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maggie W Apr 2015
It's not even romantic
But I'm going to write a poem of every boy I met.Not romantic,
It's not that I had met a lot of men.

On that morning
you played ukulele,
I sang along with the lyrics
Creep, Blur,anything

The morning light shined through your squinted eyes
I can still see the dust swirling, dancing in front of the sun-bathed face of yours.
Naive,friendly,happily
We were singing to each other
The other two are non-existence.

You are so warm, comfortable to be around with
A Belarusian boy ,aspiring to speak good Chinese.
You paint, you cooked and made desserts
Always at ease at hitchhiking
through Kazakhstan and China

I felt that you secretly want to try to escape from what you had
from Belarus to Czech, then to this mysterious Eastern world, a bit communist.
And then to Taiwan.

This is for you Ilya, a friend for only a day and night.
You're too delicate for me to handle as you have
skin like milk and heart of seven seas
Smile like a 5 year old in a swing.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.that moment, when you realiße... "it's not yet another garry glitter song"... because quiet frankly... you still haven't seen Joker... you're stuffing raw dough into biscuit shapes in a make-shift Tibet... as a raw-treat... and your body is tombstone stiff... but your eyes are on fire and your soul is dancing... synonym parade... because gary glitter can be excused in the same way that: rob halford... rob halford isn't gay... isn't gay the metalheads would otherwise say... but because the song can exist per se... since... a glaring gary is no... jimmy 'the kid-fiddling dj' savile... and he's... no ian watkins... because... if you asked me... rock & roll part II is a gary glitter song? och! ouch! pinch-punch 1st of April is upon us recoil... hell no! i still read marquis de sade... only because by my standards... he's quiet decent... all he ever did wrong was use the imagery of a crucifix as a ***** when asking a ******* to peform the sado-masochistic act of ******* before him... otherwise his phallus was lost in the niqab of the bastille... his uncle though? ah! that's another matter! although: much aggrieved but somehow agreed... you could still buy marquis de sade's novella ****** in London, once upon a time... perhaps you still can... but does that even matter? i am about to get a primer about the Iranian inherent hate for h'america anytime soon... about how h'americans manage to bundle the Persians into the rag-ah-muffin crowd of camel-jockeys and easily replaced arab donors... and those poor iraqis... doing their bit...  who is to forget the phrase: turbanator? i.e. not referring to sikhs... no one besides moi... welcome to l'inglese... the modern lingua franca... and i do feel so sorry so very so very much for the natives that were beither born in Bratford or the rustbelt fly-over states of h'america... if joe biden says: learn to code! guess what i was but wasn't told being ***** from a ******* that was poland come the drop of the iron curtain of the 1990s... coming to the 2020s... me conjuring up the Silicon Curtain?! really? adverse to learn to code... learn a new language! and globalißation will "win"... internationalism already works on a bilingual basis... there's the established language of commerce... which is english... i'm sorry... i'll be kind... "you" will have to move... if not cognitively... then otherwise... i learned yours... learn mine! that's the motto... this is where linguistic nativism comes in... not borrowed time from places like h'america... not some emblem worship... just ol' lil' england... i hope this doesn't reach a wide audience... i am having to consider learning romanian... du-te dracului! that's a starter...

i've found out that, the only way to truly enjoy
a glass of red wine is...
to have also rolled your own tobacco...
and since we're talking the highest quality rolling
tobacco: golden virginia...
after rolling it... you gentle bask it in a lighter's flame
from top to bottom... to warm it up...
so you don't have to finish it off as if *******
through a straw...

that's of course if you're drinking red wine on its own...
but there's a reason why i hanged around
with a few spaniards in the past...
why i went to paris and met this two catalonian
hot-takes... who i later visited in Barcelona...
drank kalimotxo for a while getting ready
to hit the party scene...
was given my first joint in my life...
and... hello lullaby...

next day we toured the sights...
we never made it to the gothic quarter...
or the el reval...
we went into one of those shops
in a shopping mall that sell everything...
that's when i discovered portishead's debut:
dummy all by myself...
and then onto camp nou...
to be honest... throughout all this time...
i felt like a glove...
no really... i felt my company was being...
tested as to whether it could be well worn
and: worn out at a much later date...
i was, what, 19 then?

what will leave me well versed in travel,
jumping continents?
i should really add prague along the line somewhere...
the days when i would solo for a weekend
and never bother with any if at all: precautions...
i can't imagine the sort of trips
my "highschool friends" took...
en masse... and always to a resort -
say, in greece...

the joker scenes are out...
the scene where he's dancing on the stairs...
sounds good... mhmm...
oh... this is gary glitter?
the art has absolutely nothing to do with the artist...
it's not like gary glitter can get away with it...
but... i'm pretty sure he can get away
whereas... ian watkins?
in that crushing defeat of musical genres...
when emo wasn't quiet a thing...
and nu-metal didn't die out...

i'm a cheap ***: all the people are raving /
were raving about a film...
and i'm waiting for the delayed spectacle...
only recently... avengers: end game?
what a major ******...
this "self-aware" introspection into movie
franchises that explore time-travel...
here's an alternative: study chemistry
and get a hippo's ***** ready on the wet
dip... i'm guessing this is a period of time
when: the genre of science fiction will
slowly die off...
i don't see how science fiction can sustain
itself...

- which is always beside the point...
moving on... english... this acquired tongue of
mine...
if only i were so adamant as a czesław miłosz:
had i a translator's worth of shadow,
and baggage running around after me...
like a sacred cow of the Raj...
how did i learn to mitigate?
i don't know... what i do know is...
drinking and habits of listening to music...

it starts off with: listening to some
music using english...
it sooner or later gravitates toward
something in german...
after i tire myself of german lyrics...
i'm heading toward scandinavia...
chances are: i will visit "mother russia"...
but i'll probably sink into
visiting byzantine chants...
once i figured out a way to move
from scandinavian paganism...
work my way past german folk
from the medieval period...
and finally arrive at: αγνη παρθενε...
obviously i will have to stop over
some quasi-folk germanic songs...
northern crusades:
teutonic songs... or the templar songs:

da pacem domine...
pristine times! the drunk carol singers
has sung their bit... there was no rest
for the wicked...
the carol: god rest ye merry, gentlemen
was sang...
reality of the everyday happened
no day shy away from the "celebration"...
i find more comfort in songs
of the templars...
perhaps the gregorians with their calender...
but most certainly the byzantine choir...

of ancient greece and what is known...
what can stand out from byzantine greece?
except from: byzantine bureaucracy?
counting knots in the fish-net stocking
on a centipede crawling out of a harem?

my musical diet: when i drink...
i can't listen to music when english is involved:
for too long a "passing" of: enjoying it...
i grow a beard and satan mount
a throne of wood and amber...
fiddling with it like a mad maestro that
has been given 100 violins and no...
woodwinds... and this is my "orchestra"...
a beard... crux of central europe:
with the zenith on the border of the river
Oder...

i do wonder what this scenario would look like;
if the girl gambled otherwise...
the pretty-****-pick sent by my offspring...
or my full-crop of hair...
and a beard... ***** envy can hardly be
a social events on the pedestrian stage...
but cranium envy?

the diet for a session begins...
it has to begin in english...
but who knows where i'm otherwise willing
to lend an ear to?
i can't be stuck with music i can understand
lyrically...
if i can't understand how to compose music...
well i did once know how to play
the ***-ar... and worked a nightclub
for a mandolin: just to serenade a Fiona
from a window a maggie may by:
rod-it stuart in edinburgh... once...

how romantic of anyone...
hell... this is still in english?
why aren't i pulling the strings of a czesław miłosz
and not retaining my nativspreschen?
why? i love to tickle german...
i love to tickle deutsche more than i care
for speaking english, or... rather...
writing in it...
but unlike a czesław miłosz... i didn't bring
a linguistic ghetto with me...
i don't have a ****** ghetto to go to...
perhaps... if i mingled with enough
of my "fellow", "countrymen"...
much easier said than done: if you're Irish...
and the only THing you have to worry
about is... diacritical nuance...
the THing, the Θing... is an english:
what the irish consider to be a surd affair...
T'h'ING... it's a t'ing... not ******* F even
if you looked at it with a bollocking of
a microscope, either!

- and this once high-school "fwend" once suggested...
'maybe you should go and find your own
fellow countrymen'...
who the **** do i look like? paddy?
an arab, an iranian, an italian...
or some *****-cheeky-cheese-brigade of sorts?!
my, "fellow" and "countrymen"...
on foreign soil? em... allegience to who?
i have severed my ties with Poland...
i keep my ties with Poland on the basis that:
my grandfather and grandmother are still
alive... when i visit them...
i don't expect them to be into this whole:
post-nationalism: internationalism non-nationalism
globalisation gimmick of: at least,
at least the modern lingua franca:
which is the l'inglese....
because... quiet frankly? i have a stash of:
mutterzunge bubbling beneath what's being written,
with some mongrel-german and mongrel-russia
auxilliary...

ah... the natives of the english tongue...
well... it's quiet expansive...
it can go beyond encompassing merely england...
it can go so far as to tread over scottish gaelic...
somewhat irish gaelic too...
only zee Velsh... seem to be... W: whistling free
in their linguistic stand-off...
who the hell even bothers to hear
about any scottish gaelic?
there's only gaelic gaelic: irish gaelic...
and there's welsh...
scotch gaelic? huh? apart from: a wee this
and a wee that?
*******... tartan and god's **** *******
of beer and the side-trash-dish of the savior
of whiskey in a gulp of ms. amber's **** juices
from a...
one of those distilleries...
that served up a whiskey tokaj whiskey...
i still remember the picture...
a girl i was dating took the picture...
in front of her a belarusian jew cosmo...
to her left... a russian looking into the glass
of whiskey with some philosiphical insight
begging to come out...
to her right... a dog ****** with his nose
in the matter...

figures... the ****** will sniff **** out...
the russian will: peer into the glass
for some "magical" insight...
philosophy or what not...

as if insuating: concerning the "little" people
of europe...
unlike the portugese, the spanish,
the italians or the greeks: acronym: PIGS...
but i least i'm no czesław miłosz:
i don't need to move to cam'cam'h'america
with a language in tow:
for some sort of lesson of: preserving roots
for a tree...
my version is apparently:
the bad integration strategy...
esp. on paper...
why would i still retain my tongue...
on paper... in this medium...
citizen ist citizen:
bürger ist bürger ist mir!

heaven behold i have to use alt sächsisch vaterzunge
to speak to the grünschnabel...
i fear for the natives of this tongue:
esp. since hiding behind the stipend of:
the empire upon which the sun never sets...
to have to hide behind a cultural import
from h'america...
or australia... is what gives rise to these
pseudo-communist grey areas of Bratford...
or Islam-came-ah-knocking in
Rotherham...

even i have to escape this...
this l'inglese... this new frontier of...
no frontier at all: except for the skull moon...
and baggage of frohlicht!

is priti patel a civic nationalist?
well i'd be ******* sterile if i didn't say:
a babe with class any loser in
my vicinity said: a banger...
if priti patel is not a civic nationalist...
then i'm not in england...
i'm nowhere...
******* banging bunny... anyways...
and the first time i managed to ******
a black girl for a quickie...
it took just the right amount of cocktails and...
enough coccyx banging into my pelvis that...
i... almost wished for a 12" ****
and the "proper *****"...
no... really... imagine a black girl mixed with...
a stick insect... and you just so happen
to have served her up...
a genuis concoction of cocktails...
the coccyx is bound to appear...
alligned to your poor-pelvis plum-sore...
one time or another:
no ***** envy in sight...

hence my "wish"... give me the 12" cod...
and enough plump *** as that will allow...
otherwise: no...
i would still like to imagine being
circumcised via the orthodox methods:
of a rabbi... not via some over-*******...

why am i writing about this with such fondness?
em... 21... nearing 34...
i can count... how many times i've had ***...
using only my fingers...
that's beside counting the prostitutes...
which... when you forget to trim your ***** hair
and you just end up kissing for an hour...
kissing prostitutes: what a noble affair...
bumble, trumble, tumble, twitter, bitter...
grinder... tinder... don't know:
i can't remember having owned a smartphone...
or a mobile...
that ambition died when:
i was left with calls 10 minutes from a meeting
for a pint... on a bus...

that's... 34 - 21... 13 years with sporadic
casual *** patterns...
oh and that thai bisexual girl... woman...
boy... i picked up from a park bench...
we listened to some jazz... drank some beers...
"weaped"... then had a cigarette in the garden
and ****** while i was kept in suspence...
honestly: i didn't know what i was getting myself
into... it was a thai surprise moment...
sports bra... and... until i reached into
the nadir of the zenith did i find out...
phew... no pronoun debauchery...

13 years and the sort of *** life that could
be celebrated by a *******
harriet turtles of the islands of galapagos...
while, around me, in the vicinity:
kama surtras left right and center!
why would i drift toward...
scandinavian pagan songs...
byzantine chants... crusader anthems?
i don't know: it's hard to punctuate
ridicule into that sentence... ridicule and irony...
self-depreciating humor...

- 'music was terrible in the 2010s'...
perhaps... except of a ****** band: LAO CHE...
i will still be punching myself over
my sentiments...
and "they" can come and speak english
like it's "theirs"...
but at the same time... not be "english" at
the same time...
perhaps it's the north h'american conundrum
of patriotism with the old continent
sentiment "for" nationalism...
perhaps if we all speak this one
magical language...
we can still find ourselves
with unboxing cues in a bazar in Tehran...

and they were Persians before
the Arab camel-jockeys came...
and that spirit of poetry died
and the old antagonism with the Greeks:
too died...
arab camel-jockeys with their... sole book...
and enough time...
enough time to see them sitting on
an iceberg of dinosaur crude fuel...
that truly was and is a miracle...
i still don't see why the Ottomans wouldn't
want to treat the camel-jockeys as they
should have to have prospered:
since no Lawrence would ever come from
ottoman Istambul...

but oh oh: tuba büyüküstün the god-smacker
and the slow death of martyrs' promised: harems...
even a slow-to-understand man
can find his solomon and his queen of sheba...
somehow, "somewhere"...

so much for drinking some wine...
and: it's not like speaking the truth, drunk,
managed to get anyone into trouble...
perhaps the "kind" alternative?
nietzsche on barbiturates?

i sometimes wish i could be alligned
to a female sort of companionship...
without the immediate awe-struck beauty parallel
with: what's actually beneath being
awe-struck... but no...
i will have to do my best with dogs,
cats, the odd fox... and pyramids and pyramids
of stacked ms. amber bottles...

wine and the gods' anemia... or haemophilia...
i never which one it is...
i almost wish i could sentence myself
to the banal grey-ish merger of:
the everyday with a woman...
but... alas... i still have a mother...
and i'm still unsure about the times
when she's lying or telling the truth...
but, given, she's my mother...
i allow her the benefit of the doubt...
having a mother is enough to:

going down the river of keeping a woman
company: in company that precludes
having *** with her...
bad grammar or just the unnecessary word:
precludes...

it's enough to be in a company of a woman
you can't have *** with...
and quiet another...
to be in a company... you can have *** with...
this "can" will probably never
arrive at the sober conclusion of:
you "might" or... that you even "will"...
i guess the antithesis of gambling came
when prostitution wasn't allowed...
a man sought alternatives...
50p bet and all the thrills....
that... yep... 110 quid an hour would never give...
gambling and *******...
the siamese child of desolation of
Moloch and his bride: Ursula (usury)...

what's that "motto"? when the fun stops: stop?
here's a way to figure it out:
see a ***** before you start gambling...
and when you gamble...
bet for a quarter... less than but equal to / no more
than a pound...
i've started to bet on football results:
a win... and the other team also scores...
i managed to find a bet accumulator...
that would leave me off...
over 200K richer... from having bet a pound...

like i once mentioned...
the 3Ps of today's clinical "advice"...
there's the priest... n'ah...
there's the psychiatrist (you'll want to see him
first, seeing a psychologist is pointless...
he has no prescriptive authority...
he's no big pharma loved-up yuppy sort of...
gwy)...
or there's the *******...
priest, psychiatrist... *******...
i did the priestly bit when i visited
a monestary in France, Taize...
i was young and the hormones weren't kicking in,
just yet, and i would have stayed...
but i wasn't rich enough to buy myself
a place at that, kind of, prestigious "university"...

psychologists and psychiatrists...
what the tongue can't lick or taste:
a tongue can't heal...
talk talk talk... but no: suma summarum:
no oeuvre momentum...

prostitutes and betting habbits it was...
settled...
this one maroccan colt with his one maxim:
there's no water in a desert...
ever see more water than that in a puddle
in a concrete jungle?
and that's hoping for: evian...
tapeworm free water... ever?!

so much for tinder...
and so much for... ahem... adverts: ok cupid...
claustrophobic dating advice with no
spares...
if you can't pick them up fresh
from a park bench of uncertainty waiting
for that, that thai surprise?
so much for being a h'american...
and a *** tourist... in Odessa...
of Kiev... or getting milked for the bogus
*****-****-thrill of it:
to genesis the whole model escapade of:
dosh stashed in a porky inch-by-inch
leather itch of: spend spend spend!
Joseph Valle Mar 2014
The truth is
spring broke open,
I wish it were winter again.
Bodies about, walking
arm in arm and
no matter how much
I practice pacing my steps,
dodging the torn-cornered
slabs of concrete
to avoid breaking my stride,
my confidence, my ankle,
I always seem to stumble
with a hand interwoven in mine.

Dexterity seeps out
through my heels,
but lets be honest,
boots aren't the best attire for
sturdy, balanced walking.
This weight
(I'd guess)
presses down on my shoulder
where the collarbone meets
whatever the other bone is called,
and the person is on a stepstool
(yes, there's a person),
floating next to me as I move
and the his heel of his palm,
the meaty part,
presses where the bones meet
(could be, I'd guess, a very masculine She)
and leaning forward, tiptoed
on the top step and
the weight is coming down hard.

How anyone could walk like that!
Me, the town *******,
the drunk staggering about
trying to keep footing.
Even thinking it, projecting it,
makes it true,
especially when arguing,
no, just receiving a nice, hearty
reprimanding from babushkas
(a group of them)
with their knit hats abloom,
selling cabbage and honey
outside the Belarusian kiosk.

Now, I know what you're thinking,
and yes, the honey is delicious;
but just because they're together
doesn't mean they need to be.
Boiled cabbage and honey
for colds.
And honestly, it's not the weather
to be stopping on the sidewalk
in jeans-shoes-tee-shirt
only to hear curses
(no, not swears — lit. curses)
spat out crooked mouths,
clinging to you
all the season through.
dan hinton Oct 2017
60,3913  N, 5,3221 E, Bergen, 22.05.17

The Germans wear you down spiritually. They look through you with eyes of ice. It hurts when you see your friends turn their back on you. When you see the girl you loved, kissed in the canteen by a *****.  Your heart burns. What has he got that I haven’t? Apart from the muscle that pads out his boiler suit. No-one wants an intelligent man. I sit here sipping coffee in a fishing village café in Bergen. The coffee is hot and my heart aches. Soon we will be making our way up through the fjords to Geiranger. The beautiful fjords that embrace you. There is not so much to bear witness to here. The Gravlax is poor and overrated. Everything is shut. The dreary rain comes down on * A colleague drove me all the way to Hardanger Bridge. The bridge that connects Oslo and Bergen is truly breath-taking. I have seen the Milau Bridge in the South of France, the Somerset Bridge, Clifton Suspension Bridge. However, this is really the highlight of Bergen; unless you are drunk.
17.00 - we leave for G.
62,1008 N, 72059, E, Geiranger, 23.05.17

I wrote to Nan last night. I asked for her guidance. I want everything to be okay with Aline. 05.00 hours I got up to see the Geiranger fjords. They were breathtaking; we passed the Rock God in the cliff face. Or rather; he let us pass. Norway is really a paradise. I think how people only think with their bellies. Helen the nurse abandons us half way up the waterfall. I turn back. The Germans have an acute interest only in themselves. One wonders where love lies. I have found Ole’s café – at the base camp of the waterfall. It is here I feel at home. At this coffee shop I must remember everything properly. I must also forget Helen and how angry she makes me feel.  Mr. Edin said: “It’s the system that makes them so. Everyone is born the same.”

62,0861, N, 6,8687 E, Hellesylt, 23.05.17

I hate my life. I hate my inability to fall in love with anyone and anyone to fall in love with me. These days I can’t stand to look at the face that I see in the mirror. Parts of me crumble away to dust. I feel more and more bitterness, in port, towards couples that have found love – to the point of absurdity. Ice-skating; I drift slowly around the rink. It is the only real time I feel complete when I am alone. I see a couple kissing and happy in love. I feel anger and a bitterness burning up within me.  Why can’t I find someone that loves me simply? Why do I have to do all this **** – the garbage of personal relationships. Hellesylt is truly beautiful. At least I feel at one with nature; even if I don’t fit in anywhere else.

59,4136 N, 5,2680, E, Haugesund, 24.05.17

The war against fat, like finding love, is ongoing. I always feel I am the loser. I am a loser. I am sat in a coffee shop overlooking the red and yellow houses. I try and chat up the waitress;  a beautiful Norwegian blonde. I try and embody the image of a sailor. It works to some extent, but actually only reflects back on myself as a person. The aching has grown less. The coffee helps to balm the dissatisfaction I feel with life; as does the view across the river. There is an English couple opposite. How can you complain with that view out across the river? Twenty-five degrees, surely we must be able to leave our pain behind? I feel myself become more and more alive; back to life. The wounds are healing again. The pain passes.

5,89700 N, 57331, E, Stavanger, 25.05.17
We are going to sit and hammer this out. This book, this journal, bears witness to life. That is its meaning.  Why is it so hard to find love and to be loved? I am only an anatomical structure – corruptible, breakable flesh. Stavanger is quite simply a boring town. You can walk from one end to the other in thirty minutes. There is a church; a freedom monument and slated, wooden houses. Yuliana the Belarusian pushes her body onto mine, beneath the Northern Lights like a teddy bear; she hugs me again and again, never letting me go. I kiss her delicately on the ear. She giggles. I can still hear her voice now and the smell of her sweet perfume. Oh, how I burn inside. How many thoughts and feelings wheel in an instant. How capricious this heart is. I must drink another coffee.

59,9139 N, 10,7522,E, Oslo, 26.05.17
I am on the hunt for a Durian fruit in Oslo. My hunt for Hardanger Beer with the appropriate label also continues. We dock right in the centre of Oslo. The sun warms me. Trust me to fall in love with the only lesbian on board. In Oslo’s most popular café, Kaffebereint,  I think how I get myself into such situations. Maybe it’s because I love long nails on a woman. She has forgotten her scarf. I should really do more sit up and visit the gym. My feet are too busy wandering. Sauna Night takes place onboard – a reward for all those who helped out at the party below the mooring deck. I serve punch and party the night away. For a while I forget the disappointment of people and the strangeness of my body. Oslo is beautifully serene. I walk in the footsteps of Ibsen. I try and make my writing smaller and smaller so that it is almost like Chinese ideograms. I close the gap. I try to be neater; to be better. I walk along the boulevards of coffee shops, wondering how I can be better.
53,35 N, 8,35 E, Bremerhaven, 28.05.17
I am back home (in home port) from the Nordic Voyage. I need to rest up in Hamburg before embarking on the next adventure to the Northern Cape. 21.06.17 at 1700 hours – Bergen. What else is there to report on as we approach the quaint fishing port of Bremerhaven? Home. Only that my ex-girlfriend from Algiers has given birth to a baby girl; she wrote to me. Two years old. Name: Eline. Letters are wonderful. The waves lap gently at the boat. If you ever thinking about writing a letter, you should; we haven’t spoken for two years and she writes to me, out of the blue, because of a Christmas card she picked up in Dar Es Salaam. That is life; life on a boat; life at sea; life on the breadline. A sailor’s life is a funny thing; full of unpredictability.  Even as an enthusiastic merchant sailor I can see the draw of this life. – as tough as I am, what else is there to say? Only that another adventure waits me in Hamburg –

The rest of this transcript, as subsequent potential voyages is lost.
excerpts from my latest book
While he was in the alchemical session with Valekiria with the ***** lushness in the veins of his beloved, he felt instantly the arrival of some mounts. Etréstles, goes out and looks around the store and makes sure that Alexander the Great's entourage was there. I brought him a letter. Etréstles alerts Mardiath and the others. As the General pulls out his Leonatus, he dismounts and approaches the tent where his chief commander Vernarth was. He sees him surrounded by probes, which were like branches inserted by his right pectoral and his main veins.

Alexander the Great says:

Khaire, "I wish you joy" my great Commander Vernarth ...!!. He raises his hands, clicking with his hands to scatter some tiny earrings, to grind them on his face, they were sent by the Falangists, paying homage to him. They were like pieces of the horse's leashes with gold fillets that they ripped with the hooves of the cavalry from the armor of the bruised containers. With the tips of his fingers up his face and his hands up he appealed the presence of Zeus, and then bowed.

The last time I saw your individual, we had alternated to see the enormous over-proportioned bravery that Vernarth imposed on the battle. Here you arranged your army so that we could face everywhere, forming a large rectangle that we could face attacks from anywhere. I saw millions of Arrows fall on our army, I paid attention to you, your Lord Vernarth, who went with your wounded right breastplate, also semi hanging your Hoplite breastplate. You had legs and shoulders with impostor arrows that did not detract you from continuing with the ****** ramming of the enemy infants who were incapable of you. You mounted Alikanto and with all the momentum in an act of extreme madness you ravaged the insistent enemy ranks. There was the last great moment that I could see about your great courage and bravery to decapitate the enemy troops. Today we have defeated and I will go after Darío after his flight, which is what the world did behind him who should never have dared against our alliance with our army.

Vernarth replies:
All plunged into the Dorus and Xiphos with their multiple ****** edges, like a new blood alliance that must provide us with a new life beyond our deaths. In the hand of the blacksmith forger will reside the new lands where we have to implement new expeditions.

Brisehal, my Dog of Lut, embarrassed his ambitions to tarnish our designs. Now on the plain there are signs of panic, that only He infused on the bodies unscathed by the Falangists, they are witnesses of our daring and of the wild rebellion that caused the flight of the Achaemenides. On the glory that I do not stop aspiring, I will go to my hopes of meeting my ancestors in paradise, I have to gratify my great brotherhood to the kingdom of creation that boils through the great chimneys of the universe separating the own faculties from the power of true love , that make us coexist with our arms and legs without it being anything clearer than the footprint of the shadows, more exceptional than the same that others must thank with love to represent under all the limits that exceed the upper limits.
Alexander the Great embraces him and honors him with his battalion. His comrade Hephaestion dispenses the liturgy and dedicates a war song chanted by one hundred Hoplites plus the inclusion of his figure on the Hellenic banner to always be part of the military emblem arc of all the Greek armies and the coming social class. The Liturgy begins for a great commander and a good soldier who inherited new lands. Not only because the greed of the enemies could not be hidden, but mainly because he worked the land, which was a school of virtue for the veteran, in which he acquired the qualities of vigilance, strength and justice that form the basis of the military spirit with honors.

Hoplites say: with the General's voice in unison Khaire !!, “We wish you joy”. Our lord Vernarth eternal life. He will never forget, and he will remain enrolled in this life and the other all this feat, as a great soldier and comrade, who will also be the father of our family, out of concern to preserve the freedom of all of us, who will now be ours in the good reason to fight.

Hephaestion proclaims: Same nation and age with my lord Alexander the Great. As a Macedonian aristocrat and a Macedonian general noble. I do not see another certainty when we know your greatest skill in all the works that will be sculpted in our monuments. Today we must before your divine figure, of our credit to compensate all those who will swallow history before the same people as their own bite. Aristotle will grant volumes to refer to Vernarth in his history as a contribution of Helenofilo hero and all the jargon involving the new and unpublished diet of the poetics of the Greek world.


In the third part of the noon, when a voluminous day the most underlined epithets of the homage to the greatest commander of Alexander the Great increased; all would leave to continue the investigation of Darío III. In the store were Mardiath and Etréstles faithfully accompanying them along with his wife Valekiria.


The Parapsychological session resumes:

While Vernarth was in the hands of the Medical Medium, they kept their narrations attentive, which his assistant recorded and took note of the most relevant. To know more about his incessant chronicles. Countless journalists and people in the field of information were already stationed there near the building, all shocked by the reputation that this unusual parapsychological event had taken, before the clinical, political, cultural and news media.

Ellipsis Vernarth in Berlin, Germany - April 16, 1945:

Vernarth was paying attention to Reichstag defenders April 16, 1945. As he walked between the cross-shootings of the Wehrmacht and Allied sides. He walked in between the Battle of Berlin, which was the last major battle in Europe during World War II. It began on April 16, 1945 after the start of a major Soviet Union offensive on the capital city of the Third *****, and ended on May 2, 1945, when German defenders surrendered in the city to the Red Army. That full ability allowed Vernarth to interrelate inter-war situations of a political / warlike nature, as for this stage that remained to be reported. Now it was already in Germany occupied by the Soviet army. And to be able to continue living intensely in this way the marks and vestiges of the bullets of heavy caliber, which would be of great historical boast for future civilizations and their socio-political criticism, which still follow these marks of bullets in all the generations of this great Nation.

"On January 12, 1945, the Red Army entered German territory during the Vistula-Oder offensive and advanced westward at great speed, up to forty kilometers a day, entering Eastern Prussia, Lower and Upper Silesia and Eastern Pomerania, to a stop sixty kilometers east of Berlin, on a German defensive line along the Oder River. When the offensive resumed, two Soviet fronts - army groups - attacked Berlin from positions to the east and south, while a third attacked German positions to the north of the city. The first preparations to defend the outskirts of Berlin began on March 20, when the newly appointed commander of Army Group Vistula, General Gotthard Heinrici, correctly anticipated that the bulk of Soviet troops would cross the Oder River. Before the start of the battle of Berlin, the Soviets managed to surround the city thanks to their victories in the battles of the Seelow and Halbe hills. On April 16, 1945, the First Belarusian Front led by Marshal of the Soviet Union Gueorgui Zhúkov began to bombard central Berlin, while the First Ukrainian Front led by Marshal Ivan Kónev, pushed south to the remains of the Army Group Center. The German defenders were led primarily by Helmuth Weidling, and consisted of exhausted, ill-equipped, and disorganized divisions of the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS, to which many joined. Thousands of Russian cannons bombed day and night, air control Russian was total, the avenues were at the expense of fanatical Waffen SS, totally Blocked ”.

Vernarth, was crossed by means of the Reichstag, and was parapet taking a German machine gun to harass Soviet soldiers, who only used it to protect himself, limiting that he was neutral. Then he disappeared into the hills and kept his distance, only seeing the immense fires that were trying to take over a dominated city. The Reichstag building was located in the already abandoned Tiergarten district, in the Mitte district of Berlin, the capital of Germany. Where he was just interned with the combatants, and in order not to be captured he served the side that received him unequivocally.

Thousands of Russian cannon bombed day and night, Russian air control was complete, the avenues were at the expense of Waffen SS fanatics and blocked. Vernarth was crossed by means of heavy transport vehicles and mortar and cannon bombs, until cornered in some skirmishes and colossal ruins. Where he manages to escape and heads to the Hotel Adlon, a great palace of kaiseres and authorities of the great bourgeoisie. Here he manages to reside and finally escape crossing borders without knowing, thinking about going to Munich and crossing other borders, perhaps disdain to join the allied side and serve as a spy.

To be continued, under edition
XVIII THREE FNALS BUMODOS
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distilkery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzie,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's grinning cat
album...
     albeit the missing Scorpio
constellation, bound to the British Isles:

                  
              
                           ●
      
                                    ●

                  
                    ●
                 ●



●                                  
                      ­             ●


no algorithm no search engine
no dictionary... will equal
asking a grandmother for botanical nouns...
namely, the blooming forthynsia tree,
****** yellow almost neon
against pale kiwi green of April spring wake...

and the electric pale green,
or woken from slumber
blooming baby leaves of
a wierzba...
    a willow...
     electric in that,  almost
quicksilver drooling over
platinum in th spring night
              with a missing moon...

casually, a talk with woman,
and the technical nouns
of botanical expedience...
no algorithm to boot...

always the anticipated digression,
from the most mundane posit of
unraveling pidgin...
I compensate for my father not
speaking pristine english...
but certainly doing a chore
of industrial roofing,
than most, spaghetti finger
pancake arm coming of age bistro
*******...
        the more they aspire to sing,
the more we can hope
to be cured by karaoke on
a Saturday night...
  
    and always the anglophone perspective
of... bellybutton, Greenwich
syndrome... said the English,
so must say th rest of the world...

his shortcomings are my...
what he might as well have said...
tak your toys,
and take a warm dump in their sandpit...
then move into the next sandpit,
and **** in it...

personally I don't unerstand
the attack on grammar...
this antithesis of etymology,
this quasi slang... or rather slang
in a straitjacket...
of... well, at least the orthodox
communists had an economic model...
it was going to fail
because it was going to fail...
        but how lonely...
it must be... being unable to compete
with an external counter,
and merely, implode...
          must be lonely in the current
economic asylum...
imploding all the time,
having to compete with 600 years
after golgotha, and rí'bāh...
      
   5 ****** minutes picking out
a ***** for a Saturday night solo...
went for the shaft of wheat,
akin to a lodged locust corpse
in an absinthe bottle bought
in Amsterdam...

               apparently, there is a difference,
but most notably...
only when, drinking alone...
   the talk of sober people
bores me, how they can hide their
apathy behind so much gesticulation
and **** fakery...
    silent as a grave...
drunk people talking
is..
    perhaps outside the party mentality...
and th sudden spurring of
amnesia, a moral hangover,
a loose tongue comes across
darting eyes...

                   hardly a conneisour of
beer, or *****...
      more, on the lines of...
a conneisour of the knockout
falling asleep method...
      and... not allowing myself
be impregnated with dreams...
strange thus... how people
allow unknown forces to impregnate
them with dreams...
               **** them with dreams...
I deem a sleep impregnated
with dreams to be far from rest...
either sleep and the night
of today, with a morning of later on
today... or nothing...

                    perhaps the safety of the sleep
environment,
of the naturalally produced
hallucinogens that are called dreams...
surely the brain must secrete
a hallucinogen when in th state
of sleep...
              as far as I am concerned,
there is no need to interpret dreams...
coincidentally, this implies...
the counter to the stigma surrounding
lucid intoxication...
     because aren't dreams,
the byproduct, of the brain secreting
hallucinogenic compounds,
      when in a hypo-conscious
state of sleep?
   medically induced coma...
naturally invoked
psychedelic carousel...
             which might explain why...
people wanted to tap into this
chemistry dynamic via the 1960s...
of waking into a dream...
        but there must be some sort of
chemical, secreted by the brain
during sleep...
        that allows for the conjured phantasma...
symbiotic to the state of safety...
the brain, not attached to
spacio-temporal coordination...

   and some would argue that all drinkers
at noon, are dancing sloppy tango
with their shadows.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
is it still considered... watching ****...
if she also *******...
or... you're watching that...
take on japanese sexuality in anime...
with a gloryhole and a rubber ****
and she's addressing it:
shogun... and... there's custard...
of the ******* scene?
or she's teasing you pregnant...
and you're like:
         no more eggs!
***** like watermelon juggernauts!

i was never a fan of soap opera...
whether coronation st.
or something turkish / mexican my
grandmother would better enjoy...

drama: internet: clebrity drama...
idubbbz etc.
          i am click-baited by the change
in the algorithms...
"once upon a time" the website
worked as... a thesaurus jukebox...
none of these videos would come up
as suggested...
so i scroll through them:
3 minutes in and my attention span
has become ridiculed by:
the spezial juice...

     there's not other alternative...
not being a *******...
       something sobering...
       not even nostalgia and a life prior:
mix-tapes recorded for an
highschool sweetheart...
reef: give me your love...

         i should have become a monk...
templar chant: antiphona:
                  crucem sanctam subiit...
something out of necessity...
in terms of *******?
it's hardly me playing for the cuckoldry
pass...
    she's alone... i'm alone...
she has more toys...
i have a grip of the hand...
that can hold a basketball with
one hand...
which dwarfs my: "esteem"...
      and it's like a sensation akin to...
the mouth of a squid suckling out
an extra trim of the *******...
very forensic ugly *******...

no floral patterns of a pregnant girl
needing to be comforted by
less a "stance" and more a tongue:
wriggling to tease...
or whatever it might be called...

is it ****? she's with a toy shooting
custard cream...
and... i have a hand that acts like a squid mouth...
boniest **** i have yet to see...
****'s a dwarf to boot...
but at least... no concern for WD40
and **** fetishes...
to compete with homosexual zeniths of
pleasure: gained...
thus pleasure: given...

is it ****... when she's at it...
and i'm "at it"...
   and there's no... theatre?
  what is it... then?
                 crucem sanctam subiit
qui infernum confregit
         accinctus est potentia
   surrexit die tertia...
                    alleluia...
dear good: moral superiority?
     dial me up...
these choral works are...
   the medicine when even Handel doesn't
quiet cut the matter: solid...

sooner the dogs and insects come unto
my body: the sooner i will be able
to wash their base instincts myself with...
and afterward...
the clerical matter of:
the... "spiritual refrain"...
a completely blank slate of mind...

       first comes the fire...
and if you're lucky: suppose there's water
to come to quench your thirst: after...
because the looks of it...
teeth do not fare well...
when chewing sand...

             point being... it's hardly a...
video-friendly affair on my part...
but a woman *******...
**** me... spring already?!
the flowers are budding?
the asexuality in her is... jumping to extremes?
as a joke... or hardly...
hands... too bad all those asian girls
already started to look like
****-robots...
      kyoto-eyes...

                       fake... fake...
   good of me to have ****** a beached
whale... "******"...
snuggled and eyelids teased with lips...
and of course... the mechanists' trance
for piston envy... blah blah...
           but a carrying point of
comparison... when the bleach starts
melting the plastic...
and she is... and i am...
being ****** off and each other
by telephatic forces equivalent to...
ghosts...
   and is it *******... just then?

i had to explore these crude...
one-armed bandits... since... typing...
on a keyboard... i sometimes
see myself in the mirror...
but... on a piece of paper:
i have to remind myself that:
i am... and will forever be...
right-handed...
        
                       the teenage trick was...
to sit on the hand you don't use to write...
and then... ******* with it once
enough numbing was imbued...
ghost did it... was the motto...
i don't know...
      ever become fooled to eat something...
before an operation where
a general anaesthetic was used?
and you wake up...
regurgitating window-licker esque
blah gurgle blah blah further?

from the athenian strip-club
to a brothel in the east end...
and sieving through...
eh...          minor evidence...
settling down on gloryhole ******* flicks
for a while...
any adventure of her ******* herself
and "easing" me to...
that squid-mouth of a hand...
of my own...
        but everything on the throne of thrones...
then a quick baptism in a shower:
promises are promises...
no armchair... not scented candles...
doing the no. 1, 2 & 3...
on the throne of thrones... does...
the trick...

- and once the bourbon is opened:
the perfume of... every... single... brothel...
i meet a man on a rampage...

and he says: beside reading gregory corso...
ah... forget reading him...
just hear him speak... that's the sexiest
**** voice suckling at the ****
of the escape from "alcatraz" / prose paragraph...
you will... ever... hear...

scouts honour... although i was no more
a scout than the slingshot
my philatelist grandpa made me...
shooting iron *****-heads... giggling...
in the confines and comfort
of a... kitchen window...

   my grandfather: the philateist...
i'll have to admit...
i make a much better drunk than he ever was...
my father is a cockerel boxer
and my uncle a gloomy zombie...
when i drink, though?
i am still that... hard-on-sunrise
diving into a ***** of some old
stripped in Athens... from... hell...
Macedonia?
and those "other" eyes looking at me...
the message always reads:
take your ******* toys...
and *******... from this sandbox of we
milking the lechers...
colt...

so i'd be at it... with a reply akin to...
i was never in athens...
the card debit dried up...
escorted by a bouncer...
****** myself at the atm machine...
walked back to the hostel
like some GI Joe...
      
   oh sure... ***... the great adventure...
is it ****...
watching her play with her barbie
and me play with my ken?
pristine, though...
          is it **** when i'm not giving
a narrative piece...
no classical italian 1970s...
         scenes...
        is it ****?
       or is it... butchers' spree!

i just don't have the toy...
the guillotines *****... soz... let's extend that
into: "oops"?!
i guess if i was gay... conservative...
an... Tangier was the hotbed of
frilocking...
under the Islamic regime of the... ******* sons...
and the lesbian duaghters...
and the unloved... under polygamy...
and: isn't muhammad...
the one who tried... to claim both...
the psalms of David...
and the solominic prowess at a hard-on?
i guess he must have failed in one
of these two adventures...

so much for Muhammad's surrogates
of Zion... the mothers of the believers...
or those struck by the reality of waking up...
in some suburb of Birmingham...

is it ****?
he does who what with when she
does it with a guillotined ken-play-dough?
here's the porsche...
and here's... the limping deaf
and blind horse...
i'd sooner have the horse...
after a while it become apparent...
i... can't... chew...
or... digest... metal...

but a horse i can... ***** into a furthering
of life... as i "leisure" myself into
a chicken... even the marrow in the bones
will not matter...

is it ****?
she's shooting blanks i'm shooting out
a genocide...
there's this tissue... there's this tear...
there's a hard-on and there's the spring
of genitals on her part...

and it's the modern version of...
what **** was like in the 1970s and the 1980s...
before... she had to go up-stream
and against the salmons of solomon...
migrating with her hybrid...
puppeteering strings...
i clenched my hand that didn't become a fist...
but the mouth of a stripteasing zebra...
and the motto: k.o.
of an uvula that would somehow
become the pricess and frog of... cough-medicine
slurp... and later a kiss...
and things, "things"... just had to become
so ugly...
so wholly unrecognisable...
when standing upon waverly bridge...
looking out across... the firth of forth...
and that... tapeworm eerie white...
one of those nights... scaling the old college scaffold...
with a belarusian ***...

this tinge... this ribbon of an accent
and a signature...
this forever-new...
        
upkept thus far...
    a horror movie soundtrack...
to a lullaby replica...
by god i snore harded than...
an asthmatic cerberus...
   what's ****?
        i care to mind the details...
hands being the most ****** aspect of...
my synonym...
all procelain and easily broken...
hands i could have do...
with making bone arithmetic a "thing"...

i ****-size a comparison...
by the looks of it...
the Cindarella: heel... cut off...
is a bit like me missing...
a knuckle...
             just at the pinky...
where my signet ring should abide
by for the eternal purpose
of the engluish bachelor...
and queen... and prince charming...
and a wales...
that invokes the boundary of...
not only cornwall...
but also devon... somerset...
dorchester...
     agor ysbeiliai:
                    o hanesyddol maliaf
o pethau...
       none of it... actually...
some other prince charming...
drag queen hour reading...
orwell having a ******* with...
  a: wilde...

             high-brow expectations....
to riddle out 1 + 1 = 2...
                        that somehow nothing
has to remain... plough-towing...
pig-trough-tied... hoof and bite...
and goodmorning vietnam... d.j. accurate...
or the pleasures from cartilege...
and all the scooping up
pedantry: in details...
over such minor facts of a former:
base relief to imitate: imitating life...

i am quiet adamant...
away from the realities of a London
or a Warsaw...
one can most certainly...
conjure up a quest of time...
as that sort of quest whereby...
time's-amiss...
in that the clocks have apparently
clogged up and... therefore...
"somehow" stooped to... quiet simply...
having... stopped!
alan spivey Feb 2014
taking a break more stuff on my plate that needs sorted through.

However,  a friend of mine Mara Kennet look her up she is in here.
is a poet, writes childrens books, writes and produces  plays in Russian and Belarusian. She helped me write and granted mines not that great....
she is awesome ,If you understand  her languages she has a lot of stuff she has written. Coming from a friend you learn alot from her.

I tip my Hat off to you Mara  you are doing fantastic  , until later when things sort out once again. bye for now  
alan
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
.before i am done with this escapade, i will try to stick travis' - walking down the hill on repeat for a while... to settle for the mantra... something that needs a repetition in the background, before the final collage... and before... what settles as dust from burnt old father oak and my body too... or perhaps... the inter-connectivity that's shared between ethnic minorities: the kashubians, the sorbians, the navajo, the dene suline, the inupiaq, zuni hopa and the dogrib... the Łacinka & Łatynka (belarusian and ukranian) respectively... Łacina: Latin... as it is known on the vicinity of the old capital of Cracow... simply from a shared letter... no more a hello than a plain disregard for twitter poetics... or instagram: captions... sometimes you just want a chicken drum-stick of words... and the bone and the cartilege and the heads filled with marrow... which is more... than some toothpick escapade... well... Winchester is so old for anyone to remember... and London is so nuanced that even Warsaw makes the count... but Cracow sits... humbled... when snow falls... there's the actual snow... and there's the mistaken snow of the ash from auschwitz.

once - when i was much younger - and my voice
was but a crude and feeble whimper -
nothing that could compare itself to a butterfly
in haiku - i would be found trying to forcibly imitate
anything immediately read -
what a naive misadventure upon every turn...
every poem became: as if an act borrowed from
Macbeth - quiet simply - a young man's jealousy...

i can only now gratify myself and the audience that...
i have matured beyond that hot-headedness... former...
now? i rather simply translate the work -
as i am sure that something will be lost -
however good the translation might be...
or the original text...
here's my first attempt...

zbigniew herbert - kaligula (1st attempt
and the last ettempt)

/
          while reading old chronicles, poems and biographies
Mr Cogito sometimes experiences feelings
of a physical presence of the people long ago dead


Caligula (is speaking / speaks):

from among all the citizens of Rome
i loved only one
Incitatus - a horse

when he walked into the senate
the unblemished toga of his fur
shone immaculately among that of
the cowardly murderers' sitched with purple

Incitatus was full of advantages
he never spoke
a stoic's nature
i think that at night in the stables he read
philosophers

i loved his so much that one day i decided
to crucify him
but his noble anatomy objected to this

he accepted the dignity of consul indifferently
he held authority the best
in that he didn't hold any authority

attempts to persuade him to have permanent
****** relations with my dear wife Caesonia failed
therefore a line of caesars - centaurs
was never created

which is why Rome fell

i decided to appoint him as a god
yet on the ninth day prior to the days of February
(chaerea) cornelius sabinus and other fools
obstructed the intentions of this godly work...

he accepted the news of my death peacefully

he was thrown out of the palace
and sentenced to exile

he endured this blow with dignity

he died without any hiers
slaughtered by a thick-skinned butcher from the vicinity
of Anzio

Taticus is silent
about the posthumous fate of his meat
                                                                ­               /

perhaps looking at the original -
would help... oh more surely...
but prior to the original...
i can see that certain peoples of asia...
who have a culinary superiority complex...
who hide behind a spice grenade...
have an aversion to cabbage...
and it's like that irish love potatoes
and the slavic people love cabbage joke...
don't mind me morphed into a pawn...
the persians abhored and still abhor spicy
food from bengali bush monkey regions
of the raj...
persians have a palette for sour foods...
can you imagine eating a hot-dog...
without choked onions, chillies...
sauerkraut and some sweet gherkins...
mustard and ketchup?
i can't... then again: a cow is more than just
milk... mother goat...
but there comes a time when you can...
appreciate the culinary superiority of the blue indians...
then a minute later call it: a kitchen of black cardamom
stink!
believe me... black cardamom stinks...

but a problem with sauerkraut is a problem
with persian tastes...
sour... sooner rather than later i'll see...
sauerkraut added as the german delight...
in an ottoman kebab wrap...
the sourness could cut through the fatty mustang
of the lamb... somehow...
because the pickled chillies are not enough...
and the raw spanish onions do very little...
the blue indians throw "beef" around
an appreciation of sauerkraut... i just give them
the one-liner: black cardamom and...
the ultimate dye... turmeric...
it will stain, anything... plastic, metal,
ceramics: oddly enough no... and glass...
spice barons, eh?  

the original... but it's not exactly the original...
since... i do borrow from"elsewhere":
sound distinction that exfoliate in the meaning...

after all... i did graffiti the original with
some cyrilic...
sz = š = ш = (sh)ape ≠ ś = sie- prefix: if śιe
cz = č = ч = (ch)urn ≠ ć = cie- prefix: if ćιe
ż (= rz) = ž = ж ≠ ź
(also noted in french: via je suis...
   oddly enough... it sounds like жe swée...
but looks like: je suis ce et cette)...
ń ≈ ñ
ch = x
nonetheless...
or more importantly...
c = ц ≠ c = s = ç...
an no... there's no translation
of a cedilla A(ą) nor a cedilla E(ę)...
a bit easier when it comes to...
ł = w
            but... w = v...
so ł(h)en... the surd hatch...
eyes closed: mouth agape!
no "v" given how the greek upsilon (υ)
was sharpened into (ν):
i always thought: cute acute ó = ω: tool...
while omicron was more grave (ò)...
and up! upsilon! the u was first acute
before it became the ω in the german
umlaut (ü)...

otherwise: there's mOre to what's
later a mOvie... the elongation of:
tool... the distinction: thus pronounced...
wants to be recognißed -
the s to z to s to z interchange within
the ß: es'zett... yes... the apostrophe is "somehow"
necessary...

if the hebrews have their vowels in niqabs...
we can have our...
exfoliation of consonants and vowels...
fully exposed... nonetheless included!
with: details of the frontier!
and in them: i mark my finger in the sand
and skull among the cavern,
the rocks the... ghostly whispers that
shadows should profoundly speak...
but never do...
my shadow my ghost...
my first avenue turned should i be thinking
about a Hiroshima selfie... shadow glued
to the ******* wall... move it: chess-***...
bullet to the head...
and then two weeks... trying to die...
in a prison cell...
with one nightmare overtaking the previous
nightmare... in how...
your brain will never be:
the eyes-connected to the sponge:
mr. chikatilo...
the sponge: sorry... nothing but shrapnel...
perhaps some eyes...
but your eyes are consistently closed...
let's not mind them...

and what's because, what?
finnegans' wake: no diacritical markers...
because, what? low on ink?
if low on ink... can't help you...
but if not enough paper?
¶ (pilcrow) all the paragraphs! sardine words
onto the page!

the god awful truth was that i smoked
marijuana in england...
and... the ******* is free! upon the pretence
that you don't own a brothel...
elsewhere: namely Amsterdam...
while in Amsterdam i had a thought:
what about ******* a siamese twin
in some vacant... Tehran nightmare come true?
gang-bangers are treated better than i...
in terms of "treatment":
the best they ever gave me...
was to be left: to my own devices...
when i should have been learning german...
they sent me to the window-licker class
of c.v. writers anonymous...
because: m'ah hanging-leash of in and leash
was a bad, spotty E... with a tail!
devil's spawn... or something that would
always come from the warsaw pact...
or... coming from one: under the iron curtain...
would show... and cover the current brood...
with a change of element...
from under the iron curtain...
then unto: under the silicon curtain..

i'm sure the people have chosen their chess
pieces prior to this: *******-ramming
of the anger itching from the cranium
of a castrated bull...

mash up... no interludes...
let's keep it staccato... and... fits the purpose of...
how best lodged into form...

                   because the iota and the j are...
let's face it... forced diacritical cage-masters...
i graffitied the original...
because... it became obsolate to simply
translate and become overtly pedantic
as to why: ****** grammar was not going
to fit anglo-slav grammar...
never mind the anglo-ßaß grammar: "native"...

/ чytając stare kroniki, poematy i жywoty Pan Cogito
doświadчa czasem učucia fizyчnej obeцności
osób dawno zmarłych
(tampering with a lox ness)

mówi Kaligula

spośród wszystkich obywateli Rzymu
kochałem tylko jednego
Inцitatusa - konia

kiedy wшedł do senatu
nieskazitelna toga jego sierści
l'śniła niepokalanie wśród obшytyx purpurą
tchórzliwych morderцów

Inцitatus był pełen zalet
nie przemawiał nigdy
natura stoiцka
myśłe ze noцą w stajni čytał filozofów

kochałem go tak bardzo жe pewnego dnia
postanowiłem go ukrzyzować
ale sprzeciwiała się temu jego szla(ch)etna anatomia

obojetnie p(rz)yjął godność konsula
wła(dz)e sprawował najlepiej
to znaczy nie sprawował jej w'cale

nie udało sie nakłonić go to trwałych związków miłosnych
z drogą жoną moją Caesonią
więц nie powstała niestety linia cesa(rz)y - centaurów

dłatego Rzym runął

postanoviwem mianować go bogiem
lecz (dz)iewiątego dnia p(rz)ed kalendami lutowymi
(Ch)erea Korneliusz Sabinus i inni gwupcy p(rz)eшko(dz)ili
tym zboжnym zamiarom

spokojnie przyjął wiadomość o mojej śmierci

wyrzucono go z pałacu i skazano na wygnanie

zniósł ten cios z godnością

umarł bezpotomnie
zaшla(ch)towany przez gruboskórnego rzeźnika
z miejscowości Ancjum жшчčšц

o pośmiertnych losach jego mięsa
milчy Taцyt       /

no... no Helmut will help you with: dość! enough!
some casanova Nikita might - with:
szczypta: pinch - via... ш + ч = щ: vague - i know...

ah! the calendar's days of february...

already i see that this poem is "unspectacular" -
everything what was supposed to be lost
in translation is, lost -
the jealousy fizzles out and it's plain
as a shadow at noon on a sunny day
that it was never inteded to be there - to begin
with...

perhaps it's not the direct translation -
but how certain words just: sound more appealing -
and add toward the grandiosity...

i don't see how a poem can be translated
without something being lost...
after all: i want to lose: rather retain something
in / from a poem...
i want language to... freely...
"inter-racialiße" itself:
modus operandi - the lingua franca...
the l'ingelese of the modern chapter...
as the greeks would point out:
if the english tourists will not speak our tongue...
if the english tourists will not speak our tongue...
then we will speak their tongue...
and speak it was belgian speak it...
which is, better, than these nativistic half-breeds
of: 3/4 empire pride riddled...
1/4 rotherham bewildered...
we will not out-breed them...
we will: simply talk over them...
and their accents...
which we will learn and thereby:
insinuate over: via diacritical markers
and exceptional surd status reminders
of the raj: H...

i will claim that poetry is where i "paint"...
**** it. collage...
rude importune and most obscene...
a thesaurus cascade of synonyms!
impromptu one off...
it's not a hosonnah in the highest...
but a sitar in the bellowing detphs of the ebb...
it's a growling escapade...
something that ****** a yeti from
the carpathian mountains...
something that would require otherwise
to give it shackles, chains and a non-existent
lunatic asylum!

why dooes picking up... an alive cat...
make you succumb to an affair less...
bothersome... when you are indeed picking up /
handling a dead cat?
don't know...
a quasi-symbiotic affair between
matter and anti-matter?
borrowed terms.... outside of physics's disneyland
pretty irrelevant...
a corpse of a dead cat is always more
heavy than... the animated corpus of
a cat still outside the schrödinger
brackets:    cat[                            ];
what'­s death then? a colon, a semi-colon;
a hyphen or an apostrophe?
notably? an apostrophe without having
to be inclined to be used in a:
possessive article 's "scandal"?

i will escape with this language: i learned,
i acquired... i will leave the natives with
nothing but leather for skin:
that i will mark as an armchair...
i will entertain no more than
a genghis khan would have...
when the tanks started rolling...
and the luftwaffe was extinguished...
because... an invasion of an island...
no tanks, no bullets, no bombs...
diacritical markers... instead...

these letters are still: ROME!
came late to the party... had the vaguest notion
of coming late: but also becoming
the d.j.!

old mother: Cyrylica...
will and always helped...
the "natives"...
understand the reins and you can surely
translate... all the old paintings
with: we rode bulls into battle...
we didn't ride horses...
what does an army that that rides bulls
have as compensation compared
to an army that rides horses into battle?
well... a lance with a sharp point is...
replaced with the horns...
and a vector signature of red tied
to the end of a stick...
the horns replace the lance... the end...

somehow: and as the polytheistic gods
came as surprise material in:
goat-******* and bull-******* and swan-fiddling...
the monotheistic god came as...
the lowest of men...
because:
     Δ and... ∇: when nabla met delta:
the son of david was born:
which was called by surname: astar...
david astar...
       the phenomenon of...
when the father would become jealous
of the son: solomon...
or... rather... the son would never look up
toward the archetype of father...
because the father has his psalms...
while the son had the harem sonnets
of... sparrow-hoarding ****** of the onomatopoeia...

teach? teach? i am this close to...
correcting what has already been written...
however impossible...
claustrophobia and james joyce esque...

why not ж = rz...
and... ž = ż...                  half a caron: źrenica:
pupilla...
a back catalogue of a bilingual bank of vocab
is: the reason i "solve" and "crosswords"
on a blank canvas... like so...

and how do you think i learned a little bit
of greek: if... ovερλaππινγ?

remaining examples where: ц wasn't used...
well... the diacritical marker hovering above iota
like a halo: should it be used?
in a ciasto (dough) example...
well... debate: ćιasto... or ciasto?
in the confines of ciasto: the "c" is not a ц...
because of the proximity of the iota
as "suffix"... but not as a "prefix"...

    цerkiev... цytat... цытaт: citation...
sigh: tate modern is 20 years old...
but 20 years old will not be...
commemorated with the glass ceiling and:
Olafur Eliasson's 'the weather project' -
which is a great shame -
but who am i to judge?
let it be 'maman' by louise bourgeoise...

the same goes with the acute s...
even... imploring: prosić -
  otherwise... imploring: prośιć...

                   siano vs. śιano: hay
                   śnieg... snow...

i've been advocating the necessary guillotιne
for the iota... and the ȷazzy shιt ιn between...

and so much of my life could be deemed
simple... but how i can complicate it with a scrutiny
of language...
the best escape plan i can find -
and this is language: outside the realm of
academic rubrics - that it might borrow from
an international phonetic alphabet
of the linguistic dept. it will not...

it will consolidate two languages: dig two trenches...
and then borrow a third language or a fourth
to dig a tunnel or two between the two trenches...

well that's that for sharpening an arrow
and shoving it up cupid's ***...
to make him walk back smothered by knuckles
and recount to his parents:
Eros and Aphrodite... some of us would much
prefer uninterrupted work /
sifting through archaic words...
and leaving: the currency of vogue be:
something that only attracts:
panic is worse than fascism...
panic disorientates large crowds...
which... fascism is... unlikely to do...
so says the universal mantra of cheese grating:
smiles.
Overladen snow covered crackle and crunch
though, this skeptic owned a doubtful hunch
that such 24/7 round the clock whether coverage
would make laughingstock of forecasting
how Jack Frost feigned being out to lunch,
whereby inaccurate weather forecasters
outsmarted courtesy Mother Nature,
where snowfall accumulation tallied
one for the record books, a veritable blizzard
found meteorologists to scrunch

erroneous reports and quickly
retract how surprise Nor'easter
did quickly captcha  
and wallop unsuspecting
sleeping out of towners
whipping surprise out figurative sleeve
when dziadek mróz (Belarusian: Дзед Мароз)
in the Belarusian language
in league with Jackie Frost,  
both personifications getting last laugh

cuz women feel snubbed, shortchanged,
excluded, and being bossed
around feeling pinched at emotional,
physical, and spiritual cost
with million plus women marches
that did exhaust,
yet brought more equitable treatment,
and now risk being lost
in space at the outer limits
of the twilight zone or tossed

into the maws of Earth vis a vis
donning miner for a heart of gold,
where a frayed life line offers tenuous hold
nonetheless, despite risks to life and/or limb
females can experience em bold
dinned journeying
exposing them to in extremis cold
and worthy bets
at gambling halls upon casino bluffing,
thence, slapping (with poker face)

upon table a winning hand
abruptly forcing game to fold
grinning ear to ear while she scoops up gold
repudiating ugly rumors stereotyping women,
within which many other arenas
the devastatingly constricting mold
now upon many another proving grounds
non verbally, smugly,
and proudly assert" I told
you so" garnering, inviting, and

kickstarting kudos where,  
their overdue praiseworthy virtues extolled
which hard fight now pits
more gals to enter the scrum
letting actions speak louder than words
as bragging rights allow them to keep mum
though insinuating
rightful opportunity to whisk plum
ming access, where once (and still
to a lesser degree)

men didst unfairly prune
and hurl cruel names like hey
“scumbag," and/or other unflattering brickbats
versus increasing plaudits showered from
on high spelling victory
toward equality effacing glum
scowl into smile breaking out
finding more men grudgingly
bestowing deserved accolades
re-evaluating experiencing

the fairer *** lobbing smart
aleck nuggets of wisdom, now
despite being a youthful looking
roam'n lxv year old married heterosexual
underscoring, befriending opposite gender
making ladies in waiting
tubby a worthy chum
now, this ***
seeks Alma Mater dames
and graduates of
Hard Knocks School Alum.
Slaves, slaves subscribe to misery
Hordes, hoard what can't be stockpiled
Stock-pilers scale back and bone up on bonuses
Lords, they lord skyward to deflect the immersing night
Cults, that retain cult-status, hail ****, the **** of our Earth
   the perimeters lengthwise and likewise permeate    
   and grill without toasting
   additionally write without ghosting
   haphazardly glide sans skid-free coasting
   irreverently guide us with preachments boasting of
Serbs & Croats who speak Belarusian
And who'll raise not a hand when a foot'll do
Call Debby, the podiatric surgeon, once your toes go webby, yeah!
Hold down unroped things when your rope runs out
Bleed white unbled things when your blood runs out
Sneeze red when your nose breaks open
Corn, corn makes for corny gasoline
   tomatoes start off green as do green peas
Call, call the ships by phone
Phone, phone the ships on call
Gore a fruit called Albert
Mail in your terms of surrender
Become the itinerant, high-yield lender
Pull down your pool like a big-time pretender
Sing like that dead Mexican: Freddy F. Fender
Sell it as new when you know ****** well it's not
Bony women in closets emerge!
Resurrect Love Gods in Leisure Suits and Gaye Bykers on Acid
Spare me the histrionics from the goodest book on ebonics
   on groovy chicks of the Tropics
   on praxic strictures less exotic
Spare me the smell of dog-**** as with dog-**** I can't smell it
Let's groove with Typee chicks close to the ocean on the beach
   or play grab-*** with them from the tops of cocoanut trees
   or direct them into clinics for pre-emptive mastectomies
   or tap them as tappers tap maple trees tapped for tapping
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
just discovered a really funny girl,
            itsdivya -
                 and in all honesty...
instagram poetry was looming,
  somewhere, in the back of the mind,
but unlike a haiku
by some Chinese ****-'ed...
   or that Li Bai "dross" (there is ever
a problem of drinking alone?
    i thought you could only really
drink when alone? drinking with others,
i tried it, but after the initial
jovial backwards and forwards,
laughter... "micro-agressions"...
                   that deep seeded sense
of regret at having started drinking
to begin with... drinking alone...
                is there really any other way
to drink?
     but beside that...
        a poem about "coloured women" / people...
and, mind you: this is only after
a cider having chopped 8 onions
    and having not found the crocodile tears...
and perhaps two ms. ambers nibbling
ginger...
               (mind you, drunks always
have affectionate nicknames for their...
ahem... what would a ****** addict
call ******? H... smack...
      leech... i don't know...
  i once tested positive for *****
    in a ****-test when i was
being monitored for relapse into
smoking dope, skunk, marijuana...
but that's prior to me having
eaten somepoppy-seed cake,
                 makowiec, so, go figure)...
yadda-yadda-yadda...
      "people of colour"...
what the **** am i then?
           bedsheets?
            porcelain?
     a ***- geisha with full make-up?!
   a ******* african albino sacrifice
    of tanzania?
     you should see me after a few ms. ambers...
well... there's either a piglet hue on me...
or when i start laughing,
    eh... pale crimson...
          and that's not red as in a: "red indian"...
certainly not as blue as a Hindu indian...
and when i get a chance to **** up
some vitamin D in summer...
     i look like someone from Bangkok,
a copper dragon emerges...
                  bū'bū'*******...
                  ­              i'm done...
                         i come from very stubborn people...
i'm not going to capitulate...
                   because, yeah:
                  even ol' whitey overe 'ere had
the "easy ride" throughout history...
             you can bash a native englishman...
sure... m'ah colonial past...
                       colonial past?
                             in the ukraine?
                              under the prussians,
the russians or the austro-hungarians?
                         then under the nazis,
   then under the russians again?
            that, "colonial past"?
                just because i speak this language...
doesn't mean i have to listen
    to what the englishman has to endure.
                
so now, i guess: the draft...

the **** am I doing here, I've stashed the milk
into the basket,
I stashed the kiwi lime soda
for grandpa... and a Czech beer...
now I'm standing in the heavy
machinery aisle..,
looking at shelves of,
about... 15 different types
of *****... behind me, coco chanel...
or as ***** drinkers like
to call the whiskey,
the bourbon... perfumes...
i'm scratching my head,
15 types of *****...
am I really making a ****** choice?
apart from the labels...
I'm standing, looking at
hundreds of identical bottles...
it's a supermarket,
it's not a indie brewery...
akin to the edradour distillery...
serving tokai whizz...
sure... the trip would have been
great, but a Russian,
a Jewish a Belarusian
and my then Russian scoop
talking Russian and making
me feel like a Dostoyevsky novel...
n'ah ah sour grapes...
           blood was indeed shed,
on a waterfall...
mind you.., what the difference
between  western slav drinking
whiskey, and a Russian pleb /
actually a son of a lecturer
in residence at Edinburgh university?
the ******* Pole sniffs the glass
to get a bouquet of flavours...
the Muscovite pleb gets all philosophical...
peering into a glass...
it's hardly an insult
when it's a nibbling...  
                   more came looking at
amber gems of the baltic,
than looking at this, Pict ****...
    hardly the cas with *****...
5 minutes in and I still attempted
to make a choice...
thing with *****...
         you only receive critical
feedback from the a posteriori script...
now, I can be a civilised drinker
in company... i'll have one beer with you...
but that's where the trail ends...
that 500ml of kłosówka?
that's for me, in the company of
candles flickering,  and my shadow
dancing...
        5 minutes though, spent
trying to pick a ***** for a Saturday
excavation...
        god forbid the macabre love
bound to the cinema of
the notebook...
                 dogs really have
eyes more beautiful, than women...
notably viril Alsatians...
        mind you...
in the western slavic tongue
the are animal names,
and human names
     for certain correlations...
a human has oczy...
while an animal has ślepia...
a human has a buzia,
while an animal has
pysk... or... akin to a pig:
                     ryj...
no wonder... since
buziaki means kisses...
snogs...
          a dog kisses oral...
self-oral...
        slobbering the best he can...
and sisters always say
of the girlfriends of brothers:
coincidental with edradour distillery,
and her idea of Loch Lomond...
I brought the lonely swan though...
in general, men without women...
'oh tbut he wouldn't have seen
so much of this world without her...'
oh this, oh that... sigh...
and I'm cure he wishes...
to have seen Eden... peace...
than: one man's *******'s
worth of the taj mahal...
     postcards will do, just fine...
hated the equator weather
of Kenya mind you...
kept to the shace...
    watched people make proof
of holidaying,
scorching themselves for a tan
like buying Svarovky crystals...
back at the supermarket I finally
decided on the painkiller...
a shaft of wheat soaked in
the bottle...
   western perfume behind me...
scotch ****... ice tea...
and as ever,  the rule holds...
the civil beer in company...
but when it comes to 500ml
of straight Vladimir...
                     conversation is glum,
the graves open,
there is no party, no social unibhibition,
no drinking games,
no boasting...
     just a severe glued to
the marrow stare into
        a conversion of blank into
script...
      down below, two locals
talk into midnight
with a Yorkshire terrier on a leash...
5 ******* minutes
chosen a *****...
        like a gorilla, scratching its head,
looking for a straight banana
in a pile of the atypical curvatures...
5 ****** minutes...
mind you, there is compensation...
late evening, nearing half past 8,
mid-April...
continental spring,
lack of light pollution,
more stars than the outskirts of
London allow...
    and susumu yokota's album
grinning cat -
                       which, if coupled
with London's outer-suburbia can
be a real motivational piece
of music to pretend to be lost
and have the persistent "ambition"
to keep on walk...
      until finally walking into
a forest, or climbing over a park
fence to drink a beer on a bench
admiring the skyline,
              on, say, mashiter's hill.

— The End —