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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. so yeah, perhaps the aboriginals, the argument for the noble savage is there... point being, they have a narrative, more eloquent than the moneticised outside the frantic fanaticism of Harry Potter, a plagiarism of Merlin... etc. etc., with all the scientific superiority, a narrative in collectivism based upon plagiarism? does it really matter? the people who spurn on the superiority of western culture... let's just say, they love to gamble, but don't understand nature's gambling pattern of weeding out the weak... and... given their opinions? i wouldn't want to share a meal with them... contradictory *******... tell them about the Manchester attacks, and they'll cite Yemen! i find it rather uncomfortable sharing a public toilet with them... to begin with... but eating with them? what a strange anticipation of the most profound profanity!
                                 so yeah...
  nice critique...
"philosopher" *** sophist -
namely a rhetorician...

i love the giggles,
don't you love the giggles?

philosophy is something to engage
with, rather than explain...
more a tartar steak than
a medium-done slash of slaughterhouse

ahem... where's your western narrative?
where is the sociological focus?
the focus point?
the campfire?

  where, is, the, glue?

    can't see it...
western civilization is superior,
i grant you that,
but, where is the self-inflammatory
  the self-reflecting critique?

look at your literature!
my good fellow!
  the pop-***** of vampire-clad-
you have to be kidding me...
too many facts, imbedded with
seeking counter-doubts (i.e. facts):
compensated with an antithesis
of a narrative principle...

a right, without a wrong...
a fact, without a narrative,
is pointless educational rubric -
no more finding an point
of answer, than regurgitating a bunch
of facts...
      i would be so certain as to joke
about the aboriginal culture...
when the western narration continuum
is plagued,
   by inconsistent narratives...
narratives that would never
want me to allow myself
a focus for congregating...

   no, sorry...
           you sit that **** alone in youir
little group-therapy sessions...
i'm about to do a Pontius Pilate
   i'm washing my hands away
from the gloat...
i can't stomach it...

      i don't want to stomach it...
i don't even adhere to an I.Q. discussion
as astounding racial differences...
i have already the point breaker:
and why so few black athletes compete
in the swimming events,
while so many are prescribed the
100m / 200m distance?

            what comes naturally...
800m / 1500m races?
          the quasi-marathon running?
evidently Kenyan or Ethiopian...

i hate this, the vest iz v besht...
                       i regurgitate on this
               with diarrhoea...

for all the science involved...
what is it, exactly, that constitutes,
the gluing fabric of community?

    i hate to say this,
but seldom facts are a differential aspect
    of exploratory conundrums...
Moby **** type of narratives?
the integral aspects...
      science has overtaken the expression
of life, sanitized it,
   securing an antithesis of
misery and mortality...
                    with: "facts"...
i might share the pH scale with someone...
but if i don't share the commonality of
a narrative?
  **** me, third party sources...
why should i share?
we share the same factoid,
why should we even bother consummating
this fact, over lunch?!

no bother!
there is no reason!
      live your life, let me live mine...
but don't you ******* even bother
dictating what i can, or can't do,
on the allowance of having invested
in a private property,
you, *******, english, ****!


  the vest iz z best-chore...
   sure sure...
      love your literature, wonder
of the ******* world!
          YA ******* and your journalism?
makes Mecca pilgrims blush!
...and for not particular reason...
vampires, werewolves,
zombies, the whole generic
exhausted stereotype -
   applause! applause!

              what?! health service?
i was lucky to have met up with my socialistic
accessible doctor,
   how many? 2 years to spare from
the last visit...
   zee vest iz z best!

            because why would i have considered
studying chemistry to an edinburgh university
    and not began a post-scriptum of schooling,
beginning work in a supermarket?!

nice narrative, love the advertisement...
keep up the belittling tactic...
   glorifying your ***** wiped clean...
nay bother...
  as the Picts used t say...
                there is an actual masochistic
attache of internalized hate,
that even i can accommodate...

                     i hate gloating,
i hate boasting...
   and i hate the sort of people who
self-identify themselves as philosophers...
rather than sophists...
the sort of people:
who, simply, can't, keep, their, mouths,

don't criticise cultures,
when your own culture...
   is gearing up to problematic investments
of its own,
most notably, the teenage mental
health crisis...
                       this is not a time scant
for diminishing the already
queuing problems,
   by resorting to I.Q and race arguments...
the ******* can claim to be
philosophers, and entertain
the centre stage...
   i have a bench...
  in a park, talking to an old east london
geezer about rayleigh bikes...
and the scalpel attitude to
finding a prefix, negation,
                in the word disease...

western civilization has been gripped
with an Sunni Islam virus of
a superiority complex...
             they sure as **** know how
to point the good stuff...
   but slightly less...
                dream-detached when it comes
to the current,
                  but hey!
the barbaric peoples are our closest
allies of worthy comparison...
   compare a ******* donkey
to a galloping horse!
  that'll fix it!

- but i thought that western culture was
all for the inbreds,
the down syndromes?
  the last birth mothers?!
        some cultures are somehow
more clingy to a peoticization of
the past...
    which... says much more...
for what currently grips the western
inconvenience in the pursuit of
a narrative, whether historical,
or fictional.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
one - i don't understand why saying "it's the 21st century" is somehow seen as a compensation for 20 centuries of our inhumanity, or a case of: only improvements reside in us - seems just as false to say - men can overcome angels, as stated by the first Christians... yeah, we can do miracles with technology and ultra-secular communication dynamics - discarding the existence of such beings resulted in hen parties with plastic wings and halos... what a great method to discard such being, and subsequently appropriate their features, if ever needed, but altogether unnecessary... two - that disrespecting heterosexuality aligned with the power of science has made it altogether a pointless endeavour in re-enacting the monogamous nature of swans: if we can breed the many perversions, ahem, deviations, we surely require en equal share of respect, before science undermines any deviations into an economic format of breeding pure heterosexual contingencies... three: who the hell said i was throwing anyone off a roof? i was just curious about the slack pressurising the alias big brother / grey matter dictator into teaching us language, then to later make us into a Koranic cyclops or having to sway one side, but not the other, teaching us vocabulary in school, but robbing us of a fluidity of language beyond school, in society... any rational man would say: just teach me the knuckle, the stone and the stick to express my manners... because, to be frank, i'm not into faking being civilised, just teach me to be a barbarian from the start, don't dangle the magic carrot in front of my eyes when it's a fake... teach me the barbarism you want to suppress later on in life: i'm not into being Dolly 2.3419, and an attache to a sheepdog for herding purposes to take it up the **** and shut up: because a member of Parliament did it to me aged 14; for example.

subjectivity is doubled attacked, it's not the merely rationalist
approach of an objective side of things,
i could understand tiresome efforts
Chinese politics while walking
the tourist plot on the great wall -
in a society that's seismically acknowledging
social or whatever coherence,
i find it a bit of limbo of paraphrasing
trans - or trans-physics, or the active
way to usurp metaphysics, by deviating
from thought as an activity, and more
how words are sense datum co-ordinates
that are like dictators: because it just, feels,
funny, and, offensive. ***** vocabulary,
that's what i call it... after a while you concentrate
on what ****** you off, first the educational
autocracy teaches you a vocabulary,
then come the St. Thomas' terrorists with:
you need to revise your vocabulary...
like **** that'll happen, you don't own
language, i don't own language, you're
little fascist agenda to censor such awoke
the boy that was supposed to wake Barbarossa
from his slumber with the cry: crows! crows!
a cloud of crows! funny how the eagle is a
failed emblem for empires, and the crow isn't...
mind you, the English succeeded with
an empire half-and-half: a lion and a unicorn...
i'd guess as much with a monkey and
a centaur, or at least a Cerberus - something
mythical - well, sure, the Poles are attacked
in Britain... but ever hear about the Scot
being attacked in an English village?
a Scot was attacked just the other day,
because kilts were deemed offensive...
so trans-gender is good, meta-gender is:
had a wee t'ink 'bout it...
   robots start with the pronoun use: one...
royalty start with the pronoun use: we...
                 and in between we have paranoid
they and we... and insecure you and i -
or as e. e. cummings would have it:
    *i say no world
                 can hold a you
   shall see the not
  and why but
true, but as much of not is entanglement
              with knots - or ought to tries -
  to not or to knot and be -
                              Shakespeare also said:
  funny how i was born neo-liberal,
millennial tattooed - and fake-left...
   i hear the right is a tsunami of focus these days,
all the generation Z are buying into
obstructing gay-marriage, and are adamant
   on not abusing pronouns - hence the current
revival in grammar school education in England -
they don't drink, i.e.: taking psychopathic gambles,
they're prone to social-media overdoses
rather than succumbing to excess ecstasy and palpitation:
i had 190 "friends"... let's just call them vantage points...
   sheered that social media sheep: only 13 left...
but at least objectivity outright says:
       subjectivity is subhuman, science taught us
that subjectivity is the fire between two flint stones,
all in all necessary - but objectivity said:
             two flints! two flints! no fire!
what attacks subjectivity is not objectivity,
it's satire... to humanise everything: good or bad,
with a standard of humour... well... telling a sad
joke to later tell the same sad joke by satirising it...
punch in a face; because there are only so number of
things that are funny in life... the English language
doesn't seem to understand that even the odd chance
of black humour, will not lift the spirits of those,
who, quiet frankly, don't want to be humoured...
the only humour left is not to provision the public
with barbaric satire, sometimes empathy will do,
because it's emphatic humour,
   it's Godot's roundabout humour: the shared experience.
laughing for the sake of laughing is
             a cry from apathy's lost interest in
being pardonably dasein - laughing at all the truthful
autobiographic desecrate is apathy's last
chance to impress: but how foul it all sounds by then...
   the western version of buddhism suddenly feels like
  a taste of pears in november: not sour, not bitter...
just maggoty foul - yucky goo
                  of a plum-shaded rouse of the skin
tinged hue after contact with knuckle and knee.
  but they attacked a ******* Scot in an English village,
because of a kilt...
                                   he knows the strand of ganging up
in hyena numbers and then the celebratory drink
of compensating conscience - they'll sooner accept
     a trans-gender dunno'h than a hot-blooded
heap of tartan - ever ask the homosexuals what
they think of St. Thomas' gospel?
              i think: too much, too early, too innocently.
and if they tell you: speak differently!
they will, i'm ****** sure they will want to
control your grammar without any specialisation -
you'll wonder: summer in Syria?
                     because as racism goes,
they attack the difference, and the difference is only
skin deep, like they did with the Afros of Kentucky,
the Kentucky Afros will spring right back,
    because the abuse was only skin deep,
therefore their soul was enlarged, and they'll
play the blues, and the jazz, and rap, and break-dance...
but if the abuse goes to the depth of soul...
in that it's soul-deep...
                                and because it's white v. white...
it will ferment, and nothing positive will come from it...
no jazz, no blues... nothing of cultural importance...
   it will be haggled in the political market
to the point where both sides will find it utterly
unbearable: and then start to sheer their skins...
        you won't get anything from this soul-deep
attack... if the holocaust is what it felt like,
            then this is a minor post-holocaust episode,
a reminder...
                          and by god, i thank god
for the fact that the Picts are involved -
                                                            whe­re to now?
O Imperium Gladstone paraphrase?
                            it will be hard to beat the unicorn -
all empires donning the eagle duly fail -
centaur and a frog? maybe next time.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.only last year i learned that my grandmother had an abortion... shocked? maybe, my great-grandmother was a very religious woman... unfortunately... my grandfather's dementia implies that he's paranoid about admitting that he was a communist party member, and that, like all the school-children... cried... when the olive-skinned Georgian, the grand-master of subverting the Russians, died; oops?

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

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

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

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

   but while it's inside a woman...
it's attache...
             and if n early abortion
is deemed, infanticide....
**** me...
   i commit genocide almost every
day, and flush it down, the,
******* toilet!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A
, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
Her fourteen days $?..........&

And what? And I am losing
some attachments

is this our way
We should say is this my end today
My salvation
(Losing) wed long train
of thought

One day before
She screams!!
Such finesse of refinement
We all fall down 
Like children
of the **** torment
Statues the transformation
so real
Carve the deal on the 13th

Like the Gal Friday
battle Tut
masked out the
Halloween taking
out their spleen

Statuette Tut of
the jurisdiction
The fourteen karat teen
gold doesn't put a hold on me

How our minds
became off-set

My blocks are the key
to his heart mindset
The trade of the marks
her freedom
Her lips
quite a
surgery can blow
those bricks
down like a bullet

How it out knocks singing
over again
we all fall down
like ashes remain

Oh! Gee  V for Victorious Glee

How he couldn't pass
because of me,
there I went to the silent hill
The tranquil of quietness
Her weapon
the bullet dress - --
The coffee in the
King Tut shape
The curvy glass

Like a desert storm fires
Going First class

Not a block party second in mind
          "He" King Glee
Behind her walls, he reconstructs
Cheers of joy bullets one of a kind
Like a setup ploy
Her body fine weight
of gold
Eyes almond he's my candy
Second chances of joy
Her third timeless so hot
Is "She"
He's trying to nourish her heart

"With Glee"

Those love instructions
Like a bullet for me?

The King Oh! Gee

The Queen you
had to see
Like the golf clubs to putter set
The ball whole cup
The whole process stayed put
She was so enticed by his
bungee climbing
Seeing his first shot shooting
wasn't a star

The bricks to the end of the war
Judy the Star was Garland found
a different  time of Era la boom
reborn lady Liza Minnelli

The Empire of the Tut
(Bali Island Hut)
Her best to the
last stone paver layers
Like a Tut mortal dreamers
On her deck Golden Egg cards
King on top of the Queen
blocks bam the bomb ticks
The Joker having his last laugh
The war of fidelity like a plaque
of immortals
"And Please God' let it be over

You're my lucky star
No matter where you are
The ancient portal sip of wine
"All Glee" smile to trust
Come attached with loads of funds
His attache case modernly- eyes dim
Cashed into her twilight blank stare
Head over heels digging underneath her
gold - heavy heart and mind spins
into a migraine

His prayers are working
constructing a force
Something is emerging
racing for hearts
Engaging the space of valuable
objects of time

  We heard of the
one-day creation
the mysterious temple
Kinksters my heroes our fellowman
To the hipbone, those hipsters stick
  together to hustle

She is trying harder to please him
The gold to be seized
Thousand times over
to build
a form of loves the golden touch

The building could collapse
Heart together can relapse
If her love doesn't stand tall
The darkness can come to her eyes
The death of cards handed
like her corpse flying bullets

Such a massive stone block
She loved to be entertained
Let me make you walk my path
Solid as a rock

Like the Sun Gods map like the
Egyptian cat tongue
The strange pharaohs ancient
stolen identity
Layers and layers
Trumpet tower Presidential
Her bullet racer tulips
Lips bloom with gravity
900 feet getting a grip confidential

The ruins the strange existence
every time will there be next time
The new technology reveals
more secrets one bullet at a time
A silver bullet doesn't
compare to her myths Antionette

Her Anniversary all in gold,
to be or not to be
The silver award bullets
His mighty treasure
for poems of the sonnet

The largest space to build
in Egypt
Look up its a plane
King Tut bird
Super bullet giant beams
Going once or twice
70 Ladybird feet
Pharaoh timeline
so many wives

The column layering
She the sweeter cake
Had life sliced itself

Her layers the feed
of his smorgasbord
The name Ramesses 11
To reveal the evidence
stolen identities this
wasn't the (Providence)
Laying bricks in
my stone bed
Like a heart of stone

Building a gold his
mind like a block-freeze
It will take lifetimes
Marlon "Brando"
The commando of the waterfront
try to be upfront
It felt like a hard cement

Two bricks intellectual speaking
The goldrush her heart racing the
bullet of time
So thick-headed 
The Queen just sit

The golden bond have
  guns will travel I Glee I pads
  The speed of bullets meet
my heroes what lads
The kingdom was
holding women
Joy to the
tacky glue magnet

Not the carnival of
cotton candy soft gold
The King got his ladies like
The Funhouse King Tut
no detention to have
Like the speed of lightning
never to hold
More love to build intermission
The kings only private
Gold VIP Theatre

All smiles the build-up
   Another mysterious setup palace
Those bricks of brown
warmth orange-reds of fire leaves
Falling over her milestone of
Mink hair
the fairytale of
 Are we in to know
  what really clicks

More layer and layers of her
goldilocks of hair 
 stronger than any bricks
King Tut Biblical time so sublime we all need more time the  war of gold roses those statuettes all bricks and give peace  a chance at a glance get a second chance  were the world it's hot and cold you got to have a voice a mouth like a bullet it's your choice
anastasiad May 2016
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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
here's an opinion that
   requires a dialectical
no, really, it does...
the following statement
an echo chamber,
a boiler room...
i walked the night streets
by the full moon
and the moonlit kitchen
later at home,
covered in quicksilver
as if watching silver
armor that became my
    sometimes it happens
towing a beer...

does English existentialism
even exist?
the 20th century
dogma akin to the French,
genesis with
the Danes and the Germans...

oh, i'm pretty sure it does,
English existentialism
does exist...
   but... i hope it isn't there
in the first place...

it's so placid,
so... materialistic in its
scientific uni-dimensionality...
English existentialism is
primarily, and only,
a version of Darwinism...

it's not that "philosophy"
is undermined...
          come along history,
and physics...
i can't be no stretch-Armstrong
working my way around
a posit-approximate of a date,
and date zero of the big bang...

i'm bored of English existentialism,
and we're only 18 years
into the 21st century...

**** me, watching eggs get fried
is more interesting...
the fixed rules,
   the whole Darwinism overhaul
of continental existentialism -
that... bugging...
  of human psychology...
the analogue argument,
the replica, the mimic...
there are various names for
the starting block...

      i'm literally done reading
English philosophy,
never started to read it in the first place,
to begin with...
and i'm sure i never will...

i reread my own attempts and
the best i can ascribe is an embarrassing
limp **** of prudence
prescribed with a dosage of power...

poetry and music...
philosophy isn't exactly an English "thing"...
it's not a national trait to
make conversation over dinner...
unless it's a family dinner shared
before the altar of a t.v.
or the children before a screen
of a smartphone...

   ******* can rhyme, sure as ****...
but can they entertain
a cogitans per se:
i.e. a thinking thing in itself -
a complex variant of solipsism?
don't think so...

as ever... too much biological
  which bores the **** out of me,
considering it: overstates
the ****** obvious...

   i hate hearing the obvious...
it's like: well... d'uh! no **** Sherlock!
why don't you shove your
whittle observations into a little
suitcase, throw it onto the train
heading into the unconscious
and stop gloating about the self-evident?!


i don't get how we can even achieve
pub- / cafe-existentialism's worth
of conversation when Darwin is
         everywhere i look: Darwin...
everywhere i chose
to **** in an abandoned alley:

                         these rigid structures
of scientific certainty are
bugging me, when those who adhere
to them, have no basic
"knowledge" of the sometimes
pseudo-scientific nature of philosophy...

after all: philosophy is both
a "science", and a "humanism"...
     it's... "gender"-fluid...
       but the English do not think so...
philosophers are not
polymaths, having contradictory
             and a (as according to the 20th
century French existentialists)
   "self" interest of given artifacts...

English existentialism can exist,
in the 21st century...
but, said affairs be made given light:
it can't backtrack
and fall back on a unison source
of a genesis to craft an exodus from
the 20th century...
after all...
   what happened when the Germans
applied a branch of Darwinism?
   so... what am i look at now?
   if not the purity of ethnicity...
then a "purity" of thought...

            but enlighten me...
what narrative exists outside the basic
cognitive Theta-Q?
        you know: (th)ought?
        consolidated moral questioning
the end of ethical inquiring...
            there's the moral (th)ought -
and then there's the freedom of thought...

and who said what, precisely?
****, man...
i'm hearing is the clicking
of a supposed centipede on
a keyboard and e nomine's song

    i expect this to be a freedom of speech,
as i expect finding a penny on
the street...
              should you care to look
at your feet...

i said ****...
      but i wrote this, instead...
which implies?
a higher category of a freedom of speech:
like Kierkegaard originally said:

people much fuss about their freedom
of speech,
   rarely their freedom of thought...

but i guess posting this in a public
space is a direction transliteration
of thought = speech...

       i don't think so...
i said ****...
                      this... this?
  this is res extensa -
     the extension of res cogitans -
the thinking...
     sure... i could write the same thing,
20x over, and shove it into my puny desk...
but then...
   i could also write this
on a piece of paper, and, by accident...
drop it in the Romford Market Sq.
on a busy Friday, fine fine afternoon.
.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
.i'm in luck, they're selling it at under 11 quid right now,
stock dry - gone in an instant - laphroaig like -
but not as smoky - but smoked scotch it it
at £10.34 - oh the little joys of having little money to spend -
you end up less picky and less hoarder and
the junk yard.

na głowe sypano mi, tak popiół:
     popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
           popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                 popiół! a obiecano mi *****!

                  (not my words... lao che's dym)...

me, beer, cigarette, outer-suburbia -
police whizz past, silent with flare
or screaming toddler and Odysseus' 20 sirens
with wax in the ears of oaring company
akin to Ajax'ς vitality -
along the way, my neighbour (who's mother
killed my cat.. listen, i know he had
heart problems, he was on aspirin -
but kidneys, even if complicated are not
real problem, felines take longer to ****
than do the no. 2, pigeons don't have kidneys -
they're always of an **** diet of diarrhoea;
write like Aristotle sometimes,
forget the facts, be wrong, get it wrong,
never put a glass cup into the waterfall of
poetic cascades - get it wrong, be wrong -
get to know yourself - it's not that dumb
to be predictable in yourself -
if you allow self-predictability you will
see certain social events as being pointless -
you'll see friends and "friends" -
self-predictability is a verb, compounded -
i already know i'll make references to grammar
and it being missing in philosophy -
no, not coherence and appropriate arrangement -
i mean undoing the box of thing-in-itself
and the subsequent tennis with a brick wall,
to surprise yourself when something is unearthed,
a little piece of the puzzle - simulating awe,
the genesis of all that's to come, even awe from a yawn
and boredom... it's here somewhere... i'll karate
catch it with chop sticks.... (looking around)...
i don't know, might be a moth or a fly...

Antichrist: or a summary of Antisemitism - a variant of,
or at least a concentration - mainly confiscated
by Christianity - prime complaint:
a democracy of Anointed One (Messiahs) -
obviously a manifested justifiable practice of Antisemitism -
the throng of Golgotha intelligence quotient -
Jew v. Jew, and one convert from the delusional
4 x 4 (in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy
                                         spirit... hold on!
                                    i make four gestures... and make a fifth
                 with Romeo and Juliet talking -
St. Matthew-Luke-Mark-and-John... penta penta pent-up
pentagon - evidently there's a pentagrammaton somewhere:
ah! i b l i s.                       Surat no. via Rumi - 7:143 - veils and
the one - reward in heaven - more veils, gardens veils,
grapes in heaven veils - stomach a veil - hunger a veil -
rewards in heaven also veils - the poem?
praise be Jesus - and Jason and the Argonauts - and whoever
wanted a strawberry flavoured pastiche to lick tears off -
love's apocalypse, love's glory -
         well bloodhound eyes say it all - droop drool -
droop & drool... Jack & Jill... went up the hill, and passed
the Grimm Bro. baton to Hanzel und Gretyl in the 100m x4
relay of Disney Limps - then rabbinical literature to sober up -
Albotini's Sulam HaAliyah (Ladder of Ascent, formerly Jacob's
ladder - to be: Ladder of Skip-rope; Oxford, hello! yes,
can you please consider un-hyphenating what is desirably
a compound worthy word in the practice of German?          )?
is a bracket necessary anywhere and i missed it?
Antichrist - or a very strange form of antisemitism -
be like a Jew, congregate applauding in the right corner: Jesus -
in the blue corner: Crux Golgothia.
export from Portugal - the said book -
key principle (kefitzah) jumping or skipping (dilug) -
and this being applied to the one practice of mystic Judaism -
the ****** gematria; hishtavut (stoicism) -

me - is it still 20 quid for an eighth?
Sim (my neighbour) - yeah, but these days
                                       they sort of cheat,
                                       you'd get an eighth nibbled on,
                                       twenty for a tenth?!
me - ******, well, we can't expect it to not happen,
         we had coin debasement - clippings of silver
         keratin with Siliqua, third stage and
         all encoded authority is gone: Thomas and Anne
         till death and nail clippings be fraud unison in
         the depart (or when narration extinguishes
         a character, the character is worth nothing -
         the narrator wakes up - all the characters run
         like phantom-hares into nonexistence -
         phantom! thin air!
politeness said: only one **** at the wacky wee ö wee
(umlaut O / double oh, 007 - 00'7 - double u... oh!
                                 i get it!                             Jamie Oliver!)
   "   (-tia) (-ina)(-ei)(-ensor) -
all that would have been clipped - authority of visage -
the courtesan only knew the mint in silver
and the mint in the flesh - hence clipping of coin
to erase the authority from the holy authority of words -
in the beginning - but once dei.gra.reg.fid.def.jpeg /

that ****** moth is here somewhere! there it is! catch it!
                                                             ­   catch it!
SLAM!          and the job is done )                                      ).
i really waiting a bus stop pretending to wait for a bus
toking on a joint - joint is mix tobacco and wee wee
and spliff is pure? i forgot the slang - haven't been
addicted to it in years.
Sim - yeah, that's how it is. work in central london -
         have to get up early in the morning.
         corporate finance - no that's a commercial firm,
         corporate finance - McDonald's, etc.
me - oh cool waiting for  ghost bus - never get paranoid
(police cars whizz by)
Sim - n'ah, a perfectly decent area, got stopped once,
          three years ago.
and the price goes to the laziest narrator in history - absolutely
no engagement with characters - it's too real, everyone's
lying - this is the second time i spoke to my neighbour properly
in the past.. ooh 2002... 14 YEARS - it's not even funny -
no amount of marijuana will make you feel comfortable -
you can mate and make Kingston handshakes and what not -
this is purity of absurdity and western isolation,
we went against the maxim: no man is an island on purpose,
not by chance like Robinson Crusoe -
at least Crusoe had a talking Friday - we have a ghost
of Michael Faraday on Friday - ******* disco blink blink -
poet... or alt.: the narrator complex - inhibitions toward
character craft and pseudo-schizoid symptom -
believing in ghosts is easy, fiction writers and their ghosts
and abortions, hardly a way to escape from that -
poetry: rebellious narration - just anything with narration,
modern fiction is read like a chess match between deep blue
and Kasparov - or Pavlov v. Jezebel playing gynaecologist.

blank.... blank... wait for the atoms trilled R to make
their toady presence felt -
the more pricier the whiskey the more pristine water,
i.e. you get drunk more easily -
anyone that smokes marijuana and thinks
they're clever are stupid; how many people are out there that are
- resounding hearsay-hooray!
drugs, ******, crack, blow, marijuana, ****, ***,
  cannabis, dope, ******, mary-jane, 13, M - herb shake -
Humphrey saying to Bogart - that joint.
as said in Saudi
Arabic - a Ferrari G.T.I. and MeKubalim HaMitbodedim
                                  -chism - schism - sky - ski -
                                  cha cha, cha cha - kilo or 100th -
                                  1000 thd. - hundredth a thousandth -
                                  - where then the acute,
                                  timber from Czechs -
                                  kebab from Mesopotamia -
                                  and the Trojan horse to boot -
                                 chatter - chopper whopper -
                                 astoikism - not chew off
                                 curve into cherish but
                                 cravat chew in -
                                 Slavic mining zed - czarna
                                 ciasność - blackened claustrophobia.
a Buddhist clap
                   immersion -
left handed the right hand claps against air
                  )             )              )               )            ) ) )            )
a night at the Opera, right handed the left hand claps against air
(                       (        (            (               (          ( ( (            (
scimitar Luna - so they said, would like an audience with the
further unmentioned mention -
you're mates with neighbours who over 14 years you only
spoke to the count of thumb and index on occasion -
and thus necessarily high -
i was going to write something really important before
i finalised this draft... but i forgot what it was...
got almighty this whiskey is good...
i'm smoking salmon and pickling reindeer hooves and antennas;
a bit like practising Chinese miracle medicine with
whale blubber and Mongolian nostril hairs.

it's not about loving your enemies -
this love sinister must be invoked as: making your
enemies bearable.

i'm sure i had something concerning poetry and narration -
ah! it was... poetic compensation -
a.d.h.d. narration - attention deficit hyperactive disorder -
true - all psychiatric terms are metaphors -
at least outside the psychiatric realm -
poetry as a.d.h.d. meaning: shrapnel narration -
a custard pie of missing characters -
poetry: i.e.: the inability to believe in ghosts
or write characters - claustrophobic or agoraphobic narration?
a mix of both - poetry - the inability to conjure
Ouija fancies - poetry, the over-specialised gift for
narration, but an inability to invent characters -
poetry, the truth of the narrative, and the truth of un-invented
characters, poetry: the ability to narrate, coupled
with the inability to create characters -
fiction and the dumb narrator - poetry and the exquisite
narrator - fiction and the exciting characters -
poetry and the God - our focus is based on that vector,
or bias to that vector - fiction and the Oscars -
narrator and director - when to change from first person
to third person - again Burroughs was right -
images 50 years ahead of writing - a bit obvious,
nothing spectacular with that phrase -
lightning and the sons of thunder: 12 of them -
made the tetragrammaton less spoken and swear words
fucken-uppen censored so the crucifix and **** could
collide - a fine fine excuse - the Boeing 747 first
and later the quasi-sonic broom shoo' 'mm -
poetry as fiction disguised when fiction was given
a seance with pure narratives - splinter group:
philosophy's juggling with pronouns esp. the plural deviation
from first person as if to proper punctuation -
psychiatry and the theory of pronoun usage -
poetry and the pronoun rōnin (macron = umlaut -
count to two, or prolong - reasonable man / **** sapiens, pre-noun pro-adjective / adjective attache-noun, noun counter-noun es duo-adjective, Kellogg's sunrise cockle-doodle-dip-in-tartan-chess) -
only poetry mediates the parallel vectors of prose-fiction and philosophy - it consolidates the use of pronouns, art of poetry alone -
pure narration we're talking about,
the narrator and characters of its fancy,
philosopher and dialectical placebos (character equivalence)
with self-conscious moments, mono-pro-noun - alone i name -
the sacred squash wall of lecturing an invisible audience -
rummaging epitaphs in a graveyard along with birth dates
and live by dates - yes, that sacred we philosophers use -
an entire theatre was summoned to continue in appearing
sensible when writing without fictive apparitions -
enabling a fluidity in pronoun use, without sensible letter
writing, as in dear sir,
                                       me in reverse, thank you.
(05:32 a.m.)
Hey Jekk! Can you be my best friend?
A friend who wants to go at the very end
Let us play ash, fire, blood and stone
Promise me! You'll never leave me alone

(07:51 a.m.)
Are you excited to go to your tedious school?
Throw a sticky mud to your History teacher's face!
Wow! That's the best idea! Isn't that cool?
Or maybe toss around the Principal's attache case!

(09:03 a.m.)
Jekk! How can you be so stupid? Com'on
The time is running! Just look at nerdy Simon!
with his precious Algebra examination paper
Whoopee! Get his answer at the first number!

(12:00 noon)
**** Gary! Look at his spiteful smile to Amber!
I am sure! He badly wanted to *** with her
Put the mashed potato on his monstrous face
and see what he has got inside these terrible mess

(02:16 p.m.)
You really deserve the hell's applause! Boom!
How can you sneak at the girls' shower room?
Did you like the feeling? The fire is igniting!
Next time, let us do more action! Extreme burning!

(04:45 p.m.)
HIIIIIIDDDEEEE!! Your strange Christian friend!
NEVER ever hang with him or you'll be dead!
Boring to talk about that silly book..sounds like "Bubble"
Com'on! It is more fun to taste worldly life and gamble!

(06:51 p.m.)
Jekk! You don't need to pray before you eat!
Just look all the foods you wanted and feed!
Don't set aside foods for your Dad from work
Remember? He scolded you because you broke his Torque

(08:24 p.m.)
Hahaha! I really had fun my coolest best friend!
I hope we can still be buddies until the very end!
Tomorrow, we will burn the city and run! Com'on!
**Oh I almost forgot! My name is Demon! :)
Ephesians 6: 10-17
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
it could be said that the constructs of grammar are a akin to
the constructions of the unconscious with sleep the dam,
   and the trickling of both the waking
hours and the concerns for dreams -
i'd say: it's not exactly the interpretation
of dreams, but a concern for them:
last night i was exposed to the most
fascinating comic, if i wrote about it
in the morning i'd reveal all of it -
but i do remember in a subplot
a Beretta and fiddling with a bullet...
dreams? unwanted distractions...
            they only possess depth's worth of
analysis for entombed people -
      for whom life has no meaning
they have to seek alternatives: i.e.,
in dreams...
                         because their lives are
so uninhibited they seek monastic
meanings, they are on a knife's edge
of slicing through cryptography -
                        they want to seek deeper meaning,
rich or poor, if life isn't a centimetre's
worth of depth of drowning, your escapism
is bound to dreams...
                             which is a secondary
excuse concerning apathy
  and the shaking homeless man...
               i'm asking for a mass exodus
of the homeless from urban areas...
                       only a fool would sit in an
urban environment these days...
               those glum godforsaken looks of
seemingly ****** superiority...
   meritocracy hides a variation of ******
it doesn't seem to recognise -
          it's a gigantic mushroom fog-cloud
and bypassing talk of the guillotine chop
to mind the Antoinette cakes for fear of
                        thinking never equates
to being conscious...
                                       i don't know how
this happens...
                              the divergent parallelism
states that
                   we shouldn't base our
censoring on obstructing nouns,
but the majority of politics bullies this
categorisation of words with the most
sensed purpose of it being necessary...
nouns don't do jack **** in ontological
parameters, but verbs do...
                  trying to change human
behaviour by stretching it back far enough
for cavemen to appear,
      or censoring the use of nouns
does not affect our actions -
                                     it simply doesn't...
censoring our use of words
         means we cognitively stutter... to
appease misguided pieces of information
lodged within each word...
                       we are deliberately
not engaging in the full vocabulary grasp
of things...
                          on a humanistic level
the involuntary desire
                                  to write a book rather than
learn to make toothpaste...
   outside of theorems in rubrics of
                   what is the active ingredient
in being conscious?
                  thought or the senses?
   for me thought is the active ingredient
   and the senses are a passive ingredient.
               on the ready...
but how to make the world make sense?
  well, given the five already not making
sense, thought alone suggests a counter
question: how does the world make sense?
    i understand that these words
belong in the torture chambers of libraries...
people prefer practical problems
sourced by practical questions,
rather than preferring no problems
  sourced by impractical questions...
did i mention taxation? no.
         did i mention immigration? no.
hence i've asked impractical questions
         because i don't want people to
experience them as practical concerns
when they do not invoke practicality:
precisely because they invoke an impracticality
i'm asking them...
                              because they do
not interfere with what's impractical in life:
other people's sedimentation
into power... my questions interfere with what's
practical in life: not getting in other people's
daily affairs...
                         the more the question
is impractical, the more practical life becomes...
and then life encounters what others deem
to be the practical question, which makes
life all the more impractical...
       time orientated: on the altar of television
where everyone has enough time to
                               with thought the
active ingredient of being conscious (double
value, two functions, one open, the other closed)
                the inactive ingredient of being conscious
is ego (hence the many theories and sub-divisions
of possessing such a thing) -
                     that doesn't necessarily translate
into                               the origin of things...
                 i'd state that grammar is
in equal measure a conscious quantity (vocabulary),
as a subconscious medium  and an unconscious
                          grammar speaks of the universal man,
we speak alone or among ourselves as
men: particular...
                                      to me grammar is a medium
akin to the psychological three tier cake...
                              it's a fourth dilemma...
                 if thought is the active ingredient
of consciousness,
                                it's no wonder
   the constant sought-after identification procedures
with passports, national insurance numbers,
        a common mantra...
                           SOURCES OF PLAGIARISM...
              the white man knows no mysticism...
whatever comes from his mouth is wobble-blah...
               still even fewer made that statement
than venture into the Masai territories in Kenya
to hear a mystical burp...
                       yes... so many provocative sentences...
psychology expands into what will always be
airy-fairy Mary Poppins to me...
                        i can write about it,
but the rubric of fixating on words
                                 that are stimulants more than
additives in terms of cohesive argumentation
will always remain a mile away from my
serious interests in prolonging an argument
  for establishing a theory into it being schooled...
that'll never happen with me...
                        when i write about psychology
i am foremost to remind myself:
     you just inhaled a balloon filled with helium...
   oh god, the relief of not making more from this...
                  me, never the dodgy soul-salesman
of the naive few...
                             a penny is worth a pebble...
but is a page from Tolstoy worth a £5, a £10,
a £20 or a £50 banknote?
                                             i really wanted to
expand on the verbiage... but even i encounter
moments of true spaghetti demanding me to end
the supposed: on to it...
                                        to me psychology is
verbiage... in the back of my mind i'm looking
at grammar as a punching-bag...
                 upper-hook -logy
                        lower-hook -graphy -
          or pristine physics and chemistry...
      as one granny said: some kind of -logy
   or: a term deemed appropriate to denote
    a vocabulary fixation of some sort.
                      because that's what's called the attache...
fixated vocabulary -
                        i'd really love to expand
on this... but i don't see the point...
                 the original idea fizzled out
after i heard enough entertainment tongues
blah through a bubbling bottle of champagne
into Lake ****-on-the-Geneva-Convention flat...
                   as i am adamant on
creating Narcissus looking into the sea...
                           but that's the beauty of
poetry, it's not bound by paragraphs...
           it's open, like the ******* of literature
that it is...
                                 your payment?
just your attention...
                                           hence no paragraphs...
                your payment?
   just your attention...
                               because if they didn't cough
up for the skeleton... i'm not
           giving them my strained larynx...
   it's best to leave
                                something unfinished:
there's no melancholy surrounding
     a perfected and complete construction...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
and maybe after clarifying homosexuality
with all the political graces,
you suggested an education:
     well, not all women are strong-men *******
who like to excel in ****...
but you didn't bother,
                 you didn't say: homosexual fancies
of men needing **** translated into
the heterosexual practices, guess what,
not many women are born pederasts,
and not many would wish for attache permanent-******
rather than strap-on guises to switch sexes...
because your political correctness
bred both dictators and mob rule:
we need another world war to
               curb these retards talking,
walking and elsewhere playing the Urban II...
               that's how i seem them,
impotent, child-molesting lefties and Conservatives...
******* waste of time, and better still
easier coming a waste of space...
maybe that's my asthma cause and solution
in one... i once talked to an asthmatic girl:
start smoking... why? learn to make your
breathing rhythmic... i was shoved into
the goodbye pile: what an idiot that said he
forgot who he shoved in a playground
with not nostalgia: i always thought you
inherited the one type of teachers,
never to inherit being taught by your contemporaries....
they always do... the failures of their parents
you inherit... when you tell them:
err... you were also part of the family which
you forgot to engage with...
                                        you are rightfully
entitled to a nomadic status... go on... *******
a second time to Australia...
           let's see you coming back with equally
congenial smiles after you left the colonial places
equally stating: Hong Kong divided the nations,
                   and King Kong rattled
the hairy chest of Grecian example:
city state!                 and so it was, doubly true when
Iraq was invaded. learn to be a contemporary
in historical matters... without history books...
or do what i do: wait for the statistics...
oral *** is like trilling the tongue on
                             the non-rolling r -
you're hatching an east end venture?
         too sure...
                            like saying 'ater -
            depending on silent w or h -
      and the missing t to a mad one...
they made homosexuality legal... but 70%
of women said **** was nice..
counter-argument... well, they're born with
clever loss of ****-restrictions...
                  she said it hurts...
i said: i fold my ******* rather than conscript
to Abraham's *****... so i enjoy life more than
you are expected to enjoy ***...
                 but no one listened...
no one ever does...
                                 hence the god-****-right
                            you force a pregnancy unto me
i force the world onto you...
                                         then the lies,
and more lies,                   and more lies...
Angus Mary or the Argentinean way of saying hello...
              hence the liars and womanising ones...
clearly out without a beard or a mane
                                  because a lie is much better
to bed a woman than a rose or a bouquet of
                       it's so, and forever remain so...
but i just don't get how they managed to
   liberate homosexuality (yes, it's odd feeling
pleasure from **** ***, esp. if you're a woman 70% don't)
but entombed womanhood in what became
textile industry of ******* and leather shoes...
                  migraine cure?
     with enough number to suffocate the easy sleeper
into a cult-like endeavour - the sloth of the last breath:
and enough talk in the obituary; just enough
             for a ***** notice next to the half-prize
           packets of salted herrings.
                 we are we are: youth of the nation...
   we are we are: youth of the nation...
               yeah... it's a shame we encouraged
the politics of accepting homosexuality
           when homosexuality speaks no truthful ****...
given the years it struggled with, no surprises...
         but at least it could end its
  misogynistic target and said: not all women will
fall in love with what we do...
                                 well... no chance of that...
sooner Goofy on screen than Pluto and the slobber...
      than the slurp and the goof-ball stutter...
              but they didn't, they took revenge...
now we're all **** minded wishing we weren't
or wishing we were...
                   and there's me, with bewildered prostitutes...
paying an extra £10 on each hour spent with them
and the entry fee for the madame at £120...
                      ******* at her mega-****** *******...
well... let's just say:
                                          a little bit illuminating -
enough for a moaning harmonica and a jealous
gag intended for pedestrians
from a brothel window in Amsterdam by Puerto Rico's
chubby lovely: or as the black guys said in school:
                           more cushion for the pushin'; oh gee...
too true.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
what could possibly be a logical joke,
akin to: 1 + 1 = 2... ha ha! type?
i can't think of logical joke,
comedy is beyond being calculated,
it can be properly
  executed within the realm
of punctuation a drop-line...
  but that's about as far as logic
centers around comedy...
   only recently i revealed
that i am arachnophobic...
   (rob zombie - the girl who loved
the monsters)...
           i am... i see a spider
the size of a thumb...
     i'm like: jeez! get that thing
away from me!
you know how comedy exists
in logic?
             it exists in phobias...
given that phobias are illogical...
well... that's still the antonym of
  yes... i know the spider
is only the size of my thumb...
but phobias... ha ha!
there's something obvious about
the joke of phobias,
as there's also an ontology binding
  arachnophobia? is spontaneous,
it's a reflex reaction...
  and that's the logical joke...
the illogical fear...
   funny... really funny...
this progressive term...
what is it... hmm...
     - this really comes as a reiteration...
how can i be, "islamophobic"?
where's the reflexive reaction
upon seeing a Muslim in full
religious attire?
where's the principle of phobia
being acted on?
the reflex reaction?
where is...
phobias are the jokes of logic,
and the comedy of logic is:
that they summon illogical
reactions to the altar of relativism...
ergo... if i'm scared of
a thumb sized spider in the shed,
i should be scared of my thumbs...
islamophobia is such a made-up
what logic is logic to me,
behind the spider?
            em... i'm trying to tickle
& trickle god into all of this...
but i can't...
what sort of logic is behind
the spider?
   a spider, like all animate beings...
well... even trees are animate...
in slow-motion (phototropism)...
what logic is there?
there is no logic to them...
they are purely empirical reactionaries...
there's no logic,
because there's no consciousness
of thought,
the senses are too inclusive
of themselves,
to allow an exclusivity that
might make their being
impregnated with thinking,
fertile with thought...
ah... i see the joke...
my phobia is funny...
   ha ha...
    you want to experience
a fear of god?
          find your phobia...
sure, the spider has no knowledge
of logic, but whatever "created"
the spider has placed an irrational
fear of the spider, and lodged
it into my general standard
of logic...
i see the fear of god in a spider,
as i also see the comedy...
phobias are categorized by
irrational reflexes,
   they are a set of cognitive reflexes...
so... why is the term islamophobia
so bogus?
what... you think that when
i see a woman in a burqa
my "natural" reaction is:
a reflex, 'kin to the words:
  oh ****! a suicide bomber!
     this term is what the ancient
Greeks would call:
what the **** are you talking about?!
(said really quickly).
- but that's the nature
of phobias... and the nature
of the comedy of logic...
it is derived from phobias...
i can acknowledge the comedy
of being "afraid" of spiders...
not all...
   it's not exactly a fear...
it's not a disgust...
it's a reflex reaction i have
       from god knows where...
  you can't associate Islam with
an attache of: phobia...
like i said... a phobia is the joke
of my own logical conclusion...
i'm laughing at the illogical
premise... my cognitive reflex
and subsequent ****** reaction...
since there is no logic
behind a spider,
only the illogical pure empirical
functioning of the being...
and... past the "illogical"
nature of the spider -
the logic of a "god"...
    **** contemplating god
using the spider,
and, "the architect" reflected
in the spiderweb...
i'm going after the joke...
but... Islam as a phobia?
last time i heard...
Islam wasn't illogical...
it was just a logic different
to my own...
so... where's the joke?
where's the grand phobic
reflexive stand?
   i'm like the ancient Greeks...
what the **** are you talking
   (said really quickly)...
it's no phobia to be apprehensive,
        a bit like...
          heating up oil in a frying
pan... and the moment
just before you drop in the potato
chips one by one...
   has the water been properly
drained from them?
or hasn't it...
and the oil will go crazy?
that's not a phobia...
   a phobia is the comedy of logic;
but Islam is a logic
of its own kind...
  a phobia is trans-national /
  trans-ethnic, trans-gender, trans per se,
     so why do i not retract
with a reflex upon seeing a Muslim
in his religious attire?
like i would with a spider
in a shed the size of my thumb?
so... what Islamo-phobia?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
between a bottle, and a woman... i'd always take to the bottle quicker than might suggest a care for a wife, and had i the mind to mind, i'd think quicker: but then again thinking was never a "mind-game" worth of sprinting to a horizon of known oblivion.

a response to intelligent response:
seems hard then the audience are forced
to laugh...
   how hard to bully an audience into
laughter, how staggeringly similar and
the thrown into the argument:
you're as imperfect as all all of us!
    but not as ******-up as you'd like
me to be, akin to you.
           i still hold unto the stronghold of
a two parent family: you?!
     a disregard in the convention of
the bootsales of divorce: hope you're well:
in that magic act of making your
grandparents your parents,
  and leave me in custard foam
to attest the mud... of a fool's fair share
of cradling the auschwitz innocents.
the auschwitz survivors seem not to matter,
only those who make the image:
the ones mingling the friction of reality:
with the smothering of fiction...
           the unsaid being said,
the said being unsaid...
       i am the perfect forged from the thought
of being perfect...
      the response to "intelligent" comedy
in response = a nervous laugh...
              the result of a nervous laugh:
truancy of authentic laughter -
              comedy is unto laughter what
tragedy is unto crying...
             true comedy comes
with uninhibited laughter: it doesn't
come with canned laughter...
that's cheap... that's really cheap,
and sad... sad beyond wanting to cry...
          the comedy you speak of
is that of inhibited laughter:
  a one of a doubled-up nervousness -
smart comedies and intricacies of
drama spell out the same conclusive
columbo diagnostic;
oh **** me, have the *****,
i have as much attachment to it like
i have to acknowledging
a tissue...
           take this ******* near me and
i'll tell of your "motherhood"...
                 no, i don't acknowledge
an "intelligent" comedy...
drag me back into the rabble...
    the mob rule, the theocratic dream of"
man has no law above the quake,
no law above the wave, no law
above airy twirl dance, no law above
the forest fire, man is included to state
his sensual distaste, but with
the elemental per se: cower my dear,
into a pill shaped box...
                        the response of
intelligent comedy = a nervous laugh...
the laugh of the inhibited -
   never the laugh of the free-fall uninhibited...
and such a shame...
that it should be excused as comic -
to riffle nerves and somehow "laugh"
is no laughter at all...
  a man ought to laugh uncontrollably -
but to make joke into nuance
so that he might laugh controllably -
what's the point of telling the joke,
in the first place?!
    i want to laugh uncontrollably -
than nervously -
   because even though there's a "joke",
i'm half as serious about the "joke"
being a joke, as i am in attesting:
this is worth more a nervousness
in choking on a laugh,
with attempt, than
the uncontrollable lack of effort
that leaves me in paralysis...
        i'm not supposed to excuse myself
at this point, but i am apparently
having to muster up an apology
for comedy, and the comic strip of
of *lee evans
doing the goose strutting...
it's still comedy, but not really,
monty python was clarity in
pig-head ******* cameron phelatio
in eton: outside?
can't be smart: you're not an insider:
it's an insider's joke:
they're not funny, they're eton.
     next time i find them funny
i'll be making the most perfect:
poached egg.
             americans take the **** out
of ***,
the english take the **** out of ***:
the subject matters of:
either - we have enough of the former
and lack of the latter,
or we, have enough of the latter
and lack of the former...
        to say that english humour is
funny is to also say that shakespeare didn't
exist, like jesus!
                     who knows,
give it enough time, enough
*****-akin historiological define-
     (definitive moment) -
   and that being?
is history a convict in the prison of space -
or is time a convict in the same space?
by comparison, is history a medium of
artefacts, with history the one owning a fingerprint,
and time, without one?
      it's silly to talk of an afterlife,
given that we live our lives with the same
impetus of *****: a tsunami barrage of
constant refraction and reflection -
        man in a microcosmos is the totality
of man,
                  man exists in a microcosmos -
what man is in the macrocosmos is what
we deal in terms of the misnomer attache akin
to god...
         it's good to have forgotten
one's original point, having written
such dribble...
        time is only linear in history -
but what are the truer dimensions of time?
if space has its 3...
    then as einstein suggested:
time be squared -
                        i only wanted the first
few words...
  nervous laughter is the response to
"intelligent" comedy...
      but saying that:
        i'd prefer "dumb" comedy
and allow myself uninhibited laughter
than "smart" comedy,
   and only allow myself *inhibited" laughter;
as i'd prefer imagining ***** flicks
than imagining myself welsh,
counting sheep:
   does arithmetic really beat insomnia,
**** me, too bad for the efforts of
the chemists:
  so we did all these experiments
to craft the pills, for general practitioners
to reach for the tarot cards of
       astrological readings?!
              **** it, sign me up for a cave.
Lorsque le grand Byron allait quitter Ravenne,
Et chercher sur les mers quelque plage lointaine
Où finir en héros son immortel ennui,
Comme il était assis aux pieds de sa maîtresse,
Pâle, et déjà tourné du côté de la Grèce,
Celle qu'il appelait alors sa Guiccioli
Ouvrit un soir un livre où l'on parlait de lui.

Avez-vous de ce temps conservé la mémoire,
Lamartine, et ces vers au prince des proscrits,
Vous souvient-il encor qui les avait écrits ?
Vous étiez jeune alors, vous, notre chère gloire.
Vous veniez d'essayer pour la première fois
Ce beau luth éploré qui vibre sous vos doigts.
La Muse que le ciel vous avait fiancée
Sur votre front rêveur cherchait votre pensée,
Vierge craintive encore, amante des lauriers.
Vous ne connaissiez pas, noble fils de la France,
Vous ne connaissiez pas, sinon par sa souffrance,
Ce sublime orgueilleux à qui vous écriviez.
De quel droit osiez-vous l'aborder et le plaindre ?
Quel aigle, Ganymède, à ce Dieu vous portait ?
Pressentiez-vous qu'un jour vous le pourriez atteindre,
Celui qui de si haut alors vous écoutait ?
Non, vous aviez vingt ans, et le coeur vous battait
Vous aviez lu Lara, Manfred et le Corsaire,
Et vous aviez écrit sans essuyer vos pleurs ;
Le souffle de Byron vous soulevait de terre,
Et vous alliez à lui, porté par ses douleurs.
Vous appeliez de **** cette âme désolée ;
Pour grand qu'il vous parût, vous le sentiez ami
Et, comme le torrent dans la verte vallée,
L'écho de son génie en vous avait gémi.
Et lui, lui dont l'Europe, encore toute armée,
Écoutait en tremblant les sauvages concerts ;
Lui qui depuis dix ans fuyait sa renommée,
Et de sa solitude emplissait l'univers ;
Lui, le grand inspiré de la Mélancolie,
Qui, las d'être envié, se changeait en martyr ;
Lui, le dernier amant de la pauvre Italie,
Pour son dernier exil s'apprêtant à partir ;
Lui qui, rassasié de la grandeur humaine,
Comme un cygne à son chant sentant sa mort prochaine,
Sur terre autour de lui cherchait pour qui mourir...
Il écouta ces vers que lisait sa maîtresse,
Ce doux salut lointain d'un jeune homme inconnu.
Je ne sais si du style il comprit la richesse ;
Il laissa dans ses yeux sourire sa tristesse :
Ce qui venait du coeur lui fut le bienvenu.

Poète, maintenant que ta muse fidèle,
Par ton pudique amour sûre d'être immortelle,
De la verveine en fleur t'a couronné le front,
À ton tour, reçois-moi comme le grand Byron.
De t'égaler jamais je n'ai pas l'espérance ;
Ce que tu tiens du ciel, nul ne me l'a promis,
Mais de ton sort au mien plus grande est la distance,
Meilleur en sera Dieu qui peut nous rendre amis.
Je ne t'adresse pas d'inutiles louanges,
Et je ne songe point que tu me répondras ;
Pour être proposés, ces illustres échanges
Veulent être signés d'un nom que je n'ai pas.
J'ai cru pendant longtemps que j'étais las du monde ;
J'ai dit que je niais, croyant avoir douté,
Et j'ai pris, devant moi, pour une nuit profonde
Mon ombre qui passait pleine de vanité.
Poète, je t'écris pour te dire que j'aime,
Qu'un rayon du soleil est tombé jusqu'à moi,
Et qu'en un jour de deuil et de douleur suprême
Les pleurs que je versais m'ont fait penser à toi.

Qui de nous, Lamartine, et de notre jeunesse,
Ne sait par coeur ce chant, des amants adoré,
Qu'un soir, au bord d'un lac, tu nous as soupiré ?
Qui n'a lu mille fois, qui ne relit sans cesse
Ces vers mystérieux où parle ta maîtresse,
Et qui n'a sangloté sur ces divins sanglots,
Profonds comme le ciel et purs comme les flots ?
Hélas ! ces longs regrets des amours mensongères,
Ces ruines du temps qu'on trouve à chaque pas,
Ces sillons infinis de lueurs éphémères,
Qui peut se dire un homme et ne les connaît pas ?
Quiconque aima jamais porte une cicatrice ;
Chacun l'a dans le sein, toujours prête à s'ouvrir ;
Chacun la garde en soi, cher et secret supplice,
Et mieux il est frappé, moins il en veut guérir.
Te le dirai-je, à toi, chantre de la souffrance,
Que ton glorieux mal, je l'ai souffert aussi ?
Qu'un instant, comme toi, devant ce ciel immense,
J'ai serré dans mes bras la vie et l'espérance,
Et qu'ainsi que le tien, mon rêve s'est enfui ?
Te dirai-je qu'un soir, dans la brise embaumée,
Endormi, comme toi, dans la paix du bonheur,
Aux célestes accents d'une voix bien-aimée,
J'ai cru sentir le temps s'arrêter dans mon coeur ?
Te dirai-je qu'un soir, resté seul sur la terre,
Dévoré, comme toi, d'un affreux souvenir,
Je me suis étonné de ma propre misère,
Et de ce qu'un enfant peut souffrir sans mourir ?
Ah ! ce que j'ai senti dans cet instant terrible,
Oserai-je m'en plaindre et te le raconter ?
Comment exprimerai-je une peine indicible ?
Après toi, devant toi, puis-je encor le tenter ?
Oui, de ce jour fatal, plein d'horreur et de charmes,
Je veux fidèlement te faire le récit ;
Ce ne sont pas des chants, ce ne sont pas des larmes,
Et je ne te dirai que ce que Dieu m'a dit.

Lorsque le laboureur, regagnant sa chaumière,
Trouve le soir son champ rasé par le tonnerre,
Il croit d'abord qu'un rêve a fasciné ses yeux,
Et, doutant de lui-même, interroge les cieux.
Partout la nuit est sombre, et la terre enflammée.
Il cherche autour de lui la place accoutumée
Où sa femme l'attend sur le seuil entr'ouvert ;
Il voit un peu de cendre au milieu d'un désert.
Ses enfants demi-nus sortent de la bruyère,
Et viennent lui conter comme leur pauvre mère
Est morte sous le chaume avec des cris affreux ;
Mais maintenant au **** tout est silencieux.
Le misérable écoute et comprend sa ruine.
Il serre, désolé, ses fils sur sa poitrine ;
Il ne lui reste plus, s'il ne tend pas la main,
Que la faim pour ce soir et la mort pour demain.
Pas un sanglot ne sort de sa gorge oppressée ;
Muet et chancelant, sans force et sans pensée,
Il s'assoit à l'écart, les yeux sur l'horizon,
Et regardant s'enfuir sa moisson consumée,
Dans les noirs tourbillons de l'épaisse fumée
L'ivresse du malheur emporte sa raison.

Tel, lorsque abandonné d'une infidèle amante,
Pour la première fois j'ai connu la douleur,
Transpercé tout à coup d'une flèche sanglante,
Seul je me suis assis dans la nuit de mon coeur.
Ce n'était pas au bord d'un lac au flot limpide,
Ni sur l'herbe fleurie au penchant des coteaux ;
Mes yeux noyés de pleurs ne voyaient que le vide,
Mes sanglots étouffés n'éveillaient point d'échos.
C'était dans une rue obscure et tortueuse
De cet immense égout qu'on appelle Paris :
Autour de moi criait cette foule railleuse
Qui des infortunés n'entend jamais les cris.
Sur le pavé noirci les blafardes lanternes
Versaient un jour douteux plus triste que la nuit,
Et, suivant au hasard ces feux vagues et ternes,
L'homme passait dans l'ombre, allant où va le bruit.
Partout retentissait comme une joie étrange ;
C'était en février, au temps du carnaval.
Les masques avinés, se croisant dans la fange,
S'accostaient d'une injure ou d'un refrain banal.
Dans un carrosse ouvert une troupe entassée
Paraissait par moments sous le ciel pluvieux,
Puis se perdait au **** dans la ville insensée,
Hurlant un hymne impur sous la résine en feux.
Cependant des vieillards, des enfants et des femmes
Se barbouillaient de lie au fond des cabarets,
Tandis que de la nuit les prêtresses infâmes
Promenaient çà et là leurs spectres inquiets.
On eût dit un portrait de la débauche antique,
Un de ces soirs fameux, chers au peuple romain,
Où des temples secrets la Vénus impudique
Sortait échevelée, une torche à la main.
Dieu juste ! pleurer seul par une nuit pareille !
Ô mon unique amour ! que vous avais-je fait ?
Vous m'aviez pu quitter, vous qui juriez la veille
Que vous étiez ma vie et que Dieu le savait ?
Ah ! toi, le savais-tu, froide et cruelle amie,
Qu'à travers cette honte et cette obscurité
J'étais là, regardant de ta lampe chérie,
Comme une étoile au ciel, la tremblante clarté ?
Non, tu n'en savais rien, je n'ai pas vu ton ombre,
Ta main n'est pas venue entr'ouvrir ton rideau.
Tu n'as pas regardé si le ciel était sombre ;
Tu ne m'as pas cherché dans cet affreux tombeau !

Lamartine, c'est là, dans cette rue obscure,
Assis sur une borne, au fond d'un carrefour,
Les deux mains sur mon coeur, et serrant ma blessure,
Et sentant y saigner un invincible amour ;
C'est là, dans cette nuit d'horreur et de détresse,
Au milieu des transports d'un peuple furieux
Qui semblait en passant crier à ma jeunesse,
« Toi qui pleures ce soir, n'as-tu pas ri comme eux ? »
C'est là, devant ce mur, où j'ai frappé ma tête,
Où j'ai posé deux fois le fer sur mon sein nu ;
C'est là, le croiras-tu ? chaste et noble poète,
Que de tes chants divins je me suis souvenu.
Ô toi qui sais aimer, réponds, amant d'Elvire,
Comprends-tu que l'on parte et qu'on se dise adieu ?
Comprends-tu que ce mot la main puisse l'écrire,
Et le coeur le signer, et les lèvres le dire,
Les lèvres, qu'un baiser vient d'unir devant Dieu ?
Comprends-tu qu'un lien qui, dans l'âme immortelle,
Chaque jour plus profond, se forme à notre insu ;
Qui déracine en nous la volonté rebelle,
Et nous attache au coeur son merveilleux tissu ;
Un lien tout-puissant dont les noeuds et la trame
Sont plus durs que la roche et que les diamants ;
Qui ne craint ni le temps, ni le fer, ni la flamme,
Ni la mort elle-même, et qui fait des amants
Jusque dans le tombeau s'aimer les ossements ;
Comprends-tu que dix ans ce lien nous enlace,
Qu'il ne fasse dix ans qu'un seul être de deux,
Puis tout à coup se brise, et, perdu dans l'espace,
Nous laisse épouvantés d'avoir cru vivre heureux ?
Ô poète ! il est dur que la nature humaine,
Qui marche à pas comptés vers une fin certaine,
Doive encor s'y traîner en portant une croix,
Et qu'il faille ici-bas mourir plus d'une fois.
Car de quel autre nom peut s'appeler sur terre
Cette nécessité de changer de misère,
Qui nous fait, jour et nuit, tout prendre et tout quitter.
Si bien que notre temps se passe à convoiter ?
Ne sont-ce pas des morts, et des morts effroyables,
Que tant de changements d'êtres si variables,
Qui se disent toujours fatigués d'espérer,
Et qui sont toujours prêts à se transfigurer ?
Quel tombeau que le coeur, et quelle solitude !
Comment la passion devient-elle habitude,
Et comment se fait-il que, sans y trébucher,
Sur ses propres débris l'homme puisse marcher ?
Il y marche pourtant ; c'est Dieu qui l'y convie.
Il va semant partout et prodiguant sa vie :
Désir, crainte, colère, inquiétude, ennui,
Tout passe et disparaît, tout est fantôme en lui.
Son misérable coeur est fait de telle sorte
Qu'il fuit incessamment qu'une ruine en sorte ;
Que la mort soit son terme, il ne l'ignore pas,
Et, marchant à la mort, il meurt à chaque pas.
Il meurt dans ses amis, dans son fils, dans son père,
Il meurt dans ce qu'il pleure et dans ce qu'il espère ;
Et, sans parler des corps qu'il faut ensevelir,
Qu'est-ce donc qu'oublier, si ce n'est pas mourir ?
Ah ! c'est plus que mourir, c'est survivre à soi-même.
L'âme remonte au ciel quand on perd ce qu'on aime.
Il ne reste de nous qu'un cadavre vivant ;
Le désespoir l'habite, et le néant l'attend.

Eh bien ! bon ou mauvais, inflexible ou fragile,
Humble ou fier, triste ou ***, mais toujours gémissant,
Cet homme, tel qu'il est, cet être fait d'argile,
Tu l'as vu, Lamartine, et son sang est ton sang.
Son bonheur est le tien, sa douleur est la tienne ;
Et des maux qu'ici-bas il lui faut endurer
Pas un qui ne te touche et qui ne t'appartienne ;
Puisque tu sais chanter, ami, tu sais pleurer.
Dis-moi, qu'en penses-tu dans tes jours de tristesse ?
Que t'a dit le malheur, quand tu l'as consulté ?
Trompé par tes amis, trahi par ta maîtresse,
Du ciel et de toi-même as-tu jamais douté ?

Non, Alphonse, jamais. La triste expérience
Nous apporte la cendre, et n'éteint pas le feu.
Tu respectes le mal fait par la Providence,
Tu le laisses passer, et tu crois à ton Dieu.
Quel qu'il soit, c'est le mien ; il n'est pas deux croyances
Je ne sais pas son nom, j'ai regardé les cieux ;
Je sais qu'ils sont à Lui, je sais qu'ils sont immenses,
Et que l'immensité ne peut pas être à deux.
J'ai connu, jeune encore, de sévères souffrances,
J'ai vu verdir les bois, et j'ai tenté d'aimer.
Je sais ce que la terre engloutit d'espérances,
Et, pour y recueillir, ce qu'il y faut semer.
Mais ce que j'ai senti, ce que je veux t'écrire,
C'est ce que m'ont appris les anges de douleur ;
Je le sais mieux encore et puis mieux te le dire,
Car leur glaive, en entrant, l'a gravé dans mon coeur :

Créature d'un jour qui t'agites une heure,
De quoi viens-tu te plaindre et qui te fait gémir ?
Ton âme t'inquiète, et tu crois qu'elle pleure :
Ton âme est immortelle, et tes pleurs vont tarir.

Tu te sens le coeur pris d'un caprice de femme,
Et tu dis qu'il se brise à force de souffrir.
Tu demandes à Dieu de soulager ton âme :
Ton âme est immortelle, et ton coeur va guérir.

Le regret d'un instant te trouble et te dévore ;
Tu dis que le passé te voile l'avenir.
Ne te plains pas d'hier ; laisse venir l'aurore :
Ton âme est immortelle, et le temps va s'enfuir

Ton corps est abattu du mal de ta pensée ;
Tu sens ton front peser et tes genoux fléchir.
Tombe, agenouille-toi, créature insensée :
Ton âme est immortelle, et la mort va venir.

Tes os dans le cercueil vont tomber en poussière
Ta mémoire, ton nom, ta gloire vont périr,
Mais non pas ton amour, si ton amour t'est chère :
Ton âme est immortelle, et va s'en souvenir.
They say i’m creative as a reversed mime;thinking outta the box
my minds found a way to rehearse time while it stops the clock

tick tock
what time is it?

prison block – on some infinite minute ****.

neurons firing


change of management declared- archetypal hiring–whoo
“Do you specialize in living positively?”
{I can try}
“Will you try to stay away from virus compositories?”
{oh me oh my!}

I live different lives as the same people:
go to the same church with different steeples.

Question the voice from my bed; oh **** am I dead?
tryn to lift my arms, but they filled with lead

where am I going and who have i led, to wander and ponder in the land of the dead

its this chilly necropolipse; filled with empty soul ships.

I can’t get warm here and so I fear

stricken by a paralysis , caught in the mists of myr

influenced by infected cysts, sickness adhere…

better deal quik through love metamorphosis
but I kan't…..—————-says who?
great big king boo!

he haunts me and taunts me into less than mediocrity

but its simplicity, don't deal with me, simply leave and then you’ll be free

of me and my moaning, *******, and pathetic groaning

but I’m simply freeflowing,

I guess I'm like an emo chick, dip in quick , then get out of it

like a quicksand pit you’ll stick quick – I do my job a bit to legit

while you sit and feel …………………………………………

……………………………this is some straight simple ****:

1+1= 2

but in my equation, I'm still left with none, no you'd think , but this ain't fun

“So leave!” I yell
“Get out of here!”

I’m lost and confused like a catholic queer
Am I sincere?


what morals appear?

when your without another and can't find your brother
simply steer clear quick!————————————————–>away from that skell *****

with his nonsensical lycrical pains

and paradoxical ego feigns

from left to up
side to side
always quik to hop
and hide n hide

non-attached….*******!-^-–<>re-attache these b-r-o-k-e-n__bits& p.i.e.c.e.s

so maybe one day you’ll do better than me

Just don’t listen to way i say and get away from me

EMO thoughts brought to light

need some ***- I think i might

oh wait , is this just a way for me…the pages in the journal get away from me

a psychiatrist in the pages….paid for free.

****, thanks ink, thanks journal, thanks ego and funeral

I just killed my ego , and it was the death of me.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
the proof of the soul is evident with a continuation of the Einstein particle, from theory into practice - the proof is short-lived, the indestructible attache of man lingers on, his the soul, democratically a medium of revision and certainty - improved instruments of investigation, the purity of reasoning later meddling with the senses of other's being given certainty:  σ (total) - ¼ = σ (¾, i.e. remnant and electron cloud symbiosis of partaking in Gemini simultaneous coordination) - the thunder and lightning, a 747 and the delay vacuum cleaner "echo" - on a less grander scale plumber's apprenticeships - perhaps less grand, but therefore all the more necessary, zenith of self-worth, rather than god-worth, audacity on the dance-floor and no prim-cut hopes kneeling in a church for added fancy to desire clemency.

i do believe the Hindu polytheistic theory of reincarnation exists -
but in no way related to the resurrection of σ -
a totality of a person - whatever given characteristics in total,
i mean replicating mannerisms
as a form of adaptability will only make
a clone a clone on paper (in theory),
but the original experienced whatever
environment was to be experienced -
to have a true clone would also mean
replicating the environment,
and that's impossible - in science as in
nature we're susceptible to ungovernable
forces - a tornado uproots a mid-western
house and juggles it about like a boxer -
a tsunami and the sun with its 5,000 starving
Sudanese children - whatever -
but reincarnation does exist in a different
psychological medium, in the id - the shortened
version / unit of ideas - it it it or that that that -
ideas are resurrected or reincarnated (passed on)
all the time - i can understand a Hindu
in only this reality - not in the reality of an
entirety of the individual and the environment
for the individual's individuation -
an idea can be resurrected - there's always
continuity in philosophy, whereas history sees
disconnected events due to it's prime tool as a hope
for averting them (hindsight), philosophy in historical
terms is always a seance of connectivity - lubrication,
evolution, adding to, saving up, discharge, mid-life crisis.
i can't understand the Hindu concept of reincarnation
when it comes to people - each adapted and each
an ongoing process - ideas can be reincarnated -
by egos? *not really
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
westerners: we're basically the people with a big bang theory in our heads (what a ****** name for what used to be an awe-inspiring venture into the natural environment and colours, now just a black dot, no wonder the imagination dried-up at the end of the 20th century and it all became, "a little bit technical" / technology perfected the making of money / no -logy attache with art, the feel got the most of it), and having to still perform menial tasks, most of which became anti-physical, exports to China - an intellectual flatline of bureaucratic esteems, preferably lost among scientific theories that demean, devour and conspire to reach pinnacles of overstretched pronoun usage... too many nouns, too many nouns, there are to many names in this world that gather inert verbs around them - say the word aeroplane and i bet you won't end up being a pilot, able to fly the **** thing from London to Helsinki.*

i just realised i can't do it - applying
poetry to historical prose is exhausting -
the project has been terminated -
it's like two-hydrogen atoms coupled
to an oxygen atom defining the Atlantic,
the Pacific and a few lakes in between -
how can a single human being
encapsulate all that history? i don't
mind people spying on me, i know
spying is a form of fetishism, but trying
to encapsulate all that history in one
unit is counter-productive, non-representative,
i stopped on page 55, i didn't even get to
Greek history - what i love about all
that philosophical bollocking is that it's
airy, a modern arts gallery - you can fudge
in an elephant in there and people would say
that it's the five-blind men - or the sixth
deaf man, given the odd trumpet sound -
history literally does exhaust poetry the
easiest, philosophy at least antagonises it,
it's on the same playing field, both are in tune,
however well or however badly the strummed
guitar / ego - if i was going to sift through
another ******* of historical facts predating
antagonistic history like the events of
the Cold War or the horrendous disintegration
of Yugoslavia (Gorbachev was rightly
pompous to the end, the Soviets went their
separate ways peacefully, now Azerbaijan
sponsors the Euro football tournament) -
but if i were to shove all that **** into my head...
you know where Alzheimer's stems from?
i think i know - too much information,
too much information canvased against
easy, menial tasks... if they only taught us how
to not feel bored, instead of ******* us with
Pythagoras and calculus and whether it was
Newton or Leibniz who finished the finishing line
first... education in the West is a fool's game,
it's like that fable about giving an African
a fish or a fishing rod - they sell this **** in
Calcutta - me? i'm selling you a pirate copy,
don't bother - don't even go to university,
they'll turn you into a double-*** that you already
are, professional academics are not high school
teachers, they're the ones in line with ambitious
Higgs' boson, oh sure, Mr. Blair and that famous
'education, education, education,'
how about go **** yourself, go **** yourself,
go **** yourself?
the educated are in debt and the common
sense people,
well, they're also in debt - mortgages and what
not, but when i think about it...
i'd be earning super money to spend it... on what?
if  had children, fair enough,
the grand selfless act - maybe... erm...
never trust a female politician because she ends
up a tarantula, a black widow, caring for her own
rather than the ***** masturbated into a hanky?
listen, if you had a woman try to ****
you via your childhood friend... you wouldn't be
Kentucky frying chocolate bars to mush and
lovey hubby dub dub either.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i never knew so much
could be extracted from a noun,
it's like a verb inside a noun,
the juxtapositions, the variations,
the laughter and the vowel eating,
it's a whole lot of Rio carnival tactic
in it - and i'm not even a Jew,
there's a bunch of them training up
to a rabbinical status,
doing this:
θ: th- -eta
ρ: r- -**
                             ω: o- -mega
                             λ: l- -ambda
but with only ~four letters... well, technically nine
given a, e, i, o, u.
i mean, because where's the proper incision?
how to cut up the musicology right?
Ziggy no Stephen no Damian
would throttle to a status of Bob...
Zion in the Caribbean - if i were
Jamaican i wouldn't wish to go back to Africa,
**** me... Jamaica and Nigeria?
send me back... send me back to
the pristine beaches and coconuts!
but linguistics in mind,
you give a noun to a shapely encoding
like ω (omega), but the complexity of
naming such an encoding leaves you
bewildered about the verb (usage of),
so you come up with diacritical stresses,
but it's not about that at all...
it's about how you detach the -mega
for the o-, and how you attach -π without
the iota - surely the π could also be
balanced with any other vowel -
given that consonants revel in balancing
acts, e.g. πα, πι or πε - where the *******
cutting up and putting back together
game of a plastic surgeon? rigid structures
the consonants are, they need attache
auxiliaries (tauto-, convened toward a
river of logic for further flow) to hold them up,
vowels the crutches, consonants the broken
tibias - somewhere along the way i was
asking for a duo of something, no, not a double
shot of espresso in my mocha - i'd prefer
the word moccha - or muchas gracias -
or mushy - or moo chi chi, cheap kiss - or i
invent the second coming of Saxony on
these Isles - write you in Germanish -
or Germglish - whichever - we all know that
the Saxons invented the saxophone (cheap joke) -
i said same phonetics as a cappuccino for the
mocca - but it looks ugly without η - η, precursor
of the Essex dialect 'ave as in not a salute at
a Caesar but as in Asterix rebellion of Gaul have,
same with wω (double-u omega) - as in wo er,
wo er - water - god knows who decapitated the
τ (Tao on the orient, tau on Rhodes)...
but you get me... if you name a letter so, as in
ω being omega, how do you extract the pure material,
the symbol O, it's still a Greek Umlaut...
how do you extract what you want,
mining in omega to simply get something
akin to omicron...
a double-o, a dumb dumb... as in:
how d you, how do you, how dough the cake
from raw yeast, flower, egg, milk etc etc.?
the same how doth we still sprechen Shropshire
or Cheshire, hmm? ask Alice, the ******* daydream.
well... this poems just ended like a premature
*******... there was an ******* somewhere
in between, but the end feels so unsatisfactory
that i better not write another _ _ _ _.

Canaris ! Canaris ! pleure ! cent vingt vaisseaux !
Pleure ! Une flotte entière ! - Où donc, démon des eaux,
Où donc était ta main hardie ?
Se peut-il que sans toi l'ottoman succombât ?
Pleure ! comme Crillon exilé d'un combat,
Tu manquais à cet incendie !

Jusqu'ici, quand parfois la vague de tes mers
Soudain s'ensanglantait, comme un lac des enfers,
D'une lueur large et profonde,
Si quelque lourd navire éclatait à nos yeux
Couronné tout à coup d'une aigrette de feux,
Comme un volcan s'ouvrant dans l'onde ;

Si la lame roulait turbans, sabres courbés,
Voiles, tentes, croissants des mâts rompus tombés,
Vestiges de flotte et d'armée,
Pelisses de vizirs, sayons de matelots,
Rebuts stigmatisés de la flamme et des flots,
Blancs d'écume et noirs de fumée ;

Si partait de ces mers d'Egine ou d'Iolchos
Un bruit d'explosion, tonnant dans mille échos
Et roulant au **** dans l'espace,
L'Europe se tournait vers le rougo Orient ;
Et, sur la poupe assis, le nocher souriant
Disait : - C'est Canaris qui passe !

Jusqu'ici quand brûlaient au sein des flots fumants
Les capitans-pachas avec leurs armements,
Leur flotte dans l'ombre engourdie,
On te reconnaissait à ce terrible jeu ;
Ton brûlot expliquant tous ces vaisseaux en feu ;
Ta torche éclairait l'incendie !

Mais pleure aujourd'hui, pleure, on s'est battu sans toi !
Pourquoi, sans Canaris, sur ces flottes, pourquoi
Porter la guerre et ses tempêtes ?
Du Dieu qui garde Hellé n'est-il plus le bras droit ?
On aurait dû l'attendre ! Et n'est-il pas de droit
Convive de toutes ces fêtes ?


Console-toi ! la Grèce est libre.
Entre les bourreaux, les mourants,
L'Europe a remis l'équilibre ;
Console-toi ! plus de tyrans !
La France combat : le sort change.
Souffre que sa main qui vous venge
Du moins te dérobe en échange
Une feuille de ton laurier.
Grèces de Byron et d'Homère,
Toi, notre sœur, toi, notre mère,
Chantez ! si votre voix amère
Ne s'est pas éteinte à crier.

Pauvre Grèce, qu'elle était belle,
Pour être couchée au tombeau !
Chaque vizir de la rebelle
S'arrachait un sacré lambeau.
Où la fable mit ses ménades,
Où l'amour eut ses sérénades,
Grondaient les sombres canonnades
Sapant les temps du vrai Dieu ;
Le ciel de cette terre aimée
N'avait, sous sa voûte embaumée,
De nuages que la fumée
De toutes ses villes en feu.

Voilà six ans qu'ils l'ont choisie !
Six ans qu'on voyait accourir
L'Afrique au secours de l'Asie
Contre un peuple instruit à mourir.
Ibrahim, que rien ne modère,
Vole de l'Isthme au Belvédère,
Comme un faucon qui n'a plus d'aire,
Comme un loup qui règne au bercail ;
Il court où le butin le tente,
Et lorsqu'il retourne à sa tente,
Chaque fois sa main dégouttante
Jette des têtes au sérail !


Enfin ! - C'est Navarin, la ville aux maisons peintes,
La ville aux dômes d'or, la blanche Navarin,
Sur la colline assise entre les térébinthes,
Qui prête son beau golfe aux ardentes étreintes
De deux flottes heurtant leurs carènes d'airain.

Les voilà toutes deux ! - La mer en est chargée,
Prête à noyer leurs feux, prête à boire leur sang.
Chacune par son dieu semble au combat rangée ;
L'une s'étend en croix sur les flots allongée,
L'autre ouvre ses bras lourds et se courbe en croissant.

Ici, l'Europe : enfin ! l'Europe qu'on déchaîne,
Avec ses grands vaisseaux voguant comme des tours.
Là, l'Egypte des Turcs, cette Asie africaine,
Ces vivaces forbans, mal tués par Duquesne,
Qui mit en vain le pied sur ces nids de vautours.


Ecoutez ! - Le canon gronde.
Il est temps qu'on lui réponde.
Le patient est le fort.
Eclatent donc les bordées !
Sur ces nefs intimidées,
Frégates, jetez la mort !
Et qu'au souffle de vos bouches
Fondent ces vaisseaux farouches,
Broyés aux rochers du port !

La bataille enfin s'allume.
Tout à la fois tonne et fume.
La mort vole où nous frappons.
Là, tout brûle pêle-mêle.
Ici, court le brûlot frêle
Qui jette aux mâts ses crampons
Et, comme un chacal dévore
L'éléphant qui lutte encore,
Ronge un navire à trois ponts.

- L'abordage ! l'abordage ! -
On se suspend au cordage,
On s'élance des haubans.
La poupe heurte la proue.
La mêlée a dans sa roue
Rameurs courbés sur leurs bancs
Fantassins cherchant la terre,
L'épée et le cimeterre,
Les casques et les turbans.

La vergue aux vergues s'attache ;
La torche insulte à la hache ;
Tout s'attaque en même temps.
Sur l'abîme la mort nage.
Epouvantable carnage !
Champs de bataille flottants
Qui, battus de cent volées,
S'écroulent sous les mêlées,
Avec tous les combattants.


Lutte horrible ! Ah ! quand l'homme, à l'étroit sur la terre,
Jusque sur l'Océan précipite la guerre,
Le sol tremble sous lui, tandis qu'il se débat.
La mer, la grande mer joue avec ses batailles.
Vainqueurs, vaincus, à tous elle ouvre ses entrailles.
Le naufrage éteint le combat.

Ô spectacle ! Tandis que l'Afrique grondante
Bat nos puissants vaisseaux de sa flotte imprudente,
Qu'elle épuise à leurs flancs sa rage et ses efforts,
Chacun d'eux, géant fier, sur ces hordes bruyantes,
Ouvrant à temps égaux ses gueules foudroyantes,
***** tranquillement la mort de tous ses bords.

Tout s'embrase : voyez ! l'eau de centre est semée,
Le vent aux mâts en flamme arrache la fumée,
Le feu sur les tillacs s'abat en ponts mouvants.
Déjà brûlent les nefs ; déjà, sourde et profonde,
La flamme en leurs flancs noirs ouvre un passage à l'onde ;
Déjà, sur les ailes des vents,

L'incendie, attaquant la frégate amirale,
Déroule autour des mâts sont ardente spirale,
Prend les marins hurlants dans ses brûlants réseaux,
Couronne de ses jets la poupe inabordable,
Triomphe, et jette au **** un reflet formidable
Qui tremble, élargissant ses cercles sur les eaux.


Où sont, enfants du Caire,
Ces flottes qui naguère
Emportaient à la guerre
Leurs mille matelots ?
Ces voiles, où sont-elles,
Qu'armaient les infidèles,
Et qui prêtaient leurs ailes
A l'ongle des brûlots ?

Où sont tes mille antennes,
Et tes hunes hautaines,
Et tes fiers capitaines,
Armada du sultan ?
Ta ruine commence,
Toi qui, dans ta démence,
Battais les mers, immense
Comme Léviathan !

Le capitan qui tremble
Voit éclater ensemble
Ces chébecs que rassemble
Alger ou Tetuan.
Le feu vengeur embrasse
Son vaisseau dont la masse
Soulève, quand il passe,
Le fond de l'Océan.

Sur les mers irritées,
Dérivent, démâtées,
Nefs par les nefs heurtées,
Yachts aux mille couleurs,
Galères capitanes,
Caïques et tartanes
Qui portaient aux sultanes
Des têtes et des fleurs.

Adieu, sloops intrépides,
Adieu, jonques rapides,
Qui sur les eaux limpides
Berçaient les icoglans !
Adieu la goëlette
Dont la vague reflète
Le flamboyant squelette,
Noir dans les feux sanglants !

Adieu la barcarolle
Dont l'humble banderole
Autour des vaisseaux vole,
Et qui, peureuse, fuit,
Quand du souffle des brises
Les frégates surprises,
Gonflant leurs voiles grises,
Déferlent à grand bruit !

Adieu la caravelle
Qu'une voile nouvelle
Aux yeux de **** révèle ;
Adieu le dogre ailé,
Le brick dont les amures
Rendent de sourds murmures,
Comme un amas d'armures
Par le vent ébranlé !

Adieu la brigantine,
Dont la voile latine
Du flot qui se mutine
Fend les vallons amers !
Adieu la balancelle
Qui sur l'onde chancelle,
Et, comme une étincelle,
Luit sur l'azur des mers !

Adieu lougres difformes,
Galéaces énormes,
Vaisseaux de toutes formes,
Vaisseaux de tous climats,
L'yole aux triples flammes,
Les mahonnes, les prames,
La felouque à six rames,
La polacre à deux mâts !

Chaloupe canonnières !
Et lanches marinières
Où flottaient les bannières
Du pacha souverain !
Bombardes que la houle,
Sur son front qui s'écroule,
Soulève, emporte et roule
Avec un bruit d'airain !

Adieu, ces nefs bizarres,
Caraques et gabarres,
Qui de leurs cris barbares
Troublaient Chypre et Délos !
Que sont donc devenues
Ces flottes trop connues ?
La mer les jette aux nues,
Le ciel les rend aux flots !


Silence ! Tout est fait. Tout retombe à l'abîme.
L'écume des hauts mâts a recouvert la cime.
Des vaisseaux du sultan les flots se sont joués.
Quelques-uns, bricks rompus, prames désemparées,
Comme l'algue des eaux qu'apportent les marées,
Sur la grève noircie expirent échoués.

Ah ! c'est une victoire ! - Oui, l'Afrique défaite,
Le vrai Dieu sous ses pieds foulant le faux prophète,
Les tyrans, les bourreaux criant grâce à leur tour,
Ceux qui meurent enfin sauvés par ceux qui règnent,
Hellé lavant ses flancs qui saignent,
Et six ans vengés dans un jour !

Depuis assez longtemps les peuples disaient : « Grèce !
Grèce ! Grèce ! tu meurs. Pauvre peuple en détresse,
A l'horizon en feu chaque jour tu décroîs.
En vain, pour te sauver, patrie illustre et chère,
Nous réveillons le prêtre endormi dans sa chaire,
En vain nous mendions une armée à nos rois.

« Mais les rois restent sourds, les chaires sont muettes.
Ton nom n'échauffe ici que des cœurs de poètes.
A la gloire, à la vie on demande tes droits.
A la croix grecque, Hellé, ta valeur se confie.
C'est un peuple qu'on crucifie !
Qu'importe, hélas ! sur quelle croix !

« Tes dieux s'en vont aussi. Parthénon, Propylées,
Murs de Grèce, ossements des villes mutilées,
Vous devenez une arme aux mains des mécréants.
Pour battre ses vaisseaux du haut des Dardanelles,
Chacun de vos débris, ruines solennelles,
Donne un boulet de marbre à leurs canons géants ! »

Qu'on change cette plainte en joyeuse fanfare !
Une rumeur surgit de l'Isthme jusqu'au Phare.
Regardez ce ciel noir plus beau qu'un ciel serein.
Le vieux colosse turc sur l'Orient retombe,
La Grèce est libre, et dans la tombe
Byron applaudit Navarin.

Salut donc, Albion, vieille reine des ondes !
Salut, aigle des czars qui planes sur deux mondes !
Gloire à nos fleurs de lys, dont l'éclat est si beau !
L'Angleterre aujourd'hui reconnaît sa rivale.
Navarin la lui rend. Notre gloire navale
A cet embrasement rallume son flambeau.

Je te retrouve, Autriche ! - Oui, la voilà, c'est elle !
Non pas ici, mais là, - dans la flotte infidèle.
Parmi les rangs chrétiens en vain on te cherchera.
Nous surprenons, honteuse et la tête penchée,
Ton aigle au double front cachée
Sous les crinières d'un pacha !

C'est bien ta place, Autriche ! - On te voyait naguère
Briller près d'Ibrahim, ce Tamerlan vulgaire ;
Tu dépouillais les morts qu'il foulait en passant ;
Tu l'admirais, mêlée aux eunuques serviles
Promenant au hasard sa torche dans les villes,
Horrible et n'éteignant le feu qu'avec du sang.

Tu préférais ces feux aux clartés de l'aurore.
Aujourd'hui qu'à leur tour la flamme enfin dévore
Ses noirs vaisseaux, vomis des ports égyptiens,
Rouvre les yeux, regarde, Autriche abâtardie !
Que dis-tu de cet incendie ?
Est-il aussi beau que les siens ?

Le 23 novembre 1827.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
she just said, a disturbed song lyric: i want to play with your evil inside... true story... a Novosibirsk girl... who invented this masochism of globalisation? florida china... california spanish apples? sometimes me and a tiny village in crimea would do, just fine... i don't understand why people get bored about brick walls so quickly, or don't contend in chess... or make an easy su doku puzzle extra complicated by repeating 20 seconds of a type o negative song...

mi niet nie(t) budyed...
                                                   me charisma...
   me pogrom...
listening in on football hooligans...
   dirt, naked,
                                    which was much more than an
american girl doing a hand-job
                             trying to buy alcohol later...

just thinking: arab has oil (black gold)...
now he wants snow...
   arab wants snow?
    can the ****** manage the cold?
what the **** do you take to integrate
eskimos in alaska or ultra-mongols
in siberia... sun-cream, or sunglasses?
arab has black gold... now he wants snow...
****** wants snow...
        i'm laughing because his women
aren't equipped to standardise that
environment... they'll need much more
than a niqab if that's what you're trying
to colonise... seriously... much more
than a niqab... niqabs don't work in siberia...

  be slavic *****...                   we darwinist...
you ******* darwinist?
                       you survive, or you
                                           die? like... die?
die telling funny jokes?
                         you darwinism?

i mean... i love watching a woman
exposing her genitals,
******* on screen,
                         all wet and i think i'm
watching daffodils...
                        it's spring...

i clench my teeth and imagine sheep..
then i take a bite... and *sheer

bradzie!                  idziom!

                  ­   finally... what wakes the barbarian...
and what gives it so much support,
given rugby is so... so... ******* boring?

just look at the horde... look at it wriggling
and angry...
     all those yachts can go to hell...
i remember owning a doberman,
and he bit into a **** and there were this
maggots wriggling inside of it...
  that really defined my childhood memory...

what's the west if not a trans- debate
about genitals? so... what the **** is that?
boiled, scrambled or poached?
           or the next post-Freudian metaphor...
what is it that might even provide me
for a cohesion strategy?
but you're still need more thana  niqab is you're
going to spread to siberia,
the jew hating in the koran seems a bit of a fake,
given the invasion of germany...
    some ******* queer look at debating free will...
the muslims are doing the jews deported from europe
a favour... really...
      how coulnd't they...
the problem is... what favour are the muslims doing
to the europeans?
pasnawitz harasho... the **** is this model of springbox
talking? the english talk spaghetti nasal in american,
i know that... they're like nag nag nag nausea...
      peppercorn on the ******* throat...
          i'm trying to actually write what a Bulgar
******* calls harasho...
     nie(t)   that tao is annoying... in polish that's written
as: i won't build this...
         nie............. budjed....
ok... look... there's no laughing about it...
   i just get -арашo....
  i can't find a ha... maybe because that's because
н             couples to en, or na na na, na na na...
nursery rhymes would be easier...
harasho... or... dobże? or dobrze? or ok?
     china ching or quang moong do?
try a Beijing duck!
                           iffy... it's like you almost
want to pick up these influences for the mere
hell of it... given the fact that your message is
so different...
   it's just problematic...
how do you not attach ю (yu)
   to э (aha! no attache letters!)
and then not say niet budyed....
                                   ниет будюэд.... how?

i'm only writing this because i've been told to hate poland,
and then later told to call england the narcissistic
bellybuttons the the world, with their greenwich 0...
   i actually don't think i was told lives...
given that english women are reducible to
     bridget jones diaries, or a rotherham journal of a
teenage girl...
    i swear... if i'm not marx and there is no engels...
then this is a revision of victorian england...
                        given the english treatment of children
or the concept of marriage...
    that's hardly me boasting...
               what's coming, living with your parents?
drinking to excess but still able to watch the oscar ceremony
with them and then writing your father's
                       hence the pyramid argument:
throw one of a one-armed bandit into the equation
and let's never meet on what could be called
a mutuality or.... that shared plataeu akin
to a.a., because the internet never fosters that attempt
at cohesion... well... unless people flock to
suicidal sites...

  me? i'm still much more bothered about
ниет будюэд... and whether that really does translate
as niet budyed...             yack jack jesus yahweh
had me bewildered why genghis khan came along.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.it's not like i couldn't pay my bills at Edinburgh university, we didn't have internet access in our third year at home, but we had it, when visiting the library... so what? paying the gas and electricity bills is rocket science these days? the two of us paid them... so now it's supposedly, "hard"? mobile phone... what?! roaming internet access.... what?! car... what?! not a pair of legs?! oh yeah, i have a choice... either where i'm at... or the roof of star constellations in a forest... BIG LOSER... biggest loser of them all... the one that manages to fix up his grandparents' kitchen, and doesn't "think" his parents are lepers, or something to be ashamed of, basically a non-*****-bank donor's... attache of ******* egoism; your turn.

such a random array of people,
abstracting themselves
on the grounds of love...
or whatever love is...
   i said once:
        buy a dog first, before having
a child...
you can pet a dog for five years,
and then you can father / mother
a child...
             love... seems everyone's
love is just dandy, oh so pristine...
i drink...
        you probably watch t.v.,
match-made in heaven,
or Cerberus' ****...
       i make sandwiches that do not
resemble napkins...
i drink... ****... i said that already...
so basically as perfect as
an avocado on toast...
who does this sort of *******?!
is that crap even edible?!
     i don't want to know...
   i go to a bar,
i turn into a pseudo-Santa...
some smurf, some elf sits on my lap...
'is this the part where i get
a *******?'
      obviously i don't say
those words, i just insinuate
the Christmas metaphor...
          what the hell am i writing...
it's not even like i want
to look my best,
like i want to lie "hoping"
for a date...
           i did speed dating once,
back in Edinburgh...
let's just say...
               stroking a cat's head
amounts to the classification
of the more...
fruitful endeavors...
              dating... is that a western
"thing"? you know,
when people find thinking claustrophobic?
is that the point they start dating?
when a blank space is no longer
a redeemable "friend"?
            that time?
what other time?
              let me guess...
never walked a cemetery alone
at night...
that's one of them, right?
can't help you there...
you're supposed to be on your
own at those crux coordinates.
Robin Carretti May 2018
You are clawed at him like a

Red hot
Las Vegas Jack-***
"Persuasive Mentor"
Underlie Supervisor
Skin softer He's Mr.

He molded me
to build me
Not to love me
So planned to
Deceive me
Fish desires
Flirt their tails

Like the Greek word

"Synecdoche" we call

French hot bread
His mustache
Attache case

You're over his

"Now" face to face

Fly••• First- Love- Yourself

Why? W- wait like H 4 hell
Y- Yell!!

Who's going to tell

I was head clicked
Watered down
my shrimp

Enjoy your now
"Big Gulp'
Help wanted

He got me under

his skin
Pulp Fiction
The rain in Spain
in the lie diction

Wha?ever he got to me

So erotically smooth skin

The next of kin

Aromantic overly
Like the

It felt like
Marlon Brando

A= hot brandy with


Being upfront skin kissed

The espresso I got you intense
dark under the mood weather
Cold-Hot-Mood swings she got

what life can bring better
Menopause or Men on pause

Am I hooked?
Another eye
full look
The more
four more

I got to you I see
It comes in three's to
die for the need
I say more

That part of you
So smitten

The skin chilled fire fit

Moms scent and you felt her

touching you her mind
and yours

Cut out hearts
Red Riding hood
Grandmas out of bed
What was said
Tough skin what
big brown eyes
Looking mad
That's what U got blowing
in the wind
on her skin to begone
Girl is gone
One call Jailbird

Our eyes leave the world
blind but speak more words

you opened up the blinds

Hot desired I got you, babe,

How in a spiritual sense

Was this in your character

by the quintessence

Or always a coincidence

You were being raised

Why is life so much to crave

Like your the side order
and he she and fee fi fun

The main entrance
Starfish dish the
Goddess sun
The dinner mint
gave her refreshing

Fifty times being burned

Over just a bite on my neck

of French fries

Not so overly touched by your lies

But you do have amazing eyes

Traveling through a skin-tight

maze the light fixture retracing

How tough skinned you are

I got to give you some credit

This is not the website

How you read into me

Like "Reddit"
I got it

So many time you have

done it lies

I never planned to get

you under my skin
Who wants to die

*** rebound always

Those fifties those dames

hot club smoking and

But feeling the tightrope
Supernatural spooked

I don't see you smiling

I couldn't breathe I felt

like choking

The devil own scripture

Our eyes perceive as the spies of

Boom explosion the hunger gets

intense face to face

Like we are the
TV on a binge

You cannot tune us but the
hot flame

can never tame us

Embedded by what we see

And touch-Oh! Me
U-C who would want to
go through this
2 B Me
Waiting for something
Like the Freebird I am
the Robin

How the earth confines us

Who is the one who

got something on us

Somes deep feelings

The Cole Porter

I got you under my skin

Someone on the pull

But he knows your
pleasure but where is the
On the premises
He stacked her roses

One smell he got
The words spelled on U

He said with an

" My Rose"
  My skin
  Smells brilliantly
  Like the eye of an
  Apple pie
I got someone maybe not U. That underlies big piece of the pie tough skin regardless if its a little lie
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
Is someone really
you the (Malocchio)
eye goodbye
The doubt eye? hum
Such irony but the music
opera I see an eye for an eye
Of the symphony

Talk relax and Muncha
Prego colorful array
of food "Amazon Rainbow"
Bow -Italians Arrow- Americans
Ride the Gondola
Rome, Venice, and
Florence at night
The art and ancient architecture

Ferrari red cars heart confidence
Doubtful eyes met Mr cappuccino
Stevie any wonder piano
player superstitious
The evil eye how
did it ever become the
forever, Dr. Love

He lies potbelly stomach
He acts like he's above
All of us the Monarch
Those after effects
Or before I doubted him
He became my subject

Let's really be reasonable
And if anyone thinks
they don't have a problem

Just go bob bobbin along
Like Robin_*
How much
Different red's of tape
I am swinging with
reasonable doubt
Monkey *** banana ape
swings to Havana
Unbearable banana peel
shes reasonable with her
face Spa peels
More discounts
50% off the 1/2 lip martini 1/2 eye
apple of my eyeglass 
Wait for him 75% off
After Christmas nightmare
To top things off
He's not the discount person

To Elope an obsession
everything he
touched blinking eye $$$
I feel like the plaid pants
pajama party doubtful event
The scotch tape
He loves to drink Scotch
Like sleeping eye patch

Just be flexible U-R never reasonable
Colorblind with red hearts, belts,
roses, glasses
Her red-danger lips can
we actually escape
Then all the yellow tape like
surveillance comes and passes
You define whats important

What you dedicate your time too
Eating the best icecream cherries
Whip cream vanilla fudge

Serendipity New York City
A different occupation
being a Judge
With any reasonable doubt
Not to judge anyone moves out
He's in his fifties style suit
acts conventional and
whistling Dixie

Change of words, Bowie
You only hear what you
want to hear the ambulance
bloodshed stranger on the
stretcher,  you never know
what you got until its gone

Not a movie Scarlet went
like twin parrot's eyeing the event
The third spiritual eye
He's waiting with his attache case
What a six sense no sense
The guy on the stretcher
would die
Like the saying, you
never know
who your relatives are
You felt like the

Unreasonable time
dark place ouija board
The concentration camp
No-one is ever on-board
Keep it peaceful and sonic
But you felt the atomic
a bomb hit unexpectedly
Just relax with
Gin and Tom-ic with the
watching eye
Let's be flexible, not many people are these days will maybe my writing will fix that are you near any black cats oh! please don't worry I'm not superstitious but people are what they see their eyes tell stories to take it from me
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
people's artistic ambitions, whether juvenile,
or matured, never take into consideration other
people's upheavals and counters,
it's staggering how much
of art is based upon the irrelevance
of shared experience,
and more focused on
passing-time stuck in traffic...
funny, isn't it? the idealised
personal, thus idealised,
becomes impersonal... so much of
art is based upon the irrelevance
of shared experience, and more
focused on passing-time stuck
in traffic... with the number of mammals
roaming this place, a few of us
will become lizards... cold-blooded
heretics opposed to the doctrine
of humanism... with the number
of mammals roaming this place,
a few of us will turn into cold blooded
lizards... sometimes we'll get a
mammalian blood-clot of warmth in
us, a pop song... but that's about it...
we just look at these **** pseudo-sapiens
attempting feats horrid with the deus attache -
and we think... i'd thank a god for a second
chance to be reborn a dentist -
where once the weakness to dislodge self-belief
and believe in god was considered normal
for the iron maiden to say otherwise...
now people are in a frenzy when self-belief
has gone awry, pear-shaped...
because it has... added to the fact that i have
to consider two things with inevitable death:
i have to consider my own mortality
and the chance of fame... you can hardly
become philosophical considering the latter...
what sort of philosophy is spawned from
considering mortality and fame alike?
it's like saying: you're alive... and technically
you're already famous, when nothing
is the entire audience admiring your
self-development... luckily poets never make
it on the t.v. like they did in the 1960s
experimenting with l.s.d., apart from that
one poet on the game show pointless...
with the added celebrity; yep, pointless
celebrities... i wonder if Marx would have
envisioned the celebrity class along with
the bourgeoisie and the working man...
i think he'd have failed that discovery...
i know where i am... i have the perfect seat
in the house, like spotting a ballet dancer
outside the Opera House, standing with
ballet slippers, smoking a cigarette...
in the end: i'm just a passerby -
                       forever attached to hello
and bye-bye...
                           we've been the horrid
process of being educationally institutionalised...
some people feel the wrath of institutions
they end up writing lyrical songs
akin to The  Smiths...
school uniform... works every time...
originality of the mind converts the peacocks into
pigeons, or it doesn't, whatever.
Peins-moi, Janet, peins-moi, je te supplie
Dans ce tableau les beautés de m'amie
De la façon que je te les dirai.
Comme importun je ne te supplierai
D'un art menteur quelque faveur lui faire :
Il suffit bien si tu la sais portraire
Ainsi qu'elle est, sans vouloir déguiser
Son naturel pour la favoriser,
Car la faveur n'est bonne que pour celles
Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles.

Fais-lui premier les cheveux ondelés,
Noués, retors, recrêpés, annelés,
Qui de couleur le cèdre représentent ;
Ou les démêle, et que libres ils sentent
Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux,
La même odeur de ses propres cheveux,
Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent,
Quand les Zéphyrs au printemps les éventent.

Que son beau front ne soit entrefendu
De nul sillon en profond étendu,
Mais qu'il soit tel qu'est la pleine marine,
Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine,
Et que gisante en son lit elle dort,
Calmant ses flots sillés d'un somme mort.
Tout au milieu par la grève descende
Un beau rubis, de qui l'éclat s'épande
Par le tableau, ainsi qu'on voit de nuit
Briller les rais de la Lune qui luit
Dessus la neige au fond d'un val coulée,
De trace d'homme encore non foulée.

Après fais-lui son beau sourcil voûtis
D'ébène noir, et que son pli tortis
Semble un croissant qui montre par la nue
Au premier mois sa voûture cornue.
Ou si jamais tu as vu l'arc d'Amour,
Prends le portrait dessus le demi-tour
De sa courbure à demi-cercle dose,
Car l'arc d'Amour et lui n'est qu'une chose.
Mais las ! mon Dieu, mon Dieu je ne sais pas
Par quel moyen, ni comment, tu peindras
(Voire eusses-tu l'artifice d'Apelle)
De ses beaux yeux la grâce naturelle,
Qui font vergogne aux étoiles des Cieux.
Que l'un soit doux, l'autre soit furieux,
Que l'un de Mars, l'autre de Vénus tienne ;
Que du bénin toute espérance vienne,

Et du cruel vienne tout désespoir ;
L'un soit piteux et larmoyant à voir,
Comme celui d'Ariane laissée
Aux bords de Die, alors que l'insensée,
Près de la mer, de pleurs se consommait,
Et son Thésée en vain elle nommait ;
L'autre soit ***, comme il est bien croyable
Que l'eut jadis Pénélope louable
Quand elle vit son mari retourné,
Ayant vingt ans **** d'elle séjourné.
Après fais-lui sa rondelette oreille,
Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille,
Qui sous le voile apparaisse à l'égal
Que fait un lis enclos dans un cristal,
Ou tout ainsi qu'apparaît une rose
Tout fraîchement dedans un verre enclose.

Mais pour néant tu aurais fait si beau
Tout l'ornement de ton riche tableau,
Si tu n'avais de la linéature
De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture.
Peins-le-moi donc grêle, long, aquilin,
Poli, traitis, où l'envieux malin,
Quand il voudrait, n'y saurait que reprendre,
Tant proprement tu le feras descendre
Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend
Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend.
Après au vif peins-moi sa belle joue
Pareille au teint de la rose qui noue
Dessus du lait, ou au teint blanchissant
Du lis qui baise un oeillet rougissant.
Dans le milieu portrais une fossette,
Fossette, non, mais d'Amour la cachette,
D'où ce garçon de sa petite main
Lâche cent traits, et jamais un en vain,
Que par les yeux droit au coeur il ne touche.

Hélas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche,
A peine Homère en ses vers te dirait
Quel vermillon égaler la pourrait,
Car pour la peindre ainsi qu'elle mérite,
Peindre il faudrait celle d'une Charite.
Peins-la-moi donc, qu'elle semble parler,
Ores sourire, ores embaumer l'air
De ne sais quelle ambrosienne haleine.
Mais par sur tout fais qu'elle semble pleine
De la douceur de persuasion.
Tout à l'entour attache un million
De ris, d'attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies,
Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies
D'un ordre égal en la place des dents
Bien poliment soient arrangés dedans.
Peins tout autour une lèvre bessonne,
Qui d'elle-même, en s'élevant, semonne,
D'être baisée, ayant le teint pareil
Ou de la rose, ou du corail vermeil,
Elle flambante au Printemps sur l'épine,
Lui rougissant au fond de la marine.

Peins son menton au milieu fosselu,
Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu
Soit tout ainsi que l'on voit apparaître
Le bout d'un coin qui jà commence à croître.

Plus blanc que lait caillé dessus le jonc
Peins-lui le col, mais peins-le un petit long,
Grêle et charnu, et sa gorge douillette
Comme le col soit un petit longuette.

Après fais-lui, par un juste compas,
Et de Junon les coudes et les bras,
Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore
La main pareille à celle de l'Aurore.

Je ne sais plus, mon Janet, où j'en suis,
Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis,
Comme j'ai fait, te déclarer le reste
De ses beautés, qui ne m'est manifeste.
Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n'eus
Que d'avoir vu ses beaux tétins à nu.
Mais si l'on peut juger par conjecture,
Persuadé de raisons, je m'assure
Que la beauté qui ne s'apparaît, doit
Du tout répondre à celle que l'on voit.
Doncque peins-la, et qu'elle me soit faite

Parfaite autant comme l'autre est parfaite.
Ainsi qu'en bosse élève-moi son sein,
Net, blanc, poli, large, profond et plein,
Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines
De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines.
Puis, quand au vif tu auras découvert
Dessous la peau les muscles et les nerfs,
Enfle au-dessus deux pommes nouvelettes,
Comme l'on voit deux pommes verdelettes
D'un oranger, qui encore du tout
Ne font qu'à l'heure à se rougir au bout.

Tout au plus haut des épaules marbrines,
Peins le séjour des Charites divines,
Et que l'Amour sans cesse voletant
Toujours les couve, et les aille éventant,
Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frère
De branche en branche ès vergers de Cythère.

Un peu plus bas, en miroir arrondi,
Tout poupellé, grasselet, rebondi,
Comme celui de Vénus, peins son ventre ;
Peins son nombril ainsi qu'un petit centre,
Le fond duquel paraisse plus vermeil
Qu'un bel oeillet entrouvert au Soleil.

Qu'attends-tu plus ? portrais-moi l'autre chose
Qui est si belle, et que dire je n'ose,
Et dont l'espoir impatient me point ;
Mais je te prie, ne me l'ombrage point,
Si ce n'était d'un voile fait de soie,
Clair et subtil, à fin qu'on l'entrevoie.

Ses cuisses soient comme faites au tour
A pleine chair, rondes tout à l'entour,
Ainsi qu'un Terme arrondi d'artifice
Qui soutient ferme un royal édifice.

Comme deux monts enlève ses genoux,
Douillets, charnus, ronds, délicats et mous,
Dessous lesquels fais-lui la grève pleine,
Telle que l'ont les vierges de Lacène,
Allant lutter au rivage connu
Du fleuve Eurote, ayant le corps tout nu,
Ou bien chassant à meutes découplées
Quelque grand cerf ès forêts Amyclées.
Puis, pour la fin, portrais-lui de Thétis
Les pieds étroits, et les talons petits.

Ha, je la vois ! elle est presque portraite,
Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite !
Lève tes mains, ha mon Dieu ! je la vois !
Bien peu s'en faut qu'elle ne parle à moi.
Le présent se fait vide et triste,
Ô mon amie, autour de nous ;
Combien peu de passé subsiste !
Et ceux qui restent changent tous.

Nous ne voyons plus sans envie
Les yeux de vingt ans resplendir,
Et combien sont déjà sans vie
Des yeux qui nous ont vus grandir !

Que de jeunesse emporte l'heure,
Qui n'en rapporte jamais rien !
Pourtant quelque chose demeure :
Je t'aime avec mon cœur ancien,

Mon vrai cœur, celui qui s'attache
Et souffre depuis qu'il est né,
Mon cœur d'enfant, le cœur sans tache
Que ma mère m'avait donné ;

Ce cœur où plus rien ne pénètre,
D'où plus rien désormais ne sort ;
Je t'aime avec ce que mon être
A de plus fort contre la mort ;

Et, s'il peut braver la mort même,
Si le meilleur de l'homme est tel
Que rien n'en périsse, je t'aime
Avec ce que j'ai d'immortel.
N'aimez plus tant, Phylis, à vous voir adorée :
Le plus ardent amour n'a pas grande durée ;
Les nœuds les plus serrés sont le plus tôt rompus ;
A force d'aimer trop, souvent on n'aime plus,
Et ces liens si forts ont des lois si sévères
Que toutes leurs douceurs en deviennent amères.

Je sais qu'il vous est doux d'asservir tous nos soins :
Mais qui se donne entier n'en exige pas moins ;
Sans réserve il se rend, sans réserve il se livre,
Hors de votre présence il doute s'il peut vivre :
Mais il veut la pareille, et son attachement
Prend compte de chaque heure et de chaque moment.
C'est un esclave fier qui veut régler son maître,
Un censeur complaisant qui cherche à trop connaître,
Un tyran déguisé qui s'attache à vos pas,
Un dangereux Argus qui voit ce qui n'est pas ;
Sans cesse il importune, et sans cesse il assiège,
Importun par devoir, fâcheux par privilège,
Ardent à vous servir jusqu'à vous en lasser,
Mais au reste un peu tendre et facile à blesser.
Le plus léger chagrin d'une humeur inégale,
Le moindre égarement d'un mauvais intervalle,
Un sourire par mégarde à ses yeux dérobé,
Un coup d'œil par hasard sur un autre tombé,
Le plus faible dehors de cette complaisance
Que se permet pour tous la même indifférence ;
Tout cela fait pour lui de grands crimes d'état ;
Et plus l'amour est fort, plus il est délicat.
Vous avez vu, Phylis, comme il brise sa chaîne
Sitôt qu'auprès de vous quelque chose le gêne ;
Et comme vos bontés ne sont qu'un faible appui
Contre un murmure sourd qui s'épand jusqu'à lui.
Que ce soit vérité, que ce soit calomnie,
Pour vous voir en coupable il suffit qu'on le dit ;
Et lorsqu'une imposture a quelque fondement
Sur un peu d'imprudence, ou sur trop d'enjouement,
Tout ce qu'il sait de vous et de votre innocence
N'ose le révolter contre cette apparence,
Et souffre qu'elle expose à cent fausses clartés
Votre humeur sociable et vos civilités.
Sa raison au dedans vous fait en vain justice,
Sa raison au dehors respecte son caprice ;
La peur de sembler dupe aux yeux de quelques fous
Etouffe cette voix qui parle trop pour vous.
La part qu'il prend sur lui de votre renommée
Forme un sombre dépit de vous avoir aimée ;
Et, comme il n'est plus temps d'en faire un désaveu,
Il fait gloire partout d'éteindre un si beau feu :
Du moins s'il ne l'éteint, il l'empêche de luire,
Et brave le pouvoir qu'il ne saurait détruire.

Voilà ce que produit le don de trop charmer.
Pour garder vos amants faites-vous moins aimer ;
Un amour médiocre est souvent plus traitable :
Mais pourriez-vous, Phylis, vous rendre moins aimable ?
Pensez-y, je vous prie, et n'oubliez jamais,
Quand on vous aimera, que l'amour est doux ; mais...
Te referent fluctus.

Naguère une même tourmente,
Ami, battait nos deux esquifs ;
Une même vague écumante
Nous jetait aux mêmes récifs ;
Les mêmes haines débordées
Gonflaient sous nos nefs inondées
Leurs flots toujours multipliés,
Et, comme un océan qui roule,
Toutes les têtes de la foule
Hurlaient à la fois sous nos pieds !

Qu'allais-je faire en cet orage,
Moi qui m'échappais du berceau ?
Moi qui vivais d'un peu d'ombrage
Et d'un peu d'air, comme l'oiseau ?
A cette mer qui le repousse
Pourquoi livrer mon nid de mousse
Où le jour n'osait pénétrer ?
Pourquoi donner à la rafale
Ma belle robe nuptiale
Comme une voile à déchirer ?

C'est que, dans mes songes de flamme,
C'est que, dans mes rêves d'enfant,
J'avais toujours présents à l'âme
Ces hommes au front triomphant,
Qui tourmentés d'une autre terre,
En ont deviné le mystère
Avant que rien en soit venu,
Dont la tête au ciel est tournée,
Dont l'âme, boussole obstinée,
Toujours cherche un pôle inconnu.

Ces Gamas, en qui rien n'efface
Leur indomptable ambition,
Savent qu'on n'a vu qu'une face
De l'immense création.
Ces Colombs, dans leur main profonde,
Pèsent la terre et pèsent l'onde
Comme à la balance du ciel,
Et, voyant d'en haut toute cause,
Sentent qu'il manque quelque chose
A l'équilibre universel.

Ce contre-poids qui se dérobe,
Ils le chercheront, ils iront ;
Ils rendront sa ceinture au globe,
A l'univers sont double front.
Ils partent, on plaint leur folie.
L'onde les emporte ; on oublie
Le voyage et le voyageur... -
Tout à coup de la mer profonde
Ils ressortent avec leur monde,
Comme avec sa perle un plongeur !

Voilà quelle était ma pensée.
Quand sur le flot sombre et grossi
Je risquai ma nef insensée,
Moi, je cherchais un monde aussi !
Mais, à peine **** du rivage,
J'ai vu sur l'océan sauvage
Commencer dans un tourbillon
Cette lutte qui me déchire
Entre les voiles du navire
Et les ailes de l'aquilon.

C'est alors qu'en l'orage sombre
J'entrevis ton mât glorieux
Qui, bien avant le mien, dans l'ombre,
Fatiguait l'autan furieux.
Alors, la tempête était haute,
Nous combattîmes côte à côte,
Tous deux, mois barque, toi vaisseau,
Comme le frère auprès du frère,
Comme le nid auprès de l'aire,
Comme auprès du lit le berceau !

L'autan criait dans nos antennes,
Le flot lavait nos ponts mouvants,
Nos banderoles incertaines
Frissonnaient au souffle des vents.
Nous voyions les vagues humides,
Comme des cavales numides,
Se dresser, hennir, écumer ;
L'éclair, rougissant chaque lame,
Mettait des crinières de flamme
A tous ces coursiers de la mer.

Nous, échevelés dans la brume,
Chantant plus haut dans l'ouragan,
Nous admirions la vaste écume
Et la beauté de l'océan.
Tandis que la foudre sublime
Planait tout en feu sur l'abîme,
Nous chantions, hardis matelots,
La laissant passer sur nos têtes,
Et, comme l'oiseau des tempêtes,
Tremper ses ailes dans les flots.

Echangeant nos signaux fidèles
Et nous saluant de la voix,
Pareils à deux soeurs hirondelles,
Nous voulions, tous deux à la fois,
Doubler le même promontoire,
Remporter la même victoire,
Dépasser le siècle en courroux ;
Nous tentions le même voyage ;
Nous voyions surgir dans l'orage
Le même Adamastor jaloux !

Bientôt la nuit toujours croissante,
Ou quelque vent qui t'emportait,
M'a dérobé ta nef puissante
Dont l'ombre auprès de moi flottait.
Seul je suis resté sous la nue.
Depuis, l'orage continue,
Le temps est noir, le vent mauvais ;
L'ombre m'enveloppe et m'isole,
Et, si je n'avais ma boussole,
Je ne saurais pas où je vais.

Dans cette tourmente fatale
J'ai passé les nuits et les jours,
J'ai pleuré la terre natale,
Et mon enfance et mes amours.
Si j'implorais le flot qui gronde,
Toutes les cavernes de l'onde
Se rouvraient jusqu'au fond des mers ;
Si j'invoquais le ciel, l'orage,
Avec plus de bruit et de rage,
Secouait se gerbe d'éclairs.

Longtemps, laissant le vent bruire,
Je t'ai cherché, criant ton nom.
Voici qu'enfin je te vois luire
A la cime de l'horizon
Mais ce n'est plus la nef ployée,
Battue, errante, foudroyée
Sous tous les caprices des cieux,
Rêvant d'idéales conquêtes,
Risquant à travers les tempêtes
Un voyage mystérieux.

C'est un navire magnifique
Bercé par le flot souriant,
Qui, sur l'océan pacifique,
Vient du côté de l'orient.
Toujours en avant de sa voile
On voit cheminer une étoile
Qui rayonne à l'oeil ébloui ;
Jamais on ne le voit éclore
Sans une étincelante aurore
Qui se lève derrière lui.

Le ciel serein, la mer sereine
L'enveloppent de tous côtés ;
Par ses mâts et par sa carène
Il plonge aux deux immensités.
Le flot s'y brise en étincelles ;
Ses voiles sont comme des ailes
Au souffle qui vient les gonfler ;
Il vogue, il vogue vers la plage,
Et, comme le cygne qui nage,
On sent qu'il pourrait s'envoler.

Le peuple, auquel il se révèle
Comme une blanche vision,
Roule, prolonge, et renouvelle
Une immense acclamation.
La foule inonde au **** la rive.
Oh ! dit-elle, il vient, il arrive !
Elle l'appelle avec des pleurs,
Et le vent porte au beau navire,
Comme à Dieu l'encens et la myrrhe,
L'haleine de la terre en fleurs !

Oh ! rentre au port, esquif sublime !
Jette l'ancre **** des frimas !
Vois cette couronne unanime
Que la foule attache à tes mâts :
Oublie et l'onde et l'aventure.
Et le labeur de la mâture,
Et le souffle orageux du nord ;
Triomphe à l'abri des naufrages,
Et ris-toi de tous les orages
Qui rongent les chaînes du port !

Tu reviens de ton Amérique !
Ton monde est trouvé ! - Sur les flots
Ce monde, à ton souffle lyrique,
Comme un oeuf sublime est éclos !
C'est un univers qui s'éveille !
Une création pareille
A celle qui rayonne au jour !
De nouveaux infinis qui s'ouvrent !
Un de ces mondes que découvrent
Ceux qui de l'âme ont fait le tour !

Tu peux dire à qui doute encore :
"J'en viens ! j'en ai cueilli ce fruit.
Votre aurore n'est pas l'aurore,
Et votre nuit n'est pas la nuit.
Votre soleil ne vaut pas l'autre.
Leur jour est plus bleu que le vôtre.
Dieu montre sa face en leur ciel.
J'ai vu luire une croix d'étoiles
Clouée à leurs nocturnes voiles
Comme un labarum éternel."

Tu dirais la verte savane,
Les hautes herbes des déserts,
Et les bois dont le zéphyr vanne
Toutes les graines dans les airs ;
Les grandes forêts inconnues ;
Les caps d'où s'envolent les nues
Comme l'encens des saints trépieds ;
Les fruits de lait et d'ambroisie,
Et les mines de poésie
Dont tu jettes l'or à leurs pieds.

Et puis encor tu pourrais dire,
Sans épuiser ton univers,
Ses monts d'agate et de porphyre,
Ses fleuves qui noieraient leurs mers ;
De ce monde, né de la veille,
Tu peindrais la beauté vermeille,
Terre vierge et féconde à tous,
Patrie où rien ne nous repousse ;
Et ta voix magnifique et douce
Les ferait tomber à genoux.

Désormais, à tous tes voyages
Vers ce monde trouvé par toi,
En foule ils courront aux rivages
Comme un peuple autour de son roi.
Mille acclamations sur l'onde
Suivront longtemps ta voile blonde
Brillante en mer comme un fanal,
Salueront le vent qui t'enlève,
Puis sommeilleront sur la grève
Jusqu'à ton retour triomphal.

Ah ! soit qu'au port ton vaisseau dorme,
Soit qu'il se livre sans effroi
Aux baisers de la mer difforme
Qui hurle béante sous moi,
De ta sérénité sublime
Regarde parfois dans l'abîme,
Avec des yeux de pleurs remplis,
Ce point noir dans ton ciel limpide,
Ce tourbillon sombre et rapide
Qui roule une voile en ses plis.

C'est mon tourbillon, c'est ma voile !
C'est l'ouragan qui, furieux,
A mesure éteint chaque étoile
Qui se hasarde dans mes cieux !
C'est la tourmente qui m'emporte !
C'est la nuée ardente et forte
Qui se joue avec moi dans l'air,
Et tournoyant comme une roue,
Fait étinceler sur ma proue
Le glaive acéré de l'éclair !

Alors, d'un coeur tendre et fidèle,
Ami, souviens-toi de l'ami
Que toujours poursuit à coups d'aile
Le vent dans ta voile endormi.
Songe que du sein de l'orage
Il t'a vu surgir au rivage
Dans un triomphe universel,
Et qu'alors il levait la tête,
Et qu'il oubliait sa tempête
Pour chanter l'azur de ton ciel !

Et si mon invisible monde
Toujours à l'horizon me fuit,
Si rien ne germe dans cette onde
Que je laboure jour et nuit,
Si mon navire de mystère
Se brise à cette ingrate terre
Que cherchent mes yeux obstinés,
Pleure, ami, mon ombre jalouse !
Colomb doit plaindre La Pérouse.
Tous deux étaient prédestinés !

Le 20 juin 1830.
Yenson Mar 2019
He ran like the wind up the gangway
saw the door  still open
ahead near the door stood four Port attendants
gasping for breaths he reached them
with hands outstretched they stopped him
No, No, No, he cried
I've got to get on, I've got to get on

Sorry sir too late, their voices rang out
I'm afraid Sir, you're too late
What! look the door is still opened
Please, let me in, pleasee for heaven's sake
let me in, I've got to get on board
Sorry Sir, against the rules, you are just too late
but the door is still opened,please I beg you let me in

Afraid can't do that,you are just too late,
just too late today
What Jobsworth you lot are
how inconsiderate can you lot be
the ****** door is still open,why are you being so obstructive
isn't your job to help passengers,isn't that what you're paid to do
do you realize how inconvenient this is, do you realize what this
will cost me'
Sorry Sir, we are only doing our job
You are too late for this flight,go back to the departure Lounge
They'll help get you on a later flight,sorry but Rules are Rules
And with that   the plane doors were closed he hated these *******, ****** unhelpful inconsiderate
Jobsworth, ****** idiots, the whole lot of them, arseholes!

Dejectedly,he walked back to the ****** Departure Lounge
Fuming, dragging his ****** attache case, he sought out the
help desk
Cursing and muttering, he rued the ******* two minutes delay
that cost him this flight.
Angrily, he marched to the Air Ethiopia Check in desk
Sullenly he explained his plight!
Its a two hour wait for the next flight out, they informed him.
Still upset, he handed in his ticket and they did the necessary
Handing back his ticket, he walked away and sat in Departure
why, oh why did this happen to me, he muttered angrily
He sat miserably, he cursed again under his breath. **** God!

He had been sitting for about an hour when he noticed
people suddenly running around, something was happening
There was a real air of panic around, Officials were running
helter skelter, people were huddling in pockets, he saw
Police Official barking orders and Airport Staff talking excitedly
He heard some people shouting in a group to his right

He stood up alarmed
he stated walking towards a group to his left
Then he saw one of the Jobsworth that had stopped him from boarding his flight, the Jobsworth had a look of utter alarm
on his face, he was also sweating.
What's happening, what's wrong, he asked him, now alarmed himself.

Oh Sir, ooh Sir...the Jobsworth exclaimed, looking at him wide-eyed.

That Plane you missed has just crashed, killing everybody on board.....!!!
This is a true Story that happened very recently. The Ethiopian Airline that crashed about two weeks ago.

When we think or believe all is lost, we may not believe that more is given!!!!
Blue is now the future. I wait.

It is the one who held a key and
fell to Earth.

A fool. A coward and now a

What horror must I fund for your
world to collect me?

I'm unsure when security made
its way into my pants.

Lesions and twenty two packets
of salt.

A man and his automatic

A subscription to Penthouse.

But the most wonderful time is
my own.

Proof that hard work and tireless
effort yields errors.

Quoting your favorite movies and
collecting different tastes in

A fetus and a geisha collecting
dust in a temple.

What pulls the thread from the
wheel must remain untouched.

It is like a season of poor

But what must go stays unsaid.


A group of people, forgiven now.
A couple, elderly but with child.
A man behind the street unseen but from one degree. Another man alone and staying inside. And what could that be inside a person's garage.
Moving on
In quietly asked hush3s a
nd the performance begin s

The couple hiding and asking others about things with state men's attache ed
Pull me in a huneed pulls and I then discover amateur
Ambidextrous men some women
You saw the water when realizing

to chase gone

The bluest rounds of something moving again. And then something else moved alone
And then I believe it to be something

A stranger thing to be sure and then later on a newer a tore opens.

Maybe on this do range thing a few digerremy things Wil happen

D then a new
Maybe the is a friend in there
Maybe there is a f fiend out yhwrr.

Ceux qui disent : Cré Nom, ceux qui disent macache,
Soldats, marins, débris d'Empire, retraités,
Sont nuls, très nuls, devant les Soldats des Traités
Qui tailladent l'azur frontière à grands coups d'hache.

Pipe aux dents, lame en main, profonds, pas embêtés,
Quand l'ombre bave aux bois comme un mufle de vache,
Ils s'en vont, amenant leurs dogues à l'attache,
Exercer nuitamment leurs terribles gaîtés !

Ils signalent aux lois modernes les faunesses.
Ils empoignent les Fausts et les Diavolos.
"Pas de ça, les anciens ! Déposez les ballots !"

Quand sa sérénité s'approche des jeunesses,
Le Douanier se tient aux appas contrôlés !
Enfer aux Délinquants que sa paume a frôlés !
Ô père qu'adore mon père !
Toi qu'on ne nomme qu'à genoux !
Toi, dont le nom terrible et doux
Fait courber le front de ma mère !

On dit que ce brillant soleil
N'est qu'un jouet de ta puissance ;
Que sous tes pieds il se balance
Comme une lampe de vermeil.

On dit que c'est toi qui fais naître
Les petits oiseaux dans les champs,
Et qui donne aux petits enfants
Une âme aussi pour te connaître !

On dit que c'est toi qui produis
Les fleurs dont le jardin se pare,
Et que, sans toi, toujours avare,
Le verger n'aurait point de fruits.

Aux dons que ta bonté mesure
Tout l'univers est convié ;
Nul insecte n'est oublié
À ce festin de la nature.

L'agneau broute le serpolet,
La chèvre s'attache au cytise,
La mouche au bord du vase puise
Les blanches gouttes de mon lait !

L'alouette a la graine amère
Que laisse envoler le glaneur,
Le passereau suit le vanneur,
Et l'enfant s'attache à sa mère.

Et, pour obtenir chaque don,
Que chaque jour tu fais éclore,
À midi, le soir, à l'aurore,
Que faut-il ? prononcer ton nom !

Ô Dieu ! ma bouche balbutie
Ce nom des anges redouté.
Un enfant même est écouté
Dans le choeur qui te glorifie !

On dit qu'il aime à recevoir
Les voeux présentés par l'enfance,
À cause de cette innocence
Que nous avons sans le savoir.

On dit que leurs humbles louanges
A son oreille montent mieux,
Que les anges peuplent les cieux,
Et que nous ressemblons aux anges !

Ah ! puisqu'il entend de si ****
Les voeux que notre bouche adresse,
Je veux lui demander sans cesse
Ce dont les autres ont besoin.

Mon Dieu, donne l'onde aux fontaines,
Donne la plume aux passereaux,
Et la laine aux petits agneaux,
Et l'ombre et la rosée aux plaines.

Donne au malade la santé,
Au mendiant le pain qu'il pleure,
À l'orphelin une demeure,
Au prisonnier la liberté.

Donne une famille nombreuse
Au père qui craint le Seigneur,
Donne à moi sagesse et bonheur,
Pour que ma mère soit heureuse !

Que je sois bon, quoique petit,
Comme cet enfant dans le temple,
Que chaque matin je contemple,
Souriant au pied de mon lit.

Mets dans mon âme la justice,
Sur mes lèvres la vérité,
Qu'avec crainte et docilité
Ta parole en mon coeur mûrisse !

Et que ma voix s'élève à toi
Comme cette douce fumée
Que balance l'urne embaumée
Dans la main d'enfants comme moi !

Las de ce calme plat où d'avance fanées,

Comme une eau qui s'endort, croupissent nos années ;

Las d'étouffer ma vie en un salon étroit,

Avec de jeunes fats et des femmes frivoles,

Echangeant sans profit de banales paroles ;

Las de toucher toujours mon horizon du doigt.

Pour me refaire au grand et me rélargir l'âme,

Ton livre dans ma poche, aux tours de Notre-Dame ;

Je suis allé souvent, Victor,

A huit heures, l'été, quand le soleil se couche,

Et que son disque fauve, au bord des toits qu'il touche,

Flotte comme un gros ballon d'or.

Tout chatoie et reluit ; le peintre et le poète

Trouvent là des couleurs pour charger leur palette,

Et des tableaux ardents à vous brûler les yeux ;

Ce ne sont que saphirs, cornalines, opales,

Tons à faire trouver Rubens et Titien pâles ;

Ithuriel répand son écrin dans les cieux.

Cathédrales de brume aux arches fantastiques ;

Montagnes de vapeurs, colonnades, portiques,

Par la glace de l'eau doublés,

La brise qui s'en joue et déchire leurs franges,

Imprime, en les roulant, mille formes étranges

Aux nuages échevelés.

Comme, pour son bonsoir, d'une plus riche teinte,

Le jour qui fuit revêt la cathédrale sainte,

Ébauchée à grands traits à l'horizon de feu ;

Et les jumelles tours, ces cantiques de pierre,

Semblent les deux grands bras que la ville en prière,

Avant de s'endormir, élève vers son Dieu.

Ainsi que sa patronne, à sa tête gothique,

La vieille église attache une gloire mystique

Faite avec les splendeurs du soir ;

Les roses des vitraux, en rouges étincelles,

S'écaillent brusquement, et comme des prunelles,

S'ouvrent toutes rondes pour voir.

La nef épanouie, entre ses côtes minces,

Semble un crabe géant faisant mouvoir ses pinces,

Une araignée énorme, ainsi que des réseaux,

Jetant au front des tours, au flanc noir des murailles,

En fils aériens, en délicates mailles,

Ses tulles de granit, ses dentelles d'arceaux.

Aux losanges de plomb du vitrail diaphane,

Plus frais que les jardins d'Alcine ou de Morgane,

Sous un chaud baiser de soleil,

Bizarrement peuplés de monstres héraldiques,

Éclosent tout d'un coup cent parterres magiques

Aux fleurs d'azur et de vermeil.

Légendes d'autrefois, merveilleuses histoires

Écrites dans la pierre, enfers et purgatoires,

Dévotement taillés par de naïfs ciseaux ;

Piédestaux du portail, qui pleurent leurs statues,

Par les hommes et non par le temps abattues,

Licornes, loups-garous, chimériques oiseaux,

Dogues hurlant au bout des gouttières ; tarasques,

Guivres et basilics, dragons et nains fantasques,

Chevaliers vainqueurs de géants,

Faisceaux de piliers lourds, gerbes de colonnettes,

Myriades de saints roulés en collerettes,

Autour des trois porches béants.

Lancettes, pendentifs, ogives, trèfles grêles

Où l'arabesque folle accroche ses dentelles

Et son orfèvrerie, ouvrée à grand travail ;

Pignons troués à jour, flèches déchiquetées,

Aiguilles de corbeaux et d'anges surmontées,

La cathédrale luit comme un bijou d'émail !


Mais qu'est-ce que cela ? Lorsque l'on a dans l'ombre

Suivi l'escalier svelte aux spirales sans nombre

Et qu'on revoit enfin le bleu,

Le vide par-dessus et par-dessous l'abîme,

Une crainte vous prend, un vertige sublime

A se sentir si près de Dieu !

Ainsi que sous l'oiseau qui s'y perche, une branche

Sous vos pieds qu'elle fuit, la tour frissonne et penche,

Le ciel ivre chancelle et valse autour de vous ;

L'abîme ouvre sa gueule, et l'esprit du vertige,

Vous fouettant de son aile en ricanant voltige

Et fait au front des tours trembler les garde-fous,

Les combles anguleux, avec leurs girouettes,

Découpent, en passant, d'étranges silhouettes

Au fond de votre œil ébloui,

Et dans le gouffre immense où le corbeau tournoie,

Bête apocalyptique, en se tordant aboie,

Paris éclatant, inouï !

Oh ! le cœur vous en bat, dominer de ce faîte,

Soi, chétif et petit, une ville ainsi faite ;

Pouvoir, d'un seul regard, embrasser ce grand tout,

Debout, là-haut, plus près du ciel que de la terre,

Comme l'aigle planant, voir au sein du cratère,

****, bien ****, la fumée et la lave qui bout !

De la rampe, où le vent, par les trèfles arabes,

En se jouant, redit les dernières syllabes

De l'hosanna du séraphin ;

Voir s'agiter là-bas, parmi les brumes vagues,

Cette mer de maisons dont les toits sont les vagues ;

L'entendre murmurer sans fin ;

Que c'est grand ! Que c'est beau ! Les frêles cheminées,

De leurs turbans fumeux en tout temps couronnées,

Sur le ciel de safran tracent leurs profils noirs,

Et la lumière oblique, aux arêtes hardies,

Jetant de tous côtés de riches incendies

Dans la moire du fleuve enchâsse cent miroirs.

Comme en un bal joyeux, un sein de jeune fille,

Aux lueurs des flambeaux s'illumine et scintille

Sous les bijoux et les atours ;

Aux lueurs du couchant, l'eau s'allume, et la Seine

Berce plus de joyaux, certes, que jamais reine

N'en porte à son col les grands jours.

Des aiguilles, des tours, des coupoles, des dômes

Dont les fronts ardoisés luisent comme des heaumes,

Des murs écartelés d'ombre et de clair, des toits

De toutes les couleurs, des résilles de rues,

Des palais étouffés, où, comme des verrues,

S'accrochent des étaux et des bouges étroits !

Ici, là, devant vous, derrière, à droite, à gauche,

Des maisons ! Des maisons ! Le soir vous en ébauche

Cent mille avec un trait de feu !

Sous le même horizon, Tyr, Babylone et Rome,

Prodigieux amas, chaos fait de main d'homme,

Qu'on pourrait croire fait par Dieu !


Et cependant, si beau que soit, ô Notre-Dame,

Paris ainsi vêtu de sa robe de flamme,

Il ne l'est seulement que du haut de tes tours.

Quand on est descendu tout se métamorphose,

Tout s'affaisse et s'éteint, plus rien de grandiose,

Plus rien, excepté toi, qu'on admire toujours.

Car les anges du ciel, du reflet de leurs ailes,

Dorent de tes murs noirs les ombres solennelles,

Et le Seigneur habite en toi.

Monde de poésie, en ce monde de prose,

A ta vue, on se sent battre au cœur quelque chose ;

L'on est pieux et plein de foi !

Aux caresses du soir, dont l'or te damasquine,

Quand tu brilles au fond de ta place mesquine,

Comme sous un dais pourpre un immense ostensoir ;

A regarder d'en bas ce sublime spectacle,

On croit qu'entre tes tours, par un soudain miracle,

Dans le triangle saint Dieu se va faire voir.

Comme nos monuments à tournure bourgeoise

Se font petits devant ta majesté gauloise,

Gigantesque sœur de Babel,

Près de toi, tout là-haut, nul dôme, nulle aiguille,

Les faîtes les plus fiers ne vont qu'à ta cheville,

Et, ton vieux chef heurte le ciel.

Qui pourrait préférer, dans son goût pédantesque,

Aux plis graves et droits de ta robe Dantesque,

Ces pauvres ordres grecs qui se meurent de froid,

Ces panthéons bâtards, décalqués dans l'école,

Antique friperie empruntée à Vignole,

Et, dont aucun dehors ne sait se tenir droit.

Ô vous ! Maçons du siècle, architectes athées,

Cervelles, dans un moule uniforme jetées,

Gens de la règle et du compas ;

Bâtissez des boudoirs pour des agents de change,

Et des huttes de plâtre à des hommes de fange ;

Mais des maisons pour Dieu, non pas !

Parmi les palais neufs, les portiques profanes,

Les parthénons coquets, églises courtisanes,

Avec leurs frontons grecs sur leurs piliers latins,

Les maisons sans pudeur de la ville païenne ;

On dirait, à te voir, Notre-Dame chrétienne,

Une matrone chaste au milieu de catins !
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.i'll continue drinking and writing my attache verses for one reason alone... the culinary Frankenstein, needs to be erased from both my memory, and my palette.

death: solace for the few,
                 that delve(d) into life.

i don't know,
i just like the way it sounds,
akin to:

   (have you) ever danced
with the devil, in the pale moonlight?


a handshake with your own
shadow, is, the devil's pact.

sometimes a violin is just a violin
is a violin...
     not exactly the gimmicky
paupers' instrument of choice...

a handshake with your shadow
is... the devil's pact...

hey... i wasn't born to be
a mechanic...
    sometimes the sound of
car engines aren't exactly
******* emblems to propagate...
   like the sound of a beehive
isn't something honed,
giving you a symptom of:
necessarily running toward it
to see what's more
to see than a collectivized
agitation reaction, hostile.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
today i kneaded dough
for gnocchi,
tomorrow i will knead
dough for pizza...

(and a year's worth)
i visited
   a *******...
she was 10 times more helpful
than an English psychiatrist...

over 10 years ago
i visited a ******
hardly a Mt. Everest
summit escapade...
who told me...

- 'am i mentally ill?'
             i asked, the ******
- 'if anyone says you're
mentall ill,
then they, themselves,
are mentally ill.'
            replied the ******

but that doesn't leave me
a non-suspect...

  - would i succumb to
making a serial demand
for the killing
of prostitutes?
i prize the worth of
a ******* to be that,
   a ******* psychiatrist!
which, bewilders me...
jack the ripper types...
morphed into
our, current living...
   only yesterday i made
a promise:
   i will forget sleeping
in order to make
the sauce, and knead
the dough...

      i will not,
for one moment,
concern myself
with the zenith of
the day: of providing
the pristine slab
of ****... for my omniscient
"father" to behold...
just piano...
trickling like rain...
off the fingertips of
thomas newman...
     never akin
to the mock-solitude
of a violin
what is spoken,
as well: audible,
as as well in mute:

thumb, rubbing itself
against the middle & index
to suggest:
money is needed...

and i "almost" always
am readied to cry
for an expression
of beauty...
akin to
    a vaughan williams...

i am forever suspect...
in a Kafkaesque twist
on the standings...
             i am...
   precursor... "suspect"...
i close my eyes
and sift through seconds,
minutes, than
can become an hour...
in quasi-akimbo...
perched on a windowsill...
my *** against the folded
leg i am sitting on...

                   sly caught
"on the nod"...
   given that...
i know what an alcoholic looks
like, how he behaves...
            as i am...
but i'm yet to fathom
someone who drank to
ascribe the practice of:
seeking the cheapest

       like... i've never met...
   who would like to
venture into explaining
veterinarian practices...
seems all the big-G-bling-singhs
have the teeth covered...
mafia of the
scuttling sigh...
- mostly...
if you are not going to
eat it... why pet it
as much of an awaited
conviction from
a potted fern as...
all the troubles in
the middle-east...
well... part people...
you solve your ****...
and we'll be...
looking way past the chance
        a... revision of sunrise...

bit boy tactic...
you people can solve
your people's problems

what happens when
white people experience
sure... they run... they hide...

and what happens
when brown people
experience problems?
they run after the white people.      

   unless ****** got dough...
me... stand all self-explanatory...
what part of URBAN
did you not understand
in a NON-ETHNIC application
of the slur?

YES... oh qui qui monsieur
      i died and neither
the life, or the death...
were all that satisfying...
  you really need people
who cherish life
to fill up your Auschwitz...

no point killing off
who... are more willing to
than you are willing
                                   to live "it",
beyond what "it" is...
           funny word...
to have lived a what,
to have lived,
to have lived a willing-
       to have lived, also,
the attache -ness...
       you would be right
in suspecting...
at what point will this man
give this up,
and tow and burrow into
solving a crossword

       i guess "it" ist leben...
thank god so few
of us end up
                  as biographies;

that old fool's gold
of saying: deeds outstrip
   so... why succumb
         to words in the end?
C'était l'heure chantante où, plus doux que l'aurore,
Le jour en expirant semble sourire encore,
Et laisse le zéphyr dormant sous les rameaux
En descendre avec l'ombre et flotter sur les eaux ;
La cloche dans la tour, lentement ébranlée,
Roulait ses longs soupirs de vallée en vallée,
Comme une voix du soir qui, mourant sur les flots,
Rappelle avant la nuit la nature au repos.
Les villageois, épars autour de leurs chaumières,
Cadençaient à ses sons leurs rustiques prières,
Rallumaient en chantant la flamme des foyers,
Suspendaient les filets aux troncs des peupliers,
Ou, déliant le joug de leurs taureaux superbes,
Répandaient devant eux l'or savoureux des gerbes ;
Puis, assis en silence au seuil de leurs séjours,
Attendaient le sommeil, ce doux prix de leurs jours.

Deux enfants du hameau, l'un pasteur du bocage,
L'autre jeune pêcheur de l'orageuse plage,
Consacrant à l'amour l'heure oisive du soir,
A l'ombre du même arbre étaient venus s'asseoir ;
Là, pour goûter le frais au pied du sycomore,
Chacun avait conduit la vierge qu'il adore :
Néaere et Naela, deux jeunes sœurs, deux lis
Que sur la même tige un seul souffle a cueillis.
Les deux amants, couchés aux genoux des bergères,
Les regardaient tresser les tiges des fougères.
Un tertre de gazon, d'anémones semé,
Étendait sous la pente un tapis parfumé ;
La mer le caressait de ses vagues plaintives ;
Douze chênes, courbant leurs vieux troncs sur ses rives,
Ne laissaient sous leurs feuilles entrevoir qu'à demi
Le bleu du firmament dans son flot endormi.
Un arbre dont la vigne enlaçait le feuillage
Leur versait la fraîcheur de son mobile ombrage ;
Et non **** derrière eux, dans un champ déjà mûr,
Où le pampre et l'érable entrelaçaient leur mur,
Ils entendaient le bruit de la brise inégale
Tomber, se relever, gémir par intervalle,
Et, ranimant les airs par le jour assoupis,
Glisser en bruissant entre l'or des épis.

Ils disputaient entre eux des doux soins de leur vie ;
Chacun trouvait son sort le plus digne d'envie :
L'humble berger vantait les doux soins des troupeaux,
Le pêcheur sa nacelle et le charme des eaux ;
Quand un vieillard leur dit avec un doux sourire :
- Chantez ce que les champs ou l'onde vous inspire !
Chantez ! Celui des deux dont la touchante voix
Saura mieux faire aimer les vagues ou les bois,
Des mais de la maîtresse à qui sa voix est chère
Recevra le doux prix de ses accords: Néaere,
Offrant à son amant le prix des moissonneurs,
A sa dernière gerbe attachera des fleurs ;
Et Naela, tressant les roses qu'elle noue,
De l'esquif du pêcheur couronnera la proue,
Et son mât tout le jour, aux yeux des matelots,
De ses bouquets flottants parfumera les flots.
Ainsi dit le vieillard. On consent en silence :
Le beau pêcheur médite, et le pasteur commence.


Quand l'astre du printemps, au berceau d'un jour pur,
Lève à moitié son front dans la changeant azur ;
Quand l'aurore, exhalant sa matinale haleine,
Épand les doux parfums dont la vallée est pleine,
Et, faisant incliner le calice des fleurs,
De la nuit sur les prés laisse épancher les pleurs,
Alors que du matin la vive messagère,
L'alouette, quittant son lit dans la fougère,
Et modulant des airs gais comme le réveil,
Monte, plane et gazouille au-devant du soleil :
Saisissant mes taureaux par leur corne glissante,
Je courbe sous le joug leur tête mugissante,
Par des nœuds douze fois sur leurs fronts redoublés,
J'attache au bois polis leurs membres accouplés ;
L'anneau brillant d'acier au timon les enchaîne,
J'entrelace à leur joug de longs festons de chêne,
Dont la feuille mobile et les flottants rameaux
De l'ardeur du midi protègent leurs naseaux.
Ma mère, quel beau jour ! tout brille, tout rayonne.
Dans les airs, l'oiseau chante et l'insecte bourdonne ;
Les ruisseaux argentés roulent sur les cailloux,
Les fleurs donnent au ciel leur parfum le plus doux.
Le lis s'est entr'ouvert ; la goutte de rosée,
Sur les feuilles des bois par la nuit déposée,
S'enfuyant à l'aspect du soleil et du jour,
Chancelle et tombe enfin comme des pleurs d'amour.
Les fils blancs et légers de la vierge Marie,
Comme un voile d'argent, volent sur la prairie :
Frêle tissu, pour qui mon souffle est l'aquilon,
Et que brise en passant l'aile d'un papillon.
Sous le poids de ses fruits le grenadier se penche,
Dans l'air, un chant d'oiseau nous vient de chaque branche ;
Jusqu'au soir, dans les cieux, le soleil brillera :
Ce jour est un beau jour !... Oh ! bien sûr, il viendra !

Il viendra... mais pourquoi ?... Sait-il donc que je l'aime ?
Sait-il que je l'attends, que chaque jour de même,
- Que ce jour soit celui d'hier ou d'aujourd'hui -
J'espère sa présence et ne songe qu'à lui ?
Oh ! non ! il ne sait rien. Qu'aurait-il pu comprendre !...
Les battements du cœur se laissent-ils entendre ?
Les yeux qu'on tient baissés, ont-ils donc un regard ?
Un sourire, dit-il qu'on doit pleurer plus **** ?

Que sait-on des pensers cachés au fond de l'âme !
La douleur qu'on chérit, le bonneur que l'on blâme ,
Au bal, qui les trahit ?... Des fleurs sont sur mon front,
À tout regard joyeux mon sourire répond ;
Je passe auprès de lui sans détourner la tête,
Sans ralentir mes pas.... et mon cœur seul s'arrête.
Mais qui peut voir le cœur ? qu'il soit amour ou fiel,
C'est un livre fermé, qui ne s'ouvre qu'au ciel !

Une fleur est perdue, au ****, dans la prairie,
Mais son parfum trahit sa présence et sa vie ;
L'herbe cache une source, et le chêne un roseau,
Mais la fraîcheur des bois révèle le ruisseau ;
Le long balancement d'un flexible feuillage
Nous dit bien s'il reçoit ou la brise ou l'orage ;
Le feu qu'ont étouffé des cendres sans couleur,
Se cachant à nos yeux, se sent par la chaleur ;
Pour revoir le soleil quand s'enfuit l'hirondelle,
Le pays qu'elle ignore est deviné par elle :
Tout se laisse trahir par l'odeur ou le son,
Tout se laisse entrevoir par l'ombre ou le rayon,
Et moi seule, ici-bas, dans la foule perdue,
J'ai passé près de lui sans qu'il m'ait entendue...
Mon amour est sans voix, sans parfum, sans couleur,
Et nul pressentiment n'a fait battre son cœur !

Ma mère, c'en est fait ! Le jour devient plus sombre ;
Aucun bruit, aucun pas, du soir ne trouble l'ombre.

Adieux à vous ! - à vous, ingrat sans le savoir !
Vous, coupable des pleurs que vous ne pouvez voir !
Pour la dernière fois, mon Ame déchirée
Rêva votre présence, hélas! tant désirée...  
Plus jamais je n'attends. L'amour et l'abandon,
Du cœur que vous brisez les pleurs et le pardon,
Vous ignorerez tout !... Ainsi pour nous, un ange.
Invisible gardien, dans ce monde où tout change.
S'attache à notre vie et vole à nos côtés ;
Sous son voile divin nous sommes abrités,
Et jamais, cependant, on ne voit l'aile blanche
Qui, sur nos fronts baissés, ou s'entrouvre ou se penche.

Dans les salons, au bal, sans cesse, chaque soir,
En dansant près de vous, il me faudra vous voir ;
Et cependant, adieu... comme à mon premier rêve !
Tous deux, à votre insu, dans ce jour qui s'achève,
Nous nous serons quittés ! - Adieu, soyez heureux !...
Ma prière, pour vous, montera vers les Cieux :
Je leur demanderai qu'éloignant les orages,
Ils dirigent vos pas vers de riants rivages,
Que la brise jamais, devenant aquilon,
D'un nuage pour vous ne voile l'horizon ;
Que l'heure à votre gré semble rapide ou lente ;
Lorsque vous écoutez, que toujours l'oiseau chante ;
Lorsque vous regardez, que tout charme vos yeux,
Que le buisson soit vert, le soleil radieux ;
Que celle qui sera de votre cœur aimée,
Pour vous, d'un saint amour soit toujours animée !...
- Si parfois, étonné d'un aussi long bonheur,
Vous demandez à Dieu : « Mais pourquoi donc, Seigneur ? »
Il répondra peut-être : « Un cœur pour toi me prie...
Et sa part de bonheur, il la donne à ta vie ! »
Quand j'entrai dans la vie, au sortir de l'enfance,

A cet âge innocent où l'homme sans défense,

Inquiet, sans appui, cherche un guide indulgent,

Et, demandant au ciel un ami qui l'entende.

Sent qu'il a si besoin d'une main qu'on lui tende

Et d'un regard encourageant ;

Toi seule, armant ta voix d'une affreuse ironie,

As fait sur un enfant peser ta tyrannie :

A tes rires amers que tu m'as immolé !

Par un plaisir cruel prolongeant ma souffrance,

Ta bouche comme un crime a puni l'ignorance

Et tes dédains m'ont accablé.

Sais-tu que se venger est bien doux ? Mon courage

A supporté l'affront et dévoré l'outrage :

Comme une ombre importune attachée à tes pas

J'ai su te fatiguer par ma fausse tendresse,

J'ai su tromper ton cœur, j'ai su feindre l'ivresse

D'un amour que je n'avais pas.

Te souviens-tu d'abord comme ta résistance

Par de cruels mépris éprouva ma constance.

Mais je pleurai, je crois, je parlai de mourir...

Et puis, on ne peut pas toujours être rebelle ;

A s'entendre sans fin répéter qu'on est belle,

Il faut pourtant bien s'attendrir.

Grâce au ciel ! ma victoire est enfin assurée ;

Au mépris d'un époux et de la foi jurée.

Enfin, tu t'es livrée à moi, tu m'appartiens !

J'ai senti dans ma main frémir ta main tremblante

Et mes baisers errants sur ta bouche brûlante

Se sont mêlés avec les tiens !

Et bien ! sache à présent, et que ton cœur se brise.

Sache que je te hais et que je te méprise,

Sache bien que jamais je ne voulus t'avoir

Que pour pouvoir un jour en face te maudire.

Rire de tes tourments, à mon tour, et te dire

Tout ce que je souffre à te voir !

As-tu donc pu jamais, malheureuse insensée,

Croire que ton image occupait ma pensée ?

Connais-moi maintenant et comprends désormais

Quelle horreur me poussait, quelle rage m'enflamme,

Et ce qu'il m'a fallu de haine au fond de l'âme

Pour te dire que je t'aimais ?

J'ai donc bien réussi, je t'ai donc bien frappée ;

Par un adolescent ta vanité trompée

A pu croire aux serments que ma voix te jurait !

Malgré cet œil perçant, malgré ce long usage,

Tu n'as donc jamais rien trouvé sur mon visage

Qui trahît cet affreux secret ?

Je te lègue en fuyant, une honte éternelle.

Je veux que le remords, active sentinelle.

S'attache à sa victime, et veille à tes côtés,

Qu'il expie à la fois mes chagrins, mes injures

Et cette horrible gêne et ces mille parjures

Que la vengeance m'a coûtés.

C'est bien. Je suis content : j'ai passé mon envie ;

D'un souvenir amer j'empoisonne ta vie.

Va-t'en ! pour me fléchir ces cris sont superflus.

Va-t'en ! pleure à jamais ta honte et ta faiblesse

Et songe bien au moins que c'est moi qui te laisse

Et que c'est moi qui ne veux plus !

Car le mot, qu'on le sache, est un être vivant.
La main du songeur vibre et tremble en l'écrivant ;
La plume, qui d'une aile allongeait l'envergure,
Frémit sur le papier quand sort cette figure,
Le mot, le terme, type on ne sait d'où venu,
Face de l'invisible, aspect de l'inconnu ;
Créé, par qui ? forgé, par qui ? jailli de l'ombre ;
Montant et descendant dans notre tête sombre,
Trouvant toujours le sens comme l'eau le niveau ;
Formule des lueurs flottantes du cerveau.
Oui, vous tous, comprenez que les mots sont des choses.
Ils roulent pêle-mêle au gouffre obscur des proses,
Ou font gronder le vers, orageuse forêt.
Du sphinx Esprit Humain le mot sait le secret.
Le mot veut, ne veut pas, accourt, fée ou bacchante,
S'offre, se donne ou fuit ; devant Néron qui chante
Ou Charles-Neuf qui rime, il recule hagard ;
Tel mot est un sourire, et tel autre un regard ;
De quelque mot profond tout homme est le disciple ;
Toute force ici-bas à le mot pour multiple ;
Moulé sur le cerveau, vif ou lent, grave ou bref,
Le creux du crâne humain lui donne son relief ;
La vieille empreinte y reste auprès de la nouvelle ;
Ce qu'un mot ne sait pas, un autre le révèle ;
Les mots heurtent le front comme l'eau le récif ;
Ils fourmillent, ouvrant dans notre esprit pensif
Des griffes ou des mains, et quelques uns des ailes ;
Comme en un âtre noir errent des étincelles,

Rêveurs, tristes, joyeux, amers, sinistres, doux,
Sombre peuple, les mots vont et viennent en nous ;
Les mots sont les passants mystérieux de l'âme.

Chacun d'eux porte une ombre ou secoue une flamme ;
Chacun d'eux du cerveau garde une région ;
Pourquoi ? c'est que le mot s'appelle Légion ;
C'est que chacun, selon l'éclair qui le traverse,
Dans le labeur commun fait une oeuvre diverse ;
C'est que de ce troupeau de signes et de sons
Qu'écrivant ou parlant, devant nous nous chassons,
Naissent les cris, les chants, les soupirs, les harangues,
C'est que, présent partout, nain caché sous les langues,
Le mot tient sous ses pieds le globe et l'asservit ;
Et, de même que l'homme est l'animal où vit
L'âme, clarté d'en haut par le corps possédée,
C'est que Dieu fait du mot la bête de l'idée.
Le mot fait vibrer tout au fond de nos esprits.
Il remue, en disant : Béatrix, Lycoris,
Dante au Campo-Santo, Virgile au Pausilippe.
De l'océan pensée il est le noir polype.
Quand un livre jaillit d'Eschyle ou de Manou,
Quand saint Jean à Patmos écrit sur son genou,
On voit parmi leurs vers pleins d'hydres et de stryges,
Des mots monstres ramper dans ces oeuvres prodiges.

O main de l'impalpable ! ô pouvoir surprenant !
Mets un mot sur un homme, et l'homme frissonnant
Sèche et meurt, pénétré par la force profonde ;
Attache un mot vengeur au flanc de tout un monde,
Et le monde, entraînant pavois, glaive, échafaud,
Ses lois, ses moeurs, ses dieux, s'écroule sous le mot.
Cette toute-puissance immense sort des bouches.
La terre est sous les mots comme un champ sous les mouches

Le mot dévore, et rien ne résiste à sa dent.
A son haleine, l'âme et la lumière aidant,
L'obscure énormité lentement s'exfolie.
Il met sa force sombre en ceux que rien ne plie ;
Caton a dans les reins cette syllabe : NON.
Tous les grands obstinés, Brutus, Colomb, Zénon,
Ont ce mot flamboyant qui luit sous leur paupière :
ESPÉRANCE ! -- Il entr'ouvre une bouche de pierre
Dans l'enclos formidable où les morts ont leur lit,
Et voilà que don Juan pétrifié pâlit !
Il fait le marbre spectre, il fait l'homme statue.
Il frappe, il blesse, il marque, il ressuscite, il tue ;
Nemrod dit : « Guerre !  » alors, du Gange à l'Illissus,
Le fer luit, le sang coule. « Aimez-vous ! » dit Jésus.
Et se mot à jamais brille et se réverbère
Dans le vaste univers, sur tous, sur toi, Tibère,
Dans les cieux, sur les fleurs, sur l'homme rajeuni,
Comme le flamboiement d'amour de l'infini !

Quand, aux jours où la terre entr'ouvrait sa corolle,
Le premier homme dit la première parole,
Le mot né de sa lèvre, et que tout entendit,
Rencontra dans les cieux la lumière, et lui dit :
« Ma soeur !

Envole-toi ! plane ! sois éternelle !
Allume l'astre ! emplis à jamais la prunelle !
Échauffe éthers, azurs, sphères, globes ardents !
Éclaire le dehors, j'éclaire le dedans.
Tu vas être une vie, et je vais être l'autre.
Sois la langue de feu, ma soeur, je suis l'apôtre.
Surgis, effare l'ombre, éblouis l'horizon,
Sois l'aube ; je te vaux, car je suis la raison ;
A toi les yeux, à moi les fronts. O ma soeur blonde,
Sous le réseau Clarté tu vas saisir le monde ;
Avec tes rayons d'or, tu vas lier entre eux
Les terres, les soleils, les fleurs, les flots vitreux,  
Les champs, les cieux ; et moi, je vais lier les bouches ;
Et sur l'homme, emporté par mille essors farouches,
Tisser, avec des fils d'harmonie et de jour,
Pour prendre tous les coeurs, l'immense toile Amour.
J'existais avant l'âme, Adam n'est pas mon père.
J'étais même avant toi ; tu n'aurais pas pu, lumière,
Sortir sans moi du gouffre où tout rampe enchaîné ;
Mon nom est FIAT LUX, et je suis ton aîné ! »

Oui, tout-puissant ! tel est le mot. Fou qui s'en joue !
Quand l'erreur fait un noeud dans l'homme, il le dénoue.
Il est foudre dans l'ombre et ver dans le fruit mûr.
Il sort d'une trompette, il tremble sur un mur,
Et Balthazar chancelle, et Jéricho s'écroule.
Il s'incorpore au peuple, étant lui-même foule.
Il est vie, esprit, germe, ouragan, vertu, feu ;
Car le mot, c'est le Verbe, et le Verbe, c'est Dieu.

Jersey, juin 1855.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
when even mark hamill takes a stab at the industry...

the last movie i ever saw,
or for that will ever see
in a cinema -
             was the last jedi...
given that i didn't
watch the force awakens
            hell, the title itself...
the only good thing
about the movie was the actual
         a cameo -
   in my home town of
    Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
plus it was affordable -
given the exchange rate
hovered above £1 : 5zł...
     i remember times
when the exchange ratio
stood at
       £1 : 8zł or there about...
but now?
   hmm... just shy of
        £1 : 3.99zł...
and thank god the Poles
are leaving these accursed isles...
    ****... been living here
since i was 8 years old...
   i can't, in the words of
Kevin Spacey: just... *******!
it's a life's worth of investment...
perhaps not the people,
but... the language, *the language
i'm no polymath,
but i have to keep up teasing
english psychiatrists
about one, curiosity...
well... two...
   the employment of regression
(implanting false memories
by insinuation) -
and... why is a bilingual person,
suddenly, a schizophrenic?
  medically... metaphorically?
of course!
              so i took it up to her...
(dr. moncrieff -
oh she's real,
  she did a BBC interview
for a program about R. D. Laing)...
    i said to hear:
but i also hear "voices" in
             a bogus statement,
i had to toy with her...
   by the way...
why was John Allen Muhammad
the only genius killer
among blacks?
       a killing spree for a white
serial killer is simply dumb,
hood violence...
  petty emotional construct...
but John Allen Muhammad?
most definitely stands out...
the only black serial killer i ever
came across in the news...
the rest? whites.
           ****... digressing again...
see... drinking and listening
to political commentary videos
is one thing, sober,
on the crapper -
    but drinking and listening
to these sober concerns?
     that's not the point of drinking,
and not listening to music.
you lose the rhythm...
   you lose your orientation
in the face of the blank canvas,
awaiting your mosaic composition.
   i don't think that cinema was
killed by television, per se...
  two factors, perhaps three killed it...
televised series have
  better music strategists...
   more music, basically,
and better researched...
come on - thor: Ragnarok?
led zeppelin's immigrant song?
that's it?
      sure... some of the classical
music theme are great...
Schindler's List's whining Jewish
violin tearjerker
  (gets me sometimes...
   i cry at beauty -
because beauty is worth crying
over... after sitting with my family
at the wake of my great-grandmother
having passed,
i sat alone in the kitchen,
put a red rose just near but also
just far away from the candle flame...
and managed to transform cardinal red
of the petals, into bishop's purple...
and then i grit and grinding my
teeth together, enlarging the ferocity
of my bite to feel a chip of
a tooth come off one of the bottom
compare that to sharp objects's
opening song from episode 2...
    jeffrey brodsky's
glance backwards...
           come on...
   the genius of a horror movie,
or the genius of a thriller?
  it's always been the music -
   nothing invigorates the horror genre
like the music,
  the visual props are secondary,
and always will be!
        but that's not 2nd reason for
the downfall of cinema...
merely the 3rd...
    an attache, whimsical observation...
the time allowance...
that stretches... far far beyond
   the *** break between such behemoth
movies like ben hur
    or gone with the wind...
    plus in t.v. you can play with
more juxtapositions...
vague interpolating time reference,
very much akin to sharp objects...
which... is, quality wise?
on par with the quality of Versailles...
in my humble opinion...
   the once old gigantic necessity of
crafting extras?
  ****! gone!
                     big but nonetheless
cut budgets of CGI?
       not as much fun...
you can still spot the cut off points...
where the canvas of extras
meets Shogun: Total War CGI...
           and this is reason no. 2...
but reason numero uno?
  you can't binge on cinema...
  but sure as **** you can binge
on engrossing television drama...
             unlike some soap opera
omnibus on a Sunday?
   you have to wait...
say... 10 weeks...
                    before letting the beast out...
and then you sit up all night...
and watch the whole ******* season
back to back...
   no one has ever made a 10 hour movie,
and never will...
               binging on television
killed cinema,
  notably the kind of television
that allows you the freedom to record,
and watch back...
                   people always loved
binging on something,
now they've been plated an alternative
to food...
    pure optics...
                       and given the extortion
of cinema ticket prices?
    by the way...
            i couldn't be bothered
to go and watch the last jedi with
the subscripts...
         i'm pretty sure the version i watched
in dubbing could have saved my
initial impressions...
  nice cinema though...
              3. ****** soundtracks
    2. hmm... what was point no. 2?
  1. people love to binge,
   and cinema?
   no matter what movie franchise,
star wars...
     rocky... whatever...
          eh... not with the new star wars...
the only franchise that allowed
itself to mesh together,
like a t.v. show?
back to the future...
   you can't exactly watch one...
and not subsequently watch the other 2...
sorry... i tried...
ended up spending the night
watching the trilogy.

— The End —