaining the company of prostitutes
in a brothel?
               honest transactions: stealing kisses...
the mainstream already laid the generic
framework: jack the ripper sort...

                      well: from judas to jesus
to me to the... "lowest denominator"...
                                            or so "they" say...
since if there was anything to be celebrated
at easter... outside of a homogenous catholic
nationhood... in england...
the lair of the huguenots...
         well... i teased reading kabbalah...
i teased reading the gnostic texts and i really did go
mad about the nag hammadi library...
after a while though:
can i change the direction of the Vistula
by putting a stick in the middle of it?
i certainly: ha ha! river... not the sea:
what can you do? turn the time and the flow?

anyway... catholicism...
                the usual suspect rubric check-list...
baptised? had i any say in it?
first communion? did i have any say in it
or would you rather ask whether
i lied when taking my first confession?
a first confession is a precursor to a first communion...
or... i don't remember...
i played the xylophone at the st. augustine's
primary school nativity play:
yeah... and drinking under-age...
crux of the matter: if we're all about peacocking
and comparing all the little richards
via the 3rd's **** or whatever...
confirmation?                      yeah...
          ­           so much for a church wedding...

all that... and i have to come back...
sensibly... catholic intellectualism or sorts...
bribe me and i might take it seriously...
love me and i might even throw in some fiasco
of apologetics... but then i'd be like
a monkey at a sushi bar: eat it? fling it?!
the only sensible consolidation of
a celebration of easter...

    the winter has been crucified...
                 and today was the first day i could
pick up a scent of spring...
in the rain... it trickled with...
earth... from far away... dry sand... mingling
with the water... the wind must have
picked up the sand from sahara and a dollop
of the evaporating mediterranean...
flung it to these isles...

                       yes: origins in catholicism...
which always more fun to break away from...
"apostate": notably watching apostate intellectual
jews and their spezial brand of atheism...
since: i mean... trust a catholic convert to
judaism? trust a *** reading into gnosticism?
or trust a muslim at all?
                         basic questions of: a priest,
a rabbi...                        a druid walk into a bar...
sort of jokes...
           there a litany of them...
a whole 'ymn book o' 'em!
                       sam's the weller! see the son?
moi noi'ver!

         but back and forth back and forth
within and without catholicism...
                                it's not as fun... black-clad
sober, serious, surplus of secularism...
                         all that: agitation from... what the persians
rebelled against... when finally the islamic
schism came so early...
and the ****'ites and... the persians like
the good choir boys of catholicism...
     one eye is said to be reserved for reading...
one eye is said to be reserved for admiring...
           it's hard to admire a text...
                          when it's even harder to read
into a sculpture!

oh yes... i like this prison... very much...
                                             where, is, my, mind?!
Taylor Marion Jul 2014
A steady post lingers in the distance, reading "Allied Road." It's been abadoned for quite sometime now and the ruins are filled of relics. Dust.
We burned it down together, dont you remember?
With our propane tongues and Zippos the size of patches used to cover one eye.
Covering one eye, as we always did. You know it's true.

Sometimes when I'm alone with my thoughts of being alone without you, I take a barefoot stroll there.
This may sound abstruse, but letting my toes get lost in the ash reminds me of warm sand widow's-peaking an ocean shore.
Golden.
Wavy.
Blue.
That picture in my head alone reminds me of you.

It's much cloudier there. Dimmed. Gloom, almost as if the sun is too scared to go near it or the sky is relflecting the ground.
Either way, I try to keep my eyes closed as often as possible and let my imagination take control. Partly because the embers blow into and bug my eyes, but mostly because I simply want to.
Kayla Insyira Jan 2014
Another words came out from the mouth of yours,
the words that made me feel wanted,
utterly special,
eternal comfort.

But the sudden overthink took me down,
it was full of what if,
it was full of paranoia,
it was full of negatives

Like an abadoned roller coaster it made me happy for a while,
but then it kills me instant.
A short term of happiness,
came out from a sentence full of sweet words,

But I remind myself,
what the past had taught me,
they've said what you said and eventually lies.

Are you one of them?
one of them who lies.
alice Jun 2014
pay no attention for this is only an experiment.
this here is nothing built upon nothing.
 
she doesn't live here anymore,
there is no spark no flash of violence left.
we've all been abadoned by our morality;
generation Rx with no life skills and only pills
as problem sovlers.
isn't God going to show up
now?
or does he pay no attention,
we are only an experiment, only a cheap immitaion
of the real thing.
 
are you the real thing?
real like sand between your toes and
fresh squeezed orange juice.
 
reality sets in as the sky closes in
on us.
a wave of blue through the universe;
we run into ourselves yet fail to recognize.
i know you;
familiar, like heat from a sun burn.
i watch you lean in,
close your eyes; divide the invisible.
i let go your hand as you disipate,
dancing among the kelidescope galaxy,
 
forever changing.
altered.
never to be the same.
 
a generation raised on poison and fumes,
breathing in, breathing in, breathing in
the nothing that will be built upon nothing.
 
we are the experiment.
prepare for lift off;
surgery;
surrender.
 
don't shut your eyes.
this is it.
the real thing.
 
 
 
 
shhh...
don't miss it.
A small representation of the mania in my mind. Stream of consciousness from down the rabbit hole.
Puspanjali Sahu Feb 2017
My Mamma told me
to follow traditions
without a condition

But what should I do
when
tradition left
humanity abadoned?
Whether traditions need to be followed if it is associated with brutal activity?
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
to write: in order to be unable to recognise
oneself in the writing -
        impossible to stress a variation of amnesia:
it's a... it's a...

             the current philanthrope: archaic for:
philanthropist -
                   because no there's no new-outfit
for a misanthrope...
                             vaccinations blue-checkers...
a game of chess:
   with narratives...
               alliance of white: as doubt...
                     and alliance of black: as denial...
but this is not a game...
  no one plays a game to feed such
a gluttonous slouch of staging:
                       demoralization projects...

brain-sponges and some variation
of music as a wheezing...
                    or a helium gargantua:
laughter in a vacuum...

it's sometimes to think about the eyes:
unless there's a concern
for either mountain of a canyon -
it's impossible to think without the sea...
i somehow wish that i could
fathom the eyes as a simple
prelude to having two stones
in a trouser pocket...
and fiddling with them...

i want to make my tongue enshrined
in the confines of an oyster:
some forgotten gem...
   i dream about homelessness
and all of life's tragedy
                of: beside a prison...
the freedom to roam...
        but i somehow stumble...
if only the determination
              of a classical lore akin to
Sisyphus...
              
                    it's always impossible
to borrow something from
the Greeks...
           then again:
who were the Greeks at the fall
of Contantinople...
             breaking bones to fiddle
with the buckle of Islam...
            it's almost tickling the suspense
lying in wait...

a marlboro cigarette is unlike
a camel cigarette...
              i say they add something
to the puff...
        happy to have been freed from
the nicotine hangover...
but it somehow aids these scribbles...
it's not much...
    it's not madame bovary or
anna karenina...

                                time is playing catch-up
and i... hope for a seclusion
of assets...
     i mostly lie before
a sleep pattern completely petrified...
not that i rarely conjure
ushers of dream...
                   but that...
            it's always the same impossibity
of being a son of a father...
or some other monstrosity
of time: noted... when abiding
with a grandfather...

if i could question the ownership
of my ears...
if i could replace my eyes
with either two stones in my pocket
fiddled with like a pair of dice...
or shelter in the "myopia"
of: one eye for the canyon...
the other for the mountain...

  how is it that i am so at loss...
where is a pick-me-up of ambition...
i am without ambition...
in that: should i enjoy ambition
and make myself a prospect
of a career in politics...
in that old sequence of...
people coming together!

      i as a we! are not! corrupt!
it's so impossible to attempt to live
a life of an honest man...
then again... before such a question
is posed: one must...
turn the fudge... bother the barley...
grind the bits to a flour...
if i were given a compass
and asked to be placed
on the spectrum of:
counter the philosopher's stone:
money... what would i do...
if a servitude of implosive meaning
were ascribed to a sudden
revision... if name and title should
be engraved on... peanuts...
and we were all... "suddenly" elephants
behind the "riddle"...

   it's not merely impossible:
it's just plain stupid...
  if i had one ear as a cave...
and the other as a savannah...
for sure: one to feed the concern for echo...
otherwise the derelict disguise
of a splendour of lingo...

        this... is an abadoned house...
feel free to roam in it beside...
i will have left it once i have complete
the doodle...
    it's not much because:
it's not rhyme-friendly...
                 but thanks to the h'american
school... it's doesn't matter
whether poetry is an art of
the scalpel or demands for pedagogy's
regurgitation...
whether h'america is sleeping
or whether russia is reading...

           there's that currency of the narrative:
an expediEncy...
     i'd write an A into that "affair" if i was
to be all too honest...
              it's not like english
allocates orthographic pressures
of shame... should a transgression
be posed...
                   the old mechanical baron arm
of carrot forward! stick! is precise in...
what's to be allocated!

it's impossible to drink these days:
since the moral hangover...
it's impossible to smoke a cigarette...
since the same impossible hangover...
it's not even a question
of who's contesting a replica of 100 years
sober samuel...
     it's impossible to make eternal
demands of life with a posthumous p.s.:

for lack of a better word...
of the concern for what's to be ate...
the eyes pleasure...
the ears are... ears...
cartilege: an impromptu revision...
but the tongue oh so ******* critical...
it's almost necessary to learn
a second language in order to justify
being a foor critic...

food critic? this is what happens when...
the *** drive of humans is over-stated...
bogus work... and the unemployed masturbators...
the same spectrum...
a bogus job title at one end...
an unemployed masturbator at the other...

        the grass grows plenty for the rabbits...
if the desire for banana dries up...
for the baboons...
  and there's no will to straighten those
parades... then there's... "platanitos"... etc.
                   but there's a need for a plethora:
counter the forests with paper...
        should i desire more priests?!
       it's a fear... that i will absolve myself
from retaining the last remains
of authenticity -
        for the filled goblet made by
a spew of lies...
        it's such an impossible...
  "nuance"...      "bereaving"...
                 ­                      hyphen antics...
          a *******!           compromise!
   like Noah... building his project was...
all about... the made collective individuals...
i attempt working for a lie...
i die at the attempt of working...
unless of course...
             the mind of man is so...
intricate and spectacular to be without
fault...
as to the genuine promise from afar in time...

it's a terrible affair to have
homelessness as a fear... first, highest...
to then watch videos of people
going through the tides
and somehow stomaching the lacklustre
adventure...

- so to write something that
can't be paraded - that it has to gravitate
towarding a biding personal -
to heave the half-breath
of tendering sycophancy & scrutiny...
for there to be a...
whisper of rome...
come the advent of the caesars...

what an old ******* of hope...
             it's not near impossible...
when confined to...
   the cul de sac of gauging out of eyes
and rat inclined impromptus...

the current philan-thropist
         is so bothersome like a c.c.t.v.
installation that the misanthrope is a complete
bonkers jazz *** las vegas inversion
perfect!
         via / in between the solipsist:
self-conscious autist
    and the whoever takes your fancy...
   i'm making myself suspect
of what's being readied as: "digestable"...
it's not impossible...
it's just... cow-towing i.e. depressing...
     who would have thought
that a simple trick could...
fool... magnus primo maribus -
         the first great adventurer...
the shackled chimpanzee to a 'shroom...
or the 'shroom: a fungus riddle
of the primate seeing UV and ultra-red...
the first prized cinema of purple
with fluorescence: liquid light...
                                         lux liquidum...
the demands for phosphrescnce revisionism?

thus to be schooled: "schooled" without
a slightnest idea of how to deal with
a psychopasth - that one ordeal of being robbed
with the intention of the purely materialised
mechanisation of life:
the depth of the slit into soulness...

a hybrid of nothing and ego...
to borrow a figment of the imagination:
the gravity toward an engineeer
of a longboat that's
about as useful as a piece of paper...
perhaps the assurance of a kite...
which implies the wind...
"sloth" beside an attempt at water...
if the sea were a river...
and the tide were the narrative...
but the lacklustre of heaving "nuance"...

  we weren't schooled to be carpenters...
as we weren't...
to enjoy the ******* and a narrative
of "leisure"...
       before the gnat crescendo...
like some altar for the breaking of the bones
of a horse heaving
a sought at sigh...

                 could i ask the priest crow
for more? when addressing him to quest a q.
of a magpie or a birch tree?
could i heave a stomach so riddled
woth indigestion...
                to forever quest for
a mountain's zenith...
having to begin with a pyramid's nadir...
this sand... this time...
this impossible demand for...

a lasting: a debilitating concept of hope...
that's beyond crying...
a concept: but at best...
a concern for a dog...
then again... a dog: a leash, a muzzle...
the perfect cat the "homeowner"...
the gap-year striptease crescendo!

i want to fear this avenue of
life's worded tolls...
because...
there's a respect for them...
unlike... like there's a celebration
of Diogenes... if all the homeless
were to serve a fate
of this sour-**** of a gritting over...
               what am i: as question:
possibly having to write?
if all the homeless people
were a Diogenes of Sinope...
                
  i was in Athens once...
armed with a glass of absyinthe...
some yogoslav toll-busters...
a freak-magnet of a striptease bar
with myself ******* my trousers...
finding to a bind
of a way-back...
              hey presto!
            it's not a fear...
it's an anticipation...
               a manhunter prodigy affair...
to have to have done
so little of the world attested
concept of bad: an east germany concensus...
to be in a prison
of homelessness: nuance...
the dream of the broke...
the baron of the breaking...

best equipped: with a car and a gun...
but "somehow"...
no new old: or old new h'america...
i still somehow want
to yoddle my load of unbelievable
switzerland that has to
grieve my load worth
of iowa!
         my burried the unforgotten
list of "good luck" few...

the vanity project: prior to not...
anticipating the homelessness...
it's such a judas low duo due...
                   i want as hope: and a death..
it's not but there's the braving
the tide of vanity:
the better-sit-my-*****-sit-lem'oh-bedding...
it's a continent's worth
of a lingo... it's not like...
england cruise... croatia riddle...
******* dim-wits!
           new b'est h'america!
toll the brittle old jonah cull hard-on-an-adams...

my heiving little...
               my loitering "lost" of
                     the last impossible....
that impossible looting custard
pie of heart...
                   the happiness
  of the neared impossible heart...
this bypassing this cat fickle...
my best kept nuanced smile &
faking it...

  the shoe the fiddle... the mozart
the beard the hybrid
bypass the last
vanity of a fed...
             it's my best breast
fretted the knuckle,
and a bone...
          and a lost carpenter's
*****...
        witch and no nordic
leisure of an itching...
                   because!
the ******* guise of basic!
the broken tree
with a basic of breaking of bones...
gravity of the "loitering"...
there's always the
loitering play of rambo...
     johnny-yo-yo..
            iowa: new croatia!

  lost towing the burning tire!
because! i own's us a bus!
grieving the legitimate
    and what's otherwise...
the crease...
and death is a sudden..
               my scuttle bumble:
breaking the bee.
Hadrian Veska Jun 2018
Without the material
The spiritual can't be known
Without the spiritual
The material has no meaning

This is why so many are lost
And without meaning
They have abadoned the dichotomy
Of the two worlds

And have chosen only one
In all things it leads them
To the ancient truths of the spiritual
Yet to follow would be to admit defeat

So they continue to wallow
In self hatred and meaningless
All because of their pride
Or their ignorance
Styles 12 Apr 2017
Eat pavement.
drift, no home,
he squints into smoggy sun,
remembers when laughter
shined on this abadoned corner
of Litter and Drugs-

where his climbing prayers
brave up a sunlit corridor asking for help, knowing how forgiveness
drives him in, pressed, open,
pushed out, vulnerable, no armour
his eyes stung back to home-
  
wondering if this drive-by-night city
will remember God's undying love?

Do they know He remembers every face as apart of his own?
Where is it that we were together? Who were you that I lived with? The brother. The friend. Darkness, light. Strife and love. Are they the workings of one mind? The features of the same face? Oh, my soul. Let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes. Look out at the things you made. All things shining.

-Thin Red Line
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2018
i've been trying to purge myself from
having read a novel:
      at almost 1000 pages -
it's hard not to:
                 i was told: easier to watch
the movie-adaptation...
        but i'm reading a different book now
and i'm stuttering...
  i have to claim the fallacy
of philosophical literature as being riddled
with the competition of fictional
prose: i keep "stuttering" -
i.e. rereading what is obliviously
there to either absorb or accept -
           not in or with a high-mindedness
i write the following words:
i abhor a need to strutter reading
a work of philosophy...
               it's already painful encompassing
a paragraph, let alone rereading
        a single sentence -
         i assure you: you will not recite
a work of such kind with a belief that
doesn't allow me to question, whether you
are, or that you aren't an: actor.
             oh, sure - we write about what
we read, but there are so many out there who
write about: what they never read...
an uncomfortable word for me,
notably due to the past participle red -
   and to do so in the moment: reed...
         some sort of glitch in the grapheme
æ - ash - something truly gravitates a "soul"
to agitate a body into writing this...
for all the perfections of the modern world
there is a verbal anomaly...
       as pedant i am prone to spot a bulging
crevice... and the shrinking dreihundret...
    i know i will visit my grandfather's
house only once...
      as told to throw the rose into
the fresh burial ground of my great-grandmother
i said: NEIN...
  and later took it home,
put it under a candle inspection,
and gently burned the red into purple,
to later gnash and grind my teeth's
worth of chipping one of them,
just after the wake, sitting alone in a kitchen,
drinking *****...
               i have no germanic affiliation
but it pains me to see them this way,
this medieval masochistic...
                   so i sometimes utter
a few words in german: for no reason
and for no concern for posterity -
  no Berliner can assign me a lineage...
     prior to the chipping of the tooth
there was the laughter on the bus
while the priest did his: evading the status
of a common women who died -
   in the meantime, just recently i solved
what first appeared an unspectacular
"plagiarism" of a ***- puzzle...
  hyphen? forgot the spelling of the rest...
   and in the two number blocks:
  alternatively odd / even numbers, i.e.

3 | 4  1 | 5  6 | 2
2  1 | 6  3 | 4  5
4 | 6  5 | 2  3 | 1
5  2 | 3  4 | 1  6
1 | 3  2 | 6  5 | 4
6  5 | 4  1 | 2  3

just like the sudoku - although alternatively
even / odd in the brackets...
   i attempted it with a sense of failure:
there are three isolated instances:

3 |                       | 2
...................................
4 |                        | 1
...................................
1|                         | 4
..................................

     by comparison sudoku was easy...

+++ 3, 3, 3
++ 3, 3, 0
+ 3, 0, 0
- 3
                      or something like that:

plus the        | via _
                                             x x x
                                             x x x
                                             x x x...

and how many times i wished to be
H'eh-sooz from Barcelona -
        too many to count the number of springs
i already count to: 31...
     well then...
              
    does the following allow me manliness
or armour?

              ****'s a bit wonky...
   funky wonky... but still: dual-stirrup on
that eight legged donkey!
   apparently drinking doesn't allow you to:
"properly" count...
                        
           for if i had an apple i could
press ******* a key and not let go and
it wouldn't be a ctrl c cntrl p scenario
having to copy "eccentric" markings added
onto letters from the HTTP beast...

name an instance?

                 súdòkū -

well no, if i'm being deviant why establish
the study of orthography?

           yes, the -niece word can be contained
with a samurai blade sharpness
    mono-syllable...
            hai...
                      but slow it down?
this is what slow motion looks like...
slow motion in terms of applying
diacritical marks...
     you can almost be thankful that
the english-speaking world has
to only contend with:

                    a. punctuation marks
                    b. hyphenated words
                    as reconstruction of
                        a germanic genesis -
                       missing in chemistry...
                  
hydrochrloric acid is best condensed
and not left as shrapnel...

          -             -      so best to huddle
and count the space between your fingers
when waving like a... ******* idiot.

but i am still going to "stutter" when
reading a philosophy book -
    which is a BIG X (a ******* twist
of +) -
                 plus...
            because i've heard of women who
have reread entire books...
    well... **** two birds with one stone...
read a philosophy book:
     you'll be reading it twice in a single
sitting...
             no point rereading if you're
already rereading it already -
i.e. making cogito scriptums -
   mental notes...
                    
   and then when you get a chance
to hound a blank echo tunic worth of
a page? hell becomes: democratic -
       and each has his own: say...

        why wouldn't want to play around
with punctuation marks in a language
that has no diacritical precedence as bound
to Latin - with the only insinuation
being the lost artefact of carving graphemes?

     already pointed out:
    cheap and short -
   spot the graphemes!
             because, sure as ****,
     there's a difference in cattle heap
       and summer hornets...
                
to imagine: i've learned a language in order
to unlearn it, or better still: relearn it,
   and become a pedantic aesthetician...
  
wel... but if the germans can make S S
     into a ß - ah... the noun game -
   it's a digraph and not a grapheme because
the two letters are twins worth
merging and
not siamese akin to... worth cutting apart:
             is that not just a B, but also
nuanced as merely Zet?via
                      gro-z-es - vizier?
        where is that H to catch the O
   prior to anticipating the hyphen?
      back with god...
              i have to conceed a remark though:
something really made the jews smart
if what smart meant was: hiding vowels,
or rather making vowels into
diacritical marks akin...
       which i can't say the same about arabs...
  lucky the oil's there...
  
     this riddle will exhaust me
and i will never write a decent effort to
satisfy me...
     thus i rather leave it at that:
having exhausted, rather than abadoned
  this palace of a former blank space...
there are bound to be squatters ready
to inherit a peel of an orange for zest
of an orange i just ate.

   but i still manged to drink alone:
under the banner of to-ast!
    and that really is the distinguishable
desire to apply diacritical marks
when to and too are indistinguishable
    when otherwise: pool and pol(l)
are apparent -
         something is honestly wriggling
in english trying to get out...
maybe a death of a certain bilingualism.
grey Oct 2018
Gone away, Deep into the forest.
With the mist surrounding my vision.
Blurry,
I can't see but I know,
Theres a man looking at me.
Knocked out.
I wake up,
Abadoned house.
Its dusty.
I get up.
The wood below my feet
It creeks.
I walk.
I walk till I see that man.
Hes sitting on a couch
With blood on his hand.
Scared,
I run for my life.
Footsteps,
Footsteps behind me.
They feel as if they are coming,
Coming in every direction.
I look behind me.
He has a knife.
I  think.
I shouldn't have gone away,
So far away.
From home.
Trip on a stick.
Fall on my face.
Knife to my head.
Dead.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
i cant's actually feel
my 4th knuckle  right on
my  orour right arms....
since in bulged...
        with me using against
a one punch
  crescendo on a
brick wall...
           that "should
have been your face...
       i almost feel
abadoned...
            being kept intact
with a ref. to a family...
there comes a grit,
and a believability...
  to ensure is kept:
                 sacrilegious....
like an obedience
to keep
  "prayer":
                   in nomine patris
              et filii et spiritus sancti...
and whatever your
little ******* asked "otherwise":
we sure as ****,
will, gauge your eyes out@;

death and justice is not,
a t.v. affair...
                   we do...
and what we do...
       is necessary...
             regarding what needs...
to be...
                     done....

savvy?

ever punch a brick-wall
so hard you felt your fourth
knuckle to a soft-pouch liver
synonym?

    course you 'aven't...
ya 'ucking ginger misfit "queer",
y'ah 'acking ginger brixton *****!
     queen calls it
a ******* moustache
   re-appropriation
             of the 19th / 18 century...
tells me:
    i just, i just might
play off fitting with
the suburbans...

            there's a *******
collective of "them"
involved?!
                  sign me up! queer sister!

can i play up
being a half decent
                  baker of goods?
oyu know...
         with a knuckle missing
cos of numbing via
punching a wall...
    sort of tailor,
i.e.       a: F'UCKING CHEF
AT YOUR LOCAL ROUNDABOUT
OUTLET... YES CHEF
HEIRARCHY *******?!
YES CHEF?!
              coooooooooooo
    -k minus the "-ing"(?)....
                      cook...
             well i mind to mind the intellect
of having to mind frying croissants...
    i love the motto
though:
                         i die...
         you die...
     i could do the "mundane"
jobs...
point beig:
                  why would i have
       to go to university for them?
         if there's an "alternative" univerese
for the explanation...
   why aren't you dead?
on the basis of a criminal focus
with, exchange, focusing on, "you"?
                  so why is there no cain-impetus
to "mind" "you", "minding", "me".  
come to think of it...
a bit of a waste of propagada
liastening to: send your kids to university
send your kids to university....
then again...
i die... i yawn...
               i suppose there's another day.
Hello Daisies Dec 2018
Swing sweet child
Glisten in the sun
Laughter echoes
Darkness glooms

Swing faster child
Clouds form above
Ominous air releases
Rain strikes down

Hold tight sweetie
Childrens tears drop
Abadoned swings stop
Dirt soars over

Swing higher darling
Worried mothers scream
Chills pierce skin
Footprints fast away

Never stop
Ok I'll go get some rest now and try to calm down my mind
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
i see no point of sisyphus and prayer: for if there be a "meaningless" in both work, and prayer: why execute the former and have to excuse the latter? i don't believe in a priest-caste... that's neither capitalist nor communist... i don't get why working has to be infringed with praying... no prayer: because prayer is but a wish: every manifested itself into becoming a carpenter that crafted a chair to sit on: god: kneel... you don't need a chair but a desire to kneel... that most certainly undermines a work ethic: given that sisyphus wasn't toiled with perpetual praying: but rather through perpetuated toils of an abstract of a menial task; the gods replies: better that than feeding our vanity (non-existence)... because it isn't so?

i've lived among animals,
i have lived among men,
   and i aspired to conjure gods...
the gods gave but one
meaning: the meaningless toil
"worth" a work, namely
the toils of *sisyphus
:
   and i was undemanding
while there was a repetitive
act invoked: for, being a man:
i could perfect it...
   but then i returned to man
and found him in
lunatic: gesticulation...
  and i thought:
why pray: when you can't
perfect the practice
to no if any avail to guard
from evil?!
              what is work, then?
better be toiled with chore
among the gods,
than to chore with praying
before them...
  excused by them to
a mere kneel.
yet how perfect now:
the all encompassing majesty...
and the sacrament
of satan in Milton's terms:
far from the fruit:
                      bear the lie.
there is but one moral rule:
tell the truth;
   of course the golden rule of:
do unto others as you wish
to be done unto you...
       hence, i: recluse...
   i have abadoned crafting
a practice from this suggestion...
i have invested in
  abandoning said affairs
mediating the abandoning
in the superficial medium that
bypasses traditional power
structures of what would
aventually become
the publishers... rebel: yo-lo'h.
  before i get into a tirade:
i best end it there.

— The End —