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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?


one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..
Carsyn Smith Dec 2013
Lost
in the dark forest of flux
not knowing where to turn
unable to see what's in front of me

Hansel can see me
but chooses to toss bread crumbs
in the comfort of shadows
instead of saving me.

Unknowingly
he's led us to the Witch's Cottage
and we won't emerge the same

Forged in her crucible
we had no choice but to change
into the blindman and the trickster

Now we're burnt and tattered
singing the eerie hymn that becomes our story:

Silly circles 'round the mulberry bush
the blindman chased the trickster
the trickster pulled a nasty prank
Bang! goes the blindman.









Don't look me in the eye.
You may have led us there,
but I followed knowing where
we would end up.

My name is Gretel
and my Hansel has lost himself
in a dark forest of flux.
Ihdini Hadi Oct 2016
Tired living like a blind man.
Because it was hurtful,
Cannot seeing thing,
Doesn't mean,
cut by knife,
wouldn't hurt.
Ihdini Hadi Oct 2016
Tried to living like a blind man.
Because it was painful,
To seeing thing,
without feeling,
of anything.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2021
}} who would lust to list to a guy named Waldo? I asked…
This guy I know, Al, he says it contains references to mort-ifying experiences, AND those could boost our points made, so AI suggests I read: Ralph Waldo Emerson, from 2021-
If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.
A man must consider what a blindman's-buff …
{*******, looks it up, it's like Marco Polo in a public pool}
he goes on
what a blindman's-buff is this game of conformity.
{ he assumes his audience is a we, We all play, back in his day, this game was considered religion, and
religion was some form
of Christianity, the rest were heathen,
in that game,
conformed religion was the only winning
peace time occupation,
which Blake bitten poets might imagine fitting into,
who knew?
at that time, now
the game is set, default mode
on cult startup,
first hook is, God called you because
you are like us a loser without hope, without help,
Tetzl, build me a tourist attraction,
make the Germans pay,
then
have all the ******* artists paint its walls
to prove each believes
the story the edifice shall tell.
{listen, she whispers, hear her first entreaty only once}
Now breathing is like expanding the game:
inspirational sci-psy-psi, know as we say we know,
we are those who know,  ecce ****,
-------- those evil inquisitors, were me -
-------no - I was Jaques De Molay,
sure, ri-ight,
and I'm Oscar Schindler, when he saves Anne Frank.
HEY
WE CAME TO EXPOSE A SHADOW...
so the seeds we sow
grow where hearing ears
cross reading eyes and all
the best ideas come in double

space-ing to allow for lines that wrap at the frame, fully phreakin' justified, on any screen with leading letting space be normal, thus limiting out of bounds imaginary
reasons
why lines come in expensive short lengths,
||
last issue of The New York Times composed using hot metal (2 July 1978) was titled
Farewell, Etaoin Shrdlu

|| the hot metal was lead. Like bullets, but letters.

In this medium, messages know
there are no valid reasons
for long justified lines and
space is not only there there
between lines that start at 10, to leave fixit room,
an ancient way of making room for right in wrong code.
Add a lin -oops line
Etaoin and Shrdlu and lorem ipsum, too
RW-if old waldo had been enabled,
as I am,
with mortally infinite paper
and ink visible to any eye,
Now Waldo, tell Seri to spread the word, y'back..
.
he may then
have written in my short line attention span,
concept upon concept
except ...
reception
falters…
WE LOST THE HOOK>
NOBODY KNOWS WHERE WALDO FITS THE PICTURE

Here's Waldo: 2021, with no ******* comments…
---------------------------
The objection to conforming
to usages that have become dead
to you
is,
that it scatters your force.
It loses your time and blurs the impression
of your character.
If you maintain a dead church,
contribute to a dead Bible-society,
vote with a great party
either for the government or against it,
spread your table like base housekeepers,
— under all these screens I have difficulty
to detect the precise man you are.
And, of course,
so much force is withdrawn
from your proper life.
But do your work,
and I shall know you.
Do your work,
and you shall reinforce yourself.
A man must consider
what a blindman's-buff is this game
of conformity.
If I know your sect,
I anticipate your argument.
I hear a preacher announce
for his text and topic the expediency
of one of the institutions of his church.
Do I not know beforehand that
not possibly
can he say
a new and spontaneous word?
Do I not know that,
with all this ostentation
of examining the grounds of the institution,
he will do no such thing?
Do I not know that he is pledged
to himself not
to look but
at one side,
— the permitted side,
not as a man, but as a parish minister?
He is a retained attorney,
and these airs of the bench
are the emptiest affectation.
Well,
most men have bound their eyes with one
or another handkerchief,
and attached themselves
to some one
of these communities
of opinion.
This conformity makes them not false
in a few particulars,
authors of a few lies,
but false in all particulars.
Their every truth is not quite true.
Their two is not the real two,
their four not the real four;
so that every word they say chagrins us,
and we know not where
to begin to set them right.
Meantime nature is not slow
to equip us in the prison-uniform
of the party
to which we adhere.
We come
to wear one cut
of face and figure,
and acquire
by degrees
the gentlest asinine expression. {;}

There is a mortifying experience in particular,
which does not fail
to wreak itself also
in the general history;
I mean
"the foolish face of praise,"
the forced smile which we put on
in company
where we do not feel
at ease
in answer
to conversation which does not interest us.
The muscles,
not spontaneously moved,
but moved
by a low usurping wilfulness,
grow tight
about the outline
of the face
with the most disagreeable sensation.
>
I find I digest short lines better, and waldo doesn't mind being paid a bit of attention, he had some ideas that breathe easier in this century,
Ihdini Hadi Oct 2016
Put an act is not a big deal.
Being honest would be a big shot.
Trying to be a blind man.
Act like can't see anything,
Maybe I can keep everything.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.

well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
     or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
    but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
     it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
  i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
        and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
   crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
           it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
        poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
   or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
      and it has to be profound...
                      yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
                             strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
                         which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
           Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
                did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
    but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
        and it's still a case of:
                   people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
                Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
    Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
    the i = i, or i am i...
                              and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
                       thinking defines subjectivity...
      thinking the essential component of what's
   not thought about: the existential compromise of
   being per se...
                    and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
    it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts...          a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
     am i truly so un-realistic?
               not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real...          it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
    i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
      and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
                           whether rhyme... or other technique...
    hanging over it...
                           it can't do:
      i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
  and it is: too scientific...
              i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
                    so yes... Kant
                         really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
                     over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
    not that's what i call a plastic saying...
      ****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
     which is why i could eat a historical novel
        by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
                     and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
     a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
   schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
   who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
                         but they do teach that...
           which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
                and that's when i let go...
   the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
                    so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.

ii. ...

and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
               and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
  the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
               but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
      the tumble-**** effect...
                      no real prospects for life...
        and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...  
   by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
                  give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake...     fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
             that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
      i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
   and i could feel myself over-heating...
  i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
       mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
                    an impotence was crowned...
   don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
     phenomenal...
                                         well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
               and was it ever, not only about ***?
    it's nice to doubt it...
                           next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
                           at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
   and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
         give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
  i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh...   it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
                                 over there that's like a **** in
a tornado...              ha ha! it really is!
   but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
  most of these graves, really are: tacky...
    just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
                 no khaki for the ss...
                                           and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
         it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
                   or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
                     and it's like: huh?
                                           presto! dum-dum.
    sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
       it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
   and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
     uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
          does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
                      someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
            and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
                           social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
           but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
             i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
     as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
   i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
  where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
    if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
    and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.

iii.

for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:

| | |
     fig. 1
                                          /   \
                                            _
                 ­                                 fig. 2
    Δ
       fig. 3
                                           A
                                               fig. 4

it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
      concerning a book like that,
              but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
  hope to disperse the mist.
                you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
                     again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
            philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
                and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
                do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
     you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
              we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
                       obstructs language...
                 i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
                    i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
                 i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
                nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
  consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
   and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
    disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
   if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
   there's enough reason to be concerned...
                  i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
          that mine is an isolated case...
         ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
    thus said: the reflective man has died...
       in his place came the reflexive man...
                             and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
   then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
                 when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
      fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
          
iv.

the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
   the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
                      as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
   and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
                    imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
   so how far apart are the words: qua             and
                   quo?
   as good a question as: how far apart are the words
                          phor               and phren?
       φoρ                       &                            φρην?
        so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart?  looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
    nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
   φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
                φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
                        and so: the futility of looking for
        a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
  given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
  that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
                         or φρην & πσιχη -
                we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
      that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
  and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
   into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
                           it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
  and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.

v.*

i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v
roanne Q Jan 2013
This is not an accident. I used to call him
a lazy criminal. Scooping hearts and spilling blood,
leaving footprints, fingerprints. Stains.
Eyes folding over -- the blindman or the beggar?
Lips that blossomed into blueprints.
Hands that rhymed with dreams, instead.


The weeknights, dark and warm
in a season of curled paper.
No speaking -- guilt only follows
past the second trip through the door.  
And then the mornings.
More sun in him than the greenhouse
where we watched dragonfly wings.
A pattern about him
like dragonfly wings.


In those days we knew
what it meant to point
without wounding.
We knew how to need someone
without wanting,
without loving.
jul 2012
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
how often do I have to return to the comparison
of dogs, when my patience and
social formality is tested...
         and without these piquant passions
I'd... well I wouldn't even try to
become an oriental monk or a
Bangladeshi yogi (if that's what you're
asking)...
            guess it will never be in my heart
to turn my blood blue
and pretend to blush like Vishnu...
then again: maybe there are no monarchs
seated on the stools of cashiers,
at a supermarket?!
       perhaps older women should be
taught not to serve your men buying
alcohol, thinking that they are en route
to the men in their life...
     whatever the story,
          but for god's sake,
   just because I've taken my headphones
off and slipped them into the neck
of my t-shirt doesn't mean I'm: suddenly deaf...
ah faaaa'ck the woman's comments
ruined my afternoon moon which
subsequently ruined this classic pasta
bake I was making...
            because that sort of commentary
from a supermarket cashier isn't on...
PEOPLE DO NOT HAVE BORING JOBS...
THEY HAVE EASY JOBS
    WHICH MAKES THEM BORING...
and I'd love to see a bunch of these
supermarket staff spend one summer
covering the roof of the Scottish Widows
HQ near St. Paul's:
   WORK ON A CONSTRUCTION IS...
    ARBEIT!
            you don't have a chance to
scratch your backside let alone
think about flamingo coloured clouds
to, "pass the time"...
          can't exactly expect a job,
devoid of physical exertion,
and somehow wish for an intelectually
budding focus point to counter...
  people have "boring" jobs because
they don't have as much physical investment
in it... and not every job, made easy,
is guaranteed intellectual prosperity...
albeit there are some "easy" jibs
that nonetheless require a sense of
the other, id est: responsibility -
exemplum gratis: a crane operative...
      roofing is a menial task,
albeit with the meniality of the labour
eased by a physical investment...
all these, menial / "boring" jobs?
   exactly, where once it would be equated
to toiling in the field...
          no intelectual expansion,
added to the missing loss of physical strain...
hey presto, you have kings and queens,
literal ******* monarchs on supermarket
cashier stools!
      MANTRA:
    remember to have the cool of
an alsatian, rather than the bark of
  dachshund (repeat that x3)...
WHY?!
    loose tomatoes, on the vine...
even at the self-checkout the checkout
machines have, a ******* weighing
mashine for the cashier,  
    by her generous graces: to ******* use!
if this sort of cashier is so
******* expendable, why the hell have
supermarket cashiers in the first place?!
people have a knack,
at making them expendable...
    this poem would not have come to life
if the supermarket installed self-checkouts...
because?
******* dinosaur...
    I can understand going to the butcher stall
or the fishmonger stall and receiving
a barcode sticker...
    fresh fruit and veg. in a supermarket?
    does it ******* look like I'm
at Spitalfields?!
    sorry, Poles can't own shops, can't work
in shops, will always return to
shopping during the Marshal Law days
paranoid about the Soviet invasion...
fresh tomatoes, every self-checkout
machine has the option of weighing
loose veg...
    yet there she is, a twitching
a.i. in waiting recyclable with a question
(prior to the suggestion of my deafness...
no, the sound of cars doesn't fill
me with a techno romance, music thank you,
can't summon a ******* sparrow
even if I waned to):
WHY AREN'T THESE TOMATOES WEIGHED?
mantra: remember to have the patience
of an alsatian...
     oh, sorry, could you just put
them to the side?
   the barcode road ended...
     SELF-CHECKOUT MACHINES
HAVE A LIBRA FUNCTION!
YOU CAN DO MORE THAN JUST SCAN
BARCODES! YOU ARE SUPPOSED
TO WEIH LOOSE VEG!
   THE SUPERMARKET HAS HAD A FRESH
DELIVERY! SEASONAL PRODUCE WILL
NOT BE PACKED IN SOME *******
JUST OUTSIDE OF MADRID AND SHIPPED
WHEN LOCAL PRODUCE HAS JUST BEEN
BROUGHT IN, AND IS SOLD LOOSE,
BECAUSE IT HAS BEEN BAUGHT IN BULK,
THE SUPERMARKET HASN'T PAID FOR
BARCODE PACKAGING...
expendeble human being...
     and god, I sometimes wish I could
bark like a duchshund whenever
a mosquito-bite's moment of irritation
      came like that on every
occasion...
          little dogs bark...
I haven't the energy most of the time...
so I have the mantra:
save the barking and go straight
for the bite...
        hence the alsatian...
             currently there's a "debate"
about: disabled people protesting for
almost 20 days about receiving
     an increased living allowance...
and I'm like: you sure a ****** would
have insulted my hearing
     and did a job worse than I would
have done using a self check-out?
        all ******* smiles if they were
given this "menial" task...
   heads full of hot air, smiles all round,
and... on the odd occassion,
a deviation from scanning barcodes...
but I sometimes wish
   I could bark like a little dog
on these mosquito-bite type of scenarios,
as trivial as they are...
   in a supermarket...
    but I can't exactly lunge into
gnarling and biting...
            guess I have to pretend to
be the ever loving, patience of an angel
labrador... type of...
              dog, walking an invisible
blindman...
     hell, the ***** I bought on this
trivial escapade makes the past day
a glitch... and the night:
    open to an endless stream of interpretation...
she was right though,
   I am not the sort of story
behind alcohol that she probably
knows and has moved past
self-pity...
                    all out war of tongue...
well, sure...
    AVE! MENS FACTUS EST ****...
hell, Latin grammar is like
a semitic text,
          right to left...
            doesn't matter if the text
is ancient and was also, once upon
written left to right...
   the grammar might as well be
semitic...
               good that I didn't bark...
           ah...
but to have ended the day and escaped
into the night, with this deadweight
making me bloated?
     the fact that people
can't keep social manners in comment
sections of articles...
           and don't have the capacity
to bash about a pixel blank?
        it's as if these people are so docile
and oblivious to situations
where they could have barked
    but didn't...
    but also: didn't even have
a conflicting argument to not bite...
hence... ha ha...
   the comment sections, those of us
aged 30+... are familiar with.
Faleeha Hassan May 2016
Every time my father is late from the front line
Sickness strikes my mother
and I tour with her the hospitals of Najaf.

I write to him ‘come back to us now,
Make your sergeant read my words: I am about to die’.

He returns my letter, laughing:
‘We are the amusement of the blindman’.

Oh, you River of Jasim, you tore my years
Between my father’s assumed victories
And my mother’s wishes in the emergency room;

They used to plant hope in her mind
By sticking on the glass door,
Two notices confirming: (awaiting death certificate).

Her heart ages so fast
And I ***** from hearing the chants.
Every time the presenter says ‘Victory is on the horizon’,

My grandmothers’ eyes rise to the ceiling -
She hides a mocking smile.

With rage I scream at the screen ‘no victory’s coming’.

She whispers: ‘god is generous’.
‘You sound like my father when I asked for new toys’.
She quietens and we contend,
Awaiting his return before a new battle,
Fearing that a last fight may end the life of a dove.
Translated by Dikra Ridha

Najaf: an Iraqi city, where the poet was born and lived most of her life.
The River Jasim: is a river situated between Iraq and Iran, the location of many battles during the Iraq/Iran war.
In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older

Soon it will be fifteen years

He was old he will have fallen into his eyes

I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live

One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name

Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say

He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass

I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay

He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water

We are the echo of the future

On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live
Angelica Lemburg Nov 2014
One fine day
    About midnight
Two dead soldiers
    Got in a fight.
Back to back
    They faced each other.
Drew their swords
    And shot each other.
A deaf policeman
    Heard the noise.
Came out and
    Killed the two dead boys.
If you don't believe
    This lie it's true.
Ask the blindman
    He saw it too.
Got Guanxi Apr 2015
Deep ridge,
deplete elitists.
Gold flows, layers,
Dbridge,
enriched tone, gates golden,
heavenly.
San Francisco, incomplete,
switch robes.
Can't be beat, Klitchschos,
barking up the wrong tree,
rich tones.
Switch flows, risk it,
rich tea, gifted.
Unwritten, no gimmicks,
smooth months,
pale ale Guiness.
Wrap presents,
gift wrapped,
signed sealed delivered.
Dispatched,
Spit fires, spit facts,
die for the art.
Mismatched.
Calamity believe, nose dive.
Kamikaze.
No harder, fuel,
nose powder.
White knight in shing armour.
1688,
Spanish Armada.
Cut sharp like barber,
bananas,
permanent like markers,
malleable like lava,
pop like cava.
Polova.
Inscribe minds,
magna carter.
Magnificent bars,
gold tales told.
Slaves sold, reigns over.
Cold shoulder,
rainbow coloured mistakes,
shoulders shudder,
steer clear brother,
execute rudder.
Destitute,
Scuppered.
Destination under breath muttered.
Spread like wildfire,
butters, blindman, blackout,
blinds again, shutters.
Dunces, run ****.
Jump ****, loose lips,
loosing grip.
Tip of the iceberg.
Tip of the tongue,
no nice words.
Stigmata.
Godfather,
go harder for our forefathers.
The time is ours.
I have no idea what this.
Why I enjoy writing so much just some of the random things that end up coming out...
Not to be taken too seriously :)
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
This is how I saw it said John.

Jesus heard from God, YHWH, biggest imaginable mind,

mind to mind,
I and my father are one

the scripture can't be broken
if I do not the works of my father which I have been sent to finish

believe me not, I wrote. I write. There is a bubble
where if one were to say I  write
and by writing, I ask,
what are you
debating?

Who is this old man?
standing afar from the scorners

I was asked. Was it challenge, scorn or

curiosity tickling the child in the blindman who
said he could not see me writing,
therefore
I am not a writer,
in the bubble that man lives in.
He now lives in my reality.

In my world I am the light.
I banish darkness with light from my phone

Fantasize, know ye not what I have done unto you?
Granted. Ignoring is easier. Truth makes you free.
After a while, you know when you are lying.

If ye know these things happy are ye if ye do them
Some one among you
has lifted up his heel against me
has lifted up his heel against me
has lifted up his heel against me to crush my head

who is it?
Judas,

Oh, thank God, I thought it was me who received the sop.
What kind of Christian am I?

One like the writer of the manuscript taken as good news

do your works, whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it
the spirit of truth

I will not leave you comfortless,

the word which ye hear is not mine, but the fathers
My Peace Give I unto you

Did that burning monk in Saigon do that for me?
My Peace Give I unto you
he said that, I bet.

Not as the world gives? Am I alone in hope?
I do
write, hoping...
chosen out of the world, oh my am I
to
follow through
good news from a far country
now have they both seen and hated

the spirit of truth

you should not be offended.
If you are, get over it.

The sending required the going
the spirit of truth

What kind of Christian am I?
This is an old man, retelling
he chuckles when he recalls, do ye now believe?

was followed by a wink,
I have overcome the world

and this is finished, all beyond is unbelievable.

Timeless stateless state
Thy Word,
John said, as it flows from me in my comfortzone.

Be with me where I am, these have known…

Am i? Are those old words words for now, 2019?
Whom seek ye?

As soon as he said I am he
It's the next day old man John woke up

spent some time in his carnal mind sorting
things out.

If I have spoken evil,
bear witness of the evil, then the story
of Peter's tri-denial,

the poet, John, tells the tale

the legendary good news

What is Truth? I find in him no fault at all.

Barabbas was a robber. Ecce ****.
Whence art thou?

How did John know? The comforter? What kind of Christian am I?
The spirit of truth

Joy to the world, that was the message.
conciliation where ciliation itself was never known

ere now.
It is finished, he bowed his head and gave up
the ghost.

My witness is truth.

Confident, competent

compete to win
winning is not sinning

kachunkonnect
we're in.
Comfortzone verified. My peace is my witness.
Don't test me.

Patience, do your perfect work.
Truth, inspire expired hopes.
While listening to Alexander Scourby reading the Goodnews from John, the deepest walk down that road, for me, in quite some time.
J Patrick H Mar 2013
It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.

Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
*****-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.

I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.

A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.

I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.

Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.

Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.

Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.
ajit peter Feb 2014
A light to shine in dark
With a torch tis blind man walk
blind from the day born
know he not night and dawn
In dark his torch shine bright
To them that see a path to light
deeds of human soul understood not
yet a torch tis blindman has got
I've HAD it with these
motherfuçking snakes on this
motherfuçking plane

I have brain typhoons.
Swarms of moth-seraphs howl in
my skull. Lies vex them.

...you're the righteous man,
and I'm the shepherd, and it's
the world that's evil...

...wanna play blindman?
Go walk with the shepherd. But
me, my eyes are wide...

What the fuçk happened
to you, man? $hit, your a$s used
to be beautiful!

Oh, you were finished!
Well, allow me to retort.
It's almost over.

Motherfuçker do
that **** to me, he better
paralyze my a$s...

That, my friend, is a
clear cut case of him or me.
And you best believe...

...ain't gonna be me.
I ain't come here to **** you.
You believe this $hit?...

Correctamundo.
And that's what we're gonna be.
We're gonna be cool.
That's that Hawaiian
burger joint. I hear they got
some tasty burgers.

Sources: Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown,
The Caveman's Valentine, Snakes on a Plane
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
sometimes i drink, to simply drink...
and find myself: absentee doing the nod...
the drunk will, nod,
akin to a ****** addict...
before he claims to remember
a blitzkrieg of thought from the monring:
would it be better...
that i drink expensive alcohol...
and become a...
no... i somtimes drink in order to tow myself...
i was hopig for some grand adventure
hopping... nay nay... hope-ing...
****... hoping... when ut's not underlined...
what's the "nod" or the "nodding"?
well... meet me in oblivion if you want...
and we can chorus: amen!
i drink because: even if there was
a "drinking buddy"...
no... not today, not tomorrow:
noi leftover Tuessday...
i drink and ensure that i'm alone because...
how else to drag the reflective self
along: suffix... always missing
the prefix and the self- reflexive...
constant... ****-buggering reminder!
drinking alone is like...
a clarity of "solipsism"...
and the world became a better place...
when michel de montaigne only
wrote about himself...
i don't own a book...
but i'm pretty ******* sure...
the 12th rook for life...
it's hard to walk the streets...
to acquire a petting of one...
a cat is not a dog is not a leash
nor a muzzle...
i drink... because...
i... i drink the cheap **** god's ****
for the sole reason that i will
never become a connoisseur...
the more expensive the bundle of "york"...
the lesser the viking invasion...
to be drunk is to be uninhibited:
to be... dishibited...

nigh-quen-dough?
oh right... queenies and the brazilian
overload...
lament the shadow people...
first comes first:
as always the rice per....
the starving bowl...
or; riddle...

fore! a bubbling sense of what's
to become of an iceberg!
and...

best i drink alone...
this sort of drunk needs no conversation...
timidity via the saved
crumbs from the slanted table...

it's not a champagne flute!
it's a glass elongated...
cider and some whiskey
to signature it...

better alone...
it's called the lighthouse -
and... there's no cat involved...
and...
when the moon...
full-faced... preteding to hide
behind a cloud...
turns out all... milky...
and the night is only
just beginning...

no none of this...
will ever resolve itself within
the confines of an award ceremony...
the lesser life...
the closet life...
the everyday purr-and-life...
i drink because...

i'm tired of... what other people want...
i drink because i'm titred:
what other people have...
better i "clarified" myself
and became a cleft...
become... a bergman thespian...
all black & white and ****...

i'm just... tired...
before the cross! in the shadow
of a giza pyramid!
before you came!
after you so come!
i'm tired of bow-tie & tux
expectations -
i'm tired... the least of my drinking
patterns give me...
ambrosia... and gymnastic agility
to call: 5pm... the 9pm when
my brain thinks itself wholly material...
and the soul; somehow: dies...

i drink because i'm tired...
i prefer to drink alone...
i'm vaguely democratic...
tyrant: yes... tirade.. double up on!
otherwise: that spezialz plazez of
the sober... god given...
democratic citizens of hollywood
centralz...

drunk moi:
+ cat
+ cartwheel
+ l.s.d.

            to sink a titanic with: an evil eye...
borrowed from a persian myth...
also: the inability to digest...
heaps of pseudo-gravel...
some call it couscous,...

i drink in order to find the imitation
of drowning...
or... the quest! for gills!

lesser thoughts and the more disgruntling
efforts: picasso smiles...
i drink and i will pursue to drink...
because...
sober is a bypass... otherwise sober is...
kosher salt... play-dough...
blindman's backgammon...
puff-pastry's summons!

sink the titanic... and the tel aviv
contort.
have your way...
because... even now...
helmut spinoza... back then?
heresy... right about now?
a toothpick's concern.
it's called a fork and knife...
you'd pike and knife it as being cut...
later...
rather than pinching all the way through.

i'm tired of the jews being shadow people...
i'm tired of the jews being...
conspiracy theory NPCS...
they have reclaimed Israel..
they want to wrestle with god...
the **** is h'america to be necessary
to conform?
the ******* payot harem?
only the hasidi jews are the literate
people of the world?
                                                     hafiz?
chosen people: yup...
zee spezialz....
        spaz bastardadoughdoughdo or don'ts.
sink the titanic...
give me... the ******* mirror...
i'll sonner die than
cleave myself to the lesser demands
of man... via hey-zeus cha-cha bistro from
a cross... *******-wacking feudal... and an ism!
You are
A Long Train
And singed
Such a hard labour
A disfigured lump
In a pale chromosome
Your voice is perspiring
And your sterile tall slant -wise to the left
So
Petrified me
Your very soul
When she pack her luggage, as a blindman
Plucking vines in the dust
Let it be
A Let alone
Your Head Gloves
And learn the names for ten touching things
And see for all
Without sacking their faces with your eyes
And throw them so
A beggar coins casted away in a dish
Laid down on the the fear's pavement
Let it be
Let alone
Your heart
It depends on who pays more !!!
Elsie Aug 2016
eat me in darkness, in the light of a dying grass,of a lifeless blue sand,take me and make me beg for  a silent violent storm
throw me down  like a  bag of  angry nuts,humble in hot *** in a hot -white winter, chew me like a greedy lion  over  lamb of a creepy camp without lame excuses,grind my toungue,stroke  pull my friendly hair when my ******* are swollen
Have no mercy,keep it messy,to yourself and Shhh, i'll pay the bill and the pill
if you wanna  prune
if you  wanna sprout
I need a sound and a smell of A red rotten egg in a  hard shell
it smells good life and make me long for a ride
a ride in a village
where saints aint invited
wanna mess up with the devil
I see his marks,it sees my fading tatoo
smell the good taste of a begging soul
hit my lip, kiss a tik, make me smile
the village i wanna visit, all **** and ***** shirts,red wine
fine hardships ****** and swagger
mixed up in a laundry where my heart  sings with desire
mess it up  tear a little bit fear no messiah
no priest or a preacher
saint and a sin wear same shoe
make a berry wish i'll give you every dish
of a lonely naked girl in her balgy falling pants
mess it up roll it out and aim for hell

this is a feeling
i have owned for a second
longed for days
wished for months
it flashes my mind when my *** flushes kindness
whu a u to make it holy
who begs a preacher when a ride is  evil
just around the corner
where my neighbour sees it better
i freak and beat the seat before the blindman sees im weak
someone to steal me, feast ON me,
till i disappear in that neat ****
Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
Next then now, then next
no line, no dot, nothing now

time passes, came to pass,
as a near answer, a near new
point from which to view now.


In my case, my time as part,
smallest difference made,

the air you breathe, once,
I breathed into, and once,

I made you think yourself,
become a being I am not, but

then,
time,
and chance, all things working,
being, by gone, on gone working
to gather the momentum to make
time stretch into another whole mo-
ment, monumental pillar of earth salt.

At this point, next seems inevitable.
So we wait.
Thinking a next like this next one,
has never had a state of being common.

What - all ifery asks, if, imagined, seen, see

we agree and proceed to see, so time's
essence is momentarily mental, we think,
therefore we do many mental moments, we
think we would, or could or should be ready
for ever to cease forming myself, from myself,

slowing time, to myself, for myself, taking mine
and forming some for you to use, to take a second

order of packeted eventuality, side-tracked,
to let the important news of many deaths elsewhere,
make us agree to become so much better informed,

buy the best life has on offer, ready,
read the instructions.
{ lifetime acheivement, never reached}
Chiefest among missers of the mark.

Of course, in the course of human events,
from the playing fields of Eton, to the battlefields
of Afghanistan, what power reigns supreme?
- The Lion came, and brought the Tiger,
- the Bear came, and left, and then the Rat,
- or the Weasle, we can even see a Squirrel
- in the role of first worst case scenario on offer.
VOG - quiet on set, quiet back stage,
mind reengage tongue, taste the fertile reality, who
and what we are, enjoyment, actually, being, mere joy,
ahoy, adrift in all our otherwords, set idle by our tech-logic
- What fear rules the man who has learned his role?
Broken leg, reversed cursing, blessing God, just in case.

-- A day, Ivan Denisovich, Zeks, yes,
man's inhumanity to man, and best layed plans

plotted course of concentration, minds meld, given
incentive to spill over the banks of the feeder canals,

as the hermit's cistern in the Lagunas, topped it's edge,
and he sighs, thinking, so it is, you got a cistern,
I gotta cistern, if yours were to overflow,
it is your fault, or your glory for the joy, in the streets
in the summer,
in the city, back o' yo' neck red and sweaty, you dig,
you become worthy of the daily bread we are given
for righteous duty done, did I do, or did you, did we

sing along with the bouncing ball, did we all?

Thinking, all we do is wait,
becoming old, we wait to finish thinking,
thinking old, old, olden days, before letters,
before
knowing, being nothing, becoming this, these
lines of lettering linking noises used among us
to carry thought from me, myself and I, to you,

the one other at the moment, in the state,
what if, what if, what if nothing makes more
difference than you, one of us, one in our once

in an unbroken history of science and philosophy,
our hours of confluency, our instants in shared
learning, minutes of life's use, as used to make us
up from nothing… to think about a series of every

expansion to our sense of connectedness, seeing
we lieve being true, first proof the priests do lie,

first proof the chaos is not evil, but essential
patient zero, paradigm,
"logical or conceptual structure
serving as a form of thought
within a given area
of experience," Kuhn, perhaps, aligned

any worth, any value, any cost or price,
eventually, any time is too short.
Any vessle filled with experiential wonders
projected on reflective walls, six ways walled.
windowed and doored.

In parts, in passing, taking offerings
left in pasts for hungry spirits, urging

answer seeking, seeming endless, whying,
ifing, framing forms for fitting twos to ones,

as when we agree, we form a two headed
thing, with we agreeing meatily to work
as carnal minds do, given set and setting,

inform a vessle for holding self evidence.

Governing systems, blindman crosswalks,
mandated, ai, remote eye aware, are we,
seeing from television, new form, digitized
bit maps of surprising resolution, if one re-
members learning lessons of scale, how tall,
how small, the ratio, this pattern of whorls,

and that, fingerprint from some once in ever,
there, we all see it, so huge we lack the frame
of referrence, we cannot bear the weight of knowing

we are the tipped point on our wave's recourse
around the laws serving stanchion roles in god's houses.

Pillars formed from promises, to those who find the time,
now, in a given day,
plain old everyday summertime, growing time, passing
as quaint, handcrafted meditation stations, desert fathers,

have we any wool, yessir, yessir, three bags full,
master, dame, and some poor spinner
who lives down the lane… earning daily bread,
as penance for being born in sin, losing all the good God
had planned, I' know a guy,
he can tell this story,
as a called and reconnected son, of God.

And the likelihood, actuarially, as tithes passed,
interesting, heft, umph, to the indulgent users, knowing
good and evil, evil is lazy money, doing no man any good.

Knowing how to grow more money, Midas, reminds,
as do many voices from the tombs, liars prosperity changes

legends, shapes myths, fixes history just so, at the instant,
we knew, we all knew, at once, everything,
is after ever before,
and we have stores of knowns, unbeknownst,
arranged in time and alpha beth order, for habitual
referrence, you know, we all know religions are powers
wielded by Ideal candidates, chosen children, and broken
old ladies,
what mystery is more mysterious than they,
the power they rewield as time stamps, proof, there

that guy was a witness, and he was not there,
on the stair, I
sat, imagining I remembered that, and found it odd.

I have been lied to, and I have lied, to you, I do,
naturally, I am of that class of sapient things, I can
lie, if lying leads the mark into the mark-et try and do,

do, indeed, Yoda, wink. Done, and beheld, now, that
is time well spent.

AND there's more…

Meta Kuhnian Crisis Paradigm.

Four nickles, two dimes, time was,
two novels, or four one reel peep shows,
-SECOND COMING TYPE- ten 2 cent papers
WAR CALLS
PEACE-
times means for holding a cultural bubble,
intact, sticky in fact, tacky to the touch,

RSO and blue stripes… settled hermit state,
from a granite lip of a feng shui breeze,
AI, what do I know - in summary,
a procession
Summarizer
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions is a book written by philosopher Thomas S. Kuhn in 1962.12 Kuhn argued that scientific advancement is not linear, but rather a series of peaceful interludes punctuated by intellectually violent revolutions, where one conceptual world view is replaced by another.3 The book offers a general pattern of scientific change, where inquiries in a given field start with a clash of different perspectives.1 Eventually, one approach manages to resolve some concrete issue, and investigators concur in pursuing it—they follow the "paradigm." Kuhn challenged long-standing linear notions of scientific progress, arguing that transformative ideas don't arise from the day-to-day, gradual process of experimentation and data accumulation, but that the revolutions in science, those breakthrough moments that disrupt accepted thinking and offer unanticipated ideas, occur outside of "normal science." The historical process of science is divided into three stages: a "normal" stage, followed by "crisis" and then "revolutionary" stages.0

Of my own volition, if one were to assume
one of my stations in life could possibly know my own will,
revolunteered to lead a raid behind the lines,
out of loyalty to a bucket list
perfect cow dismemberment, check,
tear a sacred cow to shreds and leave it to be ciphered out,
by farmers living high on the Teapot Dome affair,
and its coincidence to great social reformation,
- steam roll, electric mind of Tesla
- and all the unsung genius under Edison, into one,
- as the online entity with roots back to BBS and
- dial tone tricks of a switch…
yes, the burden of the rich, as we saw the similarities,
become the unresolved problem,
- mission drift, art intuited cognosis
have you never read where it is written that we,
we who read
being the only letting being
to let it be known, that we are to judge angels,
- where does this go?
as best messaging noncorporeal beings, wielding spirit in truth,
not some clown troupe trope miss
representing feeble minds reattempting trials,

Not Clarence, or Caspar, or the couple in the Thin Man,
nor Harvey, the Pooka manifested as human in a rabbit hat.

In profile he became the ******* Logo, same rabbit head guy.
Bunny lore, wrapped in chinchilla, soft as kitten fur,

who would ever tell?

--- Business, summer makes me think of winter sales.

No curious use of curio arts, ancient
beta better possible ways, from when we knew nada
at all, zip, zilch, no se, no way, we were babes,

and if we are raised, we become like animals, we sweat.
But, if we are reared, we become as men, we perspire.

As sentient beings who read as readily as we write,
we accept the role of reader as ours by right, or rote
ritual quotidian duty, each day, we plan to finish re-en
lightening the mob, the masses, eight billion of us now,

as we approach the peak, powers of ten, times six,
why six,
cubes stack nice… least heat, cool
enough to seal a preset get,
go, be gone to elicit light,
research into mind mold.
I write for fun, the stuff in entertainment, mental activa, I may suppose.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
tenet fingers could ed braille,
hard-skinned fingers
could read nothing,
but morse-braille...
   and then there's stenography...
why o why
is the diacritical tilde
   (                  ~                  )
used to vacate either m,
    or the rattle-snake, trilling,
rolling implosion of the shape of R?
sure, b as 6... p as a copernican
north-by-north-west d...
   P as chiral narcissus 9...
     A as lambda (Λ)
and suma summarum:
a return to Phoenician
     jurisprudence and lament...
or rather lamed, subtle variations
circa 90°...
    E, I, K, V...
        how much of injustice
is grounded upon the "logic"
of stenography...
                         which could introduce
tilde to replace either M, or R...
thus said...
compared to braille,
and the simplified braille via morse
encapsulation? stenography
is cuneiform by comparison,
what's the point of shorthand,
when certain cases are delayed,
and delayed...
and 20 years later on deathrow,
enough time to see Johnny Cash
die of old age... and still waiting...
needless to say,
braille combined with morse
makes more sense than
     stenography...
                   almost as if...
you're begging to see a man
possessing a chronology of
20 years of sight,
attempting to discourage
braille writers from owning
punctuation marks, instead,
focusing on spacing...
    of man's notion of serving
justice... culminating in the nonsense
of stenography...
with either M or R,
marked by a tilde...
              should a blindman write
in braille... what the stenographer
writes in resurrected Phoenician...
as quickly as...
    a death sentence becomes
a liberty,
         for poor Xavier...
       than the upper tier of
zoology, lodged in a life
measured by: x cubed...
             man has another name
for passing law...
namely... imbedding itself in delay...
once a life, reduced to the frivolity
of micro-aggression,
culminating in, waiting for a bus,
five minutes late...
          that death that sloth
that slouch, that... ******.
Seema Aug 2017
While receiving the daily alms
From houses far and near
A blind beggar walked passed
Wiping off his sweat and tear

As he neared the temple steps
To praise and thank the gods
The people laughed at him
Leashing out hurtful words

Some sitting on the steps
Taunted him of being blind
"O' blindman you can not see god"
"How will he accept your praise of kind"


"If I can't see, he who sits on the shrine"
"It's totally fine to pay my respect"
"Atleast my god can see me if I can't"
"And like you, he will never reject!"


I watched the entire scene silently,
Of the people with the same beliefs
A blind can not offer praise
Coz his doings are based on griefs

How meek and judged, the people are
Believing in everything they see
Hearing people preach of god
Forget that god resides in you and me...

©sim
Haley Lana Aug 2020
They ask me what I like about you -

as if it could be said in a sentence or two...

As if words could even express,

all the ways in which you make me a mess.


Oh, mad heart, if you could just quit

wishing and yearning, just for a bit.

I need a rest, from this lasting ache,

to stop thinking about him, asleep or awake.

Just give up, just don't, there isn't a hope,

you delude yourself, just start to cope.


"It's better to know then to keep wondering" -

but could I stand the rejection's sting?

Just holding these feels, it's too much to bear,

Sorry, can't help it, I simply care.

This way, at least, I'm the one to blame,

this way, I don't have to face the shame.

Somehow, it feels, just like control,

I'm hurting but I made the call.

Giving up and losing are two different things,

one pain is dull, the other one stings.

This way you won't feel sorry for me,

this way I get to keep my dignity.

Gracefully retrieve, and bow my head,

it's better, for all, that nothing is said.

I can't fight for you, that's not how it's done,

stubbornness isn't how love is won.

Perchance, I pray, I am mistaken,

From this bad dream, I might be awakened?

You might be braver, reach out first,

finally quench this maddening thirst?

Oh, it's a fool's heart speaking again,

a dreamer's mist; wondering "when?"

when will you notice, what a blindman could see,

what I feel everyone notices already?

Darling, answer my silent plea,

don't be cruel, I pray thee.

For when you look deep into my eyes,

you must know, there cannot be any lies.

It's cowardly of me, to leave it to you,

Sorry, again; that's all I can do.

I'll stay nearby, since I can't get away,

an ember of hope, a dawn of a day.

But regardless of all, I need to say,

thank you, my muse, my sunlight ray.
23.3.2019.

(for S.)
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
i really hope this is the last conceptualißaton
of sūdoku....
   it's all optics...
there's this disparity in the puzzle...
i.e. there the square (matrix) appraoch

     x  x  x
     x  x  x
     x  x  x


but then there's the classic approach...
   i don't even know what to call it,
other than that, and therefore
having a neccesity for a visual representation:

x
   x
      x
         x
x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x
               x
                  x
                     x
                        x


****... i'm just having a beer, and trying to avoid
the sun...
         ever get sun stroke?
    painful as ****...
      i was watering this bed of flowers in a blindman's
garden, and given that i have a few blonde hairs on
my crop, i was left, spending two days
in bed, shivering...        
    blindman's garden?
  well, yeah... the focus was on
     planting stachys byzantina,
         a species of stachys...
commonly know as lamb's ear.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
of making oaths, but serving one oath alone: faith.

what can be more overcoming
for a *mumin
to state,
if not the trust embedded
in a *****?
what is belief thus?
        to be as fickle as a leaf?
stitched to a tree in summer,
     then un-stitched by autumn?
even as a "*****" i sought
refuge, not as a "mumin"
in the sway of emotion of belief,
mingling doubt, fear & love...
i learned another kind of "belief":
firmly grounded, rooted,
with base stump, as the sole concern
of expressing... trust:
for i will fall, and trust,
rather than believe, that i will
stand once more:
and in that i am a "*****",
but at least, i am no blindman
stating that i am a "mumin",
who sets a vector of belief,
firmly, with a mingling of tiered
emotions, which become neither
fear, nor love, nor doubt, and certainly
no certainty...
   i pity you in your belief:
for you have no heart of stone -
to be firm, to give yourself to
the one sway, of later solidified trust;
that perpetuated ****** of faith.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
ה‬שמ‬

         is the brother

of

       השי

                  but "who" is ח‬?

het: shem

                      and het: shay?!

i'm not a hebrew,
i only ask as a blindman might
ask to be given
direction to walk toward
the sun, or shake hands
with his shadow.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
& even i didn't think it would be possible,
but whereas the mainstream
elsewhere is anything but the mainstream,
elsewhere, the mainstream 'ere
can only be commented on in broken depeche

   – – •   • – • •
          a             ß

                 ⠥ • – – •  – – –  ⠝

– • – • on           ⠞ ⠁⠉ ⠞

only the tender hands of  a child
could read the intricate dice being thrown
against a moon blinking with its shadow,
but not the blind fisherman,
the blind st. peter, on a boat juggled
by the waves, could only read a blindman's morse,
coarse fingers bulging and half frozen
from the Atlantic, morse-braille.

any 24h news channel, esp. those in England,
24h means: 30 minutes of the same news
being repeated, which is why in England
the American variety of the dittohead
is so exhausted,
                head east, no further than Warsaw,
TVN 24... Monday to Friday,  10pm,
szkło kontaktowe: a political magazine,
certainly no crass satire,
    the church and the political class
liberally commented on...
          
     glass upon contact, or rather:
   szkło tuż przed kontaktem -
   bo poezja nigdy sie nie bedzie tsymać
ni kupy, ni dupy - prawie to leniwy
Kashubian,

            in Silesia they still say ja as
they might say da near the Ukraine...
    danken für denken...

                      evidently i imitating my younger
self, stuck in the Joseph Black building
in Edinburgh, brimming with sulphuric
perfumery among esters and the more
pristine end products of higher tier
apparatus.

               all you need to know is with regards
to the blind fisherman, since a Daltonist
will use sounds to, e.g. distinguish brown
as A#... Braille? looks like a language
    with six faces...
     tender skin of a child could read...
on the high seas, a blind st. Peter could
read you nothing but Morse-Braille.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
on account of the migrating birds,
singing insomniac
in late march,
prematurely signing
the advet of spring...
                 i'm late...
                    late in my observations
being noted;
now imagine me...
   being asleep, readied for
a tomorrow,
                and missing the "plot"...
if you're awake,
and only awake by deviating
from the Greenwich S.T.,
  well...
               who's going to place
a pillow in hand,
and fathom the sleepover?
ś'lepy: ś'pí -
    die neu
   the blindman sleeps:

jetzt erwachen -
                  nein niet -sch!
hark, proper!
                 deutschmann!
herrzeppelin!
               hark, proper!
                 deutschmann!
herrunterseeboot!

the jews came to the west,
you thought
the polacks were left in limbo,
you, *******,
pict h'american scabs
of leftover culture?!
if i'll torture the sax culture,
and rob them akin to
keeping with a christian
culture,
    via the eastern baltic,
romance of the viking....
  i'll ******* tell you...
     o.k.?!

                wojna
war = phonetics:
                     voy'n'ah...
        we share the same, latin,
oh, oh, phonetic encoding
system...
    well then...
i am buffer zone between
your french footballer ballerinas
and the Russians,
the Belarusians,
and the Ukrainians...

              i am the mouth that
wants to feed these tongues
to you...
       before me merger on
the post-scriptum of  ****
and Hindu of the British Empire...
now...
now then,
now you...

   ciura:
slang for daughter...
syn: slang or plain simple:
son...

                by now...
i can mongrel cooking
up...
a hindu delicacy...
   but by the assortment
of the Danube...
it's either you,
or the Russians,
the Mongols,
          or some Turks...
*******'s worth
of the middle-earth
Asiatics
taking to visiting Vienna,
akin to a Turkick
tourist "trip"
of "cultural appropriation"...
beside the Ottoman
barpers....
   lest we forget to keep
the halal butchers in
    Sarajevo... and not in Istambul...
lest we forget...
what happened when
the Balkan Slavs
did to the Muslims...
during the 1990s conflict...
ja wisła:
to **** with treating
the muslims as hindu deities...
as holy cows...
       better learn from
the lessons already staged...
from the remnants of the disintegration
of Yugoslavia;
you think that the slavs
don't have a concern
for treating a muslim
akin
to a germ-volk akin?
how far,
is this naivety supposed
to make me suspect,
           and make me "limbo"?
hello, sacred cow...
   remember what happened between
the serbs and the muslim
minority populace
when yugoslavia dissolved?
   last time i heard...
the serbs pounded
the muslims to a pulp...
made ******* cherries and plums out
of them...
or as some already liked:
target practice...
                now...
take... your... *******... camel jockeys...
your new york harem...
and all the ***** that requires
keeping a harem,
with your viagara...
and no compensation
of castratos...
        of no sing-along anthems...

and then start thinking about
herding goat,
for goat milk and cheese...
******* Abbad;
give them an inch,
they'll take a mile...
   they'll always find some excuse....
by the word of the quran,
we waited, and were praised
for waiting,
for the excavation of oil...
  
              ibin...
name?
   ibin...
      abbad ibin abbas...
  ibin...
            name? name of...
  
it would only take a mongrel
:irish-man",
half irish, quarter hindu...
to tell someone acquiring the language
to be: REJECT...
    sure...
   no problem...
take your ******* brothel
of a loaded skim read of *******...
and... **** it... fiddle with it...
            i know the sort of truths
about you: that you would never
put into fiction....
so... good luck!
encompassing
Beethoven's
             moonlight sonata
into your composition...
      **** me... what a *******'s worth
of attacking the wrong type of person...
                   i stopped caring about
"friendships",
when i started fading out of
concerning myself with the concept.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
(⠠) ⠃⠇⠊ ⠝ ⠙ ⠍ ⠑ ⠝     ⠞ ⠓ ⠗ ⠕ ⠺ ⠇⠝ ⠛     ⠙ ⠇⠉ ⠑

blindmen throwing dice
   by chance a constellation of stars
fallen to earth in a rhombus
   or in a zodiac discipleship -
perchance a old titan, a chimera
or a cerberus on a leash...

- perfectly reasonable to call
the "need" for braille to
encompass punctuation marks
as a complete waste of time...

yod - י‬, ⠁, which to the blindman
                is a sigh...
ל‬ - which is the lament of a ⠝ ⠥ ⠝,
ו‬ - aVe beta - ⠃,
           a kafaesque Y - ⠽, כ‬.

    blindmen doing basic arithmetic
  among the ancient Romans
  toying with the abacus
   and  
the first sight of braille graphemes
      i.e. (p'lūß, +)     und ein
       verlängert doppelpunkt

   (⠼) ⠙ (⠈⠬) ⠑ (⠅⠅) ⠊

           and i once had a mathematics
teacher who said: imagine
   doing Leibniz calculus beginning
with  IV + V = IX.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
i don't actually remember writing these words
(ref. to a schematic revision (b)...
all the way through to 5 minute sketch
in a Polish supermarket / edradour distillery)...
am i to find myself being ashamed by them...
i clearly saved them for the draft tenure...
to find myself agitated by their very existence...
getting drunk and writing...
it would be so much easier to simply drink and drive
and cause an accident...
then i'd sober up... there on the spot!
but to have to feed into a responsibility of writing
when under the influence?
and there are no hallucinogenic drugs involved:
to... "expand" on?
every time i see something that i clearly wrote...
i am doubly clear in:
an inability to recognise it... something came over me...
most -esque to a cynddaredd...
rage... to write with a ferocity of a blindman's
sneaking a peek from within behind the prop of blindness...
i don't remember writing these words:
but i do remember that i was drinking...
and if i remember that i was drinking...
i can't expect myself to remember writing these words...
to write poetry sober?
well sure... but what would happen if,
"somehow" a self-censorship impetus overcame me?
what if cages of narrative and the prosaic
took over me? and i could... quiet simply...
find the iron maiden of poetics in a drinking session
to boot?
then i wouldn't be: uninhibited...
with a pairing to the ears catching a drift of:
years of denial - body map e.p. -
i do not recognise myself with or in these drafts...
i see the poems of architecture that
never surprise with a rhyme...
i can see the zoological animal of a man bound
to customs and regulations of a lexicon...
never such roughage... such fibre...
in a spontaneity...
never a letting go... or rather...
hanging onto a razor that's the only "leftover" base
for a ledge...
it's never feeding a quality of fleeting
or of chaotic... esp. that the vicinity shelters...
a made bed... a private library of records and books
that have been dusted...
the house is clean... the dinners are cooked...
i do not remember these berserker outpourings...
it's almost "funny": to have written something...
but at the same time... being unable to recognise...
except for the idiosyncratic punctuation markers...
and a knowledge of diacritical markers...
it's not for my eyes to peer at a second time...
it was already agony the first time round
when i wrote what i wrote as... this most uncertain "i"...
if these drafts are better for those about
to squat... i am not their owner...
these are forbidden children with mother past...
i see no father future worth for them...
they are to be chained and beaten into
an archeological rubric: aye! december the 22nd 2019...
etc.,
come midnight i will want to have forgotten
even having written this!

at least when taking photographs...
there's something you can detach yourself from...
not when making these escapades of wording...
you can allow yourself: most assured...
a pressure to be alien to them...
to be ashamed by them...
there is never a novelty to them:
never a novel binding -
such is the nature of these words...
they are the houses that are to be abandoned...
perhaps stop-over places of cohabiation
by (psychological) squatters...
i gave these rooms, these words,
the original dimensions...
stop-over places between finding (a) ritual
and sacrifice and altar at the feet
of a Dostoyevsky... or some other...

esp. the somehow arrived at:
over-burdening tone of "know it all"...
which none of it is allowed a translation
into a formal use of the tongue...
because it was never about finding a cutie
in a rhyme...
or a psychology to be washed in rose water
without some knee-**** and bulimia reaction
when the sulphur would come out...

these drafts are abandoned poems...
because i am most certainly cruel to myself...
i cannot help not being cruel to myself...
that's how i always mistake kindness...
i have always mistaken kindness...
since whatever kindness i offered i did so
from a lense of selflessness...
the ghost aid... trivial 3rd party seances of
kindness... ghost hands and ghost tongue...
because i am a tyrant unto myself...
i am most cruel: unto myself...
the number of times my "ego" becomes
a tool for self-laceration is... quiet frankly...
hardly the 2nd tier of unit for
a personality and a fathomability of character
that would ever allow a person in...

even if i am right... i cannot allow myself to gloat...
happiness is such a butterfly of time...
such a whimsical affair...
it can be appreciated...
but once it is... a tonne of bricks
must fall onto it for a sense of stability and:
how best to feed capriciousness
with an immovable object?

it's one of those questions that will never allow
itself to arrive at "wisdom"...
a notable statement usually juggled
by certain youthful muslims is:
there's no water in the desert...

i'm pretty sure that's supposed to imply,
something, other than...
of note... i have stopped biting my nails...
the argument was:
i like the taste of keratin...
and i "know" keratin in nails and the keratin
in hair...
how i have succumbed to enjoy
clipping my nails...

like i never smoked a cigarette because
i was nervous...
i needed circa 5 minutes to lag behind me...
or scout ahead of me...
something to scout ahead and lag behind...
something to capture a pensive
evil-brooding of the brows...
or imitate a cat inclined to entertain
itself over some cobweb it would later
ingest...

now these clipped nails...
it's almost as if i found my teeth to be
necessarily itchy...
itching bones...
of note: those bones that itch when
left exposed, signatures to the former
muscle, flab and ghost tenants they were
once landlords to...

how else? there's no more a dissatifying ending
as that in cinema of: the end...
i still don't know why the credits roll...
the old movies...
the old... the passed...
this has to feel like an abandonment
to the very last...
i might as well call it: 15th january 2020...
circa 15 minutes past midnight.

— The End —