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Oli Nejad Jan 2013
I was born on a belt
In the factory of man,
Rolled into a home,
Labeled and stamped.

My life was made honest
By ink on a page,
And my future controlled
By a system of wage.

My whole life thus far,
Two decades of lame,
Incompetent bureaucratic,
Institutional reign

Has seen us shuffled down
The educational lane,
Made unified products;
For unified gain.
Homunculus Feb 2019
01/31/2019

Today, I learned the true extent to which I loathe the IRS. To be fair, I've always known that I hated them. I've had plenty of legitimate reasons for this in the past. For instance, every year, they casually extort our wage and salary, pretending to allocate it for the building of bridges, roads, and schools. While in reality, the infrastructure and educational system crumble, and defense spending grows without limit.
But then again, I do suppose that in a certain sense, roads, bridges, and schools are built indirectly with these funds; but only after the funds are used to blow these institutions to smithereens in third world countries, and private corporations like Halliburton are contracted to rebuild them for egregious profits. Profits, mind you, which are shuffled to dozens of offshore shell corporations, ensuring that they are taxed at a rate exponentially lower than the profits of the average working citizen.
But today, I experienced a type of hatred entirely novel to my conceptions of what is even possible in the realm of consciousness. A loathing so intense that it paralyzed my rationality, sending me into fits of rage and bewildered astonishment that I would wish on NO ONE . . . except Cheney or Kissinger, the ******* *******. For today, for the first time in all my 28 years of life, I filed my federal income taxes. I knew that one day the chore would inevitably arise, but I still consider it an accomplishment to have made it through an entire third or more of my life without ever actually dirtying my hands with the wretched muck. All that aside, the story goes like this:
I work as an “independent contractor” for a friend who runs a small business. I perform various services around the office, and he cuts me a check at the end of the week. I've been working there “on paper” for about a year, really a bit longer, but “what they don't know...” so goes the old adage. We had, the both of us, anticipated with tempered irritation, the arrival of this bureaucratic beast of burden. However, neither of us knew that the deadline mailing date for “independent contractors” comes nary two months sooner than for payroll employees. This information was sprung on us at the very last minute by his tax attorney who, from this point on, will be referred only to as 'G.S.' (grease stain).
As I was fulfilling my duties, my friend urgently beckoned to me “STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. TAXES ARE DUE TODAY, AND WE HAVE TO FILE THEM NOW!” Naturally, I panicked. I had seen an income tax form . . . perhaps once or twice? . . .  much less filled one out . . .  maybe once at 17 during the employment process at a fast food joint? . . . Initially, we had thought it would be a simple matter of the W-2, the likes of which had been filled out automatically for me by employers in the past as a part of the hiring phase. Nonetheless, since my status of “independent contractor” placed me into a different tax category, I had to fill out what is known as a 1099-MISC. “Simple enough!” thought I, “I'll just fill in the relevant details and get back to work.” . . . “NOT SO FAST, CASEY JONES!” screamed the form, with all its talk of “fishing boat expenses” and “crop insurance” . . . “O...K?” “and what precisely has this to do with me?” thought I.
My employer, courteous as he can sometimes be, called up (t)rusty old G.S., who referred us to a site where the form could be understood more intelligibly. After a bit of head scratching and chin stroking, we figured it out. No matter, though! Because once we figured the form out, we couldn't figure out what to DO with the ******* thing. 'G.S.' was once again consulted, and he told us that we could simply print the form, and take it to an H&R Block office for submission. “Okay, simple enough!” thought I . . . but alas! It was not to be so. When we arrived at said office, the agent . . . who looked like a burned out caricature of William H. Macy . . .  reviewed the forms, and said that to apply the deductions I had calculated, he would require a $300 fee for his services, and that I would need to fill out a “Section-C.” This lanky, rasp-voiced, twig of a man then withdrew from his cubicle, at which point, my employer whispered to me “**** that, I've done Section-C forms hundreds of times, we're ditching these crooks”
At this point, we retreated back to the office, found what we thought to be the relevant forms, but were soon swept up in a vicious monsoon of bureaucratic legalese which, although it resembled English, bore few similarities other than word spelling and grammatical form. It is sometimes alleged that Kafka was haunted by ghosts which had an insatiable appetite for stories. The legend further has it that he would write for them to quell their unyielding wrath. Those of us who have read Kafka know intimately of his satirical preoccupation with the absurdity of bureaucracy. Perhaps these stories pleased the ominous specters which loomed over him like the fluorescent light beaming down upon me as I type these words. Some things can never be known for certain. If, however, this were truly the case, then it would seem that Kafka's ghost had now taken the role of writing MY story for his own amusement. Every cliché of the DMV and social services building was present in this ghastly affair. “Fill out this form; stand in this line; oh, I'm sorry, sir. You've got the wrong form. You'll need to file a (…) and take it to (…), their hours are MwAhMwAhMwAhMwAhMwAh” This futile circumlocution went on for SIX HOURS. All the while, thoughts of a perfectly wound noose, crafted of thick hemp rope, with thirteen pristine wraps forming a slipknot to be fitted as though tailor made around my neck filled my mind, as the acute stages of benzodiazepene withdrawal began to set it. Luckily enough, or so we suspect. We figured it out, and now I have only to wait for my return to come in the mail to see what I owe.
But once I got home, I got to thinking. There is a copy of 'Infinite Jest' on my coffee table. A literary epic whose magnitude cannot possibly be overstated. I began to think deeply reverential thoughts of the author of this book, and then something clicked in my mind: on that fateful day when Wallace took his own life  by the noose, he was in the middle of writing a novel about nothing less than the 1985 Tax Code in Illinois, and a group of IRS agents. Being the adamant researcher of all topics that he was, we can hardly imagine that he did not give this terrible ******* of language what he felt to be its due diligence. Of course, any responsible thinker understands that correlation does not equal causation; but as the admittedly ironic thoughts of suicide filled my mind over the course of this afternoon and evening, I can't help but be left to wonder if a mind so vastly superior to mine as his did not experience these ideas with markedly less irony as he reveled in the vile idiosyncrasies of bureaucratic jargon. Again. Some things can never be known.
I have begun keeping a journal. Not so much for the sake of documenting my daily experience, but more so to experiment with different writing styles and, perhaps to help clarify my own thoughts. I will also continue to write poems, of course.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.  i really don't islam right now, as far as current archeological unearthing goes, circa mid 20th century, islam should look back onto its schism - and debate itself... whether or not Ali was, or wasn't given Muhammad's word as the just inheritor of the religion... since Muhammad broke, or rather, never kept his honor / promise to his son in law... mind you: the new testament could only have, and indeed did, only benefit the Byzantines (i love the variant of punctuation... bi-zan-tyne vs. bee-zan-teen)... and who do we know of, to be a respectable of both history, and the collective memory, from the Byzantine empire? not one... even by my standards: that's ******* harsh... the new testament was like a second Trojan war, against Virgil's aeneid... because why would the new testament even become beneficial to the western Empire? had it not disintegrated into protestantism, and subsequently secularism... the existence of the new testament has a time, and a space of supreme utility... the second counter of the Greeks against the Trojans... in the mythology of the Romans being the exiled Trojans... and, at its pinnacle, within the Byzantine empire... of course... but outside of it? like a **** inside a tornado... now if i were to rewrite the divine comedy... who would i take as accomplice? Horace? or Milton?

             if you ever read the footnotes...

  oh no, ******, you're not getting

away with this...

why is the mainstream media
concerned with the dead sea scrolls?

they're an extension of
the Hebrew tradition -
   they invite a debate concerning
the prophet Isaiah...

   the dead sea scrolls are an extension
of the old testament...

but the nag hammadi library -
which, "miraculously" emerged
within a coincidence of the
dead sea scrolls: simultaneously -
at the end of the second world...

right...
     the nag hammadi library is
no an extension of the new testament:
it's an... implosion...

     crucially: st. thomas' gospel...
which is contained in the library's oeuvre...
yet the mainstream media
thinks it's necessary to bother itself
commenting on the dead sea scrolls:
if you ain't a Hebrew,
the dead sea scrolls are,
seriously of no interest to you...

but the nag hammadi library?
    sure as **** it is...
              the whole investment in
myth, the Seth project -
              st. peter's apocrypha...
mainstream can go and **** itself
wondering why,
the dead sea scrolls were not
released for the public for 30 odd years...
mention the nag hammadi
library, and the ******* are twice
as clueless...

then you read the footnotes...
ah...
           the historical account
of josephus bin matthias -
   about the first jewish-roman war...
in the time of Nero...
      when the book of revelations
was written... as no precursor -
               by some obscure Greek...

as having inherited Christianity -
but not having moved in
the bureaucratic hierarchy -
   allowing myself
    the rite of confirmation:
baptism?
     oh yeah... ga ga goo doll
chant of a protesting toddler -

                there's this fine book,
by a german author,
concerning the gnostic cults...
can't remember the author's name...

evidently if i were hebrew -
i'd occupy myself with the dead sea scrolls...
but since i inherited some sort
of christianity:
                  i can tell you -
you need to look at the nag hammadi
library...
     concerning christianity -
the dead sea scroll fascination
   is probably on par with
the rejection of the old testament...
what the mainstream media
isn't telling you,
   is concerning the nag hammadi
library... unearthed in Egypt,
by some shepherd,
      incubated for, circa, 2000 years,
in some urns,
   in what appears
            to be Osama bin-Laden
                                  style caves...

what josephus bin matthias
wrote... and this archeological find?

thereupon felix -
               'a greater blow...
   was inflicted on the Jews by the Egyptian
false prophet. arriving in the country
this man, a fraud who posed as a seer,
collected about 30,000 dupes,
led them round from the desert (john
the baptist scenario) to the mount of olives
(the transfiguration scene),
and from there was ready to force an
entry into Jerusalem...
   the Egyptian fled with a handful of
men (the 12 disciples)'...

   because wasn't Jesus raised in
Egypt?
              and the archeological evidence...
where was the Christian apocrypha
found, in 1946 by a shepherd?
         Egypt.

dot dot dot...
      why would i even care about
the dead sea scrolls?
     the dead sea scrolls, last time i heard,
concern the wrongly executed prophet /
courtesan, Isaiah -
  who was cut at the abdomen
                        in an execution...

the crucifixion of Hey-Zeus is not
some cherry on top of the calamity that
befell Jude(a)...
            in its liquidation,
in what became the liquidation of
                    the Roman Empire...

but... i am curious about the nag hammadi
library -
            honestly:
   if the Vatican didn't have its head
rammed up the ******* cardinals' ***...
it could have escaped under hush-hush
closure...
   and the orthodox texts would be
left intact...
             but... given they have been
so ******* lazy about covering
this up?
    
    what happened to the Library of
Alexandria when Christianity
took the populist route?
                   em...
                         whatever "secrets"
are bound to the Vatican library...
   when a naked truth is staring you
in the face?
              does it really matter,
at this point?

                       not really...
     apart from retaining a catholic poetic
elasticity to the faith,
i.e. allowing metaphorical cannibalism -
i see... no point to be an Atlas
for the church...
   rather... a Samson -
            lodged between the pillars -
pulling it apart.
JDH Jun 2017
Some introductory food for thought...

"Manufacturing and commercial monopolies owe their origin not to a tendency imminent in a capitalist economy but to governmental interventionist policy directed against free trade and laissez faire."
  - Ludwig Von Mises

"Bureaucracies are inherently antidemocratic. Bureaucrats derive their power from their position in the structure, not from their relations with the people they are supposed to serve. The people are not masters of the bureaucracy, but its clients."
  - Alan Keyes


The European Union as the New Eastern Bloc?
The Eastern Trading Bloc of the Soviet system had it's origins in the tail end of the Second World war, where, through the suppression of the whereabouts of Kremlin manipulation, had purported itself as democratic agreement, initially giving itself the appearance of a 'bourgeois democracy' as the Soviets called it. Though, inherently was, and clearly became an imperial establishment of control from the Soviet Bureaucracy. Likewise, the European Union, when originally advertised to the nations of Europe was propped up in a similarly unassuming manner, despite having been previously discussed and having the concepts of such a union already organised further back into 1948 at the Hague Conference. The parallels of such such unions (Eastern/Euro) are that they garnered the consent of the public through their foundation being merely upon an economic transnational policy, and not a political one, and therefor their basic parallels are that of deceit.

The Eastern Bloc formed what was essentially a symbiosis of the state and the economy, something that naturally would be inherent under a Communist regime. However, the European Union, too, follows a similar reciprocal foundation, for it binds the state and economy, removing the separation of powers by Capitalistic enterprise, and instead, Centralises governance in a more oligarchical, corporate and bureaucratic apparatus. Operating through a complex arrangement of multitudinous committees and boards, whose members form a body of non-elected representatives. Essentially the European Union, on the guise of an economic market, has formed a centralised, quasi-private parliament akin to the Soviet style hegemony of the Eastern Bloc, and through soft-intimidation and misinformation, keeps it's members bonded. Lest it be forgotten that the Union is allegedly one of 'free trade', yet, when discourse begins to brew of leaving, as it did in Britain, why are we met with threats of economic disability and ostracization? That shows more the signs of a protection racket; of bureaucratic gangsterism, than it does of a voluntary cooperation of national markets.


The unification of Germany and the amalgamation of the European continent?
In a more predictive sense, the European Union shares similarities in it's unifying policies, as it it does to the unification of the German states circa 1871. Spearheaded during the Bismarckian era of the late nineteenth century, Germany, well within a period of two decades transformed from a collection of trading states, to a fully amalgamated nation under Prussian dominated rule, but by what means did this occur, and in what ways does the unification of Germany share similarities to modern Europe?

Of course, the chief processes of German unification lied in the economy, the political structure and culture, the political structure I have already covered. The establishment of a newly amalgamated economy among the German States was created through the breaking down of trade barriers between the previously independent states, one of which ways in doing so was the introduction of the single German currency (the Mark) along with a centralised banking system that allowed for both monetary control by the state and the removal of currency exchange between regions. Likewise the European Union brought with it the introduction of a common European currency (the Euro) and too, a European Central Bank. The new Germany also extended its unification to the creation of a common German culture that evoked a sense of nationalism, for instance, the establishment of a new national anthem and German military, to be paraded with pride. Too, the standardisation of the school system to create a state of coherent socialisation among the German generations. What we see with the European Union is also the creation of a common European national anthem and a cooperative European military (though a centralised European military is still developing) and through policies such as the Bolonga Process, the education system of Europe as a whole has been standardised to the specific image of the European Union, even a single European emergency number (112) is under proposition.

It is said that history repeats itself, and perhaps what we are living through today is the amalgamation of the European states as transpired nearly 150 years ago within central Europe. And that the non-representative, self appointing parliament of the European Union, resembles almost a kind of bureaucratic Kaiserreich; a kind of Prussian hegemony of the modern day.


- a short essay by JDH
wehttam Jun 2014
May be I’ll start writing, today.  
The story of Zen Zero.

I realized that all good things come to an end.  The tears, the affairs, and even the faintest revelation about my relationship to the Emperor of Japan.  I’ll need help and... well, the truth can be tolled.  It can be that the faintest belief, that we as free people are subject to the king, our God.
A king stands in truth as our kin.  The love that has existed for a thousand years, about justice, permanence, and legend are here.
It all started 7 years ago.  According to the book of John, the 3rd book.  The face of his majesty does have an Imperial Guardian.  In any colour, red, black, blue, white, and even green.  Each color resembles the color of trust.  
I started training in the Emperor's garden at the age of negative 6.  Before my mother can conceive her unborn child in a marriage.  Like the burning of Shin Cho' Palace.  
"Oh, how they forget so quickly, the truth?" says my mother.
They forget so quickly the majesty and power of the Emperor's memory of Mother Japan.  In his Majesty's eyes, how many lovers stir the colors of benevolence.  Where and when does it exist and stop for us as an American patriot sold to slavery for spy’s.  All of his subjects do will and listen to the cry of patience in his family’s quarters.  
My father at the time of his marriage did not know the Emperor's name, I had asked my mother in her heart if she knew the king.  They are no longer married.  They had tried to burn down the Emperor's Palace with a marriage.  But I had already existed, in the love of my family at a wedding joining men and women.  I remember some singing, all though in my mother’s ears, really bad singing. In her head or mine at the wedding, whichever is greater.  Maybe the song was worthless or was the singer already lifting her fingers to strike matches on the bamboo fortress of the young emperor.  
They have had many statesmen destroy the dream that Japan has.  Through lies, corruption, and *******.  Each of the last three I had to conquer to be his Majesty's Justice.  I did not earn the right to judge any such subject or people, it was given freely at that time to children.  I had learned to love the Emperor, even in my own desire to please him and her.  
The lies were towering revelations about the coming of man in God's kingdom, and how the will of imperial veils never existed for the properties of mankind.  The corruption was the setting of dowers or dowries for the subject of lost families, in the forbearance of lucher escaped only by the luck of liars.  And then the dreams of revelry, owned by the ungodly and chaste men of the burning palace, whether sediscious, or whether the fables absolving time in the palace to a judgment had already met the Emperor.  
All of the priests (pre-ests) had to pray; for the remaining time of eternity, for the true judgment of his Majesty's subjects. It was to be taken from the subject of srys to the Emperor's Knight.  
To many were lost in the munitions of war.  Laws that govern and sanction truths were not available to those of absolute corruption.  Stalwarts, stonewallers, and stoners were becoming of the anti-gentry.  The laws were never to be discouraged by zeal, or by trial.  The laws had to represent the ability of love to change time even if the object of factions destroyed the old way.  They had taken the truth to prepare Neoteny for where the first Imperial Guard had placed his head.  The first Imperial Guard, that I became before birth had taken his own head with a weapon made by treason.  
My mother’s dress was made out of spider silk.  A giant spider played Chinese checkers with the Imperial Guard for my head also.  Never the less, the palace, this time was not burned.  The dress was made out of falling stars and spiders silk.  She had found the Emperor's tailor and traded my soul for the wedding.  The pictures that were retrieved from the wedding of my mother and father have ruminated in antiquity since the time until by birth my life.  The seers and srys wanted my head to take up the Emperor's chalice.  His cup, filled with my blood, Simian blood.  
I did not want to go through with it, birth and death before becoming subject to royalty.  Seeing the world before consummation, as I had was never thought of, it was seen as impossible unless by treason we had chided a woman of royalty.  
I have seen the last major asteroid go through our galaxy before it had ever had been a present particle of mutiny.   It proved to the child (myself) in gestation, between man woman at the wedding that time will pass just as quickly before my mind’s eye as it had at the day of Pentecost.   More than 500 billon people were to be saved by God rather than by a humble dismantling of a defense lawyer.
I had seen how flowers are made by tiny Zen Zero bumble bees going to and leaving from daisies and roses, and orchids.  How each seed takes roots and as do the munitions for treason and tears; how each man whom chooses to change their name because of treason begins to understand change when his wife chooses his name.  (The reference is to Zero attacks, suicide attacks.)  How the time and life and essence of life begins in literacy as a language of love.  Every old man on earth can help me write the scripts, but can the country of old men help me change the prophet?
As long as there is war in the palace there will be treason?
The spirit of the samurai was trying the youth in the palace.  From the first born male to the last lady in quixic geisha.  All uniques were to be placed before the Lord for appointment.  Any dreams of or visions of truth were a breach of solemnity lost by the virginity of the family.  The parents of each state were subjects to the Emperor's people, and to the chosen for freedom and slavery.  How many shining knights were to remain in the Emperor's house?  The uniqueness was subject only to the reason of the generation of the age.  Not many of my men had anything left after the life of the quill or pen of the Knight Meteyi had begun to take its place with the heads of loyalists.  His sword remains in the hand of the Majesty of Japan.  No knowledge, no lore, no president, no kin, or liars can stop his reign.  As if the last days of our youth were spent dismantling the bombs we had made during the last few battles over crude extravagance.  Oil, crops, metals, space, as space became a way to admire men in statehood was the example of treason to the following.  Democrats and Republicans began to try as is a trail of laws to and from changes for the people without a loyal subject to observe in service to a Nation.  Freed men became a bureau of Federally Bureaucratic Investigative subjections.  Whether the phone would sense its use and had no service.  Men tried by srys had needed no way to communicate, they were objects, objections, and objective to democracies.  Any and all of the western knowledge of good or evil was not earned in monasteries, it was as it were seen in-between a marriage of a man and a woman and the consummation of the first born to be the king in his own mind. Centrally, intelligence and agency became a lost paradox.  The palace could be burned through neoteny, the truly lost man or woman had to be part of the worm.  The earthworm had to dig up the lost and the prophet from its own humanly death.  

Chapter 2
The dress as simple as it was, was taken off and laid in a box for saving.  It was to travel through time in the Emperor's Palace to serve has a mold, a pattern for quilting lovers of the family tree through the history of love.  After the child was conceived in love, the dress is worn and then placed back into the box for time travel. From a generation of mothers to another generation of lovers. No man was to wear the dress as an idea, thought or wisdom.  The reproach, the dress, and the marriage is virtue encoded into a structure of life   The wisest man let the Emperor dream life into the belly of prophets through the dress.  The smartest scientist understood the impeccable reason of lust and gave all to his bride for the grave that the earthworm had trusted.  The publican had the dress made as a dowry to the tribe of Roman man.  And the Emperor breathed life into the woman with a few breaths at the wedding.  The subjects, the publicans had tried the Emperor for their bride, by making the flowers lean toward their lovers.  They had tried to tell the knight of the Emperor's Palace that the sun had also retired due to mutiny in the ranks and castes of statesmen.  The son will bend light into the palace of wisdom, and the subjects do grieve the stories from prophets.  
At exactly 10:03 central eastern standard time, the states men forgave themselves of suicide and left to burn the palace.  
Each dressed as royalists.  The burning of Chinju Palace is the last thing I remember before giving up to the sound of a 3 or 4 year old woman singing.  The next thing I remember is being dropped on the floor in the delivery room to a rattle and brattle of childish whims.  Like, the sound of laughter, but only as a fury of deceit, the singer was hurt when I had asked her to join the wedding ceremony.  She excused herself of the ceremony as was or were not subjects to the birth of the kings men in harmony.  

She tried, and wanted to steal the dress.  

Chapter 3
There was mostly nothing in the womb. Except Dogma.  My father, as dogma.  He would whisper to her in bed and they would giggle about never understanding anything ever again.  I excepted NAME for my name.  They didn’t know if a boy or a girl were to be born.  I could know the difference at the time of their conversation.  I then realized that the 3 years prior to conception were perfect.  And I, the Emperor's Knight, was tolled.  Tolled the way bells sound and the way people love to hear the news.  The way light has no existence in the womb, I was tolled the way Sandalphon treaded upon the tribe of Israel.  
Lying was not invented yet, well,... while in the womb, but I had heard some whispers in the darkness.  The camera couldn't fit in, I called and tolled the camera from the womb, in between to friends.  I called the camera, Dragon.  The dragon is the trust moving in-between true and time.  The Dragon, Meteyi had told me that we were going to write everything.  From the believe that martial arts were stronger than prayer, and to the reason that it was not true.  Factually, there was nothing but prayer and no martial artist had a sword bigger than the lie of the Emperor's dragon.  The dragon said, to my father,..."The world is to die for, and not enough."  The dragon also said to my mother,..."The purpose is in your belly as a rainbow in disgust."  He, the dragon almost couldn’t believe that I had mentioned to hymn that there was no way out of this without a dream so relax and let me fit in.  The doctor had to have heard of the loyalist dream of a birth right.  Basically, I didn’t want him to slap me for the first breath.  I hurt bad, like out of a sarcastic Scotlandish parody.  Many, many, many, men quit trying to go through the sry after that.  My mother creeped up to me after my kin had asked the doctor to pick me up off of the floor.  She smiled and handed the birth certificate to the nurse and read my social security number to my father on the phone, he was on duty at the Air Force Base.  My ears were still clogged with seminal fluid, but I could feel her dream a name into my soul.  She can know the Emperor's knight.  After a few moments, my cry as chide by the Emperor, into being a whisper of life.  From that moment on in my life, I could not cry ever, as a child cries.  Otherwise I could be a whisper.

Chapter 4
Every chance at change that had gotten to us was used by running from the dragon.  He liked Batman and hated Robin but new to fathers, knew that hatred kept something’s safe from the palace. The palace could never get filled by whispers.  The whispers only object to democracy and help the camera.  The daguerreotype was possibly the only thing that couldn’t lie.  It was considered lye to gossip worshipers.  Gossip may have started the war on bugs.  Like bugs in ceaseless noise are prayer or whispers, like gossip.  When bugs stop whispering, some seemingly are bad with superstition and others are horrible with bugs.  
The next few years, were also perfect.  I had no idea who else, I could be.  Absolutely perfect, the Emperor subjected us to love.  I could **** all day, eat as much as I wanted and was warned when they thought, like a whisper.  When it was time to eat, when it was time to bath and when it was time to be quiet and sleep were similar to whispers.  Diapers were not invented yet, I had to invent them.  My mother used to get sick from the pain of laundry and sleeping with me.  When the diapers were *****, she wash them and place them back on my ****.  Like a good, palace guardian, I used them up.  The new diapers had an air of mutiny to them, the disposable ones.  We never kept trash in the house.  The signs that we have had a king for dinner were never to be seen, but everyone had the right to change pants.  
Many of the ideas in life shared before birth were not existent after birth.  It was not until my family had meet the Emperor that... we needed to love God by learning to pray.  

Chapter 5
When we met the Emperor, it was easy to say that no whispers were used.  Other things were.  A memory, not a book was here.  There was no time, the palace he made for me was from God and a lot of people wanted in.  The Royal subject was the Emperor's first knight, my father's.  I had to memorize time, which in turn was not mine.  The actual Emperor thought, that I, am a poet of sorts.  We spelled the word memory in the sky together without words, whispers, or gossip.  The next few years were spent dyeing as tap or a drill bit would being to make a hole for fastening life to the surface of my families.  Called a tap and die, the whole of life must be treaded through time without a spry attempt to vacancy.  After the Emperor, my mother and father did not know that meeting the pope was bad.   The Emperor is good.  

Chapter 6
Mainly my ability to learn, had started to fail.  There was not need to have ability.  But walking was hard.  When I stood, I was pushed through, walking.  Like a battle of balance and superstition.  Crawling had no sense, being picked up made things silly.  When wanting to be here, and not knowing how to get there through crawling, here I was a a chubby fat knight.  Father used lemons on my taste buds and cracked when he knew not how I loved them.  He had to make work to pay bills and I learned that without a whisper.  So we would sh
Chapter 8 to follow after inspection.
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
We find multiple ways to disconnect
Where business and technology intersect
We kick one another for cash
When we need equilibrium for our economy
Our morals disintegrate to ash
And we trade away our autonomy
But we don't dare reflect
Instead we disconnect
We turn people into symbols and numbers
So we can more comfortably slumber
After causing heartbreaking pain
Through bureaucratic chains
Because face to face
Our heart will race
And we'll examine our submerged morals
That lie in the depths with the coral
But our reflection is too much to bear
So we cowardly choose not to care
The only way we can feel ecstatic
Is to turn people into demographics

The Internet connects us
But also satisfies lust
And imitates human contact
Which has a negative impact
The feeling leaves us sated
And we don't feel the need to change
Our armor becomes plated
And we shoot arrows from long range
Because we don't like the idea of being one another
We get used to the idea of not seeing one another
We disconnect so we don't have to try
We disconnect so we can slowly die

The ****** disconnection continues
As we find more violent avenues
We utilize fatal instruments
To ****** without the sense
Of physically feeling
The life we're stealing
We stabbed one another with swords
Until the bullets soared
But we still needed more
So we disconnected further
And became satellite searchers
Studying people through actions
Defining them by faction
We don't have any interest in their personality or flaws
All we're concerned with is if they're breaking the law
The law we wrote to tip the scales
The law that makes us too big to fail

A husband leaves his wife
Disconnecting from her life
She's left with a child
To raise in the wild
Until a drone drops a bomb
On the struggling single mom
She's not an investor
So we'll just harvest her worthless life
Who'll be her protector
When she's near someone we don't like?
We **** her from our computer
That's the way we casually mute her

We carefully cultivated a disconnect
To treat one another like insects
This mentality will infect
Until we interject
Once we finally reflect
Love will connect
I

What new element before us unborn in nature? Is there
        a new thing under the Sun?
At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative,
        Scientific theme
First penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poison-
        ous hand, named for Death's planet through the
        sea beyond Uranus
whose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of
        Hades, Sire of avenging Furies, billionaire Hell-
        King worshipped once
with black sheep throats cut, priests's face averted from
        underground mysteries in single temple at Eleusis,
Spring-green Persephone nuptialed to his inevitable
        Shade, Demeter mother of asphodel weeping dew,
her daughter stored in salty caverns under white snow,
        black hail, grey winter rain or Polar ice, immemor-
        able seasons before
Fish flew in Heaven, before a Ram died by the starry
        bush, before the Bull stamped sky and earth
or Twins inscribed their memories in clay or Crab'd
        flood
washed memory from the skull, or Lion sniffed the
        lilac breeze in Eden--
Before the Great Year began turning its twelve signs,
        ere constellations wheeled for twenty-four thousand
        sunny years
slowly round their axis in Sagittarius, one hundred
        sixty-seven thousand times returning to this night

Radioactive Nemesis were you there at the beginning
        black dumb tongueless unsmelling blast of Disil-
        lusion?
I manifest your Baptismal Word after four billion years
I guess your birthday in Earthling Night, I salute your
        dreadful presence last majestic as the Gods,
Sabaot, Jehova, Astapheus, Adonaeus, Elohim, Iao,
        Ialdabaoth, Aeon from Aeon born ignorant in an
        Abyss of Light,
Sophia's reflections glittering thoughtful galaxies, whirl-
        pools of starspume silver-thin as hairs of Einstein!
Father Whitman I celebrate a matter that renders Self
        oblivion!
Grand Subject that annihilates inky hands & pages'
        prayers, old orators' inspired Immortalities,
I begin your chant, openmouthed exhaling into spacious
        sky over silent mills at Hanford, Savannah River,
        Rocky Flats, Pantex, Burlington, Albuquerque
I yell thru Washington, South Carolina, Colorado,
        Texas, Iowa, New Mexico,
Where nuclear reactors creat a new Thing under the
        Sun, where Rockwell war-plants fabricate this death
        stuff trigger in nitrogen baths,
Hanger-Silas Mason assembles the terrified weapon
        secret by ten thousands, & where Manzano Moun-
        tain boasts to store
its dreadful decay through two hundred forty millenia
        while our Galaxy spirals around its nebulous core.
I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak with
        your presence, I roar your Lion Roar with mortal
        mouth.
One microgram inspired to one lung, ten pounds of
        heavy metal dust adrift slow motion over grey
        Alps
the breadth of the planet, how long before your radiance
        speeds blight and death to sentient beings?
Enter my body or not I carol my spirit inside you,
        Unnaproachable Weight,
O heavy heavy Element awakened I vocalize your con-
        sciousness to six worlds
I chant your absolute Vanity.  Yeah monster of Anger
        birthed in fear O most
Ignorant matter ever created unnatural to Earth! Delusion
        of metal empires!
Destroyer of lying Scientists! Devourer of covetous
        Generals, Incinerator of Armies & Melter of Wars!
Judgement of judgements, Divine Wind over vengeful
        nations, Molester of Presidents, Death-Scandal of
        Capital politics! Ah civilizations stupidly indus-
        trious!
Canker-Hex on multitudes learned or illiterate! Manu-
        factured Spectre of human reason! O solidified
        imago of practicioner in Black Arts
I dare your reality, I challenge your very being! I
        publish your cause and effect!
I turn the wheel of Mind on your three hundred tons!
        Your name enters mankind's ear! I embody your
        ultimate powers!
My oratory advances on your vaunted Mystery! This
        breath dispels your braggart fears! I sing your
        form at last
behind your concrete & iron walls inside your fortress
        of rubber & translucent silicon shields in filtered
        cabinets and baths of lathe oil,
My voice resounds through robot glove boxes & ignot
        cans and echoes in electric vaults inert of atmo-
        sphere,
I enter with spirit out loud into your fuel rod drums
        underground on soundless thrones and beds of
        lead
O density! This weightless anthem trumpets transcendent
        through hidden chambers and breaks through
        iron doors into the Infernal Room!
Over your dreadful vibration this measured harmony        
        floats audible, these jubilant tones are honey and
        milk and wine-sweet water
Poured on the stone black floor, these syllables are
        barley groats I scatter on the Reactor's core,
I call your name with hollow vowels, I psalm your Fate
        close by, my breath near deathless ever at your
        side
to Spell your destiny, I set this verse prophetic on your
        mausoleum walls to seal you up Eternally with
        Diamond Truth!  O doomed Plutonium.

                        II

The Bar surveys Plutonian history from midnight
        lit with Mercury Vapor streetlamps till in dawn's
        early light
he contemplates a tranquil politic spaced out between
        Nations' thought-forms proliferating bureaucratic
& horrific arm'd, Satanic industries projected sudden
        with Five Hundred Billion Dollar Strength
around the world same time this text is set in Boulder,
        Colorado before front range of Rocky Mountains
twelve miles north of Rocky Flats Nuclear Facility in
        United States of North America, Western Hemi-
        sphere
of planet Earth six months and fourteen days around
        our Solar System in a Spiral Galaxy
the local year after Dominion of the last God nineteen
        hundred seventy eight
Completed as yellow hazed dawn clouds brighten East,
        Denver city white below
Blue sky transparent rising empty deep & spacious to a
        morning star high over the balcony
above some autos sat with wheels to curb downhill
        from Flatiron's jagged pine ridge,
sunlit mountain meadows sloped to rust-red sandstone
        cliffs above brick townhouse roofs
as sparrows waked whistling through Marine Street's
        summer green leafed trees.

                        III
                        
This ode to you O Poets and Orators to come, you
        father Whitman as I join your side, you Congress
        and American people,
you present meditators, spiritual friends & teachers,
        you O Master of the Diamond Arts,
Take this wheel of syllables in hand, these vowels and
        consonants to breath's end
take this inhalation of black poison to your heart, breath
        out this blessing from your breast on our creation
forests cities oceans deserts rocky flats and mountains
        in the Ten Directions pacify with exhalation,
enrich this Plutonian Ode to explode its empty thunder
        through earthen thought-worlds
Magnetize this howl with heartless compassion, destroy
        this mountain of Plutonium with ordinary mind
        and body speech,
thus empower this Mind-guard spirit gone out, gone
        out, gone beyond, gone beyond me, Wake space,
        so Ah!
        
                                        July 14, 1978
ConnectHook Apr 2016
I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.

They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.

The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.

The ghetto *****-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.
♂✿∅☢♂☯✰✿☠♂☯✰
a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
            ✿
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
            ☮
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
i thought it was ****** obvious what i was doing there,
i walked in with my Slayer band t-shirt off
wiping off the sweat from my face...
ah... a cheap bottle of wine... £3.50... a Chilean Merlot...
nothing like cheap wine for some kalimotxo...
and if that wine doesn't do the trick for a nightcap...
the cheapest whiskey available... no more than
35cl: but i promised myself not to drink both completely...
obviously the wine doesn't have an electronic tag
that needs to be taken off at the cashiers'...
but the whiskey does...
come midnight it's this long centipede winding through
the self-checkout aisles...
two... of the finest quality Hijab mystique organising
the flow of people...
oh... the finest...
                     first you scan the items...
then you're asked to wait for the confirmation of your
age... so someone has to some with
a ticket (so little about all of this is about
self-checking-out)... and then... you have to walk
to the end of the aisle to get the electronic tag off...
with your receipt...
so i went to the end... where the bit that takes
the electronic tags off is placed in a drawer...
along with... this night in particular...
a raw white onion... and some baby clothes that
were returned all piled up in a shopping trolley...
apparently i was blocking something important...
that's when i was asked this profound
existential question:
                           what are you doing here?
oh **** me... it hit me like a rock...
i sometimes wish for three things... a slightly bigger
phallus... a much more bushier beard...
and... a talent for wit... for waspish wit...
for playful wit...
   some whiplash wit...
                 something that i might: snap out of something
instead of... what just came out?
a what... sorry... didn't hear that...
'what are you doing here?!'
     exactly those exclamation marks with purpose
of interrogation...
- am i... just growing from the roots up?
- am i... is Goodmayes a no-go zone for white
boys after a 10pm curfew or something?
i grew up around these parts...
i went to school around these parts...
a predominantly Irish neighbourhood...
is this a no-go zone?

i mean... i don't expect pleasantries from
cashiers at... midnight... but it's not like i was
the only person there...
was i holding a cloud of balloons and
wearing a clown suit with full-make up?
did i have an pink elephants on a string
or a golden fly on a chain?

'what are you doing here?!'
what a snap of juicy vindictiveness in that
tiny Hijab specimen of beauty...
i somehow must have invaded her space
or some *******...
but... i was there to get the electronic
tag off the neck of my whiskey bottle...
i don't think i was there to later come
home and write this nonsense:
if she asked me that same question:
on the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh
at 5am...
but then again: no one asks those questions
at 5am on the longest day in the year
on Arthur's Seat... a good morning:
chirpy one... isn't it? suffices...

    being asked a profound existential question
in a supermarket: at midnight of
a Monday is...

   aha... now it's sort of obvious...
            if i decided to go elsewhere with my wine...
say... to the brothel...
and i came across Khadaya... Khadija...
            Khada... all aspects of nakedness...
so this is what my face looks like
to women... after i lost... 20kg in mass?
  i'm attractive once more...
              honest anchoring... she's about to receive
£2.00 per minute for an hour...
and she likes my face... and i like her face...
eh... *** like a Lamborghini and a body that looks
but more importantly feels as comfortable
to touch as... one might hope to find oneself
sitting in a well worn leather armchair...

always objectification within the need for metaphor...
allusions to...
but a bit different when it can't be so obvious...
she's this Hijab donning princess Jasmine
working in the supermarket
and i'm just a cyclist wearing a Slayer t-shirt
who dropped in for a nightcap of cheap
wine and cheap whiskey...
or perhaps to her... i'm...
   some myth of a northern barbarian who...
arrived in Jerusalem with Barbarossa pickled
in a barrel... hmm?
         well... i'm not exactly a werewolf...
   not just yet...

again: was i there to solve a Su Doku puzzle or change
a light-bulb via mime?!
flow of people... i was placing myself
in the least obstructive way possible:
now... i'm overthinking the punch line...
it's coming off as if i'm somehow autistic or something...
who wouldn't...

in the most un-spec-ta-cu-lar of circumstance
you get such an open question...
before having my wisdom teeth pulled out
i asked the anaesthetic man:
quo vadis?

               seems more correct to ask:
such a generality... but not in such a defensive...
almost scolding manner...
i did mention she was a Hijab gem...
a petite little thing who forgot to objectify me
as human traffic of buyer...
with a purse's worth of whiskey
that had an electronic tag attached to the neck
that needed to be "dismantled"...

after skim-watching a few episodes
of the Sopranos... Tony Soprano is deemed an
attractive man by his psychiatrist...
so... what am i? a ******* ageing Adonis
or something?
now it feels bothersome to have lost
those 20kg in mass...
100 push ups a day... 100 stomach crunches...
cycling...
i knew this would land me in a spot of
bother... no more prostitutes joking
(kindly) that i have bigger **** than they have...

thank god the omission of a sudden limp
**** because: she shouldn't be in the profession
and i'm in no mood to ****
a tender, shy, deer...
               because it works when it's required
to work and i'll go through 5 before
it becomes resolute: that lilac / blue pill
will not make me prove a point on just 1...

dinner? cinema?
if she offers up the full platter of ******* oysters
and her body becomes the whole
complexity of cinema...
but not being corned by two Hijab beauties
at the self-checkout aisle
coordinating human traffic...

again: forever in the reiteration pause...
'what are you doing here?!'
am i supposed to be somewhere else?
the question asks itself:
why would a girl of your "sort" ask a whitey
that sort of question?
is this a no-go zone area akin to Malmo
in Sweden... am i expected to don
a ******* Pakistani pyjama to walk safe...
don a bushier beard than the one
i adorn trimmed by an Ottoman?

clearly i'm fuckable and clearly i also ****...
if she was allowed a different scenario
where she wasn't a self-checkout coordinator
and i wasn't speedily trying to get out
from the concept of a queue she might:
ask a less abrupt a question...

**** anything that moves...
       one motto worth keeping in mind when
reading Kant's labyrinth...
i promise this to anyone who undertakes
the "mission"... the part of the critique of pure reason
that comes last in the second volume
that's: a consolidation piece...
that's title: the transcendental methodology...
oh god... it's like this (almost) revelation:
but it's most certainly a joy a cascade to read...
that's when Kant relaxes and doesn't bother
to stress his... systematic approach to...
not language: to the idea...
what the idea is? that's my own to digest...
even these years later...

if she was older than me...
if she wasn't sizing me up... seeing how...
my shadow is probably larger than her body
come noon...
how she might just be...
constipated / claustrophobic through all her...
restrictions in attire...
how she was paired up with another girl
and there was no forbidding authority
of same-faith colleagues looking over them...
she asked me the most profound
question no one is expected to hear
in a supermarket...

           hence these words as spiral...
it's not the first time i've seen these two Hijab beauties...
i can't imagine...
having the audacity to write an autobiography
post... in vivo mortem!
i can't imagine writing... succumbing to write...
after... having lived... a most...
exploitative life...
i shudder at the prospect of reading...
Seven Years in Tibet...
i have the original copy...
it's enough that i read:
Harold Norse's: Memoirs of a ******* Angel...
that's enough for me...

             in writing there's only the fiction:
the fantasy... or the absolutely terrible mundane:
grit...
lives loved by the gods so that they might
be shared with as many as possible
do not belong in the realm of words...
however terrible it might sound...
all the ancient Roman poets wrote prosaic:
if not maxims then anecdotal evidence of...
taking leave: taking leisure in scrutiny..
too much of what's supposedly life
and how language is employed in "said" life
is limited to... bureaucratic fudge-packaging...
try escape that cycle of: abuse of informal language...
when you're expected to begin with:
dear sir /  madam...
   and end with: kind regards /
the distinction between yours faithfully vs. yours
sincerely...

she took a fancy after i already took her fancy...
perhaps it's a shame...
of the hierarchies of man...
and the stresses brought on by time...
all this... graveyard of space.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
how strange to read some of the last chances, or commiserations
without a death, the moment a woman or man begins to divide,
so many encouragements arise from nowhere, hence the theatre of
theoretical manoeuvring, way beyond the concept of narrator,
the death of narration is the birth of psychology,
they say, and it must be, treading into this forest of thought without
a compass will soon leave you disorientated, let alone keeping
a narrative continuum - once the narrator dies,
once the narrator dies in you, you either see a psychologist
or begin to write poetry, poetry, the entire cast of Chekov's
the seagull chipping in for the pauper, once famous for
chopping wood or digging for coal on the page
with such flamboyance as to reveal the true spectacle
of the Royal fireworks on the Thames provided
for by Charles II and accompanied by Handel's
composition - everyone is chipping in into
the narrator's porcelain cup - from irina nikolayevna,
through ilya afanasyevich and the personae quasi gratae
like the watchman, the cook... only Yakov having
acquired a name, the rest, mechanised extension
of the salon boors - where real existential debate takes
place due to the serious concerns of the universe
and our place in it. they like Yakov because he was hired,
and could clearly move on elsewhere, a traveller,
not the permanent occupant of the daily dealings of
the estate; but indeed it's not about that -
after they split up she started dreading having his
name tattooed on her, she felt a burning sensation to
burn the ink off her skin - to my surprise she tattooed
his name onto her skin rather than having tattooed
his entirety onto a piece of paper - a poem can be scrapped,
can be cherished or anything, 'write a poem prior to
the tattoo' someone should have said - but the tattoo
came first, and the poem came second - other allegiances
are passed down in ink, as i have never understood
the mentality of tears at a sporting event, notably football,
the tears of your forefathers, elsewhere reasoning gives
crowd like anonymity, soloist sports, cool headed -
no religious-like attachment - first the poem, then the tattoo.
poetry is just another word for juxtaposition -
but what are the two things necessary to contrast?
well... here's one half decent example, of all written text,
an E.U. cucumber,
                                     (a) is it reasonably shaped?
(b) is it practically straight?
                                                       ­ if it isn't coinciding with
points (a) and (b) being satisfactorily met, then this
cucumber is a culprit, being a non-compliant member
of the fruit & veg stand, according to the E.E.C.
1677 / 88
regulation, meaning it can't be a class 1 cucumber,
but a boomerang.                                       and you wonder,
with all those great movies concerning heroism,
the sacrifice to create democracy where tyranny strikes,
to overthrow absolute sovereign power,
all those wars, and all we get in the end, is a vote,
made quiet clearly ineffective because of the by-product
of democracy: bureaucracy - as every it can be said:
an over-simplified observation,
                                                        well, championing the idea
of democracy where the majority of people were
illiterate still, apparently, resonates in how people vote,
make your mark
                                                           ­      X               so you see,
a man made literate when once he would be illiterate
seems offensive to still pretend like i am illiterate -
but what a strange illiteracy this is, i still vote like the first
people voted, instead of ably signing my name,
i am told to write X... which is why, subconsciously,
people seem to be put off voting - it's such a symbolic
event in the mind - i vote by singing my approval with
an X... the little things matter in the end -
no one dying for an ideal could have envisioned
the bureaucratic escapade of counting where the wind
blows in what favourable choice of opinion at the time,
in post-Marxist terminology, we're no longer dealing
with the bourgeoisie types, we're dealing with the bureaucratic
type - there are so many laws on this earth, that few
are known and even fewer are kept -
i know the ten commandments are a joke, given the outdated
phrasing, but aren't the modern laws even more of a joke?
why, i can count to 10... counting to how many there
are is quiet staggering - you might have broken about
a thousand without knowing you had, like eating a
curved cucumber... but then, are picked cucumbers always
bent? i've never seen a straight pickle, i mean theoretically
that's breaking the law - the war of the sexes is what
gave us this ******* - this wasn't a war for Crimea,
not so much a war for independence, once those classical
wars ended, the war of the sexes began -
if Marx was alive, he'd be far from writing a critique of
the bourgeoisie class, after all, urbanity killed off
the etymological root of bourgeoisie - old french, walled
city - given that, or should i say, working from that,
no, if Marx were alive today, it would be the bureaucrat
who'd be attacked.
Haylin Apr 2019
Fighting on the front lines
With red pens
For creativity,
For independent thought,
For common sense
Not Common Core

This is a battle in a bureaucratic war we’re losing
Keep pushing and shoving against an impenetrable wall
But we’re only foot soldiers, not actually giving orders

Kids look down on us and they ask,
“Will this be on the test?”
And say,
“Get out of my face.”

Here’s what I wonder: Why is “mistake” a forbidden word?

Taught by parent(s) to resist.
These are Kids who fail to create
But recite, recall, and retaliate

School is no longer a safe haven
Testing, testing, 1-2-3 hundred murdered students, teachers
Safety off and then off
And
Still off

Hanging by a thread and losing the grip a little more every day

Following the curriculum map to X marks the standardized test.

We dig and
                  Dig and
                                 Dig
For the buried treasure trove of teaching magic. The legitimacy and respect our careers deserve. The money, the time, the love, the support.

But it’s buried under so much testing and red tape, and so    

We fail.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.alimony: basically? i don't like paying for something... that i can't keep; savvy?!

so "these" people,
have no problem in exploiting
your girls into becoming
their advert agents?!

the girl who advertises
free-lance style,
but doesn't get paid
for the advertisement,
per se?

no problem?
i have a problem...
  a real ******* problem!
so... you basically
reinvented the Marx / Engels
critique of child labor?!

so you have this advertisement
dynamic, with unware
children, pushing your products?
making the slightest mark
on the buck...
    
            you have children pushers...
you have children mmaking
the profit margins...
    yes?
             you, *******, ****-tards!
    so the children
you "employ", are doing the hard
stuff, to incubate your
bureaucratic employees?
and keep them in employment
positions of mediocre power?

you have to be,
******* kidding me!

   your type of people are beyond
fake news....
you're paedo-news...
some of us would care
to denote at: covert excuses...

   take ashley wicka...
a corporate pimped *****...
how old is she?
barely 15?
         looks like the advertising
community, really needed
first person advertisers...
   first person accounts....
esp. young people...
  because?
  the older generations,
"the gap": wasn't paying into
the gimmick...
    
i actually abhor what they
allowed themselves to do with
the young people...
   i'm sick, tired, and
almost feigning fatigue from
the list of excuses
that surmounts the excuse for
ethical practice...
   which is never was,
and never will be...

       i'm too lazy to give a ****...
give me a .gif contra
a **** movie extract....
          have your little siesta
of ******...
   have it, **** me...
saves me a gym deliberation...
not ending up a
gymnast...
          rather, a pivot for  bending
knee...
             i've learned **** the lazy, lax way...
when asked by a Bulgarian
*******,
if i wanted to girls for an hour,
i replied the Joker's reply...
comparing the differential
of, a world, divided
into men who ****** one girl,
and men who ****** two girls...

i'm like a dog chasing cars...
if i caught one?!
i wouldn't know what to do with one!
in this instance?
i wouldn't know what to do
with two!

           have your anti-****** boast-trip....
your ******* innuendo,
your ego / ******* sized over-trip...
****... let me stretch your *****
out for you...

           point being?
i don't have to own, what i ****,
or... don't ****...
but you do...
    your self-esteem is dependent
on a form of closure...
so?
     you **** it?! you own it!
hello! surrogate phantom pater!

where's your
elephantiasis
****-size glorification,
now?

        oh, right... sorry...
forgot...
now comes the alimony;

look at me, doing the Pontius Pilate
Houdini trick!
or showing you,
the disappearing, *******!
David Barr Nov 2013
Let us awake from the decay of strategic costumes where the incestuous fragrance of madness permeates golden dreams of eclectic strokes.
Bureaucratic self-enhancement nurtures docile manufacturers of laborious compliance, whilst social conscience plummets to depths of callous and entrepreneurial versatility.
Enduring imitations of an unsatisfactory kind is like pairing mint fondant with rich and savoury gravy which is acquired with strategic dishonesty.
Oh, negligent wakefulness – will we ever arise and discern those lobotomised representatives in this legislative brothel of excessive absurdity?
Shake me at one minute to midnight in the House of Lords.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
quanta is better understood outside of physics,
on a grander scale -
quantum is a quality suggestion that
makes two (to, too) things auto-suggestive
as pertaining in the matter -
never mind - take the concept of quanta
out of physics and you get
a man readying himself for a controlled
coma having his wisdom teeth removed,
with the anaesθetician asking about
the readers' digest, the patient replying
quo vadis? / dokąd idziesz? then
the great sleep plateau - 'where are you going?'
puts any man off, whether boxer,
or paediatrician - ****** lays dead floored
for a minute, plays the dog game: play dead,
tongue hanging ready for a guillotine.
CHOP! and there goes the tail of a Doberman
(jamnik / dachshund on stilts)
and a ρoττł-
                    y
                    woo woo woo chim chimney
                    cha cha cha ooh
the rotting wail - rottweiler -
                                                    -ειλερ;
you­ never mention the u with the v due to
the chisel ease, then again, you don't
say double-o'h but say double u -
too shay frowning at a shave;
******, i'll make your language my playground
given all these post-colonial ***** aiming
for a signature and credentials,
this **** could pass the London brigade,
but take it to York, it would be a massacre
of a bureaucratic lapse of credentials...
a viking invasion more-or-less;
oh ****, quantum physics, Charles Dickens
and the Victorian Era - Jack the Ripper the antonym,
both are the desired cages of energy requiring expression
to make testimony that such an age existed,
a particular congregate of expression, never universal,
boxes and pockets, however much inside one
is a question of your dietary requirement,
quantum physics is better explained with history
than hard science, and atoms, or the craze of subs,
people need a bigger picture, not everyone own
a ******* microscope or a telescope,
teach quantum physics using history:
Philippe Augustus of France mattered,
at the Battle of Bouvines - Otto IV? not so much.
alarm
dogmatical snakebird dictator
**** rooster of electro maniacal damnation

wake
goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns
glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl

brush
minty hairy pasty headed *******
seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches

shave
deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping
dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter

breakfast
egg flour chalk smack
guzzling bean kerosene

work
batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon
muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune

lunch
butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement
harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin

work
taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather
babble, bumble - copulation without *******

dinner
unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and
leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin

sleep
a felon’s holiday

repeat
few new words, here.
just the punk scene-
feral, free.
and the accompanying
knowledge that
others battle the tide, too,
mouths as salty with sea water.
others
giving to become,
dancing in the trenches,
transported beyond classroom cubicles
by the music of
celestial fabrics,
of me,
of me meeting you,
of whispers from the lips of
God.
we all set up shop there,
use intermittent sunlight
to grow and sell our bluebells,
our quirky flower children.
we all capture
the poetry of moments,
all maroons
in cozy sanctuaries
rich
with the music of
intuition, of
loss of pride, and
old book smells.

How Much Time
do i need for me,
really?

i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.
i want to buy a bookstore.
i want to feel a horse between my thighs.
i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.

Simple Solutions,
i'd like you to meet
Bureaucratic Barricades.

is there real need
for the two sides
to every coin
buried in bank vaults
and sock drawers?

but vessels to be
filled.

i want to reform the public education system.
i want to become a nun.
i want to be in the darkness with you.
i want to see unicorns.

just being (t)here,
lost in idealism
and the lines on my palms.
Dan Schell May 2010
I want to be a nice guy,
flower-bringer,
keeper of pens and candy,
love and smiles.

I want to drive without screaming,
to wait without scheming
someone's demise,
to float high above the clouds
without dreaming
of being
somewhere else.

But it's hard, you see,
to speak bureaucratic,
to see through the static,
to laugh and wave as though
life is a turkey day parade.

Because of you.
You, and we and they;
the wrinkles in our characters
that push us away.  
The chaos and control,
the IEDs and "low food security,"
how I wish I knew why we
came to this place, this
sticky web we weave,
snaring each other with
our needs.

But little things mean a lot;
the flowers,
the pens and candy,
the open doors and
open lanes on the road ahead,
each gesture a brick,
smashing through those glass walls
we build around ourselves,
until it all comes crashing down.
Published in Pegasus Magazine, 2007.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
****, no better hard-on apart from listening to some bruce springsteen and reading something from the book of malachi...

  my name will be great among the nations, from where the sun rises to where it sets: i.e. in english...

         good on y'ah pastor...

                 i admit, oh lord,
distinguishing between the righteous and
the religious folk...
hard to tell the tale of either,
most excruciating is when,
the two congregate...

     malachi (4:6)
he will turn the hearts of the parents to their children,
and the hearts of the children to their parents;
or else i will come and strike the land
   with total destruction.

you know my offering unto my father
this father's days?
the usual...
taking out the *******,
cooking some food,
          watering the flowers
in the garden...
  it wasn't a carboard cut-out
******* of the west...
oh, i'm well versed in bible jargon...

        i'm half a man? i'm not insulted...
because i didn't grow up to be a man
and have children?
  talk about a miracle being
a walking abortion!
      isn't kierkegaard or nietzsche
or kant the hälftemann?
"half" the man?
   so much for the "Übermensch",
more like: parodiemensch these days...
send the teens to the cinema
while the parents stay at home,
when, the inverse was corrected
and the parents went to the cinema
and when kid sitters were required...
like... shirley maclaine: hot as ****...
and the whole gig of trampolines...
or whatever you called them in the 1960s...
elevator operators... ****...
that's what you called them...

****... better start telling the pro-life
movement that,
whenever i ******* into a tissue
i get a sense of being the next
pol ***...
        i guess the ***** was always
dead in me,
   and "magically" became
                             alive in a woman...
well: here's to another genocide...
oh sure...
    having started aged 8,
     castration wouldn't be a problem...
the male sensation of an ******
isn't related to ******* anything as such...
you can experience an ******
as an 8 year old...
   but there's no ***** to be *******...
still...
        prostitutes are pro-life,
but they don't gamble / bribe the argument...
that was the worst time in my life...
   being bribed: the "oops" moment...
there was about as much "oops" in
that moment, as there was kama sutra
in oppenheimer's vedic citation.
or is that somehow related to shooting
out hollow eggs all the time,
              it was one thing to call
me irresponsible,
another: no legal contract,
                "man-up"...
                           ­ that's probably the only
reason i ever went to a *******...
had to check the ground...
  fiddle my way through
some sort of justification
    in order to not be shouted down
by some day-time agony aunt jerry
springer host on t.v.,
            and to be honest?
   once that brothel transaction went through?
and i saw with clear eyes,
what an authentic transaction looks like?
all that pandering, dates,
   clothes shopping...
           n'ah...
             give me a cube:
   i'll put it through the square hole...
give me an sphere,
              i'll put it through the circle hole.

my present for father's day?
my daddy-oh received a letter from
the p.m. of england,
mr. cameron, how he was the goodie-goodie
good-shoe tight left foot bloat
when paying taxes...
    paid them...
                  a regular at the tax olympics...
me? i don't pay taxes,
i don't earn enough...
i have a student loan...
almost halfway through,
once i reach 30+ years it will be written
off...
              i'd pay... if i landed
a chemistry job... since working in
a supermarket is all i'm ever going to get?
**** 'em...
              i'll wait... then i'll take the
dutch youth route of asking for
euthanasia... well... it's not like i will
jive to have a life worth of living
for... just... strangers...

see, i have found release...
   i'm so unterribly unjealous of my father...
he can have all the praises...
he's also an only-child,
abandoned by his mother and father,
raised by his grandparents...
   i'm half a man by not risking
to establish a family, a legacy,
by marrying?
you know... funny that...
i'd rather take my chances
with a grizzly bear than a woman...
at least me and a grizzly is
a 1-on-1 interaction...
no third party bullshitters in-between...
no bureaucratic stalemates,
no bureaucratic no-man's land...
no bureaucratic frustration...
                  me, grizzly:
either i skin the ******,
or? i get mauled... easy-peasy-japanese!
i like that absolute "conundrum"...

oh i still live with my parents...
england, housing shortage...
        this is probably the right time to "love"
your parents...
or at least mind them,
i don't mind them, i do most of the household
chores, then i drink at night...
they don't mind me drinking:
unless... unless i don't shower for more than
2 days... then i start to stink of a brewery...
well... either this or...
the forest floor, or homeless in loon'don...
not much choice... certainly no environment
for a girlfriend...
and, girlfriend, mind you...

    i like listening to all these vollmensch:
the full men...
   so wise, so wise,
with their wife and children,
always with the ideal prescription
for existence!
               taken risk, bounty,
result! boo y'ah!
              yes, when you already have
what you're prescribing others to take...
mind you...
again, to reiterate...
       kant was a bachelor...
                   i like that he completed his
adventure into "manhood" as less
an atheist: in need of people to be listened to
akin to chrissy hitchens...
   and more a solipsist...
              i guess i'm the child
of his thinking...
  so much for ******* i guess...
ugh... the anglophile world and its
fanaticism surrounding darwinism
and the big bang (bang, bang in a vacuum?)...
genes and i.q.,
what dry intellectual debates...
proper suited to a butcher's shop than
a cafe, and... god forbid a brothel!
give me a slab of raw beef meat
and an english tongue and i'll
cut you the same slab of something
worth satiating the hungry palette.

   h'america is still christ crazed,
sitting down congregation in easy armchairs...
armored to the **** with futility after futility
to mar the existence of the atom bomb:
more bullets, more guns, more money...
nuclear is the antithesis of warfare...
one drop, the end... who needs a war akin
to that?

                    i stopped looking toward h'america
a long time ago...
                   england is choking me as it is...
i'm looking toward germany come early 20th century
thought... ****... maybe i should be looking
toward to Moldova, anything but this,
any form of escapism will help...
   Greenland, the Faroe Islands...
          
i'll go as far as to say:
i'd quit drinking...
           if i was contracted a decent ****
from Tehran.
Of Mice and Men  
The mice in Belgium do not eat fine chocolate
They scoff at imported Swiss cheese
And have only contempt for a left- over bacon burgers,
they feast on plans of roads and buildings
I blame EU for this the mice have bureaucratic  
And go through stacks of programs especially those
About repairing tunnels and roads  

Bureaucrats of any hue are working overtime
Try keeping up this losing battle against mice
So many cars choking up the roads Islamists
Have to go to Paris when blowing up people.
The British demand for special concessions will  
not last long the mice will see to that.
Random mortar shells in the afternoon.
Sparkling, steel jacketed rain drops,
Glinting rainbows of reflected sunlight.
Plastic explosive seat cushions upon which passers-by,
Rest their weary bones.
C-4 candy bars, nuclear toothpaste,
****** for dessert.
Orphanage flambe', hospital hash, blood pudding.
Human burgers sizzling on a smart bomb bar-b-que grill.
Finger food, toe jam, baby-back ribs.

Bureaucratic double talkers,
Sugar coated body counts,
Colateral stew.
Really deplorable, awfully sorry,
But it was their own faults trying to put on raincoats.
They declined our invitation to the cook-out.
Bad luck to open an umbrella in the house.

Remotely piloted funeral processions.
Radar guided hearses.
Televised in real time.
Precision, surgical,
neutralized, deterrent, disarmed,
Deactivated, stand down, eliminate.

Living pawns on a battlefield checkerboard.
Strategic, defensive,
Dominate, annihilate,
Acceptable loss, public opinion pole.

Listen to the tinkling of sabre blades,
Rattling windchimes,
In the warm breeze of the shockwave,
Accompanied by the drumbeat of detonation and concussion.
Rock...
        ...and heads will roll.

Holy, blessed,
Patriotic, brave,
Courageous, dedicated,
Heroic, dutiful,
Self sacrificing...
                         ...******.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
thankfully i'm working from a standpoint of: once a chemist, now some sort of shaman - the people missed the pre-Socratics, the child-like people of Aristotelian maxim: it begins with awe, and is peppered with countless mistakes, to be precise: mistakes feed awe, accuracy feeds an economic use of, the mundane suggestion that nothing really changes and we're eating sushi salmon when it ought to be smoked and accented with whiskey; the people missed the pre-Socratics so much that they invented a new post-Socratic shaman, and the guy has everything going for him, youth... child-like ethical teachings - and i guess it's easier to worship something dangling on a crucifix than it is worshipping something enthroned - makes it easier to kneel, seeing the thing of worship likewise in agony - perfect timing mind you, the historian Josephus, unearthing of the Nag Hammadi library in Egypt... and those ****** Greeks! they invented it i swear to god, what fisherman or thief was literate in those days? literacy meant power, these are strong-men of the plough, they wouldn't have a capacity to read, or a need to... fair enough, he's given me a subject, but not necessarily the doctrine about how he died on the crux and i can do ****... you see any Christians about? in America an aunt sued her nephew because he stepped on her big toe... i can't sue whomever i know i should because i don't have the dough for some ****** lawyer... but at least my family don't have to be bewildered about my would-be sudden death aged 21, 9 years later, going strong, but i can... it's called enforced practice of - no baptism no confirmation can do that... oddly enough, Christianity is one of the most bureaucratic religions known to man, so bureaucratic that there's nothing spiritual about it - or you have Islam and its variation of iconoclasm - grammaclasm - no wonder the Greeks wrote the new testament, they missed the pres of Socrates, they couldn't quite figure out what was necessary from Plato... i don't either - even Alfred Jarry mocked Plato - the dry dialogue style, or no style at all, content for sure, but stylistically? not much; and to be honest, only Bukowski's later works, the posthumous publications are the best, Post Office is overrated while Factotum is, actually, a gem.

so from there - i know why i didn't like Sartre
dittoing the pronoun i or elaborated to coincide with
psychology's ego - although it doesn't make sense -
given: original source, someone actually concrete said
something and was quoted, hence 'he said it',
but with the English linear dittoing fashion statement
it's a sort of plagiarism, as in: "he said it", implying what?
agreement or simply theft?
Kant started the project - but instead he italicised -
and in honesty that's relevant, since he doesn't
cite David Hume anywhere, he's battling
the Loch Ness monster the best he can,
he's focusing on his *identity
- to be influential rather
than influenced, which is why i don't understand
Sartre's dittoing out the ego, as if he just cut off his
arm and is bemused by the severed hand waving
back at him - unless of course he's doing the Pontius Pilate
bit of washing his hands clean from any responsibility,
as part of his pillar of counter-Cartesian association
with furthering thought into being, not via doubt
of his predecessor, but via denial (he uses the word
negation) - good faith former, bad faith latter, and he does
mention bad faith, although he doesn't identify denial
with bad faith, nor doubt with good faith - but at least
he gives us something to work with, given the two extremes;
prior to that Doubting Thomas was on the racks,
and they thought doubting was bad, it's good, to be honest,
it means you can experience a full range of emotions -
and by Koranic standards it's not quiet the categorical
punishment of un- / non-, and why would you punish
quasi- or pseudo-, everyone enjoys acting in some respect,
a safe environment to see a simulation of some mental deviation.
it's that i don't understand why the translation of
being & nothingness uses the inverse-citation and requires
it to be a unit - this might be due to the fact that it's
~ (approximate), i.e. instead of "ego" and the notion of any
acknowledgement of responsibility in ethical matters,
adding to the fact that there are influences cited, those that
came prior, Husserl for one, or Kafka... it's this
point of the culmination of what's not exactly original,
but passed down, a genetics of sorts, philosophically minded
genetics - passing down influences rather than ******
features and susceptibility to certain diseases -
i'd prefer to note myself in that sort of framework as ~ego
(god, i hate using this as some concept, written down it's
just a facade of tying shoelaces) - but obviously in the english
language
                                                ­             "           "           "    "        "
       "
                       the original purpose of the ditto was sidetracked,
it's not necessarily proper - you end up with some wacky
quantum physics **** when you encounter in literature
notation of dialogue, or internal v. external monologue
like so: "'so i was wondering'" - who or what says anything
when you write it like that?! Irish standard, Polish standard,
pub scene, Bob and Jimmy:
- aye.
-aye.
                                                 end of story! "aye," he said
                              or 'aye,' he said - boom boom job done.
this could rattle my nuts throughout this whole evening,
but it won't -
scene in a supermarket, a **** plump girl's buying
two ready meals and 6 mini-crates of Budweiser -
on offer, in the Metro, coupons, so obviously they're free -
boy behind her has a bottle of nekken-ekken and Scotch -
girl picks up the mini-crates (ok, bundles, packs,
whatever, stop this microscopic misnomer abuse,
it ruins the flow, i'm not telling you to imagine it)
and the two ready meals, one falls off, boy helps her
and puts the ready meal next to the other on the packs
of beer... nothing special, Lazarus is in China by now,
girl walks off, boy buys his ****,
boy walks out the supermarket, girl gets in her car,
boy gets stopped in the drive-through alley, girl
opens her car window, hollers out -
- you want a pack of beers?
- huh?
- yeah, a pack of beers, i figured you helped me out
   i might as well give you a pack.
- oh... sure, why not.
(rummaging in the car)
- here's two... and here's another two.
- bless you, good night.
it's moments like this, the England of my boyhood dreams
i remember; 22 years into my life here and i'm
still gagging to hear an English rose moan -
and that's the god honest truth.
Five more dossiers slam down
beside you, bosses look stern
and flick through to spite you,
crossing off task after task:
appraisal target attitude,
shred your worries and feign
a false sense of gratitude,
scribble a signature, pretend
that you won't work here long.
It's just a stop gap, well,
one of two, perhaps after this
you'll be hired by another few.

Ten minute lunch, more bitter
than ***** tabasco juice
but ****** Mary and Jesus,
keep your mind on the salary
and you might get through
tapping and typing away
for a parasitic conglomerate
who barely remembers you.
Wolf down the freedom,
spark a fossil fuel fire on
your tobacconists’ anti-stress
breathing flute, clench
fists as you trudge through
the muck and the mire.

They laugh as you slump
over your desktop, under
the fifteen thousand word
count a day, hundreds
of calls and email favours
still you get payed for less
than half of your labour.
One look to the surroundings,
the folks in your office, step
back from your desk and hand
in your notice; sell your assets,
share your amenities,
cut off your phone-line,
don’t pay your licence fees.

At the door, the postman
struggles with bills and notices,
pushing and prying
more and more letters
the poor fellow moans as
you almost clap his efforts.
Gathering dust, your post
gets pushed up the stairs.
Knocking out your wellbeing,
this builds up in piles to
the height of your ceiling
until one day you awaken
with no gas or lighting,
nothing to quench or feed,
your rumbling stomach
near delirious being.

No more in awe, frightened
to express your distaste
for nine to five slavery
you pile a large steel cylinder
with technology and clutter;
letters and junk-mail literature.
Lighter fluid marinade you
feel empowered like
the folks at the gas board.
Pull out a matchbox
strike to a major chord.
Prepare for the roaring
of bureaucratic nonsense
burning and fizzling.

Strike one, the phosphorus
occupies your nostrils,
how sweet the smell
of keratin, and butane,
kerosine and hydrogen.
Strike two the match ignites,
the wind breaks your bindings,
you relax with such laughter
that the flickering orange
flame blows into a cinder,
smoke pining. Rig the pack
and pull out your portable
lighter, the whole box of
matches sets joyfully on fire.

Like witch over cauldron
you cackle and crack up
toss in the phosphorescent
rectangular prism to
the concoction which kept
you imprisoned for month
after month; year after year
you’d forgotten to fulfil
that dream, pull out your
mobile and text your queen
‘Let’s move to the mountains
and bask in the heat; revel in

rebellion. Reject, neigh, defeat
the notion that we must sit
at computers like digital sheep
that we can’t cross an ocean
on our own two feet.
We can grow our own grain
and cull our own wheat’
Whip out your tickets and jump
on the flight here lies a path,
come forth and fulfil it tonight.
'No amount of fire or freshness
can challenge what a man
will store up in his ghostly heart'

F. Scott Fitzgerald
Bob B Feb 2017
This is the song of a Dreamer.
You would be hard-pressed to find
A more likable person.
He is one of a kind.

He moved to California;
From south of the border he came--
A four-year-old with his family.
Futuro, we'll say, was his name.

Futuro's father and mother
Worked very hard to provide
A good life for their children--
Something that they'd been denied.

Schooling was very important.
Futuro strove to excel.
He wanted his parents to see him
And his three siblings do well.

His college graduation
Made his parents so proud.
The smiles on their faces were something--
The biggest smiles in the crowd.

Futuro landed employment.
Later things went awry
When a cop pulled him over
And gave him a DUI.

That's when the nightmare started
Futuro was able to see
What it was like to be treated
Like a detainee.

Belongings were confiscated.
His hands and feet were chained,
As if he were a convict
Who had to be restrained.

They gave him no information
And moved him from place to place.
Each detention center
Was an utter disgrace.

Conditions were atrocious.
The rooms were damp and cold.
The food was barely edible
After you scraped off the mold.

Thanks to our heartless leaders.
Thanks to the CCA.°
We have detention centers
Where people are treated this way.

Such centers often become
A two- or three-year address
For many detainees caught in
A bureaucratic mess.

These for-profit prisons,
Based on what we know,
Are an assault on our freedom.
Let's face it: they've got to go.

When we civilized people
Treat human beings like this--
Worse than we treat an animal--
There is something amiss.

Futuro, well, he was lucky.
He was released on bail.
Now his fate is in limbo.
At least he's no longer in jail.

Must he hide in the shadows?
Must he be on the run?
What will it take for Futuro
To walk in the light of the sun?

Give Futuro your blessings.
Give the hopeful your praise.
May our eyes be opened.
May we see brighter days.

(2-24-17) By Bob B

°Corrections Corporation of America
W A Marshall Apr 2014
by: William A. Marshall


I stepped off the world
today,
off the broken streets
that winter has damaged
and municipal assessments
off the political gluttons
and performative marks
off the know-it-alls
and wild dogs roving around
with their ****
noses in the air
it’s not pretty
they cover what they don’t know
so that they look good
I head back down the dark hallway
to get a more primitive angle
off of privileged confidence
they are vulnerable
basic caretakers pursuing opulent corsages
to free them from their anxious quotas
and ******* rules
telling me how to wipe my ***
and how to use baby wipes
jointly acting like they run things
from their phony utilitarian bus stop
and cutting-edge applications
their personal band plays a cheerful tune
in the background
as they search for a bigger
advantage and more likes
even though we all share the same horror
youth is about mistakes
and making money
and choices with one eye here and now
the other eye on prevalent professions
students and maintenance men
bureaucratic puppets and academics
farmers and auditors
sales greasers and coaches
writers and board members
somewhere they end up there
carrying a liability
and it creates a vibration in my foxhole
but right in here baby
deep down within me
inside my tomb
I transfer to a silent
place away from
rambling rotting fungus
I step off of it
not always methodically
and then back into faults
and louse packs
I can only assume my rock
that sits in my hole immobile
next to the ****** candy wipes
unless I push it up ontic peaks
nonbeing begins to doubt me
and grips part of you so don’t
think that it doesn’t
I cut it with my knife
obliquely
finding unfortunate contagions
and courage down in the vault of silence
it is there or it isn’t
it is what keeps my will interested
far from the ones moving rashly
without it you would leap from bridges
through minefields I remember
a certain detachment
an uneven and sick progression
paperwork and a number with
a D affixed to its file
the ceiling became the nightly norm
this plastic vacuum-packed
wedding gown made of white silk
made weird noises
in the back of my closet
like it was weeping
the kind of dress
only worn once
it smelled like her that closet
retelling me each time
I opened the private door
making fake crinkling sounds
an icon of pure young tenderness
love expense and faith
eventually cooked and burned  
but it is too early
those individuals that gloat in pictures
and dream about their prince
they are busy playing with
their hair and organic shoulder bags
driving around in furnished cars
the uncorrupted ones
constant courses to come and
subsequent interviews
nailed skintight dresses
soon to be colored sweet red
with danger competing
well you had better feel lucky
because when you plunge into
future swamplands
incompetence and repayment
of what to do with it
and how then to
fill up your cup
without spilling it
all over your soul
don’t tell me how
to live my **** life
now is your time
to reason and shake imperfection
interruptions
over and over
those that listen to your intrusiveness
false performances in chic coffee shops
it is not sustainable there
but you play the part to maintain
your chair in the cooperative
you will miss it
neglecting real evil
because you were talking too much
maintaining your image
Bradbury whispers
from the counter,
“You can't make people listen
they have to come round in
their own time wondering
what happened and why
the world blew up around them
it can't last.”
and numbness above nightly cocktails
distracted dub tracks
ultimately attending
hectic personnel meetings
in drenched swamps
spinning with heartless ***** jobs
unconcerned about safe comforts
two things balance them out
people and things
all part of it out there in the world
and they approach like a train
suffering shocks
unemotional images in chambers
some actually never return
from the beatings
but this isn’t the end
this is a commencement
for me
the forecast is water-resistant
they hurry snatching their
body spray and shower gel
on mirrored reflections
that scowl back at them
all alone there
in their glass steeple
family photos
thinking they have nurtured something
more than endless gossip
and ****** strains
much more important now
bent into independence
pausing with the approaching sunrise
as it splashes powerfully
inside their speculations
pride doesn’t care
if you think you are not puffed-up
at all you are
who in the hell are you kidding?
nothing to cling to
essential oilskins and manuscripts
credit problems
and autobiographical *** packed expressions
corner office windows
and diplomas
behind high-back chairs
trying to copy Sunday magazine’s
hottest statement
to fill up their life
a reminder just who the comics are
but it does not register
until that day
when it becomes intolerably vile
beneath wreckage
and burnt ruins
they find his
caring donation
clinched in the saviors grasp
jutting through burning garrisons
there is no truth more senior
than this truth here and now
but they can’t all be imparted
in this culturally planned folklore
I see them
when I am walking away
from the insulated bubble
down the street
like recruits in boot camp
and zealously rich parents
who send their youngsters
with luggage and loans
nearby like idols
salesman explaining things
as they nod like they are approving something
perhaps autonomy
from fathers and mothers
who stand with them astutely contemplating
the whole arrangement
they stare at the marble floor
I observe the run-through
the glittery entertainment
and documented departments
for happy pilgrims
who are insulated
for now
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i'm sitting on the windowsill like a crow
perched on the rooftop,
eating watermelon and downing
a mixer of whiskey and coca cola

while i ponder the *style
sections of
last weekend's style magazine
a magpie in me draws open the curtain
open of the silence, and i make the
neighbour's dog bark with laughter -
the section in question that prompts
me is a piece about silent speed dating
(i only ever did that obscene
event once at university,
we left with L tattoos on our foreheads),
**** just didn't work, too much
systematisation with the cards -
i'd prefer a chess tournament to be honest;
in the speed dating scenario you
get zombies and Oreo biscuits,
cracking fun - mingling fruit with alcohol,
it's really a Saturday night in my head,
picturesque: i.e. picture it - photosensitive
epileptics on the dance floor shaking all
the possible muscle including the buttocks -
times up...
england is really abhorring toward poets,
only Shakespeare made it count -
as a playwright -
or as they say in Yorkshire - Germany
and the 1930 - 40s, not Beethoven prior,
the youth wouldn't read a book,
but would continue to shoot the Nazis in
computer games comfortably into the 21st century -
in england if it's not Shakespeare it's filth,
degenerate art, that's the reasoning -
from the saturday review not, one, review,
of, a, book, of poetry
, not one -
if this is a healthy literate stance then
call me Mona Theresa and put a strap-on
***** on me -
it's easier to find bargains in the Amazon online
store than a good poem - worth of mouth
had an ammonia soaked handkerchief stuffed
in its mouth, and hey presto! cow manure
never met the chance of nostrils engaging...
in england what's prized above
poetry is journalism, hence by respect for
those who disengage from from coupling poetry
to music by making music laughable
with poetry's rhyming -
twang twang - #a, repeat... twang twang a doodle
do f, through to c, or something worth
a silent cipher on the page -
indeed journalism above poetry, ars umbras:
the art of shadows, the art of obscurity,
the perfect stance of diplomacy,
take the bureaucratic route -
'short of an umbrella?!' the cabbie questioned,
'short of ice cubes on ye'r 'ed?!' the innovator retorted?
and with that the audience became bemused
when the magician pulled out a cabbage head
from the top hat rather than a rabbit -
indeed poetry, had i been Voltaire writing
about england has almost disappeared from
english - mind my ignorant pessimism -
but mind that journalism took over,
and instead of poetic musicology what's required
is poetic journalism - i can't have stone age emblems
of care to coerce me into geological rudiments -
if indeed i am but one man
among the collective i am obviously wrong,
but should that matter, i should seize to care
whether i actually read a Stephen King novel,
since i haven't, as they say, appreciated the living art,
and chose instead literary necrophilia,
then i am sourced as a voice in the graveyard -
or as one homeless man said: a gem -
all it took was politeness and a free cigarette -
indeed this literary necrophilia -
it's quite becoming - and to then realise -
well, with each day a new mode of conduct
in the median of populace of the highest average -
harsh to consider in conclusion any if all
pronoun usage to be akin to conjunction and
preposition use as a care for a vain approach
in the use of language and self-buffoonery -
simply how the language works,
with that stated and the phonetic approximations
found on too many occasions to be realised -
e.g. can you please pút pooh bear into
       his enve-low-p', and seal
       it shút with ha-née / ha-knee rather than red wax?
David Barr Apr 2014
Synthetic sympathy is like an epidemic across the surface of our baron horizon of sophistication, where predictable greetings and condolences are proclaimed with interpersonal detachment.
An aperture is a hole through which light travels across a threshold of darkness.
Gullible are those voters who strive for independence whilst firmly clamped in the jaws of proclaimed democracy, where reporters become lively at dramatic scenes of carnage and death.
Oh sibling of the expanding universe -  I implore you to project your voice across constitutional and cosmological  municipalities.
Let us run for office beyond the confinement of bureaucratic galaxies.
After all, our modulations echo throughout solitary cells of our revered bedlam.
Justin Michael Jan 2014
In our voyeuristic ambivalence
In our savage pacifism
With bureaucratic diarrhea

We **** on Lady Liberty
And wipe our *****
With the Constitution
Paul Goring Feb 2012
Stasi shredded stripes
bags of systematic
bureaucratic
destruction
of memories &
moments in time

Bagged, gagged & tagged
in sylo’s
bunkers full
crammed with broken
histories
fragments of faces
letters
postcards from beyond
blue, yellow and green
in grey

Inhumane
cynical destruction
of hope
slivers of the disappeared
commandeered
processed
pushed
mechanically
through the sharp teeth
of a hungry system

The greatest reconstruction
Reconnection
Resurrection
Of a nation
Continues
Every weekend
As the many mend
the states’ excess
Sam Temple Oct 2015
trunks filled with junk and the crunk juice flows
flunked out pill popping junkies with no cash go
drunkenly to the shrunken head show
knowing they stunk.
The monks dunked funky mumps victims
on bunk beds and licked them
instead of fixing lunk-headed situations
with linkin-log technologic advances
drinking dogs retrofitted with dance moves
groove on the wooden floor while ****** bore
the Moors with tales of divorce and random *******
on all fours in doorways
during bad plays on the interstate…
demonstrators, unregulated, on roller skates
wait at the gates of the ingrates filled with hate
and throw pie plates with fated accuracy
and the belated bureaucratic picnic
nitwits in knickers knuckle bump
and plump debutants snicker
the wicker croquet mallets
perform ballet in the chalet
and I have to valet the cars –
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
yeah, thank **** for that, and i want to be trans-zoological,
well, that won't happen in a millions years...
i want fur to keep me warm
and obstruct the chance of skin cancer
from suntans - i want a tail instead
of the puny coccyx - i need to be
a natural gymnast -
but **** no, you won't give me one,
nor the fur - you'll just say:
skin the fox, give him a comb-over,
done... like **** done -
make me trans-zoological
ortho-gender or meta-gender or something,
i like the idea of a panda bamboo diet
or a koala's eucalyptus diet,
and one pair of clothes for life,
no shampoo - modern monkey
akin to ancient monkey,
back then the problem was nits & gnats,
modern problem is odour and knitting /
well, tailoring for the cuffs and neck-tie nooses
for the well attired beetroot turkey faces -
mouths like a toilet although less edgy
with fluoride and sugar -
one monkey said to another...
'smell that?' 'yeah, a horrible bake.'
'that's what i thought too!'
'geniuses in pairs, no einstein would emerge.'
'fell fame and the famished.'
so there you have it, pampering was
intended to name the practice of toiletry -
take a **** spraying household perfumes
to doubly hide "something",
um... om... a ******* ****... what a mystery!
you do know that german electro music
evolved post-Kraftwerk - vey vork... vow!
now who's the gummy glutton bear
readied for a rub rub of tummy in the sauna tub?
mm chuckles as the cheeks are pinched
by an odd auntie to create a sound imitating
******* with ******* -
you have to excuse the punctuation
lacking a punchline evidence, work it out,
it's not exactly a times table of mathematics -
**** goes here at 90 degrees, **** goes there at
350 degrees... Simjit's your uncle...
i told you: i have, no, social, status,
i'm not a maid apparent to be wedded by a king...
via ******* and bureaucratic entitlements
via henry viii...
no wonder the after-fact (artefact)
of how Islam is practised... the founding mother
of Islam was Abraham's concubine...
a *****... Islam (the movie): the *****'s revenge!
i can see it now, in Los Angeles, hands readied
for the picturesque "thinking outside the box" moment...
yeah, founding mother of Islam was Abraham's *****...
she was sent off into the desert,
came back in a Niqab after meeting ***** satan
telling her: stop running between those two
elevations! and there we have it, holier than the ******
birth story - they're all virgins now -
former ****** with their former chores
readied for the silent movies cinema -
well, guess what... chuckles! and muttley!
Mike Hauser Mar 2015
As our States go into a state of confusion
In the passing of their passing of laws
Saying now that all their fine citizens
Can freely lay out and get ******

As a matter of fact haven't they been doing that
For years if my minds working correctly
I guess the difference now when they lounge around
They can freely puff on it legally

So let's all take the bongs out of hiding
And add some fresh liquid to it
Invite over the neighbors you've never talked to
To share in a neighborly spliff

It'll certainly make everyone happy
When we come together and roll up a fatty
Don't worry if to this party your a newbie
Here take a hit off this doobie

We'll order out pizza
And crank up Netflix
Watch My Little Pony
And laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and...

Wait...now where was I? Oh Yea!

So let's take all the bongs out of hiding

Hold on...have I already said that?
Dude, this is freaking me out!  Lol!

Oh okay, here we go...

You can now grow your own
On your very own farm
But instead of deep in the woods
It can now be your front yard

Of course all the neighbor kids
You'll have to watch
As they pass by your place
And pick from your crops

So then you'll have to invest
In a scary guard dog
To keep them at bay
And out of your plot

But of course you'll be ******
And forget that he's there
Where he'll end up hungry
And start eating his share

There goes your profit
There goes your crop
Plus all the time you'll spend behind the dog
With a baggy waiting for doggie do do drops

But then again the government
May not let you grow your own stuff
As you wait for the F.D.A.
To authorize all your drugs

And we all know when you get
The government involved
Bureaucratic common sense
Too often gets lost

Maybe this legalization thingy
Is not the best of ideas
Things seemed to run smoother
When we all kept our *** hid
Should I apologize now or later for this fiasco...

~fiasco~
a thing that is a complete failure,
especially in a ludicrous or humiliating way

Yea...that about sums it up.

I would like to add that I don't do drugs....
But then again if I did do drugs it would explain a lot wouldn't it...
Brandon Jun 2014
Hey* hey *hey hey

Who do you love?
A slave to the ****?

Sell or be sold
Do as you're told


Young and slender
Stolen from the cradle
Just what they pay to crave
A slave to an early grave

Sell or be sold
Do as you're told


Drugged up resistance
Throwing fists
Futility in existence  

Hey hey hey hey

Who do you love?
A slave to the ****?

The price of new flesh climbs
As every ****** dies
Chained to the whims
Of bureaucratic sadism

Sell or be sold
Do as you're told


Hey hey hey hey

Who do you love?
A slave to the ****?

Put out
Your use is worn out
Human trafficking. I hate humanity.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
so you end up reading a book review,
about the mad myth-makers of mother russia,
the Kremlin is in thrall to men once seen
as ideological crazies: black wind, black snow,
pristine glitter of the western hemisphere:
if you regret having a conscience,
blame someone else not having one either,
motto no. 1...
Euro-Asian in russian politics:
Leicester City F.C. owned by a Thai...
mongols mongols everywhere! and not
a german to converse with! rant of the ancient
mariner... rereading, plagiarism and cheap humour;
anna akhmatova's son lev gumilev
chopping his leg along with firewood in a siberian
goo goo (dubbed the prison of the wingless
anchor of national sentiment, i.e. an eagle, quasi),
why is language to be or become an IKEA
(Sweden, Abba, great meatballs)
of putting together a table, a chair, why not take
stance with Burroughs and Tzara and make it
random? a few pedestrians along the way,
you never know when such randomness might convene
you to talk Taj Mahal postcards.
the fiend from KGB riddled east Berlin...
coca-colonialists - cola-nationalists, bought
Alaska, sold three-quarters of America to China...
#loveyourimperfections... selling love is not
like selling perfume... the thing you're selling is
an an Ayers rock sized ****... thing stank so much
you're welcome to see one bush in an acre
that's the outback...
orthodox christianity? didn't get it...
catholicism is too bureaucratic...
the Koran contradicts the genesis story of
a fire that's flameless, as the Israelites marched
a fire ahead, smoke behind them erasing tracks,
the Iblis of the Koran...
da, smert! it's all coming together like
an over-fried egg... with aleksandr dugin,
a guitar-strumming russian beatnik (
hard to be a beatnik in plateau without angry
Brooklyn streets) -
(ras)Putin based upon max stierlitz, KGB-backed
t.v. from the 1970s... or Hans Kloss,
limanov co-founded the national bolshoi party
along with behemoth (the alcoholic cat
who played chess in the Master and the Margarita)...
you've not been given any instructions,
you're already fazed with advertising interludes
changing your attention like looking into
a kaleidoscope between your favourite program...
16 years in Dresden, 22 years in England & Scotland...
but if you spent that same amount of time,
either 16 or 22 years, you might have
come across accounts of German girls after
world war ii... in the book we, children from station
ZOO
by a Christiane F. (Christine F.) -
how the three allied powers were supplying
******... teenagers on ******... the western powers...
the new treaty of Versailles... teenagers on ******...
the western powers... east Berlin waited and waited
and got the emergence of Rammstein;
o.k. fair enough, teenagers overdosing and dying
but at least three world cup titles by FRG...
and GDR doing the doping rounds of revising
world records in sprinting and acrobatics at the
Olympics... in unison the chemists just say:
please use our compounds, our additives, dope up,
all the civilians are using recreational drugs
at some point during the week, please let the
olympians use our talent to increase their potential!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
poetic description of England in the 1960s will never
be a solitary figurine prancing dance,
only in the 21st century will it become clear -
as i read the fragments of the Cantos
in the early years of the 21st century i know the few
years numbering it for a populist
personality - the fragments after a
pause are crucial - but for me there's not azure-eyed
Olga - we never dare to forgive
Dante in Paradiso, let alone Inferno...
but we do dare forgive  Ezra in St. Elizabeth's -
a bit like me in England,
ungoverned by Orwell's prophesy
a lunatic asylum for Albanians -
the scientists are doing a runner for the mainland,
the opera is about to begin -
if i were i Cracow circa 1942 i'm be herded
into Auschwitz, unless i played Schubert on
piano, of course, some **** officer might
spot my talent by then... before they test it on the public
they test it on the Fußsoldaten -
they want to know how the sane man will crack
when given rigid army attention's worth of
order in a return to society -
poetry in the 1960s? you really want to believe
populist democracy - fun and games -
democracy has two enemies -
one inside, one without -
democracy is about the people, you can
try to individuate yourself in democracy
but you'll just end up being a despot to the people,
democracy is like Hollywood, it wants actors -
trying to be an individual in democracy
is like calling yourself Adolf ****** -
currently the people are trying to erase
their colonial past with a poly-ethnic society experiment
(it won't work, the vermin have spoken),
democracy loves to depose despots in ruling government
while at the same time creating terrorists -
it does both at the same time -
it's perfected its imperfections to do so.
by the way the poets describe it,
the 1960s weren't all that worth celebration,
the everyday kicked in... the 1960s seem
like rather glum times - nothing to celebrate -
should i be surprised? still, democracy is the
failure we all like to keep failing,
so we can convene on the appropriate bureaucratic
expansion - despotism doesn't favour the latter,
hence its failings concerning professions
with pencil sharpeners.
Adolf asked: marriage works (heirat arbeit)?
the people replied: ja!
Adolf reiterated: das Autobahn.
the people reinvented: die autokäfer!
and then there was tarmac with skid marks from
the revenants / alter curator traffic-jam pensioners
at 5p.m. hungry for their nips & tatties
alongside buff beef syringed with steroids
tested at the 1988 Olympics; fancy the Soviet
women growing beards on the sprint track
before tabloids undermined the democratic argument
for free-press - tabloids are just as bad as
despots mediating press-freedom;
tabloids are collective despotism, or to put it mildly,
throwing cabbage rather rather than using the guillotine...
i'd prefer the guillotine.... meaning i wouldn't
have to watch your ****-like ****** expressions
beyond the cabbage thrown.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
oi! Bronson! **** ya matey! i'm a sardine oiled up! that paddy is gonna hang like a dog on a serpentine of a leash's worth of walkies... that paddy's gonna hang and ask for the relay gun at the Olympics going off... paddy was never the bricklayer... paddy always gangrene flex, got lucky in Arizona and New York, forked St. Petersburg and only forked a steak nibble... Bronson settled into retirement just fine, came out a ******* act-tor! pepper the bobby with parking meter fines for his bureaucratic funfair study... sooner or later Jimmy the literate will turn up, and replace Bob the illiterate swine cuffing someone ******* in an alley.*

oh, i'd probably become
an english teacher
and sing ****-yeah
when the drone army of
Amazon couriers fed us
the next 21 hour trip in
defence against the Koran...
so i guess ha ha is in order.

and with every mythical Mrs.,
you tell 'em about the castration
in the synagogue, and never about the
baritone in the morgue.

— The End —