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Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
art critics are like tourists in the art world / australian cricketers,
they come to see the major sights, like bling ben, the eiffel tower
and the leaning tower of pisa... and they leave very quickly...
when the atmosphere of each town allocating each momument
strikes them as both unappealing and unwelcoming.
+ we're not living in the age of the culture of celebrity,
the celebrities were fooled...
we're looking at living in the age where the culture
is defined as: looking for the doppelgängers:
just check out the galaxy chocolate advert - the 2nd reneissance
happened between the nineteen 50s 60s 70s 80s and 90s
and now everyone is bemused when they have to
entertain showing up on trivia-knowledge shows.*

there won’t be a spoiler alert with this book,
you will basically not read it,
it took me two years and a few books in between
to finish heidegger’s opus being and time,
at the end he’s quizzical about either being
the strand of philosophers who follow aristotle
or a strand that follows plato,
given he allocates 15 years to study aristotle
i assure you he’s from the root of aristotle,
and as a poet i favour him and aristotle,
given heraclitus was almost a poet: it really doesn’t
make you a poet if you express yourself
without using a paragraph... a paragraph is not
among the poetic techniques, so don’t bother:
it’s just a ****** ref. to a square.
i never quiet knew why the beatles made a bigger impact
than the doors... i blame lucy and her fishnet stockings
rather than van gogh’s night with reference to diamonds
as jubilee stones of carbon.
i find it fascinating that contemporary schizophrenics
have the delusion of thinking their friends are spies,
i walk in a german army shirt to prove the point...
of course men affected in greater no. by this condition,
after all the spermatoid is the creative element
given the **** singletons are blank canvases...
but you know what single “thing” undermines
psychiatric diagnostics? empathy...
empathy is a divergence from solipsistic apathy... otherwise
known as self concern,
and i know that if you itemise further on an atomic level
(kabbalah) you get a- pathos...
apathy meaning without pathology...
but everyone, each one of us has some sort of pathology,
the most frequnted domain being the domain of phobia,
arachnophobia e.g.,
to intend to be wholly without pathology would
turn the notion of the ego into a-, in casual usage,
one can be pathological with or without one’s request...
one can be pathological in relation to oneself...
i once said that apathy breeds no pathology, and it’s true,
but concerning this statement there’s the kantian
thing-in-itself (noumenon): that apathy is self-caustic,
self- implying automated, and is a cause of concern to either party
concerned.... if apathy is seen as a quasi- / pseudo- pathology
then all subsequent pathologies are understood better...
because why testify an apathy without an adrenaline rushing
through the system? better still... why not call apathy
a misguided exfoliation of inserted / produced adrenaline?
as akin to atheism - if a- (without) -theism (softer logic akin to god,
god via experience rather than theory / the -ism expression, not the logos expression)
is to be expressed why is there a necessary concern to exclude
any logic of the existence of, when it’s argued that experience is not necessary
to prove anything, but rather non-experience has a basis of adequate logic?
you know that point... when using words and subsequent reading
becomes akin to arithmetic in terms of complexity,
where words such as i and think, are unified by the equivalent of +, -. x
by guidance of noun, verb, adjective, etc.
Joe Cottonwood Nov 2017
In my little town
dogs sleep on the street
and act affronted
when you drive on the bed.

My little town allocates resources
in proportion to priorities.
We have one school
two churches
and three bars.

The teenage boys in my little town
gather by the pond after dark
with big engines and little cans of beer.
They steal the Stop sign, stone the streetlight,
moon a passing car.
But at least
we know where they are.

In my little town some girls keep horses
in their back yards. Above the dogs and surly boys,
they cruise on saddles astride a big beast,
dropping opinions as they meet.

On the Fourth of July
the whole little town
has a big picnic.

The ducks on the pond in my little town
waddle across the road each afternoon
a milling, quackling crowd
round the door of the yellow house
where the lady gives them grain.
When it rains,
they swim on the road
or sleep there, like dogs.

On a cold morning
the woodsmoke of stoves
lingers like fog
in my little town.

We hold village meetings
where a hundred-odd cranks and dreamers
***** for a grudging consensus.

We cling to the side of our mountain
building homes, making babies
beneath trees of awesome height.
We work too hard, play too rough,
and sense daily something sweet about living
in our little town.
Alyssa Yu Feb 2014
"Pluto is not a planet because it’s too small"
is a hard pill I refuse to swallow
Not out of sentiment or nostalgia
Or a stubborn resistance to change

No
I refuse because it sounds too much like
“Children are not important because they are too young.”
“Blacks/Latinos/Asians/Native Americans are not human because they have the wrong skin color.”
“Physically/mentally/emotionally disabled people are not worth are time because they understand truth differently.”
“The LGBT community are not worthy of decent treatment because they love wrong (as opposed to those who do not love at all).”
“Women are inferior because they aren’t—sorry, ‘don’t have’ *****.”

The narrow mindset behind Pluto’s exile
is the same discrimination that causes and comes from the war on terror
The same hatred that has prevented thousands from marrying and killed off millions
The same blind power that allocates almost half of the world’s resources to less than ten percent of the population

So I will not sit tight as you try to tell me that individuality is important
While your actions show me that difference is death
I promise that we will unite and attack and endure
Destroying your reign of fear until there’s finally nothing left
This turned out darker than I thought, but I'm kinda proud of it.
A Month of Stars, Day 2
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
please remember that some of my poetry is written in the vein of  ezra pound’s personae stylicism, i.e. i don’t know who’s actually  talking, it’s not necessarily me making conversation / oratory  monologue, due to the fact that it does not take place in an epic place  like the senate... but rather inside my own head.*

that’s what philosophy forgot... it said poetry was madness
and later god related; philosophy wanted an almost
mathematical expression of language, it became stiff regurgitation,
it refused to accept the work of grammaticians,
it refused to mention technical terms of grammar like noun / adjective,
instead it began and ended with really obstructive words
that could mean anything - e.g. anything, thing, etc.
it didn’t spot a chirality of its aloofness,
just because it (pronoun) and he (pronoun) are identitcal
in the grammatical categorisation, when expressed
the orka swam north west rather than north east, to avoid
the faroe islands’ slaughter, as depicted by marie mason.
p.s. what about an aristotelian cocktail?
you know that famous one... a man who lives alone
is either an animal or a god.
mash up!
take some human elements and take some ******* elements,
mix ‘em up... get what you want to be human...
god parts are generally regarded as internalised sounds
to create thought... also the complexity and variation of sounds made,
also being against the (0,0) coordinate of a meow...
meow on the roof, meow on a tree, meow on a car bonet,
meow on the sofa... you know what it is and where it’s coming from...
the animal parts? einstein’s warddrobe, i.e. wearing pretty much
the same thing everyday, like a fox with its fur,
the long periods of silence, angry evaluations of scenariors,
the tedium of eating - fast long enough and you get angry enough
and that anger you turn into the eating made necessary.
oh right, i forgot, i’m teaching this egyptian girl some lingo:

Rayhanakm 14 hours ago
                 I love ur edit thank you so much ... ???? i will share this thank u again              

Rayhanakm 11 hours ago
                  but i wanne tell you that my English language not very  good cause i  talk arabic more and iam new in writting poetries..so if i  could ask  you to help me in this thing i feel that you are so good  here  ????????            

Matthew Conrad 6 seconds ago
                  don't feel any shame about what you haven't perfected  given the time  constraints of your endeavour, i didn't speak to  perfection at some  point, i too acquired english, it's not my first  language - although i  have to stress that i'm not too conscious of the  transition between  being illiterate with it to being literate, since it  happened a long  time ago. but poetry is a good beginning, after all  poetry is a method  of abstracting language, which leaves many black  holes that will be  happily filled to provide a standardised form of it,  the non-poetic the  bureucratic version - the version that allocates you  to a mechanised  function - one thing to note about my transition is that  i was born  into speaking polish, but i hardly remember the alphabet of  months, i  can remember the alphabet january through to december  perfectly in  english, but in polish i'm like: stycze? luty...  grudzie?... i get  muddled... as i get muddle the actual english  alphabet... because i  first learnt it as a sing-along that's sung with a  crescendo when the  letters m n l o p come up... q r s t u v... etc.  make one aspect of  your arabic usage weak... then you'll see what  weakness you have in how  you use english... then, with hope implied, you  will do a perfect  juggling act of bilingualism. first of all...  concentrate on the little  words in terms of how they are arranged... for  example... your first  sentence is missing a preposition (a word that  presupposes an  engagement with a larger word, larger words are usually  nouns -  the others are smaller enough running could imply a 100m sprint or a marthon - but there’s still a consistency of them being similar, and they are rarely modified... for example  onomatopoeia  can only be modified into an adjective: onomatopoeiac -  having the  quality of an onomatopoeia)... the word missing is (cut in  point) tell  you that my english language usage is not very good (cut off  point) -  anyone can memorise what's called what... but there is a  complexity in  the arrangement in how that thing is modified or acted  upon in the land  of phoneticism - i'll watch your progress as you write.  ok?
Alice Wilde Nov 2017
Time allocates rebirth to nature,
But what of human kind?
Emerging from pink elastic walls-
They call it a miracle of life!
Only to end up as food for flowers.

And everyone is so obsessed
With making the most of their
Time.

What magnificent gardens shall
Accompany their Death?
Curtains of wisteria, rose-red poppies,
Flowers that speak a language
That disregards the natural flow
After sinking into that dark hole.

Delusional!
We don't rest in the garden of Babylon,
Or some fancy European botanical.
Tourists don't ooo and ahhh at the beauty
Of our Lives.

Remembrance after Death
Must be some kind of joke,
Because all I see are
Forgotten tombstones and weeds.
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.
I pulled a monstrous flea from my 10-pound chihuahua. Now he walks the straight path with ease. So? It was your bowling ball that knocked down my 9 pin! We ain't spoken since your neck got broken. New pop musically allocates no room for my line: "Wait for me, slow-poke!"
Everyone would have what they need when they need it. If you lose your yearly allocated toothbrush you can apply for a replacement in 1 of 3 patriotic colors: bone, tan & black. Need a sugar cube to sweeten your chicory? That's easy. Each comrade will get a sugar cube.
T R Wingfield Jun 2018
What was it that i was going to say. I forget thing so quickly its kind of insane. Too often, it seems, I'm put out to shame when forced to admit ive forgotten the name of someone I've met, maybe several times, to whom I have just introduced myself again, who probably hadn't yet finished their name before I forgot who they were once again. Usually "Im sorry. My bad... I drink a lot." is enough to diffuse any awkward exchange. Still i know better, just as they do as well,and politley we continue as if nothing had changed.

They say, "third times a charm!" and with names this is true. I read somewhere doing so somehow can train your mind to the get through to the part of our brain which stores long term memories, which are physically much more permanently made, by tricking the architecture of our neural array, which allocates resources based on the way electrical currents pass though the brain, stimulating cellular structures to make proteins and lipids which then activate other part of the xell which begin breaking things down and /or mixing them up, reconfigureing the shape of some loose RNA which is read by a protein design to replicate the mirror string of code which determines what the cell will make and altering as little as a single subatomic partical of weight can then fundamentally alter what the neucleic acids say, and change everything about the properties of the gene that it was trying to translate...

But anyway, repeating the new persons name several times in conversation, or right in a row, at the outset will help you retain new information to the brain, either way it still functions kind of the same. The energy thesh-hold required to make a shot term memory important enough to save is 3 activations of the neural relays, then the neurons begin fusing together, i think, and the information is less likely to dissipate.

now i remember it was something about 'how maddening it can be to be forgetful," or something like that, but worded much better.
****, I lost it. huh... What'd you say?
#streampfconciousness#iloveourbrains#howtheydoallthisisfasinating#metabrain#thebrainsbrain #metabrains #anallwhitebadbrainstributewhichonlyreadsscholarlyanalysisofthesongslyricsoverotherwiseperfectcovers
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
the world comes knocking at my door,
i mournfully turn it away,
i have no "concern" for it...
although: i'm content that some
proud noses can be eased into
sandpaper -

the world comes knocking at my door:
any other year, month or day
i'd gladly welcome it with my usual
reservation and distance...
big fat world:
with its interludes in geocentric mantras
and events:

how certain i am: death like a gravity...
the only authentic democracy
of this forever inexhausted necropolis...

the world comes knowing at my door,
i pretend a courtesy,
i put on a mask i even gnash my teeth,
i rattle my skull with a knock-knock
hoping someone isn't "there"...

how different it might have been,
to be so adamantly involved in all the details
shown:
i would like to return to
the scrutiny of details: incremental
details of bothersome - aligning -
now i'll hear the other side
jump through rings of fire...

             the world and me and some variation
of: "i was there"...
so much for coordinating myself
to attire a tailored respectability...
"lucky" for me that i'm still mourning...
the world can heave
a purpose for upping its medicated
sustenance: or a variation of what these words
have already ushered in...

the frenzy of vulture feasting...
           the mosh-pit wriggly teases of:
no... these aren't maggots...
these are sewer folk...
                which is not to demean
the purpose of the i.q. of rats...
           oh how confusing it all must seem...
so much for taking sides...
one side most pronounced:
the all-invigorating spice of random,
chance,   hell... betting through and through...

my last chance at rhetoric:
214 + 20 + 15 + 16 = 265...
                   magic nevada:
how one hopes to live in mongolia...
or moldova... from time to time...
because living in this... focus point
of nations could most certainly become
so demeaning having to stress one's
over-inflated status as citizen X...

just saying... november in Estonia...
somewhere so pigeon-fiucked silly
with a "despotism" of absence...
            vacancy... to hell with the classical
model of heidegger's dasein, i.e. "concern"...
one might take a taoist approach:
best the world forget me
and i forget the world:
who's to make light of voice:
the psychopaths, the homosexuals,
apparently too the hughey lows of Jar
of televised aviation... vivi section:
and the new brigadiers of qwing ******:
not... vested in interests
of the economy surround stilettos...

my voice to the shadows!
my arm forged a better agility to begin with:
i was never adamant on rhetoric per se...

so a few words in the auld zunge:
noli ex me quaerrere - do not ask me...

probably my favorite:
quales sint, varium est,
        esse nemo negat...
  the nature of the gods is disputed,
but no one denies their existence...

i.e. to speak "ill" of the hebrews while
keeping sacred their own
"censorship" of ha-shem: the name...
the name with a second name:
the tetragrammaton...
fuckety **** **** parrot clue...
i'll ****** my tongue
with profanities but i will not
utter THE NAME...
hell... i'll go as far as apprreciate
the plural variation: elohim...

should it be of concern...
how Balaam would cut enough
skull and scalp:
and make a bowl from a kippah /
a tonsure...

Quintus Ennius... come to think of it:
we don't exactly speak prose...
do we? since we don't speak prose
we most certainly don't speak poetry:
we at best (probably) stage it...
come to think of it:
rhetoric is ugly when, otherwise,
prose could be staged...
but we stage poetry,
we stage persuasion...
prose is hardly kept...
in conversation...
the odd flashes of its existence...

elbow through a line of waiting rabbis:
to reach the ear of the deity...
because what is the arithmetic of names
concerning monotheism:
99 - 72 = 27:
chiral leftovers...
how i will glorify thee hebrew deity
because: it's so perfectly worded:
phonetic... memetic... however you'd
like to: how the greek delta implodes
and... turns a clockwise glee:
upright Y... and how that's a tongue
of a serpent...

i can bypass the hebrews and claim:
deity... little ol' me in
a zephyr of the muzzies...
being told: no arabic! no go!
i don't need to celebrate the hebrews:
but their deity i can without
question...

i never indulge in rhyme: unless i'm
polishing silverware or
sharpening my memory...
which is rarely seen:
since my memory is stiff with images
and hollowing of elephant tusks...
i wished that i would be able
to write with an ink
that was made from bone marrow...

the lesser sire came,
the lesser sire went...
the gods congregated around this
monstrosity of man:
this omni-litany of
infinite noun ascriptive purpose
of an imbecile god:
brain riddle follow through with
nothing but fudge or custard...
here, my credo:
i believe in the sadism of
a demiurge...
but i also believe in a justly surviving
purpose of a deity as tier above
the concentrated purpose
of man being left absentent...

             the purpose of man and his laws...
to thieve to ******:
under the eternal spectacle of
gravity without fail...
            man ordained a limitless purpose
for his laws:
to coincide with his ****** desires:
after all... we're not walking abortions!
we're not! china manages to allocate
purpose for over a billion people...
poor whittle Estonia allocates purpose
for a droplet of the same staged
volume of count...

       i'm cutting down on my ferocity of
desire for the simple reason that
some other new york middle-class pedestrians
need their complicated
over-psychologised lives to come to fruition...
i care about darwin as much
as darwin would ever care for
the topic of orthography...
or diacritical marker exfoliating within
the confines of english: which will never
actually happen...

prospect of teasing...
  
- and one of the first frost-biting nights...
how it settles upon my roof...
below to see...
the stars could be... disgraced...
frost and all this cold and this captured light...
like me extending into a mile of
red carpet and paparazzi snapping: shots
of either epilepsy or lightning...
spasmodic details aplenty...

borrowed from a time of gonzo journalism:
when hunter thompson was
riveting over the topic of herr reagan...
the people of Kamchatka...
were long ago asleep and
oblivious to the demands
of the affairs the cosmopolitan smurfs...

what if... marx and engels wrote
their little red book...
prior to the french revolution?
how... no matter...

the world keeps on knocking: it wants
all my already wasted attention span...
i own a door?
i don't, i hardly think, that i have ever
done so...
perhaps...

                        this tongue this hardly
essentially france, spain,
italy or the grief of... patent...
a germany... all that is necessarily: west...
come the concern:
is it an argument for pumpernickles
or for windmills!
is don quixote invoked?!
there is no need
for flipping a coin!

how atheists became
these tired old prunes:
momentarily detailed as influential
circa the years of the:
supposedly most progressive:
opening of a century:
because... as you know...
it's the 21st and some ancient rituals
of man would forever become
shaken, shattered...
                  unfathomably "loitering"....

mein teil:
                       as far east as is the promised land
of austria...
******* to the whole of greece
and the birth of the idea: hang your pendulum
elsewhere with your sword of Damocles...
lest we become this tragico-comic
slaves of anecdotes of a people best
expired when sentenced to ottoman rule:
because we can thank
the Venetians for that... no?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
i don't even know what this is, this is...
some guys rate girls on a scale of 1 to through to 10...
they mention the "friend zone"...
erm... what about the.... ahem: "dad zone"?
i've just experienced the "dad zone"...
sorry, what?! exactly...
i sort of feel bad writing about this,
but i'm not going to pile **** on this girl...
3 days of a stomach cramps and what
the **** happened to me...
lies with coworkers... blah blah: sneaky
******* whatever(s)...
forget the heart: make it stone...
follow your gut... your guts...
no... tomorrow her son is going to eat
a mango curry... i have two ripe mangoes...
i'm not going to eat them...
he's not having chicken nuggets...
merely chicken nuggets on my watch...
yeah... this is the "dad zone"...
whatever dating lingo is left available...
i'm in love with her...
bonus? she's older than me...
so... chances are... she might die at the same time
as me...
and **** me... she's ginger...
that whiskey sort auburn burning light...
by alternative to the Bible text of a...
"woman dressed in the sun"...
which part of the sun? sunrise, sunset or full
noon glare blonde? i prefer
the sunset sort of highlights... of hair...
how simple was that?
an issue of trust... sure, i said... i'll be doing some
night cycling... like that r.e.m. song:
but that's about night swimming...
you, serciously, you're not familiar with
the movie: Sunset Boulevard?!
you're kidding me?, right?!
she opened a corker, i rolled a cigarette,
then a second... remarked... oh... looks like not out
of practice... a perfect rollie...
what were we drinking? ****** pseudo-champagne...
we have a date for tomorrow...
i'm bringing my homemade stuff...
20 minutes before texts...
i replied: i'll be 20 minutes from where you'll be...
you're going to be walking your dog?
as i came up she thought that i'd be
shy... cycle pass... that she could simply
get away with a wave...
woman... you're not getting off that easy...
so i cycled back and walked with her to her
home... we talked...
her dog Woody was... ahem...
a complete and utter pervert...
kept licking my ears...
but then again... he licked off the scabs on
my knuckles clear off...
i lied... a white lie...
is anyone ever expected to say:
yeah, i put out cigarettes on my knuckles,
it's a ******* thrill i''m urged to
sometimes partake in...
no... i was making pizza... d'uh...
i'm not even thinking about ******* her...
i'm thinking about her son...
Fredrick, Freddy, we talked about school...
about spelling... i read a poem he wrote out-loud...
i admired his and his mum's construction
of a world war II bomb bunker...
he told me about learning about war poetry...
so, world war I stuff, all the poppy fields etc.?
at the age of 9 he was instructed to learn about autism...
i told him...         read a little about
SOLIPSISM... i even wrote it on a piece of
paper for him...
from the age of 7... through to the age of 9...
wow! your handwriting ... it's exponential!
she said, what's that?
he corrected her... i reiterated... it's not linear...
it just exploded!
he complained about writing by joining
letters... but he said: joining words...
letters, Freddy... yeah... but look how we've
been doing writing over the past 30 years...
QWERTY... we're typing...
no one really deciphers handwriting...
the dog? licked my ears and the wounds on
my left hand's knuckles right off: clean...
i bled for a while...
if this is modern dating: i still smell of dog licks...
i better go up to my two maine *****
and inquire whether i might,
somehow, still pass off as human...
well obviously tomorrow i will be better attired...
hell: if it comes to ironing a shirt...
the rest of the "office" can *******...
i'll take my chances... if she's this supposed mad *****...
you don't even know where i'm coming
from... ha... ha ha...
i'm nice... i'll play nice...
but then... no... Matt... Matthew... don't do that
crap of taunting for seeking attention
and male-authoritaraship - authoritariship?
what the ****?! 5 google search results...
and i come up? o.k., o.k. i know it's a spelling
mistake... author-i...
           **** it...

what a magnificent date... in her own home...
with her dog, with her son...
we shook hands while parting...
hello "dad zone".. i'm not here for ***...
if i want ***... i can just go ******* to a brothel...

she even texted me...
you forgot your hat...
oh... right... the one i found at a bus stop...
with the pompom...
    Woody (her dog) in between licking my
ears and the scabs on my knuckles was
desperate to bite, bite... bite at it:
Gemma wants to keep it! keep it!
dog "sign language" or something...

i was watching her watching the tongue of the dog,
he licked and licked t my scabs,
then got to drinking my blood...

yeah, i forgot my pompom hat....
i told her: you keep it, i found it originally,
it must have a mind of it own:
like that cap in Harry Potter... the one that
allocates upcoming students to their
designated house...

******* "dad zone"...
point being... i don't mind...
what has his spelling examination:
he's up in the highest tier...
fuchsia related...
some hue more subtle...

it's very similar... what?
going to a brothel or going to a single mum
household...
she's complaining tht there are not enough
books in her house...
Freddy, see you tomorrow...
guess what's on the ready:
Stendhal's the Crimson & the Black,
some Dostoyevsky,
Salinger? Huxley... Sartre?
Kerouac? Aesop? Dickens? Hesse?!

she's mad, sure, who wouldn't be,
if she's raising a boy on her own...
we're done ******* around,
i'm thinking... this boy... right...
i read a poem he wrote aged 8 out-loud...
i wanted to implore him:
please, don't become doing what i do:
it doesn't pay... it never did
it never will...
people want artistry for free
to begin with, to ever begin with it...
unless it's manufactured
superficial crap....

         i don't actually know what a friend,
eh? "friend" zone implies...
sure, i have a choice...
single mothers or prostitutes...
there are no friends in between...
i'm also ******* serious...
every time your ******* dog starts licking
my ears and my scabs...
when your child shows me homework:
AUTISM... what?!
sorry, what?!             you heard
about solipsism?!

the school pressured you to learn
spanish?                why? bully them back!
learn German...
German has a similar grammatical structure
to English... ich sehen du: i see you!
im Deutsche ist akin im Englisch...

      i'm outright in the dad zone...
and guess what... i want to be here...
i can play the ancient Roman game... is it a "game"?
is it?! i want to love this woman...
i want to grow old with her...
hell... i willl do my utmost to do just that!

i'm looking forward for her trying my homemade
wine tomorrow... what an auburn ginger burn
on the heart... i'm sitting singing along
to pop music... for ****'s sake...
clean bandit & mabel - tick tock...

                  no!              no!                ****!
             it's already happening!
no, wait, it has already happened!

                                                       ****'s sake!
alternately titled: tick tock runneth amuck
seconds elapse imperceptibly
leaving me dumbstruck,
how quickly fleeting tempus fugit;
ofttimes imagined as time thief.

Hence following vignette: quiet as a mouse lurks the time thief

The invisible hours hoarder stealthily steals precious seconds (like minute hors d'oeuvres) away during the dead of night surreptitiously and unsuspectingly robs and buries me alive by subtracting each and every precious second of my tender life.

As the world spins, the days fly by at nearly the hummingbird wings at the deathly hallow supersonic sound, this little elfin grot sized goniff (groomed by Father Time) monopolizes and usurps a greater role like some unwanted guest who overstays his welcome.

Mortality (visited by quick and painless demise) on the other hand would be an especial balm, relief and tonic to my countless decades long existential slog, which this model ’59 hew man cargo happens to be in sore need and want of that fairy tale genie in a bottle to grant me eternity.

How quickly the hands blindingly **** by instantaneously eclipsing memories from yesterday (when all my troubles seemed so far away) as I just barely shucked off the frock from today.

Meanwhile faint hints of tomorrow (albeit dark shadows creeping imperceptibly closer from the edge of night as all my children frolic in the summer of their blissful innocence totally oblivious to the galloping generational gourmand grandfatherly clocker) hungrily prowling on the outskirts of styx strewn groveling grooved globe.

Nocturnal creatures emerged from respective hideouts regaling in fleeting festivities (apropos to their species/ genus) before the curtain rises on another dawning day.

Although an unseen yet palpable grim harbinger (per prescribed existential allowance) precedes, and allocates finite years sans spontaneous birth of life, the daily hubbub finds this introspective individual self-absorbed in gloom.

Thus, he infrequently finds himself conscious of that eye popping, jaw dropping, mind boggling sheer speed of light flash representative of his passing life. Where in the world did those days, weeks, months, years, and decades go? Try as one might to catch the robber baron of ages, he/she also appears to be at least one second ahead.

These immeasurable micro moments appear to leap ever faster as one inches closer to that average length of longevity. Odd though, that these indiscriminate discrete constituent parts of being consciousness well nigh impossible to isolate, yet recognition prevails at cradle to grave cycle.

I feel utterly dumbstruck at diminishing residence on this planet now while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams. An indistinguishable blur (akin to the brushstroke of an artist across blank palette yet to be covered with an unpredictable product) the only evidence that tempus fugit.

Now as one crotchety curmudgeon contemplating cumulative chapters of mein kampf (from childhood to doddering sexagenarian senescence), nostalgia for yesteryear like a parasite symbiotically festering inside for unrequited liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

The second these minute, gnarled, bent arthritic fingers manage to lay hands on that bleeping son of a blank, hours and days will be like one endless months long week-end without parental supervision.

Throughout mankind's awakened consciousness
elusive abstract notion
identifying past, present, and future
adopted as avuncular personification;
Father Time an apropos sobriquet
impossible concept to grasp
within the mind of one Finnish huckabuck,
whose clodhoppers get mired in muckamuck
analogous to quicksand yours truly stuck
markedly challenged, hence
mission scuttled when attempting to zuck.

Ever since the advent of civilization
contrivances crafted to measure
days, weeks, months...
years, decades, centuries...
analytical “gifted” anonymous minds,
wrought ever more sophisticated inventions
to divide existence into manageable units.

Now twenty first century **** sapiens
technological atomic clock work mechanisms
markedly catapulted by quantum leaps
immense degrees of precision  
extremely accurate types of devices
linkedin with state of the art electronics.

At this fleeting instant
(approximately 8:18 AM
September 13th, 2022)
ever so briefly wedged between
what elapsed and future events to arise)
impossible mission to isolate
that illusory present,

not only cuz the herein now
flits away at light speed
(or greater - you're right quite dubious),
but also everywhere within
cosmic space/time continuum
infinite microscopic and
macroscopic events occur.

As an amateur thinker
I feel baffled when pondering
that crude convenient schema
whereby greater minds than mine
devised devices to measure passage of time.

Yours truly can barely articulate
his farfetched dumbfoundedness,
me merely a simple brute
(shortish but not so nasty),
whose permanently creased
furrowed brow courtesy
his scrutinizing noggin
encasing fifty plus shades of gray matter,

whereby one percent bonafide Neanderthal
deoxyribonucleic acid explains
atavistic predilection issuing primal grunting,
when foraging for small (lame) game,
cuz feeble minded twenty first century
run of the mill garden variety **** sapiens
amuses himself (mentally)
toying with Einsteinian paradigm.

Though barely able to fathom
mind bending and boggling concepts
theoretically linkedin if an object
subjected to travel speed of light
(particularly an objet d'art - ha

think The Persistence of Memory
series of clock paintings by Salvador Dali)
mass becomes infinite
as does energy required to move entity.

Obviously the ability to wrap one's head
(or hands for that matter) around,
humongous (super sized) material essence
filling subsequent seconds, minutes, hours...
defies feasibility to grasp,

neither could ways nor means
allow, enable and provide
any semblance to hold (tangibly) as solid
something so abstract
as a singular moment, yes?

The above (ambiguously stated) thought exercise
equally as challenging where to locate
beginning and/or ending point
upon Möbius strip.
Remember when we were so happy, throwing rocks at each other while eating corn flakes on the roof? Remember? I don't remember. That's for sure. The forecast warned of wind. I'd be wise to slap on 2 *** guards, just in case. In a perfect world everyone would be special and sharing and grateful for every molecule of food that the government allocates to them. Everyone would have what they need when they need it. If you lose your yearly allocated toothbrush you can apply for a replacement in 1 of 3 patriotic colors: bone, tan & black. Need a sugar cube to sweeten your chicory? That's easy. Each comrade will get a sugar cube.
Remember? I don't remember. That's for sure. The forecast warned of wind. I'd be wise to slap on 2 *** guards, just in case. In a perfect world everyone would be special and sharing and grateful for every molecule of food that the government allocates to them. Everyone would have what they need when they need it. If you lose your yearly allocated tooth brush you can apply for a replacement in 1 of 3 patriotic colors: bone, tan & black. Need a sugar cube to sweeten your chicory? That's easy. Each comrade will get a sugar cube. [Be careful. Mind your manners. Hold you tongue. Love, Bid Daggy]
In a perfect world everyone would be special and sharing and grateful for every molecule of food that the government allocates to them. Everyone would have what they need when they need it. If you lose your yearly allocated toothbrush you can apply for a replacement in 1 of 3 patriotic colors: bone, tan & black. Need a sugar cube to sweeten your chicory? That's easy. Each comrade will get a sugar cube.

— The End —