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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.only last year i learned that my grandmother had an abortion... shocked? maybe, my great-grandmother was a very religious woman... unfortunately... my grandfather's dementia implies that he's paranoid about admitting that he was a communist party member, and that, like all the school-children... cried... when the olive-skinned Georgian, the grand-master of subverting the Russians, died; oops?

why did i go to an Irish Catholic School?
in Seven Kings?
we had this, "debate", about abortions
aged 15 / 16... taking out religious
studies GCSEs...
                 and the point of that, was?
sorry... no...
       maybe that's why i prefer to frequent
brothels...
   no concerns over STDs (since the prostitutes
confide in me that they get
regular medical checks, and, can you,
believe it! i believe them)
and no concerns for imposing marriage
proposals via stealth impregnation...
  what i should have said was:
can we extend this ****** thing with
you wearing a full-bodied latex suit?
  i'm feeling kinda *****...
  but NO! oh NO!
        ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
i'm feeling, kinda *****...
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
maybe i was, once upon a time,
the sort of suitcase material for women,
compliant, ordinate, whatever the ****
that means...
        certain a household busy body...
guess what?!
   what?
         NOT, ANY, MORE!
          half starved alcoholic and a heavy
smoker, orientated around filling
a pixel fail-safe space of a blank...
       about as much a father-figure in me,
as in a ******* donkey....
but the donkey is not being the carrot,
it knows the the stick...
             and a stick is a better analogy
to a double edged sword:
it goes, along, the lines, of:
a stick has two ends,
you can hold a stick,
  and hit someone with it,
or the stick can be yanked out of your hands,
and you can be hit with it...
ah... isn't that so much more...
clarifying?
       a debate about abortion...
with a child aged 15 / 16?
   only an Irish Catholic school...
sorry... NO!
                  that isn't a baby,
that is a *****...
           it's a baby outside of a woman...
so what? when i ******* into
a tissue and flush it down the toilet,
i'm supposedly committing, genocide?
i must be, self-evidently by
your counter argument...
         what idiot is supposed to expect
a child, out of uni, aged 21,
with a bride aged 19...
and the best thing, coming to him,
is to work with his father,
  doing industrial scaled roofing?
with a bride... too proud to move in with
her in-laws for a while?!
what, sort, of, schmuck, does that?!
oh no... i've done my mea culpa bull-****!
i'm done!
       just because it's inside a woman's
body, doesn't make it anything
more than what it is, in my body!
savvy?!
         i'll play my loser card
simultaneously with my joker card...
the Catholic Church can eat ****...
moralizing while it gravitates
  to a castrato soprano faggoting some
choir boy!
   *******!
              moralize my ***
telling me that taking a **** is a sin!
so where am i supposed to put it?!
corpus christi! eat that!
   thus?
let's begin...
  it is immoral for teenagers, aged 15 through to 16,
to be exposed to the ethical discussion
surrounding abortion... PERIOD...
have your religious education...
  after all... i was the only idiot
who did four A-levels, most people only did 3...
17 / 18...
      extra-curriculum activity...
ethics... oddly enough:
the schooling establishment a bit dry...
when it comes to the euthanasia
"debate"...
   can't exactly argue with someone who's
more than willing,
to exact the penal code...
    euthanasia is a non-win argument
for the Catholics...
        
but abortion? sway-prone...
   if you tell me,
that,
  just because my ***** is now
the ownership of a woman,
and i can't *******...
   if you tell me:
that, whatever "that" is... is "life"?

let's put a cherry on the top of this
mode of thinking,
seriously, ethical debate concerning
abortion, using teenagers?
the ones easily cloned?
(told you, religion predates
the concept of cloning,
prior to the scientific discovery
of d.n.a.) -
  
  let's put a cherry on top,
of this... "cheesecake"...
   what was it...
              hmm...
              you know... when rage
implodes, and you don't punch
anything...
an angry young man's anger...
well... that's different...
  but allocating a basin for
the collection of Berserk, rage?
you know when you,
write semi-blind, semi-conscious?
in a dream-like "reality"?
when a bull sees red?

hmm...
why did i attend an Irish Catholic school?
pedophiles about to dictate
the rules of, ethics on my ***?!

entertain me...
   i understand the ethics of:
when the pregnancy is too late,
when the ***** has morphed into
looking akin to what a baby looks
like outside of a woman:
i.e. a ******* man...

   but while it's inside a woman...
it's attache...
             and if n early abortion
is deemed, infanticide....
**** me...
   i commit genocide almost every
day, and flush it down, the,
******* toilet!
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Herpetologist meets actress (Cameron Diaz).
If he's funny he's me.
South America or Africa (on location).
In a diamond mind.
The protagonists (lovers), the diamonds, the miners and the minders.
By minders we mean watchers, organizers, supervisors.
As all art must: choose a focus.
The personal is political said Cameron on the night bus to Quebec.
I had never met a girl so willing to make love in public.

To what extent is violence necessary? And
is that the essential question or
should violence be accepted as man's state, fate
a more essential question existing beyond or below
peace or war. Perhaps
the religious and (for the irreligious) sacred injunction
against egregious violence exists
to still ourselves
to open ourselves
to the deeper question. That Cameron Diaz is funny and beautiful
is hopeful. And the telescope and microscope have extended
the eye's appreciation. Under the microscope
Cameron becomes a collection of foreign, alien, uncompassionate,
      selfish, self-organizing
organisms. Frightening, inexorable, fascinating
to the scientist in you!

To the telescope
vanishingly small, infinitesimal as the farthest sun
only smaller
smaller by magnitudes of magnitudes of ten
and incinerated in a nanosecond. Gone
from the movie (photographs the contents of which move
for the naked eye).
I cannot help what I do or hope.

Anyway, it's a love story
or science project, socio-political documentary. An essay.
An essay about how it is actually impossible to say what you mean
but it is possible with a lifetime of meditation and study to shut up
and know what you meant.

Now I'm deaf.
I can see Cameron Diaz but not hear her.
The guy, the herpetologist, at first colorless turns out to be
colorful as a bird or snake!
He knows a lot about snakes, and birds! Not only how they mate
but what they eat
(amateur botanist)
where they rest
what they do with their pain. Do they get depressed?
Can they have guests?
How do they judiciously employ violence to organize and defend
the nest.

The international collective remains insufficiently organized
resulting in violence and threats of violence that interrupt
commerce, procreation (love) and the pursuit of happiness (Cameron
      Diaz)
at least for certain populations, sometimes.
Otherwise, most men, most times, live in peace excepting
flood or fire God or man may
choose to impose.
I lay in my bed and listen naked.
Have a good day (Diaz).
The goddess does not exist, except as bone.

Around this time (July)
the queen yellow jacket (redcoat) searches
blind and deaf
for a ledge or cavity to build a city of her descendants
safe, that they can defend.
Most cities
prosper, undisturbed
and sleeping peacefully, overwinter. We, however,
remain active, Cameron Diaz makes winter movies or
love stories in South America, and I
delight to imagine her herpetologist. Or one who
discovers the sun
around which a habitable, understandable, compatible
orb orbs. Or
maybe the movie's about the revolution, soldiers dying defending
this dictator or that dreamer
and the movie completely failing, not even trying, to explain how
the sons and daughters of the dying soldiers (miners) feel
fishing alone, hunting for wisdom, thereafter.
Sure, these men chose violence, not Cameron Diaz, and were not
farmers, botanists or herpetologists
their tools could have been and should have been the telescope or
      microscope
but are there enough microscopes and telescopes to go around
and did we not (taxpayers, moviegoers) encourage them to
defend Cameron Diaz?

Man's world is insufficiently organized to preclude violence
in allocating resources (Cameron Diaz).
When we invade Iraq
to defend our allies and interests
with rockets and rocket throwers, Rockettes and Cameron Diaz
each man (each Diaz) must make his
own individual choice
whether this war
is worth fighting for or the next or the worst.
Go to jail, go directly to waterboard, at the hands of
your local police, chamber of commerce.
Learn how to walk the desert and the universe.
The names of rocks and planets,
that being the only answer to the hyperorganization that is a cancer on
      our insufficient organization.

I was reading Foreign Affairs
The Case Against the West by Kishore Mabubami (Cameron Diaz).
How can I relinquish my privileged position
sit still, lie naked
until what constitutes consent of the governed and non-violent change,
      Cameron Diaz,
to her herpetologist
is known.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
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.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.

well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
     or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
    but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
     it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
  i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
        and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
   crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
           it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
        poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
   or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
      and it has to be profound...
                      yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
                             strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
                         which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
           Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
                did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
    but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
        and it's still a case of:
                   people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
                Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
    Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
    the i = i, or i am i...
                              and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
                       thinking defines subjectivity...
      thinking the essential component of what's
   not thought about: the existential compromise of
   being per se...
                    and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
    it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts...          a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
     am i truly so un-realistic?
               not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real...          it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
    i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
      and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
                           whether rhyme... or other technique...
    hanging over it...
                           it can't do:
      i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
  and it is: too scientific...
              i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
                    so yes... Kant
                         really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
                     over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
    not that's what i call a plastic saying...
      ****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
     which is why i could eat a historical novel
        by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
                     and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
     a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
   schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
   who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
                         but they do teach that...
           which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
                and that's when i let go...
   the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
                    so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.

ii. ...

and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
               and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
  the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
               but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
      the tumble-**** effect...
                      no real prospects for life...
        and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...  
   by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
                  give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake...     fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
             that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
      i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
   and i could feel myself over-heating...
  i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
       mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
                    an impotence was crowned...
   don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
     phenomenal...
                                         well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
               and was it ever, not only about ***?
    it's nice to doubt it...
                           next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
                           at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
   and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
         give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
  i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh...   it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
                                 over there that's like a **** in
a tornado...              ha ha! it really is!
   but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
  most of these graves, really are: tacky...
    just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
                 no khaki for the ss...
                                           and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
         it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
                   or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
                     and it's like: huh?
                                           presto! dum-dum.
    sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
       it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
   and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
     uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
          does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
                      someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
            and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
                           social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
           but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
             i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
     as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
   i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
  where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
    if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
    and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.

iii.

for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:

| | |
     fig. 1
                                          /   \
                                            _
                 ­                                 fig. 2
    Δ
       fig. 3
                                           A
                                               fig. 4

it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
      concerning a book like that,
              but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
  hope to disperse the mist.
                you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
                     again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
            philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
                and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
                do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
     you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
              we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
                       obstructs language...
                 i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
                    i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
                 i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
                nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
  consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
   and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
    disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
   if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
   there's enough reason to be concerned...
                  i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
          that mine is an isolated case...
         ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
    thus said: the reflective man has died...
       in his place came the reflexive man...
                             and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
   then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
                 when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
      fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
          
iv.

the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
   the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
                      as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
   and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
                    imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
   so how far apart are the words: qua             and
                   quo?
   as good a question as: how far apart are the words
                          phor               and phren?
       φoρ                       &                            φρην?
        so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart?  looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
    nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
   φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
                φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
                        and so: the futility of looking for
        a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
  given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
  that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
                         or φρην & πσιχη -
                we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
      that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
  and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
   into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
                           it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
  and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.

v.*

i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v
If thine eye offends thee
pluck it out....

War offends
my eye.

All my
senses
defiled
*****
disemboweled
by the
abomination
of war.

My mind
disregards
denigrates
reneges
warps time
destroys values
alters psyches
lays waste
to my
conscience
of hope.

Mine eye offends me
the complicit witness
complacently
ambivalent
turning deaf ears
to groans
of the wounded
wails of the aggrieved
silence of the dead;
shutting doors
to sanctuaries
where refugees
seek safe houses,
locking factories
where men seek work,
level homes
where women nurture,
strafe playgrounds
where children laugh,
raise cities
where people
learn to be human,
immolate mosques
where
God's Children
cry out to the
Beneficent One.

Mine eye offends me,
my gut sickens,
to witness
the slaughter
of innocents
droning on
no angels to save
the million Issac's
savagely smashed to bits
by a Tomahawk's blow.

God's vengeance
escalates
the celestial ledgers
dripping red ink
from excessive
collateral damage,
people reduced
as objects used
to secure a loan
indeed an ARM
on a real time
American nightmare
whose reset rate
is mounting body counts
and massive budget allocations
protecting undisturbed flows
of corporate profits
valued in barrels
of imported blood.

Mine eye offends me
an innocence lost
Veritas vanquished
life is devalued
humanity debased
compassion defunct
empathy a twisted satire
an indelible weakness
incidental hostage
to the torridness
of the lurid play
of savage nations
projecting will,
a devastation
of action.

Mine eye offends me
the message of
sweet Jesus
a way of light
transformed into
biblical justification
agitprop verse
stoking blood lust zeal
for apostate infidels
sons of Abraham's
unworthy spawn,
of Hagar the *****
******* child Ishmael
turned out again
from tribal tents
of an absentee father
from an unfriendly
paternity.

This black *******
an abomination
in the sight of Allah
celebrates
a zeal to ****
unholy disciples
yearning to fill
banana crates
with body parts
draped in
drab Hijabs
decorated with
satanic verses
from a
Holy Quran
carved with
bayonets
of self righteous
Crusaders
armed with rifles
inscribed with
Gospel verses
on deadly gun
barrel stocks
to ramp the passion
of the righteous Crusade
against Godless apostates.

Mine eye offends me
as I witness
the **** of
corporate mercenaries
churning bereaved
Blackwaters
beholden only
to shareholders
gobbling spoils of war
to safely exit
to private vomitoriums
to expunge the excess
of gluttony
only to
quickly return
to engorge themselves
at the public troughs
again.

No constitutional
restraints
save the
strict guidelines
of holy
corporate governance scriptures
ruthlessly enforced with
golden carrots
of multi-million dollar
stock options
and the brutal stick
of shareholders divine right
to quarterly dividends
and above average
equity returns.

Corporate warriors
anointed by
holy oil
proffered
by capitalist shamans
and US Senators
conferring
jurisprudential deferment
on civil law
recusing them from
any behavior
to recognize the humanity
of captive insurgents.

Mine eye offends me,
as the flag
draped coffins
of returning
servicemen
and women
continue to pile
on the boiling tarmac
of Dover Air Force Base.

Tearful salutes,
folded flags
and mournful dirges
of prerecorded Taps
are small compensation for
shattered families,
and a wasted life,
unnecessarily spent,
criminally sacrificed
in a pointless conflict
in service to a lie.

Mine eye offends me
as I watch
my country's soft parade
of growing militarization
xenophobic fear
compelled patriotism
salute and goose step
to the flash of sword
and the sound of guns
and the glittering
medals of valor
adorning the chests
of a nations warriors.

How barbaric
are we?
allocating
overstuffed
apportionment
of weapons
and armories
while
people are
foreclosed
forcing armies
of unemployed
Joads
to ride
en masse on
an Acela Express
to a crowded
poor house
a listless journey
on pock marked
highways
arriving at
dreaded
destinations
to defunct
townships
offering
empty factories
and closed schools.

Screaming in silence
I scratch at my eyes
with numbed fingers.

Matthew 18:9

Music Selection:
The Doors, The Soft Parade

Oakland
3/17/10
jbm
jonchius Sep 2015
beginning optional weekday
wielding officialese words
triggering hectic exchanges
determining original gangsters
distributing invisible data
refreshing urbane novelties

yelping our universe
chaining awkward neologisms
scripting encrypted e-books
tackling hacking exercises
cavaliering auric tumult
trivializing our obsolescence

preparing online pentimento
alternating rainy themes
allocating numerous droplets
meandering overseas missions
averting raging tornado
losing outscored lightning

hacking impish 'sblood!
alienating nival drumlins
hearing erudite raconteurs
beer-drinking on thursdays
finding obnoxious rabblerousers
finding upscale negroni

seeing ubiquitous purple
cavorting horse ebooks
inventing twitter subgenre
liking otherworldly vocals
initiating new greatness
defining ambient yesterday?

defining ambient yesterday
fancying oneiric retreat
hailing optimistic chicago
kiboshing expired yogurt
rushing airborne blackhawks
bestowing infinite shivarees

needing baller acronym
fleeting ideal notions
alerting left-coast state
featuring unquiet nights
finalizing orangeball results
nodding occidental warriors
the second week of June 2015 (with experimental acrostics)
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
yes, what, an, absurdity...
the apparent otherness to being...
so what is the "other" option?
the apparent "self" (with a missing
adjective affix of -ness)
                 to being?
you know...
   Heidegger writes more about
the universal condition of
being,
    than the particularißation
of beings...
somehow... pluralism of existence
escapes him...
  somehow, but
          somehow: not by chance...
i'm actually wearing a pair of stinking
socks,
i'm starting to surmise a paranoid
presence of a skunk...
but i won't...
because i know that i've been
wearing this pair or socks,
for two days, solid...
    pardon the expression...
                     i self-taught myself
the English language aged 8 / 8+...
and it wasn't even a realisation...
there! there we go again...
  realization...
but what would be more correct?
realißation...
        first lesson, in diacritical
application...
     second lesson...
         there is no lesson...
English is not a universal language,
nor does it, exactly, portray itself
as universally minded...
     it has particular rules,
and particular laws...
        no... English is no
1 + 1 = 2...
  it never was, and it never will be...
now...
                  you, telling me,
that it is, just as well...
is not helpful...
              i want more...
         hmm...
how to put it?
i remember a car drive with
a friend of mine...
and i remember,
distinctly...
how he was scolded for not
remembering the alphabet...
  ****, even i don't remember
the alphabet,
there are too many words
that are required to erode my memory
in order to spell them...
why would i need to memorize
the ******* alphabet?
         education is,
after all,
the prime tool for
memory erosion...
the personal memory...
whatever the **** matters...
   that there's existence
contra that's there-existence -
and such a posit,
is an escapade into a non-pluralism -
given the obnoxious there,
without a posit for "a" here...
given that there is the certain
posit of, existence...
      while "here": isn't even
a being, or beings...
                   and as such:
such an un-entertaining exercise
in the native tongue...
  it could be summarized in even
allowing a man to, blush!
      sorry, i don't speak the native
tongue,
i speak a native tongue that
the natives don't speak...
               not if they're supposed
to be deemed a: nation
of shopkeepers.
                       language requires either
rhyme,
or logical simplicity for the natives
i've encountered,
there is no chance in hell
for there to be a play on words,
or a deviating logic behind
every or any sentence
structures...
        it's madness!
madness!
       they'll bring down
intelligence,
cover it with retardation...
and call in the psychiatric examiners...
as they always do...
        i'm used to it...
do i mind?
      em.... how about extending
my tenure of making criticism
postmortem a 100+ years,
and then we can rekindle
the conversational demands
of said, question?
  what i found though?
the German call life: sein -
or being...
the French call life: existence -
or rather:
out of every and within every
worthwhile inclusion of
an exampled instance,
that culminates in a allocated
revision:
   worthless without
an exclusion of non-examinable
instances,
           i.e. pitiable
the career in dream interpretation...
one of life's grand pardons...
or whatever verbiage there
needs to be included in
crafting a deviating:
  faux pas...
           it's still a question
of... what existence pertains to:
an observation of
being,
                  or an observation
of beings...
                well then...

sein    :        wesen

    contra...

          be present, be located -
hence?                 da -
  i.e. there...

                but... what is "here"?
da               contra          
                                         hier... no?

by "being" there, i can be,
"there"... within the allocated "being"
of beings...
              but i can't be, "there",
by allocating myself
to the being of beings:
while also allocating myself
a being of being...
no?

                   since to allocate myself
a being of beings,
i'd have to subsequently and
simultaneously allocate
myself a, being off, being:
to counter the exampled:
beings,
   name the nullified being,
in the manner off being, of beings.

see how atomißed language
can become?
   see the roots, Germanic in English?
i could have spoken perfect German
if i was only allowed...
but the English education
structure focused on learning
French...
i hated French...
i hate French...
       if i was given an option
to learn German... i would have
probably learned it...
after all...
         English is not a Romance
language... it's an offshoot
of the Germanic tongue...

might i add...
the friends i once had...
began hating me...
after they realißed that my "girlfriend"
went by the name of Sophia...
and that...
   their own girlfriends were
becoming a chore...
   choices are choices!

you can't speak this sort of
language piquancy to a woman,
and expect a reply of replicated jests
of a missing sense of humor...
you can't speak this language
of insolence,
   a language of impracticality,
of, "philosophy"...
because... you just can't!

    not the language of a Gnostic
who drew:

         (H)          (H)
            
                   A

the eyes, above the sigh of
                                enlightenment;

and always, along came the sight of
the (W)eaving lineage of perpetuated
life,
   with the canonical retort
of woman, sarcastic...
                                                    ­   E(h)?!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
****!

mit ein(e)
gernierung

of... ******!

MACDONALDS
for the protestants
MCDONALDS
for the catholics...

and **** the rest of it
whoop di do d'ah
whoopsie!
   **** it...  

i always called the IRA
the ginger ninja brigade...
******* *****!
ha ha!

is that even permitted?
like...
oopsies?!
   oh ****..
the steam-roller is
giving it a shot at reading
the earth,..
flat...
   map on paper?
**** me... no app....
            
******... you ever navigate a car
through the German Rhine roundabout?
what's in it?
Dortmund.. Essen...
             you know that constipated
part of the road map of Europe...

               ever navigate that trippy
conundrum ******* of navigation?
beside me...

              can't speak german,
won't navigate in german,
no matter how many
Mercedes-Benz they pump out
from the Henry Ford institute of
the reclining chair,
supposing
   die krupps to be squidgy clean...
i think the european translation
reads:
die Dortmund Ringe...
das Rhine Ringe...
**** allocating yourself to a rally car...
   navigate through that sort
of German *******...
          achtung achtung...
autobahn ende!
               vorwärtskreis
might as well salute for a second
coming of... hítlear!
    shaking Stevens?
  huh?!
               knee on the no contra
the know: bother...
the english won't know...
isn't that nay?
   i listen to too much lawyer
jargon...
             i'd love to listen to
poetry...
but... i figured...
   lawyers play the slight of
the sly of hand that poets
exasperate into toying with words
to accomplish art...
lawyers? the impasse of
judgement?
  **** me!
                  apparently the argument
goes:
down syndrome...
psychopaths...
'ere by god's grace...
   much grace, my lord...
             too much grace...
        
two salvation pointers:
(a) i won't drink with them...
(b) i won't eat with them,
(c) there is no "c" that isn't
a "d" that isn't an "e"
        "f", etc!
you get a zebra...
you get a null bonus!
a ******* safari of an automated
anti hamster Boston outfit!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.


it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.

   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.


- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Anyone who wants to fight me all the time
committee meetings, board meetings.
Facing death was how they knew they were alive
or was it more about allocating resources
like yr Dad said.
It's hard to step outside what yr DNA tells you to do.
Nice ****.
Family farm, fight club. It's all one yet distinctions are
what separates the librarian, reflective man, from the road and bridge
      crew.
That's a class statement. Us guys love
our children and will, circumstances dictating, fight for you.

                                 --------------------------------------

Anyone who wants to fight me all the time
is more important to me than my wife. But there is no one left to fight
and no one knows me and I know no one well. That's good,
there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope.
I'm confused.
Meditator or gunfighter. Either could come to know himself,
flat abs, clear sight
with patience and discipline.
What's this:
know yourself?
Once yr knee or neck is smashed there's no getting up to fight.

                                 --------------------------------------

Anyone who wants to fight me all the time
will grow old alone once I'm in the ground. He will live
with the question what was our purpose? He was managed by
the molecules we're made of, proteins, enzymes, amino acids, DNA.
******* DNA.
I'd rather be a rock.
But the rock is subject to
its elements. Thus, the periodic table and particle physics,
meiosis and mitosis and yes, democracy and self-governance,
all the colors of anthropology and ecology, windmills and sundials,
fission and fusion for evil and light
and the devil who exists to carry the load when we misbehave and
      fight
among ourselves.

                                 --------------------------------------

Anyone who wants to fight me all the time
is how I know who I am.
Because the truth is always changing, depending on the meeting.
What's good.
Service to others is a safe bet. That service
may take many forms: fighting, meeting, teaching, making.
The fighting may be part of holding community together. Limited
      scope, defensive posture.
How broadly we define community says everything. So,
we come to Mexico, a violent border and an unhappy history.
Or Gaza and Israel. Or Russia and just about everybody.
How can a people become a nation without resorting to violence or
      incurring violent reaction?
Does it matter? Accept violence like any EMT and devote yourself
      to
what, beauty?
Why do I write about violence, I've almost never
had to fight.

                                 --------------------------------------

Anyone who wants to fight me all the time
is nothing compared to the ocean which can take your children any
      time.
The Nazis or janjaweed.
In peace we have our meetings.
When violence comes to the neighborhood the hierarchy of
      communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant.
Hold your clod of land.
Give way to the waves.
All I do not know.
I admire the writer who penetrates the unknown by describing that
      which
is not himself.
His enemy,
anyone who wants to fight him all the time
helps him live outside himself.
"Soon I will know who I am." --Borges

www.ronnowpoetry.com
Such falacious thread
is pulling tight
from no Holy Book
I know.

For those, self considered
right, allocating this
self seething show.
Creed or colour
should not divide.

Derogatory agitating collectors
paid off with sheer synthetic pride,
sponsering religion as their own
connector as they twist and they
tear at its written word.
Packaged to a self corrected tone,
fantasy provides absurd images
directed at the degected zone.

In anothers name they do their worst,
projecting miss-shaped Holy vows,
they drain sacred trust
for evil's thirst and so that
impieties seed should sow.

If you do aim to speak this way,
then have the courage and take that
leap on your own head.

Leave pious scriptures from
any religious source and form
well alone whatever faith or race.

For it is true that people will
for their own self enhancement
treat religion with disgrace
and thus, try to
demenaor such elegance.
19th September 2014
Like, it's like life giving you bonus points for being a genuinely good person, but not exactly dividends come out.

It's more so like a lottery.

There is some high or low going out Karma, but if you're doing less than others, it doesn't mean you don't have a chance of striking gold.

More like they just did things more often and allocating their karma point count, and I don't know maybe, maybe not, influences you winning the Karma Lotto.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
.of all days, but esp. a day such as this,
so little must happen,
  but at the same time so much can happen,
and it did, later in the day i watched
the magic at wimbledon: cori "coco" gauff
went into the 4th round -
     clinging on to reply with 2 match
points against her...
    coming back in a tie break in the 2nd
set, winning the 3rd 7 - 5...
    and... as ever, of all the grand slams in
tennis... wimbledon is always packed...
fancy seeing a full crowd at either the u.s.
open or roland garose...
   which makes for ****** viewing...
you really do need the crowd there,
the commentary doesn't really matter when
the crowd is there: the crowd and subsequently
the atmosphere... which is a delight
for t.v. viewing...
       but prior?
               the unadulterated pleasure from
physical labour... notably gardening in this example...
mawing the lawn...
  and then cutting down my grape vine:
poor ****** died somehow...
  many a good bottles of wine it did provide...
i'll miss making my own wine...
              but more importantly...
a rekindled sensation i once associated with
physical labour...
   after the work was done...
to sit, smoke a cigarette, have 3 sips of coffee...
and just feel a full-embodiment
without any necessities of thinking,
of the mind,
    to have invested so much much in the body
and so little in the mind...
   physical labour has to be the most
gratifying aspect of life:
    i'm jealous of the men in trades where
physical labour is required...
   how they can block thinking,
while perfecting their physical deeds...
an act of physical labour eventually outstrips
any gratification from that mollusc
    slouch into intellectualism:
esp. if there is no worthy opponent and you're
performing "intellectual" deeds solo...
what permeates from physical of labour
is a clarity of mind,
   esp. in the realm of horticulture...
       but i remember it was the same after
an honest day's work on a construction site...
there is no superior feeling:
not even during or after ***...
                           the body disavows the mind,
it disallows any bothersome minor existential
crisis to enter the foray of man's immediate
circumstance...
    almost all "intellectual" excursions can be
so ****... unsatisfying -
                   it would appear that physical
labour is more rewarding than any
intellectual "labour"...
                         since after the work is done...
both the body and the mind rest...
     unlike the opposite:
         where the body is perhaps at rest,
but the mind continues its "perverted"
                         distaste for a sense of completeness
and its furthered inability to sway
away from prodding abstracts or concrete
observations;
shame about the grape vine...
     making your own wine is probably
the most rewarding part of life -
   well... it was for me.


what made the Freudian question more penetrable is
what made it obvious - asking the same question
whether a housewife needed a kettle
was like asking a bricklayer for trowel -
only the rich payed for the meaning
of dreams... ****... the poor were just given
the fact that, we do, actually dream -
unless it's some over-worldliness or
exacting the unconsciousness of the heart
keeping rhythm to the brain's break from
thinking in the cranium cinema -
ah yes, hierarchy; hierarchy hierarchy hierarchy,
no Saddam Hussein then to bother?
ah ****, there was. too bad, make more mistakes,
that'll be a fine excuse for being human,
given the fact that when waiters make mistakes
we turn blue with rage and call for a happy meal -
i don't know what women want,
and to be honest, i don't care -
if a house is an extension of a woman i already know
the perks of wants presupposed -
man wants sea, Norse, man wants desert, Arab -
there's nothing worth noting for him to
simply settle down and watch television or
become a gamer - there are dinosaurs about with
that theory - beware.
Big Benjamin will be hushed for a year -
just recently renamed Tower E -
but what's that? glory be to Darwin in the highest?
championing Darwinism to simply speak
a valid point will make art suffer -
it's not longer Charles II with a cravat but
fur - plus it's impossible to start from there,
better to start from a deviation like from ****** into
wholehearted matrimony - choose a negative and
improve on it, why bother a positive chimp variation?
what progress comes from that? Gorillas aren't exactly
harassed by felines in the thick jungle, or if they are,
no more than Africa-Americans in their own cars
without guns but with gun permits - which means that
Americans are more likely to own gun permits than
passports, forget the fables of ***** Dancing and
the hopes of a Roman Holiday... it's Iowa-time right now...
gonna get smaller by the day -
existence via the bungalow - and a society where there's
a friction concerning not-having-read-philosophy
and having-read-philosophy, but it won't change for either
faction, both will be diagnosed as mad for the sake of
leisure activities continuing and pharma selling.
Denmark will flourish and Iceland and
what Darwinist scientists should have concentrated on:
shorter time-frame, evolution of Scandinavians -
what the Chinese already done and the Blue Indians tilting
the earth's gravity east with their 'made in China' #madeinchina...
but in a country that regards reading Kierkegaard
as allocating the diagnosis of schizophrenia...
you beg to differ and turn dialectics into warring -
this is England 2016 - by god man, don't read
books! read seagulls regurgitating chip-mush via
the media! don't you read books in England! don't!
i warn you! and remember that the internet doesn't
exist for journalists, esp. those writing opinion pieces!
it's not reality for them (the content) - a computer is
real, but anything on it isn't - thank you very much
for the social aspect of the internet coupled with
globalisation and the non-existent village or neighbour -
thank you... it's just a defence mechanism,
the internet is without authority - the printed press
has authority looming over it - the best time to write
a load of ******* not bothersome about money.

p.s. i hate the argument from the perspective
of exercise... i see exercise as pointless...
working, doing something, goal orientation
within the confines of one organism to another,
losing weight is such a vain goal /
purpose to execrise and all that scientific jargon
about releasing your... this receptor,
that receptor, this chemical that chemica...
*******...
     mawing the lawn and cutting a grape vine...
exercise... but more importantly:
a very organic end goal
.
Just Alice Jun 2012
Today I went rock climbing
Not like up the face of a mountain
But climbing over boulders
and over rock formations

It brought back memories of childhood
Racing from place to place
Pretending they were castles
Allocating different grooves as rooms
And lines as passageways

I tried to pretend again
Pretend I was running away from a dragon
Or running towards my love
But I couldn't do it anymore
I couldn't imagine separate castles
   and rooms
   and hallways

I couldn't see it
All I could see were rocks
Rocks that I know were once castles in the sky
That housed dragons
   and witches
   and princes

When did I grow up?
When did I lose my imagination?
We all say we will never grow up
But how many of us can imagine a boulder as a palace?

How many of us can still play with only dreams?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
it’s not that i hate film literary film adaptations, but only one adaptation made me want to read the book: stendhal’s the scarlet and the black (starring ewan mcgregor and rachel weisz).*

i don’t in a respective romanic auditorium
with toga donning senators
walking to egyptian flutes from the cleopatra’s entourage
gleaming old fames as to prove the pyramids
and sphinxes were above in the hierarchy of awe
to the iodine and hod on papyrus,
to give these localities the respectable aura of re-,
i take to hammock’s kenotic and burial’s untrue:
the former feeds the northern feel of autumnal london
suburbia and the latter the southern quarter,
but never mind that, it’s already minded and eerie.
i watched the screenplay adaptation of empire of the sun today,
i have to say, i was jerking up the thought
of salty rain rather than acid rain on the environmental
perfusion surprise - so i ****** a jamaican fake on the hopscotch bonnet
mascaraed on the eyes, or the romantic tears of cutting an opinion,
but honesty... honesty! three scenes made me push my
manhood away from the stench of molten iron of the army:
the was the protagonist sang the song of the kamikaze
just after they downed a shot of koji and started singing
just after doing the flap-your-hands-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care
salutations of encouraged nihilism.
it’s the editing part of the film, how the boy’s voice overpowers
everything else and becomes “monotone” against all other sounds,
the dignity of the boy’s enviousness and admiration
for the kamikaze... even in captivity! by god, what a scene!
the other scene that haunted me to near tear
was when the prisoners entered the cemetery of hoarded
valuables by the japanese upon invasion of shanghai
and taking from notables the jewellery chandeliers and cars
(pianos too): after seeing the prisoners familial in captivity
exchanging cabbage heads for cigarettes
proving what the world would be like without the existence of money...
i thought of the familial “humbling” of the people in captivity,
and the sheer haunt of the same prisoners returning
to a world they so dearly lost - in that each to his own
piano and mercedes benz, that neo-tribalism of earn earn spend
frivolity and self-interest that democracy prescribes
allocating us each a tomb of fancies (and sometimes the odd *****).
but the most striking thing became apparent - in these
japanese prisoner of war camps... the prisoners didn’t wear uniforms...
i can understand if those in power adorn uniforms,
but the oddity of the prisoners not having uniforms is quite
positively giggly sinister... given the fact that the other sinisterness
is when there’s a prison camp and those in power
wear uniforms and those imprisoned are also tailored for.
i see a major libra of power in all this,
for if the prisoners are not tailored for denoting their collectivisation
as in status of prisoners... then there’s a certain freedom in all of it,
like on the grander scale, in society, where the politicians,
the overseers only wear suits and the communities differentiate
themselves with hawaiian floral tattoos on t-shirts and tourist slogan ones too:
it’s almost as if the ultimate leniency of power was being exercised
not having to wear prisoner uniforms in the japanese pow camps,
unlike the pinstripe ones of auschwitz - as some collectivisation
of guilt within ideological framework rather than the opposite:
wrong place at the wrong time.
the last tear i got? well the music on the credits reel pulverised
by the images of a son re-recognising his mother by touchy touchy.
conclusively? better on your mother’s *** and able to cook too
than on the cooking *** of a wife and with two left hands preferring
the hot topic of takeaway or restaurants - hunter gatherer died -
me belly full of berry - how is it that **** sapiens is also called
**** perderus awhile the tortoises saturated achilles with peace and thought
and no chance of martian glory telling him of zeno’s paradox?
Ammar Younas Dec 2018
To whom this moon is navigating tonight?
You are so shining and radiating tonight

My soul is dancing in rhythm of dim light
Songs of your bangles are agitating tonight

Grandma told me to wish to a falling star
I wished long ago but still awaiting tonight

It was your gravity which kept me encircling
I'm not in my orbit and deviating tonight

How many sleeps your thoughts have spoiled yet
Nights are awakening and aggregating tonight

Earth, air, water, fire seem to be disturbed now
All our horoscopes are escalating tonight

Will our stars be matching in next life?
Astrologists are meeting and estimating tonight

I had requested some place in her heart
I heard, she agreed and allocating tonight
Munch Gee Nov 2017
You know they say Accounts is boring
Full of rules and such.
But I see in it a beauty,
One that I miss so much.

Accounting is an art,
Not to be framed or praised.
You will never find it hung in galleries,
And most will not be amazed.

It has in its insipid placidity
A calmness, stillness of being
It prizes precision, stoic obedience
And an unquestioning routine.

In its so called predictability
Many are led to be jaded
To do something the same way over and over
They find that the  novelty has faded.

But to me it is a land
Where man rules with his mind and his hand
Where everything has a place to be
And a counter- part to keep it company.

I miss so much the process
Of allocating what needs to be.
I ache sometimes for that closure
The drawing of double lines, you see.

Because amidst the raging chaos
Of our bubbling minds
Accounts demands discipline
And control of some kind.

I don’t find this stifling
I find in it a peace
A closure most of life doesn’t offer
And with its balance sheets, a release.

It’s nice to make sense for a change
Of our haphazard world
Where everything belongs somewhere
And nothing is left unheard.

Accounts, you are well adjusted
Perhaps too much to a fault
People are tired of your perfection
The balance you bring, the halt.

But I in my maze of a mind
Love to do a few sums
That start of like puzzles
But end up being fun

Mostly because there are answers
That are arguably right
This absoluteness maybe a construct
But I’m willing to suspend my insight

And go along with something
For once that keeps me on track
Accounts you are meditation
You demand concentration that most people lack.

Poetry is applauded
Poetry is acclaimed
But in the real world, it is you who are useful
Although you don’t have any fame.

You are also a quiet achiever
That doesn’t boast of your strengths
Rarely a loud inspiration
That does not go to great extents.

You are not melodramatic
Nor do you lure peoples with guise
What you see is what you get.
No gimmicks and no lies.

You teach me of a denied truth
That reality is boring.
Your philosophy is order and balance
Your karmic world sends me soaring.
clara eliot Sep 2010
Babble of tongues on the beach,

To my right Italian,
I can listen and the lilt admits me
invisibly into their world.


To my left Greek,
Incomprehensible, a barrier with occasional chinks
where I recognise clues.


Behind me English,
Different accents
Allocating places and prejudices.


You change your accent
as your clothes,
casual to be accepted.


For me you put on your finery.
But which is true?
Which is the real you?


I know your tongue
exploring my mouth
caressing my skin.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
**** me in the 15th century, or the 19th,
i'm not going to be a fraction
culminating into an integer worthwhile counted,
while the english aristocracy of the polish one akin,
but whereas the latter sold the land,
the former sold the cities
with london in nigeria and elsewhere
with 500,000 pounds worth of square metres less than 100sqm in size
as was the gold in communism defined by state owned tag.
i think the two are twinned: the former sells off
the capital, the latter sells off the farms and borders;
one disappears literally, the other metaphorically.
you know what they say of the englishman:
well dressed but selling brick lane brick by brick
with jack and the many flamingo ******
giving the odd brick a crease of a chisel for some cheap dentistry.
i like me now, i don't want to be back here
in hindu talking about coordinating stars with copernicus,
or back here being nice. nice enough to publish a book.
take the greek into consideration talking about rivers
and the once chanced, because i'm hardly your
father reminiscent of the days before the radio;
all the while she spoke like a slav unto a slav,
with he slav, turning into a german
and she into a ***** -
because i have soul not simply a heartbeat and synapse and
the liver's digestion proceedings to take into consideration
calling it mechanism & disembodiment with itemisation of the body
looted for science - heart alone is no heart at all,
brain alone is no wavering thought engaged with.
but she said of a brother's death, and my heart said likewise:
a brother died truly in jealousy, because should love be spoken of,
there'd only be a crucifix to kiss for assurance.
i'll bring india to its knees due its care for tact -
and i'll shove the concept of reincarnation up its **** -
of course i'll have no book published,
but i'll not be reminiscent of an uncle allocating capricorn the same stature
of geometry of stars in autumn, because i'm sick of it!
too many western whites travelling to pluck a thought
from thousands of years of the priesthood of the ganges, "suddenly"
usurped from clinging to a population of the billionth remark
ready to instigate western society's complications of two point four and tax.
keep the white hippies wanting and the ageing indians serving curry
instead of theology! keep it that way!
i'll accept the existentialist dittoing method that way,
to use dittoing as an ambiguity of vectors intending travel
rather than dittoing finalisation of travel - without having travelled first,
of those words dittoed as finalisations of travel,
rather than dittoing the prior intention,
having only smeared a smirk of thought to
engage with such a word as god and not laughed to pull such a word
into the realm of i dittoing thought and thought dittoing i,
twinned to instil all other grammar not remnant but completely identifiable
with the external fingerprinting the emerald and speaking of the ruby
as if all coal was used for ink by sway of the crumbling charcoal dusted
onto the page - let us not ditto the words of finalisation,
but let us ditto the words of banality that lead to finalisation -
india and the ganges priesthood are where they are,
reincarnation is where it is,
we hardly need to ask for directions seeking the grecian river of once.
Edmund black Jul 2018
I’ve always been
Of the mindset
Anything That
becomes prevalent
becomes diminished.
I’ve earmark my stamina
For allocating love and
Remolding the monocles
Of a culture that glorify itself
On being barbarian and unstained
I want to be that rare healing
Salve that when I write
The hearts and minds
Of others are soothed and healed
I’ve noticed, it’s increasingly
difficult to stride through life
Without enduring battle wounds
From disappointment , failure
Crisis , judgment and brokenness .
I rebuff to be a prevalent setting
Rather a squishy and mending spot
That sits with the broken , sees them
Mend and help them rise through
My expression of love.
I would rather be known for love .......
...Yuletide pageants vis a vis merry go round revisited

healthy progeny regaled being alive
analogous to children ecstatic twenty-five
on December exhaling joie de vivre at dive
in into neat stack of wrapped gifts, when...
what! out of thin air more arrive.

Panoply of mystical elements of holly day house style
breathe prez sense frostily exhaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)

two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
the veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmas tree)
starry-eyed imagination

as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed the stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)

inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodgepodge, mish-mashed, helter skelter

eclectic December twenty-fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manichaeism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths

a brewed nebulous concoction
within a mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, wetting
disparate constituent beliefs

contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying a high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender PetSmart impact,
where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation,
flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated
viz Roman Sol Invictus

wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal Wiseman

punishing opposing incorporating
novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into a fiendish frothing furnace

forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the mountain king,

whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths
sanctifying twisted brambles via sprinkling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter

unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy-washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed groupthink
disallowing cynics,

diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant recommended recourse
faced torture amidst a throng of the madding crowd

as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak

taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and wherefores, which controlled each green day
and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres

lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman
or child with flaming torches

licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)

two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmass tree)
starry eyed imagination

as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)

inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodge podge, mished mashed, helter skelter

eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manicheaism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths

brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs

contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender petsmart impact, where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation, flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated viz Roman sol invictus
wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal wiseman

punishing opposing incorporating
novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into fiendish frothing furnace
forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the moutain king,

whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths
sanctifying twisted brambles via springling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter

unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed group think
disallowing cynics,

diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant reccommended recourse
faced torture amidst throng of madding crowd

as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak

taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and whyfores, which controlled each green day
and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres

lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman or child with flaming torches
licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
Seeking Happiness
Have you ever pondered,
that your happiness lies in the future wandered.

You waste your present time a lot,
by allocating your happiness inn the time slot.

You say you will be happy with a uni degree
when you get one the charms’ lost, you agree?

Because then you need a great job
just to become your lovers heartthrob.

Your lover asks for a marriage
You start dreaming about a child and a carriage.

You say happiness lies only in future
when your child becomes engineer in computer.

You wait and wait for the happiness to come
stretching every moment of this time like a chewing gum.

You grow old counting days to the grave
realizing you have become just a worrisome time slave.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
an evening like this one requires me to disclose what song i'll be listening to on repeat for the duration of this contemplation: red hot chilli peppers' desecration song... i tend to do just that: listen to one song on repeat when composing, i rarely compose while listening to several songs or an album: i want to capture something and listening to one song alone, on repeat, allows me just that: a heightened focus on several details...

i'm starting to think that the managerial staff at Wembley
are sadists, the original times for the shift
for the Taylor Hawkins tribute were:
external teams 10am to 12am...
and internal stewards the timings were
3pm to 11:30pm...
now? apparently no internal stewards and everyone
in the company is part of the external teams...
timings? get this... 9am through to 12am...
what the ****? do i look like a surgeon hacking
away in a hospital?
i'll be lucky if i don't have to leave the house
for 24hours... i'll be very lucky...
given that they'll probably close the Wembley Park
station doors in my face and i'll have to catch
the usual N18 > N25 > N86 > N365 back home...
having to walk about a mile if not two
to actually get on the N18 in the opposite direction
to where i'm going... sadists...
plus, i wanted to this gig prior to the Wembley
shift in Basildon, for the Garage Music Festival:
start times 3pm end time 12am... i could have done
it... but not if i'm supposed to start
a Wembley shift at 9am... ****'s sake... sadists...
that's the problem with Wembley...
they employ too much stuff... they are **** are
coordinating staff: because there is too much staff...
but Wembley is a capitalistic behemoth...
can you imagine how much money they make from
one even if they can throw so much money about?
i'm guessing each even brings them roughly
one million's worth of profit if not more...
price of a ticket? astronomical i'd suppose...
never mind the price of a pint of beer and a burger...
and people do want to get drunk at a concert...
we're talking roughly £10 for a pint of beer...
and about £15 for a 450ml cup of gin and tonic for
the ladies...

but i'm not here to talk about that...
i seriously had the weirdest shift at Fulham today...
it was so weird that i felt compelled to write about it...
work: i never write about work:
more? the people i work with...
the shift was plain enough... we were waiting to sign
in... me and cerebral palsy Martin decided to sit
outside of someone's house: the people of the house
were throwing out their sofa... next to a heap
of black bins... i became tired of standing around
doing **** all... i saw Martin on the opposite side
of the road: yo! Martin! rest your legs...
he came over and sat down next to me...
in that funny walk of his... what wasn't funny
was the fact that Fulham banned him from taking shifts
at Craven Cottage because he was accused of being
drunk on the job... cerebral palsy? it's a very visible
disability (maybe it's not cerebral palsy, whatever it is)
he stumbles when walking... tries real hard to keep
eye contact but his eyes sometimes wander to look at
something behind you... and he slurs and speaks like a drunk:
but he's funny... and there... all these football grounds
stick to security, safety, service mottos... "not all disabilities
are visible" with regard to someone wanting to use
the disabled... ahem... sorry... "accessible" toilet...
but yet one ground managed to fire a guy with a clear
disability... i like Martin... he's funny because he's funny
and not because of "X": he's actually self-aware enough to use
this to his advantage... soon a few other guys lined up
next to the sofa and we just chilled...

it's impossible to not note the following:
the bigger the ratio of men to women... when working?
the smoother the shift is... honest to god...
in this line of work... you need about 20 men and 2 women...
even today all the guys stood their ground
but one girl among us? she ******* ordered
an UBER McDonalds... and this wasn't even on her
break... no one would have minded if she did that
on her break... but she wasn't on her break!
what happened? she had to hand in her accreditation
and her bib and was sent home!
i mean: the audacity of some people!
                          on my break i ate three chicken
and bacon Caesar salad tortillas and was finally content...
but this doesn't reach the pinnacle of weird...

i was working with this guy... a colt... maybe 24...
i couldn't really tell... a certain Mr. Hussein...
a Yemeni... let's just call him Mr. Hussein Yemni...
i don't think i ever worked with anyone weirder:
and i'm not saying that in a bad way...
i'm saying this like prostitutes call me Biggie
or the good sort of mad...
                                         i don't think i ever worked
with an Arab before... i don't think i've ever
been so close to Mecca in the ghost-medium...
    a strange people: eerily strange...
                                  we must have talked about almost
everything... what book he was reading...
what he liked: drink? no... smoke? no...
but you must have a weakness... every man has a weakness...
coffee? yup... sweets, baklava? yup...
well... you can't beat the baklava of Edgware Road...
the best that i know of, i said...
so what did you study? Physics, Mathematics,
                       Arabic... smart kid...
now he's studying criminology - because he wasn't
to become a police office...
he informed me about these degree apprenticeship:
debt free studying and working in the field...
i told him i wanted to become a science teacher...
then again i'd rather become a primary school teacher...
because i told him:
it sometimes doesn't matter WHAT you teach,
what sometimes matters more is WHO you teach...
that old chestnut saying... it's not what you know:
it's who you know...
i told him i wrote poetry on the side when he asked
whether this was my only job...
i told him i sometimes come back from a shift
and sit down to write in the early morning...
although i don't stay up until 5am like i once used to...
so what are you going to today?
go home, hopefully get in before 12am
and have a drink and write...
                             turns out... he's a rich kid...
he lives opposite the Wembley Stadium...
his father? a banker... who he sees maybe twice
a year who works for a private bank in Saudi Arabia...
i did actually mention the Saudi-Yemen war...
must be difficult... esp. after he owned up to his father's
job... born in England... but never been to Yemen...
i did disclose to him that i'm not English but an Anglo-Slav...
what's that he asked? i'm ******: i speak Polish...
so why didn't you take an A-level in that?
easy grade... what's the point, i asked:
if i already speak it, read it, write it... what has a grade
have to do with my belief in my proficiency in
it? is it a difficult language to learn?
well... that depends Hussein...
                                i gave him an example:
most English people complain that there are too many
consonants in the language, for example:
RZ = Ż = the French of JE (suis)...
                  CZ = the English CH = akin to chatter...
you'll have to look it up yourself...
   Arabic is beautiful, i have to agree...
so he retorts... Chinese, ooh! so difficult...
                                   that's the thing about Chinese...
it's a complicated writing system...
we're talking ideograms... hieroglyphs...
but in the end? it's not a complicated language to speak!
difficult to write: to read... but to speak?
hardly... for example... what's... for example:

明?           phonetically it's nothing more than
        m-i-n-g... but the simplicity of the sounds when
returning to the ideogram morphs into
an idea: hence the ideogram... ming is not simply
bright... it's the: illumination (of the obvious)...
clarity... understanding... but phonetically Chinese
is a very poor language... it's the Chinese of ideas
that's the crux of its endurance...

so what do you write about?
   me? life... the day to day... since starting this job
i'm writing about it (obviously i wouldn't tell him
that i write about the people i work with,
i wasn't going to tell him that i was going to write
a poem about him tonight)...
his mother? a doctor... a pediatrician...
your parents?
   my father is an roofer... working industrial scale
construction sites... supervisor... once he had
10 men under him sub-contracting until a cousin of ours
who married my maternal "aunt" ****** him over
and started  mutiny among the workers...
he's doing o.k., after that incident i returned to work
with him... and worked in the roofing industry
for a while... rewarding work... tiresome but rewarding
like all physical labour... it allows your mind
to wander...
                 mother? she used to be a secretary in
a metallurgical plant... she then was a cleaner for
rich Jewish ladies... then she worked as a carer for
two old Jewish ladies... now? she's a home-maker...
is that what they call it in America? she's a housewife...

did i miss something? yeah...
when i talked i sometimes looked at him:
do most Arabs have those beautiful brown eyes?
at some point i don't know what i was to him...
oh, right... he hate writing...
he's about to do his NVQ level 2...
he's completely bemused by the questions...
all the idiots say its easy: sure! it's easy!
it's ***-squeezing mind-numbing! but for someone
who has studied physics and knows arabic
it's not easy: it's hard because it's mind-numbing...
i found it mind-numbing... people with very tiny
horizons who are best suited to violence
for the thrill of it find it easy... more intellectual people
don't find anything hard in it: just the mind-numbing
tedium of what's clearly a regurgitation...
so he asked me for a favour...
could i send him the answers, otherwise my mum will
have to help me with it...
i was like: i know this boy isn't a free-loader...
but i warned him...
listen... i'll send you all the answers...
i still have them...
but at Edinburgh i was doing this sociological course
to just pump up my points on the side...
and they had in place this anti-plagiarism programme...
do you even know how little interest i had in
the course... but the course gave me an ulterior
interest... how to beat an anti-plagiarism programme...
but then again: this was at university...
i hardly think people training people for an NVQ
have an anti-plagiarism in place...
for that essay of "mine" which i found on the internet
and heavily employed the thesaurus to reword
it i managed to get a first... come to think of it:
100%... you'll have to do the same...
i'll send you my answers and you just reword
them and send them back to me to proof read
and compare...
                                    oh... i'll just get my mum
to help me with it...
                                  whatever you like...
but just use the thesaurus whenever you can:
if i can beat a programme that was intended to
suspect plagiarism: i'm pretty sure people who are
training people for an NVQ qualification will not
be as smart...
     can you send them to me? tomorrow i'm doing
the London Stadium... Thursday...
i'll surprise him... my shift only begins at quarter
to four... i'll have enough time to send him the soon
to plagiarism to him tomorrow...
it's not even that i'm trying to look for favor from
a rich boy... he's on the ground...
he's not his father's son in that...
when i asked him: so you father wasn't the sort of
father that demanded of his to follow in his footsteps,
like most fathers who are bankers or doctors
or lawyers ask of their sons: to be like them?
    no... oh...
           well... if you only see your father twice a year...
funny story... he actually went to see the last world
cup in Russia with his father...
his father's friend blah blah this... blah blah that...
oh sure... i've been to Russia... used to have a Russian
girlfriend... stayed there for a month or two...
she brought me over to be a tourist,
to be a *** pet and to see Metallica in Moscow with her...

but that's not the whole weirdness of tonight...
i sometimes spoke to him looking at him directly...
and as usual... when i try to conjure up something
abstract i look away looking at nothing in particular...
in between conversation and silence i could
feel him watching me in the corner of my eye...
is this a Yemeni thing? was he really burning an image
of my face in his mind? i could see his stare...
i only saw it with the corner of my eye...
but i could feel him looking at me...

        an inescapable stare... must be an Arab "thing"...
he just kept looking... i exclaimed about the beauty
of the night breeze and the bristle of leaves
gently moved by the wind in the sunset...
he just... kept staring... every possible "awkward" silence
was broken with a question:
he kept asking the same question several times:
so what will you do tonight?
         i'll have a drink and write...
now... the point why i'm listening to Desecration Smile
is pretty obvious... the song is about a man's
lament about sleeping with too many women...
and not finding the one women to settle with...
i felt something similar with Hussein tonight...
why can't i find a girl to have this nervous-tension
of conversation with: with the opposite ***?
ah... i split the yoke from the egg-white...
i speak two tongues to women...
i speak with the body and i speak with the mind...
Hussein... was all mind...
most women are all body to me...
i hardly think any woman would have the audacity
to so blatantly stare at me in the way he did...
it must be an Arab "thing"...

the dynamic obviously changed when that arrogant
prat: ooh! ooh! i have an SIA badge...
anyone see me walk around and boast about having
a chemistry degree?
there's a certain level of people who... simply don't think...
those SIA ******* are boring...
no one goes around boasting that they have
a driving license... yet they boast about being able
to inflict pain on rude customers... kneeing them
in the back of the leg... choking them...
i told Hussein: i don't like confrontation...
i'm dreading being equipped with this badge of dishonour...
as a steward i prefer to talk sense into people
rather than use overt violence... choking them or what
not...

it's a ****** environment sometimes... with people
who have no intellectual capacity reading to someone
their braille of the fist...
this guy Rob had to attempt to be the centre of attention...
i know what a schoolyard looks like...
how he boasted: he did this to that person...
dislocated his shoulder... PROPER: PROP'AH
"ALPHA"... male... if you don't have the money
you don't have the honey and if you don't have the honey
you don't have children, therefore no legacy...
so what the **** are you doing?
Kant didn't have children: but he has children
of German Idealism... an idea is as much a child
as a child is not really an idea... because a child is usually...
a father and his son going to a football match:
indoctrination...

i have to admit: Hussein's staring freaked me out
a little... no woman in my entire life ever did what he did...
sure... Ilona... when she saw me making pancakes
having to take over two girls attempting to make pancakes
fail... while looking through my Ipod collection
of music give me that look of "love at first sight":
nope... that didn't: doesn't compare to the stares Hussein
gave me when we were talking...
it's different when a woman looks at your during
*** and it's quiet another when a young man looks at you
without him thinking that you know he's looking at you
like you're something... fire-prone...
i have no words to describe it...
it's not even ****-erotica... it's Platonism at its highest
mountain with a knife-edge...

i can't describe it, properly...

perhaps this Robert... this Cypriot spent too much time
with the managerial staff who play off this
macho-"alpha" attitude too much...
the game: it's a game of looking and sounding
intimidating... sure their large Goliath posturing gives
them away... they speak of nothing but a framework
of boasting... Rob has these many dogs...
trained them to become attack dogs...
good with children and families... blah blah...
but when some "****"... blah blah...
funny fact: you know that if one of those dogs
with impregnable jaw-bites has a grip on you:
the way you make them release their bite is by sticking
******* up the dog's ****?! ever heard that one?
and his SIA crew congregated around him listening
to him gloat and boast...
he's not bad: just the usual "good"...
the men feel "herded" while the women feel slightly
pale and out of place... Hussein was listening
on the monologue of Rob... but when Rob left
Hussein returned to me with a litany of questions...

do you like dogs? i used to own two dogs...
an Alsatian and a Dobberman...
but i'm not a boy-man anymore... i prefer cats...
Toni (a girl's name) came to us
and showcased her cats... i showed her and Hussein
a picture of my 10kg Maine ****: Quarus
sleeping in the chair i sit on when i write
crouched like a crow: oh ****! i saw Peter Crouch
up and personal... me and the guys joked:
one said! oh... he's 7ft tall!
i turned around and folded all my fingers
exposing my pinky: yeah... he might be...
but the fact that he's so skinny probably extends our
perception of his height... laughter...

Hussein is the first person to call me after a shift...
i was sitting on the toilet when he called:
i have a funny phone... i hear people but they
sometimes hardly hear me...
we exchanged takes: hey, Hussein... it was nice working
with you today...
will you send me the answer by Thursday?
of course mate...
we compared telephones...
you don't like Iphone, you prefer Samsung?
yeah, easier to use...
how much did your Iphone cost...
£1,200... wow! you're not afraid of having so much
dough stashed in your pocket?
if i had something that expensive in my pocket
i'd probably glue it to my hand!

so much digestion... we're talking about a boy
of a rich banker... we're talking...
Mary Poppins' type of neglect of a child...
he sees his father twice a year...
i was gagging to ask him: Hussein! what do you
see in me, that you keeping staring at me so much
when i'm pretending to not look at you looking at
me?
women just avert their eyes:
Hussein... you know what you remind me off?
only a few weeks ago i had only 4 "friends" as contacts
on facebook... now?
i don't know why i have over 900 Arab contacts...
do i look familiar to you?

Longshanks was talking to and fro... Hussein was
roughly 30 metres behind: Matthew! Matthew!
Hussein! i need to eat something! you charge your
phone i'll go and eat something...
the interaction between men has become
somehow... mysterious...
more mysterious than among / between men and
women...
after experiencing what i have with Hussein...
the Yemeni... i'm thinking...
maybe i ought to enter a "homosexual" relationship
with a man... based on a Platonism of conversation...
we're both **** women left right and centre...
but? we'd come back to each other and talk...
we wouldn't be gay... in the need to explore each
other's ****-roller-coasters...
we'd come back to a friendship...
he would do his bit of ****** aspirations and i'd
settle for what prostitutes do...
why am i thinking this? his, ******* STARING...
at one point i was almost tempted to ask him...
did the Turk did a terrible job on my beard?!
is it badly trimmed?

those eyes were burning... and when a spider
frightened our supervisor i simply exclaimed:
i was afraid of spiders once... i did succumb
to arachnophobia once... now? i'm like a fly magnet:
why wouldn't love spiders?
i once managed to catch a mosquito by its legs
and feed it to a spider... it was lovely to watch...
i sort of enforced man strangling nature into
obedience: it wasn't exactly equivalent to saving
a poor homeless kitten...
i caught a mosquito by the legs and fed it to a spider...
there's a Surah in the Quran about a Spider...

this night i just escape his staring....
i sometimes wish women had the same audacity to be
be able to stare at a man worth their: "contention":
but that's not going to happen..
a contention that can be resolved by a perseverance
of: merely conversation...
that lays no basis for an argument to begin with...
interacting with such Arab youths
i'm finally allocating a "psychology" to myself...
it's becoming painfully obvious...

i do know why i want to do the shift at the London
Stadium tomorrow... i want to see this one,
particular woman... she's in her... i guess mid-40s...
she looks oh so frightened...
she's beautiful for a woman her age...
she has a knack for surrounding by these "alpha" males...
she watches me... i watch her..
i tease and giggle at all the "alpha" males jokes...
her eyes speak a different picture:
this little ****-wit is not intimidated?!
what the ****'s wrong with on the basis of
the women i've been with?!
i already have a child with one of them!
i like her... i like scared: scarred creatures...

                    given that what i truly have to offer
is either hidden or is too personal...
what is revealed about me
is what allows to be revealed...
Hussein?! am i known in the Arab world?
why are you looking at me with a beard-envy?
i was never going to make it "big" in the English-speaking
world... i already commute in and out of shifts
looking at people rotting their minds watching flick flick
flick flick UP tick-tock videos...
i pretend to pretend to sleep... i was hoping to read
some Ovid poetry... instead i'm reading people...
i don't look at people: simply.. i read them:
akin to the ****** proverb:
jak cię widzą: tak cię piszą:

        how they see you: is how they write you...

i'm starting to conjure up these fancies in my head:
not that i'd want to explore **** *******,
but that i might explore something else:
more sinister...
the quill's worth of **** of our "fathers":
             how strange to find oneself incompatible
with  the presence of a woman's conversation...
how: unsatisfying it has yet to become...
i'm bound to Hussein in a way that dictates to me
the categorisation of: NON-NEUROTYPICAL...
i stopped envying opposite *** couples after having
eves-dropped on their conversation...
like most couples: they "think" they better than the next
couple: they're happier, more successful...
than the random, "other", couple...

i was out of a relationship sooner than "never" when
the girl i was with started to create these castles
out of clouds... i was out...
because?! she was slandered in the open
by girls who said out louds: she shouldn't be with him!

magnets... man and woman are compatible...
their conversations might flow on for days...
but... turns out?! there's no intellectual friction....
sure... there's a ****** friction...
but demands never meet demands...
it's unlike being an older man with a younger
man... there are covert ****** frictions
with already: in situ intellectual frictions...
intellectually like-for-like are more inquisitive
of each  than what's otherwise non-intellectually
like-for-unlike physically compatible...

i'm not a homosexual... but...
i'd sooner choose a male partner intellectually than a woman...
so much so that i'd require a harem of women that were shared
by multiple partners than fake a forgery
of a "monotheism" of " monogamy"
of swans... i'd rather talk to a man for all of eternity
as i might want to **** a woman for all of eternity...

what's that casual "phrasing"?! it's... it's...
"complicated"... like assured **** after eating enough
it's assured with ****!
             i'm sorry... but i find women great
when it comes to ***... but complete *******
bores when it comes to conversation...
that's my modus operandi! i can't help it!
at least with men i want to keep talking to them:
because i don't want to **** them...
with women? i don't want to talk to them
for the simple reason that i want to **** them!

what would i talk to a woman about?! what?!
philosophy is not a money spinning mechanism!
philology neither... grammar?!
Chinese ideograms contra phonetics
of the Latin script?!
can i please leave my familial issue aside?!
can i stop worrying?!
it was simply Hussein's staring at me that gave
the secret away...

not all misery loves company...
some miseries prefer to be locked up...
treated in the same way as the fertility of mushrooms
are treated: kept in the dark...
i'm the sort of miserable **** that much prefers
his own: keeping of solace than having
to share it by boasting it with a Thespians' array of masks...

alphas: ha! siła razy gwałt: strength multiplied by ****...
you need a subtle touch...
you can easily appease the alphas...
you just give them what they crave....
and their craving has a low threshold:
they easily bruise...
        you "Hussein" the bigger picture...
                    you allow hierarchies to take
their natural form of exposure to abstracts...
shadows...
you tend to perform intimate demands of
conversation... rather than perform intimidating
details of oration...
   these ******* "Goliaths" are sand on paper.
soulful scribe matt er fact - seeks solemn sanctuary

Despite always pledging
allegiance to the flag
academic performance traced, narrated,
graphed... unfavorable zigzag

vertical lined spikes across
x-axis and y-axis displayed
dramatically sharper increased crag
when promoted one grade to the next

how comprehension did lag
attributed to allocating, dag
gone nabbit budgeting, crafting... productive
time usage, plus an affirmative nod,

whereby yours truly did lallygag
evincing object lesson procrastination
study habits shucked off cuz mum did nag
obfuscation regarding illegible note taking
I moost definitely haint gonna brag.

Deplorable curriculum vitae
not hearty and hale
equals pathetic academic performance
now displeases me,

yours truly did wanna fail
no matter parents told me, I got smarts
severe psychological dissonance
affected this male

in retrospect,... a tell tale
sign everyday existence
arduous, horrendous, perilous...

lifelong struggle analogous to quail
caught between cross hairs
tis pointless foregone opportunities... assail
self pointless, hence no surprise
metaphor locked within jail.

Report cards highlighted
plethora weaknesses bred
teachers exhausted markers
especially black red
spent small fortune replacing
regarding this jughead,

who practically proved deficiencies
prevailed within his head
arising and undoubtedly stead
dully contributing living
antisocially he approximated
being gratefully dead.

Search for acceptance during harrow
wing during formative years absolute zero
earning michelin equivalent laughing stock,
where mummified pharaoh
each arose out sarcophagus (cue Thriller -
Michael Jackson), a hero

cash equalling cow Jackson 5 era
before disgraced pedofile,
now keeps company with Nero
roman around within underworld
plus disembodied spirit Clarence Darrow,
who scopes, karaokes,
moonwalks... with monkeys.

Sundry dead souls heave pens, gogol,
and trumpet like Donald duck,
their afterlife I envy mingling sui generis
versus yours truly down on his luck
dismal flying colors

analogous to mire and muck
no man iz an island, yours truly isthmus
squeezing thru narrow passing lane,
this ****** doth aimlessly truck
this late bloomer summoning forth
long suppressed pluck.
Eppy B K Avery Dec 2014
Paint pretty pictures with wording without worrying about rhyme or meaning

Why agree with words allocating and conforming into one bright fashion

Paint a bigger picture with many words debating a self worth of passion

A Painful war with meaning of algorithms
I think I'll take his advice on this one, surprisingly.
In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks with feminine conscience, compassionate flashes are ratified in each groove and I calculate footage, this previous present attracts the magnanimous representation of the lightning emission of its speech representing itself where the queen judges the king Consummatum Est, with little difference from culinary art and its very dense genre. Here is the carious aspect of the bluish faskéloma or exasperating of the paws that move the occasional ones in sub-vibrations softening in the shiny mark of the sessile columns in consistency of its weak receptive propagation and masculine science, lacking what prospers with moist regulars of flashes that are cooling from their imbibition. With thousandths of his enchanted parasitizing and prior ego I wonder afterwards not far from a Para-Celestial and sacrilegious lore of Lochnith; Who, what and where would have been able to support such or such, rising on the beams and girders that make a whole for an inaccurate Menthe, going to the arcane of the seventh external love with clear magenta lights, on rounded ultraviolet reliefs, here is where everything lulls from the adverb Eleusis, seething with a consonant flight that suffocates in spite of a Pseudo Vernarthian, where it will go without any exception disrupting the courses of hesitation, leaving no more the divine portent and going back to the loaded Cibatus or barley in northwests that flatten ultra winter, mowed down to its glacial bluish water discharge in unequal thickening of fast secrets with thirds of vox with bordering called in pair of trios, and symbolic of a reborn flashed subsoil of a lifetime swollen in its low course and ministerial occultation that isolates itself on Patmos. The skies were beaten where nothing germinates from dreams waiting for thousands of those like me with acute senses of the Anthesterion, or of March taking me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified yet not resigning from love or smelling in the singular uni-lunar desolate with venerable fulminations and inquinas of the branch of the bakchoi, which was whistled by an Aulós that was remade generic when restarting fasting from a day rebuked and repaid in the emaciated Cibatus. Such light grasses were polarizing prohijadas when recovering from resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous aromatic nuance, and from super life machined from the metallic oscillation of the fires and rites ruined in the aromatic arthrophagous of Lochnith, nauseating at night in flowing enigma and gramineous rictus, intermingling while he longed for the ritual and his graceful plumes in feasts that honored his Canephores transferring mead towards the bakchoi psychic adept revealing himself from the masculine to the feminine in aqueous positive bed and supra negative redemption, which was fading into sharp matter attended while the world was created that they would live with more than forty stratagems, seeing themselves praised before their eminent Truth. Myself…being its own tyranny…, which erects whoever classifies it sacramental, and notices the squalid lack of control of its barbarism flash when I still pursue the darkness of my purge that is falling even without finding where to do it, falling however from its end and of guilty thunderous glances..., what more public decree do I wish, for more rituals that you have close to you when feeling sharp minorities of its aftertaste although in double life and night your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures you from the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte , plus that a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and fusca haze. Meanwhile, quantities of Omphalos from the ego micro center are distancing themselves from mine, my faded lost throne hallucinates lost knowing that it is a probable sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in fraction of the cereal ritual, and of sanctified illumination with tableares that have to dwell all the times that they revive from the vivid purple red, and from the debtor clairvoyant mystery sky that is reviving in the revealed luminescence that throws it in ornate nickels and acidic rattles at midnight falling on a positive particle devoid of yours returning to mine, and preparing for the flashing praise that pigeonholes him from his crippled fallacious and previous theory suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnith capitulate capitulation suffers from glare towards her beloved, placing his phalanges on circular and angular waves on the virtual milky river of Eleusis caressing her face and glare from her. “I, Lochnith, was on the cliff with my Canephor Aerse, near his Athenian paternal landlord, I was going to say goodbye to myself and carelessness, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from my ego, knowing that Aerse would not choose me, much less to my abandoned superior.

In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Leucas, which perhaps without my local would offend me by reputation and snoop on cliffside suicides that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion for serials of life and cities of the incongruous dramatic space , where its tragedy and antithesis do not fit in the basket carried by my priestess Aerse. I am flying over the structures of the acropolis, not yielding as a deity who prophesies where there is no room for the world in which she and I can inhabit. Lochnith, jumped after her as she was falling down the frontispiece of the cape..., She watched him as he fell..., forbidding to skew him from his gestures and get close to her so as not to fall where the wind is more docile and free, intervening with pashkein inclination or entangling them of the vipers and rims of the heroic hair in a condition of evanescent reckless touch against her suitor, trapping her from the Omphalus that she had tied to her neck transferred from brilliant didactics before a puerile boxing of vicissitudes, and spring flower shops next to the flayed serpents of Persephone and Kashmar floating on the Lilies of Aerse. Prey to the escarpments and cliffs, she remained possessed among the sedimentary dolomites that emanated near her veins before plunging down the steep side in over cascading prayers for her, always knowing that he would love her on a singular base of enchantments while he looked smiling before fall yielded In the end, forty-one seconds she was thrown off the cliff..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Omphalus of her neck by a lofty plume ready for love, imagining herself in the midlands of a ruthless positive affection of the mysterious flashing Eleusino, and by the divided ***** that took them as they fell into a splendid world with serials and images of Aerse, tied to the prehensile sacrifice and the cold hand of Lochnith, together as they fell between their subconscious selves, becoming heaped and vivid as something plunged towards them fleetingly, knowing that he I was going to survive him.

Lochnith's gleam was northwest of Athens once lost in the scrupulousness of a pagan polis and cult that kept docked in the sands to find her on the cliffs of the acropolis, where they had lost each other after two thousand years since they Theodosius abolished by decree the rituals of Eleusis. With revulsion and unprecedented insight, Aerse remained a recluse with excessive eagerness to self-eliminate, possessing for both the due imagination that he had possessed of the devoid neckline of the omphallus causing the inclination of the avalanche and their bodies towards where they supposedly would land on the divine and Dionysian path which leads to the eschatological of Vernarth's Diokitis. Apparently they were leaving as a result of an immortal Vernarthian existential catastrophe or decline, at the same time of a rhythmic alkaloid hemlock with its Achene that carried them for any pretense by being triggered towards the meeting with Persephone without her or he knowing why to fester at Eleusinos as Lochnith and Aerse in a single concentric whole, and quantum beings of the octagonal by the straight or transversal line that slipped into the hypotenuse at the instant that they were conceived implicitly as they took him from relapses when he went towards Aerse, after winding up from his conclave Hypomorphic writing and Magna Mater Misterica. Under the established power of his ministerial, the redemption that went in adjoining the ins and outs was consigned to resurface from the subgenre, and from himself procreating exultation with the analogs of Vernarth that were prolonged in excremental purges and disagreements of the cult of what should be twisted in the ****** of the magnetic genre and of positive tendency that would be eternalized after the cessation of the active decrees by Theodosius. Eminently Aerse suffered on some semi-dead watery slabs next to Vernarth, she remained after the agreement to centralize what irradiated her humanly as semi-Itheoi from a reinforced gender that was cohesive in retrograde worship to achieve pre-flowering in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen together with Persephone in the finnis that was distanced ultra terrestrial towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, not being categorized as a mystery rather as an unknown of a super method of rummaging in the lanterns where no reflection of Aerse could to be found by Lochnith after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in watery nitrosities on the escarpment of the cliff. Physiology will influence Eleusis with systematic naturalness for the active hydrogenated elements, and of such unknown prebiotics or phyto-estrogens where remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity are manifested, as it is found to rise from the true hecatomb of July with a hundred halters arranged with foreign beings towards the oasis of transition. The little will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, taking him in transit to a more exciting late management by harassing the search for Aerse in a clear mystery already in the jaws of a clamoring night by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone! even being with the inventive fallacy of a addicted spirit in correlation to the rite and its lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look sleepless with the servile promise of divinity from a vision that fades from the winepress and the Boedromion party, moving from the born ****** position of a hierophant towards the mold that dies and that does not renew itself from Boedromia itself. The representation of Aerse was reflected with transfused majolica and Eleusinian threads when she was seen walking from the beginning floating remotely in the meadows of the knoll, from which the cyclical anagram of the lost cliff rises when it separates from its Adonis being able to expose them in mythological treachery and transcended from epic truth to be related to the treaty between Zeus, Hades and Demeter for the rescue of Persephone after being dented from the beginning of the arcana that sprouted from a distorted symptomatology. She aerse carried the flayed serpents even on her body as if she should look for them in an omnipotent volatile gray so that it would come out by itself and be unguarded by her gone eyes, witnessing secrets and resting in anarchy from where there is not and will not be. Archon or governor What a mesmerizing problem is improvised from second after third that provoke astonishment to see him in the course that he could not have of his cursed detection! Aerse was beginning as a curious Canephore, he came to meet his ephebes Lochnith after excessive self-inferred hypotheses by following him at her command detailing the Kykeon that paled her psychotropically from a discarded and mineral exhibition, of which she would be devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach with his Sunday appearance or concerning the numen manifested with the eternal powers in front of the hieratic presence of the man who looked at her paternally, with a crass profile like a Damian Hessian drawing them in, plotting in a colossal fascinating stealth. Here she wraps him up but does not approach him and falls, lost in love, such a Faustus dilemma, granting herself at the initiation of the portal of the twelve lunar months in Eleusis, with immutable years and origins where they will bounce to meet in childhood that made them known as Aerse and Lochnith . Here in the greatest trance of life, both would begin to overcome all the twists and turns of the gestated gloom that separated them due to the shaken annoyance and confusion still divergent in sediments of runoff and bark oscillations that emerged from the unevenness of the acropolis, until a meeting in the amazing light and divine libertarian of two tendernesses, and martyrdoms that purely push them back towards a new end of the muddy gleam in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by male consciousness and is ratified mercifully in each flash of the striated. They will meet again in similar attachments divided by the fluctuating one who unmasks the one who drives him away with his dominant ******, and ill-advised caudal space seducing the contiguous public and private astral bodies that have never been coarse or dissimilar in ablution or sacraments of gods the pagans, everywhere nor whatever its fragmented remains by the gullies and ravines of the Kêphisos. After the remnants in politics, the desolate serpents of Aerse flowed down the river, as a link section that declared itself from an initial that was an evident flash that enveloped them as a cardinal canon with bucolic politics in all the nearby regions. Athenians, after the vertiginous regressive parapsychology like an Eleusino flahsback or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, with the visualizations of Aerse and Lochnith when they follow each other through the learned induction of feedback that was arranged in the inclinations of both, refining their morphological bastimento for the purpose of instituting them as articulators of the evocation of the millennia. Prophecies were reported from the 8th century BC. with ends, and interprocesses of the eternal in the unknown mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of the amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith of the month of Boedromia, fleeing from a federated Polis that would be unified to a substantial dimension and of sacred Eleusinian space with brand new warmongering for the culminations of being incorporated into the Hexagonal Primogeniture integrated in this way in the indissoluble ephemeris of foundation and hegemony of the Megaron or Opisthodomos of Patmos. This is thanks to the beaten serpents that were nesting the reanimates of the question with subterfuges that make the widths of inter-pairs prevail, which are consolidated as a reality of session and space, agreeing on the defeated parapsychological memory or future in the economy of two resignation blocks of the repealed Sacred Space, in consensus of the beams of the Vernarth Military Command forging from the beating sacralized ***** that cultly intensified from its mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from the attracted Agoras that were repositioning themselves with the metaphysical agents that they will be restored in the polis with the scope of furrowing in a civic action induced towards someone who virtually recognizes him in the purge of the exclaimed strangers. More ardent passion was added to receive them even being wary of further mutations vibrated with the Faskéloma, or exasperating that moves the tint of the occasional vibrations, similar to the tendencies of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, with the disastrous passing of the aqueous levels of the Kêphisos, which it would mean the presumptive ordinal of unreal historical worlds. The parapsychology of space was absorbed with torched quadrilaterals that were hanging from the invoked meditation, they were lying on futile folders and anodyne Aerse molecules, which were still welcomed by the magical exposed extra-corporeal substances that were deduced as they were experiencing unprecedented transit preserved of the eccentric deconcentrated radio of the refurbished of the spectral chromatic. The precipitated mental field dared to invade boldly towards another unheard-of generator that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice coming near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from hypothetical planes that flow for their definitive moderated unions. The static refluxes bounced in simultaneity of bilocation of the Eleusinian exordia that were exorbitating each other with the rollers that were uncrossing the corporeal margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft, and the fibrous distinction that was teleporting the rescue rituals unforeseen astrological

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of the mortuary reality there will be no hesitation outside of our body and geodesy of our lost zafral or of lives in transit sub or supra quantum, obsessing in the eyes of erudition and unknowns, while our contraption self-obstructs with our electromagnetic sensory interactions paraphrasing in the convoluted distance and residues of related-metaphysical electros that are reconverted into the appearance of a premonition” The ligation of the arteries of Cephisus carried the emanations of Lochnith to love him in a healing act suspended with beings devoid of physicality, on the way to specters and healings of a perverse, to repair his extra-corporeal suffering confined to those who condescend to the androecium and gynoecium as a unit of mental physical motor gender, at the instant of the exacerbated and ectoplasmic world regulated by means of the Vernarth regression that was going lowering your blood pressure, increasing your red blood cells side effect rivers intertwined with Eurydice and Aerse in the opening Othon, directed at Vernarth's outcomes that came in the bow of the super-aqueous ship with some fabrics from the ship's stowage directing the speculative and autonomous advance that was already dispersing in the waves. Dead cells of the right Lynothorax,  A savvy military mancomunal became syncretic with Lochnith, he was determined to continue reinstalling us in his white blood cells that rose when it was already dawn on the shores of independent Skalá, and in the circled cohorts of Phalanxes and Psiloi that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbing to the physical dismay of the underlying necrosanct and telepathic prayer that took place at the dawn of parapsychology trances cysts of recovery that descended on them in pure novel regenerative membranes, persé of merciful acts that became thick in the flashes when freezing from the weightless rays of the ultraviolet, which was separating between Sóma and Gnómi or corporal opinion that was joining synthetic networks with indefinite emissaries and receptors, subsequent bodies of the Bachkoi chemist, already deficient for a compensatory universe and varieties that were taking shape in a disintegrated emotional quantum world. Each time the bodies were reinserting themselves into the full unknown and subjective material, the concrete material united in the network with each other as a single force was transforming into the greatest passion and sparkle among their own, reinstalling themselves in the Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion interacting with everything, so starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible with optional digits of coincidence or inseparable digitized, such a phenomenon of meekness of aligning times were massified with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light years ago. Aerse replies: “My admiration, the sparkle has a measure of astral body in reason of the vigor that underlies reiterated expiation and measurable virtuosity in its perfection of semblance p and corporal providence, inquired of being transformed far from disaffection rather than a continuous healing . The smallest and most coherent in the fabulous Griffins will join my clairvoyant and component with the ballast of his final game, not reflective of another who can measure or predict him for an undivided being. But I am already here, and I am your infinite…, I no longer know of other bad illusions of trying to separate myself from this life of what Eleusis is, perhaps a cosmic coarse that is and was in all time that passes speculatively, for this flash that is reflects whether it pales visible or not, I hope it will be compact on our intertwined attachments”
As living organisms, various life methods will be postulated as an initiative in the announced Big Bang, for the profit of those who are real close and real logotypes of resonant neuroscience as a daring that will influence the progeny, for ****** volumes, exonerations of bearers experiences and evolutionary lives of the emitter outside of an ignored Parthenon, since the gender of the world is also associated with random ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive-negative towards a Hellenic parallelism of roots in life dressed with lasting vernacular inheritances. Much of Lochnith's electro-dermal conglomerate was in full congruence with retrograde Eleusian parapsychology propagating from Vernarth's Invisible Eclectic Portal, which was nebulously teleported down the Kêphisos River with saprophytic living organisms acknowledging it in indigenous originality. of the species of reborn Vernarth, and super regulation of the euphemism and mysterious underworld below their protocols.

Revelations of the mental-material, made reluctance and support of the estrangement of inviolate perceptions, precognitions, telepathies and premonition, which debuted in this intrepid adventure intuiting in perpetuity with the sensory corridors and interferences of a reality of body in an explosive world incontestable. Lochnith, was already in possession of a hypnotic mental reincarnation formula in the form of neuroscience vessels close to scarecrows of expiration, allocating the subsequent locks of an enlightened decency of the ethereal sleepy baggage and the oracular review. The more we experience the laws that explain his prodigies, the more our perspective of media and complete fiction will increase in something that begins to be typical of the laurel of a true slowed-down ******-kinetic process. Within the curvature and the dim light that remained in the Lochtian days, normality returned to them after this long epitome in the parapsychological biosphere, and the intriguing contemplation and even mischievous tenuity of idea that can die suddenly, after self-incubate in the intangible coexisting passage and medication rupture of lived art with alien morbid beings. For a character archetype, it is only known that reaping is consuming capital from the disruption of a non-profit loss and its incontrovertible paranormal, which is paranormal and parapsychological from the plane of posterity of life, which will be an act of peaceful coexistence in playful spirits, compensating for seclusion in the vaults of an involutionary dramatic past, if its material or monad (spiritual) is not dissected in the cosmic train of perception of unfolding, and of the concept of purging energy that goes out of its way in its seventh heaven. The hypnosis of death and purgation to whoever requires it in the convoy of their conscience continues to be a tiny unruly space that transports us physically, reverting to minimums that are neutralized in alien foundlings. From an aedicule depository to an empty body that is neither independent nor from the lord who claims it (V.g. aedicule of José de Arimatea). The impersonal voices that officiated at the ritual of Eleusis were heard far beyond those who could hear them merely with memorable spaced therapies, recording themselves in interspersed layers of sounds and imprecise electroacoustics in the serial of an alarming complex frequency of the regenerative stumble in an organism of Continuous movement. Everything spreads in bends of abstraction that revives those who promote the perfection of marigolds like buttercups that they wear in the clothing of the Canephores like Aerse, but soulful and latent ephemeral of the ethereal alchemical entitative of ignored molecules. Lochnith says: “My submission heals, it no longer maintains being far from who represents it and where it comes from, I know that its remains in me do not reason, clarifying more my journey towards the crown and vilifications of a nascent humanity that mourns me, and that does not recognizes by rebelling in my desires to attract him"
the sky closes in vermilion digression and you inquire that they should answer for the silence of confusion in the parapsychological aqueducts of Athens with Patmos. The organization of the Sacred Space starts with the bizarre totemic quantum by sacred paths, Megarons, fictitious hunting places, double surrounding lunar ring, curves of virtual walls, Propylaea to embrace the Vernarthian enigma and finally the Telesterion that received Vernarth with a naked torso that perched in front of Aerse and Lochnith, looking at them towards the futuristic survival with five digits in a quarter of the waning of his right hand containing the small coat of Betelgeuse and the Pleiades in inklings of the umpteenth apocalyptic Megaron of Patmos. Scrupulosity as an Electro-Eleusian placebo effect, went alone, dismissing itself in the singular of a Templar niche and towards a Megaró-Omega Telesterion for catechized who endowed themselves with super-resident halos and litters of priesthoods that fled in terror from the Aerse-Lochnith fusion, prior to each rudeness and their contours swearing eternal exaltation and idealism, to be reconverted into individuals saved and votive to love each other with third parties, escaping from small frames that still did not hold up from the ecumenical mess.
Lochnith Eleusis Quantum
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
502 bad gateway byways short:

Paul's *** never
favoured itself as a prized
asset for making
gazpacho...

this is not an album review per se, that's just the cover, my true intentions for writing this come after... but at the same time: it's a thought experiment - concerning attention spanning... if i continued down the path of being my own pretend radio DJ... listening to songs from as many possible artists i'd lose track of the beauty of listening to an entire album in one sitting... i find that most people these days are unable to listen to an entire album by one artist... it's difficult... i can give an example of one album that trained me to be patient... my father was a big fan of King Crimson... in the Court of the Crimson King is always the album i go back to to regain my concentration skills when it comes to something i haven't heard before...

the first few words will be difficult...
      i'm just not feeling them...
                  i left my feelings elsewhere...
i'm already elsewhere...
    it's truly impossible to make music this good...
what was the album i listened
to last... when all of the opening 5 songs i really
liked? there's usually a high...
   then some middle ground... some low with
a ballad or equivalent... perhaps a stadium filler
anthem: most of Queen's stuff was the latter...

1. holy peak
   2. television
     3. small dogs
       4. i've had enough
         5. ambition...         o.k. fair enough
     this is the first track that i'm not feeling...
but after four tracks that pumped me up...
i need to slow down with the hype... fair enough...
          
now i'll need to take a break so that the music
will catch up with me writing this...
thankfully there's that glass of sharpshooter whiskey
and pepsi and a cigarette about to be lodged between
the index and *******: and the coolness
of the night...

            6. dance macabre - also a welcome interlude...
sort of reminds of the madness of Gong's
flying teapot (radio gnome invisible part 1)...
    during the time i was dating this Russian girl
and every time i put this record on: she freaked
out and told me to turn it off...
                  that's almost like this one guy i knew
and when i put on Greenskeepers song Lotion on
he would immediately tell me turn it off...
so much for adventurous stoners...

   7. valley of the dolls... a song trying to regain
energy... this is the moment in the album
i was reflecting on the prior two songs...
but come...

  8. stars wars... we're back to the energy of the first
four songs... the bass has become relevant once
more...

   the album will finish with two cover songs...
a Bob Marley and a Serge Gainsbourg songs...
i haven't heard them yet... so i can't say: refill!
need more ice... this heat-wave isn't helping anyone...
at least in winter you perhaps wake up shocked
to wake up in the dark in the morning...
but at least you don't wake up exhausted...
there's only one plus of this heat-wave...
a lack of appetite... what did i eat today?
two eggs on two pancakes...
                                     and... a mixed berry milkshake...

mind you... i also made raspberry sorbet...
but clearly people have got it all wrong
when it comes to sorbet recipes...
i'm so glad i didn't follow it to the exactness...
people use too much sugar...
clearly:

250g of sugar
250ml of water... the sugar is to be melted
    in the water... the was: obviously heated...
juice of half a lemon
400g of raspberries...

i didn't use 250g of sugar...
i must have used about 200g but i wish i used
even less...
and i didn't use half a lemon...
i used the juice of two lemons...
and i didn't use 400g of raspberries...
after tasting the slush... i decided to blitz
up probably another 100g of raspberries: if not more...

sorbet shouldn't be sweet... it should be tangy...

9. get up, stand up... well clearly it isn't
a reggae cover... it's a new wave take on reggae...
   it is what it is...

10. moi non plus...
                  i do know all about the ad hominem
response toward ol' Serge... i'll be honest...
               i'm not that familiar with his music...
                      refill...
well... walking back up the stairs was rather
interesting... now i have to listen to the original...
but not yet... the best part being:
REWIND...

track 1...holy peak... twice on repeat...
                now i'm satisfied... i couldn't rewind
on that song alone haven't i listened to the whole
album... that was great... 40 minutes well spent...
hmm... new wave post-punk has always been
my place to go: the origins of punk are...
3 chords? 3 minute songs?
           music for people with short-attention spans...
just like i could never get into rap...
hip-hop: sampling jazz: yes...
                                    death metal too... i can't stand
that ****...

no to lift my mood concerning what i was actually
going to write about...
Faun - Seemann
   the night is looking ****...
                        that rhubarb and strawberry cake
i baked today was also sort of ****...
plus the added sorbet... but on a Sunday as hot
as it was today: what else is there to do?
perhaps watch the World Athletics...
                     oh man... i'm dreading working
the shift at Wembley for the Women's Euro finals...

i don't have a problem with female tennis:
i actually enjoy it more than men's tennis...
i remember a time before the great trinity arrived
that male tennis was all about the serve...
hardly any ******* rallies...
                 yawn...
                          but women's tennis was always more
interesting: for me, at least...
and the "asexuality" of the Olympics was always
appealing...
                but... pushing this ******* agenda
of: women will be as great footballers as men sort of
shakes the myths associated with names
according to Bobby Charlton... Pele... Maradonna...
any other sport... but not football...
not rugby... not boxing...

                tennis is a ladies game... it's beautiful!
golf is boring for either party: i don't see what the big
joke is: except i do... when Robin Williams explained
the invention of golf...
the stats are in... what's troubling is how people
love to lie to themselves...
sure... perhaps in Spain: where the women's Barcelona
team can fill the Camp Nou: unlike in club football
in England where the only people attending are...
small children... friends and family and "empowered"
women...

that's why at female football matches
people with S.I.A. licenses are not given shifts...
no one expects trouble at a woman's football match...
you have too many children...
not enough rowdy teenage boys...
so the risk of violence is minimal...
                     i don't get it...
   women had access to sport... they always did...
they also had access to literature:
who did Marquis de Sade write for? men?
i don't think so...
                     but certain sports are certain sports...
how many sports are there in the Olympics?!
i'm not even bother counting...

so i was watching this World Athletic Championship
today...
hmm... those heptathlon athletes look pretty...
snap of the figure: the idea is gone...
because i stop focusing on the women
and focus on what they're doing...
the same with tennis...
                 ****... Eugenie Bouchard /
   Monica Puig is playing...              i can't....
     concentrate... snap of the fingers...
                       the initial idea is gone... i focus on the tennis...
when i watch a women's football match...
those knee-long socks...
sure... they're not playing in skirts... but in shorts...
but... in England schoolgirls do wear those long
white socks...
                too much ******* hair in the air...
i don't watch women's football for the football:
i watch women's football for the women...
plain as a lost shadow come noon
   on a desert platitude...

let's face it... there are areas where women excel
beyond any man...
gymnastic and ballet...
men are props in ballet...
       tarty-socked-up buffons...
              a sort of Spinal Tap spin-off...
but gymnastic? the agility: the pliability
of their bodies... men's bodies are rigid-strength
structures... in gymnastics a woman's entire
body is used... in the case of man?
his prowess: his upper body strength...

are women's bones made from chewing gum
or something? or are they actually possessed
with an exoskeleton?
i guess girls that aspire to be footballers
only wished to be able to play football with
the boys in school... but the boys said no...
so the girls were like: Mr. Big Brother!
give us a league! give us a league!

but they're so... "unattractive" in their pursuit...
given: looking at the crowd that attends...
thank god this is not the world cup...
i'd hate to have to spot my favourite female
player... what?! because she plays fantastic football?
Hazard player fantastic football at Chelsea...
moving to Real Madrid ruined the poor sod...
i'm talking about...

Alexandria Morgan... football? eh? there's a pitch?
there's a stadium? there are two goals?
what are you talking about?
   i'm not here for the football...
                  ANY OTHER SPORT...
South Korean women at the Olympics in the sport
of archery...
yes... i know it's a woman...
but look at her skills...
     football is hot-wired into a man's head that:
women shouldn't...
i don't care... Alexandria Megan and... something's moving
or something's not moving...

too much history with football hooliganism...
in a time when people are indoctrinated
into what football team they support...
******* club tattoos...
                a grandfather takes his son to a football
match: fanaticism...
and then the father takes the grandson to the football
match: cycle - on repeat...
not all sports... seriously... not all sports...
it just can't be done... otherwise i just switch off...

it's not like girls are inspired by ballerinas or
gymnasts... but apparently some are...
there's nothing inspiring about women football players...
the attendance statistics prove just as much...
it's a niche mentality... pre- or post- feminist?
when is this tirade of a "philosophy" of:

one shoe fits all: unus calceus omnis vicium
going to end?
isn't there one?! feminism ought to be a prefix...
because it's a meat-grinder of ideas...
there's always going to be a counter
to say... existentialism...
there's going to be feminist-existentialism...
the feminist-enlightenment...
the feminist-stoicism...
  the feminist-cynicism...
the feminist-Platonism...
             catch me if you sort of mentality?!

as a teenager i used to dream about women...
i woke up between the ages of 13 and 16
and be like...
Valentine's Day... stop there! coward!
you're brining roses for Janina today...
in art class... Janina became a face i wanted to sketch...
and i did... it was a sketch...
eyes as shapes... the presupposed sclera...
but no pupil and certainly no iris...
peering into a mirror with her as an old woman...
Gemma was another i asked a photograph
off so i could sketch her...

all: worth: jack: ****!
         so i cured myself of woman with women,
with prostitutes...
  now? it should be the song Freebird...
but it's Sweet Home Alabama and me thinking:
cinema *****... a tight ***...
cinema ***** a tight ***...
               i still love... with a grave to distance me
and a "her" apart...
    because if coffee dates are so stupid...
if art gallery and cinema dates are so stupid...
i'm not willing to pay for food and a maybe...
go straight down the river and pay for the ***...
at least: chances are...
she might like you so much
that she'll let you try ******* for the very first
time aged 36...  and you're like...
well that was ****... i'll gladly return
to my cup of coffee and a cigarette for...
this snorting paracetamol is doing **** all for me...

AND I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT
WHAT I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT...
thank you... Thomas Bunce... my English teacher:
he used to teach English via way of digression...
what grammar i handle is my own self-taught...
he had the principle:
if you can write like you speak... you're good to go...
but... he didn't really state that:
you can also write like you think:
and never speak like you think...
which is why writing is a two-edged sword...
i don't even know how to write like i speak:
i write like i think...
and i never speak like i think...
so writing is a "third-man" dimension of me...

HELL... I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT
WHAT I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT...
maybe now: here's my chance...
yes... it begins with the Roman poets' overtones
of conversation, casual:
nothing modern: over-exasperated
performance propaganda related:
western-leftist ideology:
      i come from a sturdy stock...
it took **** Germany and Soviet Russian
longer to conquer Poland than it took
**** Germany alone to conquer France...

and? i have no sympathy for the Ukrainians...
zilch... their Cossack uprising undermined
the concept that was the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth...
you can only take so much...
Swedes from the north...
the Ottoman Turks from the south...
  German mercenaries from the west...
Russian tickling from the east...
                IF it was so ******* bad?
you get what you deserved... no?
that's why i will never get a tattoo on my body...
i have plenty of historical dates
to be mindful of...
          1648 - the Khmelnytsky uprising...
what?! in England people celebrate one date in
particular... 1066...
weird date to remember and celebrate...
while all prior Viking invasions failed...
  this Viking invasion actually succeeded...
and it's... ******* celebrated...
                    i remember when i was wronged:
not when i was conquered...
or at least a fraction of me...

                  I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT WHAT
I WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT!

digression... the best momentum for writing:
and drinking...
but of course i know what drinking alone
does to people...
my grandfather, my best friend...
the man i went foraging for mushrooms with...
the man i went cycling with to the lakes...
the rivers... the man i walked our Alsatian
with... the man i played golf with...
the men i went sight-seeing Cracow:
Warsaw? cool name... probably beats
Bangkok... it's a saw-of-war...
                      who went fishing with me at am...
he was an alcoholic...
me? i charge my drinking into writing...
i drink and i write...
i contain the beast...
   he didn't... he drank for the sake of drinking...
i remember him ******* his trousers...
behaving like a lunatic... he couldn't keep control...
me? i have an elephant's memory...
someone tells me i did something...
i usually have written proof: no i didn't...
i was writing: THIS...
alcoholism is painful if you don't have a creative
output... i wouldn't recommend alcoholism
to anyone who doesn't have any outlet in
writing or painting...
i did an NVQ 2 course concerning crowd safety:
oh man... the return to the formality
of language to gain some bogus qualification...
drinking while taking this course
would be painful: the unoriginality of language
was unbearable...
but i wept through it....
   "wept"...

I'M STILL NOT WRITING ABOUT WHAT I WANTED
TO WRITE ABOUT!
when is this digress mechanism going to end...
is there a PRESS: THE END button anywhere?!

i'll try to pretend...
that this is the end...

                                                 right... breath... a long:
carrying breath... both body and soul...
   ambo corpus et anima... et spiritus-visus...

come 3am i ought to be sleeping...

so... i came across the garden come 11pm...
needing to be fed water...
i wish i owned cattle... flowers are plenty...
Sim... one door down came out...
with a black bag... how many rats did you kills?
i killed about 5... perhaps 6...
a narrative starting running in my mind...
i thought he thought: who's watering that garden
tonight? oh... it's Matthew...
it's not Miroslav...

                                   i drank a Beck's... smoked
a cigarette... started to water the garden in the cool
cold night of repose...
right...                 problem...
            i should have been a painter...
            the Walter Sickert exhibition really impressed me...
the early works and the nudes...
who isn't impressed by a painter's nudes?
so i'm watering the garden... a light comes on in
the bathroom of my neighbours' house one door down...

what's that term? for the glass? used in bathrooms?!
obscured... obscuring glass...
as if glass and water mingled...
or as if glass and water and air and fog were mingling...
i could see a shape...
at first i thought: oh ****... it's their mother...
but then i waited for a while...
the... the... i don't purposively "forget" nouns...
some nouns are just not practical:
i'm not about to use them!
  Heidegger's hammer metaphor shouldn't be solely
concerning: two labourers talking about philosophy
while labouring...
it should also be concerning:
two intellectual forgetting nouns...
allocating sign-language to explain...
that fidgety-"thing"... you know... i know?!
they... close door... language anti-verb all hieroglyphic
noun! OWL = NIGHT OPEN SLEEP....
that sort of *******...

        i'm drinking and i'm ***** again...
the glass used for windows of toilets...
what's her name again? i know she's Indian...
that's tragic... i have an oyster's spot of Indian and Turkish girls...
there comes a madness i can't control...
i hyper-focus on raven hair...
i used to hyper-focus on blonde hair:
enough blonde-hair rejections cured me of my childhood
past... now? i just own a blonde moustache...

in the gilded cage of the glass that's used for bathroom
windows...
she looked like a big girl...
at first i thought i was looking at her mother
washing herself... but then again: the "LUFCZIK"
was wide open... after she took her shower
she started pandering herself... applying cream
to her body... she raised her hands up...
ah... the most ****** aspect of a woman's body:
her hands...
i tend to look at a woman's hand's first...
hello: handshake-Geisha...
i count the arithmetic of knuckles...
girl: you must be missing my pinky knuckle...
i see... by the size of either of your hands
that i have the index, the middle and the ring fingers...
but you're missing the pinky extension...

clever Ovid: i might be envious of the "esteem"
of other men... but in your hands...
i'm: normal...
     "expected"....
                    i was supposed to water the garden...
i was... watering the garden...
but i took breaks...
it wasn't a pretty outline...
she looked like a ++ girls... bulging...
a beached whale type... contorts of her *******
as she detailed them with hand movements
making it necessary for them to be nurished
with moisture...
                   of cream of coconuts...
               this Sikh girl is my kind of stuffing...
i'll go mad for anything with her sort of
olive-complexion... with raven hair...
with eyes that discuss the origins of
                               the Sahara desert as:
once upon a time being an extensive mountain range...

i succumbed to a: pinguis-caput...
   fat head...
                 a headache without a headache...
my head was bulging...
                what's caput in ******?
that's it!
                   that's what it means...
so i'm watching her...
what do i see... her hands raised...
tender little Geisha "oopses"...
silver bracelet... to boot...
this glass is not a mirror...
                         contorts of her hair...
her torso... i best have been born a painter...
her ******* as she olives up...
i get drunk on the mere idea of drinking...

she looks like a big girl in the glass...
that's supposed to not invite onlookers...
i shouldn't be the one watering the garden...
not when she's taking a shower...
she's taking for ages...
i can wait...

           and she looks purposively:
she's pressing her ******* and ***
against the glass...
                                  it's like the universe
inverted upon itself, no?
i don't feel inclined to ingest
more hard-core *******...
i'm seeking subtler "stuff"...
                          something more mythical...
hide a naked body behind a strange glee
of glass... but just expose the hands...
the hands of a woman...
            modern ******* is a turn-off for me...
i'm always wanting to turn today
Italian classics... this modern "****"?
there's no float, there's no boat...
it's all sink... sink... sink...

                i was watering the flowers!
but she took almost 40 minutes out of my life
oiling herself!
                i'm thinking: the love of a brother for her sister...
when your sister is unwanted by other men....
and you need to find... an outlet: equivalent of
the qualification of man: to accept your sister?!

it takes me 1 litre of whiskey to fall asleep...
but i need to write first... concentrate...
my grandfather was an alcoholic too...
but... he didn't write under the influence...
           i can't imagine drinking without writing...
without...
            my god... her ******* seem so enlarged...
her torso... i wish i were a painter...
thank god there's no painting in existence
concerning what i saw...
mein! mein alles! my! my all!

at least my garden is illuminated...
all demons welcome...
                                      i don't even think i can
ever be "bored": i'm just the best "side" of...
"soaked" in what's exacting: soaking...
            a bite into an orange...
a bite into a watermelon...
                                      a wetted beard is easier
to brush with a comb...
                                    cats don't behave like dogs
should you have a rat problem.
Andrew Guzaldo c Jun 2018
"As you are concentrating long and adamantly,
As the gust sails of life’s empathies upon us,
That billow through our daily lives my dear,
Those elations we have to decide for imminent,

If this is the sail of misery you bequeath to me,
Than please my dear leave me at the shoreline,
The islet where my roots are that embrace me,    
With the wind sand and my tranquil waves afore,

But remember what you have done on this day,
I shall lift up my spirit here among what I know,
And I will set out to another land an islet of my own,  
If of every hour of a day realize that I am your destiny  

With all the implacable palatableness and love derived,
Each day a flower for her from the valley of flowers,
As our lips clung intensely to seek one another,
To share two lives as one is everyone’s fantasy,

An endless undertaking of understanding and reverence,  
Both must understand the different aspects of one another,
It is a dream of allocating one’s life but remember always,
Choose the sweetest drupe from the top of the sapling"
  BY AG 06/14/2018 ©
Ashwin Kumar Mar 2022
I have been working hard
For hours and hours
Days and days
Weeks and weeks
Combing every portal
Sending hundreds of mails
Speaking to hundreds of candidates
And yet I see no light
At the end of this extremely dark
And insanely long tunnel
I have sacrificed so much
Be it watching cricket
Or playing mobile video games
Or reading books
Or going for walks
Or exercising
Or even
Spending quality time with my family
Don't get me wrong
I love the work I'm doing
It is, after all, a wonderful learning experience
And will hold me in good stead
For the years to come
But surely you've got to admit
That I could use an extra pair of hands
To say that the company is short-staffed
Would be the understatement of the year
How long do you expect me to go on like this
Doing the work of at least two people?
After all, I am a human
Not a robot
So far, I may have been on the right track
But at some stage
I am bound to crack
And when I do
It is not only I who would suffer
But the company as well
You wouldn't want that, would you?
So, please hire more people soon
We need all the support we can get
And while allocating work
Please ensure that we don't end up biting more than we can chew
After all, we do love our work
But it is equally important
That the work loves us in turn
Dedicated to my boss.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
that's the second time i was offered to have a *******, i honestly wasn't ready for this one; Khedra was telling me that the girl with the glasses was in a good mood, she stressed it as: she's really, really in a good mood, how about you give us extra and i tell her to come up? i replied: i've just come back from a 12 hour shift, i'm only after a quickie... SLAP... well yeah! i slap her *** during *******, pinch her, bite her... i follow the Kama Sutra to an exactness, obviously i have read it... i know that some women don't get it, but the ones that do? well... it makes ******* all the more fun, after all, we're not slimy mollusks wriggling about, there's more to us than mere caressing and *******... you don't have to **** out all the alternative kinks, although... i'd love to enlarge the ****** to a full body latex suit... i'm not going to lie...

she clearly missed me, i missed her,
but when she came back she knew i was already with
two other girls, Michaela and... oh my god...
i forgot her name: but not her face...
the one that talked too much during ***...
i hate talking during ***:
i don't need "god" in the bedroom...
eyes speak for the eyes,
lips speak for the lips,
phallus speaks for the phallus...
etc.
            but in Khedra's presence i couldn't
just... pick someone else...
i picked her because i knew i'd be guaranteed
unprotected ***...
that's how the rock rolls as it were...
you establish a trust with a woman when
she sees your approach to hygiene...
and then she doesn't even bother asking for more
money... hell... oral and actual genital interaction
unprotected... i forgot how good it feels:
although, like i already mentioned:
i'm also a big fan of condoms...
why? you never know how a woman will
put it on... it varies so greatly...
one will **** it on... another will stretch it
and put it on... various techniques...
  some will look you in the eyes others prefer
not to look: probably reimagining you as
some monster...
i'm no Don Juan, not some Casanova:
my pockets are not that deep...
                        i'm a crustacean lover...
                               sure... if i had more money to shower,
buy gifts... alas: all i have is Ovid's lament
to girls... i can... give them a book of my poems...
a ****** gift, i know... but hey: beggars can't be choosers...
but i knew Khedra missed me...
why? she wanted to be on top this time round...
she usually wants me to arch over her
and do her... sorry: take her to the monastery
of missionaries from Portugal in Japan
(some ******* of my own, thinking)...
i was startled at the fact that i left a ******* imprint
in her...
she sat on my slid it in: right...
*****... it's like with bras... it takes rigid fingers
to undo a bra... the whole point of penetrating a woman's
******? you don't aim for the floral pattern for the *****:
that's for oral ***...
   for the gob to slobber all over it... tongue whirlwind...
when penetrating? you're basically "pretending"
to be aiming for the *******... the distance between
the ****** entry point and the ******* is pretty short...
it's strange how it works...
but i knew she missed me because she recognised
me... already two or three cowgirl giddy-up attempts
of her and she was having those hot-shivers...
she was quivering... hey!
she had to stop from time to time because:
the hot-shivers were attacking her...
    no... of course it wasn't a full ******... but a microcosm
of one...

point being: i didn't ask for permission to try all
the other girls... she told me, she told me:
YOU HAVE TO TRY ALL THE OTHER GIRLS...
she also asked me... tell me, truthfully:
which did you prefer? Michaela, the short fat
girl with ******* or the girl who was sitting opposite
me? the tall, legs to the heavens?
so i told her... the former...
i had a thing for this pornographic actress...
oddly enough also Romanian: Jasmine Black...
and i was like... i need to find me someone similar...
hey presto! Michaela!
the exact proportions: i wouldn't say fat,
i'd say: a pretty plump plum of a woman...

Khedra just kept slapping my chest...
i just kept slapping her ***... biting her chin:
the usual round of bollocking...
i'm done with the English approach to ***...
double standards: yeah: ooh ooh... keep it in the bedroom!
shh! shh! and then once in the bedroom!
all the ugly kinks come out...
all those ungodly conversations: "conversations"
about mummies, daddies and "god" knows what else...
there's no talking when i'm *******:
again... i will no desecrate the altar of this much
pleasure by bringing: and in the beginning there was
the word and the word was with god...
and it was... ever heard of an Eclectus or a Quaker
Parakeet talk, without man talking first?
no! in the beginning only the gods could talk...
mind you... hmm: ooh! ooh!
if Prometheus (the titan) brought down fire to men
and was punished for it by the gods...
who brought down the word (communication,
writing) down from the gods to be left among
men?! who?! who?!
was it not the jealous god, who's name i will not utter
but encrypt?! so the Hebrew deity
would be seen... in the Greek mind...
as a Titan! well... no wonder he's jealous:
the people who venerate him are constantly punished!
why? if Prometheus was punished for brining
to man the fire... the Hebrews are punished for the fact
that their deity brought down "telepathic" communication:
writing, scribbling... and the gods watched
on and saw: well... ****'s going to hit the fan proper
when they start scribbling graffiti on cement walls
thinking they're ****** clever...
dyslexia strong! they'll muddle up the sounds
and overcomplicate their spelling(s)!

i love it... writing *** and about the gods...
it's like the perfect combination for... ah ha ha: disaster...
the days of scientific rationalisation are over:
it's time to return to mythology -
look at it this way: mythology is the antithesis
of journalism: i'm sort of having a backlash
from all the journalism: degraded journalism,
tabloid rather than investigative journalism:
we're not talking high quality journalism
of All the President's Men... we're talking trash:
at best a journalist tells me that X happened at Y...
or there's the editorial section of a newspaper
where i get opinions: a cul de sac of opinions...
since, it's the "rhetoricians'" corner... what sort
of dialectic do you think newspapers allow?
    it's slim... with those "letters" to the editor...
journalism as shambles...

    as i'm writing this i'm gazing at the most beautiful
in heaven... a late summer lightning storm...
lightning without: either thunder or rain...
as if the sky was a giant jellyfish + brain and i'm seeing
it think... wrestle with itself...

- i honestly don't know why i allowed the *******
of my cats give them names...
but they stuck... shouldn't the owner of the pet give
his pet a name, rather than allow the ******* to name them?
QUORUS... honestly? it's not that bad...
quo rus: where are you going, Russian?
and he's ginger... fair enough... makes sense now...
but he's what? 7+ years old...
so... back in the day any conflict with Russia didn't
make sense... my cat's name just makes sense now...
i didn't name him... perhaps: qua rus,
id est: as being Russian... Quorus?! are you a Russian?!
last time i heard Maine ***** came from Maine:
north America...

mind you: Andrew Lloyd Webber got it spot on in
Cats... when he, or whoever did: wrote that cats don't
have one name, they have several names...
they have a name for whatever i feel like calling it...
my female Maine **** is usually
called ヤマモト (ya-ma-mo-to) whenever she's
imploring to be let in to the house:
but in her persistent silence, she just sits by the door
giving no indication to be let in...
i forget how many names i have given Quorus...
but i sometimes: secretly give him the name
******... but that's between me and him...
either ****** or AZRAEL... poor ******...
each time i go into the garden to refill my cup with ice-cubes...
i leave the bedroom: he's sleeping quietly
as if pretending to be a cushion...
the moment i leave he's up and standing on the spot
of the windowsill where i perch to drink and smoke...
looking out for me...
whether or not i will return or not...
then he'll jump onto the roof above the kitchen
and play the CERBERUS' role... watching the lightning
storm (without thunder or rain) with me...

hmm... what happened today?
today i was relaxing after a mammoth shift juggling
over the weekend... i didn't feel like doing much...
i cleaned the house... because i'm a ******* pedantic...
i need the house to be clean:
i can't allow my parents to clean the house for themselves:
my mother's arthritis doesn't allow me to just
leave a massive stink... mind you: it felt so pointless
vacuuming... i wasn't picking much dirt from
the floors... and then obviously mopping the floors...
i like the smell of citrus on wood...

then? a quick bicycle session on my Trek Merlin 5
"Rolls Royce"... recycling empty glass bottles...
buying a whiskey and some pepsi-cola...
oh... and some MAJOR good news...

what's for dinner? pizza... homemade, what else?!
there's probably one thing i love making more than
ice-cream... esp. mint choc-chip ice-cream...
one day i'll make me chocolate ice-cream...
i hate chocolate ice-cream...
i have this fine potent mint growing in my garden...
the ice-cream came out amazing:
i didn't even have to add any artificial colouring:
just the right sort of colour... pale green...
much much paler than the colour of my irises...

ENDLICH, REGEN!
         ich brauchen wasser für mein bäume im mein garten!

but there's only one thing that gives me more pleasure
than making ice-cream... ooh...
making pizza-dough! i love sculpting that
*** of a lazy lady of yeast... the smell of yeast
is about as intoxicating as the scent of wet
rosemary or thyme or mint in the night
when it rains and rains and rains...
nothing can compare to making pizza-dough:
well, apart from making mint choc-chip ice-cream...
or synthesising esters in a chemical laboratory...
or synthesising polyester...
the event horizon on that ***** of an experiment:
ha ha... two liquids... and you're just pinching
the "good stuff" from the two liquids not mixing...

like i told one coworker: i rather enjoy listening
to music when i fall asleep...
but... but.
if it starts raining? and i'm about to fall asleep?
the music is turned off and i fall into a lullaby
of a symphony of necessary tears...
some people would tell me that there's no Bach in rain:
i.e. that there's no polyphony that can be ascribed
to rain: i **** right disagree...
that's like saying the sound of the sea is the same
as the sound a river generates or for that matter
a lake... or... a foot stepping into a puddle...
or the sound of a waterfall...

it's only a Monday and i'm already exited for the week ahead...
i couldn't wait for today because i knew i would
be recharging... father's lunch for tomorrow?
sweet peppers and sliced iceberg salad as the base...
on top? pancetta, strawberries,
goat's cheese... figs... with a balsamic glaze dressing...
tomorrow? Khedra didn't appreciate my ****** outgrowths...
she told me, strictly: your kissing is prickling me...
i agreed... my moustache is too long...
i ought to know better... it becomes half a bother
and a bother fully to boot when my moustache
"wets itself" when i take a sip of ms. amber's metaphorical
**** juices...
of course i'm still growing the FU MANCHU...
upon strict orders of the Turk... my love-patch needs
to be as long as my actual beard... and my beard needs
to hide my entire neck...

so tomorrow... i'm excited about visiting my Turkish barber
and getting a trim...
that's tomorrow...
Thursday? i'm off to the brothel to ****... simple as
1 + 1 = 2... i'll do the West Ham shift, finish at 10:30 and
then get my silly ***** wet...
maybe have a *******, maybe not...
i'm paying back a debt... i already stashed half of it
(£200) in my writing desk... i'll take out £200 more tomorrow...
a ******* Lynyrd Skynyrd sing-along
when you're debt free and only working on a debt-system
without any credit... i never understood
the point of the credit system...
why, would, you, use, credit?
why, spend, money, you, don't, have?
after working level 5 at Wembley... for that... tribute
concert for Taylor Hawkings... the managers asked me...
do you suffer from vertigo?!
which vertigo?!
the height vertigo?! didn't i tell you that i used
to be a roofer?! i must have...

height vertigo? yeah... i sometimes have this wild "idea"
in my head when i'm standing at a decent amount of height...
my legs start trembling, i start to grip some barrier...
some stable object... why? i start thinking about jumping
down! that's my height "vertigo": i start thinking that:
just perhaps i have a parachute or an exoskeleton!
although i have another "vertigo": it's a monetary "vertigo"...
i hate to be in debt... i never spend on credit...
either i have the money and spend it...
or i don't have the money and, ergo: don't spend it...
i abhor monetary "vertigos"...
     of course i think about money...
some people are geologists... some people are economists...
it's not that hard to confuse the two,
equating: pebbles = coins...
after all... what are coins? if not peanuts... certainly not
peanuts... then most certainly pebbles:
nuggets of copper with insignia:
"things" of "value" that are only allocated value
because someone said so:
like the usual critique of religion... it's all man-made...
sure... and economy is also man-made...
i abhor gold: i could never don a gold ring on my fingers...

sure... press some gold into a circle...
slap a pretty face like that of ol' Lizzy on it! hey presto!
"value"... otherwise, what?
mind you: a tickling on my legs...
it finally started raining... a spider was made into
a... a... banana-boat man...
escaping conflict of rain... i picked him up from
my tickled leg... put him on my hand...
dropped him off on my private library's shelf...
on... level 3... the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam...
i should get some flies for him at some point...

eh... spiders... flies... foxes... it's not like they're
exotica that certain women like...
i just figured it out... the men women choose to mate
with... oh! it's so certainly most necessary
for the men to have "sleeves"... yeah... at least one
hand covered in tattoos! women love men with
sleeves... the only "tattoos" are on my brain...
but i've witnessed the aesthetic of reproduction...
on the sly... the men with sleeves get to...
oh this one dude... i could "hear" his testosterone being slurped
up when he was giving the duties of daddy
with the buggy watching over his 2 week old babe...
or that guy two doors down...
mate! you're ******! why? you mother-in-law
is coming to see you 5 times a day! you're living about
20 metres from her! you're ****** mate!
me? i have ms. amber and philosophy for company!
i don't think i could talk to a woman: "privately"
outside a specified environment...
sure... women try... we talk on shifts...
if i have to be cold and exacting: exclusive...
hell... this one manager tried it with me today...
blah blah this... blah blah that...
so i replied to his "ha ha": fair enough...
i'll be more EXCLUSIVE next time...
      
                     i know that they employ complete air-heads...
retards... and they are licesened as security "guards":
i was telling my coworker: i'm really reluctant to get
the "baddge"... for (1) the hours are longer...
for (2) the pay is not much greater...
for (3) i only want to do this part-time,
don't get me wrong... it's great... but it's only great
when i say it's great... not when "management"
tells me it's "great"....
there's probably a point (4) and a point (5)...
but... ah... whatever...

hmm... it's back to Andrew Lloyd Webber
and the Cats musical lyrics,
coupled with the 13th Warrior transcript...
between
            Ahmed íbn Fahdlan íbn...
  and Herger... íbn this íbn that... name? IBN...
ha ha... that's like with cats...
Quorus "íbn" AZAEL "íbn" AZRAEL "íbn"
RYCERZ ZAKUTY-ŁEB....
   i.e. knight-mutton-headed...
a mutton-headed-"knight"...
                 chained-head... i too thought that
cats ought to be by the fireplace when it rains...
this one? prefers the company of the activities' of dogs...
i wish i owned a dog... instead?
i own a cat with an invisible leash...
he doesn't go far... i wish i owned a dog for the simple
reason that he might eat what i ate: letft-overs...

but i can't wait for Wednesday... the woman doing
my mother's nails called up: she's having trouble with her
1 year old toddler...
it was supposed to be a Saturday for my mother
getting her nails done...
i just sat there...
she can do Wednesday... but she has to drop off her
autistic older girl and come with "that" BAHOR
(crying baby) to a manicure and pedicure session...
but the baby is a RUGRAT... a little DEMON...
ooh! ooh!
me me! me me!
i just heard that there might be an issue...
i jumped in my head: hit the imaginary ceiling
then came back down (no glass)... i can do it!

come to think of it... cats are predictable creatures...
why? they're changeless...
but babies?! oh wow! it's like i'm back
in a chemistry lab... but instead of dealing
with potent substances... i'm dealing
with the "non-existence" of a soul!
i love it! i love it more than slapping prostitutes
riding me while they slap me in the face
and i slap them in the ***...
that's not true... the only girl that ever slapped me
in the face was Ilona... a Russian rich girl poor boy's wet-dream...
Khedra slapped me in the more appropriate place
while admiring my chest and stomach hair...
pinching my *******...

i'm going to have the time of my life on Wednesday...
i'll be baby-sitting! what's wrong with baby-sitting!
at worsst and at best she'll be pulling at my beard
and i'll be reversing the "talking parrot" sounds
of mimic... i'll be clucking... she'll be clucking back...
i'm too STEM orientated to think about life
subjectively... i'll be a male with a baby in my arms
on Wednesday... and a ******* in my arms
on a Thursday...

of course i'm going to take a picture!
i love babies... it will be so unlike petting a cat...
but it will be like petting a cat...
but unlike a cat: babies are forever unpredictable...
i'll slow down on drinking the "amber juice":
why? i want to have some fun with a baby...
i hope we can do whatever it necessary to
not relate... like the memory of my great-grandfather
in the kindergarten... him as a shadow
playing the big piano and me playing the toy piano...

MALVINA... that's the BAMBINO'S name...
the first girl i ever fell in love with:
i must have have been 6.... she was this albino blonde...
and her name was MALVINA...
this is going to be such a trip (if it happens)...
she's going to be pulling at my beard...
i'll be looking into her eyes
of disorientation...
thank god... she's not mine...
i can gladly keep watch of children that don't belong
to me... more willingly than you think...
i couldn't... some ideas need brushing up on...
i need to keep an eye on those...
but... from time to time?
if i get to become a baby-sitter?
i'll be a baby-sitter...
it's a welcome alternative to having to please
prostitutes...

hmph!
perhaps i'm an arrogant "****"... today i walked to
the local saying good-afternoon to one old woman...
saying another hello
to: hello Matthew... hello Matthew...
we grabbed each other's hands like in the 1950s
movies... when two Roman noblemen greet each
other... i.e. shook arms instead of hands...
we pulled the left hand on top of the hands
shaking: so? the four-hand-greeting...

there's something special about acquiring the "familial":
locus orientation that 20th century cosmopolitan
existentialism simply missed...
i can't wait for Wednesday... twice: thrice better than
sleeping with prostitutes... a sample of fatherhood...
i just... eh... what can you do?
it's not up to me... is it?
i can't exactly make women choose what's
to be chosen... if they chase after idiots.. idiotic times...
i came to one single mother once...
the one that "thought" she smelled alcohol on me...
i came back to her:
with homemade wine: cloudy... so? i chose
Franziskaner Hefe Weissbier...
you, girl, are going to drink my homemade:
cloudy wine... i'll drink...
a coorporaate cloudy beer with you...
single mum... her son's name? Friedrich...
i read his poem out-loud to him...
i also brought around a homemade banana loaf...
***** wasn't buying the myth...
oh well...  a guy comes round on a bicycle:
he has a banana loaf... homemade wine (cloudy)...

there's this much of love i am willing to give!
beyond that... ON YOUR, *******, WAY!
there's no point!
you've been hurt, i've been hurt... no!
i'm happy to just deal with a woman who needs
baby-sitting... doing my mother's nails...
needing someone to take take of her baby...
i'll do! i'll do! i'll do it!

it's ******* sad... for however much you want
to love: you're told to love less...
and by the same amount of "less":
you're asked to love "more"!

to love as yourself: you're never going to love
yourself as there might be a male "self"
to speak of: you ******* idiot!
you're a ******* toothpick in the waterfall!
i'm not saying "man-up": i'm just saying...
there are reality checks in place...
why do you think all the grandmas are *******
grandmas beginning and ending with?
where are the men?
in, a place, allocating, the most, bothered, men...
their... safeguard... from... interacting... with...
women....
me? i like to be the mediator...
that's me... between ******* and toddler...
eh... "ring baron" of a woman of: "beached whale"
value... what?!

that's Wednesday though... toddler Malvine is
here on Wednesday...
tomorrow's a Tuesday... that's a trip to Istanbul
for a beard trim...

i lost my beard-envy when i heard this one
Arab colt say: i love your beard, sir!
sir?! beard? i have a beard?!
i need to trim my mustache to kiss her in a way
she wants to be kissed...
but a beard?
i can't wait for Malvina... the toddler...
i want those:
chubby-bubbly-bub-bub-cheeks pressed
against mine... pretending to be a father
knowing that i'm not: a father...

i want cheese on top of the toast!
i want to keep all the Talmud secrets,
i want to keep the secrecies of babies
akin to the alignment of women.

p.s. and i have to agree with Bukowski in his
wisened post-mortem publication about
"going all the way"... there's no battle worth fighting
except with oneself... going all the way...
writing into the night... watching a lightning
storm: hearing no thunder...
thunder eluded me yesterday: there was only
lightning and then the glorious fall of rain...
in his own words:
and you will: you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame fire...

i am alone: i am not alone... i'm writing this post-scriptum
during the day because i felt that the night
was too beautiful to waste it upon completing
this "little effort"...

i just can't wait for tomorrow...
i'll take a picture of the two of us on the grass...
hopefully i'll get her mother's approval to jump
into the hot-tub with her... my little BAMBINO...

hmm... why is it that babies are as generic as old people?
when we're born we have universal needs...
when we're at the closure of our mortality:
it's all the same for either man and woman...
babies look alike: whether male or female,
the same is true for old people...
it's only in our prime that we seek out diverged
***-based needs...
men want particular things
as women want particular things...
men crave solace in aloneness...
women despise any talk of solance
equating aloneness with loneliness...

   what happened to the inquisitive old men
of antiquity akin to Socrates?
why have men not bothered to inquire about the intellect
when all their youthful toils of the body
have been completed? it's so stereotypical
of middle-aged men to assume that philosophy
books ought to be read in old age...
nope... that's completely untrue...
philosophy books ought to be read in a man's
20s... and by the time a man is ripened for old age...
he ought to be able to mix his early reading of philosophy
books (a priori) with his experience of life
(a posteriori)...

but it's not enough to simply say: logic... philosophy...
reason...
the Chinese Taoist sages covered pretty much everything
that modern science: finally caught up with...
what's ontology in Chinese philosophy? XING...
what's inherently me...
no... whatever the current trend is in western thinking:
implosive "western" & "thinking" i will perform the rite
of Pontius Pilate over... i will wash my hands clean
of the whole affair... this pseudo-intellectualism
this... GAME... of "GRAMMAR"...
there are far more interesting categories of words
than simply pronouns... nouns: for a start are more
interesting... how there's very little chance to catch
a diminutive noun in English... hey! that's a start!

you can't say beak (of a bird) in a way that beak:
allocated a diminutive suffix to the noun...
you have to say: little beak...
ah... but in other languages you can do just that!

dziób - beak... the diminutive being?
   dziobek... little beak...
                                             like i explained to this
older Turkish woman i was working a shift with
(god i fancied her, only later did i find out that she was
Turkish... that doe with fear in her eyes...
i still fancy her...) when she asked me about my accent...
i told her: to have an Essex accent you have to be born
in Essex... she lives in Kent and the Essex lads are
horrid to her... but i told her: since i'm bilingual...
there's this natural buffer zone for me to not have
a localised accent... i can have an generic: cosmopolitan
London accent... but even then... i'm a chameleon...

ha! to think that i didn't ask for permission to **** other
girls: Khedra actually demanded it!
she told me: you have to try all of them...
her ******* habbit and harking at non-existent phlegm
from her throat and nose...
well: good that i don't like *******...
enough of caffeine and nicotine is just about the same
for me...
the moment she mentioned having a *******
i was like... this second time ought to be better...
the first time i wasn't prepared...
i'll juggle the finances and take out more next time...
first time? with all that ****** changes i was sort
of disorientated...

but i can't wait for tomorrow... why?
i'll be babysitting! i'll have a BAMBINO to look after...
this gorgeous woman is coming over to
do my mother's nails...
she wouldn't have come because her bambino
is so much hassle these days...
as my mother was talking i was erratically nodding:
please bring her! please bring her!
i won't be drinking too much tonight...
i need to wake up at 7am and make an important
phone-call come 8am... then i'll wait...

seriously... that's the best dichotomy of: the life
of the other in your hands...
from slapping and biting prostitutes to then ensuring
my large hands take to tender care of a baby...
ooh! i'm sizzling with giggles and burps and farts
and stomach gurgling sensations...
i'll put on some vinyl record for her...
i'll focus a bright light on my little Frankenstein...
i'll bring down the word from on high into
her ears and then through her mouth
i'll try to steal the first word from her mother's
attempt at communication...
she already performed a mimic of me when i started clucking
my tongue... she clucked back:
the cluck of a horse buckling on cobblestones...

i'll have my little Frankenstein experiment...
i'll work around words and settle for onomatopoeias
first... i'll imitate sounds that humans are allowed
to make... it will be like going to a brothel:
but better... better still: it won't be my child...
it will be someone else's child...

come to think of it... it almost feels like that scene
from Game of Thrones... when a baby is brought before
the Night King... it will be such a welcome break from
the already idiosyncratic, unique character of my cats...
i can't change them: not that i can change a cat's ontology...
or for that matter being able to change Quarus...
ibn ****** ibn Azreal...
                 but i can travel to the moon and Antartica with
this baby... i can revel in leaving my first footprint
in the psyche of this child: not mine...
grant me the bare minimum of at least 3 hours
with this loose canon of an **** that will probably ****
the entire length of the Thames' river...

nothing to do today, cleaned the house yesterday,
there's still plenty of left-over pizza...
i worked the entire weekend... even yesterday
i didn't drink that much... but my body went into shutdown
relax mode... i went to bed at 12am and got up at 12pm...
Show Me Love crushed me...
walking around so many women fried my brain...
the moment one approached me for a handshake
and a wave another approached me to dance with her
then another approached me to "face the mirror"
and make me smile while doing a mirror-wriggling dance...
not even in the brothel did i see so much:
ripe, flesh...
by the end i was exhausted like a Solomon might...
3 years later... one for each night... and he still didn't
manage to make the rounds of his harem...
so? well... back in the day they didn't have ******...
so? he asked for a few willing men to be castrated...
he cut their ***** off and said: here... be their playthings...
otherwise female homosexuality will not allow me
their arousal upon my return!

well... sometimes a little bit of bitterness does seep into me,
it comes in, but: it does take off its shoes,
it asks me whether it can smoke a cigarette,
it does all the very formal things i except certain states
of mind to allow me to "challenge"... it only comes
when a woman ponders my state: why aren't you still
married?
i swollow the "pill" and in turn ponder...
hmm... why? why?                       hmm... why?
isn't it obvious?
                             i could swear it was obvious!

the best conversations i ever had were with myself:
on paper... akin to this...
the cost of living is not worth putting too many hours
into working...
working is far better than stealing...
but i'm also not going to follow the route of rich people:
how do rich people get rich?
through loop holes that poor people can't navigate...
like my neighbour (who killed my cat)
she only own an off-license shop...
   but she... blah blah... she had three "bulgaries"
in the past 4 years... some that happened at noon...
some in the middle of the night: me? i'm usually perched on
my windowsill until 4am... i saw jack-****...
evidently: a scam...
                  
born into a Catholicism: yet i have retained all the Protestant
traits of honesty... even i once exclaimed
that England "used" to be a high-trust society...
it still might be: but in London you better have
double-standards... esp. with the Somalis taking breaks
on shifts... some you can oil-up toward your
persuasions about work by managing to
give them free food... otherwise... Sisyphus at his toil...

until tomorrow Malvina... until tomorrow my temp.
joy of a Bambino.
S Smoothie Sep 2021
The Jewels of light write stories of distant news

Allocating a devine truth through constant and wandering stars

And somewhere through all the spangled distance
I feel as though I've been there

*

Somewhere there's a whisper
Calling me home

Kissing my forehead
And wrapping my soul
My heart yearns

*

My mind longing for clarity sends a prayer

An epigenetic frequency fired into the cosmos

Hairs stand at attention

Reception

A loving truth pours through my soul

A knowing


That is all.
A few wealthy men,
Running around with power,
Laughing in the face of poverty,
Dressed in green and white and green;

A few powerful men,
Strutting around with fat wallets,
Sharing promises to the hopeless,
Allocating lies dressed in dishonesty;

A lot of angry people,
Hungry for something to believe in,
Never known a life of meaning,
Desperate for the chance of a lifetime.
Many people around here are either waiting to get into power to acquire stupendous wealth or already in power acquiring wealth stupendously.

With a population alleged to be two hundred million and more, you can imagine the level of frustration among those outside the one percent at the top that will, maybe, never exit the ninety-nine percent at the bottom.
☰☰☰☰☰☰✈ The U.S. govt. sacrificed 3,000 soldiers at Pearl Harbor in 1941 to the Empire of Japan; the U.S. govt. poisons and adulterates our water with the waste product sodium fluoride and the blood intoxicant known as lithium (as well as innumerable heavy metals and pesticides). The U.S. govt. clouds the skies with aluminum oxide and barium salt. I am able and willing to turn YOU over to Iraq's citizens for dispensation. ****** is ******. The murdering of children is especially abhorrent.

WEB: In the long run, routine deception by the police tears at our social fabric, and undermines the law enforcement system. The more police lie, the more skeptical juries are going to be, even when police are telling the truth.

“War is coming. 1941, they say...It's all going to happen. All the things you've got at the back of your mind, the things you're terrified of, the things that you tell yourself are just a nightmare or only happen in foreign countries. The bombs, the food-queues, the rubber truncheons, the barbed wire, the coloured shirts, the slogans, the enormous faces, the machine-guns squirting out of bedroom windows. It's all going to happen.” – George Orwell: Coming Up for Air p. 274

Dave Foreman, Earth First : “My three main goals would be to reduce human population to about 100 million worldwide, destroy the industrial infrastructure and see wilderness, with its full complement of species, returning throughout the world.”

David Brower, first Executive Director of the Sierra Club: “Childbearing [should be] a punishable crime against society, unless the parents hold a government license … All potential parents [should be] required to use contraceptive chemicals, the government issuing antidotes to citizens chosen for childbearing.”

Bill Maher: “I’m pro-choice, I’m for assisted suicide, I’m for regular suicide, I’m for whatever gets the freeway moving – that’s what I’m for. It’s too crowded, the planet is too crowded and we need to promote death.”

Democrat strategist Steven Rattner: “WE need death panels. Well, maybe not death panels, exactly, but unless we start allocating health care resources more prudently — rationing, by its proper name — the exploding cost of Medicare will swamp the federal budget.”

Barack Obama’s primary science adviser, John  Holdren: “A program of sterilizing women after their second or third child, despite the relatively greater difficulty of the operation than vasectomy, might be easier to implement than trying to sterilize men. The development of a long-term sterilizing capsule that could be implanted under the skin and removed when pregnancy is desired opens additional possibilities for coercive fertility control. The capsule could be implanted at puberty and might be removable, with official permission, for a limited number of births.”

Finnish environmentalist Pentti Linkola: “If there were a button I could press, I would sacrifice myself without hesitating if it meant millions of people would die.”

Also, by eugenist Peter Singer: “Some people carry genes that mean any children they produce will be severely mentally *******. As long as the lives of these children are pleasant, it would not, according to the replaceability argument, be wrong to perform a scientific experiment on a child that resulted in the death of the child, provided another child could be conceived to take its place.”


The border that separates Haiti & the Dominican Republic, on the 29,530 square mile Island of Hispaniola, is ruthlessly guarded.


President Richard Nixon Tape #697-29

Nixon: “A majority of people in Colorado voted for abortion, I think a majority of people in Michigan are for abortion, I think in both cases, well, certainly in Michigan they will vote for it because they think that what’s going to be aborted generally are the little black *******.”

Nixon Tape #700-10

Nixon:  “… as I told you and we talked about it earlier, that a hell of a lot of people want to control all the ***** *******.”
Azra Ajmal Apr 2020
To the moon up there
Calm quiet all night ,

Readily,
Swaying my nostalgies,
Gushing over the past
Reminiscing my secrets
Always safe,
by you  ,only you

It's all of you
I sleep content
Allocating my pains
And gains
Untold to any and
Always safe by you.

Thankyou for being up there
My little chum
Love moon
S Smoothie Sep 2021
The Jewels of light write stories of distant news

Allocating a devine truth through constant and wandering stars

And some where through all the spangled distance
I feel as though I've been there
Somewhere there's a whisper
Calling me home
Kissing my forehead
And wrapping my soul
My heart yearns



My mind longing for clarity sends a prayer
An epigenetic frequency fired into the cosmos

Hairs stand at attention

Reception...

A loving truth pouring through my soul

A knowing

That is all.

— The End —