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judy smith Jul 2016
The 9.6 million followers who tune in to watch Miranda Kerr having her hair done on Instagram — for this is how models spend most of their time — were treated to a rather more interesting sight last Thursday: a black and white photograph of a whacking great diamond ring.

Across it was the caption “Marry me!” and a twee animation of the tech mogul Evan Spiegel on bended knee. Underneath Kerr had typed “I said yes!!!” and an explosion of heart emojis.

A spokesman for Spiegel, founder of the Snapchat mobile app, who is 26 to Kerr’s 33 and worth $US 2.1 billion to her $US 42.5 million , revealed “they are very happy”.

At first, the marriage seems an unlikely combination: a man so bright he founded Snapchat while still at Stanford University, becoming one of the world’s youngest self-made billionaires by 22, and a Victoria’s Secret model who was previously married to the Pirates of the Caribbean star Orlando Bloom (she allegedly had a fling with pop brat Justin Bieber, leading Bloom to punch Beebs in a posh Ibiza restaurant).

Perhaps the union indicates that there is more to Kerr than we thought. More likely, it reveals something about Spiegel — and the way the social status of “geeks” has changed.

Since Steve Jobs made computers cool and Millennials started living online, nerds are king. Even coding is **** enough for the model Karlie Kloss, singer will.i.am and actor Ashton Kutcher to learn it. Silicon Valley has become the new Hollywood, as moguls and social media barons take over from film stars and sportsmen not just on rich lists, but as alpha men.

Being a co-founder of a company is this decade’s equivalent to being a rock star or a chef. And, if their attractiveness to models and actresses proves anything, then being a Twag — tech wife or girlfriend — is a “thing”. Sources tell me Twags are also known as “founder-hounders” because they like to date the creators of start-up companies.

Actress Talulah Riley was an early adopter. She started dating the PayPal founder Elon Musk in 2008. Riley, then fresh from starring in the St Trinian’s film, met Musk in London’s Whisky Mist nightclub after he had delivered a lecture at the Royal Aeronautical Society. I interviewed her shortly afterwards and she told me they had spent the evening talking about “quantum physics”. A month later they were engaged. Their on-again-off-again marriage lasted six years before she filed for divorce again in March. Currently Musk, worth an estimated $US 12.7 billion and focused on Tesla cars, is said to be “spending a lot of time” with Johnny Depp’s estranged wife, Amber Heard.

Model Lily Cole dated the Twitter founder Jack Dorsey in 2013. Later she had a son with Kwame Ferreira, founder of the digital innovation agency Kwamecorp. Actress Emma Watson is going out with William Knight, an “adventurer” who has an incredibly boringly sounding job as a senior manager at Medallia, a software company. Allison Williams, Marnie in the HBO television show Girls, is married to Ricky Van Veen, co-founder of College Humor website.

Could it be that these women are onto something? Dating a bro certainly has its appeal. They are innovative: how else would they invent apps that deliver cheese toasties or match singles based on their haircuts? They are risk-takers who must be charismatic enough to inspire investors and attract crowd-funding. They may not be gym-fit, but they are mathletes who can do your tax bill. They are animal lovers: every start-up is dog friendly. And they are fun: who would not want to date somebody with a ball pool in their office?

There is a saying about dating in Silicon Valley: the odds are good but the goods are odd. Nerds are notorious for peculiar chat-up lines and normcore clothes. Still, if geeks can be awkward, that is part of their charm. Keira Knightley, complaining that Silicon Valley was all men in hoodies and Crocs, described how one gave her his card, saying she should get in touch if she wanted to see a spaceship.

One Vogue writer recalled a Silicon Valley man messaging her via a dating app, in which he noted: “In 50 per cent of your photos you’re holding an iPhone. It may interest you to find out that I invented the iPhone. More accurately I was an engineer on the original iPhone . . .”

Most promisingly, some guys are astoundingly rich. It is suggested Kerr’s engagement ring is a 2.5-carat diamond worth around dollars 55,000. She has already moved into Spiegel’s dollars 12m LA pad. Between his money and her Victoria’s Secrets bridesmaids, no wonder sources claim they are planning an “extravagant wedding”.

It might rival even the Napster founder Sean Parker’s $US10m performance-art bash. He married songwriter Alexandra Lenas in a canopy among Big Sur’s redwoods decorated to look like an enchanted forest. Some 350 guests wore Tolkienesque costumes created by The Lord of the Rings costume designer Ngila Dickson. They sat on white fur rugs and were given bunnies to pet. Presumably rabbit babysitters were on hand when the disco started.

If such fantasies inspire you to become a Twag, the great news is you do not have to be a supermodel to be in with a chance. Such is the dearth of single women in Silicon Valley that one dating site, Dating Ring, crowdfunded a plane to fly single women to Palo Alto from New York.

Be warned, though: guys are single because they are married to the job.

No wonder most meet their partners at college or work — the Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg met his wife, Priscilla Chan, at Harvard.

The Instagram co-founder Kevin Systrom met girlfriend Nicole Schuetz at Stanford. Melinda met Bill Gates when, in 1987, they sat next to each other at an Expo trade-fair dinner. “He was funnier than I expected him to be,” she said.

Kerr began dating Spiegel in 2014 after meeting him at a Louis Vuitton dinner in New York. You can bet he was networking. Shortly after Louis Vuitton showcased their cruise collection in a Snapchat story. Last season Snapchat went on to become the biggest new name at NY fashion week.

If you want to meet tech guys, you might catch them at Silicon Valley parties, which is how the Uber chief executive Travis Kalanick met his partner, Gabi Holzwarth, a violinist hired to play. Or they might be schmoozing clients downtown in a swanky Noe Valley club in San Francisco or a boring Union Square hotel in New York. In London you find them around Old Street, aka Silicon Roundabout, in bars, at hackathons, or start-up meet-ups. In the day they are coding at Google Campus or practising their pitching in a co-working space.

Some tech boys date the old-fashioned way: on Tinder. Airbnb founder Brian Chesky met his girlfriend of three years, Elissa Patel, through the app. When I interviewed Instagram co-founder Systrom he admitted that when he had been single he had signed up.

Dating agency Linx — presumably a play on operating system Linux — is dedicated to making Silicon Valley matches. Amy Andersen set it up in 2003 after moving to Palo Alto and being “flabbergasted” by the number of eligible men. She claims her clients are “extremely dynamic and successful individuals’’: tech founders, tech chief executives, financier founding partners of large institutions and “tons of entrepreneurs”.

Andersen says tech guys make “fabulous partners”. Romantic and chivalrous, they write love letters, plan dates, “even proposing on Snapchat!” If you want to marry a tech billionaire, she says, “you need to bring your A game.” Her clients look “for women who are equally, if not more, dynamic and interesting than he is!”

There are drawbacks to dating tech guys. Before Google buys your amore’s business, he will be living on *** Noodles waiting for the next round of funding — and workaholics are dull.

Kerr says Spiegel is “25, but he acts like he’s 50. He’s not out partying. He goes to work in Venice [Beach], he comes home. We don’t go out. We’d rather be at home and have dinner, go to bed early.” Which might suit Kerr, but is not my idea of a fun.

You had also better be prepared to share your life. When Priscilla Chan miscarried three times, Mark Zuckerberg wrote about it on Facebook, while Chesky used a romantic trip with his girlfriend to promote Airbnb - uploading a picture of her in bed, with a note saying “f* hotels”. Besides all of which is the notorious issue of Silicon Valley sexism.

It has a chief exec-bro culture that puts pick-up artist/comedian Dapper Laughs to shame. Ninety per cent of women working in the Valley say they have witnessed sexist behaviour, 60 per cent have experienced unwanted ****** advances at work, two thirds of them from their boss. Whitney Wolfe, a co-founder of Tinder, took Justin Mateen to court for ****** harassment. Her lawsuit against the company alleged that Mateen, her former partner, sent text messages calling her a “*****”.

Spiegel has tech bro form. He apologised after emails from his days at Stanford emerged: missives about stripper poles, getting black-out drunk, shooting lasers at “fat chicks”, and promising to “roll a blunt for whoever sees the most **** tonight (Sunday)”. After one fraternity Hawaiian luau party, he signed off emails “f*
bitchesgetleid”.

No wonder some women are not inspired to become Twags. Especially when you could be a tech billionaire yourself. Would you not rather be Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, than married to the boss?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Matt Jan 2015
Master archer
Lars Andersen
Fires with such accuracy and speed
It is truly amazing!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEG-ly9tQGk
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
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        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.guess i must have hit the vein, nay, a ******* artery, must have gobbled down an oyster, muscle and brains altogether, simultaneously!

i have one, only one pet peeve...
that casual mainstream media
expression...

    but it's the 21st century!

i get the bollocking frizzle of
***** hair, translated into Janissary ******
attire... excited...

what the **** are you talking
about?

   21st century, what?
we're in our infancy!
            and what came prior?
you seem to forget the first half
of the 20th century,
and bulk in cultural
              expropriation of other
nations...

   us Poles had 100 years if liberty,
thank you very much...
we're not about to do the German
hip Berliner St. Vitus dance
magic, just yet...

******* hippies...

       Solidarity movement
pamphleteers, migrants of Florida,
bias, you name them...
yeah... "heroes"...

                    ******* usurpers,
Judases...
             and from the city i was born into...
where's the ******* metallurgy?
export of cheap labor,
originating in Spain!
      how's the youth unemployment
working for the Spaniards?
good? good good...
goof ******* *****!
   no say cheese in Swiss German
and show us the 42 teeth of over-perfecting
that schmile!

        Swiss guard, up & ****!
*******...

       i hate the sophistry,
loath it, baron over it...
this but it's the 21st century...
what sort of excuse is it?!
   there's not excuse!

                 reverting back to covert
popularization of prostitution?
even the Bulgar prostitutes lie,
about being Romanian,
i never tell them,
even though the word, dobrze...
   o.k,
    хорошо...
   is not a romanian word...
    you lie, you fry...
         i'm actually fond of making
chicken hearts, and pork liver sauces...
i can work the stoves...
             **** it... give me any meat,
i'll fry it... make a garlic onion sauce
out of it...
    nee bother...
   strawberries?
perfect fruit for smoothies...
tried it, just today,
with nein (nine) passiot fruits,
and an arithmetic for the one hand
including strawberries...
         crème fraîche replacing
yoghurt...
                          milk,
milk milk milk milk...

but...

what's the ******* excuse,
for making excuses of the 21st century
as the ******* pinnacle?
will the 22nd century look
fondly on us?
  
i'm only looking fondly for the death
of Lizzy II with much
anticipation, because of,
what i assume will not be the case
of Chuckles III,
rather, Georgie VII...

the 20th century passed...
what sort of excuse, in liberal terms...
is there to posit,
for keeping the Greenwich Mean Time?
frankly?
  the ******* excuse i've ever, ever,
heard!
         it's the 21st century...
whoop-tee-doo-daa
                        (H)    (H) -
told you... without the (YW) -
a god that's a vowel catcher...
or pivot for laughter...
can't get more hebrew-philic than i.

i ******* loath the: but it's the 21st century
argument...
    lost the italic lettering and the colon
from the use of bold -
monarchy?
  well, suit up & boot up
for the transgressive pomp & circumstance,
that alternative
to pride & prejudice...

  ha ha!
            god... laughing at oneself
is probably the only cure there ever will be...

but come on!
the: but it's the 21st century!
  
what sort of, argument, is that?
  it's not like ontology begot
an x-men algebraic variation,
an exponential derivative,
    a Holmes' hound of a bag of
necessary excuses!
      some ******-evolutionary leap
of benevolence
to excuse a connection of peer-to-peer
connectivity,
somehow erasing the 20th
century, and ennobling a... "fresh start"
with 21 as the fore!

i might be a peasant,
and i might drink to excesses some
people would wish they could
muster a stamina for...

  but please, leave the fairy tales to
the Danes,
  hans christian andersen and their
Grimm bro. counterparts...

but it's the 21st century...
**** me...
    you mean the ****-up century?!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i once loved, and it's a shame to
agree to: better have loved and lost,
than to have not loved at all.
and as i browse the pages of
a saturday newspaper article
i like to think about virology applied
to mental illness...
and how they: life is ****
   story could really be a viral infection...
i don't know, it's not exactly
h.i.v.,
                oh i can contain my own
*******, i'm writing it on the flag
of colour white,
next time you get a brain haemorrhage
and then get diagnoses as schizophrenic:
i'll take you the crucifix on golgotha:
and imbed your head into
the cross... silent anger, contained:
and all the more concern for inhibited
humour... because as Borat said: jak sie mash:
i like. so please, don't tell me
you weren't gagging for the new golgotha...
because i wasn't...
         and i know, most of the time i have
my mouth attached to a head of a struś
gagging himself in a pit of sand...
yes an ostrich, the grand inspiration for
francis bacon attempts to redefine geometry...
oh coming out of communism and into
capitalism, for a kid?, can be a rough ride...
you don't know what ideology to appease
and what ideology to dictate...
         but i'm wondering whether or not
mental illness can have the potency to
        become virus-like...
     and drain,
and i mean: drain the soul out of you...
or whether man as mammal ever did exist...
or whether this new fashion of
feline existentialism can ever take off,
narratives about spending time with your
bonsai tiger... you'd really think japan was
a bit freakish... but it just has a large
ageing population and no one thinks
that euthanasia is a standard of humanism,
unlike ******* ***** into a face of
a woman... because right there, no
one died... if had any of those anemic
tadpoles actually lived...
    which brings this about to concern me:
so... we live for nine months, in, let's
basically say: in an environment without
oxygen, you got gills stashed in there
with that umbilical chord...
how can it ever be a miracle of birth...
that's what a god might say...
a human would look at it and say:
huh? you joking? i'm part of this horror?
     but not until you have a brain
haemorrhage and get diagnosed as schizoid
and then you think: so what was the point
of forgiving your enemies come into this?
      i can't believe it has become so, so personal,
to actually have this nagging, decapitated
doll-head on your shoulder telling you to:
repeat! repeat!
       i could literally be writing this in
Auschwitz and be like: Neddy needs a jumper
and a diaper... cos like that really needs
you to fathom the logic of assembling an
Ikea chair...
                          i mean, talking in the west
is a bit like farting into a hippotamous' nostril
for a ******* jackuzi effect...
  jack! i said ***! what's with this jacuzzi?
English, mein gott... confusion everywhere
you pigeon **** onto a top-hat.
by the way: everyone becomes
dyslexic on the word hippopotamus -
there's a reason why hippos exist...
        you want acronyms, you get shortening...
and yes, since english society has abolished
asylums, the society has become a breeding
ground for asylum instigators,
rich russians, bewildered chienese...
it's en masse, one, massive, cesspit...
   i mean the part where you don't get the brown
steamturd floating about like some
  celebrity you'd love to slap with much
more than mere paparazzi epilepsy...
because violence matters, esp into language games...
i was just asking, because there i was,
working on a roof on some construction site,
and she calls me up and says that
she hears voices...
          that's what i mean certain mental
delinquents and their choice of Samaritan...
  what does a roofer know about "voices"
if it doesn't equate to a bad conscience?
    that's why i'm wondering whether certain mental
illnesses have a virus-like profanity attached to them...
oh yes yes, the unison: bob marley: we're one
type of ******* to boot, like i'm supposed to get
a hardy and a 'ard on about it...
               ******* spoof of a light-bulb moment: PING!
and there... ain't that just dazzling?
phantasmagorical blurp at the feet of
Eros at Piccadilly Circus... my ego is a canon
that just simply shoots out viagras! and questions.
and yes... that's what we call being part
of the clown...
    and if there's a lord of flies...
what's the guy mentioned by beelzebub drunk
doing about the mosquitos?
           ah... boundless at the crucix, once more!
i'm just wondering where
does mental illness become solipsism,
  and when in fact it becomes a sort of virology...
   i can romanticise mental illness as a type
of solipsism, that it has a cage, that it can be contained...
but when mental illness goes outside of the novel,
strolls outside its cage and becomes
something akin to kissing a *****,
     i want to know.... because i swear i have been
affected by someone's mental illness being
hidden in the shadow of taboo...
   look... i'm ******* exfoliating with vocab!
        how can you become normal after someone
exposes you the symptom of "voices"...
that's demeaning given the past history of
having relationships with angels and demons,
that's like a neuter noun.... voices brings up
more concern for a pronoun-****-up than
a clear, noun association... angels, sure,
i could start looking more closely at pigeons...
demons, doubly sure, i could start
chasing bats...
              but i need to know whether mental
illness is worthy of taboo, i.e. it's worth
the category of being physical, in that it can be
contagious... whether it can act like a virus....
whether it can become an epidemic...
    and to be honest, i think it can,
but that seems pointless, since western society
has exchanged asylums for taboo...
                  look at me now,
a once budding roofer, reduced to writing poetry,
i might as well be an ******...
            safe-guarding king Solomon's harem...
oh sure, eunuchs were able to **** his *** slaves...
they were slaves themselves,
what they weren't allowed is to usurp
    the ******* crown of the king passing his
d.n.a., mind the frivolity, never the seriousness
of geneticist, yawning when their genesis was to come...
    i'd love to see hans andersen on the trail of
dolly... the sheep... and dolly really does become
a trinity of animal prior to human in the out-reaches...
what with laika (man's best friend)
and later fiztgerald... oh wait (man's worst enemy,
the money) Baker....
   thanks to de Sade and baron Sacher-Masoch
we could truly begin the orthodox occult of science...
   how the two patron "saints"
interpolate... it really is a dualism worthy of
dangling a crucifix... shame the first monkey in
space wasn't called Brian...
    i don't know, then, perhaps, the Caesars at
the coliseum wouldn't boast so much about
   the: lacking the ambidable thumb
(yes!) googlewhack no. 4 / 5 -
mandible thumb you idiot! d'uh...
but still, a googlewhack at the end of it...
type in: lacking the ambidable thumb
and, yes = 1 result in the google algorithm...
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Have-Thumb-Deformity/728760,
i call this the alternative version of, or rather,
the digital version of fishing...
     a tail like a thumb, the grip baron...
   but my peacocking the tongue shouldn't
be deemed as: straitjacket panic button prone...
  why would it?
****! he used the colour azure in his blue period,
that picasso did! chain him! gag him!
stash him in a kitchen stove!
i mean the inspection of genuine viriology
dynamic concerning mental illness,
the anti-thesis of solipsism, as the proper counter...
or should i say: membrane / barrier?
    can mental illness make ranks, i.e. spread?
like a virus can?
            well, if you take to explaining a zeitgeist...
ideology akin to communism and ****** can
become virus-akin... so i guess... yes...
it had to become a self-serving question easily
answered... mental illness can be very much
akin to a common cold... it's not really a case of taboo
being the lock-and-key to contain it...
nor the asylum... i suppose the best prescription
is the idea of solipsism...
              but isn't this grand,
i'm actually lethargic, coinciding with
    a tax on robots... and the French slashing
their 35 hour working weeks to 32 hours...
    and the Finns paying their unemployed
    (2K, placebo dosage for the actual
   237,000 unemployed) - a random €560 a month...
such are the times...
           it really has become a sort of
year 0 orientation lesson... because it's just
gagging for a guillotine to snap it awake,
so a decapitated head of Charles I at Whitehall might
say it's final farewell...
              and is mental illness capable of
being akin to a viral infection...
     it probably can... you probe the waters in an
environment of poets... they're good enough
to succumb to a white rabbit experiment...
              question is: do you apply the rule
of solipsism or an actual asylum? in a post-asylum
society, i don't think there's an option
whether solipsism should, or shouldn't be used
to counter the more serious form of the flu...
   but, as ever, it comes down to the age-old
cartesian model of dualism... or as any siamese twin
might attest: i'm not that further away from
my sister as you might think...
  the dualism that served so well for so many years
to appear "peaceful" became a real dichotomy...
  the ergo suddenly failed... when people realised
that the fact "i think" didn't necessarily
precipiate into "i am"... given what the media is
interested in, and how many people become missing
and all that... the numbers were too much
for player uno to simply give up the canvas
of newspapers and t.v. to some poor schmuck
trying to impregnate his canvas on which he worked
his paint-brush (power) and paint (wealth) onto...
   the cartesian ergo simply failed...
    oh sure, the other two facts worked... but they
didn't necessarily congregate universally
in the crux of ergo,
        i was told it would be a monsoon of thought
established on earth... instead i got a light-shower
   and the Gobi desert.
in the same way the subconscious exists
as a fake of the trinity...
           to me it has no need for a chisel...
as a realm... treat the conscious as a realm
akin to Hades, and it becomes wholly
de-personalised... there's not individual in it
that might require it... it's a covert mechanism
of subterfuge... but if we're talking
making rabbit heads with our hands
   in the shadow form... we're talking
nothing but puppeteering...
   or like saying, let's create an evolved
version of the definite (the) and the indefinite (a)
article...
                      well... there must be
a direct and an indirect article...
                well there is...
con                                 and sub-con,
       un-con is an indiscriminate article...
meaning: what are the evolutionary gains
of dreaming, given the cinema?
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
Sia Jane Jan 2014
I think perhaps as a writer, we seek the adventure, the unknown, the destructive, not only to know we are alive but to know what it is to live. We live fast, we love without restraint, with impulsive desire. Are we the tortured, the wounded, the broken, abused. We have lived a thousand lives, loved a million times. We dream, we idealise, we fall in love unintentionally, we make mistakes, we endure deep suffering and we fall to the hands of lust within a heartbeat. We choose to show our *******, our *****, our hearts or our souls. We refuse to sell our mind, to which we must always remain held to. Our body is a vessel, one of productivity made victim to abuse. It's such neglect, despair, that leaves us enveloped in patterns of trauma and deeply embedded psyache. Once touched, our bodies remember as an elephants mind always will. We are tainted, scarred, stained by another's love, lust, cheating, lying, crying, kissing, losing, dreaming. We are the risk takers, the ones who dare step into the unknown and often don't adhere to rules and regulations of societal ideals. We crave love. We crave endless excitement. We crave the adrenalin rush of a new lover. We don't settle. Wanderlust writes us. Each journey shapes us, choosing a new direction, experimenting with style, fiction, autobiographical tones. Landscapes colour our pages, pollute the rooms with a myriad of paints, smoking out those who don't endure, slaves to the written word, a pledge to keep reading pages of paper, dusty from step ladder high book shelves. Finding joy in limited first editions, autographed and locked behind glass doors.  Fairy tales whispered by Hans Christian Andersen - The Snow Queen in a pop up book laced with glitter and scintillation. Falling into stories, Alice's rabbit hole, lost to liquor saying drink me. The young ingénue, naïve and shy, her first role acting, embodying the spoken word through the masters written script.

© Sia Jane
I didn't use "I" in this piece, I was merely thinking out loud, a stream of consciousness maybe.
Patricia Drake Mar 2013
First we build bridges
With Lego bricks
In primary colours
And we move on
To build bridges
From  words
With tought
In many languages
Because we have to
And we build bridges
In steel and concrete
Between islands and peninsulas
Between us and them
We prioritise bridges
With our money
On our money
To showcase magnificence
And to replace expired glories
And we cross bridges
In real life and cyberspace
To seek community
In alternate relations
Outside the confines
Of Hans Christian Andersen’s  quiet pond.
Bob B Nov 2018
For what would be a change of pace,
Check out this unusual place:
Persecuted groups came to create
A place where they could discriminate.
1840s gold rush dreams
Preceded years of get-rich schemes.
Nutty religious cults explore
End-time prophecies galore.
Believe whatever if that's your conviction,
Even if your "facts" are fiction.
You can construct your own reality;
"Whatever goes" is gaining vitality.
Anti-intellectualism
Accompanies attacks on secularism.
Fewer people think it's not odd
For leaders to wait for messages from God.
Satan's causing natural disasters,
For he's out to get us, according to some pastors.
Hustlers hustle the hustled, you see:
Religious theatricality.
Snake oil is sold for a quick fix;
Someone always has a bag of tricks.
Charismatic visionaries
Hope their income never varies.
Though P.T. Barnum is gone, we can say
That humbuggery is here to stay.
Homeopathic cures are widespread.
Devious mediums talk to the dead.
Scare tactics of foreign "invasions"
Keep popping up on numerous occasions.
Some have rewritten the history of the South.
Fake news spread by cyber "word of mouth."
Commingling entertainment and news--
Called "infotainment"--can spread one's views.
Acting out your fantasy makes you feel
That fantasy--NOT reality--is real.
People are duped by made-up scares.
The "National Enquirer" peddles its wares.
Cosmetic surgery transforms features.
People are abducted by strange space creatures.
The fantasy industry proliferates:
Fox News infects all fifty states.
Prosperity-gospel preachers are abounding,
Hoping their spiritual interest is compounding.
The war on the devil is not metaphorical,
For scripture, some say, can't be allegorical.
There are always the paranoid ones
Who fear the confiscation of guns.
Groups attempt to change the rules
So creationism can be taught in the schools.
Anti-establishment's becoming the norm;
Mistrust of experts is taking greater form.
Lies don't matter as long as you
FEEL that what someone says is true.
Some fear "invaders" crossing the border;
Others fear a scary New World Order.
Distrust places the media on trial
And fosters climate change denial.
Some say vaccines do great harm
And GMO foods are cause for alarm.
They say gun laws will only provide
Guns to "bad guys" with something to hide;
That regulations on any level
Of finances are the work of the devil.
A con-man leader will always keep spinning
The fantasy that with him we'll be winning.
That fake news is harmful and only distracts
People entitled to making up facts.
Voter fraud's still the talk of the Right;
Conspiracy theories keep coming to light.
Con artists boldly state:
Conversion therapy makes you straight.
If an alternate universe is in demand,
Then WELCOME, ALL, TO FANTASYLAND!

-by Bob B (11-12-18)

°Inspired by Kurt Andersen's "Fantasyland: How America
Went Haywire"
EmilyRose Thorne Apr 2012
“And what do you think? Are there cliques in seventh grade?”
SHE
stands alone.
But not really.
“Absolutely.
There are cliques.
There are the Country-Club-Better-Than-You-Stuck-Up-Brats,
and the Future Fascists of America
and the group evvvverybody likes,
or at least,
that’s what they think,
who wouldn’t like them,
what’s not to like?
Y’wanna know what,
there are more cliques too,
the Invisibles,
two groups of Invisibles,
boys and girls broken up into Invisibles,
the Idiots, sittings with the CCBTYSTBs,
actually,
they’re sort of the same.
And there is exclusion,
there are hurt feelings,
there have been hurt feelings,
there is the hurting of feelings,
this is real,
this is honest,
this is now.”

Silence,
louder than HER words,
echoes
through the room,
bouncing off walls,
ringing in my ears.
No one applauds
as they have to the rest;
nobody applauds
nobody
applauds,
nobody
applauds
because nobody agrees
wants to admit it.
I do not applaud,
but I do.

“What are the weaknesses the seventh grade shares?”
Immaturity.
No common sense.
Lack of any sense of responsibility.
Idiocy.
SHE
contributes.
She says what my mind has created,
She understands
without me telling her.
But no,
they cannot listen to HER
with her true statements,
they don’t want to face the truth,
but they say,
We don’t want to look bad,
but they cannot handle the truth
is all.
“We are NOT immature,
we aren’t idiots,
we have common sense,
we’re responsible.”
Really.
Huh.
Never knew that.
I guess I’m just not up to par with my knowledge of the cliques.
Idiot.

“What are some strengths the seventh grade shares?”
SHE
has realized
that SHE is going to be ignored.
She does not
contribute.
But this time
I
do.
“For the most part,
most of us,
we are honest.”
They stare
with widened eyes.
She speaks.
Yep. I’m speaking.
I’ve been speaking.
Always.
What?
Oh.
Okay.
You don’t talk loud enough. We can’t ever hear you.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, you liar.
You haven’t been listening.
But it’s okay.
I understand.
I’m used to that by now.
And now,
I can safely say,
so is SHE.

“Why would you go and say something like that?”
Staring with their penetrating eyes
that seek for the truth,
Why could you say what we needed to keep under wraps,
didn’t we tell you we don’t want to look bad?
“You haven’t been here
but a half a school year.
You really don’t know,
you
don’t
know,
so you can’t speak,
be quiet,
be
quiet,
be silent.”
Be silent
as the snow
on the coldest day of winter,
be silent
as the
clouds
after the biggest summer storm,
silent
as
the
rain
hitting
cold
hard
hearts.

*Thank you to Laurie Halse Andersen for coming up with that in her book Speak. (I created everything except for the Future Fascists of America bit.)


This poem symbolizes honesty and a lack of willingness to face the truth in middle school especially. On Thursday (March 22, 2012) there was a 7th grade meeting. The headmaster the seventh graders to get in groups that the homeroom teachers had put us in. My friend Cam and I wound up in the same group, which was pretty great. The headmaster asked us, “What are the strengths of the seventh grade?” “Weaknesses?” Someone said we tend to be “cliquey.” Mr. Chambers asked who agreed with her, and people said “no,” or “just a little” and someone said, “I think we have cliques but not the mean kind.” and Cam stood up and said that she absolutely thought we were very cliquey.
When I had SHE in capital letters in the poem I met that although Cam was speaking, I had thought the same exact words. When she is lowercase, it means that just Cam was speaking. When I said I don’t applaud, but I do, I mean that I didn’t physically applaud, but in my mind I applauded her and supported her every step of the way because she was brave enough to speak her mind and I am shy and reclusive.
“…I don’t give a nargle’s bonbon what they think of me,” is what she told me when I told her how brave she was. Before that, she had told the people who confronted her and called her a liar, “you’re just in denial.”
Soooo in a way, this is dedicated to Cam’s honesty!
Fly Vida Jul 2011
"Just once before I die
I want to climb up on a tenement sky
Dream my lungs out till I cry
Then scatter my ashes through the Lower East Side."

Where babies cry and hands collide
Whether givin dap or throwin die.
We are the first in a line of many
Who made something out of nothing: a dream and a penny.
Like a phoenix, they rose from the dust of defeat
And brought the rhythm of their home back to the streets.
The scraps of culture that America ignored
Became the boat of what got us ashore.
Jazz from Harlem mixed with Rhythm and Blues
Became acquainted with the drums that Tito Puente used
To create a music that refused to die
Salsa: established on the Lower East Side.
So many legends and have come and gone until today
But we will always remember “Aguanile.”
The music that played through the day and night
Can still be heard on the Lower East Side.
Lavoe and Puente, Palmeri and Colón
Celia Crúz made her voyage alone.
As a platinum selling Latina in a white man’s world
She kept singing with her head up and her tongue curled.

The same blocks that gave us beats to abide
Also have a darker side.
With gunshots and sirens- like Piñero said:
“The streets are hot and feed off those who bleed to death.”
We took our own lives when violence was brought upon us
Too many children grew up fatherless.
If walls could talk they would tell you
Of all the pain that they’ve been though.
Boys and men who were smashed against the pavement
Ones that screamed and others that will never breathe again.
Hot like ice and cold like fire
Signs that read “gunman for hire.”
Read between the lines of a “Help Wanted” sign
Outside a legit business with a ringleader inside.
Kids stopping by on a daily basis
Lookin for work as a foot soldier in case this
Thing that they call school don’t get them nowhere
Cause remember- they’re not from around here.
But they makin their way on the Lower East Side
Where all eyes on you- can’t even the rats hide.
Cause its survival of the fittest just see another day
And in order to get in good you gotta play the game.
Your mothers and aunts are worried to death
But you gotta eat- so forget about the stress.
You gotta play the game whether you like it or not,
But there’s gotta be a breaking point where this all needs to STOP.

If you go down to Third street, between avenues B and C
People walk to a different beat.
A place that’s an escape from the world outside
Where fingers snap and words collide.
It was in the year 1975
Where you could see a generation strive
To find their souls on the city skyline
Amidst the smallest of confines.
Tongues spit metaphors and air filled the lungs
Of the poets that paved the way for many more to come.
The stage that was built by (Miguel) Piñero and (*****) Rivas
Was blessed decades later by Lemon Andersen and Beau Sia.
The place filled to capacity, bodies filling every space
Not an empty seat in the house, yet even more people found their place
Posted up against the wall all eyes fixed forward
Because when a poet raised their hands, no eyes were lowered.
They were free to clap, snap fingers and call out
In accordance with what a poet spoke about.
The Utopia that I speak of exists until this day
We call it the NuyoRican Poets Cafe.
Where all are welcome bring yourself and your freedom
A dream and a wish and the desire to achieve them.

Let us be the first in a line of many
To remember out culture and give it to our babies.
The English and the Spanish
As much as their tongues can manage.
Let's not be so quick to go against one another
Because in order to survive, we all need each other.
I want to live in a world where we all from the block
And we gotta support each other whether we like it or not.

"So please when I die
Don't take me far away
Keep me nearby
take my ashes and scatter them thru out
the Lower East Side."


In memory of Piñero, and all the pioneers of the time...
Lunar Mar 2017
The most tragic story isn't the one written by Shakespeare
or Hans Christian Andersen

It is not about Romeo, Juliet and their forbidden love, dying together

Nor a man, a mermaid and their impossibility to live for each other

It is about a writer and a reader:
Where the writer has written down, in every language, every realistic & imaginable word & emotion for the world
But the reader doesn't even have a chance to read them

The most tragic story is about the reader who can not read, and in the end, the writer who will not write

The most tragic happily ever after is where the reader and writer end each other
To My Reader
Shika Holtzem Oct 2019
Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale.

This motto ran in the family and still does to this day. Legacy enclosed in a parcel, passed down from generation to generation. Opening it and being left in awe at its glowing truth.

One day, it was my turn to open the parcel. And when I saw it in all its splendour, I was indeed awed, just as those before me.

Ever since then, I yearned to write fairy tales. Sometimes, they came from searches for beauty in the ordinary. Sometimes, they came from movies playing in my mind.
I wrote them all on paper; the ink flowed from my pen, spilling daydreams and brainstorms into my notebook.

But what about my own fairytale?

You see, I was so accustomed to creating other’s fairytales, I almost forgot about mine.

I suppose it would be of adventure and derring-do; I’d travel the globe, sail the seven seas, constantly seeking sources of inspiration. Boat or plane, car or train, the world would be my oyster.

But what about my pearl?

Well, I would certainly never forget it! Because even if it’s a concrete forest, it’s still ingrained in my identity.
But even though it’s safe and secure, it’s small and keeps me enclosed, like a swallow in a cage.
That’s why I adore exploring life outside the cage; to find new magic, which allows me to continue writing my fairytale.

And I would live happily ever after by settling down with a kind, loving partner; husband, wife, spouse...someone who I can share a happy home with. All the better if I were a mother, for I would pass the parcel onto them.

Now reality is ensuing. Turmoil and trouble are taking their tolls on the world. Beautiful places become blood-stained battlefields.
Lives are lost; no one lives happily ever after.
And there are those who want to escape, but cannot; it is due to this that people are losing their belief in fairytales.
In short, the magic is dying.

I know this is so; as there is so much beauty to be found, I do know very well that the world is not perfect.

But it doesn’t have to be this way, all this doom and gloom. My creativity is a wild beast that cannot be tamed, and with it I will weave my stories the way a weaver does a tapestry:
Intriguing concepts, colourful settings, meaningful messages, relatable characters, all with the power to make my audience challenge their thinking and empathise with my characters.  

Characters such as:  
An outcast duckling, shunned by the world merely because of his looks, but is really a beautiful bird.  
A little maiden, no bigger than a thumb, venturing a world of marriage-minded moles and toads.
A vain emperor, who parades in a fine suit made of invisible cloth, but is really wearing nothing at all!
A so-called princess, who sleeps on a large bed of 20 mattresses under a miniscule pea, to test her sensitivity.
An icy queen, so enigmatic and cold-hearted that she could just as well be winter herself.
A yearning mermaid, who trades her voice and tail for legs to meet the man she loves, but alas - is not meant to be.

All perfect escapes from the boredom and terror of reality.

And I hope, when I am dead and gone, my stories will be so universally known that they will transcend cultural barriers, written and told in all the world’s tongues for all to read and hear.

For I want to be remembered as one who used words and stories to heal and help, in a time of hurt and harm.

Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale, and we all have a part in writing it. How it ends is up to us.
Dr Peter Lim Feb 2021
Winds have died away

snow still drips from barren trees

what's in store tonight?
Aeerdna Dec 2015
Broken
Empty
I feel naked
Ashamed
My heart is exposed and my weaknesses are there
In everyone's eyes
My darkness only blinds me
I hear people laughing diabolically
Planning ways to use my flaws
I feel people getting too close
I cannot stop them
My wall is down, my broken arms
Cannot build a new one
I cannot run anymore
Cannot oppose them
I can't cover my nakedness.

My mind has become a blank page
I don’t know who I am anymore
I am lost
In the darkness I feel that I've never existed;
In my thoughts I see
Things that are not supposed to be here

Bitter words are flying in my brain
There’s a cold wind in my soul
I am getting cold
Like Andersen’s Little Match Girl
Dreaming hopelessly about some arms that could make me warm.

I hurt
I'm hunted by poltergeists,
With my bleeding hands I dig my own hole in the ground,
I hide in it
I close my eyes
I feel that I'm dying, but I know
I am only sleeping.


I can only hope that I will soon wake up from this nightmare
The Americans are the children of the world
with “Why?”
Children, forgotten the tales.
Forgotten
Hans Chr Andersen and
„The Nightingale”.
How shall I explain to you, oh, emperors,
the tears,
the white roses,
the morn.
How?

Добро утро

Американците са децата на света
със „ Защо?”
Деца, забравили приказките.
Забравили
Ханс Кр.Андерсен и
„Славеят”.
Как да ви обясня,о, императори,
сълзите,
белите рози,
утрото.
Как?



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
CJ Sutherland Aug 2021
This song, the man influenced my writing throughout my entire life
I think of it/him
often
as inspiration.;
Here’s a tale of a simple fool,
glance at a page or two
laugh ha ha
but you blush a bit
For  you realize
while you’re reading it
it’s also
reading you….

I write  myself a note each day
I place it in my hat,
a wind comes by
the hat blows high
But
that’s not the end of that.
For all around the world it goes
it lands here right beside myself
I pick it up and
I read the note
which is simply
to remind myself
I’m CJ Sutherland
that Who !
I’ve kept a journal since the age of 12
I have 40 of them Today. Writing is
who I am
it’s not WHAT  I do.
I would like to know
from everybody
who reads this
WHY DO YOU WRITE
What motivates you?
Getting to know fellow poets
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
you know what happens if you ignore a group
of people, that actually belong in your
"stratosphere" of dialgue?
      and invisible man is going to pinch
you back, in your ***.
     oh pooh pooh jews... oh pooh pooh
palestinians...
                  where was the global community
when warsaw was ***** into the ground?
mmm... nowhere...
                    so why the **** should i care now,
about how jews made western society
                                             "claustrophobic"?
what, as in, it's actually a sick-bed's worth
of crucifix to lie in and expect no golgotha
treatment at adoration?
                                    well... isn't that nice...
at this point i'd like to counter human
     "evolution", and say: bring back the sharks!
for one thing, at least my ego would be intact.
not a lot of history lessons emmigrating from
north america back into europe, well, not the ones
europeans would really / seriously care about...
they have disney we have h. c. andersen
            and j. / w. grimm -
but when you disavow a region from being
sympathetic with your values by not talking about
their existence... when you pledge yourself
to a purpose of denying their existence,
     like the so called "eastern europe" is said to be?
i'm going to be applauding holocaust deniers!
     i'll be going: clap... clap... clap... clap clap clap!
encore!                            encore!                 encore!
not when you're of an ethnos similis:
i.e. of a similar ethnicity.
   not then do you get to get to justify penny sweets,
you might justify a r. dahl with having:
                    said, origin... africa!
                     obnoxious colonial *******.
what, did i loose my suntan along the day?
      why should africa be the heart of all historical
              etymologies? why am i to succumb
to your covert repenting for past guilt?
        why begin everything in africa?
            why wouldn't i want to place my origins in
a region that stated: eskimo!    orc!      the ice age!
       why does it have to be africa all of a sudden?
      i live in the north, i want to come from the north!
i don't want to come from a concept of an equator!
     siberia! alaska!          **** this darwinistic *******!
i hate cultural darwinism as much as i hate cultural marxism!
ich bin, nord, ja jestem, północ,
                                   jag är, norr!
but you ignore one of your european brothers
as having, or being worth a discourse...
                             and of course, based on a shared history
of israel as being non-existent for some time...
             what are people talking about these days?
                    should i care?        mmm, hmm, hmm...
                                             not really.
to me it's just media sensationalism,      
    well, i know it's true, but there are over 8 billion
similar examples to fill up the space, the argument for
a need of individuals is as dead as is necessarily dead -
                    argued to the point of expressing a neurosis,
a nerve-sample, of something so obsolete,
  so indistinguishable from the arguments for its
primordial "guiding" authority... that it only bred
                     a guilt culture, a voyeurism culture,
                             a dietary rather than a diety culture...
                      ultimately... a celebrity culture...
         where nothing... nothing! nothing is celebrated in
either act... or thought! it's just needlessly perpetuated
            for the same conclusions, which states
the only conclusion:     we have achieved the zenith!
       all we have, actually achieved,
                                      is an unshakeable plateau.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2020
better than a poem.... a promenade...
          not the noun "vs." noun...
in the realm of verbs...
it's one "thing" to call a tomato a fruit...
a cucumber a vegetable...

salmon pink moon hue
with an air tonight
so crisp: it deserves discovering INXS
for the first time...

this mighty biscuit of the moon...
hardly shipwrecked against
some distant constellation...
or itching rooftops or
teasing mountains...

everything was so alive
in the cool breeze...
no gods were summoned
to explain... this solipsistic adventure...

teased by the senses
with a leverage to tickle the extremes...
and bubbles towed...

such an icy prized briefing
of locality:
towing a mind like an anchor...
before the altar of
what two feet spine erectus...
became a cinema of
the centipede...

    better than a poem...
a promenade...
hell... this deserves a mathematical
sharpening:

crude...
   a poem < a promenade...
and i passed one of these two or three...
restaurants...
the schizophrenic riddled:
futuristic no flying cars though...
no neon strobe epileptic lighting
worth a tomorrow...

   a poem < a promenade...
    the air was electric... it was...
stealth in giving juice...
even the pavement seemed to
be clapping...
with each ninja step placed
with imitation of the stealth cat
passing by gravitating toward
the concept of ghosts...

a poem < a promenade...
          what seemed intact...
and what was already bound
to outer-urban decay:
the differential scrutiny didn't
bother me...

almost two weeks freed from...
medication that aimed
to make me better...
herr schwachkopf...
and this is somehow...
not "challenged"... somehow...
the hippocratic oath
in the realm of psychiatry...

           extensions of a willingness
come: falling asleep today...
if only it came down to the crux:
of becoming: debilitated by
a heartbreak...

ghost buses... tonne load of shadows
and freak-out...
constrict imitation glue...
random words:
borrowed lexicon-bombs...

a poem < a promenade...
    <
            <           <     <

i see the symbol... and i know the words
hidden within them...
a poem <is less than> a promenade...
unlike diacritical marks...
or the critique of punctuation:
     colon no italics...
because... colon = italics...

outside of the claustrophobia /
myopia of a prosaic paragraph and...
staging a fake *** dialogue?
              < contra... š...
                                  ж (fwench je suis)...
                   ш...     SHape of... ****...
                       >            hôpital ...
           <š
                             ô>:
   let's just pretend...     H is a surd in english
too...        the apostrophe could be
more frequently used...
causing revelation when it
and it would always come down
to... a...     'ammering...

   (best plugged in...)

rock-cho'-kim-ouch-and-then-the-chewing...
like... bargain busting
an ape *** from moor-yokko-coco-solo-oh-no!
straight up to the moon...
for a telescope riddle-me-this...
sorting session...

japanese gravure... idols...
**** as an insinuation...
because... i have a **** the equivalent
of a prized bull...
and she has a face and a mouth...
like any... porcelain doll might...
unequivocally: lambasting... a concept
of... a tired old grenade...

   teeth like double-dodgers...
of a... corn-flake smiley...
                
     2 < 3...
                 4 > 3...
                              a vowel < a consonant...
but no "lost" meaning...
                      when borrowed...
forbidden pleasures...
the forbidding: a mere thought of...
having to not grieve...
all the already in tow... restrictions...
sensible pleasures...
            
    the theatre of thought...
marquis de sade's ******...
                        "vs." nabokov's ******....

daddy issues...
mummy issues: ed gein...
                             subconsciously...
unconsciously... and...
                   all these ******* dreams...

power-pill mode...
                 my own little escapade of...
rummaging in lost details...
     word-bombs of spontaneity...
a poem < than...
    < it comes from its own... demand...
the word: than...
   a poem <
                 is, less, than...
                                      a promenade...
this evening of... slow-coach and
loitering for the moon... hued with a tinge
of teasing smoken salmon...
hanging low...
  шut up! i too thought about...
                   suit... the mingled with rugby posts
of a H...
  not AN h...
                              
                       a solipsism is not autism...
it's... oscar winning performances
of winging-it... simulation practices...
   wouldn't anyone not tire...
of all those *******... formal cameo
conversations to degrease the cognitive loop
of animation imitating inanimate objects...

like... walking into a store...
like a painting...
and... "suddenly"...
a person is presribed to your presence...
since... he alone can move...
those unmoveable objects...
onto the counter of you making
a transaction...

         i abhor faking those
formal cameo conversations...
of shopping for essentials...
     when i know the money i will spend...
is not the money i need conversation /
extra attention for...
if i were walking into a shop...
unexpected in somehow spending more...
than i expected...
   i walk in to buy a skeleton...
or some muscular mush since i already
own an exoskeleton...
    
          as i am about to solve the "mystery"
of cow-towed europe...
with count of 3 rotten teeth...
1 of mine... 2 of my father...
                 it's that blessed presumption
of democracy in the great western slavic
enterprise of: what once was...
the brothel of kings that's currently:
in situ with a synonym: poland...
     or: king john's nickname...
lackland...
   ******'and!
        laugh out loud: when living strapped
to a people with a clarity of border...
sea! to the north! of us!
sea! to the east! of us!
sea! to the west! of us!
sea! to the south! of us!
   oi! geoffrey! oi! paddle!
we're getting from this ****** perspective
of: island... we're... heading... straight...
to the moon... to **** around
with hans christine andersen....

         dream big! no ottomans or mongols
are or will ever be at... our doorstep...
from the period of the norman invasion...
from the romans... such pride...
the last usurper of peace...
was a... 20th century zeppelin...
  and... that's about it...

i like living the basic truth of being
a historical continuum unit...
true... not children... i'll foster some...
one is bound to foster some...
in the end...
hell... i'll give up my mind to foster them...
so much less heart...
when it comes to investing in a future...
i was always prescribed a future:
i wrote for the present...
a "circa"...
                          because i never believed
in children with a personal
investment on the cards...
i can't imagine...
i tried a placebo once...
a distant cousin of mine...
aged... toddler-weight...
i was frankenstein: he was...
again: i was the monster...
what i fiddled with was...
a ***** of glue...
glue and mortar...
        details of bone...
breath... later invested in brat...
and... precursor details of a budding
physiognomy: a detail of...
prejudice... etc.          etc.

i know i would be a terrible father...
i'd be a father that wouldn't...
speak to its child...
i'd treat it like...
that experiment... prescribed by...
   frederick (II) hohenstaufen...
what tongue came first: budding...
from the downfall of babel...
and the resurrection...
a babel for a tower... a pyramid scheme...
for all loss of reins...

i don't know how i should suffer...
not having a child in that...
i don't know how...
i would not abound in glee...
having prescribed him or her...
my signature of mistakes to replica...
unique signature... sure...
but still... somehow...
a detailed study of a clone in...
"will"... in "free will"...
                
       i own a bed... but i rather sleep on
the floor... bone breaking experience:
call for dog... on the clarity of wood...
i own a bed... but i rather sleep on
the floor....

             brothels... oh the scents...
bourbon... mostly... sickly sweet whiskey...
brothels and bourbon...
i went to them to excavate...
an amnesia...
if came back... riddling that...
lost and last pride of....
   after we ****: we kiss...
sleeping with glued pucker ties
to: the kisser...
of them: making a signature
with a tease of a... crow-hark...
     signature... crease..
                    an extension exclaiming:
pardon! pardon! signature...
    the pause...
                         a signature weaving...
braid teasing...
**** with a mohawk or...
a real trim-razor funk of...
         the 80's hype of... mr. mullet...
big fig in new zealand and
              alpha male rugby boyo...

how her eyes softened when i closed
them with a kiss...
of course we retired from pistons and ferrari
buckaroo...
                  i come to retire my mind
with a cinema of a brothel...
i come to... desire less and less
of a memory: knowing that there's
a serenity of having invested in...

           i tend to use two mirrors to have
to concentrate on being...
debased by a selfie...
or what once was...
   the missing ******... narrator...
  i need two mirrors to take a "selfie"...
ever wonder and bewilder yourself
with the days...
when people took photographs of you...
unsuspecting?!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
i can usually feel it coming,
a bit like watching a glass being filled
with the usual contenders for my mind...
but at the same time,
i write from within the prompt
of memory...
   this bulgarian *******
with a tattoo on he shoulder blade...
and her words:
- you haven't changed!
and then she enters a realm of tears...
and i just have to stop doing
what i'm going, and think to myself:
what change is there to speak of?

to write poetry, is narrate: proper -
in the proper sense of the term
that is... to somehow become
         the central figure in the story...
       for numbing the current affairs
of narrators...
how predictable with their
she said* / he said "events" -
         that generic style of inviting
characters...
    isn't that the basis of "good literature"?
that the narrator is mundane,
and that the characters are peacock supreme?
well...
               strip away the fluidity of
literary fluidity within the mundane:
god is very much like this -
      he narrates like a boring sog...
but then exfoliates with the bards akin
to shakespeare -
                 to finally rest
among the poets -
      and yes: rhyming is cheap poetry,
to stress rhyme
   is like reading a tabloid newsopaper!

poets require no need for puppets...
     they move via the chasms of
historical figures, unable to express
a will of confiscation -
of all the literary mediums,
all high school students are put-off
the art, because it is under a surgical
scalpel of investigation!
            it's borderline with the schooling
of linguistic precision...
        i can't see as to why there is no
guarding motto for poetic expression -
             a string of words that can
protect it from certain enemies it seems
to have conjured to defy and redefine it
as a useless art form:

    or one that can be at least treated
with contempt,
disdain,       ridicule.

poetry is, after all: a constantly revived
theory of written tongue -
short, sweet, i gather, esp. given the oriental
haiku: barren for a year,
                 succinct for under a minute:
surely we can add this to the times:
years, days, hours, minutes, syllables, seconds...
are we not implied in realm of
        the space-time parabolla to say so?

poets become anemic when trying to conjure
characters,
   the he said / she said architecture of a novel,
what with the anti-irish / anti-polish
loss of immediately talking,
   not abusing the ditto markings "
   but instead implying the swift winds
   (a conversation in ulysses looks like this,
  jimmy and paddy talking respectively):
- toad's a two day bargain.
- aye! and a claim tow two weeks
                       of *****!
- aye!
    poets don't really need puppets,
          the poetic "narrative" is always
necessarily non-descriptive -
             do we really describe within the framework
of: a matter of fact?
   no! the landscape is always a view
of a metaphor!
                        but poets are
puritan narrators... in that:
        it's very hard to conjure up characters...
the self-invited fascination with
  the barren-wasteland of fictional narrators
is what pushes us...
        no, it's no longer a concern
for song...
                          as to be sung
given the exfoliation of black (classical) jazz
and white (classical) classical -
               not so much the pivoting
on a word, but merely psyche...
                  ars poetica est ars narratio:
mind you,
   a cohesive narratives takes time to
be established into something akin
to the bros. grimm, or a h. c. andersen -

why wouldn't stephenie meyer
cite the poet-general moses in her first
book twilight from the book of genesis?

we're a multitude of narrators -
  only because poets cannot conjure
the bland narrator -
  and the supra-human characters!

i can't become a bland scribbler of
the descriptive method, i can't play chess
or draft puppets within a bland
narrative...
            that's ******* excruciating!
i'd rather run a marathon!
  and believe me: i have been wondering
about this for a long time: give or take
10 years (and counting) -
  
i simply can't forsake my mono-presence
(alone), and become some omnipotent
omnipresent (etc.) ******:
i can entertain a self-voyeurism,
but to invent characters i can manage
like puppets, or chess pieces?
     i have an ****** inability to perform
such feats!

let's just say: i an entertain the idea of
missing characters and plots -
   but i can't entertain the idea of a nullifyingly
boring narrator
   that requires prompts for character
study, ending with a mouth piece
and the need to state a:          he / she said.

no narrator ever becomes self-conscious
either...
               not like this they don't:
to me fictional literature is nothing but an
exfoliation of the bardic tradition -
beyond the obvious mouths and limbs
of the theatre...
   and why wouldn't i be critical?
            of the entire content of a novel,
how much is actually worth a cinematic /
memorable application of, regarding
the digested content?
            
                           i'll be kind: i'd say a third;

and this has bothered me:
   what is the worth of narration
           in literature of imposed fiction?

funny that, sidelining the question:
there is more truth in fiction than in
real life...
     people will always believe in fiction
than in what a heinrich harrer
wrote about his seven years in tibet -
maybe that's why poetry is so vilivied
and how poetry is only read by
poets...
                    maybe real life truly is
so mundane, that for nature to fill the vacuum
of the everyday mediocre,
poetry had to be born?

              hard time explaining homer though;
i hardly think that life in that aeon
was boring...
      only that:
  as life moved us to the present -
we have the exact mirror before us -
  that mediocre times, breed mediocre poetry...

in summary?

                         i rather see poetry as a mirror -
          upon the blank slate of a self-imposing-defeat,
with my words: like contortions of my face -
   telling me, of beauty, disgust...
              fear...
                              and ******* on lemons.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
better start off with comentramitising
humanity beyond the mere
denotation of: animal...    
    I really don't see, how these mammals,
are desperately seeking
a reptilian status of ontology,
hiding behind empirical facts...
(more like robo-reptiles)...
quiet honestly, the "contradiction"
of a whale being an aquatic-mammal,
a walrus mother will
spend 3 godawfuly long years
with its offspring...
     fair play to the psychotic
tarantula mother...
        exceptions are somehow
the glue to bind the middle...
                but these mammals
in a reptilian guise?
    the wolf in sheep clothing
metaphor is evidently out-dated...
somehow talking down to
intuition is what gave birth to
trivia, and so little carpentry to
compensate a gaping dawn...
        which, for so e reason,
can't be brushed off with a yawn...
    the spectacle of finding rhyme,
but no couplet,
  the reality of:
if humanity was seeking a categorical
shift from mammal,
to lizard... hence ***** latex...
evidently the monogamy oddity
of birds, akin  to swans...
those half mammal half reptile
trans-genus mohicans on
storks... (you sure trans-genus?
tree... branch, root,
      that ******* bit in the middle)...
notably not all animal behaviours
have been incorporated...
        David meets Mustafa and Ali...
aye aye Icke...
   not exactly a big fan,
here & there...
               revising the telegraph?
sure sure, lost for words...
life or death strain on... bleh...
output...
                    certain words,
even with a genesis in ancient history,
up to the 20th century were either
like a heartbeat flatline,
or a humming freq. tickling
    the contorts of making mountain
ranges, in replica:
  scaled to an itchy freq.
     of hyper-commas...
         and the rest becomes...
language you will not use to
begin a letter with

               Dear Sir / Madam,

.........................................................­

and ending with:

   Yours faithfully,
     Sincerely yours,
with a prior to Mr. Smith...
**** me the cordiality  
shenanigans under the umbrella
of the Raj...
might as well ended up with
a dyslexia from Calcutta:
     namely a pronounced fertility
"obligation" / gift.

but I still can't fathom
this mammalian luxury of
imitating lizards...
whatever the remains of the once
mighty...
   mind you...
is there geological proof
of a meteor having hit
the earth, and if so, where,
or is this meteor story,
some ******* made-up shortcut
to explaining the big bang?
honest to God I haven't seen
proof of the meteor having
hit earth...
       just because people
can become effective
  in manual labour jobs...
doesn't mean they'll become
th3 reincarnated Brothers Grimm...
or Hans Andersen...

the time when mammals
stopped admiring birds'
monogamy...
       the pure mammalian mother
and the "welfare state"...
the lone beta male...
        and the rest just
bread crumbs from a Sheikh
lapdance in floating Dubai...
   mantis egos...
  black widows...
      grabbing mosquitos by
the testicles wearing boxing
gloves...
        
          I'm not sure whether
to admire th spirit of a lizard,
or whether to wear it on my feet...
oddly enough the pig
(infamous in monotheism of
the southern Welsh)...
i'll eat it, all of it,
including the snout of rich
cartilage...
   and then I'll stretch it's skin
for a pair of shoes...

    pig's head on a goad...
and then do the imitation
tongue through a V with
the addition of a piggies snorkling
in giggling suffocation.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i can verily appreciate my initial frustration
barely a day ago,
       or at least a day a nibble of today's
contentment at:
    (a) drinking beer on a very sour,
wet atypically english afternoon -
      reigned over by who else if not
earl grey... and...
   (b) autumnal cuisine, planning dinner,
roasted vegetables,
       parsnip, peppers, courgettes,
onions, potatoes, carrots, mushrooms,
glazed in oil balsamic vinegar and some honey...
hell, when they said: 5 a day -
a nurse told me: it's good that
   1. you don't run on pavement and instead
allow 5 miles become deserving of
your tread - longshanks -
and 2. the 5 a day implies veg, not fruit...
younger? sure, fruits, but as i got older
it was the timidity of vegetables -
their sweetness, but also lack of
acidity -
             no **** sherlock -
          a combination of fruit acidity and
sugar is probably just as bad as chocolate...
  hence my championing of winter...
sure, in the spring it might be warmer outside,
but during autumn it's much warmer
inside...
              due to the food...
          but i can only see with lucidy
my initial frustration, as to why only a day
or so ago (with a nibble of today) came
the realisation... frustration at a lack of
the usual writing impetus...
      i had to (on purpose) force myself to
solve two súdokū puzzles -
  having failed both of them...
     but it was never about solving these puzzles...
what was actually happening was nothing
short of a transition period...
    unlike your typical bestseller page turners,
i was stuck with a book for at least... god...
       almost half a year?
                that's the problem when you give
too much thought to a book,
  well, a "problem" -
                              but deep-reading does that
to you, in that you have to burn off
any memory of what you spent investing
all that time in...
  and how better than by puzzling number games?
it's the mere focus on numbers,
an overly strained focus on them,
an exhaustion due to focusing on them
that can only allow you to detach your from
the book you've just finished,
        and the next book you picked up...
   after all, the books can't be more parallel -
notably since one predates the others
  (1670 - 1931) - with the latter citing no
influence of the former...
       let's face it, having just finished a nationalist
socialist philosopher's musings...
  and then picking up benedict spinoza's work?
that's almost like having read stephen king,
and then picking up hans christian andersen...
obviously it had to take drastic measures,
sheer mental exhaustion having concentrated
on numbers, and then a sleepless night
watching movies to bury one book
  in my library, to subsequently take a new one
out... unlike binge reading on twilight trilogy
(e.g.).
                  besides, i managed to re-watch
good will hunting...
                                     and it struck me:
     there's that scene were a father busting his
*** on a construction site for his son's education...
hmm...
                 and how good education this
and good education that...
                          zdrowie na budowie -
health in construction -
         couldn't agree more -
          plus an art form / trade being perfected
to absolute efficiency -
                 if only i was born a bit later,
at the time when tuition fees went up to
   9 grand per annum for a degree at university,
if only! even when they started hovering
above 3 grand i dropped out from doing
a second degree...
                      busting his *** my **** -
   my university cost my father one week's
worth of wages, back when it was just over a grand...
but that's the reality,
     trades pay good, esp. industrial scale roofing,
a hard graft, but i have to say: fun to do -
it puts going to the gym out of the equation,
for sure...
              and roofers? i know that i'll never
manage to visit the maldives... 'e did...
         mexico and kenya and jamaica and...
      i've got a degree in chemistry and the best
offer of work outside of university was:
   stacking shelves in a supermarket.
                     plus, i've taught myself more
than i was taught in these institutions...
                     and i really recommend this:
stop your formal education in language at
the age of 16... after 16? teach yourself...
                         i took the foundation in history
from 16 through to 20...
              a canvas of essay writing...
   butch-ed-up writing history essays...
    i wouldn't trust anyone to teach me this
language after 16...
                          that said,
we really were sold a lie about the mantra
of education education education...
       frightfully, if not merely thankfully
the lie was cheap, cheap cheap cheap,
  thankfully it was cheap at the time -
otherwise the majority of us would have
probably left school at 16 and learned a trade...
point being...
     in poland it's clear cut...
         because you have polytechnics -
  and i'll tell you how they look like:
    schools for boys, hardly any girls...
                  let's say: no girls...
        and then there are the schools with
*****-whipping material guys who study
  the arts, languages, literature etc. etc. -
       if only england had established firm roots
in polytechnics - almost all men would have
defaulted - and so much rests on how things
are worded -
                      they call it apprenticeships...
  as if you have to be a victorian slave labour
of a child...
                       forced into work straight at 16?
how about a few more years in a polytechnic?
so you can at least learn more theories and ideas,
create a technical base, before you enter
an apprenticeship at, say, 18 or 19?
                     is the ******* house burning down
that you have to be forced into a technical trade
at 16?
              no! it's not fair on the guys who have
aren't given the luxury of those 2 to 3 years
of joking in the playground, playing footie &
all that...
                    if a polytechnic network of schools,
we'd know that at least a plumber would
come out the other end,
   rather than upon leaving university -
a chemist becomes a supermarket cashier...
why? it's a choking joke that these university
lecturers are doctor in their field and what they
really want to do is to focus on their research...
  understandably...
  which is why all university lectures should
be conducted by post-graduates...
   seems simple enough...
   post-graduate students and professors -
  those old geezers who are almost retired and
have the same capacity for wisdom as
  a grandfather has to a grandson,
  which a father will never have to his son.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2020
not that i'm in any way anti-h'americana...
but...
       the later dictates spawned from
the louisiana purchase...
expansion... the purchase of alaska...
          i'm such a colt when it comes to
the history...
                  invitations into "demands"...
if there is such an inconvenience
of nations in the form of globalism...
why is it somehow "strange" for nations
to adopt bilingualism: schizoid-oid...
              the benelux bubble...
the scandinavian repertoire...
                            there's so much supposedly
happening when people are not
sentenced to the queue for bread and...
vinegar...
            for the circus: "they" wait...
                       but it's such a welcome...
mind-relapse into palm-tree hovering:
coconut: eurekas and concusions...
   take a breather...
               take a breather...
when h'america takes a breather and...
it revolves around an introspective
commentary session...
and no new "propaganda" is heard of...
           periodical drama of "recuperation"...
i lost the plot at...
designed in california... albeit: manufactured
in china...
                    older than the russian
ploy of the lost memory of the 20th century...
how ****** i am having
to play catch-up with the 14 years
i was given being born in 1986...
          i missed no sense of replicating
a revenue of revival...
                                     the world curated
by h'america is taking a breather...
       pushing blanks... and self-addressed letters
with stamps... but no envelopes...
"somehow" and "suddenly"...
the concept of envelope has become
detached...
4th of july and i'm looking toward
going to the new zoo...
the new zoo of loon'don...
      al fresco museums of graveyard statues
was once my affair: primo...
             now i'll head to the crux...
looking at... window shopping for mannequins...
i'm hoping to pick up cues for ref.
of how... one is... best behaved...
               the prior Karen and Cain tsunami
of... children are not given...
this sort of freedom pass of tantrums...
   i'm just curious... deep-space adventures
are a microcosm...
   no postcards from saturn...
i'd much prefer the naked-eye experience...
   "however" and "however"...
h'america is taking a breather...
  no... cultural export necessary...
                        slack boyo on the music front...
why is... the idea of h'america being
a bilingual nation-hood...
rather than a nationality... so "foreign"...
               if globalism is to somehow work...
it was somehow tested in england...
the added bonus of speaking french...
perhaps speaking german was more...
beneficial...
                     spare parts of...
               this mono-lingual spear... perhaps works...
when... and not when...
a venice bicycle club...
            i've been to venice:
         i should have visisted rome....
              hell... i should have visited... Naples...
Florence on my radar...
     venice... ugh...    sinking ship
spectacular...
                  but it's oh so amazing
when... h'america implodes and has to sober
up... and look at itself...
           russia could never do that sort:
play that sort of importance...
the size of Crimea and Maine / New England...
half-bred Mongols of the Kazakh region...
schlang whipped serenity...
the antithesis of saint as pope when...
having to... manoeuvre the troops from
a presence in europe from germany to:
king john: lackland... ****** loan...

                 strange transition...
          i don't exactly want to think...
beside: raz dwa trzy... cztery... pięć: pięść...
why is it so alien for h'america to not be...
a bilingual nation?
          there was always some variation
of the lingua franca...
     there was a languae of commerce...
oh... the natives... and the "natives"...
boring bride of...
what could be...
the language that has to be...
original: rooted... it cannot be sacrificed
on the altar of commerce...
it has to be... pure... north eastern...
welcome those honk hong conqs...
                  these shores these albion:
scrutiny ****-ups...
          
    h'america could be a bilingual nation...
belgium can... norway... sweden can...
denmark can...
              holland can...
           canada pretends: quebec...
                        the french will always...
try to... make the english tongue:
more oyster-esque edible than...
spoken...
                       i'm not going to oink
a positive or oink a negative...
when the disagreement is so old...
            
             h'america could be a bilingual nation...
the same schizoid belgium...
holland... sweden imitation...
                        hardly an impediment...
a worthy addition...
but no... that's impossible...
this is how the globalisation project fails...

i'm almost content with a period of taking
a deep-breath... having h'america ****-strapped
into self-introspection implosive carnage...
it's just a period of curiosity...
                       when h'america had to implode
and... hardly... export: culturally...
               that worded bargain: promise...
no... the words from america are sold
for... the deaf and vultures of grand-standing
pseudo-moralists...

     i can't relate with the people who shipped
off a man... a neil armstrong...
to **** hans christian andersen on the moon...
for all of h'america: the fly-over states...
hyper-inflated parody of siberia:
i.e. where you could buy some land...
and... actually live on it...

                  and want to...
                                    the ol' mcdonald... queer...
sort of 'appy...
no... from outside my window...
the late night buses are usually filled
by a count of a one or three cameos...
that they're... rolling past... empty...
    
                see... writing is fun...
  when everyone around you is busy with life...
living a Norman's norm...
                    busy to joke about your:
"indispositions"... etc.
              writing is fun when praying for the shade
of the obscured life... line...
tow...
                    it's fun when...
people have their lives intact...
and you're... "fishing" for outliers of your own....
assorted calibre...
              there was less panic...
when... meningitis had its furore...
we still went to school...
   i remember having a vaccination jab in school...
this is a most terrible lie...
this is a lazy lie...
                    this is the most terrible: lazy lie...
the truth of complacency and...
comfort in sediment... the living fossils...

meningitis sowed less panic...
when it had its furore!
                       we still went to school...
                  i'm beside interested in the "plan"...
if anything could wake me up from
being disappointed: asinine...
                              is... a theatre of the guillotine!
nothing else...
****** plans: oh... grand:
so much more... forward moving...
revisionism for... the project... self-picked cabbage...
the self-picked strawberries?!
n'ah... whatever...
     i'm about to entertain myself with some
whiskey and finding a googlewhack.

— The End —