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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.the English pronounce the Cornish town's name as: nookie... the **** is it, a Green Day album name, or a Limp Bizkit song? perhaps i'm too French in my pronunciation... quail... eggs... quay... qua-a... if i were Welsh i'd write you the name like so... newyddquaa... but no... but no, has to be nookie... like buggering a ******* chimp... quail eggs... see how language becomes mutated? nothing is apparently, certainly, stable... always the permutation of a flux... i must have ingested a little of the French concept of: je ne sais quoi when learning English... come one... nouveaucarrière: new quarry... nouveauquai... nookie?! seriously?! Q, Q... Quail eggs... quay... new... quay... maybe the usage of hyphenating words into compounds needs to be revised in the english sprechen... ******* mutation... nookie... ****** ******, + a ******* wookie, walking carpet ride worth the name Chew-a-Buck-back-up! i'd settle for: new-key... some sort of variant of a maritime honing device for locating ships sending distress signals during storms... but... no... but hey... it's authentically Welsh territory... Cornwall is, after all... a pre modern extension of Wales... nookie this: shotgun my *** while is spew rhetoric concerning the health benefits of applying feces instead of ****** cream for the benefits of: no one.

over 20 years spent living on these isles,
and i never made the connection -
Welsh nationalism could only work
if you included Cornwall -
   given that Cornish is very much:
a southern dialect of Çymru -

    i guess... i'm not sure...
    let's put it to the etymological filter...
beginning with primary words:

black
           du   (Cornish)
      du   (Çymru)

    red
       rudh (Cornish)
      coch (Çymru)

    white
          gwydn (Cornish)
gwyn (Çymru)
      
        i guess that's how etymology works,
a shared origins story...
etymology is best
  examined with primary words,
basic nouns / adjectives...

that was the adjective test...
now for the noun test:

sun
          howl (Cornish)
  haul (Çymru)
      
  moon
   loor (Cornish)
    lloer (Çymru)...

    sky
               ebron (Cornish)
   awyr (Çymru) -
   ah...
      now we see what becomes from
etymological deviation...
the sky has to have more
inherent connotations
of a religiosity as the resting place
of sort...

i'm sure that sea, earth, water,
and fire, are very much akin
or mountain...
but i could be wrong...

sea
    mor (Cornish)
  môr (Çymru)
        
earth
    dor (Cornish)
   ddaear (Çymru)

   water
         dowr (Cornish)
      *dŵr
(Çymru)

fire
          tan (Cornish)
    tân (Çymru)

mountain
   menedh (Cornish)
         mynydd (Çymru) -

ah... well then...
that explains the separatist movement
of Cornwall akin
to the Spanish Basque or
the Catalonia...

  white cross on a black flag...
they're ******* Welsh down
in Cornwall!
   i was eating a Welsh pasty
all along!
           oh... i see...
  
  that's why they're separatists
down there...
but there's one word that's
crucial in all of this,
given the emblem is
on the Welsh flag...

  dragon...
**** me!
       there's an etymological source
for the word in English...
and, it comes from?
Cornish!

   draig (Çymru)
  dragon... in ******* Cornish!
**** me...

what's... snake?
   serpont (Cornish)
    neidr (Çymru)...

   there are similarities though...
blatant ones...
which explains the separatist
sentiment of the Cornish people...
they are like
the Hindu corp
of the Urdu speaking Welsh...
high Welsh and low Welsh...

nice to know...
thank god i didn't make the brash
etymological decision to
find the long lost cousins
of a shared source
akin to "abstract" words,
like...

        gallos-power-gallu...

****!

          g­od?
       DUW | WUD

well... god is a universal word,
and it matches...
  duw is god in Cornish,
and in Çymru...
   as it is also Allah on Malta...
funny as the fact that Malta
and it's Knights Hospitaller
cross of St. John of
                                 1567.

20 ******* years on these isles -
and only now i realize
why the Cornish are separatists...
they're Welsh...
   in disguise,
under the guise of a tourist
hot spot that's "nookie":
                       i.e. Newquay...

come to think of it...
    even though i'm living in England...
i interacted more with
the Welsh, the Irish and the Scots...
than i have with the English...
    i'm starting to think that...
if i don't make my way to
Yorkshire...
  or Newcastle...
then i lived in a country...
where the supposed countrymen
of said name... never existed!
ha!

well, in english you'd never really know
that Cornwall was once part of Wales,
given that Wales, isn't in the name
Cornwall: but that's in English...

in Polonaise?
        well... Wales / Walia (that double-u
  or rather, the double-v,
   since... erm: ωμέγα?)
         ergo?
      Cornwall / Kornwalia...
      probably the most beautiful part of
England you can begin to imagine...

aside...
   the current debate over "the pond" in
h'america... tuition fees, student debt...
as much as the h'americans love to gloat
and boast this that and the other...

i'm looking at myself...
    i went to university, studied chemistry,
and history...
   3rd year? 12 hours per week in
the laboratories...
three tiers of chemistry:
a.  physical - i hated physical chemistry,
it's so un-chemical...
   too much physics / mathematical
*******, so obviously i was weak at it...
b. inorganic chemistry...
    something that mingles with
   geology / metallurgy...
   eh... so so... it was o.k. and finally
c. organic chemistry...
   my strongest route, my faustian dream...
and so much like cooking,
so much so that... well: heston blumenthal...
maybe that's why i love cooking
so much, since it reminds me of
organic chemistry...
   anyways, i digress...
      back when i studied...
  and labour was in power with their:
education, education, education mantra?
that's what was still great
                  about britain...
the last stand as it were,
   ****, i still remember tha handing over
of hong kong...
    fee, per year? 1,250 quid...
                      that's it...
student loan, 3,000 quid per year...
   i actually did manage to live
             on the 3,000 with enough money
spare to do weekend away trips to paris,
stockholm, barcelona etc. - and god:
how i loved to travel alone,
bumping into strangers in hostels...
and the best part?
    i don't have to repay my loan until
i earn over 15,000 quid per year...
and since i'm not earning that...
                  the loan will be annuled after
30 years...
   mind you... a really **** year to go
to university and become a british citizen...
since... in scotland... e.u. citizens didn't
pay tuition fees!
      hence the massive surge of the polans
circa 2005...
                                 so: america, **** yeah!

but on a night like this,
esp. in the evening prior to the night itself,
there's that surge in electricity in the air...
you're walking to the supermarket
and the most mediocre magic happens...
sonny rollins' blues in your ears
you pass a street lamp and it gets switched
on by the grid...

                   it's only special because
your're listening to jazz and when you listen
to jazz and promenade...
you might as well be as content as if
walking a yorkshire terrier...
    
   while on the way back, instead of your
usual beer... you buy yourself...
a rowntrees ice lolly...
    and you eat that... smirking, feeling
                                                 like a badass.

p.s. the best thing i received from
the university wasn't even the degree...
a chance to play squash, mountain climbing
(glen coe was a beau)...
         a t-shirt...
since, once i left: a self-teaching discipline.
Obadiah Grey Feb 2011
We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...



There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.

they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,

or so the tale goes...
Goddess above me!
Snake of the slime
Alostrael, love me!
Our master, the devil
Prospers the revel.
Tread with your foot
My heart til it hurt!
Tread on it, put
The smear of your dirt
On my love, on my shame
Scribble your name!
Straddle your Beast
My Masterful *****
With the thighs of you greased
With the Sweat of your Itch!
Spit on me, scarlet
Mouth of my harlot!
Now from your wide
Raw ****, the abyss,
Spend spouting the tide
Of your sizzling ****
In my mouth; oh my *****
Let it pour, let it pour!

You stale like a mare
And **** as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And **** from the sewer.
Down to me quick
With your tooth on my lip
And your hand on my *****
With feverish grip
My life as it drinks—
How your breath stinks!

Your hand, oh unclean
Your hand that has wasted
Your love, in obscene
Black masses, that tasted
Your soul, it’s your hand!
Feel my ***** stand!

Your life times from lewd
Little girl, to mature
Worn ***** that has chewed
Your own pile of manure.
Your hand was the key to—
And now your frig me, too!

Rub all the much
Of your **** on me, Leah
****, let me ****
All your glued gonorrhea!
**** without end!
Amen! til you spend!

****! you have harboured
All dirt and disease
In your slimy unbarbered
Loose hole, with its cheese
And its monthlies, and pox
You chewer of *****!
****, you have ******
Up ******, you squirted
Out foetuses, ******
Til ******* you blurted
Out into space—
Spend on my face!

Rub all your gleet away!
Envenom the arrow.
May your pox eat away
Me to the marrow.
**** you have got me;
I love you to rot me!

Spend again, lash me!
Leah, one spasm
Scream to splash me.
Slime of the chasm
Choke me with spilth
Of your sow-belly’s filth.

Stab your demonic
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
**** and *******;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, ****!

**** on me, ****!
Creamy the curds
That drip from your gut!
Greasy the turds!
Dribble your dung
On the tip of my tongue!

Churn on me, Leah!
Twist on your thighs!
Smear diarrhoea
Into my eyes!
Splutter out ****
From the bottomless pit.

Turn to me, chew it
With me, Leah, *****!
***** it, spew it
And lick it once more.
We can make lust
Drunk on Disgust.

Splay out your gut,
Your *******, my lover!
You buggering ****,
I know where to shove her!
There she goes, plumb
Up the foul *****’s ***!

Sackful of skin
And bone, as I speak
I’ll ****** your grin
Into a shriek.
****** you, ****
****** your gut!

Wriggle, you hog!
Wrench at the pin!
Wrench at it, drag
It half out, **** it in!
Scream, you hog dirt, you!
I want it to hurt you!

Beast-Lioness, squirt
From your *******’s hole!
Belch out the dirt
From your Syphillis soul.
Splutter foul words
Through your supper of turds!

May the Devil our lord, your
Soul scribble over
With sayings of ordure!
Call me your lover!
Slave of the gut
Of the **** of a ****!

Call me your sewer
Of spilth and snot
Your ****-sniffer, chewer
Of the **** in your slot.
Call me that as you rave
In the **** of your slave.

****! ****! Let me come
Alostrael—****!
I’ve spent in your ***.
****! Give me the muck
From my *****’s ****, slick
Dirt of my *****!

Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, ****, ****!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.

I am your fate, on
Your belly, above you.
I swear it by Satan
Leah, I love you.
I’m going insane
Do it again!
Need educated guesses on this, as I am not the real author of this poem, and that I am glad. The man who wrote this poem was Aleister Crowley, if anybody knows anything about him from reading his books, I would like to know your true opinion. I think this is true,perhps the extent of Crowley's deprave behavior is somewhat caught in this poem he wrote for one of his disciples.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
you know, ego-tripping is one thing,
but tackling religious affairs is an another high
altogether, there's no involved involved,
not enough phonetic encoding,
people made more from the New Testament
than they did of Heidegger's being and time,
wait... i might just squeeze in seeing the light.
i see the light almost every night,
and i'm not even a physician,
i'm not awe inspired with all these facts
hanging about, hard to practice philosophy these days,
it an instilled bewilderment having to
placebo ignorance for that spark, original ******.
it was never about giving a ******* an ******
at £110 an hour without faking it,
god it hurt her, hurt her for enjoying her professions,
******* **** just got relegated....
after her ****** and kissing her hand
she just just the owl's ouch... it's hard to get a *******
to enjoy her work, every time i pull my *******
back and pretend to be all Jewry -
of course i'm not really enjoying it, but she is...
you get the picture, a ******* having pleasure
on her working hour while the 100th **** comes
to grease a beginning of the day song;
i payed extra to perform oral *** on them...
you think i stashed my tongue into a ******?
i prefer rare steaks; or *****.

now the confusing bit...
i was born in a zeitgeist that needs revision,
a book published in 1953 by a Swiss psychiatrist
did nothing to postpone the uncovering of
the Antichrist, simply sped up discovering
anti-matter, Nietzsche, as the Polish proverb
states: silent rivers being silent increase the girth...
we know the Antichrist himself stated lived...
hence the zeitgeist.... the pop culture of
the event, i was born into this *******;
and if i didn't go to a Catholic school i'd write
you a piece about how romantically complicated
really was. there's on problem, i'm telling you this
straight from a donkey's gob slobbering -
it's confusing reading Nietzsche then reading
C.G Jung's 1953 published book entitled
answer to Job - it really is, given popular culture's
hopes entitled: plagiarism.
the book involves another diabolical figure
in the arithmetic - the Paraclete -
and boy isn't he the diabolical figure -
he's the good bad bad guy - the Paraclete and the Antichrist
are almost synonyms -
all our pop culture is worthless when Jung dismisses
the farsighted identification of the Antichrist -
it was Nietzsche... why are so any people trying
to imitate given the 21st century? well, not so much
these days, but those born in the 20th century still feel
the effective remnants taking effect -
the Paraclete is no less diabolical than the Antichrist -
we're talking the heresy of modern philosophers
who said that the holy spirit isn't a person but a community
but then pops up the Paraclete...
the lost pluralism of the holy ghost ends up
with a plurality of the false prophets - gamblers -
also a community - not many people have heard the term
Paraclete, they might have spotted a dove with laurel leaves
in Sicily - but nothing more.
Israel by current football scores is still part of Europe
and not part of America... Beitar Jerusalem F.C. and
Maccabi Tel Aviv F.C. - i wasn't asking, the Jews
really want the revival of the Roman empire
with a resurrection of the zealots and sadducees...
believe me, the plurality of the holy spirit personified
into the Paraclete is what Nietzsche did with
gluing together the conglomerate of false prophets
into his t.n.t. maxim of exhaustion... writing maxims
will exhaust you, until you write a bombshell and it's true.
so Jung's answer to Job is kinda paradoxical in
the years that built up a culture of anti -
toward a dyslexic citation of a quote:
since he is the third person of the deity, this is as much
as to say that god will be begotten in the cruelty of man;
originally it was the creaturely man, i.e, not the
creative man, not the ingenious man,
created that begot not creativity but indolence...
i told you you the Paraclete was a diabolic concept
akin to the Antichrist, given that it was hidden and never
stated in the "holy" gospels... the Antichrist was at least
stated in the book of Revelation... the Paraclete
ensuring the holy ghost was personified also meant
a bridge between the polygamy of prophesies in the false
prophet unanimity of suggested prophets -
but only when reading Nietzsche and then reading Jung
and then looking at our current sub- or culture -
but why was it ever a testimony of something holy?
after all, holy was intended for a dove with a laurel leaf
while John baptised -
in terms of sacredness and holiness i itemise to identify
something holy as having not indebtedness to words,
to meanings... by dove i concern myself with sounds,
knocking on doors, meaningless we also achieve yet still
comprehend with onomatopoeia(s)... the coo the coo,
the feline monkish purr - by holy i also invoke
untouchable, or in the doctrine of the Antichrist,
the chandala (of the Indian caste system) -
it's just become too pop and too imitable to hide the concerns
that Jung might have had - animals are ultra-chandala -
but i'm sure you haven't heard of a loss of a Christian
community committing itself toward the personification
of the Holy Ghost as known by the noun Paraclete -
but it's happening...  urbanity coupled with globalisation
and the pristine English village...
it makes no sense to read Jung as if intending to find the identity
of the Antichrist (i went to a faith school, the vocabulary
intended for priests is like ****** to me, get me off my high
i'll bunch up your ******* with a bouquet and punch
it until it looks like autumn - 6ft1 and 115kg... you think
i wouldn't? wanna try?).
i have no message: you are gods, beyond-man and above-angel...
given your little recording of personal matters,
i think you are in a cognitive slaughterhouse -
i have no message to make you gods... you're below animals...
as sad as it sounds, animals don't have selfie-sticks at
museums... gods that admire animals and hope for
the proper jokes from animals... that son of God really
did trick you to believe yourself ~omnipotent but returning
for jokes among dogs playing pianos and trying out
the soprano... the godly third of the unholy trinity is there,
the diabolical third of the holy trinity is also there...
funny how the Third ***** gets cultural attention
and artistic sympathy with bands like Hanzel und Gretyl -
and how modern man takes depression so seriously while
the holocaust survivors almost laugh with helium implosions.
well, you know, culture built on algebraic fractions...
Islam made simple waiting for a nibbling:
or as they say in England about the stabbing in Russel Sq.,
psychiatric problems are our smoke-cover,
better call the Norwegian-Somali outright mad
so we can keep up the proper P.R. tactic -
the English were always like that, esp. with a Muslim
mayor of London - P.C. thorough... as France said:
you find two people buggering in a Niqab you're not
watching five-blind-men touching up an elephant...
******* *******... it was a terrorist attack but
to keep communities united psychiatrists were
invested in to make up some *******.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i'm actually writing in Turkish akimbo on the floor,
****** uncomfortable,
can't do the hunched monkey spine of Blitzkrieg...
the problem lies with my cat,
a Maine **** that's actually a bloodhound
come bed time... his ******* operatic meows
get to me... he will meow down any werewolf's howl
any night of the week, with 200 variations...
he's like a dog when bedtime comes,
he rapes his way into my room,
takes comfort in my writing chair,
keeps me up listening to βετo βετα's
between two selves - i call this the reason
for never stealing from Hinduism...
outside of Hinduism the economic model works
just as effectively as Auschwitz with cows...
come to petted animals, putting yourself
second doesn't... you get to see the many variations
of character in these buggering fur-*****;
****** got gassed, i see it as a natural karma...
because why would he have a Jewish girlfriend
who committed suicide with him the bunker?
i won't pity them... ****** knew the measure
of things, having been gassed himself
he knew the wounds: and so will millions who
thought world war i was fought in vain...
remind me... as once the northern invaders
accommodated the Roman alphabet and dropped
the runes... what you conquer you express
as an incorporation of certain qualities...
luckily the German work ethic was unshaken...
but it shook the English sensible life:
work! work! work! ready meals in between:
two favourites! two! cheese cauliflower and lasagne.
to keep up the once colonial Herrwettlauf in
charity limbo... you ain't donating to any Africans...
Bobbie Geldof fooled you...
it goes into milking the ivory skinned skin-heads
once retired... Africa is more than just a suntan...
it goes back into ensuring we don't work
in Chinese factories under lynching-contracts...
case no. 0 (or contract) - we'll just call you when we need you,
otherwise we'll contract the cheap steel and cheaper
salt from the Dead Sea:
new social order... after all that colonial piracy i'm sure
we can afford investing in a body mass indexes...
is this how efficiency is structured?
quality control and quantity control...
well, capitalism knows quality control...
but it does't have the foggiest about quantity control:
hence so much waste, and supermarkets throwing out
food into the gutter... the quality control is there,
but the quantity control is missing: always excess, always
excess, always excess... sure i get the Muslim
argument about drunken Brits in Spain and Leicester...
but what about those Saudi children speeding
in their sports cars? no one going to criticise them?
after 50 years... our shame will be a greater
instigator of global warming than a diesel engine...
cheeks puffing up into rose and rose and everything's
finally not so rosy as we thought.
so here i am, writing in uptight akimbo without
the writer's hunch of reverse Darwinism,
all because my Maine **** is acting like a bloodhound,
gets depressed before bedtime...
why are these animals needing my bogus company?
when it comes to music i'm selfish; ah! he
doesn't like the night and the modern orchestra of
grizzly exhaust engines doing the baritone with rasping
the new church bell (phlegm) with a hark uvula...
it's called Irish poker for a prayer...
the van de graaff toy generator is on in the darkened room -
then the typing ****** him off, he's off...
thank **** for that...
but why is it that the once infamous Axis strategies
are creeping into those that strove to defeat them?
we are getting Japanese karaoke culture,
we're getting welcoming euthanasia programs spanning
the dicta of Belgium and Switzerland,
as people want dignity in their death...
they're queuing up to the once known enemy...
maybe it's because these Axis powers were
never colonialists...
                                 just finishing watching Indian
Summers
season two you get the picture...
god and the dodgy monkeys...
stay... sit! stay... sit! **** it, let's lynch that Eton ****
of privy accents... ol chap... ol chappy...
trot along... the turban bomber and half
the thought that a Pole learning obedience from
Russian and German would learn to be cinnamon
skinned in England... i'm almost suspecting the
Irish are the SS in the project.. generation of the Vietnam
saint soaked in gasoline... oddly enough
that has no place in Europe, apologies that i don't
share the sentiment... it's obviously the
counter crucifixion scene and emblem,
but only in: LET'S MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN...
i told you be afraid of the blonde ferret...
i see the prognosis just like Britain exiting the European
union... California is not even America,
who gives a **** about the American Secular Vatican, anyway?
it will be like as if Canada was part of America
and resembled Scotland in the Jackshit Union...
gross the vote on the puppet...
the Democrats will get New York (the equivalent
of London) - i don't know how to twin Reading,
and that blue belt of remain campaigners linking the two,
half of who would speak as much of French
as an advert concerning the sales of socks...
or enough German to order a pint of beer in a Bavarian
pub... well, Canada would vote like Scotland,
one revolutionary figure (who was actually Muslim,
and never cared for African-American concerns
of Baptism... singing hallelujah was never part
of the do)... can't be replaced with another revolutionary
figure... he was never exactly a Martin Luther King Jr.,
more of Malcolm X than you thought...
that strip between London and Reading
will be translated into Ronald Reagan's resurrection...
a billionaire is more ridiculous than
an actor? well... who we going to call the pretty boy
and the favourite of media cartoonists? boots on the ground,
a society that doesn't practice dialectics is not
only rude, but out-of-date...
the debate of the park bench now resides in separate
stadiums, monologues that involve something
that physics unearthed: two sources of negativity
existing in two places, at the same time...
if this is a debate, then i got the postal code wrong...
the dialectics of knowing nothing became: i still know
nothing, but i have 4 million people supporting me.
i imagine the cavemen to be less subjective that we
try to imagine ourselves as resembling, Michael Palin
in the Sahara... cavemen worked on instinct, not on
appeal to the intellect... that thing
about the jokes of the vibrating lips and the index finger
moving against them to invent the Mongolian harmonica...
given the complication of urban life... well...
you'll hardly revise that bit... that part of life is gone...
i assumed that the more we evolved the less
naked we became... but given evolution and having
created this parasitic symbiosis with the natural
elements... the more i think of it: the more naked we're
becoming - the more dependent -
the original sin as conceived from the delusion that we
were disabled by our originally conception of nakedness...
it only comes now... once the dependency kicks in
and we're all in bow-ties and cocktail dresses...
hello Herr Fetish and page 3 milking of the farmyard
cows of our imagination - Islamic eye-fetish,
we heard of footfetish... must be about oral ***...
knees baby knees, Arab has eyefetish on your knees...
i have a fetish for hands... see how the cameraman zoomed
in on the hands of the women fencing?
once instinct governed us... and instinct's expression
of intelligence was: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll get **** with his concubines in the harem...
these days intellect governs us... and intellect's
expression of instinct is: i challenge the alpha male,
i'll whip up a horde of lawyers, file a lawsuit
and get away it because he nudged me in a supermarket...
honestly, i don't think educating people was a great
evolutionary step forward...
we have more law-prose liposuction on the pages of
history than a Tolstoy could muster a novel -
and because we taught everyone literacy,
the once necessary backbone of our economy,
the workers... well... let's just say that the Founding
Fathers made their muscles into oysters and molluscs,
floppy protein spaghetti... wiggle wiggle, yeah, wiggle wiggle, yeah...
defeating Communism in a place of the world that was
prone to some sort of religiosity, enzyme John Paul II -
i'd bruise his forehead and lips against those airport tarmacs
i'd get to be the inventor of sand-paper and
the Antichrist's assault on the biblical reference:
it only takes on saint to defeat the congregation... it starts with him...
or with that Calcutta Lady and Hitchens...
and oh... lookie here... up pops Hydra China:
America will be great again... but chances are...
the hot dog and the hamburger will never be re-invented...
watch the pendulum... op op oop oops here it swings
while the Hawaii communal laugh about starving
on coconuts.
So if you want to know upfront,
Then, you should know
That a reasoned selection process was used,
The music was cherry-picked,
Three perfect compact discs,
Hanging there from the branch,
(Actually CD stack storage)
And me, with a sativa buzz,
Working nicely, grazie mille.
I sit down to write another one of my “fakakta” poems.
The music?
Three crystal gems
Liquid pearls, all of great price.
To wit: (1) “The Best of Joe Cocker,”
(Joe died last year, and
Don’t we/Shouldn’t we
Consider him a close associate,
A kid we grew up with?)
(2) “A Twist of Marley,”
A “Verve Music” product,
Brilliant conception!
Montego Bay gone South Chicago,
A sweet instrumental miscegenation--
A potent, wicked fusion of reggae & jazz--
Manifested by Dave Grusin,
Gerald Albright, Lee Ritenour, & Others.
And last, but not even close to being least,
(3) “MILES DAVIS Kind of Blue.”
Lest we forget Norman Jewison’s
Homage to Mambo Brooklyn Italiano
Cher & her wacky greaseball family:
The Castorinis.
The Cammareri.
The Cappomaggios.
Did I hear someone say “*** Stereotype?”
Bam! A double “Moonstruck” slap,
Just to remind you:
“I’m talkin’ here.”

Lest we forget:
Coltrane blew tenor sax
Both March & April 1959 sessions,
Columbia 30th Street Studio,
New York City.
And if you've heard
"Freddie Freeloader," a
Sizzler solid 9 minutes & 49 seconds,
I think it’s probably a good time
To go check to see if you
Left the garden hose on.
BAM!
Now do I have your attention?

We pensive Boomers--
We take stock.
We ponder the clock, a
Vexatious tick-tock
Arctic soundtrack,
Music in the key of winter of
Our discontent/content.
YOU MUST CHOOSE ONE!
Time to script your buggering off,
Time to settle in
On an exit strategy.
“Yes, hurry up, it's time.” screams T.S. Eliot,
From an English major’s
Vast wasteland archive.
The scoreboard reads 4th Quarter now.
We ruminant Boomers,
Facing up to it at last, are we?
To be or not: a serene letting go, or
“Rage against the dying of the light?”
Dylan chimes in:
Thomas, meet Thomas.
Oprah, Uma.

So you should know upfront,
I got a great buzz on.
The music is groovy.
This poem ends here.
Sean Flaherty Jul 2014
The addictive aroma of
Well-aged nostalgia, and a
Hurricane-yellow sunset, was
Striking from the Western Side.
The east, full of forest. It
Often goes Unappreciated. 

Sat alone, and gritting his teeth
Over it, his forehead wet,
Losing patience, sweating 
Droplets, wiped up by the
Dollars you couldn't afford to spend.
Outwardly expressing: "Overwhelmed."

Born of the burning woods, and 
Left to ash, again, with the leaves, the
Scent settled, clearly set on
Sticking around. 

In the mood to bleed, and
Drag some metal, through the 
Dirt caked on your legs?
Filth burns brighter indoors, and my
Power's just gone out. 

But you cast quite a shadow, when 
Lightning interrupts the black.  
"Storm'd been on it's way for a while.
I'm relieved, it finally hit us. 
Fair weather felt dishonest. "

Long hair's got a few more days left in it,
Bags under his eyes, not quite full, 
Intent on the ideal, and
Going out on his shield.
Decrying the Curse of the Under-employed.

Barking beckons him back, and 
Beneath his broken heart, beating,
Beyond a reasonable doubt, 
Buggering on. Exhaustingly enthusiastic. 
The howled woofs, and selected drum lines.
Droning, diligent, 
"And pleased to meet you, darling."

He flips open one of his 
Boxes, counts to seventeen, and sighs. 
Puts a cigarette between his lips. 
Lights it. Counts to sixteen, and sighs. 
Closes that box, and buys another. 

"One third of what he says is nonsense, but
When you talk, he listens." And 
Love's a vice, he can't help but
Nourish. Hiding in fog, and
Drowning in his cheap whiskey. 
Perfectly cornered, writing a poem about it.
Very self-referential, but hopefully, also, relatable. I think this may be the best poem I've written. I may revise a little over time.
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!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
there are ambitions, forbidden,
for words to cleave to,
to manage hives...

of the opiates that allow
prolonged loss of the dream,
a mother that persist
that listens to that band:
enigma...
but hasn't asked her son...

who are the: the dead can dance?

how weirdly we are
made central in this lesser crime
of the novel,
and somehow together bound...
i...
in that never asked for
a grammatical lesson...
how difficult you have made it,
to have to begin with...
like some pedagogy "expert"...
this your crime your new
"aushwitz"...

you have the basin, the lasp.
my infrequnted lapse
of attention...
the book club,
the antithesis of the better part of me,
when not watching
bricks become rigid for minding a construct
of a wall... subsequent topple...
such be letters that become words...
such be oriental syllables
that become words...
somehow, later...
neither... yet apart...

these have to be forbidden words...
since they are not prized...
beef or pork cutlets..

as i want to gaze upon the moon
with a drift of clouds...
and a stammering...
expectation of a tram...
to be my hour-long-awaited-to-be!

i want the pork-chops
with the *******!
i want the edible parts
and all things leftover cosmopolitan!
i want... i gorge...
for a Hagia Sophia and...
her first born: tuba büyüküstün...

winner or loser...
that all depends on what's concerned
with a win, or with a loss...
anything deemed a win:
but dissociated with a tuba büyüküstün?
is a loss... no dracula can salvage this
tabloid poo'em aside...

but i confess... to heace such beauty?
one must most certainly...
entertain...
auxiliary aids...
one can almost expect...
these expentation standards of beauty
to never incline themselves to borrow from
the Turks...
but dear god: they almost must!

the woman sun-kissing with her hair
is... almost a ****-meal-ready-mcdonald's worth
of ****... but this Istambul queen?
like i once said:
oh i'm sure the english girlies prefer
the pakistani men...
by the looks of it? it's true...
she can be petted to be...
groomed...
but a ****** ******* mother russia
will... not find 'em knocking on 'is door!
so? the pakistani leverage!
grooming gang prior to...
a would-be honest chance...
purge the labour!
honest labour!

no no... we can't have that...
and here's me thinking...
how the ****, will i find my own...
ethno-bride?!
i'm thinking about Ottoman harems!
as any legal-i.q. median man would!
torrent: '****... or a chant of re- re- re-!
there's the love of not being allowed...
and there's the love that allowed...
but otherwise taboo...
that: SPEZIAL talk concerning
the british and the h'americans...
one of them! i swear to god...
one of them is: naive spastic-mr-fantastic!

this is the part where you ask me...
so where's a william f. buckley jr.
when you need one?
that's also called... not speaking mandarin via
the DeLorean...
and no... no harlequin...
no ****-buddy-***-toy...
no neon quiz about the south korean
suicide rates being synonymous with
the lithuanian rates...

bauhaus: or: boor-cusp...
western notions of beauty...
everything mr. spastic-plastic-fantastic...
or else... buggering a niwab of a Q...

it's just a comparion...
once upon a time there were men that would
make taylor swift their beauty standard...
another bleached blonde *** note...
and if... harvey weinstein...
then alfred hitchcock... and those
hitchcock blondes...
"metoo": #joanfontaine,
#gracekelly, #novapilbeam, #ingrid,
#tippihedren, #madeleinecarroll, #carolelombard...

ease up on the blondes
for the gods' furthest fun-****
outside of heaven!
i don't see how... a tuba büyüküstün
could ever become a taylor swift... though...
a tuba büyüküstün is on par with a...
priti patel or a joanna mucha...

or i would be known as:
i'll pretty much **** anything that moves...
or... my standards are well below being on par
with a handicap...
they're just... realistic...
but even by the given citations...
this is me being expansive...

if you feel like you want to **** "something":
you're alaways awfully itchy...
you can't help it...
but there's no expansion on the narrative
for the prime impetus...
that's always lagging... or dragging behind
not having the capacity to fulfill the proper:
peacock...
it's a worse scenario to having to simply
0-base one off...

i'm a european man and i do not find
the european standards of transcendental beauty
to be bound to: a woman with blonde hair
and blue eyes and pale skin...
and speaking with a kentucky accents
of puritanical love...

for some "odd" reason...
she has turkic contort perfections of a...
physiognomy...
which makes me... her lesser...
caucasian...
that cocky-asian... or... whatever is left
available on the platter of...
i would... with my most awaited ease...
cut off my tongue...
as long as i would be...
given the guarantee...
to sip on oysters...
churn kingly prawns...
spit on well done beef...
and... slurp chicken *******...
done proper... with enough butter thyme
lodged in between the ******* and under the skin...

because? the next time a vegan comes into
my mental vicinity...
i will think...
the vegeterian gave birth to the vegan...
the casual meat eater...
surely he must have given birth
to the eucharistic literalist!
yes... the convert of the vegeterian to veganism...
is... thanks to the poetics of the eucharist...
the casual meat-eater...
the antithesis of the vegan:
the cannibal...

root fibre...
some muscle and the same worth
of fibre via the cartilege.

this world deserves an akin: you and i;
for every bad joke told...
there's an already worse moral lesson
to be... not told...
but most assuredly avoided...
which implies: to be learned...
the joke is merely the caveat...

and a caveat is not... a ******* canapé!
Way up high at four feet eleven inches I pulled hard to Cebu's peak,
on a mattress where coco-brown areolae & **** made our bed creak
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2023
jad, or yad, depending on the geography of tongues:
like there's some "inheritance" taxation
on the glorification of a tortured body,
tortured soul... as if: god were to become man...
hmm! a pondering cycle: i think: i don't think so...

i can write: oh this Hebrew "monster" morphs...
no wonder i'm writing profanities...
יָהּ

     ** chi chi: see how ā extends through the yod
toward the H: H being the vowel capturing
citadel of first sigh
then the slingshot of laughter:

uncontrollable...

a bit like actors faking there's no B when
ushering in the word: DEBT...
because there's no meaning to the letters DET
but the B is silenced to enforce meaning
not seen in said...

if i were ever to believe in the polytheistic
mantra of reincarnation
since this life...
only once:
yes... but all the other lives too:
only once... lived...
   ****** brain gizmo ooh ooh...
point a finger pick up a stick
call it the chimp-easy: forgot how to spell
chimpanzee... no wait... just spelled it...

never harm a stranger... never harm a stranger...
never harm a stranger...
playground lyrics from
:wumpscut - bunker gate seven...

during the winter months i'm reflective...
during the summer months i'm reflexive...
which probably implies
come autumn i'm reflectively-reflexive
and come spring i'm reflexively-reflective...
but that's *******...
i'm all these things and not:
thoroughly throughout the year...

i can write my version of how Islam originated...
Hagar...
based on the Greek noun-lettering
dynamic i.e. the prefix- constituent prime: letter
and the -suffix "name"
Alpha is A-(+)-lpha...
Beta is B-(+)-eta
                                                        etc.

here's my profanity...
i'll write: Allah into the Kabbalah...

blah blah... blah blah...

   beginning with yod akin to ayin...
ע                    :     י

עללאה

5 letters... five sen

                 ח: č
                          hiding the consonant H for CHeap
like hiding H for sheep in ש: shins?                             š

book of numbers: book of letters...

but i'm still suspicious... truly, abjad?
i was with this Somali white rabbit
chasing shifts coming back from
Wembley to Romford...
a dog frightened him...
i inquired: knowing full well that
Mohammad was fond of cats...

haram... haram... forbidden...
and the dogs lick their testickles
and the cats too
and we love licking each others' testicles too
like the pristine example of a counter- Mona Lisa
is a woman having a ******* or a foursome
three holes... two charged given pleasure
while the third giving pleasure via
oral...
           hmm... inquisitive squinty eye...
black ink: octopus juice...

yad = venom...
    all these semites clogging my intellectual veins
short-circuiting my intellectual ambitions...
like the cold didn't **** them off
to ******* now this ******* of Judaism in
Europe littering buggering child
******* Islamism and what not...
like Europeans were these
albino non-universal stereotypes who
didn't wage some sort of retort against
Rome...

mind you... the Slavs had no reason for:
engaging with Rome because those
pokrzywa: nettle bushes of Britain were
a fine example of how itching translated to cleanliness
in the cold in pre-medieval times...
second literacy with computer coding:
yet all this barren land of literacy
kept by the church's strong liberal
**** for the ministry and choir, not nourished?

i like a phat ***... so fat i'm getting glitter
pseudo-LSD day-dreams of
imagining i'm ******* my mother
while in fact i'm ******* a mother with a child
dressed in the drag of death...

there's a reason why
in the Slavic tongue there's an Aryan letter
distinction...
no confusion, with the given: ק qaf
כ kaf... cough?
ahem ahem... cough cough?

AL AY?                    i thought we figured out the Greek
of: naming letters but cutting off naming
letters from associated nouns
to give leeway for word formation... no?

so if it's not a story of two Adams:
א and ע...
what is it a story of?
oh **** me... Cain and Abel...
but if A-lpha and B-eta and G-amma
and...
                  hmm...

what's the cut off logic then?
A-lef?
            A-yin?
            which would make a grotesque revision
of the tetragrammaton,
i.e. the next letter: L and Y...

   which are already there!
אל (AL)

   and... עי (AY)

ergo? my nuanced tetragrammaton:

                                                                יעאל

otherwise known as: allah in the kabbalah...

you cannot tell me ayin and aleph are
not vowels: i object to the abjad...
cleverly formed semitic gaslighting *******...

not with the rigours of Latin scrutctures
borrowed from transliterating Greek...
not with the rigours of Latin lettering structures
borrowed from transliterating Greek...

and boy not on me... this pagan soul
from the realm of Hyperborean barbarism...
where there are concepts as:
child form is unfuckable...
i need a fat Puerto Rican ***
and thighs and 36D **** to smother...
there's honour and there's... clearly no state...
no nation... so back we go to consolidating
affairs of: prudence and generosity
via self-judgement toward judging others
as: worth the mustard, or the mayo churn?
on a face to face focus and limited pretense
of judgement settings of exclusivity:
shared trust...

            i can't trust a Somali beside trusting
that i will get him from one shift to another...
because i too want to get home early...
too bad that he doesn't like dogs
but cats are no better whatever the **** Muhammad
the Egyptian said...
funny that... the name Muhammad...
funny if you know two tongues...
Mucha - fly... in polish...
mad - well mad... in English...
crazy fly... ha ha...

for a month a subtle trickle of accusation that i might:
just might... have a thing for thirteen year old girls:
oh man... which translated to:
i tried to **** in the Pacific and i did...
but water is a restrictor not a lubricator
so... dead end...
more seasaw than ***...
i'm trying... trying... to figure out what might
be appealing to a man in a *** act with
a woman that's Picasso's anti-cubist worst nightmare...
geometry...
and... clearly i can't see anything beside
ooh that "fat" juicy *** **** and how she
described rubbing olive oil on her stomach
while pregnant to ease the stretching remarks...

mind you: i've dated someone "blessed" with
a ******* experience: even my own mother
was "touched" by an experience...
Pharisees of intellectual *** dismatching...
*** is an emotional toil...
oh jeez... the burden of coupling:
the fermenting ego of thought mitigation
drifting toward the other...
absorbing her whole: without a self echo-chamber...
the Cartesian courtship of res cogito x2
in what used to be a res extensa x1

but is now res extensa x2²

          for all the thrills of ***... later come the thrills
of insinuation... the daughter is not mine
and is fatherless: dead dead dead...
but there's no widow in sight...
so obviously there's plenty of fetishes to be
unearthed:

18 hour... year... month... gap...
and yes: i must be thinking about ******* my mother...
given that there's no incestous relation
wouldn't i want to think about ******* daughter too?

point being: i like to know that this beast exists
and that i can tame it...
with all prior relationships there was this
naivety of youth and nothing to
intellectually ******* over with myself...
there was nothing to contain:
nothing to manage...
nothing that needed to require a moralistic leash:
just the carnal act and some variation
of identity politics if, only the begging whiff of it
(it being, identity politics)...
but now... after a hiatus of a decade
and some... when was the last time
a man could boast that a ******* from
a brothel was trying to get in touch with him
because what? someone is paying more than
£120 an hour she's already getting
or that i have to work 12 hours to get as much
freezing my ***** off or is my *** that good or what?

Quaker oats?!

          someone best explain to me this fetish
of Moloch's daughter... surprise surprise:
for some apparent reason ******* is an exclusively
masculine deviance?
hardly...       but looking at artwork... Picasso...
a fully formed woman with all her curves
is... cubism... i know it's somewhat grotesque
given the classical depiction: but it's a womanising
healthy revelation of form...
it's form in motion: that's cubism...
cubism is therefore geometry in motion...
oh **** me... that's revelatory even to me...

CUBISM IS GEOMETRY IN MOTION...

so given that... a child is geometry...
i've been around 13 year old before and i can stand
shrouded in ******* shadows and leaves and tell you:
i'm feeling no ****** energy... nothing has been woken up...
so i don't appreciate: i didn't...
appreciate the insinuations the accusations
of ******* a turnip of ***-prose
when it hasn't discovered the ***-poetic...

***-prose? i'm a 37 year old man enjoying
a conversation with a 13 year old girl...
***-poetic? Prokofiev + Nabokov...

                                    with regards to the advent of
new father daughter relations...
only recently at work i had to clue myself in
on a possible safeguarding mishap
with two teenage girls and a father who bought
them beer... c'mon... underage drinking?
in public and not freckles fiasco stupid
at a houseparty...

                  oh there is ***-prose and there is ***-poetic...
***-prose happens all the same...
***-poetic only, vaguely, sometimes;
if i see this girl become sexually
orientating a birth of the ***-poetic
out of the ***-prosaic...
   then i'm obviously going to be equipped
with the Platonic...
or at least i know that the Platonic is a curtain
to curb and effigy of Moloch's daughter:
who ****** her sacrifices rather than
made her father's pederast tongue flick on
the gas chamber switch... pedagogy of giants
via infanticide; or modern women's flimsy
breath on the moral of atom bomb contraceptive pill
abortions...

huh ha ha...        as if i were a Christian moralist...
maybe just an existential... realist? humanist?
sure sure... old folks' home...
just import some Kenyan care like i give a ****:
myopia borrowed from time
of some 1950s utopian-nostalgia...
shy of 10 years just after a Holocaust;
bull... ****!
Walter Alter Aug 2023
i finally established rapport
with none other than the Sacred Cow
and it stepped all over my toes
gave me a limp worthy of an asterisk
the oil of anointment in my crankcase
but an army of monks couldn't keep me pure
as I laugh all the way to the blank
pulled into a marginally enchanting future
by the dog at the end of my food chain
pet his good luck **** if you must
my Siberian sibling exhales belligerently
after exterminating the woolly mammoth
separated at birth by a faulty wall socket
badly trained by a monkey's uncle
I've contacted the hunchback ***** banks
for a below zero safe deposit box
while descending through the atmospherics
with a certified license to lounge
upon the bedrock of creation
like butter through hunger
only in your head holy man
expletives erupted from his throat
making antic come here gestures
while wiggling under Bigfoot's foot
a sea of irritants sending messages
through my lawyers Rugburn & Nosebleed
you vampires should be in bed at this hour
if only because monotony generates subtlety
we played 'em right into the net
sent the boys off on a Nanking holiday
to animate something foul and oafish
that's now clogging the sewers
**** the spankers slit their throats
like the moon through a windy fog
one thing blending into another
fueling up with ignorance again
but I don't see how we could wreak hell
any more than the universe
already buggering ahead does
even with bear claws for hands
like a hotel banquet ice carver
in an encounter with the Dancing Strumpets
in a climate too tropical for inspiration
his frozen uncertainty runneth over
in a renunciation of befuddlement
by a Viking landfall pillaged soul
living a farcical incoherent nightmare
slammed through the one chance gate
and went clomping into showbiz
with a gypsy clan of Yiddish fiddlers

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
☒ The truest of dead-tested-death-testing proves Robin's dead for sure
☒ By 26 August 2014: Robin F. Williams doesn't **** & doesn't snore
☒ Showing that his rotting *** is dead because it cannot **** anymore
☒ To distance Italians from Sicilian mobsters is a Neapolitan goal,
☒ so Italia: inter mummy Rosalia Lombardo to instate her timeless role
☒ as the raking gnaw of unholy museum worship exacts a Karmic toll
☒ La Repubblica italiana, bury Rosellina Lombardo to honor her soul
☒ Meanwhile a counterfeit woman lives as Michelle Obama the man
☒ Reeling in big fish, retiring with his husband and living on the land
☒ This Michelle Obama's of a neo-femininity heftily counter-manned
☒ Wail over the blubber of mercurial fish shrink-wrapped and canned
☒ Michelle's ribs are the Chesapeake Bridge over oily water spanned
☒ It's worse than what the immigration department doesn't require as
☒ the bureaucratic class charges a **** cop grid with a 240 live wire
☒ because accordingly Vatican City is the descendant Roman Empire
☒ where-from incorporated elites throw Christians on a funereal pyre
☒ 1 door-to-door monkey salesman Jim Jones of Jonestown, Guyana
☒ Died for the C.I.A. as M.I.5 murdered ex-princess ******* Diana
☒ Eerily hear '97's semi auditory disturbance: Tyson bites Holyfield
☒ No man in sox denies comforting knowledge of wearing 'em milled
☒ Patients scared sacred is the verdict on cells C.D.C.-certified killed
☒ set upon para-nucleic structures acidic pathologically-thunk sealed
☒ Mercifully a fattened Elvis crapped-out from a bloated heart stilled
☒ 2 farmers flea volcanic plains before furrowed meadows are tilled
☒ The Acámbaro Figures and Kensington Runestone aren't canonical
☒ As they're deliberately omitted from all Apocryphal books Biblical
☒ Skirts barely below mons veneris calculate lust & lure systematical
☒ Seems the totality of items round coax contraband flicks cylindrical
☒ Dirt & smudges & wrecks the sea causes, rounded to what's conical
☒ The beautiful Teresa Teng sang of “Another rainy day in Nagasaki”
☒  I have seen films of her on bikes, on skates but not playing hockey
☒ The ease in which legs are compressed & unfolded at the cat house
☒ makes me hearken for unstuck Tuesdays at ye olde Erin cork house
☒ where fish are skinned like brave men tried in a federal court house
☒ while uncracked minds get cracked up at a ****** town crack house
☒ Tex & Rita (to Memorex): Die you schizogenetic offering by dawn
☒ in the dirt-bag opting of a love stymied beneath an undeterred lawn
☒ in starving memory to Dutch: a ray-gun-loving Reagan called Ron,
☒ that war-dodging acquaintance of stage-dead mummer **** Shawn
☒ whose crap-out was viewed by attending audience as a planned con
☒ but alas the gray ******* was, medico-legally, dead and gone
☒ To negrita ****** & Albanian trulls & stenographers he's just John
☒ Lewis Mumford wasn't motherly as now Mum is his name or 'cause
☒ The Myth of the Machine Vol II: The Pentagon of Power was tame
☒ Mumford's keen intellect is marginalized and therein lies the shame
☒ Finding competent help for a homosexual brain defect ain't so easy
☒ with local brain doctors buggering sailors till they're both as queasy
☒ as allergists with red noses because allergy tests make them sneezy
☒ Many 62-year-olds get a kick out of bowel surgery when it's breezy
☒ beneath palms labeled alphabetically: tree w, tree x, tree y & tree z
☒ When you date first a date-****** you expect date-**** on first date
☒ To love profoundly we must possess an inalienable, intractable hate
☒ while a chaste Chaz hefts gobs of food from fridge to stove to plate
☒ faster than down hill on oily rails screams a train obese with freight
☒ that'll whip mufflers Oprah & Gayle at their queerest galloping gait
☒ Without toilet paper, ****** rags would be gay Clint Eastwood's fate
☒ as his ***-lovin'-Bohemian-Grove-attending *** needs an **** mate
☒ with a deep ****** receptive to bath-house Clint's masochistic trait
☒ enhanced by a brutal sadism borne of a splintered Korean War pate
☒ he got from a bumpy flight aboard an Army Air Force bomber crate
☒ dropping him into Richard E. Byrd's North Pole hollow-Earth state
☒ Viceroy Mountbatten was in tall grass fooling with his swollen ****
☒ when ****** India emerged from her foreign-imposed-grave-pit rut
☒ to absorb a parting partition shot with a death by the thousandth cut
☒ in '47 while King George VI could not keep his blabber-mouth shut
Ready
get set,
but
do not adjust me yet,
the static is inbuilt as is
the self adjusting tilt.

Jeez
could things be any more confusing?
track and trace is using us
jobsworth Charlies pursuing us
the taxman is still doing us
and it's only ****** Tuesday.

If tomorrow is
another day
that Boris Johnson,
gets his way,
I'm buggering off
on holiday
I think I've had enough.
Breathe deeply and relax, but not too much.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
partner up to, what?

   i hear your heartbeat, to the beat of the drums...
oh what a shame, that you came here with, someone
so while  you're here in my arms...
let's make the most of the night,
like we're going to die young...


do i ******* look like a gay-lord
or a blonde-*****?!
sorry, what?!
pop music is like an infection...
i can't stop this *******...
   no, no thank you...
pop music is infectious...
  whatever, rap, dark metal rock
music... whatever...
you fed us the *******
antibiotics,
what were you expecting?
a cure for ******* Ebola?!
retards ahoy!
            hey hey...
third sail would come welcome...
re-**** ****-tards...
               ooh look...
  ballerinas donning stilettos!
prance about, only using
the heels!
      pointless buggering,
and some...
                       it's pop...
it's supposed to transcend
the "inconvenience" of
musical genres...
      
oh yeah, pretty woman 2.0 (two point oh)...
for sure...
reliquary of the 1980s culture...
that **** was always going
to work...
  work... work...
  like a ******* broken down
washing machine...
  
going to work, within the confines
of:
set, stood... and subsequently
understood...
centrism of Rome...
                had "i" made it understood...
a labor, Catholicism,
revised by a Baptist choir...
                
please, at least give yourself
the excuses...
i lambast the language with
oath words...
               in order to make
the plaintiff case of:
forwarding the excuse...
                conjunctions...
anti-stuttering buffer "zones"...
of hell in oath,
shall heaven reign supreme in psalms.
This book ain't worth a posy-scented candle, 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘯'𝘴 84-𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘘𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵
𝘵𝘰 𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘌𝘹-𝘏𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘛𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘍. 𝘙𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘭
I'll lovingly beat you like a hunter with a seal-beating stick lovingly
stick-beats a seal because, anywhere but Canada, lovingly beating a
fat-**** **** with a big, seal-beating stick ain't no Earth-ending deal
that could make Phil Collins, at gun-point, change his name to Bill,
eat waffles with a pine-wood bed slat or adopt a titter over a squeal
It was too late for sorrow, as her witch-*** was froze until tomorrow
I danced with your dad who doesn't dance bad for a *** dad in plaid
Once I'm buried in a hole, because I was so sick that I was declared
by a doctor dead, I'll never be alive to toast again your Cuban bread
You puked runny puke on my mom's T.V. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘛𝘳𝘦𝘬 dishes, so now
we will have to live on your raft & **** in water like ******* fishes
do when they swish fish bones out of whack with bone-fish swishes
Here I am, hiding behind my Maserati during World War Two with
nobody violent around me; eating dead rabbits & taking things easy
Easy does it during World War Two when ***** & brassieres were
in short supply along with ice tongs, lip gloss & mink bikini thongs
I could've ate my pelvis-breaking weight in frogs & puppies, cuddle
fish & guppies. I could've loved you for your flat warts, like a 6-ton
elephant spurting in gray quarts. But you were so ecstatically crazy,
******* out on my pretty-boy face, that you had to cram it up with
everybody everyplace. Your buck-toothed **** dentist won't never
dentally-know how you pull apart stringy roots underneath, with 16
of your 22 black-rotted, misaligned teeth. I spiked your wine with a
harsh laxative to get you going more often, then I shot your **** &
crammed his rap-crapping *** into a 55-gallon-steel-oil-drum coffin.
“Jesus Christmastide! Why do ****** call you 'Stubby,' Stubby?” I
asked Stubby. He just sat there, clinically dead & grub-stiff grubby;
so I #22 scalpel-stripped him to make him less chubby, because gay
Stubby had visions of ******* an eye surgeon & calling him hubby.
Picture me 20 years ago, after the amputation of my toe. Picture me
20 years from now, married to a beef-cow. Picture, picture, picture,
then picture me pictured badly: with a crack-***** grinning madly.
**** who know know, by January you're ******* Iron Man noodles
through rear tubing & improving your high sight with a ladder-rung
eye-band & 2 days later you're dying of long cancer on Lung Island.
It was scary when the bottom fastened itself upward onto a lump &
when Jesus blessed Cebunese kids scavenging pagpag at the dump.
David René de Rothschild tethered 2 purple ***** to a dollar stump,
while Our Lord rescued Irish colleens chewin' garbage at the dump.
It is rumored that Bill & Hillary have shared ****** intimacies with
each other, that were interrupted 3 times by Roger, Bill's ½ brother.
***-******* like to wait 40 years before making insane, ******-****
accusations against all men who live in white-built African nations.
I was slurpin' yogurt & smashing white maggots in bare feet & hair
dryer-drying my blond hair in my windowless room, 3 floors above
my street on a Friday, 1 day after Walt Disney's gayest gay day yet,
before full rubbers broke through to make the sidewalks gooey wet,
to knock Mama off a donkey that had been her lifelong donkey-pet.
I hate bus trips! Oh, God! When will the God pain train trend end?!
As I grew to love her neighboring orifices & chocolate-milk glands,
Naomi Campbell smacked my white **** when I called her Bonnie,
with the same baloney handful behind what makes my nuts manful.
I don't care for the stiff-**** fluff & flare, or the slimy guff & glare,
of naked ***** gettin' axles lubed at the naked **** axle-lubing fair.
My syndicated business share differential queered the poor nusance
as it gave me a primer glued with solid gander ******* goose sense.
Prickling something is better than prickling nothing I suppose for a
bug-zapped minute that cuts a snail in a harpsichord or in a spinnet,
made by piano-tunin' ****-buddies in the Georgian city of Gwinnett.
You dumb, ***-******! I can't believe that you are more gay than 92
Rob Reiners, ***-******* 600 raunchy Biskra Province coal miners!
Rob Reiner ****** a pygmy during the holocaust when Polish Jews
felt lost & he walled in his father-in-law 'cause dad was pygmy-tall.
Coal moaners surrounded me like a rash. I fought them with bullets
& bull ***** after I ran out of cream cheese, Kotex & blue crayons,  
in hopes that 1 day, I might skip barefoot again through grey lawns.
A quick look-see at any cemetery puts things into perspective, dead
& deceased, no hens riding *****, no soccer, no mismatched socks.
You removed your cold lips from mine in the coal mine making me
mad, so I took off my wedding dress to make a baby with your dad.
I was paralytic with fear when your **** came near, as I was out of
chicken feed; so I slit open my ulnar artery & quickly bled to death.
I answered your pathetical moan for help, like a collie ***** in mid-
moan whelp. My dog's a godless pagan like you too & she wants to
drink from the toilet like any pagan guy; but she's a chihuahua dog
so, unless she is fed wolf hormones, she'll not rise toilet-bowl high.
Elton John offered lots of **** attention if, when regardin' his ****
as he's porking park cops, I'll not ever jam a big monkey wrench in.
Elton John proffered love & attention if, in regards to his **** when
buggering Central Park cops, I will never ram a steel park bench in.
I was eating pig-kidney with a **** Vietnamese woman in a shed &
she asked to split my kidney & I jumped 'cause she wasn't well-fed.
I was puking oily French Canadian porcine kidney gristle onto your
Michigan-made robe of silk, as I lactated luke-warm pig buttermilk.
I barfed slimy French Haitian ****** brain stem treats onto your 34
devilish Voodoo ******* of silk, to make you lactate spicy pig milk.
A mean-spirited queer attacked me, when I was not looking queerly
around for bad queers. Lord Princely Jesus, these preter-neo pseudo
ultra modernistical queer times are upon us to ***-******' seize us.
Oprah's teats were bound to her chest by mucho ****** rings, which
made her want to use a milk-goat's milking-machine for **** flings
when she was alone ****-******' ****** & ***-porking ding-a-lings
I sermonize & preachify, as of late, against ***-*** at the going rate
for hooded rods trimmed to helmets, as circular cuts are a boy's fate
Like walnuts crackin' at dawn between the lumpy thighs of ******,
I pop plasma-filled blisters to render them into itchy, fiery-red sores
Because ******* riot after lines are drawn, I hide 2 pink scrotal nuts
to save them from ablation, because when they're gone they're gone
& devoid of vitally-vibrant, dual-testicular sensation by stimulation
In the world of Yip Harburg, everyone must die, you know it's true,
like a wasted ****** who's turned blue, all-the-way speared through
I want movies of Ava Cherry with no clothes on, lounging softly &
luridly, pulling me with Afro curly-cues on a **** trimmed torridly
as cool chick Sita Chan flies over a Hong Kong bridge discordantly
I trace your Nordic-loving *** sidewise across Conneaut Lake when
I'm 3% sober, from January the twenty-third to the ninth of October
Across the vast expanse of your ever-widening *** I mark my space
to keep my place before the next ship arrives from Pluto moon base
When peace is declared, my mistress will put away her war nuggets
for good, because as she aches for a half foot of timber I will slip to
her my thrill-hammering, impregnating, baby-broth-squirting wood.
See my Mongol eyes? See how far apart they are? The preterhuman
distance 'tween them has kept me from being smashed flat by a car.
When I was tiny small I'd scream brattily as a bratty tot, “Mommy I
want to watch 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘢𝘯 𝘋𝘺𝘬𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸 with old Hose Prairie a lot
whilst me & the hot baby sitter **** on a cot & **** Mexicali ***!”
**** chick laboratorians, working for the forensics lab, use ****-kit
combs on their red bushes when public **** outrage pulls & pushes
You'll be alright, no doubt, after you have twin infants to straighten
your *** out. We'll have fun with white vitamin D from Earth's sun,
while I  twist your hair into a fashionable bun, 'cause you got a gun,
& you say that you will shoot me 9 times once your bun is all done.
“Who's it?” Asked a cook cookin' corn pone, to which I bemoaned,
“It is a phone call from a chickee who combs her ***** hair alone.”
A guy can count, when he runs, on his biggest right-foot toe, just as I counted on you camper-crammer Breanna, 15 little boyfriends ago
when you chirped like a meadow crow in an '05 red Dodge Shadow  
before folding 2 **** lips over in a corporate, ****-lip-folding show
for bread, dinero, gelt, mula, cash & seventy other words for dough
On the porch I was wildly horrified from this haunted-house fear as
Grandma struck me with cheer over her **** so sharp & **** so near
to my rock-hard-pronghorn projectile & manly, wedding-tackle gear
“At the bottom of the finest menu is offered wren mignon, captain”
a crew man proffered, before his wife got pimped by Peter Lawford
A million dead love-birds littered my dream-life & dream- girlfriend
after I epoxied her pate beyond the apex of the fore-crown's top end
Last month we ate turkeys from pointy beaks to wrinkly **** holes
while our wife crones were fingered like ****** Mao finger bowls
Breanna, I fear you, to be near you and to hear you when you boil a
chicken in the kitchen, when you turn on me with merciless *******'
to precipitate the most tremorous of Parkinsonian, lard-*** twitchin'
Breanna, I fear you, to hear you near you when you boil a wren like
a California chicken kitchen cook who sews ***** by hem-stitchin'
in dawning hours when plane Earth's keen on night-to-day switchin'
I wouldn't let you down like I put the window down, like I put your
mother down, or when I peeled your fish-net hose that wrap around
your creamy thighs that ruin our seedy *******/constructed lives
to make us want left states to turn right or men high up to fall down
upon a Battle Creek holt in the snotted knot of a carpet bomb round
that'd blow the shell off a turtle & a goose off its soft, goose mound
into a better diet whereat gay waivers are paced to England's pound
I'm forced to live in the woods & eat moles 'cause I really do love it
and I'd never ***** that I am too royal toward it, or very far above it
or *****-***** to ream & **** it, even when I'm 768 miles from it
Unlike you, with your greyish bumps, I ain't scarfed corn dogs with
stinkin' garbage men, in garbage trucks, speeding to garbage dumps
My ditzy ***** went crazy from a street drug so, like they did with
father Grigorii Rasputin, I shot her twice, then wrapped her in a rug
While I'm swingin' an ax in an abortuary to unsettle my calm bones
I find quiet consolation listening to near-dead, half-deaf Tom Jones
who dreams of Earth minus lesbians grooming dads as mom clones
Sharing my lunch with an out-of-work ****** makes me feel larger,
just like after my big ****'s been slammed in the jamb of a car door
The snow Christened Christ, freezing hot after-birth iced. His Mum
was a ****** who had babies, while Daddy bit a dog that had rabies.
Hey you *******, I am ***-high in the Jakarta Turbine project
so I got no time for them or Lloyd Bridges & his hemorrhoid ridges
as my tick-bit chihuahua'd sooner *** on what is left of Bruno Leon
With dour Vince Edwards it was a horror to power-rinse head warts
I inhale the stench of birds being cared for in the privacy of a closet
where fruits ripen after paying a homosexual closet security deposit
In the future all good people will act like Donny Osmond a little bit
when they're comfortably seated on a heated toilet seat taking a ****
The ****** nurse in fancy nurse uniform, through which I saw ****
fur, led me to the hospital bed so that I could have my way with her
like the fakes who were John Forsythe, Sam Jaffe & Raymond Burr
could, if they had not died as rabid dogs like Allāh said they should
as the eternal souls of those who are bad shall be shredded for good
“Listen Missy,” I said, “I could spend many nights ******* you raw
or brushin' my curly **** bush on my million-dollar yacht instead!”
My thumb's numb where a dog bit me, just after I ****** his *****
in Satan's kitschy church for a mass that was less camp than witchy
among Hillary's ****-suckin' pigs who're no less shaky than twitchy
It's Kung Fu in reverse, the adoration & the adulation that paces me
across sad, fairy-land meadows where I chase fairies of race fantasy
Pry wide your gob, goofy goober, wolfin' waffles in the men's room
ain't never got 1 ****** locked up for gay pimping, we can presume
A clock's ticking *****, like a sticking stitch stuck in a witch-*** snit
on the bald nog of a drained chimp **** from the massacre at Tikrit
Green rhymes with spleen & a spleen that has gone green is seen as
being badly corrupted by a putrefyingly-deadly, infarcting gangrene
Suicidal tribes, I think who link upon the brink must not, of course,
drink pink ink from a sink as it could push bowel twist knot & kink
I was haunted by wraiths, sprites, leprechauns & hobgoblins till ***
Mark D. Chapman cured x-singer John Lennon's medical problems.
Beause who, minus spinal pain, might for sure say that ****** bare- backing made the normally heterosexual, rough & tumble Ben gay?
Ben is gaily bathing done with Obama at bath houses for **** fun.
Don't you remember that when we were in love we'd hide at Burger
King and secretly eat out each other's burgers until late September?
When we were in love (Don't you remember?) we'd meet at Burger
King to secretly eat out each other's fur burgers till mid-November?
For ****'s sake I shall **** with coffee sippers during coffee breaks
on schooners & rafts crossin' the greatest of America's Great Lakes.
I **** early in the morning to avoid the pre-afternoon ***** & shakes
I **** in the early morning to avoid the pre-afternoon ***** & shakes
In the early morning I ****, avoiding runny afternoon ***** & shakes
I evacuate pre-breakfast to obstruct copious supper squirts & quakes
I pathologize fetid droppings to classify scatological frauds & fakes
I could hurl ***** on cue in the sight of jail-house grits & pancakes
I may sail west within the under-belly pits of poly-finned sea snakes
that slither hither, thither & yon up, if not over, deadly rays & rakes
in pre-gutted conditions, before they are trucked by drays from bays
on sunny days when fillets are flayed; when pay-grades induce gays
who Walmart pays in minimal ways that x-Sam said was a pay-raise
lifted by the Chinese Patriotic Catholic Association, & Mao's praise
that launched the Cultural Revolution's ****-everyone-you-can craze
to the tune of Chou En-lai's burn-*******-Tibet-to-the-ground phase
which obeys the policy of crushing prisoners' faces with lunch-trays
which adores the practice of caving in faces with prison lunch-trays
I'm eating yogurt, nothing fazes me: 11 stays & electric-chair delays
that outstrip the switch poles of Western Electric's antiquated relays
that strip the switching poles of Western Electric's antiquated relays
that strip the switched poles of General Electric's negative tree days
that play General Electric's plane, pointed up over negated key bays
to soil Edison's electrical datum line, croacked west where fur frays
in gay burnt victim pink fashion where blistered, skinned skin flays
sons wallow in pig sties where godly cleanliness forever never pays
while men swallow grizzly plies; where the *** of King Jesus brays
to bluff, brag & boast not; to blow up the pretense of pitiable praise
in the firmament beyond whereat the water may no higher be raised
above the bosoms of fairy maidens, whose fealty amazed Our Lord,
says the holy Hebrew Testament; affirms high-oxygen giants crazed
In infancy I happened upon Mithra, including trivialities Mithraical
& later, with Jesus, new Biblical nuances of Prince Jesus Christical
Michael Jackson's paederastical dancing made Brillo-headed Tito a
badder dancer as it acidified Hindu Vinod Khanna's bladder cancer
Here on 2 limbs hobbles a 110-year-old pervert, Kirk Douglas, who
fugged fugging Marilyn Monroe fugless like 1 Aussie **** Kug lass

— The End —