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1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
so what was i "supposed"
to find at the end
of a bottle...
       not a hint of chocolate?
i was supposed
to find a chcolate bar...
and not
a ******* submarine
at its nadir?!
                           please...
i want a way past
the usual suspects of
a curry sauce...
i.e. cardamon, cinnamon,
cumin, coriander...

    i'm not joking...
  at the end of a grouse...
there's some chocolate...
and not
a ******* submarine?!
  so what the hell am
i drinking?
   ****-joy USA republicanism
says...
my postage stamp
reads IG1
and not RM1...

                   sprinting
  look!
                look!
an ostrich is making a runner!
away from providing
the dozen-one
      ratio of an omelette...

could have had the stories
of an american marine,
instead,
learned some chemistry...
best i could ever accomplish?
work in a supermarket...
      so i thought...
but the pyramids
were already allocated!
you could see them rise...
high, high.
until overshadowing
the clamour of
            political maggot speak...

no one tries to state...
because bell's whiskey
is trying to be too much
of laphroaig...
the grouse is lost to
the belgian chocolatiers,
hidden...
                    
       who the hell thought
of mingling choc. with whisk.?
        john kim /
the angry therapist...
   interviewer?
                helena de bertodano...
his father, he says,
    was an alcoholic,
'he would come home and
vent on the family. he never
told me i was good.'
      i'm an alcoholic...
   i'm sooner bound to talk
to my shadow than
a person...
as my ex-girlfriend used
to say: good-for-you...
                 yeah... good for
whatever good is left
for me to heave...
        life coach...
or lkie in the american
masterchef...
a contestant,
with an occupational status
of: a professional grocer...
   i don't even know what that
is...
               be a singer,
cultivate a sing-sing
Monday at the pub
               variety of karaoke...

an alcoholic,
no immediate outlet...
scribbles...
                françois rabelais...
and a book
that contains all
the signatures
of a formidable
counter-plagiarist...
   gustave doré...
  you wish you could
copy him...
     i almost forgot...
that i was thinking of
albrecht dürer...
you can almost confuse the two...
gustave doré conta
    albrecht dürer...
itches of all of one's worth
culminating
in a crescendo
of suspect
               irritation...
how could i ever confuse
gustave doré
with albrecht dürer?
i must be assimilating
a dyslexic approach!
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,
ived and labored Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies;
Dead he is not, but departed,—for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild,
Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom
In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft,
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song,
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care,
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye
Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s regard;
But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil,
The nobility of labor,—the long pedigree of toil.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
un-damaged brains are such fertile fields
waiting to be sowed - as those with infantile
imagination are prone to dyslexic deficiencies
and given their dreams, have ensured their imaginations
be like foetal embryos - those prone to nightmares
will never be prone to Disney's wedlock being fulfilled -
dreams are imagination's thieves - and memory short-circuiting
a fake - analysis of conscious memory
is unlike analysis of unconscious memory -
albrecht dürer seemed sensible - we've become sensible,
but also too naive - our modern sensibility
extends into a belief in demons and angels
with modern pharmaceutical companies -
nothing has changed even though man is
in flux - with modern dentistry's trickery -
how can man trust man
and not feel obliged to distrust him
for reasons that provide us with travelling communes
or jeep-sees - see what lost diacritical approaches does
to the tongue entombed in optics? chiral-optics -
you can say gypsy and say jeep-see like a handshake.
god, we're paying for our original sin
with the virtuoso of animal plagiarism -
a mere peasant is also but a mere Mozart -
i too claim my right to talk easily among scaffold-men,
talk of his girlfriend and Smurfs due to height
and Gargamel - i rather among them than in
what is talked as the pop of the Smiths' vocab
of schooling and regret blues; cats demonic, dogs
saintly.
Bob B Mar 2024
Have you heard of the Angel of Augsburg?
Agnes Bernauer was her name.
Her fairy tale start had a tragic ending.
What happened to her was a horrible shame.

She lived in the early 1400s
And worked as a servant in Augsburg, where she
Met Duke Albrecht von Würtemberg
Who promised to make her his wife-to-be.

Agnes was said to have been a beauty,
With fine noble features and long golden hair.
Even her enemies praised her appearance.
Those who beheld her would all stop and stare.

Duke Ernest, who was the young duke's father,
Unfortunately, could not get behind
The thought that Albrecht would marry Agnes.
He had another young lady in mind.

Father and son both quarreled, and Albrecht
Took a major step in his life.
Defying his father's unfair demands,
He made the lovely Agnes his wife.

They moved to Straubing and lived in a castle.
Albrecht surrounded her with a court.
However, their happily-ever-after
Life--you can guess--would soon be cut short.

Duchess Agnes had known all along
That Ernest's wrath was something to fear.
He was a tiger observing its prey,
Awaiting the time to pounce to draw near.

When Albrecht was away on business,
Ernest made happen plan part one:
He had Agnes imprisoned for being
A witch who had enchanted his son.

How ruthless people can be at times!
But what was there for Agnes to do?
Nothing but wait to be tried and sentenced
As Ernest carried out plan part two.

The verdict: guilty. The sentence: drowning.
Such a cruel and heartless rebuke!
Agnes was going to be drowned in the river
In Straubing. The papers were signed by the duke.

Thrown from a bridge and into a river,
Agnes was able to drift ashore.
The hangman then held her head underwater
Until the poor woman could breathe no more.

History has demonstrated--
And if we ignored it, we'd be remiss--
How power, religion, corruption, and money
Play a strong part in cases like this.

The body of Agnes, the Angel of Augsburg,
Lies there in Straubing, where she'd lived and died.
Only a person whose heart has been hardened
Could hear how she suffered and still stay dry-eyed.

-by Bob B (3-12-24)
Salomé Albrecht Aug 2014
Awake to your heart beating
      in your stomach, in your thoughts, in your skin,
wildly
      Awake to your fingers clasping your
own chin
     As what sounds like another man
but isn't, he's you
     screams aloud words you can't make out
Awake to your chest in a cold sweat

Only then,
Awake and
tell me
about your
so called
          nightmares

- salome albrecht
Salomé Albrecht Aug 2014
Tap, tap, and tap faster now
to the beat she’d exclaim

Her fingers would dance over black and white keys
as her expression screamed passionate
She held herself up with ease, dressed in love
Poise could very well be her middle name
Patience and respect dangled, I imagined
from her tousled brown hair
Laughter to be thankful for in her piano lesson

Clap, clap, and clap faster now
to the beat she’d exclaim

- salome albrecht
For my piano teacher.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.come to think of it... a fillet of meat never implores me to think about what's about to be eaten... nor does a whole chicken implore me to think about what's about to be eaten... but whenever i see my fellow man... esp. when my fellow man is begging to not be taken seriously... i do... tend to... in the back of my mind... attempt to bypass thinking about a butchers' cut... of what... looks pristine when walking or running... parcles of the "excess" of limbs... given a dead chicken... it's all readily available... but... working from a genesis of movement toward the study of both coffin and stone; and wind? i would most certainly understand ******... but then again... not all that ******... end up eating their intentions... which makes me make phantoms of nostalgia... ****'s sake... even the sharks these days will bite: but spit our flesh out... because... well: why **** something that you will not eat? because... there's a... Hadrian's wall counter-impetus?! but it's welcoming to think about ****** as... also a bit of a hunt... i guess that's what keeps me off a streak of tartare "justice": before i start gagging and imitation regurgitation... such a foul beast from an ownership of a tongue alone... forget that shambo of the mind... no wonder... man kills man without intentions to eat him... i'd sooner eat cat-****-and-puke... then again... unless it was the brain, the heart, the liver... those ackward limbs and muscles... i could somehow imagine eating the tender bits... never those... ostrich extensions of reimagining animate agilities of a kama sutra: study.

stupendous...

   i will hold a stone in one hand
and imagine a mountain...

i will hold a glass in the other...
and imagine the sea:

not from the brain...
but from the tips of my fingers...

stupendous... quiet so...

               otherwise less impressive:
most thoroughly...

then i will hold some ice in one hand...
and some black earth in the other...

i will scrunch some paper into a ball...
rather than fold it...
   then i'll lick a knife...
            then...
          
                if there's any more "quo vadis"
sensibility to go through with...
i'll remember: ask the anaesthetician
that question: quo vadis...

as he distracts you with the jab
before... that sort of "sleep"...

            i would like to feel the texture
of thought...
        perhaps even sniff it out
into a bottle - out from my head...
this perpetual (th)ought i...

had it been only a moral quest
rather than... picking
up stray lines that otherwise made-up
a concern for narrative...

                                yes: "or" this insomnia
narrative... all these bothersome
daydreams and counter-measures...

it's not merely enough to play
out monkey-dough roles...
tongue of a serpent...
body still functioning at best
in imitation...
inconveniences of noble feats
acquired from watching widow swans
in that term: monogamy...

or in a circus of a harem of walruses...
this chimera this man...
the loan animal and his loan
words: schnitzel puppy flip flip...

        unless it's pure history of dates...
it's... a mongrel of archeology
and etymology...
           to find the oldest word...
that has been translated: diffused...

beside og, da, i, am... om, to...
         w...      z...
           w tym: in this...
          z tego: from this...

a letter that can act like a conjunction...
i: "e"... and...
         or a pronoun...

wood does not have a chemical formula...
water does: inorganic matter does...
stones do...

air does...
            oxygen by whatever %... nitrogen by
whatever %..
i studied chemistry...
but the question only comes now...

what is the chemical formula for... wood?
well... wood doesn't have a chemical formula...
truly... even i'm astounded...

even Alain de Lille looks stupified...
i know... they have a list of formulas
for... ****'s sake... even the ozone!
O₃... which is "impossible" since oxygen
is doubly-binding...

shortcuts to god... i can't call them anything
but just that...
why doesn't wood have a chemical
formula?!

i will hold a book in one hand...
and a feather in another...

    you can have a chemical formula
for... stibnite...
    orthorhombic... Sb₂S₃...
of sure... you can have that...
you can have a chemical formula for:

millerite (NiS)
  zwieselite... olivenite...
          adamine Zn2(AsO4)(OH) -
   autunite Cu(UO2)2(PO4)2 · 12H2O...
benitoite...
                  
all these formulas...
these aquariums of inorganic matter...
but still... no chemical formula for...
wood!

lignin is only part of the equation...
what can be accounted for photosynthesis:
C₅₅H₇₂O₅N₄Mg (chlorophyll)...
      
you'd think water would be more
complicated...
    
beryl?
            hollandite?
         ­ tremolite...       so that's "earth"
all covered; no?

but where's that formula for wood?

good-luck looking for that holy graille...
either the cup or the cross...
cubanite... no problem...
   benitoite...
              goethite...

               am i drinking? oh right... that's me
waking up to a reality of not being
in a boyband...

all these chemical names coming and
going...
  glass...
trinitite,
made by the trinity nuclear-weapon test...
the libyan desert glass...
volcanic obsidian glass...

otherwise glass is:
silicon dioxide +
SiO2
calcium carbonate +
CaCO3
sodium carbonate
Na2CO3

             what's the chemical formula
for wood?!
any luck with paper?
a mixture... primer: cellulose (C6H10O5)n...

approx. 50% carbon, 42% oxygen,
6% hydrogen, 1% nitrogen, and 1%
other elements
(calcium, potassium, sodium,
     magnesium, iron, and manganese)

i guess it's one of those social media
relationship statuses: "it's... complicated"...
my bad...
   cellulose... polyose... and lignin...

something spectacular was supposed to
happen: there was an avenue of pristine
love waiting: i never managed
to wait for it... in the end...
run-of-the-mill stuff...
           there was this "this"...
and there was this "that"...
     pointers in braille...
      limintless echoes of uncaressed
agonies... splendours upon the attire
table of dead-meat: quasi...
     when inspected by the more eloquent
butchers of surgery...

            but the whiskey or the *****...
flowed like... it possessed the knowledge
of... gomme syrup...
of all the detailed memories
of: these people have lived...
the alchemists:
   - zosimos of panopolis
   - ge hong
- jean baptista van helmont...
    
  why is leonardo da vinci's mona lisa
so... forced upon us?
ever look at... Perronneau's
  madame de sorquainville?

i always "mistake"... albrecht Düre
with gustave Doré...
i implore you...
don't make me buy chocolates
or flowers... it's not one of thoese
dementia riddled "misnomer" takes
on Monet and Édouard Manet

here's my quadratic:
   albrecht Düre            Claude Monet



       Édouard Manet                     gustave Doré

very much a rhombus...
besides the fact that when i do pop the cork
"pop"... and "cork"...
the libido does rampage...
and i'm imagining myself in a brothel...
and i am the brothel...
and all that's love is about the basic
need for what's easil given
to a petter dog...
down my view no alley with
a grandma and a leash to look / feel
suspect... repetition of the times...
or some sort of allure for repenting
the deeds of youth...

              ****: to hell with stochholm cyborgs
and all that anemic clues...
those autistic plots and "twists"...
        
am i to suddenly come out begging
for my democratic right?
writing as an extension of thinking...
i hardly think it's an invitation
to speak...

              less... "inclined" to counter this freedom?
esp. now?
esp. now?
       now of all times... come... let's dictate
the future together...
let's start sharpening the meat-grinder!
let's keep up with the chisel for a tooth
of the grand earthworm:
wursecker... for the bone to become marror
to become: all but the plaster-work
of pâté!

         smear that **** all over...
                    oh right... what's being "debated"?
the self-employed being given
slave status or otherwise...
those given employee stature...
to be somehow above?
in england there are 5.5 MILLION self-employed
sub-contractors...

the bus driver gets a day off...
unions and what not...
  ******* kind and fellow examples of
non-replica me...
             unions, what unions?
here's to... what?
fizzying out the expandables?
      good lock and chain and "luck"...
no one came when i was i need...
no one came but they still had to ridicule me...

i am enjoying this... whatever "this" is...
i like to think of it...
what the darwinism ideologues
    have been spewing
all along...
recycling primer...
        getting rid of a tootache...
just enough to be... the sensible
english gentleman...
but not... a weimar **** in waiting ******...
sieve it...

we'd be lost in hope...
when all hope is but a blistering
bargain...
when most of us don't have
landlord credentials...

             pokey porky pie-yo!
i like this currency of a carboot sale...
happening...
i quiet like the clearance...
the easily available sale of death...
the darwinism that darwinism
doesn't exactly "like"...

hell... shove the weakest under the bus...
under the hittite slash and draw...
i'm trying to remain bothered...
so says the drunk...

or at least... when the government says:
curfew... no more than 2
in a public space congregation...
i start thinking about how pork torsos
are hanged in a slaughterhause...
then i start to imagine...
that meat-hook... plucked in under
the chin... that excess of a bonus tooth
for where the uvula and the tonsil
should be...

   oh look... it glides! it hangs!
to be crucified is such an obscure...
such an out-of-date symbolism...
how about hanging from a meat-hook?
for piercing those n.h.s. ambulances tires?!
or coughing in the faces of old people?
how about... being impregnated
by a pike inserted in a quasi-sodomite
pristine ****... reaching the ****** of
both pelvis and coccyx...
how's that?

   n'ah... i rather like re-imagining
the curcifixion dangling on your neck...
with a meat-hook and subsequent dangling
on the treadmill of minced...
right under the chin... where the tongue
begins... and ends... to lick
and slobber that last and lost retention
of vowels in oyster juices...
    from the concrete constructs
                                of consonants...
        
a hot-dog hard-on on for...
                                     for the benefits of
sigma humanity;
   i'll try to retain remaining obscure...
****... if i don't i'll probably have to beg
for the image replication of trimmed eyebrows!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
only in england, where so few philosophical
works are actually read,
it's apparently enough to cite Locke,
the famous island isolation -
after watching a program on bipolar disorders /
manic depression and what not
started watching a rekindling of
the premier league from the years 2002 / 3...
with the years' music in the background -
great memories Wayne Rooney was still
at Everton, and David ****** had a moustache
and a ponytail standing in goal at Arsenal,
Ole "babyface" Solskjær was playing at
Manchester United - the white stripes came out
teasing a breakthrough just before
their elephant album - well, that's that,
but this programme about the manics -
you'd think that england was really accommodating
to eccentrics as once Vladimir expressed -
he's half-informed, 'hey Vlad... you have half
the picture, honest to god...'
but i want to deviate from any sort of scrutiny
on the subject - the "sane" people think
doctors are holy - what's with this notion that
some surgeons don't leave surgical equipment
in bodies, and that misdiagnosis doesn't happen?
well... so much for deviation:
does it begin with questioning your thinking
rather than questioning existence?
half-baked activists - no "change the world"
prompt? i guess you could say that -
no qualification credentials and you're just
a street-cleaner, apparently - a street-cleaner
in the sense of shuffling tripping up on
banana skins (chris rea - god's great banana skin -
https://goo.gl/3JYJYV - great song) or waltzing
on autumn leaves - suddenly there's a new
zoology department at the London zoo -
changed sphynxes on two legs rattling piggies
of savings they never made other than what they
picked up from the street - besides that -
well, you can resort to the Koran -
or at least i find a way to mediate it - back to
descartes: an example of good through doubt,
meaning i'm a quasi-believer, but not, as sartre
would claim: an unbeliever - since doubt equates
itself with good faith, sartre's doctrine teaches
bad faith... and if the opposite of bad is good,
then the opposite of doubt is denial (the un- prefix
summary when coupled to belief);
so this one manic depressive was describing
a moment of solipsism in terms of annie lennox
singing to him - well, she was, the man just
experienced a moment of solipsism, a thought
experiment in subconsciously, and he simply didn't
realise it - like i told you - so few works of
philosophy are read in england, most of these books
try to follow the route nietzsche attempted:
to write very little when others wrote a great deal...
and then what? sit on a poet's laurels and ****
and smile that all too deceptive smile of some sort
of accomplishment? that'll hardly work -
imagine thirst, and hunger, and put that into writing -
and here we have the telegraphic technique -
as suggested by the author of slaughterhouse 5 -
m. kurt vonnegut - well obviously you will not find
any comparisons - but then at Yale the professor of
"creative" writing or whatever they call it
just cited the first line of the first canto - so i ask you:
why would you want to write something as if
it's an instruction manual for a television set?
oddly enough too, the Florence school of art technique
wasn't passed on - while Albrecht Dürer kept his
a secret, unto himself - lucky man, a sad man,
but a lucky man - i actually like his selfishness.
no, they don't read philosophy in england,
and i can testify with the usual saying they have:
'he's lost touch with reality', what the hell is that?
no, i don't have the stamina for any secret society
crap - i get the comedy of life,
a comfortable positioning on the ****** laze -
limit all of life's temptations and live out
a slightly impoverished life - premonition i'd say
now, had enough money back when i was making
investments in a music & book library -
now i'm full - now my turn to give -
oh look: a bunch of gnat memory readers
easily distracted by traffic lights - we've all been
there - two years and a few books in between
it took me to read Heidegger's being and time -
TWO YEARS! and how much came in between?
sunset upon glee of the sea - Ezra's
broken token to the conjunctions
        and
                and
                        and and and and
i don't mind - man lived to be poetry's prefect of
the 20th century - see, a whole group of them, not a solitary
macaroon fetishist that Proust was -
and moby **** will have his days counted,
but not by me - there's no point being a Samson
keeping all the pillars - actually, that's the point,
to be Samson, take a few literary pillars
and then the whole **** temple collapses -
so with two or three of them taken by you
the rest you leave a rubble - turning over to the leisure
of poetry - Vladimir, haven't you heard?
people in england think all poetry is depressing,
depressing? 'what's normal?' is another maxim
in england - singing on the train is forbidden, also -
hey, social criticism is better than running around
with a kalashnikov - turn words into bullets
and mown the strata - and mown the strata -
                 and mown the strata -
give up on preplanned expeditions - only gymnasts
and tightrope walkers do pre-planning -
patience and constant innovative practice - ****'s jazz,
there was no classical composer in their midst with
a silencer of the music, music scores -
how they crammed an entire orchestra in those
little heads of theirs, i'll never know -
so this manic depressive man cited solipsism without
knowing it, and it made him very, very uncomfortable...
i wouldn't have sent him to a psychiatrist,
i wouldn't even want to go to one voluntarily -
i'd have sent him to the library -
but oh, oh, more and more libraries are closing -
while the zenith in my local library was
Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus - everything else
was toilet paper.
Salomé Albrecht Aug 2014
Six O’clock knocking on the shadow
of an older generation
He’s blind, imprisoned
after a lifetime of adventure
Screaming out loud
through his expression, motionless
Mr. Lovemore,
blind grey eyes capture me and leave me heartbroken
Fascinated by the walk of his past,
he’s a teacher , I’ll push him in a wheelchair
He can imagine I’m pushing him through Africa
Six O’clock, a listener
as I read out loud to him, old aged

- salome albrecht
I went to visit an old aged home a year or so ago where I ended up reading to Mr.Lovemore, a blind man. I wish I had gone back a couple more times, he had so many stories to tell me. Many more than I could read to him.
Joel Hayward Apr 2016
Albrecht Dürer’s
brush and ink
on tinted blue

Gently touching
long-fingered
“Praying Hands”

Stirring religious
veneration and piety
since he drew them

My pale
imitation
performed each night

Freckled hands
stubby fingers
chewed fingernails

Stirring divine
forgiveness and love
each time I bow my head
Biorn, étrange cénobite,
Sur le plateau d'un roc pelé,
Hors du temps et du monde, habite
La tour d'un burg démantelé.

De sa porte l'esprit moderne
En vain soulève le marteau.
Biorn verrouille sa poterne
Et barricade son château.

Quand tous ont les yeux vers l'aurore
Biorn, sur son donjon perché,
A l'horizon contemple encore
La place du soleil couché.

Ame rétrospective, il loge
Dans son burg et dans le passé ;
Le pendule de son horloge
Depuis des siècles est cassé.

Sous ses ogives féodales
Il erre, éveillant les échos,
Et ses pas, sonnant sur les dalles,
Semblent suivis de pas égaux.

Il ne voit ni laïcs, ni prêtres,
Ni gentilshommes, ni bourgeois,
Mais les portraits de ses ancêtres
Causent avec lui quelquefois.

Et certains soirs, pour se distraire,
Trouvant manger seul ennuyeux,
Biorn, caprice funéraire,
Invite à souper ses aïeux.

Les fantômes, quand minuit sonne,
Viennent armés de pied en cap ;
Biorn, qui malgré lui frissonne,
Salue en haussant son hanap.

Pour s'asseoir, chaque panoplie
Fait un angle avec son genou,
Dont l'articulation plie
En grinçant comme un vieux verrou ;

Et tout d'une pièce, l'armure,
D'un corps absent gauche cercueil,
Rendant un creux et sourd murmure,
Tombe entre les bras du fauteuil.

Landgraves, rhingraves, burgraves,
Venus du ciel ou de l'enfer,
Ils sont tous là, muets et graves,
Les roides convives de fer !

Dans l'ombre, un rayon fauve indique
Un monstre, guivre, aigle à deux cous,
Pris au bestiaire héraldique
Sur les cimiers faussés de coups.

Du mufle des bêtes difformes
Dressant leurs ongles arrogants,
Partent des panaches énormes,
Des lambrequins extravagants ;

Mais les casques ouverts sont vides
Comme les timbres du blason ;
Seulement deux flammes livides
Y luisent d'étrange façon.

Toute la ferraille est assise
Dans la salle du vieux manoir,
Et, sur le mur, l'ombre indécise
Donne à chaque hôte un page noir.

Les liqueurs aux feux des bougies
Ont des pourpres d'un ton suspect ;
Les mets dans leurs sauces rougies
Prennent un singulier aspect.

Parfois un corselet miroite,
Un morion brille un moment ;
Une pièce qui se déboîte
Choit sur la nappe lourdement.

L'on entend les battements d'ailes
D'invisibles chauves-souris,
Et les drapeaux des infidèles
Palpitent le long du lambris.

Avec des mouvements fantasques
Courbant leurs phalanges d'airain,
Les gantelets versent aux casques
Des rasades de vin du Rhin,

Ou découpent au fil des dagues
Des sangliers sur des plats d'or...
Cependant passent des bruits vagues
Par les orgues du corridor.

D'une voix encore enrouée
Par l'humidité du caveau,
Max fredonne, ivresse enjouée,
Un lied, en treize cents, nouveau.

Albrecht, ayant le vin féroce,
Se querelle avec ses voisins,
Qu'il martèle, bossue et rosse,
Comme il faisait des Sarrasins.

Échauffé, Fritz ôte son casque,
Jadis par un crâne habité,
Ne pensant pas que sans son masque
Il semble un tronc décapité.

Bientôt ils roulent pêle-mêle
Sous la table, parmi les brocs,
Tête en bas, montrant la semelle
De leurs souliers courbés en crocs.

C'est un hideux champ de bataille
Où les pots heurtent les armets,
Où chaque mort par quelque entaille,
Au lieu de sang ***** des mets.

Et Biorn, le poing sur la cuisse,
Les contemple, morne et hagard,
Tandis que, par le vitrail suisse
L'aube jette son bleu regard.

La troupe, qu'un rayon traverse,
Pâlit comme au jour un flambeau,
Et le plus ivrogne se verse
Le coup d'étrier du tombeau.

Le coq chante, les spectres fuient
Et, reprenant un air hautain,
Sur l'oreiller de marbre appuient
Leurs têtes lourdes du festin !
Albrecht Durer didn't paint houses
Rosa Parks wasn't content with her seat on the bus
And Randolph ain't playing covers for a bar full o' drunks* ...
Copyright February 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
ZACK GRAM Aug 2024
Meisel, Hoene,
******, Alexander,
Klobe, Juppe,
Henderson, Crow,
Albrecht, IDA Maragaretha,
Alfedelt, Johannes,
Wilhelm, Holzworth...
Heil King Z
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
.subtitled: soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...

the freeing voice - any voice for that matter -
something has been completed -
a year's worth of credit...
   / invested in bone churning...
crrrrr'ah'imes of crunch...
              point for point...
       "they" tell you... you're a loser still
living with your parents...
lucky for me i've been feeling wanted
for the past three months...
working on the garden...
there's a new shed... there's a fence...
all the bothersome roots have been dug...
"loser" and - a man is supposed to
hate his parents... at some point...
well me the forest and the slump...
tourist attraction... flatmates: sitcom coming...
a tent in trafalgar sq. -
pigeon **** for luck: luckier if i had
a bowler hat and an irritating suit of formality...
but, what, other, options?
to abhor one's mother and father:
chances are: sometimes to be wedded
to the in-laws...
                     and i was thinking that coming
from under the iron curtain:
from behind the berlin wall...
    from a former satellite state....
    i wouldn't be hearing this postmodern spin on
communism...
     it works: it works i'm promised!
it works... but there's no spine of a metallurgical
industry... no sweaters knitted in ireland...
no shavers manufactured in holland...
   the germans "lost" the war...
     somehow they still managed to pay
the reperations to the hebs...
             the germans "lost" the war...
but they still make the cars...
                   the germans "lost" the war...
but kaiser came up with...
the new currency... and there were some:
slightly distrustful of eew-oh-rrrrrras...
          there's so much conversation
above the drowning line of the invisible...
haven't dated since aged 21...
                 since 2007...
              the chance brothel entry...
the chance "one night stand" -
   confused thai surprise from a park bench
****** in the garden and walked home -
totem for proof...
         easily interrupted music:
or rather - music with punctuation...
like almost punk... but: not really...
             what a mighty project: brexit with
the pound in the wallets...
can you imagine a brexit with buying and selling
in euros? ha... 3 years...
ol' lizzie on the guillotine of currency...
bland currency...
              3 years of brexit followed up by
a year and 3 months of corona carano
        cuckoo-ra curune curini kuru kuru
chicken: cuban - coup d'état - corono - corone -
core: and... the bread is 'ere...
the circuses are gone... and so is the jihad...
- whatever happened to rival schools:
united by fate - nothing of what never happened...
to the chime of bell and the vibrating
uvula gong -
        
in summa inanitate versatur:
perhaps... perhaps i should have stressed:
looking for the geometry of a paragraph:
not a square... a rhombus...
          / here devolves........................
any and all.........................................
the draft of - and for.........................
all manner.................... of..................
"pressing"............... impetus: via......
impetus.... salvaged... via some.......
variant of darwinism........................
a history... on the basis of only.........
frequenting.... etymology.................
for... "sources" - sourced materials...
citations! ..............................................
by all means: anything......................
written... for the medium of.............
journalism.......................................­....
is not a dickens - an armchair..........
a sunny... afternooon.........................
............... more.....................................
a commuter's hour on the tube........
tum.... tum autem..............................
..... tum./
                           at one time... at yet
another...

    idem idem etc. etc. (again) -
major major - drifter from catnip 23...

the leisure of writing... once upon a time
a brothers grimm' invested themselves in:
the leisure of reading...
no oration is a leisure too...
tongue does the work of feet... and hands...
imitation octopus: solid ink out
of a fear...
     lack of friction: therefore...
arachnaphobia and: scuttle! scuttle!
and all those limbs you could almost break...
but not hear the sound...

    yes... writing can be... this blank canvas
is... my hands and fingers extended...
i admit no clenched fist...
no knuckle ditto heads...
                      a yes... and a no... a maybe...
a kiss that sounds like
slurping spaghetti...
                  coming from the 19th century...

yes: the next time i feel bad about
doing a no. 1, 2 and 3... the 3 being the genocide
into the whrilpool just below the throne of
thrones... i'll remember...
in the 19th century?
   ******* was as much taboo as jerking off:
big ******* hands:
no wonder there's "some" ***** envy...
and those camera angles...
a hand the size of being able to hold a basketball
all on its own...

which is a shame... what hands can...
and can't: guillotine the phallus and bowl...
with a talking head from the grave...
the torso and limbs too:
holding the spectacle of eyes rolled back...
bertrand de born...
                gilles de rais... not included...
come to think of it...

     eos eventus, qui acciderunt...
if that can be said: of what happened...
and it is hardly believable...
any time between the orthodoxy of darwinism:
ahem... "history" and geology...
and the ping-pong of the stars...
         yes... but what of the mythology:
come 100 years from now:
no one will believe what: apparently...
never took place...
                  or that it did...
                 the currency of inflation:
over-inflation of details...
a drowning man will grap the edges
of a razor... perhaps now: science...
and facts... is the necessary razor edge
for the docile and: the adventure of drowning...

- mind you: it's worth confusing...
albrecht dürer with gustav doré...
   even if these two men didn't pass on children
and grandchildren - genetics -
they did pass... something...
seeing how evolved - almost indistinguishable
the two are... i.e. if the former had the technological
access of the latter...
well...

no... i'm pretty sure...
i couldn't have had this sort of conversation with
anyone... solo project:
and yes... impromptu...
              a painting it is not...
some minor details: better kept as omissions...
soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...
     now that is raising the stakes;
yawn... the end.

— The End —