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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the
Frisk Nov 2013
as an astronaut, I spun on a rotary around the core of your existence like
you were the gravity that held me to the ground but kept me on my toes
if home is where the heart is, i'm coping with this unbearable homesickness
and I know my heart has an anarchy government, living a steel toed rebellion
but these relentless thoughts about you have gotten bad again, i don't sleep
my reckless behavior let loose, like a dog off his chain and collar and i
revisited the places you always talked about, how i dreamed to be there
with you recovering those lost feelings, and rebellion was assisting me
in the mind of my teenage angst, no autobiographies could be more
authentic than the hatred for this unrequited swelling i held in my heart
without a doubt, you're featured in my dreams more than nightmares
you couldn't be more real than the books that I hold in my hands
i'm sleeping in water filled with sharks calling me a tedious terrorist
entering their territory, leaving me with absolutely nothing
just build a bridge, get over it, if you have to, revisit my mind
maybe you'll see everyone is the enemy, not everyone is perfect

-kra
murari sinha Sep 2010
( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more
ju Jan 2012
No men.
But when the
conversation starts, they dominate.
Worm their way into every sentence, every silence.
Every caught breath, exhaled pause.
Names, nice-to-meet-yous, passed round with sandwiches and tea.
Hole-riddled autobiographies, wadded out with circumstance and need.
Explaining themselves, defending their actions. In turn. And I?
Have never felt so young.
To my left, and working clockwise: Affair-with-the-boss, Heart-condition, High-risk-of-genetic-defects,
In-the-middle-of-a-divorce-not-sure-why-she-slept-with-him, Grown-up-children-can’t-bear-to-go-through-that-again,
and back to me. (Boyfriend-has-two-kids-wants-no-more)
He noticed that I’m pregnant.
Was pregnant.
Was.
We chew our way through sandwiches. Different coloured fillings, no flavour- choked down with lukewarm tea.
We know it’s a test.
We have to talk, smile, eat, drink, laugh (not manically)
if we're to go home.
I can’t do it.
I want to cry. But I’ve been told off for that already (curled up on a trolley, examining bloodied fingers)
I drift, I think.
Jump out of my skin when she speaks to me.
You must eat she says.
You must eat.
I search for myself in their eyes,
re-make myself from fragments and reflections I find there (Four parts child, one part *****)
It’s OK, I tell her. It’s OK.
On my way home I’ll get a Happy Meal.
I’m collecting the toys.
Connor Oct 2015
Flowers grow tired in the morning,
as people disrupt their sleep with car horns
blaring the industrial alarm clock to mountains and
whispering gods who smooth the leaves with their voices.

The architecture students have created a rat maze lecture hall
for students to stress in when fog rolls through the campus.

Now is the time for sentiments, anyone who has told you different
is too dull to carry any or too cold to care.
People pray for commodity.

Why have the Dutch left Asia? (less than 24 hours)
The absurdity of things is a white white sun worshiping itself
indefinitely.
Poems are autobiographies as autobiographies are poems.

Philosophers do not accommodate false prophets.
Philistines stray from therapy in paintings.
The depressed don't wake to traffic jazz but rather the silence of sleeping birds.
The sociopath will not make love without a motive.
Pacifists will not even battle their own sadness.

Autumn arrives with a few wraps on the door of an old folks home
(again)
Priests have daydreams and then suffer from a terrible insomnia.
A cigarette can last as long as the lungs that feed them.

Hospitals contain their own life cycle, I was born in 1996 and a few floors below my infancy
corpses lay in the cool sterility of a morgue.
People I would never met
(Except for 19 years later as I pass them in my local cemetery)

Projectors contain all the information needed for countless hives of youth to swarm around another thing to bury under the weight of narcissistic culture,
who's reliance on materialism is a growing fruit gone rotten.

The diverse architecture of Tokyo is really quite fascinating
(a city I would pay to get lost in)
Taiwan has existed as a single airport that reeks of tiger perfume
and sells cheap coffee in February.
(our reality is our perception of it)
Vancouver's train system is a rattling electric crib.

.......People count sheep, sheep count factories (?)

Psychic tea readers have fallen to the poor habit of leaving one's china out in the open for anyone to stumble across and become the next doomsday microphone.

Here comes the martyr on a carved wagon of moonlight.
Observing the bathroom flamingo called youth
perching upon a grenade.
Westley Barnes Jan 2019
In Waterstones
Sighing at the bestsellers
opaque at the corner of my right
eye two ladies late in life
are centre stage amid the table
paperbacks.

“Are you following me?” the taller bellows
brimmed headscarf towering over her NHS bespectacled
sister of afternoons and shopping mornings
continuing a conversation that has obviously
followed them their entire friendship
seeming the matriarch of the pair, she is circumspect
in her contrariness.

Whatever entitles her to this
Guardianship of self-importance
Her being a lighthouse rising above the mists
condensing off beaten shards of rock
is subdued by her companions’ pithy response
“no-you know I have no interest in Autobiographies.”
Hao Nguyen Apr 2016
I mourn not for the silent voices
whom hide behind practiced smiles,
but rather for the weeping authors
of anonymous autobiographies
where pages smudge and smear
by worn, overused erasers.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
whether a critic or whether a writer, the most popular genre in modern times in the west is either autobiographical, or disguised biographical... i call it ******* literature of the worst kind... some call mere thinking intellectual *******, those ingrained in the thinking that education per se is just that, and expressing it on paper is just that, what a horrid bunch of people, worse of than the religious types, who at least cling to something, the last rite of man worshipping man involved man having to pray to a man suffering on the ultimate geometry that's the cross, so instead of taking the man down from the cross, they did the opposite: 'hang on! hang on just a little bit longer! we'll just add to judas' profit! hang on old chap! we're coming to get you and take you off the cross! we'll just investigate the chance of making profit, creating a pyramidal ecclasiastical order and you'll be off the perfect geometry of intersection in no time!' ****** sadists... where were we? ah yes... autobiographies... the critics and writers summon the words, like: 'i am quite prepared to be searingly, plum honest waiting for the limo under the eye for the insomniac marks of swollen eye about my life...' i'm sure you are, considering the fact you already lived it, and are now about to revise it; it's like watching a bunch of dead people having another stab at life... they lived it, now they're going to write about it, hardly a reason to summon ghost writers, i'm sure, but that's not really automation; memory if a fickle faculty, disrupted by the educational system feeding you useless pythagorean theorems,  memory is subtle, fragile like a snowflake, once it happens, once the imprint is made, it vanishes, and becomes deistorted from the objective reality, which turns the event, any event, into a falsification process, a subjective reality, we cling to pleasant memories because of the pain ahead, and we do something that nature does with its natural selection: selective memorisation. a true autobiography is therefore something that's written without memory, life as it happens, the opposite of painting with its still life tactic... life as it happens... otherwise we're talking literature's post mortem ex vivi / -o (about the hyphen attached to a letter in a moment)... it was simply those two hands of shade with hammer and chisel grinding little trenches of lettering into the gravestone... goth macabra... a dead man writing his own epitaph... so far went his self-knowledge that it became apparent that no one really knew him. hence? the best autobiographies are those with the mundaneity of life's purposes, written as life happens, deviating from what life could be, truly immersed in life as life in deviation from what can be associated with life's purposes requesting other people's involvement; or least that's the sort of autobiography i'd like to read, less lying involved to a peerage of an admirable social status, and more 'in the moment' moments to consider, quiet frankly no ******* of 'gone with the wind,' hence my other joke, less subtle: a book rather than a door - knock knock (actual knocking on compressed wood that's paper) - who's there? - a reader - answer: flick flick flick and no skimmed reading, please!

two concepts i rather avoid,
so i did, i made (i) a priori
into a- priori
and (ii) a posteriori
into a- posteriori,
standard literal dictionary definition
without elaboration places
(i) as: from the one before -
thus the hyphenated activity replaces
literal meaning as:
without the one before -
in the current situation, and with
the current population currency
at above 6 billion - it means
without hercules, adam, abraham,
moses, jesus, etc.
the same goes for a- posteriori,
i.e. without the one after...
and if i'm not being pedantic enough
the distinction between *a
and a-
is that the meaning of the unit in
italics means from, while adding
the hyphen as a preposition to
circumstance it as a prefix changes the
meaning to without-,
given that the priori & posteriori
abide by the sixth definition of the unit
discussed, i.e. before a consonant, p is a consonant,
as much as the word amoral defines proper
a- usage and understanding;
however, the point is not about this,
rather tha activity of what happens when
the dynamic changes, by replacing a / a-
with re- / res.
the resulsts are staggering:

(i)
re- priori                    v.              res priori
again the one                             indivisible thing(s)
before                                         before

(ii)
re- posteriori              v.             res posteriori
again the one                             indivisible thing(s)
after                                            after.

for each there's an example, there's a parallelism
in the res examples, e.g. the sun, the moon, the earth,
mountains can crumble, trees can be cut down
to toothpicks...

the re- examples have a certain ambiguity to them,
give the possibility of a dodo / white rhino extinction,
these example are ordained by an ambiguity
naturally, depending on which factor is stressed more,
whether that be man in a japanese symbiosis
with nature, or whether that be man in a european
symbiosis with nature...
given that the former includes man in nature
and allows a neighbouring,
or with the later, which excludes man from nature
and allows man's egoism to come
crashing down not being able to tame a tsunami.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i gather, all philosophy is written on the anti-cross, or a sickbed... and all maxims on the deathbed - in between there's nothing but vain distractions that have no basis for a consensus of surprise - they are merely therapies of manual labours, shadow-caste by weakness to invoke a sense of belonging to this world akin to a labourer of pure action - reduced to the same pure action: as one might showcase faking one's own death.

Kant said of poets: bothersome flies -
here to steal the cupcakes of my pondering:
zwischen die volkern erzielt wird
a mondus vivendi - in vivo or in vitro?
alter: mondus quasi vivendi -
and all that talk about sabotage (canto xix)?
his own poetry - even the sarcasm, but
especially the sarcasm shines through pristine
as if Hannibal Lecter talking about Alabama:
i gawt dem tousand doughlars tough mak 'em...
        awl over the plaice -
            got to give Ezra the cheek for demonic
slapping to shove that one, up their pristine
temple of ahoy ****! still, the variation is there:
usury and simony - talk of,
       Thomas the Cartesian -
Peter Simon the Usurer - the rock that gave
way to 1000% a.e.r. of maggot - interests rates
and what they said about her:
         piece of meat for the film, *****,
second rate: ***** slapped to Disney - and aren't
women natural sadists? i guess the Cesarean section
was a move in the wrong direction:
*****, pain! *****, pain!                well...
          if i was ever to be bothered, i'd be bothered now:
they're saying you need your genitals stretched
like Armstrong winning the 8th tour de france -
but f.g.m. is bad, bad bad bad -
hey, i was the one who said: get an abortion,
i didn't love you in the same way i ****** you...
you'd think she wouldn't think she was a murderer
akin with me, until the **** ***** turned into
a yanking diaper wearing blob -
                  i love how precursor physics akin to
post-physics (metaphysics) is entombed with pepper
ante: so sneeze into the benzene ring and get
either para- or ortho- physics out -
but she was russian orthodox, which is worse
than roman catholic: no feeling of guilt -
just the relativity factor: forget female rights:
let's just **** the ****** for giving her freedom -
yeah... and i just graduated and couldn't find
a job in chemistry, was working as a roofer:
she has two apartments in St. Petersburg and a mansion
in Siberia... and she sums it up as: i have no money.
blah ha ha ha ha; and i have an aunt in Warsaw
who sends me monthly stipends to drink myself to
death while i write the alternative to Proust.
  he really gave it to them in Ohio: i really gave it
back to London, imagine being published in the town
of your birth, simply because the western notion
of a book: is actually a brick, or a rubber door-stop -
unless you're famous? forget it... seriously,
they really have destroyed poetry with the idea that
autobiographies will **** poetry off...
question is: if you lived an interesting life...
why would you write a book? why would you?
i'm sure you'd continue making life interesting,
Don Juan wrote a book, Faust was like: bartender!
next round! and what's with these ghost writers?
that's like taking the concept of narration
and inventing a fourth dimension -
            our literary tastes and ambitions... are actually
ruled by dyslexics - people who not only can't
write... but who primarily can't punctuate...
now... if this is a healthy society (that we live in)...
then i guess Iraq is an improvement after toppling
Saddam... bra-*******-vo.
                         if i were the west i'd shut up
for one generation, and stop this political fetish of
foreign policy - but, as you guessed it... it won't work...
           just today, a program: 15 years after -
truth, lies, and conspiracies - well... if Guy Fawkes
did blow up parliament, we wouldn't be having
bonfire night celebrations, we'd be having debates...
but since Guy Fawkes plot was a failure:
ola anonymous! ola whoever...
                  and that massive tower in Dubai?
it was an architectural coup - let's freshen things up,
let's keep the competitive streak coming -
who's ******* overshadows all other erections
(egoism)? point is... i don't even care,
         there's no point playing hide (deny) & seek
(doubt) with these people... there's no point!
         i'm not seeking the ultimate noun -
    or how you perpetrate grammatical cleansing:
you basically strip words of meaning,
   and drop them, face-down, into their respective
grammatical category, and the job's done:
no grander meaning, no ulterior purpose,
    no alternative suggestion;
        or rereading Nietzsche - you either recite
something by the author, or you cite the authority
behind your own investigation - the former is
sycophantic stagnation, the latter a narrative continuance:
                furthermore? continual nuance.
    that's how rhyme will remain until i find
the original intention of poetry's need for rhyme to
   be anything but what it currently is: unappealing -
it's like poets want to write something that can be
classified as poetry... which obviously leads to
  the controversy of: but it's so ****** unappealing!
  hence the revision of rhyming to and from couplets -
   i only came across an interest in philosophy aged 21...
  any sooner and i'd fall for reciting dogmas and
upholding the arguments of others...
                   but i only came across this subject through
a collision with strife: or the lost care to strive
   in order to suspect a need for social ascension into
  the heights of respectable society of: horse racing
at Ascot, champagne and caviar: and airs: oh may i,
   oh you do indeed, sir.
                            and in each and every one of us:
   the brute: the comedian.
       what Nietzsche did to emphasise with italics,
  i'm doing it with the colon - for it is said that the colon
economises emphasis without Niccolò de' Niccoli
                           (ò) - i.e. Nichole - née coal -
in French: cut short; which means? have you ever seen
a new form of literary monopoly emerge
that wasn't ecclesiastical? i have... the diacritical markings
on standard Latin letters - they're not taught:
merely accepted -                   suspension of illiteracy
             hibernating in ages of education:
on purpose dangling - the stick a metre from your
head, the carrot a Don Quixote fata morgana -
  truly: a mirage.                SKY: believe in better.
all those guys in advertisement know their philosophy -
once i met a guy who once worked in advertisement
and was shocked when i summed up Sartre as:
                                                                         voyeurism.
  but there's a new monopoly on literacy in town,
it's obviously more refined than the old way of
telling secrets -
                            it's refined in the sense that i too would
have doubted whether that's haiku in ensō or enso'h -
dried up laughter, or the desert of once heard
laughter: lo'h 'n' behold a stammer for an earthquake -
so soon? yep, that much sooner.
                           looking at it, it's all Copernican
east north south west with some encoding, or all of them:
   up there, on the international space station
you get a hard-on thinking about nautical mathematics.
   i get him though, Nietzsche the Preacher -
              although i limited my experiences in order
to never agree with his observations that precipitated from
his experiences - none of them could have come
from *a priori
musings - what with his menage trois -
   again: ménagé (à) trois - or faux pas, i.e. fau(x) pa(s) -
                   as Xerxes said: war!     (alias Łar -
     warsaw - or?   Łarsała - siała baba mak, nie wiedziała
jak - chłop powiedział: a to było tak... a sea-saw)
  while  some dwarf Polish Duck, a.k.a. politician added:
     V'AR!         -             while in this
  retreat in France - Taizé - i served out lunch and dinner
for the congregation, working with this German
  who preferred spiritual duty than army conscription
service; a memorable quote by him though:
   vey d dn't oonderstaand my good En'glish arr-cent:
   plus the Schwarzenegger for comparative literature.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
in the end there are only two genres
in literature -

type 1:

a navy seal retires,
has lived his life and what not,
retires,
and then writes a book
about his life -

the sort of book that would
encourage you to live
the life he's lived...

   which is not going to happen -
no matter your literary drive -
the life isn't there -
and it's not exactly high-brow
literary ambitions that
is missing -
   it's simply that the life is
there,
   the Blitzkrieg selling rates
of such books,
people, "oddly" enough like
an authentically lived
experience to prop up the
dry narrative of:
what probably constitutes
ghost writers...
  a Casanova type of books,
autobiographies...

but wait...
what happened to the autobiography
genre?
    last time i checked,
all these reality t.v. celebs have
about 5 "autobiographies"
to boot...
   and they're what... licking 40
a.m. (our mortal god's years
of the fidgety limbs?) -
what's up with that?

    so it's not an autobiography per se...
memory loss, premature dementia?
i was misdiagnosed with that...
schizophrenia...
     that's fun...
what is?
   a misdiagnosis...
whenever i watch t.v. i play a game
of spotting a familiar face...
i'm usually right...
                photographic memory...
i can recognize a face...

        kind of a requirement living
in the labyrinth of outer
English suburbia...
    ******* ferris wheel quasi confusion:
but always speeding up...

type 1 books?
   a summary of a well lived life:
joined the army,
  traveled the world,
  learned Brazilian martial arts,
****** a lot of women...
began the day by jogging
at 3am with the milkman...
   books you should read in your youth
and be fed the desire to live
a symbiosis of it, imitate it...

funny... cloning is not a scientific
concept, physically...
sure... that much is true...
  but cloning a mind...
converting someone to pray five
times a day on a Persian rug?
   religion...
    religion was the first instigator
of cloning, prior to science,
cloning is such an old concept,
it predates the scientific breakthroughs...
how else?
you have to clone and replicate
the mind, before the body is
investigated as being enclosed in
the equivalent capacity for,
said, "conversion"...

            i guess for the elites
clones are much effective than what's being
fed for the bourgeoisie...
  look... the rich care more about
the poor than the middle class...
   because they know that the poor
can only pass on genes...
   which muddles the bourgeoisie, a lot...
it feeds them passing on
memes -
              less genes - more memes -
the rich can father replicas by passing on
both: genes... & memes...
the poor can only pass on their genes...
the bourgeoisie?
    they can't do both...
       and since they can't pass both...
they have concentrated on passing memes
rather than genes...

  and you know where that leaves them?
evidently sexless -
  or at least with a 0.5% rate
of population replenishment....
     not a nice place...

but that's only type 1 of literature...

type 2:
  the sort of antithesis of an autobiography,
someone that is on-going...
    gravitating toward an expansion
of a personal vocabulary...
   the sort of book, you can't write,
and never will,
   because it depicts a life:
            YOU DON'T WANT TO LIVE.
**** me, it would be grand to
live the type 1 literature,
settling in some comfy armchair aged
70, and reminiscing...
             you have that last *******
watching memory cinema,
you can lie, juxtapose through the fabric
of oncoming dementia
memory loss...
   life is dandy...
          but type 2 literature?
ever notice the ongoing onslaught with
wordings and linguistic observations?
those supposedly inorganic aspects of
language -
words acting as inanimate objects?
oh but they breath -
sure, they fall in and out of fashion -
but a flesh eating body of flesh
still managed to utter them,
somehow, never mind the etymological
genesis -
            only when there is
the complete slaughter of encoded language
will there be talk of an "etymological"
exodus...
   but that's beside the point...
this type 2 of writing?
    no magical life formula...
no joining the army,
or ******* a lot of women...
the whole sha-sha-bang!
                  
    in the end i hold dear to the fact that i'm
not a fiction escape-artist...
i hate escapism -
    esp. of a fictive nature,
well, fictive "nature" per se...
give me a philosophy book or
some obscure poem and i'll
turn a cognitive labyrinth into
a Pamplona bull charge...
    
as i also wanted to travel to Munich for
the Oktoberfest...
but never did...

   guess it's true:
   you can never get what you want,
might as well do with
what you have and must like it...
i.e. if you don't have what you
like: like what you have.

very few people write type 2 literature...
most write type 1...
       let's face it...
there's type 2A and type 2B...
     type 2A is fiction...
   escape artistry...
                
****... that's three genres then...
             type 2B has one motto:
my life is so ******* boring, that...
i decided to write...
                     well... "bored"...
rather... predictable...
                  but i can't imagine the horror
of having lived such a challenging
and exciting life of type 1...
and then reducing it to farting into
an armchair...
   and getting a ghost-writer to
script my open mic monologue...

             ah...
                  i'm sure that few people will
write a type 2B...
            too few people have
lost their "necessity" to dream while sleeping...
i stopped dreaming per se,
even if i do conjure up a dream...
it's so much *******,
so Jackson ******* that
     even Freud couldn't get
a cucumber or an oyster metaphor
out of it.
Emily Sep 2014
I never was one for autobiographies, and to be honest, I couldn’t tell you a thing about me. So instead I’ll tell you what’s inside of me, I’ll trace for you the outline of my soul, you just have to promise you’ll do the same for me someday, I want to know everything there is to know about yours, as it is the other half to my own. For as long as I remember, I swore I wasn’t human, humans are so frivolous at times and I swore I was some consequence birthed out of some fit of passion. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is that the world was too sensitive for my liking, I burned everything I touched and carved words into cement walls because the intensity of my soul possessed me like a demon in those biblical stories I couldn’t stand reading. And this fervor made me lonely, though lonely could never even begin to cover it, rather, it made my heart feel like an old stone well and echoes of my past bounced off of it. And after twenty years of the blackness I was on the brink of giving up, and to put it in more simple terms I found poetry in free falling off bridges and envied the deer for their suicide dashes. And in the metaphorical sense you could think of my heart like an old abandoned apartment, the pitter patter of the water droplets that dripped off the ceiling into a bucket, and the radiator, weighed down by rust, would groan and heave during the winter months, there was a moth-eaten mattress in the corner and books toppling over one another in heaping masses, like warfare in the 1800s. And in the plainest of language, the gig was up, I threw in the towel and shook hands with the darkness, I surrender, a triangle trying to conform amongst circles. I was nothing more than a hollow soul, my bones rattled like a dead-beaten cage with the bars all bent and worn. And what I’m trying to say is that the vastness within me could not be described, I would know because I tried, it was all I could write about for years, I had lines beneath my eyes like all the poets, Plath, Bukowski, they were my comrades. And the loneliness was so great that I never saw the sun for months, the fire within me incinerated my every inside to dust. And this was much too drawn out for an introduction, but you’re the only one who deserves this explanation, I want you to understand the gravity of who I was before I tell you who I am, the person I became the moment I set eyes on you. Do you have but a clue of what you are to me? No, I doubt you ever could. What I’m trying to say is that I want to kiss you everywhere it hurts. And who knew, that you’d fall in love with a wildfire, and to think I had spent my whole life trying to extinguish it, when it was everything you wanted. But wanting you doesn’t even begin to cover it, what I mean is that sometimes I feel this swelling within me that would make every ocean recede in admiration, it’s rushing through my fingertips at this very moment with a passionate nature that I never knew existed. And what I’m trying to say is that the day I met you everything changed, I saw the world in all its brilliant colors and all the gray dissipated. And what I’m trying to say is that you healed my splintered bones like glue, you made flowers sprout through my ribcage like a meadow in June, and you sketched stretch marks on every inch of my hollow heart.  Falling in love with you is like coming up for air after a deep sea dive, it’s my heart pounding to its greatest capacity after a marathon and the wind beneath my wings like some sparrow in flight. And ******* I will never begin to scrape the surface of it, but I sure as hell will try, and what I mean by that is that I’ll continue to write to you every day of my life. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to run to you, sometimes I find myself halfway out the door, I never feel more alive than when I take you in my arms after a long drive. And that is what I ache for at this very moment, I can almost feel you against me, my fingers through your hair, and to be honest I couldn’t be more surprised that we don’t have bruises from pulling one another closer, because closer in this world is still lightyears away from the close we want to be. And don’t you feel it, my love? Don’t you feel it every time that we make love? Every time I run my fingertips along your spine I’m writing you a poem in a language no one could have ever dreamed of. And sometimes in the middle of it all I find myself clutching at you, and my apologies if I leave claw marks along your shoulder blades, but when you kiss me I can’t tell whose breath is whose and that’s how I know that somehow we’ve left this place. Because darling, perhaps we were not made for the world and the world was made for us, I know because there are more landscapes in your eyes than I can count and who needs the world when there are galaxies in the wells of your collarbones. And I swear these bodies of ours were constructed for one another’s, I can tell by this endless ache, and when I say I miss you I mean that without you I feel like an animal with a missing limb. So if you hear the wolves howling it’s because I told them about you, and if the moon blinds you it’s because I asked her to remind you of the glow you light within me, and if I sound out of breath it’s because I’ve already ran halfway down the street again, hoping that time and space will collapse in awe of the love I have for you, if only just this once. And you wanted me to write you something, well, my love, I’ll write you a poem:

Your skin against my skin
Tangled breaths
Clasped hands.

And if that isn’t poetry than I don’t know what is, all I know is that I spent my life devouring novels and nothing scrapes the surface of what you are, you are worlds that have yet to be discovered that I wish to spend my whole life writing about. And when I say I’d do anything for you I mean that you are everything in this world to me, you are the blue-gray skies and the winter green pines and more than I have ever dreamed about. And I will describe this love if it kills me, but if you’re ever wondering just look into my eyes and that’s how you’ll know, hurricanes and tsunamis and tornados don’t even know what it’s like to have this ardor. And to make a long story short, I thought the world had ******* up somehow, I thought I was in it alone, but now I know I was made for you, and you for me, and no one else. And I can’t even tell you what it feels like to find the other half to your soul, to find a hand that fits perfectly inside your own. And I know I’m a writer, baby, but I swear that we’re extraordinary, even time stops when we make love and only tears can explain what you are to me. And my whole life I watched the waves in awe, I never believed anything could be so relentless, but I learned that the waves crashing over and over is a lot like falling in love with you, one touch, one glance, one thought and I’m falling again
And again
And again
And again
unwritten Jul 2014
you write poems
about lost love,
broken hearts,
and failed redemption.

you write tragedies
about lonely nights,
crying minds,
and bleeding gashes of regret.

you write monologues
about voiceless mouths,
venomous words,
and inevitable decay.

you write autobiographies
about faded dreams,
unheard whispers,
and vanishing memories.

you write
about what once was.

and i do, too.

though i doubt your poems are about me
like mine are about you.


(a.m.)
idk.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
globalisation does this, all in favour? aye! all in opposition? nay!

                                        multi-cultural societies
and their pastas and pizzas,
their curry take away, their Chinese noodles,
their Thai their Sushi, and the Turkish kebab -
it's a smouldering cauldron of simply
no identity, eat a raw herring and pack your
bags to Scandinavia -

                                      if i came with a strong
rooting in Slavic myths, the identity of the land,
the dwarf gods of the forest (bořki - ate the
z of what would have been a German equivalent
ß - but here, the erzett - or to put it otherwise
for aesthetic purposes: ż - no, no one is
illiterate, it's just that people haven't been told
that we write for aesthetic reasons, as well
as functioning / utility reasons -
i am an orthographic reformer - i want the greatest
upheaval in language) -
                                
                                Argentinian steak houses -

but otherwise eat a raw herring and pack
your bags... globalisation will not make any of
us proud of our ethnicity, or culture bound
to birth, there must be a way out -
social patriotism intact, after all a universal
thing to mind: the golden rule - never do unto
others what you wouldn't want others to do
unto you - but we need teeth, we need grip...

we need myths! as of the neighbours of the Baltic,
and England unique as having experienced
Cnut but not Vasa - nothing cliche about it -
the folk element is there, and i fit the bill
for the looks - that's the easy part -
but in heart some third language that makes me
feel, purely feel, and not understand -
that's neither Polish (too personal, goes to the bone
and is reflexive - insults against ethnicity) - nor English (too
personal, goes to the brain and is reflective -
insults against intelligence) -
                                        
                                             a third party associate,
one of pure heart, raw berserk emotion -
befitting a poem at every turn -
i need a language of mediating these two cripples -
i have no care for liver for kidney and now, apparently
even the brain... **** it... let's stick to the heart
and keep it the essence of all things soulful -

as soul known to chemists be: the one element of
man that's indestructible - for whatever reason,
the love bound to reach the highest of alchemy's
mysteries - the more verbiage necessary to stand firm
with a love for your enemies - the philosopher's stone
refers to the heart - as is the depiction by Luca Signorelli -
the genius element being the left hand ever
present through the robes -

                                                 how to give the left hemisphere
under siege a spy's stealthy hand in diabolical matters,
in perfect equilibrium with the right's natural strength
at holding quill or sabre, condensed into mutually inclusive
by a keyboard -

so unto the heart of Scandinavia, esp. that Faroe dullness
for the mind to fathom when the heart born from
such lands sees a heart entertained by the bleakness
and the Orca poaching season of reddened northern waves
in the marina, where the Orcas are grouped together
and slaughtered for food -

so as this goes on - a return to the most poignant critique
of mutli-cultural society - well, not really...
just this debilitating status quo mediation between
mr. anonymous and mr. famous -
fame isn't fame as it used to be known -
by fame i imagine Galileo - by fame i imagine Copernicus -
by fame i imagine Kant - as pretentious as name dropping
might seem, fame for me equates itself to sustenance -

nourishment - a welcome return of debate and the unresolved
plucking of those floreo interrogatio -
not what's now just the same as packaged goods -
toothbrushes are also famous, so are tables and chairs,
lightbulbs are pretty famous too...

celebrities that are nothing more than packaged books -
what exposed them? they all need books, autobiographies!
that's what exposed them... they did the opposite
of what the Nazis did in Munich that one time
with that one time bonfire... these books are already burning,
well my mind at least, if you touch them i'm sure
they're quiet cool.

                                better than fame, better than
posthumous "fame" - to live a life that will give rise
to a myth - to apply yourself, not to any specialisation
with a logic as its suffix - i.e. not ontology, not biology,
not psychology - like mathematics being the queen (królową)
of learning (nauk) - mythology is the king (król)
of unlearning and of awe (oduczać się) - which does

not entirely mean neglect - once you have learned to
learn to ride a bicycle, once you learn to swim -
these two are very much hard to completely neglect and
by neglecting forget - here then,

                                         while the rats scamper and scuttle
for the big cheese and perfectly flossed teeth -
a ceramic doll's face - i'm in the forests in the dark of
night - a forest heavily influenced by the perfumery
of wet autumn leaves fallen with their drained
green chlorophyll allowing space for the perfumery
when at night the earth breathes, in the colder months -
the earth looses and Ypres mud wets the shoe.

globalisation also shows the ugly side of monotheism,
Christianity, you can't possibly think is a serious
monotheism, can you? three in one, two for one,
buy two get the third one gratis, what with the pagan
elements of the Christmas tree, chocolate *****
of castrated hares to celebrate the crucifixion (crucifix
jewels on the necks) and Santa Claus that's merely
an an anagram of Satan's Clause, something to do
with the jurisprudence of: well, technically not vanquished,
left standing in Mecca counting how many
loafs of bread are under his feet from the Muslims
throwing pebbles at him.
Meg B Mar 2015
Sometimes I fear
I have become too good at
being alone.

I basque in the hours
spent locked by my
lonesome in the confines
of my apartment,
surrounded by nothing but
brick and cement and the sounds
of the television or my iPod speaker.
Tranquility seeping in through my
isolation,
I yearn for the moments I am
privileged to spend without
the duty to perpetuate conversations
or offer advice to someone I consider
merely an acquaintance.

Sometimes I worry I am
too comfortable with solitude.

I get a thrill off of
being needed without needing,
being sought out without seeking.
I let others let me in
without having to give a shred of
myself in return,
for people love to go on
about themselves
without inquiring about
the person to whom they
narrate their autobiographies.

Sometimes I am scared of
the ease with which I can
let someone go.

So often have people come and gone
that now I comprehend, perhaps
too deeply,
that nothing in life is guaranteed
and most people are meant to be
lessons rather than
permanent.
There was a time where I wept
with sordid frequency for the people
I was forced relinquish,
clinging tightly to the empty void,
wallowing in a glass half full of
skewed memories.

Sometimes I am terrified that
I only really know how to
be alone.

It is almost impossible for me
to recall a love not
unrequited.
I stare up at screens and strangers
all screaming that love exists,
and there I am fighting
insane laughter because I just
can't see it,
as if my eyes have become colorblind,
for it is black and white that
all I've ever had is
gray.

Sometimes
I am afraid
that this is
Always
how it will be.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
by now i'm adamant at not finding a
publisher...
    what i call step higher
than writing and putting
it into my drawer...
by the way, who wants to
live a publishing furore that
only prescribes autobiographies
of footballers?!
   who?! the masses? the masses
will always do!
                 i'm drunk
and have a glum expression on my
(oink) face...
    piglets coming...
      i will own a michel de montaigne
and never read all of it...
       i guess darwinism is an answer...
literary selection comes with
the package...
             as does that question:
what's normal?
                    it's hard to base a heart
on it, more like facing up to a head
and still not knowing...
if we go through all the rubric of
existence we only arrive at:
the english were right... everyone else
was wrong... and to be frank?
i'd love to senda hundred zeppelins
in the direction where the saxons
succumbed to celt blood...
              what pretty songs...
a bit like unlearning that time when
ulysses asked wax to drip into his ears
while his men took to rigour and oar....
    hard to be the *****-man...
celt girls are pretty, don't get me wrong,
but i prefer to locate my own drinking spree;
celt men love their fantasy of a russian
oligarch princess... i had one for 5 months;
didn't bother settling down with her for life,
hence my ars poesis.
all the regrets you could figure out and master...
i have my drinking habits ready,
i didn't mind to write a moby ****
   or reymont's trilogy of the peasants
either... the glass if full: the gob is empty...
           the bed feels unslept in at 3 o'clock in
the afternoon, the cats are busy sharpening autism
in the garden...
         imitation:
feed it enough words so it becomes
fat?
    perfect excuse for a waterfall...
waking up i thought about the irony of
metallica losing its bassist in a car accident...
doesn't the rhythm section explain it?
isn't metallica the band that hates
bass?
                 it does have bass as intro...
devil's dance is probably the best insurance
leveraged song to example,
a few others fall into place,
but the rhythm guitar overtake the need for
bass, therefore the hush...
   yet there's this overpowering of drum,
i'm ego tripping with this music,
i want to hear bass prescribe the rhythm
and isn't it the case that those watchful of
ensuring rhythm make up too many rhymes?
rhyme | rhythm...
                  i need music to replicate
4 dwarfs *******...
bass, solo guitar and vocal, rhythm guitar
and drums...
alternatively bass, vocals, rhythm & solo guitar,
drums...
      4 oompa loompas prancing on the stage
and the maggot-pit of being part of the audience...
and that divergence spectrum akin to
a micro- / tele-        scope.
             you feeling the itch? my scalp is itchy,
i'm getting these thoughts and can't resort to
a pgf. file encoding... and i can't talk about it in
jpeg. like some god-horrid pic of your
former boyfriend's psychopathy of sending a ****-pick...
how about i take you to the zoo
and we watch penguins bathing?
     kowalski?!                                   hoy!
nugget fidgety crackers of concern,
    scheming critters that need you to invent toothpicks
that people, can suddenly become...
        you want a viking wielding an axe
on the opposite side to face that resonates as crux
comb-over... you don't want the pettiest of
the pettiest pickpocketers that steal from the dead...
you never take that to the plateau of nationhood,
that **** is inherent in singled-out individuals...
i am drunk, and i think i'm being lazy
with spelling... god help me...
      i'd freak out if i had a bukowski tactic
to back me up... dyslexics are apparently very good
with numbers... but they rarely tell you that they are,
good with numbers...
metallica is not too keen on bass: ba ba ***...
based on the concept of a hearing-aid;
you sometimes sop over the idea that it is there
at the beginning of a song... and then it: disappears!
magic... like the story of the original bassist for the band,
who died...
             maybe that's the reason that bass
is missing in all their works after his death, like some
sort of reperation currancy that extends into "the next life".
i want bass man... i really want bass to give it
proper polyphony, to give it layers...
but then again you can train an orangutan
to prance about on stage, crouching tiger farting monkey
look on his face;
  and all in all, the drunken humour i'll
never get to say at a party, if ever a party to attend, or if ever
needing to be funny.
i am starting to see the joke:
start slim,
  end:
                                                                                                   fat.
LauraJean Aug 2011
Every book has one,
The evidence--printed on its spine.
Even so, it attempts to move around the library,
Unable to, for it has no legs to stand on.
Claiming false categorization,
Longing to be shelved alongside memoirs, autobiographies.
Mutating entirely to a chapter of loathing
When separated from its One.
Audrey Maday May 2015
I find myself reading more and more
Autobiographies
In a desperate attempt to find
Someone who feels the same pain as I do.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
if all these energies are spent on youth, then such a crescendo of disillusionment is waiting with its gnashing teeth and gangrene filth to stand straight iron your shirts, and queue for a bottle of milk - at the supermarket like a catwalk of Milan - people and their dream of telekinesis - they enforced stance on telepathy -  telepathy being, of course, the symptom of over exposure to televisions - that scale justified by infinity mirrors, or that infinity (∞) is actually a mirroring - mire rings and what other disambiguation  there is to it in reverse - but only in a snap of the flash - illumination via a twin begot between two limits... or something like that.

never you mind english pragmatism,
pragmatic speech therapies and other associations,
bundles of closed words that desire
the presence of a dictionary, desire or no
desire, are bound to require the dictionary
necessarily - long gone the pronoun overuse
as is the signature of the english tongue -
pronoun overuse - shrapnel of conjunctions
and the like between elongated word-giraffes...
infinity is a mirroring effect* -
infinity is a foggy murk of 19th century London
should it be looked at straight, or seen through
,
paper from wood, glass from sand, finely
ground - not grin d e d - sublime i say ol' chap -
we are bound to loosen things up without
clear vox vis (voiced energy - pardon any
other association of vis, meaning also violence -
latin is dead in meaning, but alive with type oh,
typos as the curvatures of sigma: it total,
no northern barbarian conqueror or *** gave us
encoding to use - the rúnes were like roman
numerals, matchsticks - VI or ᛋ -
                                  or die junker in das bunker -
and if by the testimony of Ogham - should
any testimony be made - once a whisper &
secret... rune - now a frenzied shout on the hills!
råbe of king Cnut, the conquest of England -
ᚱᚨᛒᛖ: r (ride, journey) / a (one of the Æsir) /
          b (birch) and last e (horse)                   .
all my books smells of onions as i prepared dinner,
and garlic too, a famous imprint some might say;
or say that nearing-middle age all this
technological connectivity made us more distant
with our neighbours, or that some say
that all that's prone to internet publishing is false -
but have you inspected the publishing industry?
glamour models' autobiographies,
footballers' "auto" biographies -
graeme le saux is called a professor because he has
a-levels or a degree - and you think all that
is published for charity on the internet is false?
i guess you've never had so much freedom
to delve in private places where social media is
the ugly head of socialism popping up once more,
but the health of the publishing industry leaves
me agitated, as was richard brautigan
in his poem hey!   this is what it's all about
with the beautiful words:
                                             no publication
                                             no money
                                             no star
                                             no ****
                                             ____________
yes, i will be playing with diacritical symbols
as if i were learning chinese encoding of sounds
so so complex they might as well be crop-circles -
but what farmer cares for such symbols?
a secret genius on a farm in Iowa? hardly -
i'll be playing that game of what's more protruding
should i have written rúnes or rūnes -
or left it sketchy and stark naked runes -
since the r is also protruding when going
skiing into the parabola - believe me, the pedantic
in me, given the lessons learnt from Kabbalah
concerning active meditation using symbols
will keep me up all night long - and indeed, once
a cryptology for whispers and secrets,
now a blatant shout as if feeling it was necessary -
akin to a book of maxims:
are these necessary truths, or unnecessary truths?
but as they say: we lost a great treat -
we lost the leprechaun's and the genie's reward,
then came mathematics and solidified our loss,
it's not a case of secrets any more -
but a stance of i just want to be heard!

                                                        ­                    the end.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
.the industrial age is over... i sometimes forget when the middle-ground was made into a sentence... the antichrist, or the demigod son of Hephaestus... the satanic push... to lever the molten iron: over... salt / silicon mines! gears up! industry and the satanic industries... perhaps... just... perhaps... now softcore industry of: etertainment rubrics... sewn underwear from the genesis that they were always going to be: export, MADE IN CHINA... this... grand ideal... but coming along with my bucket and spades... i knew that already, come 1994 in st. augustine's primary school... i had the sponge ****** mind ready to slurp the bubbles of ferocity sally scandals... post-soviety ex-satellite state civi? quasimodo was always going to give me the thumbs up... but when the bells rang... they started ringing for no injunction of a need to 'en masse'... there was a fire... a quiet innocent fire... but all the fingers started pointing...

politics, this most feral sport...
perhaps... "ars politico"?
the art of politics?

right now... boxing seems like a civil sport...
perhaps the damage is not written well
into the events...
but at least the audience is tamed...
probably by bets...
or other forms of decorum...
but in this sport of rhetoric?
in politics?
i don't see how... i don't see how i can
ooh and ah like a douglas murray...
although i'm a big fun of...
almost every homosexual talking...
it's like... that one aspect of ******...
i would have: if i could have...
not have a *******...

said sir lancelot onan jr....:
i have never met a woman...
who could... hand-job / ****-me-off
a prince william better than i...
it's a sad truth when you come across
specimens of women who only known
how to YANK and never... DOODLE
the phallus... with the ******* still
intact...
and *** and *** is just a ******* formality...

darwinism is the modern reinvention
of the copernican ooh-ah!
if copernicus did so: as an "independent"...
Galileo came along with his
mighty telescope... and the martyr's cushioned
seat... while some Greek...
to "us": unknown...

******* is older than beer...
that's my habit...
i look at women in "niqabs" performing
these lolly-pop acts...
and all i see is the niqab...
ninjas of islam mothers of the true believers...
is there something wrong in...
watching others pleasure themselves...
now: **** would be wrong...
if... i somehow managed a proud richie
if... it were... a woman being skinned...
if it was a circumcision of man's phallus...
performed by an iron maiden
gimmick ***...
then i'd be worried...

like that sound-proof of: you're not
in the company of a psychopath...
when someone yawns... you yawn with them...

ostrowiec swietokrzyski is a forgotten town,
once the allure of metallurgy...
because rust belt only happens in
h'america... because the mines only close down
in england... these people were also:
people of the metal...
western europeans "think" that we
moved... because... m'eh...
your metallurgy meccas closed...
ours... "ours"... didn't?!

darwin is the modern version of
medieval copernicus...
and i'm pretty ******* sure...
the ancient greeks, in their childish solipsism...
had a quasi-darwin to begin with...

i'm tired of hearing this worth of ****:
there's not enough toilet paper
to match up with the 111 of wiping your ***
with the index, middle and ring finger's
worth of: grafitti!

but at least boxing is a sport that still
demands a variant of ethics...
there's gloating prior...
but catch a skiving ******* gloating
after... doktor dentist herr sadist is...
waiting... parlor no. 2...
you can simply hear a faint grip
of the christmas carol he's singing...
'i'll hang you on a noose of
poor's joe's intestines i dissected:
** ** **...'
you get the idea where no jokes
comes from?

no sport ethic teaches the contestants
to gloat... to gloat is to be fat...
to be a glutton... no one likes...
people gloating after the facts...
like no one is expecting to hear much
about: the heliocentric contra the geocentric
argument...

i beg to disagree... people have a hand
in endearing the geocentric argument...
in the anglophonic realm...
what have we not heard of in the past
2 years beside brexit, trump?
so... there's a heliocentric model...
that's working? or aren't we still
left liberated by a geocentric model of
the now and the in-between?!

last time i chanced the argument...
nothing "west" of mars...
perhaps "north" of jupiter...
again: what's the copernican "west"...
what's the copernican "east"?
i'm still a ***** ******* remnant
of ****** pact VARSUS... aren't i?
warsaw pact...
and so i am:
i am in england for no "apparent" reason...
the metallurgy advent of europe
ended... even under the soviet
umbrella you were... "influenced"...
only western europe gets to: bemoan?
begrudge?! nostalgia riddle itself an et off?!

- you can watch any other sport
and find less "grief" in it...

tennis! what is tennis willing outside
of politics?
the captivated audience...
esp. with the prime-minister's
q&a...

in football... any interference from
the crowd...
summary? a clause is passed...
pencil & paper muscles are flexed...
law comes into: from sleepy /
sheepish demands: a reality to abide
by, goal poasts are moved...

perhaps that's why boxing is a mythological sport...
it doesn't matter that the art... the sport...
doesn't take into consideration
the entire body... and even if the rules
"suggest" that the upper body canvas
is involved...
the boxing remains true:
as truth said: the interaction between
two fists, the head and a car crash
bound to some later... "investement"...

but at least boxing is a sport of pristine quality...
it can be celebrated...
with a fictive outlet...
the audience is involved but only involved
as a dasein: being there...
politics? i vote...
but i'm hardly ever going to fathom
being in parliament...

oh mein nett gott...
where is tennis and my tennis *****?
that game of: 7 rectangles...
and... at most... 11 referees...
and about 6 ball boys / girls...

ludo politico... this most feral sport...
come to think of it...
there's not much to think of...
but beside the sulking and the gloating...

once upon a time so abstract...
so abstract as there is nothing to abstract with

to exercise a will for the existence of a body...
beside having to justify talking
by simply thinking...

darwinism really has shaped events
of historical consideration to fill up the calendar...
that no amount of copernican gluttony and
gloating could ever surpass...

what was once intelligenstia vogue back
in the 15th century... via copernicus...
is once more intelligenstia vogue in this:
what year are we in?
darwin... darwinism outside of the anglosphere
of *******-tick-tock-******* is...
yet another frictive detail that acts
like sandpaper when attempted to fit into
a jean pocket of events...

it's rough around the edges...
and all this ontological borrowing from ape,
from lion, this ontological borrowing from
ants from... this microscope inside
a telescope... and otherwise... inverted...

i'm at the end of my road...
a most fractured example of what could
possibly be deemed human...
annals of worthwhile autobiographies
my ***...
merry christmas my ***...
this celebration is a bit of a *******-whipping...
i might as well die tomorrow and know
that only one man existed in all of history...
hardly a reason to curl into a foetus pose
a shadow and start biting into a corner
like some mouse for the celebration
of the birth of Leibniz or Kant...
nonetheless...

i am to celebrate... something that's
either a bad-*******-riddle-of-ad-nauseam...

or... how i'm the only person who would say:
you know they unearthed the nag hammadi
library back in 1945... and there's a correlation...
with the history of the jewish revolt against
the romans... written by an "integrated jew"...
a josephus ben matthias...
and how... that doesn't even matter?
because jesus wasn't playing
chinese whispers in the gospel of st. thomas...
and this is all just fine, fine; fine!

to celebrate a "birth" is to also...
make this "life"... what it is... "life" something only worth
the margins and minor notations...

what is relevant when cf. (comparing)
darwin to copernicus?
the awe fantasy ridden vogue of intellect,
the: darwinism is a square box that can fit
itself into any empty lodge of parchement...
a square can fit through a triangular shaped
hole... darwinism can...
be all and end all...
we don't need any continental
existential complexity... we do not need
any 20th century existential ontology...
as long as we have... an explanation readied
via darwinism... a simple 1 + 1 = 2...

i, robot; you - don't care...

Kant is still holding the spot for: bachelor of the year...
215th year coming...
Kierkegaard is a shy second...
but Kant is something akin to
what the Muhammedians would call...
the unison of all five...
the Shahadah is the categorical imperative...
Salat: to think is to pray...
Zakat: to not speak is to give alms...
Sawm: to not think about food is to fast...
(or keeping the motto...
i eat to live... i don't live to eat)
Hajj: ha ha! Paris! or... to go where you're
supposed to be...
rather than... expect others for you to be at...
to not be a tourist! a hajj implies:
be not a tourist! expect to be made unwelcome...
come with a purpose...
that deviates from the purpose of
a stated origin to be made purposive
by you going there!
hajj! don't be a tourist!

i have always found some relief in Islam...
like any Romford bound lad...
Ronnie O'Sullivan...
christianity? not after having unearthed
the nag hammadi library...
not after the words have remained
coincidental... not after 1945...
not after WHERE the nag hammadi library was found...
not after the powers-at-be
attempted to "confuse" / hide the nag hammadi
library as a distinct yet: simultanoeus event
coinciding with the dead sea scrolls...
not after the each quwaitii became a oil rich
baron sheikh... not became the pakistanis
and the bangladeshi decided: **** it working
slave hours in Dubai...

Lawrence of Arabia citation of Islam...
i will fake it... the christianity...
but i doubt to ever have a pillow to lie on...
i am pretty sure i will not make it...
i know the allure of islam...
i know the allure of islam when...
if only some genuine friend of this faith came
across me... before that farce of a friend
worth the psychopath's lying ferret's woo
of an Egyptian... with time:
no... no! no healing!

Islam is younger... christianity is...
how many schisms?
prune, pseudo-buddhist...
catholic, protestant... unitarian...
bishopric baptist... calvinist...
it's a... monotheism...
but... given the many splinters?
i find it improbable to not treat it as a...
polytheism... how many times are most kind sirs
going to divide the ******* loaf?!
until we're no longer even eating crumbs?!

christianity to me is a polytheism:
given the number of times it has divided itself up!
it's a cancer growth spectacular, al fresco!
i can only thank the protestants for this...
poly-divison...
after all... there was only one schism in islam...
and that's the allure!
because i am neither: Iraqi prone...
Iranian il allahu blah blah blahlah ural "who who"...

skin? or tattoo?
i have seen christianity die...
no one wants to talk of the nag hammadi library,
honestly... this is a ******* major event!
the media contest: the unearthing of
the dead sea scrolls is a synonym:
of an event that doesn't even happen...
the dead sea scrolls is an event relating
the death of the prophet Isaiah...
being disemboweled... being a courtesan...
guess what!
if no one is going to be ghost-forsaken
and salted-soul honest!
irish proud etc.! guess what...
like unto like: do as they do!

plus all this anglosphere wet-***** darwinism...
how the ****, did darwinism just hijack all
the arms of the humanities...
everything has to be explained with darwinism...
good! because if every cul de sac of life
was to be explained using copernicus...
imagine!

not even newton is a celebrated
scientist these days...
not even michael faraday...
but darwin is!
everything has to come down to
a darwinism - a branch of darwinism...
there's only one narrative:
a biological / psychological narrative...
how could a mythology surround
a Herr Faust / a Pan Twardowski...

england skipped the myth of the chemist...
the alchemist:
sure... william "Christopher Marlowe" shakespeare
tried to "catch-up"...
the english imagination was lost to king
arthur and the glories of:
being conquered by Rome...
of having been part of an ancient history...
last time i checked... us central europeans...
the germans, the goths, the vandals, the aesti...
the great migration types from the Causcus...
we... we didn't share the bounty of this history...
we're again: the barbarians at the gates...
us, slaves... with this sound-encoding and our
own distinctions: our caron S and caron C...
to sneak-in the tetragrammaton...

and who are, the Italiano?
do the Italians even recognise ancient Rome?
do the English truly recognise the...
what's that artifact... the Stonehenge?
ha! ha ha ha ha!
by joke alone...

darwinism's plague on everything cultural!
everything has to be a reminder of:
genes! gene narratives!
everything has to become a propability
gambit! everything has to be sacrificed upon
quasi-religious statements of: why you should,
rather than: why you shouldn't be feeling
so ******* grateful for a per se...

to me... darwinism is... a neo-copernicanism...
a stylish vogue rhetoric...
you can wear darwinism in the 19th to the mid 21st century...
afterwards? it's just a timid burn on the brain
to have to "argue" trans-generational
sensibility patterns of being the labelled:
made in western liberal free "ouch" spice society...

i can side with islam on two grounds...
who were the janissaries?
Murad I would have retorted:
who were the Jesuits?
if not by foundation, the hands of Ignatius of Loyola?
when who were the Mamluks?
my western neighbors love to...
designate my grand ethnic "etymology"
within the framework of the eaten E...
i.e. a slav(e)...

why would i side... with this... variant...
this... "variant" of "christianity"...
for a ******* carol-song-***-by-*******-yah
hard-on quest?!
you heard them...
old saxons vs. new blut saxons in
an orchestra of zeppelins hanging over london!
or... the lagoon as i like to call it...

check you "history" your etymology...
oh... because "they" would correct "misunderstood"
etymology... with a counter:
akin to the ethnonym -
loan words baron!
it's just "a missing E"...

it's still mainstream darwinism...
i imagine the years under the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth...
the Ukranians must have been like...
enough! enough of this Copernicus ******* already!
Ave Khmelnitsky!

after all... copernicus was right...
the sun does not move around the earth...
the earth moves around the sun...
copernicus was right... we were wrong...
the earth moves around the sun...
but... the affairs of the sun...
are not... the affairs of the earth...
and those... bound... to inhabit it...
the sun is important...
but... soap opera triviality is...
somehow... more... important...
drama of the callous nature of man...
is... more than... the vacuum riddle bundle
of billions of years is...
with its... mere H-to-He exchange of gaseous
bundle warmth...

one thing that governs my cruelty toward
how darwinism is exploited to fit
every ******* crevice of everyday life...
that one's: its supposed universality...

but then... this trans-genus trans-species
"comparative literature"...
it's not enough to be imitating ape...
again: which ape?
the chimp alone? the gorilla?
the ******* macaque?
why would i devolve...
having the body of a gorilla?
a gorilla could wrestle a lion to the death...
i, albino quasi gremlin bonkers IQ...
get to... pet a bonsai tiger!
yay!

two things went wrong when it came
to... "people, thinking"...
vogue ideas...
the copernican revolution...
and the... revolution of darwinism...
oh we can forget about marx...
we all know what was wrong about that...
i'm pretty sure some greek knew that already...
but we're stalling...
for **** know's what...
since: not being vular by now is not going
to help the "clarification of verbiage
over civilised tea and scones later" either...

if only these darwinist concentrated on
the source material...
but... to throw into this "existentialism"
a mix of peering with scrutiny at an ant colony...
at bacteria... at tapeworms...
and... somehow... being...
once more... the center of the universe...
of analytical diarrhoea?
in a heliocentric schematic?
**** me... are you sure...
this heliocentric argumentation was only so good...
as good as... when you didn't have to
navigate a west and an east...
on a map...
going through the Rhine valley...
via Antwerp... via Essen...
via Dortmund on the autobahn?

again... what's a copernican "east"?!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
in england the maxim is said to be: i pathologize, therefore i am (pathological) - hence i write intellectual comedy, satire, yet still utilise canned laughter when necessary, i never understood humour as not so much what's said, but how body language primarily eases out the longest, simplest of laughters - i am the one who decided comedy had to be intelligent, and tragedy apathetic, because i didn't think, i simply pathologized: look at my grand psychiatric rainbow of an array of names to look at a shadow of the hand move behind a candle-flame! even a mongol horde could not invade england carrying thought as the explorer, the intention for pause.*

cheeks raised do not give straight rivers
of tears flowing down through to the periphery
of the face via jaw through to the neck,
and indeed when not acting,
both curvatures of mouth and eyes
are the same down-turned, such parabolas
of union, the third eye like an opening of an
oyster soft pouched thought of the lowest
union, neither intellectual union nor
heartfelt union - but as oyster shell to that
pseudo-muscle of the enclosed pearl;
tears flow with curvatures of raised cheeks
half ellipse river shapes - till the salty cool
of the content heats up the skin -
indeed the powerful avatars of asia who enrich
the gods, and the begging actors of the western world
who would be but beggars had they not the chance
to thieve from their fellow men and
live out a shortening of autobiographies,
or perhaps simply weave a myth from history -
deity actors (avatars) are hardly
what has become understood as twin-human
actors - so to enrich an eternity for the passing
memory readied with body to be given a grave
and forgetting - long ago the body was engaged
and was allowed to be given the womb of inscription,
yet a ghost of that body remained as a second life
for the lives of others, a memory, until that memory
be buried no furtherance of life equipped with
imagining otherwise can be staged for the re cycling
of an ordained body to enter and inscribe
a rekindling of the memory for the camp fire of talk,
hence the extinction of memory in almost each man
with the widespread talk of dementia:
seek fame in mythology rather than like a ****
attracting the swarm of flies that the paparazzi are.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
first learn to be a loner, then continually learn this isolation, by simply writing, or say it like you really mean it: i've got a cough and i need to hush it with something cold, a sharpshooter (balance in favour of whiskey rather than the mixer) will do, to freeze the agitated region of the throat.*

the digital imprint changes things, the old guard
of the printing press and the loss of forests
are watching and guarding the
outlet outposts in deliberation,
the high street has shrunk
to shoe shops, clothing shops
and mobile phone stores...
and those ****** book stores
that only sell autobiographies
of famous people, encyclopaedias,
atlases and tabloids of other artefacts
of nonsense... perhaps a charity shop
once in a while, banks aplenty
and fast food outlets... a generic
cloning device known as a starbucks
of those immersed intellectuals and
"serious" writers looking for a busyness gimmick...
the high street's diversity has turned
into a suburban street... rows and rows
of identical houses... all because
people decided with the slogan: ART IS FREE...
a bit like that problem with poetry...
they want it to be neat... they want geometric
neatness rather than the oddity of juxtaposed
colour... like a history book, e.g.:
There was once a town in the vicinity of Paris, where a farmer lived with his wife and they had twenty chickens. One day, one of the chickens laid a dinosaur egg and the farmer and his wife were eaten, which was a noumenon (a phenomenon of 1, a non-viral kind of phenomenon), because the area was plagued by a cannibalistic epidemic, which, to the authorities, was a disappearing necrophilia, the dinosaur egg that hatched and became a dinosaur that ate things just spiced things up... hence it didn't trend and became a myth, which is why most people treat myths as *******, because they're too plain mundane suited & booted and therefore excluded from myth-making that's reserved for a few (ezra pound's lamentation is adequate here: fountain of beauty, yet so few... so few drink from it).
you know, bogus ****, clear form, clear punctuation,
vampires, virgins and re-interpretations of Tolstoy...
nothing unusual... but it ****** me off
that when they allow free reign in painting,
poetry has to be neat, courteous, well-understood
in order to be recited from memory (the first
thing that puts people off poetry is the need to
recite it as the educational system says, hence
the technique of rhyming being crucial as a
numbing cognitive stimulant of memory usage
where you're told to forget personal memories,
priceless memories, just to remember, one,
stupid, poem... how about you recite me
the ******* recipe for spaghetti bolognese?
huh? oh right... you can't! here's a happy meal
or a ready meal... *******!
looking for inspiration?
the lost art of listening to an entire album
by one artist: vomito ***** - fall of an empire.
Helen Raymond Oct 2017
Startling set of subtleties laced between the shadows of common things
The shred of darling darkness you've disgraced by denying it the light
Admire the simple songs, ignore the undertones hiding between the notes
Versing the sunrise, ignoring the dewy tears in Apollo's eyes
A masterpiece can't be complete without the sum of invisible brush strokes
Secondary shadows playing with our perceptions, slip through the seams
They are quietly quintessential, unnoticeably indispensable
Writing anonymous autographs in photographs & autobiographies in poetry
Unnoticed, unremarkable, ineffable, and invaluble subtleties that contribute to the beauty of life
RyanMJenkins Dec 2012
Autobiographies and 1 hour specials give me so much insight to life when watching people I admire.
I've always felt that I had pretty good morals...thanks mom, grandma, and grandpa...
but still I'm learning so much.
Revising the character in this storybook, because I'm still uncomfortable with the conductor.
Just watched a segment on one of the most humble human beings to ever grace this planet,
and it nearly brought me to tears.
I'm very thankful for this life,
because at any moment,
as long as we're here,
we can change.
Sometimes retrospect is the best reality check, but be grateful.
Constantly remind yourself who you are, and what it is that you really want to be.
Remember to be patient, because any of the following moments could be yours.
And lastly, try not to be so quick to pass judgement on those that surround you,
because if love is the real connection...despite interpretations,
they only wish you well. One love.
Ar Bazian Jan 2016
She [Bee] said to me:
but i want to know more...you lift my madness, to a completely different level.
you're the turn... THE turn, of a double ended sword!
you dont make sense, and i lose sense!
if you cease to be clear, you're taking words away from me...
you unrest me...

I [A.r.]replied:
But I am the curb, where the world pauses for safe passage... And it passes. That is all I am as all I know regresses, and I make sense still.
To the world, and myself, I made sense, still, and motionless, while the universe twirls around me for-to this whirlpool-like endlessness in where I am. And the world passes.
Death lingers, the memories too -perhaps... and the sense of necessity which compells that I remain in this unfamiliarity, where I stand -still, midst the passions and dispassions of our kind all the same, more or less confined in our daily desperation.
And we would remain. It is this sense of overlapse that by the end of the day, I find that the world is cruel, and that in truth I want no part in it. And I do what I did in school -for some time, compelled: I learn, cope, and burn to the ashes out of which I'd wake to the visiting beams of distanced hope... Hope that I and my fellow friend should come forth free! Only realise that I have yet another day to survive.
So passing the bend I'd glimpse at my aging on the turn of the sword you speak of, and I know nothing about or of myself this day. Nor of this beauty that pauses next to our safe crossing, or of the young dreamer whose vision -like mine, is reformed one day by the other.
And I insist to keep this distance, knowing that once these necessities for modern day survival become one's priorities, they consume you, and assume you. So I watch over myself become this silent street pole to resume my "functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me".
And I know the truth behind the tragedy... my pole-ness I'm struck put for the safeguard of my passions that I accumulate and savour for my implosion. And they pass, like everything else, but we remain where we are -assuming there is someone pole-still too along the sword-line, or perhaps tipping it, with the same still fury that is fixated for this great urban vertigo.
And we'd pace, and pace, and keep still to make sure we'd find ourselves on the round, to remind ourselves of our withering dreams, and our collective sense of existence as human which is promised to ultimately expand unto the oneness of our ever varying uniqueness. Not as visitors, not as observers, but as citizens -women and men, of this lasting defloration of our simulated existence; the world. Free.
Death is -and in order too, an elaboration unto the unknown; and while we remain, decaying and rusting inside out, we ind ourselves neither dead nor free. I feel and know of the agony of fellow oppressed men. And I know of the pains and of abandonment. And I know too that the world will on spin with or without us. Our precious autobiographies becomes a mutilation along of their own becoming. And I pitty them.
But I pass myself poled into the concrete grasp of the ever benign to remind myself of my friends' struggles and agonies, that for them, I will stand still, and walk along to fortify my stillness, and for mine own, fearing that if I step out of the reach towards me I will be crushed into the very pavement were I stood.
So, I'm pinned motionful, neither myself or another, but both, and none. A world passes processed, observed, and I along with it, while  the other remainders I knew or knew of would fade into utter darkness or oblivion... But I'm still, being; amongst those who pass and those who pass on.
And I'm enraged, inblazed by life devaluating day by day, and I pray, for this frey of madness to regress, but alas it doesn't.
And I'm sad. All from point distance from my passing, looking at brassing steelpole monuments, decaying slowly. Is that sane enough for your fancy?

A.r. Bazian (Ft. Bianca H.)
*Oct 30th, 2013
This is one of many creative conversation with Bianca [Bee] Halaseh
Joseph S C Pope Feb 2013
Calm these rabbits around the spirals
          the *** is still in my wind pipe
and the morning will be late till spring.

         Screeching lightbulbs rewind impatience
------The naked nuisance is scrubbing into your nebula.

Hands that helped us into the pit
            Beware       them
                                            again

Popping trophies and other autobiographies
coil into soda cans like strange theories.
                     objects    objects
                   everywhere you go

                faster. slower. pause.
                revival. tow. exhaust.
AMcQ Nov 2014
I've grown wary of time;
its immutable intervals
of incessant hours.
The warmth of now,
the grey of then.
Is now not just
an analysis of when
this happened
and that was felt?
Scars, of mind and flesh,
act as bookmarks in
secret autobiographies.
Was it even dark then?
Will the present etch in me
a reference point;
a bench to sit and reminisce.
Or will this all be lost
from the narrative;
omitted casually from
the now of days to come.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
what i learned today:

a. when people treat you cruelly,
    turn all your compassion
    that's left in you
    on beings that are more likely
    to understand it,
    those beings we degraded
    our language on by citing
    their tongues of onomatopoeia;
    animals.
    it will make you better off,
    not having a care for giving
    compassion unto fellow man,
    apathy, the sweet porcelain
    dome where children shelter under
    and provide the only basis
    for a like-for-like exercise of compassion.

b. re-felting the roof of the shed with my father,
    today, in the crisp saturday day,
    making cinnamon coffee,
    watching the imaginary leash on my cat
    the ginger punk maine **** quarus
    keeping an eye on us on the shed roof
    will ignite more in me
    than these charcoal mathematically rigid
    imprints on the colour of surrender.
    oh i've surrendered, all the spare time imaginable
    on an activity that wants people
    to bleed, but who can only offer
    ideals and easily falsifiable wants,
   who would march in a battlefield backwards.

c. in the english-speaking world, only two strands
   of books exist to a respectable popularity,
   fiction and autobiography, technically fiction & fiction,
   since all autobiographies do is write a fiction
   for us caught in the present: what life was like,
   what life isn't like back then now, what life
   will never be for us to rekindle it to a suitable
   reminiscence in the future - never a non-fictional
   account of what life is like now, always
   a non-fictional account of what life was like
   back then.

d. back when poetry was sung in the queen's parlour,
     or when she bathed in milk,
     but not when it was missing she took
     to the harrowing beast, the queen bathory
     and bargained against bathing in milk instead in
     ****** blood, when poetry was used as a welcome
     distraction for those with much ado about nothing
     of the leisurely time of crowned spare time,
     when poetry was not supposed to entertain a crowd
     but high eminence it mattered,
     for indeed the philosophical critique is adequate,
     sooner a playwright entertain a crowd
     with weird constrictions on only male-actors
     in tutus and corsets and wigs that a single
     voice, with no actors but shadowy personae in one
     body will entertain a crowd...
     but odd that because poetry lost favour in places
     of high eminence of crowned leisurely time
     deserving poetic narrative spoken than sung
     with the lyre to accompany, when this happened
     the crowd eminence joined the mob, reduced itself
     to full attire and prune gesticulations of tightened
     cheek for show of noble pride, among the rabble,
     it chose the public slaughter of art for the eyes
     to be gauged in the notably sized crowd
     rather than the luxury of a personal space,
     naked, bathed, as the art of poetry is, naked,
     even in terms of paragraphed punctuation,
     nakedness of the technique... to have replaced it
     by fully in corset and jewelled among the rabble,
     watching the weird and wonderful restrictions
     that gave us transvestites... indeed... what eminence,
     amongst the mob
.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i can still look into the velvet depths of the night,
whether in forest or perched on a windowsill grazing
my eyes into the night, and still see nothing except myself;
or you should see me walking down for a refill
of ice-cubes listening to ***** & the maytals' 54-46
that's my number - i know whitey boy albino given
an injection of rhythm, well at least you were given
a creative outlet under the stiff-upper lips of the redcoats,
the jews weren't even told to build the pyramids under ******,
you gave us the blues, jazz, and pirate reggae,
what could the ******* jews offer us to compensate the atrocities?
**** all apart from memorable guilt and autobiographies!
oh yeah, and german industrial music, what fun!
ha ha... robo- -boy with alias Kraftwerk.
in my long gone list of artists i forgot to mention
Alpha Blondy & Barrington Levy - high fidelity poetry
by someone not called nick hornby.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
well... the hype is over, long gone, done and dusted -
out of Heathen came the soundtrack
of some life - standing out quasi-radio-head black-star,
Lazarus for the video -
girl loves me - and i guess the John Coltrane
accent on dollar days -
but like Caesar said, i too will say again:
i expect a sudden death -
i want a sudden death, i don't want a
delayed letter type of death -
i don't want a thought of death as some
postcard from Monte Carlo - wishy washy
wish you were here -
a sudden death and not this waiting game
under the influence of morphine -
a sudden death, the checkmate -
Damocles' sword hanging on a
horse's hair - VIOLINS! VIOLINS!
during the ballet i charged all the jealous
energies into the art -
i could have looked-on couples kissing
with resentment - with jealousy -
but i put all that cognitive energy into
the ballet - and it worked, plus
i had my Sancho Panza with me, i have only
151 pages of Kant left to finish,
and living in a democratic society
and not being an academic specialist i will
move on to someone else - which always feels
like such a shame to never see the obscure works
of the man - esp. when in such works you
have to engage with the work, you have
to follow the architect like a low-life labourer -
i wish philosophy books could be like
David Bowie's last album, were everyone can
write autobiographies, overload on
subjectivity, sponge in sponge out -
bias and forced trolling - but Heathen sums him up
for me - i wouldn't care for a retrospective on
death - as if it eve gave man a deeper introspective
when he was at mortality's zenith -
i guess it's too bleak at mortality's nadir
to say an introspection is allowed - because it isn't -
it's not magnetic enough for the teens -
it doesn't raise profits - mortality's zenith is
kaleidoscopic introspection - a single image:
a million sound variations, the story is the same:
to leave an imprint akin to the mountain or the sea.
the nadir? retrospection - the limitless space in
a limited time. the English language is good
at shortening philosophical prose of Germans -
but it never really hired enough labourers to
follow the plans of the architect, a book like
Kant's is nothing but a wonky table, when it ought
to be a Statue of Reason - this form of writing
investment will never appeal to many -
read a book of philosophy on the tube and people
will cite very few words of interest in engaging -
you can be truly selfless in the literary realm,
you don't have to do ponce with good-feeling
in charitable work - might as well read Kant -
that's a selfless act alone - funny, isn't it?
i think it's hilarious - i'm working charity on unread books -
or books that if they have been read, get
regurgitated from a single labourer's schematic shortening -
a prior / a posteriori / analysis / synthesis etc.,
i could have worked in charity shop,
Kant's book became my charity shop - i tend to use
my limbs sparingly - why would it be anything else?
the architect envisioned a house, given
the number of eager labourers all he got was three bricks
stacked on top of each other without cement to glue
them firm.
i could have been jealous of the couples in London -
but i charged all my jealousy into the ballet -
i left for home with Kant -
all i saw was butterflies, and 2 weeks from now, est mort.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
she can never wear ****** white, she can never wear
that moral pregnancy - and i don't see why this
hasn't been established as a fetish
awaiting the nearest mongol...
            i don't know why it exists
in the first place...
     i skipped through R. Brautigan
and left him drinking and desperate,
ig  desperate when i see a bottle
of whiskey's shrinking girth
in the bottle... don't get me wrong,
i adore the poetry, but autobiographies
always led me to skim-read some
examples... i own a need for such
excuses because i feel i'll be one of them.
it's not a case of sadness being written down...
the sad part is writing an autobiography
as your life takes shape...
                     the sad part is
   an autobiography that's written parallel
to a "life", you wear a necktie and a
pair of moccasins and a silk robe...
                     fo' da' sho' -
    and never the shove or shovel to be the first
in line... because that matters: let the idiots
through, i don't mind lighthearted
entertainment before i board the bus...
             when you apply diacritical indicators
you get to worry about orthography...
when you don't apply them?
   you get quickstep spelling...
                   you get incorporating the digital
Amazon rainforest shrunk to a toothpick
or an A4 sized paper, later rolled into a cigar
by Castro.
                           but you know what really bothers me?
listening to bob marley and reading pashtun
poetry... it's Afghan and an antidote to Rumi...
no (so-called) "feminists" cite pashtun...
              don't get prickly proud on me having
     the ability to cite obscure cultural ref. points...
bob's bob, the end.
    what? damian or stephen or ziggy too?
                        well, the more the merrier.
                 but these so-called feminists are never overheard
citing pashtun women...
            women not citing women... tragic...
      i guess the two can't relate...
if you forgot what an Afghani woman looks like...
kinda like a Pakistani woman, before
the Mongol fiddled about with a ******* violin...
       pretty? sure... maybe John Smith Sargent Mj.
knew about
        it, when he ****** W into Afghanistan,
   protective of the truth about the "burning bush's"
original message aimed at Abraham:
circumcise him!
           Abraham... you what? **** him?
burning bush: circumcise him!
        well, **** me, what a desirable revision!
now we'll forever crave the need for ******* cushions!
  who said kangaroo pouch isn't soft enough?
      kangaroo in a boxing ring: bucktooth combo
punched out... and everyone huh?!.
               but feminists never cite these women...
i'm a quasi-exile, or at least my parents are,
i didn't exactly wish to live on these isles...
but then again jean-paul zee deux ******
everything before i even got the cameo role in
the film: history of the world.
               that's basically me ******* down
an alley named after him, every time i rekindle
originating in that ol' stockpile of garbage...
   but at least the e.u. will improve the roads...
               we might finally get an artery's worth
of autobahn concrete connecting Cracow
and Katowice... you never know... might be a case
of walking on water...
               but to be honest i don't mind
that she can't wear ****** white...
i don't mind she had 20 ****** partners before
she decided to milk me... it's the lying...
lying becomes much worse than the act itself...
     i'd prefer to know she was a ***** *****...
what i don't like is this faking of childhood,
this innocence-sprechen antics....
     it's like reacting to a flu - you get all
dizzy and juggernaut-sinking obnoxious...
    because the story goes: the truth liberates
you from being an enforced thespian...
                 no one wants to be an actor
forcefully... no one...
                         esp. if they're not getting paid
for pretence...
      the truth is at least a mobilising enforcement,
you know you've been given a faulty
refrigerator, but that means you're utilising
an awareness of possessing a faulty refrigerator...
     being lied to... you get utopic inhibitions
  thinking it's not half-of-the-story,
when it actually is.
             that's what's inherent in *** with prostitutes...
        no inhibitions... we're square,
proofread countless times, no secrets, just two naked bodies.
it's when people take to enforcing wearing
Gucci on their psyche... that **** is worse
than donning a strap-on in a lycra gimp-suit.
           but such is the force of the pashtun landlays...
you react to them like so...
            i choreograph them above the haiku,
even though they're twinned,
like some village in Lichenstein (liochestein,
a googlewhack) - Liechtenstein -
twinned to a village in scotland -
               obviously the there's no innuendo
because both originated in deemed obscurity...
       they did much injustice to Kafka given the small
print, and overdid the justice done with
    printing oversized Bukowski...
but then there's a Sunday newspaper to look forward to,
which will evidently make the Monday print
a bit... slim.
                     never mind... a great phrase from
the landays is little horror, or being a woman in her
20s being betrothed to a man-child aged prior to
kicking things off with puberty...
  and dear ol' me, why don't feminists even take a second
to look at the women talking in Afghanistan?
    sure, the veil puts them off immediately...
       women talk with their genitals and men talk ******...
as was always the case...
    i am, currently talking as if i were an ******...
and Alice over here has no tongue,
                except the one that replicates oyster salivation...
as some might crudely put it.
         and then there's Mallarmé.... ugh...
                     pisshead compatriot Poe... and Baudelaire...
honestly... we have just begun writing
       the most pristine of poker sessions...
i tell you and fake how literate i am, or illiterate,
or with an adequate or with an inadequate diet of literature,
and you poker me, and vice versa,
       because by the time a Tuesday newspaper comes along,
we'll both be brooding with angst, wishing we
could only possibly be bored.
With axiomatic prominences, the God Spílaiaus hung from the Virola from Ibic Three in the elevations of the Kantillana at three thousand meters high in the Transversal valleys, individualized Pichi, Chile. Millions of flying masses of Chiropterans unfolded, anticipating Vernarth's visit to the Celestial Regency of these Deities by accidental and hybrid Hellenic prophecy; coming from the Protocol of Transylvania with the Eternity of the Submythological god of Vernarth Aiónius from Ibic 1. These deities came etherealized by the heights of the Nothofagus Obliqua that was bent at forty-five degrees by the lift singing the melisma of Antiphon Benedictus that this time made the bastion and garrison of the Mikhve or Kathartyrium of Vernarth possessing souls with scabrous megalomaniacs boiling internally through the Underworld bringing Hades Speleothemes, such a tow pulls the Kosmous and humanity into the bowels of the Kardiá of the purified Agoge and the Mikveh or Purification of Vernarth in later Hypnosis Existential hanging on the halberds of the Dorus, Áspis Koilé and Kantabroi waving in the intensity of the conifers before the hegira began at Tel Gómel. Vernarth approaches Spílaiaus and proffers: “My Lord, I had an illusion…, I said that I had to fly over the Palace of Arbela at the expense of the followed “Paraps or Othónes” or Parapsychology screens that took me to wastelands full of Ungulates that rested barren in calcined silica **** covered with Hoplites and Achaemenides cries imploring to escape from disastrous dawn of Dark Angels, safe from other Angels Shvil, Almas de Kalidona, Hellenika, Armas Christi and Almas de Trouvere. Essentially all of them would beg for the circumcision of the open field and also openings of thousands of soldiers when It was arranged by all this heavenly light to crack the heels of every Hoplite. Thus leaving the hollow opening of my soul Mikveh, Kassotides, and Lynothorax that invaded with satiety to get out of itself and become the destination of all oppressed compassion on the way to the Empyrium. The curtain persists that helps beatific concerns of submitology inherent in cultural realities where it subjugates the digressive persist of specimens that recover life from their own exhaustion exercising truthfulness in those that are strengthened by their own incapacity "Vernarth" is a product of Spílaiaus' concern , and this at the same time knowing and having everything given in its analogy and terminology protruding the same root, except that submitology is roots that subordinate the inorganic and inanimate for such an effect that legacies of myths take on a leading reality that does not consider true what is not or it is part of a myth rooted in mythology, but rather of what is subtracted from its own inertia or wear and tear that does not take on a reality present in all things that are not virtuous, much less express it from a Gnostic perspective; where everything is reborn and progresses in paradisiacal cycles and messages of the Merkabah..., They are of an infinite cohesion of that celestial if it had to appear in the astral journey without taking into account what the same time in question allows to appreciate how long it has to last or persist to know that you are rooted in this process itself!

The subsequent stage will be governed by fertile beings or deities. The Genre of Itheoi Deities arises from magnificent submithological gods since they are present in events of an immortal nature doomed to micro spaces that will be configured with Paraps or Othón forming multidimensional links in each episode. The scenographic movement is represented in this work, in such a way to personify a heterogeneous reality shared by some of these gods and others from Olympus. In the case of Spílaiaus, it is specifically an augmented reality nexus of ibicos that are instantiated in this Trilogy from confraternal words where Vernarth Says: “Give me a little Gála and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not an everything I never thought of…!” Here is that Gála is dairy juice where a speleological factor intervenes from Chauvet, Valdaine - Nyons Region - France. This is more than saying that the triggering factor is Mikveh or Purification leads from the premiere of the journey to associate with the underworld of the Kathartyrium or stationary Purgation that will take him through sequences in chapters or Paraps to meet again with Virolas or Anillares composing Medrones, crimping and growth. Later Wonthelimar from the Boedromion would bring The Arrows that Zefian will bring in the Second Trilogy bringing sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion crossing lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Cinnabar Mercurial Ambrosia. They were discreet detached arrows that he had launched into the sky and they did not return but in the rooms, and in stages of Animalia towards the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion. Wonthelimar, being once again relocated before starting the works on the temple of Megaron Áullos Kósmos, was returning to the Chauvet-Wonthelimar cavern. He distanced himself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree originating from Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith starting with the first two arrows that are placed on the bowstring away from the Quiver, each one crossing north-south trajectories and another two that were violated again with the bow of the stormy East, to launch arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "Ibic Rings" that would be transmigration towards cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that Zefian's phalanges would be ordered in Sintropia and organic chaos in Patmos, making Pythagorean proportions in essences of numbers that idly advanced in temporary passages of Wonthelimar that were movably made of religious Saetas and Mercurial Ambrosia of Cinnabar, to contribute with insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus. Zefian's tendency was evident to delight after being pulled from the bowstring to ghostly existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the gales that would originate the Áullos Kósmos or Megarón, a late pro of some courts imposed from the Ouranos or Cielo that was going determined in his will seized by a dubious Vestal god advocating associating with hospitable Canephores as conjectured Virgins Vestals of Roman bilocation that were resting in their hands..., and quantum parapsychology of the feared live between-tale that boils over in the arrows that have not yet fallen, not knowing their whereabouts? As sheets or serial wafers that were evoked where the origin of the Universe was broken to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burned contravened Duoverse including the divine celestial origin as a *****-ovular parameter, rather eons and instances in Hestia's chimney running in pertinacious towards vast volumes of light-years. The connectivity of the Itheoi gods will make the quantum mobility machination operable between seasonal dimensions that will have to pass through periods, stages, feats and famous moments since it is initialized from here in the stone of lance with its Etruscan horses in Tel Gómel, for later in the Eleusinian mysteries themselves co-participate in eras of connection, as it appears here after the saga of Judah composing their respective seven chapters until breaking down at the end of the Conclusive Meshuva. The Boedromión will be an essential part of Trilogy II, waking up in all the winters of the world as a shelter flowered directly to the component of the Mercurial Ambrosia, a valuable element of Cinnabar or high-grade Vernarthian Sulfur for the Vas Auric or Sacred Medallion of Limassol that overflows decanted at the end of the Mikveh growing in arid deserts.

Cardinal Spilaiaus

- North: Vóreios (Zefian Boreal)
- South: Nótos (Austral de Borker)
- West: Dyticá (Twilight of Leiak)
- East: Aftó (Kaitelka Equinoctial)

From Medrones that grow in massive ibix antlers in Nyons, Seven Ibics Rings were taking hold, a Viroliferous process was progressing, or exercise of rotation mechanics of Quantum Rings in the same thesis work that speaks further of a replacement Universe as the anticipatory Duoverse, and the gifted Codex Raedus as a complement or annexation baggage of the Profitis Ilias in Patmos thus generating that pre-Christian annal have a leading role in new construction by presenting a virtual situation or Genius Loci. The Semi Itheoi will have roles in leading each cardinal so that the Gestation of the Fourth Arrow of Zefian is finally re-established, reordering the universe predisposed to receive the one approaching the Duoverse. What happens in Tel Gomel and Persepolis is relevant to the Psiloi Phalanxes and crowds that would face militarized personalities, totally ignoring the origin of the Hoplite as a worshiper of Hera's Wastelands and eternal stables that supported Vernarth just like Etruscan horses and Steeds of Sudpichi summoned Alikanto or ALikantus. His mother Luccica and father Bernardólipo endorsed all contained belligerence if he were not a repentant warrior in the gloomy night of the Horcondising Castle where Spilaiaus would give warlike foreshortenings right there to abduct him at great speed to Gaugamela. Vernarth would go to these latitudes, and then he would be exposed to governorships of Aionius to consolidate and channel this hybrid submithology that would bring together the ancient Hellenic Mythology. The vertiginous passage of time will conceive harsh characterizations and qualitative Paraps or Parapsychologies, possessing the largest arsenal of quantum and historiographical data ever counted and interpreted by characterizations, more than personalized blocks in particular characters, being the support vehicle or generational stem of the summary of understanding more facts and qualities that own characteristics of interlocutors. The vast collection of Submythological gods will be strongly entrenched in identifications of Semi Itheoi or deities that are intertwined directly with the human fictional world. ! Successive Paraps are concealed and accompanied by connectivity screens called Othones, these are a fundamental part of the audio-graphic syntax, managing to structure gods and then decode the final concretion of the conclusive in each Paraps, which is nothing more than a consequence of this imperceptible quantum axon, which does not end or start!

Submythology is an etymological derivation of later stages of mythology that deprives of granting subsistence and comparative biology to cultural, urban, fabulous components or inheritance of great ancient and medieval epic periods. Contributing great accumulations of proposals to such a generation in channeling with original playwrights reinventing their theses, also giving a breath of expectation to mythical beings so that they come to life in a hybrid interpretive horizon, or with alternation of roles considering mysteries in the blink of an eye happening to postulated dissidence or vagueness, losing itself as a gendered practice but not of the real cultist who has been propagated in his gnosis to remote places of the infinite superior. In short, Submythology is an infinite tragedy where the characters represent the work in furtive omni canality, and three-dimensional presence in sharp contact with the thrones of deities that make it even more evident to relate past history through submithological exercises, which itself refers to the prefix Sub " from what precedes par excellence” and mythological suffix as a series of processes of experience where the active voice of the narrator counts, being rather an inspirational pre-constructive phase. What should be experienced when in front of us a Homeric god of Olympus is presented to us telling us that the Olympic archeology has secrets of the Myein revealing characters and successors Submythological Gods with histrionic deities looted in all ages of the Celestial Organic Subsistence.

Ibico 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and he brought purity, for all who needed him and went to visit him in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive if he was accepted." As the only presence of Wonthelimar is of Chauvet's present god ambivalence.

Ibico 2: ”He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the center of the priesthood of his shelves with the chiropterans and in addition to the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the vapors of the Antiphon Benedictus”.

Ibico 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated to heal the tormented initiation processes of elevation of the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."

Ibico 4: "This ring was from the antler of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Orphi Gold, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a Mycenaean complement- Valdaine”.

Ibico 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmatic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's hyper neurological and Duoversal brain twinned with the Mashiach."

Ibico 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns from Kafersesuh, bringing pollination from the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the shadows of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."

Ibico 7: “It is the deep voice of Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices that inquire of the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise in synchrony through the final growth medium, up to the millimeter-sized shoulder of the square meters that will illustrate the Acrotera del Megaron”


                             Gender of the Duoverse Itheoi
                                     Horcondising Deities

Previously Vernarth takes his head resting on the ceramic that supported him between the Hydor photo duct, rather bringing his hand closer to the Klismós that Saint John the Evangelist had given him when he passed through Ephesus. In such a way that when he makes the first impulse to get up from the chair he was already beginning to leave the conventional Universe for the first time, then when he sits down again in the chair inaugurating the crystalline body that was looming over himself, he continues to be the Duoverse as if outside the Klismós with its curved legs resembling supporting pilasters of the Megaron diverging to the conical ones that projected concavely supporting the hollowness of its pectoral, which was already transparent like its Invisible Eclectic Portal. Meanwhile he gets up again holding onto the Mashiach who came to take him in his arms and place him in the klismoi that interpreted the elevation of Hellenism to the Greater Heavens and the Itheoi of the Duoverse; that is to say spiritual deities of Vernarth in the classification of the rank of beginning and projection of the abandonment of the Golden Himation. In such a way that the Astragalus was integrated; a floral company that was rooted in the hands and roots that cooperatively took root in those of Kashmar. So Vernarth with the Ibic Rings would begin to syncretize the imperceptible quantum and hyper-accelerated mobilization of physics of sub-atomic particulars that would later second it, unleashing from Alef to Tav to Astragalus and Aiónius, beginning his omnipotence. The sidereal distance began to unlink towards the Calypso air that was twinned with large portions of the sea in the same enamel, making Patmos the union of chain reaction speed with the Dodecanese Valleys and Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi unifying Vernarth with Apollo, Esminteo or ephebeia; that is, three sketches of Apollo himself for the theological genealogy chart of the deity Scarabaeidae with species that multiplied together with Vernarth to become the metalloid Azophar as the main knowable guideline to the unknowable, being Apollo himself in Vernarth's corporeality before rising to the iridescence of the Moshiach.

Astragalus: His primary Itheoi or theological picture would be composed and forming part of his feet and the surroundings of his ex-voto to take to all the summits of the world in the essence and the gift of eternal life represented by the root of the madrigal curdled by his feet, with the root of the Astragalus in flower when it represented the zero-hours by getting rid of his Himation and meeting the Mashiach.

Scarabaeidae: God of the subsoil modality of wandering souls destined for the physical and spiritual decline, Scabaraeidae Aphodiinae as subtractors of all the waste of souls that have boiled in malignancy, and the Scabaraeidae Dynastinae as the righteous larvae that rise from the imaginary soil to feed on the roots of the Astragalus and all the flowers and leaves of the Dynastiae. Increased the taxonomic genus of the species that would have to remain in the underworld to aspire to a better one like these Dynastines or Heracles beetles in honor of this hero carrying the peg that Vernarth would place on all the gardens once he was in Aurion, leaving him in a larval state, before being sponsored by Hera's family for the life cycle of the Horco-Olímpico.

Nothofagus: God's phoneme-photon of divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise in synchrony through the final growth medron of the Ibex of Wonthelimar, to the millimetric assembly shoulder of the square meters that will illustrate the Acrotera of the Megaron, and the Iridescent Nimbus that percussed between the Áullos Kósmos and the Vas Auric ” in total synchrony with Patmos, at the same level of luminosity and growth revelation of the Scabaraeidae Dynastiae to transform inert matter into another fertile one compared to Poseidon.

Lepidoptera: Like The sixth piece of crowns by Kafersesuh bringing the fertilizations of the Lepidoptera in the Ibico Ring 6, for the central stage of investiture under the shadows of Hellenika and Theoskepasti, where everything will be endowed with the greater Ibix called Wonthelimar” that together with Leiak they would transmute to Horcondising.

Azofar: This metalloid god and support of the bed will take and bring Vernarth again when sailing through the cosmos towards the fifth element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to extol him from the neurological hyper brain of the Duoversal of Vernarth twinned with the Mashiach, exemplifying duplicity of Apollo as Azofar device of new interstellar ships beyond all that is knowable.

Ibicus: god of Wonthelimar's antlers, here they will carry the oikos or Orphi Gold threads for the Himation and investiture to anoint Vernarth's body bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a Mycenaean-Valdaine complement, thus they were inaugurating the solemnity and honorability. Here the quadrature will be the perfect Heliacal Ortho of the fourth Ibico with the quadrature of Aurion commanded by Leiak in the cardinal Dyticá.

Vélus: from Ibico 4, from where the goddess Artemis will evaporate in the waters for the healing of the tormented in initiation processes of elevation of the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron as if they were surrounding a Castalia for such solemnity.

Spílaiaus: from Ibico 3 in the center of the ministry with the bats, and others from the mercurial ambrosia invoking the Cinnabar of Tsambika. Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus”. Here is one more bastion of Hades' underworld dressing for the Speleothemes that will take you to the heart of all the dens of the Faith.

Aiónius: from Ibico 1 Wonthelimar who brought purity to all who needed him and went to visit in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive” here Kaitelka and Borker, in total harmony with Demeter, Persephone, and Hestia. Bringing them from the labyrinths with the rusty chains of Prometheus and Vertnarth wandering through infinity.

                                       Semi  I theoi

Semi-deities and great autobiographies of the Itheoi world derived from the denotation that would be reformulated from the Apoinandros that would be displaced by spikes of the didactic Ego or teaching of the authentic apostles that crystallized with Zefian, Borker, Leiak, Kaitelka, and Ezpatkul. Zefian: Reformer of the Universe-Duoverse, possessor of the four Arrows that will illuminate Heaven and all of earthly Greece every time Vernarth circulates linearly through the seas of the Vóreios of the Aegean. Ruled North: Vóreios (Boreal of Zefian) Borker: Demiurge and guardian of the Duoverse. Warden of the Forests of the World and of the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi. Ruled South by: Nótos (Austral de Borker) Leiak: Omnipresent demiurge, the vague spirit of the docile water dancer who lives on the water with his slimy Chin, his playful back is seen breaking lines of wells between flesh and silhouettes. Before the First station, the first of the three remaining nights before reaching the crater of Joshua de Pétra” ruled West: Dyticá (Twilight of Leiak) Kaitelka: Down Whale ruling the Psychic Trisomy of the Duoverse and seas surrounding Patmos of the Apokálypsis ruled to the East: Aftó (Kaitelka Equinoctial) Ezpatkul: Dóntiakul or Augrum teeth or prominent Gold will rotate through the Scarabaeidae demarcating the Vóreios Vóreios in the Horcondising region, bilocating it in Patmos Encinas borers, with such frenzy…!, that of Right there they would extract the strength of the Mapuche north winds from the Meli Witran Mapu, beginning with the Pikún-kürüf.

A great revolution was conceived with the imprint codified in stars that would begin to appear in Alto Kanthillana after the awakening semblance under the Nothofagus bottoms; being a god who would free Ninfuceanicus. This was a Sylph that millions of years had been inert in the space or radius of Spilaiaus very close to events of the new awakening. This Sylph would be the main stolon of the Nothofagus and would provide residual inactive matter from it so that Vernarth could secretly rebel from the stages of darkness and desolation of the species, having been dragged by decanted augers since time immemorial from what is currently on Patmos. This would consecrate extensive recycling, accelerating the characterizations of each organic personality and not, tending to an essential role in Vernarth's plot; because it will be this depression to make of its awakening a multicellular set that would grant the disappeared species of the behavioral axis to be restructured in all the ex-karstic zones of the subsoil of Patmos, up to the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi endowed with a great mineralogical bijective mass to supply powers with signs of substance and later mineralogical dimensions. Ninfuceanicus will be its Exo muscular mineral part that will provide proteins to Vernarth directly from this Sylph, in addition to recreating with her the necromancy attached to Gods Itheoi with Tsambika, Kímolos, and Patmos.The Paraps are nothing more or less than depressions of these liberations of great old geological masses that were biasedly unified under the subsoil of Hades Speleothemes, not exemplifying the stationary world of the relay but rather the Omnipresent Sphere of Spílaiaus together with Aónius and Azofar in the rescue of this Sylph, then Vélus, Ibicus, Lepidoptera, Scarabaeidae, and Astragalus will assign them the predominant rule. In silent and prominent escalations of events, they would intrigue themselves in the Submythological Epic, recomposing themselves in recapitulations that would indicate that Ulysses, Heracles, Hector, Leonidas, and the Great Alexander the Great would come to life from this thermo-geological concoction that would manifest itself by Vernarth's upper pectoral hollow "Called Thunder Kassotides” of which the conversion into tremendous events franked by ancient Greek Mythology would be destined to Vernarth's own and expeditious Hellenic life. This assumes that the overloaded physiognomic muscular exoskeleton of the Hellenic environment will be redirected with the power of natural phenomena beginning in original symptoms of multi gnosis reborn from the sub sphere of thought that intermediates with the interior ones, after the incitement of Vernarth and being part of the gnosis that would lead him to clear everything that is with him and what will be. The Animalia as fierce representatives flow by attempts and at the same time are inhibited from a tacit presence with animals that would conform to Spílaiaus stereotypes; an out-of-phase ventral turbinate of the God of Speleothemes, who is Wonthelimar or ventral turbinate, would propitiate any incidence in manifestations of the noosphere, given the serial appendix of instantaneous analogical relation in the disturbing and super mobility of the Constellation Capricornus, the Belt of Aurion and Betelgeuse. Right there radiating particularity the ontogenesis of Vernarth, already resigning himself from the intimate existential point to focus on the complementarity of other existences on the way to the Empyrium or Resident Ouranos, brewing universals in all unlimitedly comparative when alluding to as being diligent among beings who are not, and reciprocally be revivers of those who will be. Here is the synonymy of Vlad Strigoi that could be supra-spiritual historical omnichannel considering that he is an integral part of a Mythology and a real liberating hero of Transylvania. It still is, but under the exclamatory context that is born of avidity that requires and must collect fungus vines from Canephore and Hellenic delicacies in the prompt presence of gods when it is not enough or there is no legacy of servants or servants under the hindrance of its metaphysics with its empty entrails. Here prevails what dictates a dogma that differs for those who are touched by the edge of the Speleothemes of Spilaiaus to survive in the Sphere of inorganic life of the same god and Ninfuceanicus. This legend narrates the real and non-fictional lived history of Vernarth, that time that in absolute darkness and solitude he met the deity of the Ibico three in the crowded population of the Nothofagus is a totally prehensile approving gesture of a vegetable that authorized him to address Him …, Spílaiaus was such a reference when he listened to him for long hours transforming himself into a real therapist who worthy would bilocate in the original from Piacenza-Italy, when in rare cases of parapsychology he declared himself ineffective to be able to continue the endless sessions. “Gaugamela is the great battle that must be wielded with iron temper as a stalking of a heart that did not scold for another that did not pulsate”

Great raids will be composed of others that will speak of a strong hero having committed superiors, of others that will be based on eloquent vivacity that nothing takes long when it is necessary to induce the cut of Una Xiphos; whose function is dissuasive if the blacksmith is not a god that shows no mercy, but if he is from a job that can be resistant to deliberate him in another that has nothing, nor will he sustain him. The goal is essential in all weakness if a hero is consumed by his stoic bravery, rather it could perfectly reside in his coat of arms as indicated by Hephaestus in the glitter of a forge when the seasoned worshiper of his forges spills liquid steel and not blessed blood of a royal warrior from Laodicea. What Vernarth forges of Hephaestus himself will sound on his lyre descended from precognition of the god Spilaiaus, affirming that blacksmiths of Athens would be decoys that adhere to carcinogenic generations of opprobrious fires, if it were not for one who could carry in his hands a sword certainly jammed by Hephaestus, and that the diluted steel that really falls would make future generations authentic sedated drops in them for the true Spartan or Greek that strengthens it with verve and abulence.
Preface
Syd May 2014
and how they sound eerily similar when broken

and I never really figured out why people think time apart could in any way heal things that can only ever be overcome together

distance is not a remedy for brokenness
I know this

because for weeks
I did not hold your hand
or kiss your lips
or hear your voice
or feel your warmth

and for weeks
I tried to convince myself
that happiness was universal
and did not only soley exist in
the folds of your arms and
the spaces between your fingers

I have spent far too many nights
revisiting old photographs and looking at them as if they were sheet music
beautiful and misunderstood

and now

I look at maps like autobiographies
because I would always be searching for some distant place to call home

I always just assumed it would be among your heart and between your bones
JL Smith Jul 2018
You may see something in me
That's captivated your heart,
But don't attempt to mold me
Into something you're desiring I'm not

I don't long for a sculptor
Instead, a friend I can trust
I'm complete on my own
And believe in Love unrushed

I'm unabashedly me
Proud of the stories I've lived
For I molded myself through heartache and laughter
And the love I continually give

I won't judge your honesty
I'm magnetized by authenticity
Our pasts shape our present
Autobiographies lacking simplicity

So, tell me your story
I'll stay awake with the stars
Share what has shaped your heart
Individual pasts may form a shared future that's ours

© JL Smith
Srirachasauce Dec 2016
Let my self esteem not be governed
by how many of my memories
you can recognize,

Let loose these bonds of achievements,
these stocks of degrees,
names you call me
that don't represent me
and my soul, we
don't quite agree with that.

We are the free spirits
We are them who you don't remember
Don't know, don't care,
We are not recorded in autobiographies
Nor looked up to as models of inspiration, we
Are not known.

And they can never capture,
What they don't know, they
Can never judge,
What they don't understand,
We are the
outsiders.

— The End —