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Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i was wrong when i said poetry is dead, i'm more right in saying that poetry is ****** - everyone's eager to lip-up and de-numb the english stiff upper-lip with rhymes; but poetry became overly technical, and the study of it became an abomination in terms of dissection, unnatural medicine: too technical, too rigid as to be conscious of techniques by way of defining what poetry is... hence most schoolchildren put off by it... too technical, too grammatically-akin-to-technique laden... but i ask you, have you ever paid an extra £10 to a ******* to perform oral *** on her? have you ever eaten this forbidden fruit, and later kissed her lips? have tasted the forbidden flower, oiled up prior with cream to ensure that even if she's not in the mood she's still working and can provide the synthetic ***** juices of arousal? have you? we'll have a chat when you do, after eating that forbidden fruit, and then becoming a thief by kissing her against those absurd codes of conduct of prostitution.

this is the only method i see fit
for filtering our scientific facts
and going at it alone:
mishearing lyrics of songs,
turning them into humble mumble,
like in the song *alive alone

by the chemical brothers from the
album exit planet dust...
'and she shines, she shoe-shines for me...'
then the stitches on the abdomen
and a Chelsea grin...
my grandfather worked in the steelworks,
happily retired after being a brigadier
on one of the production lines,
resory (springs) for trains and tanks
and steel pillars for the stade de france,
pretending to be death, but actually
filtering out what he wants to hear -
you know, after years of working
among sounds of clatter and clamour
hammering and molten iron sizzling -
older men have the benefit of the doubt
of others, seeing old age gracefully,
while old men have the benefit of denial;
and indeed true virtue isn't afraid
of critique... it's afraid of compliments...
the last to learn this are actors
who loath hecklers...
if i were an actor, i'd ask a heckler to come
on stage and act with me,
i'd become the sufler (prompter);
ever heard of the band (the) prompter's booth?
you know, in theatre, the guy in a shady
place unseen with a manuscript whispering
out lines to actors should they forget them...
thank god politicians have the autocue...
because imagine in the democratic model
how many people would have to fit
into the prompter's booth, and they'd hardly
whisper out lines for the grand act...
they'd be screaming like lunatics criticisms.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
what i understand as a definition of
the word complex,
it requires a hyphen as a
pseudo conjunction, in that it
coordinates words in opposition,
which is why freud's right on the
money with the madonna-*****
complex, but completely bonkers
with his oedipal fetishes,
because oedipus is a complex in itself
that cannot be excavated
and theorised for the sake of a
analogue... that's a horrid plagiarism
that might plagiarise awry,
for all orthodox necessities:
a complex is aqua-     -marine
aquamarine... but in terms of theory
it's evident that the hyphen usage
is still retained, before everything
goes **** up perfect ******* of
compounding the two words like a german:
Fernmeldeverkehr (telecommunication),
der... 'nurse! pass the syllable scalpel!'
'herr doktor, der silbeskalpell.'
'ah scheiße, 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go:
fern' 'mel 'dever 'kehr.'
the operation was a success, apart from
the silbeskalpell being left in the patient's body;
and i never understood why people
expect you to talk to them face-to-face
like you're reading autocue, the minute
you talk imagining off empty space
to invent a new language of comfort
they equate you with autism...
i once had a glance at psychiatric notes
sent to the bureaucratic doctor (g.p. / general
practitioner)... psst... they only care
about whether:
                           a. you're able to keep eye contact
                    b. you're / you're not biting your nails...
but that's what you get, the welfare state
policy of funding distribution of the infamous
n.h.s. (national health service)...
****** by the cartesian dualism of splitting
mind from body like the brain is some
gooey porridge mixed with cornstarch for
thickness... only 0.6% of n.h.s. funding goes into
psychiatry... i'm guessing at least 1% goes into
prescriptions for pensioners demanding ******...
i already told you, cats are ontologically autistic,
hence their appeal to autistic children,
or just anyone not really into leashes, being
tugged or tugging, come rain or shine, come
7am or 7pm... they can be so inanimate sometimes
that they blend in will flowers, and when awake,
yes, like plants doing the kayan lahwi tribe's
extending neck with rings thing... ah what's it called...
ah yes phototropism... take the rings off the neck
a million swans with broken necks.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
unique: in that the great cancan o'
h'americana spandex english...
          is littered with acronyms...
             a minor observational point...

also... that there's a europe
as confined to scandinavia...
there's most certainly western europe...

a southern europe...
             although... clogging up the "detail"
with spain... reconquista
   and not the shame...
               a barricade of goths...
                            leftover in the bizarre
gesticulation of a history...
and at: a history...

                 that the italians
                                    cannot be the heritage
of ancient rome: given
the cappuccino is a "nuance"...
  otherwise the greeks are bankrupt...
their history worth of envy is
being exhausted...

                  there's a western europe...
there's a... southern europe...
               but of an eastern europe...
such a piquant vogue of vocab that has
to cherry-pick into existence
an estonia and the latvians...

               central, europe?
                      all that is germany...
beside the fact that prussian-germany...
and the prussians could be bundled
up with the other baltic states...

little o' czech republic...
      a minor ally poland...
                    some alleviated circumstance
of an oriental allure within
the confines of russia...

             it breaks my heart
to see england unfathomable...
               currently without a near
perfect engagement strategy...
      coming to the fore with a headache
of diamond-studded gills...
        that there are
bipartisan "rats" and the ship is
sinking...
    otherwise the provincial aspect
of weeding out...
detestable aspects of cosmopolitanism...

that London could be treated as:
London-London... rather than London-England...
because of the great yawn
of the heliocentric adventure of sci-fi fun...
i.e. what is the copernican west?
what is the copernican east?

       perhaps a return to some sort of
language formality...
to escape with a poetry is hardly
a reconstitution of the soul
to a modern letter: dear sir... yours faithfully...
or a very modern hello! kind regards!

europe as a claustrophobia...
             it's such a limiting delight of...
that there somehow was...
a premeditation...
    to **** with premeditation allows the status:
******...
but to **** by accident is a "mere":
homicide...

              such grave consequences...
the culprit and the tool: but also the thought
involved...

but is there something self-deprecating
about english humour?
a pride of borrowed history...
unlike the interlude of non-existence
bound to Poland...
        this... castrated figment of my old
imagination...
                rule britannia referring
to a period prior to the empire and a ref.
to an english-spanish exchange...

then again...
   how did the spanish: then not the spanish...
create... a post-racial south america...
the tinged copper and auburn
lure of the delight...
there must be "something" sobering
bout an anglo-saxon realism...

that there's a tinge of taming the viking
horde... there's no share
in "grief" should the west arrive
at being licked by a mongolian
extract of prose...

           but always the very
formidable tow of the culprit cog
and:  **** in machina...
              easier to posit a god-phantom
ex-, as that gravity in extension orbit
linear of Pluto...

              postcards from Saturn... anyone?
otherwise, this... simply...
the english have exhausted the concept
of world... of geocentrism...
            
but then the forever soap-opera demand
of the local affairs...
how heliocentrism abides by a breath...
side by side with geocentrism
of the soap opera...
              to have to heave
a concern for the stars and the moon cycles...
this finite basis of a rooting...

        that the forerunner of / for the h'american
presidential candidacy
looks simply bored.... or rather...
unexpecting... while the first lady
is so glued to reciting the autocue
like a evil...
wild-eyed and pure ergonomic...
  a jeffrey dahmer seems to
have a more sedated glee of the eyes...

the first lady is... poison of the soul...
her eyes are cobweb knitting fatamorgana...
bringing to the table of
the arrogance of multiculturalism...
it's hardly a heritage incorporated...
there's the breaking of bones
in how to move forward...
at least the food served by the indians
or the turks has made it
as a pop staple on the high street...
it's very common to want to learn
a disguise of... the incoming horde...
the reception party will be glad
at being fed...
                               chimichurri:
give me curry... a loose translation...
                  
what am i to offer these isles when...
what all these others...
arrivals make such...
  pronounced additions to a life worth living...
turkish barbers... indian takeaways...
such prominence...

a work ethos in the shadows...
a shadow for a body...
a reconciliation with the body-work
of father...
i am forever to test the hobby market...
these formidable words like:
pineapple... like mango...
       some variation of "foreign" inventions...
never the placid anglo- prefix
titillating the paranoia: non-bilingual schizoid...

a dozen europes and a historical agony
surrounding the base narrative "primordial":
of...  i dare say... byzantine-&-darwinistic...
that the byzantines reworked a more
fashionable period before... settling for the laurel
before the shock & awe of the ottoman conquest...
or that darwinism is as much
a lesson in history as it is a lesson in biology...
that... the latter... is...
such a stereotypical predominance
of expected behaviour...

that the former is a... overt over-simplification
of a desire for work, wheat and time...
or a designation of space...
it's not that darwin is not a dickens...
but at least... the world is still inaccurate
with a dickensian take on:
with this here england...
arriving at the 20th century...
cricket players being dubbed...
fancifully: the tourists...
shouldn't all english people have
that affix?

                      there's that...
as there's also...
                  the copernican revolution
has been made impossible by someone as far removed
as william burroughs...
who insist... the ancient egyptians knew
of the heliocentric demands...
that the geocentric model was backward
thinking... that the ancient greeks
were the only people to ever think:
and we have only moral plagiarism to mind...
and a plagiarism of eureka!
or that thinking can escape
the narrative and riddle the heights
with spontaneity...

    this prolonged... western european...
admiration for a people that are currently...
made into an economic scrutiny *******-riddling...
imagine my disconcerting: hier und jetzt!

the wooden stairs are creaking...
there's a strain most unfathomable...
like that associated with a cavern...
and a man's eye having to invest in making
a bridge a reality...
that history is a reflective tool...
nothing sinister or military in nature...
a beer could be considered warm ****...
a bucket-load of camel spit...
should i guise it as such?

           to heave a beginning...
somehow i can't find... a work-around
of a western europe...
spain is still catholic...
             ireland... well... whatever...
the same self-depreciating humour
is to be expected...
          anything serious...
forward moveable and come along
has to be littered with that...
fable of the protestant work ethic...

it's impossible to have a father
who's an underpaid technician in the field...
whereas... mongrel romanians
are elevated to the status of
manager...
           pitch-perfect: ethno-central...
on the continent where
there are: "some differences"...
   zu liben unter deutsche wie deutsch'...
well... to live among the english
is to have to forever retain an otherness...
a foreign attitude of...
down the line... the capacity to...
integrate with a cousin or two being
towed...
if you knew a thing or two about
immigrant poles...
they're not very... forthcoming...
they are so hard riddled on the integration
project...
there is no in-group preference
other people a priori stress...

so... fallacy and fake number 1...
       so much for reading a milan kundera
essay...
in the context: that newspapers are
to be read!
   it's impossible to concern oneself
with the concept of a newspaper as
aligned with: not being read...
force-fed turkey glut and baron fat...

         help the pope to sing!
                        it's not like...
there wasn't a shortening reaction
phase to re-orientate the dynamism of: future "lore"...
europe is such a little place...
made even oh so much more tiny...
provincial... solipsistic...
by these island-dwelling folk that
the english tourists care to concern themselves
as being...

that the english language
is thoroughly recognised as the lingua franca
of old...
to tease learning some arabic or mandarin
is a question of aesthetic...
old fool and bigger than the lost "little"
of a worship...
such gravity... concerning the names...
Angevin...
                Merovingian... Capulet...
           Stuart... Windsor...
    my own sorrow: this common name...
           well...
                        all crippling demands...
big or small...
                   hell... there are bigger onces...
there's no known house of David or or Solomon...
such a borrowed gesticulated at...
the shadow drawn...
                   i forfeit!
from the ant people that abide...
to the swollen eye sore of blindness i tow:
a recreational soviet pact of: me's stealing Siberia!
borys!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i was serious about the Anglo Renaissance -
                     it has peaked -
            it's forever in a state of groundhog
day repeat... which isn't a necessarily bad thing...
              the internet has changed
   or rather restricted how we get fed culture,
an odd statement... but the internet doesn't
actually prescribe you cultural dietitians -
          i'm talking about people, getting paid
to sift through music, or other works of art:
not the critics, but the cultural dietitians...
     John Peel owned the radio back when
it was still prog rock and punk and what
became punk: grunge, and what became grunge:
indie...
                     oddly enough there is still one
cultural dietitian out there: Jools Holland...
                   cultural critics are dialectical shrapnel,
or should i say: agitators
                            that rarely enter dialogue -
           but Jools is the kind of cultural entity that
showcases new acts you might otherwise omit -
and probably will, given that it's sometimes to
forage the algorithmic trends and berry bushes of
search engines...
                                to me that's the worthwhile
side of television...
                                      but you have to sacrifice
a Friday night and watch the program...
                  my latest discovery?
                   Declan McKenna and a decent song:
Brazil...
                       obviously the band Slaves are
not knew to me: what is new to me is the fact
that the drummer is using a stand-up minimalist
drum kit (never seen them live) -
                i still lament that fact that the music
magazine Mojo disappeared from shop shelves...
      it didn't adapt as an electronic magazine -
                  but people need this sort of outlet,
where someone is professional adapted to having
enough dosh to spend his celibacy in music shops...
             and to later showcase it
for your eager palette to lick up a fancy of a band
or two...
                     but boy oh boy: to be constantly plugged
in like that?
                                  so many people have so many
interesting things to say multiplied by the variation
of presenting those said things -
                           no wonder menial tasks seem
debilitating, everyone dreams about never using
a hammer...
                        at least in political systems akin
to authoritarian communist states: only one person
is allowed to say anything remotely interesting...
             and that never distracts you to dream -
in all sincerity, the western motto is: be polite...
         because there are so many sad examples
of how people should have been taught to be content
with very little...
                                  to be the shadows of society
that are better protected from what i find to
be despotic in democracy: art.
                                             simply because it has
to be there... not physical health... art...
                art governs everything in democracy,
many people dream, too many...
                                   if i didn't have that ******
brain haemorrhage i'd be content as my father is,
day-to-day: on the roof, simple task
        perfected over time till it's like spreading
butter on hot toast than tar on concrete...
                        with the motto - zrdowie na budowie
                 (health on a building site) -
  of that i am jealous as ****-knows-what -
                    i wasn't born an entertainer - so these
poems are not intended to be performed,
   hence shying away from poetical conventions -
                 i always wanted to be in the mass of
social shadows, the people behind the curtains doing
the necessary things to oil up society...
                                this is a practical joke given my
background in chemistry...
                                           next best thing?
the Faustian myth.
                                               but still: the ivory tower.
            but we are in dire need of cultural
dietitians: the people who prescribe us art...
  oh forget the radio... the radio is not the radio
of the 1970s...   video killed the radio star...
   (famous song)... but this one slot on television
with Jools is what every aspiring contestant
  for the X-factor should watch... to simply sober up...
otherwise my prediction about how Axis powers
   allowed post World War II celebrations to
take place over 5 decades... but have started to wane
and karaoke is the standard norm -
if ever someone could have said: only Japan,
i'd gladly like to listen to Celtic folk in pups -
but no... autocue...
                                   so i guess i'm right with that respect,
           we don't have the necessary cultural
dietitians in the major forms of art...
                         the needle drop guy doesn't
compare to Jools Holland... not the same league...
            not enough music... and this is the reason
why certain aspects of the internet will not catch on:
needless to say: the internet has become a fixation
for cat videos and poems...
                                                static - static - static -
  we need cultural dietitians more than
people telling us to loose 4lb and take more vitamin B12...
                    in literary terms
television is crap...
                                             but in terms of music
the internet is just as crap...
                                the radio is just another excuse
for billboards and advertisement posters...
                    i'm telling you... Friday night,
BBC1, later... with Jools Holland...
                                        did anyone notice how ****
Norah Jones has become? a full bodied woman,
a ripe peach and pear and all the things that
woman are: fruits...                     the skinny girls
       deluded by flowers...
                           but the real fleshy girls
        by fruits. bombshell, that Ms. Jones.
1st of october... and i'm thinking whether i should
stop going to the shops at night wearing only a
t-shirt and pyjama bottoms (like your typical
English girl) -                        
                                             but then this exquisite
numbing of not thinking, slightly cryogenic in a sense
of massaging nerves and veins...
                         i'll give it a week's worth of
debate in my head, before i'll put on a hoodie.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
one word - silence...

         but there's also something infectious
about being polite -

     i once owned this keyring with the maxim:

   - tact -
    telling someone to go to hell, with them
anticipating the trip
.

     but what's stranger is talking to a receptionist
at your local surgery, booking a telephone
appointment with your general practitioner
to get a sick note for half a year...

    i'm hardly the one to extort the english
taxpayers... i get "paid" just over five grand a year
to be sick...
                 what the **** is that in comparison
to the Somalian family of 7, living in plush
accommodation somewhere in east london?

        you going to ask me whether my head is
properly ******* on? i find it strange that someone
could ask the insanity question -
                      i already told it to someone:
they thought i was mad... then this polish
(home-boy) neurologist tell me looking at my
m.r.i. scan: whoever says that you're mad...
         they're mad themselves.

now i'm ******* about in england going: *******,
and you... and you.
                          i can't be converted to be your
***** doll, or poodle for that matter...
          of all the celtic tribes: i can stomach
the scots like i might eat ben & jerry's ice-cream
infused with cookie dough... the irish?
                just bring me the guinness and *******;
i haven't got the time for your "wit".
    
     socts? oh i hear them perfectly, it's like listening
to ukranians in poland... they sing their language:
they don't speak it, they sing it.

       so i was on hold for about half an hour...
autocue:
- you're 11th in line...
    - you're 9th in line      (what an annoying muzak
though! was it a mandolin? was it something quasi
rodrigo? they could really do with some decent
music when you're in the telephone queue...
some marvin gaye?)
   - you're 6th in line
      - you're 4th in line
- you're 2nd in line
- you're 1st in line...             HALLELUJAH!

so we start talking, and obviously i greet her:
good morning...
               and we make proper arrangements
for my (what i like to call) debility cheque
      (i stopped trusting certain minorities in this country,
first they tell you: oh yeah man,
you're going to have this l.s.d. trip smoking
this funky amazonian ****) -
   next thing you know you take to having
a ******* stephen hawking expression and sliding
into a sofa...

                        so we arranged it for friday,
the pick up... she'll get in touch with my sikh doctor
(the whole turban shabang... nice guy: very... what's the word?
ah... genteel) -
          and i'm like: thank **** for that,
i was brewing this idea that i wouldn't get paid for
being sick...

                   so i ask her: but i need a reference...
- what's your name?
- Nicola.

         great... that will do...
then i bid her a pleasant day hopeful that it would be so...
and then she does this "thing" that couples
do when using telephones ending conversations:

- bye bye, bye bye...
                                        about 4 or 5 bye byes...
        maybe i should work in a call centre, or something?
nah... i rather bullshitting people in the form
of poetry, it gives me the giggles, staging what it's really
like and having no real motive to lie -

but that's how being polite works,
you butter people up - you smooch up and they do
what you want them to do...
                  a bit like my grandfather's memory
of these two ᛋᛋ men in black uniforms stationed
in my home city who gave him sweets, who he came
to call: herrbittebonbon - and he recounts that memory
in the german form: it's not punctured by punctuation
proper: herr, bitte bonbon!

so that's why i've been waking up early for
the past few days? god... spring... all the insects are
waking up from their larvae hibernation and there's
this excess of colour, and the buzzing, and the sun -
and it's sunny... and it's warm...
                                               what of the glorious
frost on pavement that, when walked on, feels like
a throng of paparazzi camera flashes on the red carpet
(frost does indeed contort when walking) -

i may indeed consider my face to be akin to shrek's -
but my telephone etiquette is spot on -
     who'd think that the receptionist would end our
exchange like i might be telling her:
   honey, i'll be back by 5 - 30 and i'll bring some
take away, ok? bye
   - bye bye
   - bye
      - bye bye...
                             it's almost like a western with
two "opponents" taunting each other to draw their
6-shooter, and no one knows who's going to end
the bluff first, before putting down the telephone.
You told me somewhere yesterday and somewhere else the day before that what we're really waiting for
is an omen from some shaman who lives in Battersea or was it Tooting, but I'm counting on the abacus
there's three beads for the two of us and one bead for the shaman if he's a man at all,
there is word out on the corner stone, a marker, come home alkadry or don't dry out just stay out where the termites hone their skills on autocue pro forma wills and will you dine with god tonight or will it be the devils light you see?

The omen comes and with a codicil, old ladies, laughing gums upon the white washed window sill, I still admire the old girls with desire, with that tiny bit of fire that won't let go,
I know I do go on a bit and most of what I write is gold haha, (**** would've rhymed there, why didn't I think of it)

I'm too old to give a monkeys ***,
gold or **** is just the same to me
each one has its poetry,
the shaman doesn't see it
I'm not surprised
at all.
Ann Williams Ms Jan 2017
Oh Weather Girl, so smart and slim,
Safe in your air-conditioning,
Coiffured and prinked, make-up in place;
No freckles on that flawless face,
Nor sweat upon your marble brow –
I wonder if you’ll ever know
How much your dulcet verbiage
Sends me insane with helpless rage.

You tell me, as the best of news:
‘It’s a good day for barbecues,
‘for the high pressure over Spain
‘will block out the Atlantic rain;
‘the outlook’s fine, with lots of sun,
‘and we’ll have highs of thirty-one’.
And then you flash your perfect teeth,
Complacency beyond belief!

You stupid woman, don’t you know
My flowers and veg need rain to grow?
And since there’s been a hosepipe ban
I have to use my watering-can.
It hasn’t rained for days and days:
Do you know how much water weighs?

Of course the fault’s not down to you,
You only read the autocue;
But could you, please, once in a while,
Just switch off that ****** smile!!
Written during a long, hot, dry summer.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
ksywa* or ła(h) ła(h) - or just simply ksyva -
   and that's really pushing it,
                        it almost looks russian -
                like the łord:     vechki vechki vesteya
you do the german thing and it becomes
             veschki veschki vesteya -
                         i.e. véshkí véshkí -
                            and the acute accent means?
throw the ****** into the air!
                            and hope to catch it, when it lands
on the iota with a dot above it, like a halo,
     or the parlance of a saint gibbering (by now you know
that you can pronounce the dz unit, because
           you reall don't say gee-beer-ing;
                       or ****... you write it as jibbering?).
       oh... the word ksyva?
                                    when we're still in school
we get nicknames...
                       what was my nickname?
  given to me by a bue of a blonde?
                                                         ­      dad.
  that ***** you up... it's not like you get to handle
a nickname like that as if it were akin to: ****, cunty,
                 *******...             wormhole....
                                                 c'mon!          dad?!
what sadist does that?!
                                  how about a variant, like:
     herr mannelig            or herr holger.... and then
we can dance and cheer and drink ourselves to death
   ahoy valhalla! - style
                             i put the hyphen there because
i wanted to encapsulate the whole cheer! but not really.
    followed up by: like.
                                        but i'm really proud of myself,
i managed to solve a du doku.... ****... a su doku
                  completely off my rockers, and as you might
or might not know, no. 8987 is classified as fiendish....
this is the first time i managed to solve a fiendish category
su doku without being allowed the 4 clues
       you get when you phone up the publishers and
get the autocue...
                it looked like this:

8 7 5 9 2 3 6 1 4
2 3 9 1 4 6 5 7 8
6 4 1 7 5 8 9 2 3
9 2 4 5 3 1 8 6 7
1 5 7 6 8 2 3 4 9
3 8 6 4 7 9 2 5 1
7 6 8 2 9 4 1 3 5
4 9 2 3 1 5 7 8 6
5 1 3 8 6 7 4 9 2

          but all this leads to is more conceptualisation,
*******, the orientals invented something
  beyond western imitation, i.e. beyond the haiku!
this really is the chiral form of the haiku!
                       some puzzles have timed designations
for being solved, e.g. samurai sudoku no. 555: 34min.
         who the **** times this sort of bewildering activity?
capitalists... competition... how about i just do the puzzle
by way of relaxing, when doing it, rather than competing
from some ****** plastic imitation of gold's worth of trophy?

i'm trying to find the genesis of the puzzle's existence,
sure, i can fly to japan and talk to some yogi, or yoga or kung fu master,
but i want to do it myself...

     the best i came up with?

        convergence / divergence of the co-ordinate concept
                   of a two-dimensional graph...
          exploiting the two-dimensional conceptualisation -
          into a three-dimensional "space".


          well... because it's a bit like this:
      
     (.)squared
                       (. .)squared

                                               (. . .)squared

     (. . . .)squared
                                      (. . . . .)squared

           and you're basically for interlocking coordinations of
the same number, e.g. 5 with 5, 6 with 6.

        these beastly, dragon-equivalent orientals really know
how to play the numbers game, for one: there's a billion of them,
and second: they don't have an alphabet...
           like marco polo suggested:
             they write out the equivalent to a da vinci -
but all it sounds like is ma! or da! or ya! -
      among variant, in that, almost infinant "number" of interpolations.
The occupation

Black is yellow
Amber is green
War is peace
And everything is the truth
When spoken from an autocue.
By a man who never got
An Oscar.
More wars in Afghanistan
And it will go on till someone loses
In this case, the invaders.
A dead sea of suffering
May the west be forgiven
Trespassing
In the Middle East.
In the end, Israel
The western transplant
Will not set root.
Two thousand years is a long time.

— The End —